Now, at about ten o’clock that Sunday, there came in succession two loud knocks at the door.  When the latter was opened a short, thick-set fellow, about eighteen, stepped in.  He was dark-haired, with a square face, a hard prominent jaw, and eyes of a pale gray.  And he wore a ragged old jacket and a gray cloth cap, discolored by long usage.

“Excuse me,” said he; “but isn’t it here that live Mesdames Moineaud, who make cardboard boxes?”

Norine stood there looking at him with sudden uneasiness.  Her heart had contracted as if she were menaced.  She had certainly seen that face somewhere before; but she could only recall one old-time danger, which suddenly seemed to revive, more formidable than ever, as if threatening to spoil her quiet life.

“Yes, it is here,” she answered.

Without any haste the young man glanced around the room.  He must have expected more signs of means than he found, for he pouted slightly.  Then his eyes rested on the child, who, like a well-behaved little boy, had been amusing himself with reading, and had now raised his face to examine the newcomer.  And the latter concluded his examination by directing a brief glance at the other woman who was present, a slight, sickly creature who likewise felt anxious in presence of that sudden apparition of the unknown.

“I was told the left-hand door on the fourth floor,” the young man resumed.  “But, all the same, I was afraid of making a mistake, for the things I have to say can’t be said to everybody.  It isn’t an easy matter, and, of course, I thought it well over before I came here.”

He spoke slowly in a drawling way, and after again making sure that the other woman was too young to be the one he sought, he kept his pale eyes steadily fixed on Norine.  The growing anguish with which he saw her quivering, the appeal that she was evidently making to her memory, induced him to prolong things for another moment.  Then he spoke out:  “I am the child who was put to nurse at Rougemont; my name is Alexandre-Honore.”

There was no need for him to say anything more.  The unhappy Norine began to tremble from head to foot, clasped and wrung her hands, while an ashen hue came over her distorted features.  Good heavens—­Beauchene!  Yes, it was Beauchene whom he resembled, and in so striking a manner, with his eyes of prey, his big jaw which proclaimed an enjoyer consumed by base voracity, that she was now astonished that she had not been able to name him at her first glance.  Her legs failed her, and she had to sit down.

“So it’s you,” said Alexandre.

As she continued shivering, confessing the truth by her manner, but unable to articulate a word, to such a point did despair and fright clutch her at the throat, he felt the need of reassuring her a little, particularly if he was to keep that door open to him.