I rang the bell for the concierge, and asked him if there were any rooms to let in the house.  I knew already that there were, for I could see the advertisement of “Chambres a louer” staring me in the face:  but I spoke French as badly as I could, making three mistakes to every sentence, and begged the man to talk slowly in answering me.

There were several rooms to be had, it appeared, but it would have been too good to be true that the one I wanted should be empty.  After we had jabbered awhile, I made the concierge understand that I was a young American journalist, employed by a New York paper.  I wanted to “write up” the murder of last night, according to my own ideas, and as of course the police wouldn’t let me go into the room where it happened, the next best thing would be to take the room close to it, in the house adjoining.  I wanted to be there only long enough to “get the emotion, the sensation,” I explained, so as to make my article really dramatic.  Would the people who occupied that room let it to me for a few hours?  Long before bedtime they could have it back again, if I got on well with my writing.

The concierge, to whom I gave ten francs as a kind of retaining fee, was almost sure the occupants of the room (an old man and his wife) would willingly agree to such a proposal, if I paid them well enough for their trouble in turning out.

Would three louis be enough?  I asked.  The concierge—­whose eyes brightened—­thought that it would.  I knew by his look that he would take a large commission for managing the affair, as he quickly offered to do; but that didn’t matter to me.

He confirmed my idea that it would have been hopeless to try and get into the room of the murder itself, even if I could have borne it, saying that the door, and window too, had been sealed by the police, who were also guarding the house from curiosity seekers; but he added that I could see the shut window from the balcony of the room I was going to hire.

I waited for him, and played with his very unattractive baby while he went upstairs to make enquiries.  He was gone for some time, explaining to the people; but at last, when my patience was almost too far strained, he came back to say that Monsieur and Madame Nissot had consented to go out of their room for the evening.  They were dining at the moment, however, and Mademoiselle must be pleased to wait a few moments until they finished the meal and gathered up a few things which they could carry to a neighbour’s:  books, and work for their hours of absence, the concierge politely suggested.  But that was to save my feelings, no doubt, for I was sure the husband and wife meant to make a parcel of any valuables which could possibly be carried off by an unscrupulous American journalist.  Also, they stipulated that payment must be made in advance.  To this I agreed willingly.  And then—­I waited, waited.  It was tedious, but after all, the tediousness didn’t matter much when I came to think of it.  It would be impossible to do the thing I had made up my mind to do, till after dark.