In the midst of the dense crowd that blockaded the stairway, I heard a frightened cry that made the blood freeze in my veins.  There was but one woman in the world blest with so sweet a voice—­musical even when raised in terror.

If I were surrounded by crashing peals of thunder, rushing waters and yells of wild beasts, I still could recognise, through the din of all this, the cry of a beloved woman.  I am gifted with that marvellous perception of hearing, derived from the sixth sense, the sense of love.

Irene de Chateaudun had uttered that cry of alarm—­Take care, my dear! she had exclaimed with that accent of fright that it is impossible to disguise—­in that tone that will be natural in spite of all the reserve that circumstances would impose, Take care, my dear!

Some one near me said that a door-keeper had struck a lady on the shoulder with a panel of a portable door which he was carrying across the passage-way.  By standing on my toes I could just catch a glimpse of the board being balanced in the air over every one’s head.  My eyes could not see the woman who had uttered this cry, but my ears told me it was Irene de Chateaudun.

The crowd was so dense that some minutes passed before I could move a step towards the direction of the cry, but when I had finally succeeded in reaching the door, I flung from me the hateful arm that clung to mine, and rushing into the street, I searched through the crowd and looked in every carriage and under every lady’s hood to catch a glimpse of Irene, without being disconcerted by the criticisms that the people around indulged in at my expense.

Useless trouble!  I discovered nothing.  The theatre kept its secret; but that cry still rings in my ears and echoes around my heart.

This morning at daybreak I flew to the Hotel de Langeac.  The porter stared at me in amazement, and answered all my eager inquiries with a stolid, short no.  The windows of Irene’s room were closed and had that deserted appearance that proved the absence of its lovely occupant—­windows that used to look so bright and beautiful when I would catch glimpses of a snowy little hand arranging the curtains, or of a golden head gracefully bent over her work, totally unconscious of the loving eyes feasting upon her beauty—­oh! many of my happiest moments have been spent gazing at those windows, and now how coldly and silently they frowned upon my grief!

The porter lies!  The windows lie!  I exclaimed, and once more I began to search Paris.

This time I had a more important object in view than trying to fatigue my body and divert my mind.  My eyes are multiplied to infinity; they questioned at once every window, door, alley, street, carriage and store in the city.  I was like the miser who accused all Paris of having stolen his treasure.