It was six o’clock when I reached the hotel and walked straight up to my room in sulky isolation, looking neither to right nor left, and exchanging a word with nobody.  I tossed the red box down on the table, and flung myself into an armchair.  I had half a mind to send the box down to Marie Delhasse by the waiter—­with my compliments; but my ill-humor did not carry me so far as thus to risk betraying her to her mother, and I perceived that I must have one more interview with her—­and the sooner the better.  I rang the bell, meaning to see if I could elicit from the waiter any information as to the state of affairs on the first floor and the prospect of finding Marie alone for ten minutes.

I rang once—­twice—­thrice; the third was a mighty pull, and had at last the effect of bringing up my friend the waiter, breathless, hot, and disheveled.

“Why do you keep me waiting like this?” I asked sternly.

His puffs and pants prevented him from answering for a full half-minute.

“I was busy on the first floor, sir,” he protested at last.  “I came at the very earliest moment.”

“What’s going on on the first floor?”

“The lady is in a great hurry, sir.  She is going away, sir.  She has been taking a hasty meal, and her carriage is ordered to be round at the door this very minute.  And all the luggage had to be carried down, and—­”

I walked to the window, and, putting my head out, saw a closed carriage, with four trunks and some smaller packages on the roof, standing at the door.

“Where are they going?” I asked, turning round.

The waiter was gone!  A bell ringing violently from below explained his disappearance, but did not soothe my annoyance.  I rang my bell very forcibly again:  the action was a welcome vent for my temper.  Turning back to the window, I found the carriage still there.  A second or two later, Mme. Delhasse, attended by the waiter who ought to have been looking after me, came out of the hotel and got into the carriage.  She spoke to the waiter, and appeared to give him money.  He bowed and closed the door.  The driver started his horses and made off at a rapid pace toward the carriage-road down the hill.  I watched till the vehicle was out of sight and then drew my head in, giving a low puzzled whistle and forgetting the better part of my irritation in the interest of this new development.  Where was the old witch going—­and why was she going alone?

Again I rang my bell; but the waiter was at the door before it ceased tinkling.

“Where’s she going to?” I asked.

“To the house of the Duke of Saint-Maclou, sir,” he answered, wiping his brow and sighing for relief that he had got rid of her.

“And the young lady—­where is she?”

“She has already gone, sir.”

“Already gone!” I cried.  “Gone where?  Gone when?”