But what is the matter with you?"
This last question was not uncalled for; for Lecoq had turned deadly
white. The magic edifice of his hopes had crumbled beneath the weight of
this man's words as completely as if it were some frail house of
cards erected by a child. He had only sufficient strength to murmur:
"Nothing--nothing at all."
Then, as he could endure this torture of uncertainty no longer, he went
toward the marchioness's house and rang the bell. The servant who came
to open the door examined him attentively, and then announced that
Madame d'Arlange was in the country. He evidently fancied that Lecoq was
a creditor.
But the young detective insisted so adroitly, giving the lackey to
understand so explicitly that he did not come to collect money, and
speaking so earnestly of urgent business, that the servant finally
admitted him to the hall, saying that he would go and see if madame had
really gone out.
Fortunately for Lecoq, she happened to be at home, and an instant
afterward the valet returned requesting the young detective to
follow him. After passing through a large and magnificently furnished
drawing-room, they reached a charming boudoir, hung with rose-colored
curtains, where, sitting by the fireside, in a large easy-chair, Lecoq
found an old woman, tall, bony, and terrible of aspect, her face loaded
with paint, and her person covered with ornaments. The aged coquette
was Madame, the Marchioness, who, for the time being, was engaged in
knitting a strip of green wool.
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