“C’est drole!” he murmured.  “The theatre” (that everlasting theatre!) “has been long over and Madame must have returned.  Where can she be?”

“Probably in bed,” replied H.C.  “We have little chance of following her excellent example if this is to go on.  There must be some mistake, and we are not expected.”

“Impossible,” returned Andre.  “La Patrone never forgets anything and must have arranged it all.”  He, too, had unlimited confidence in Madame, but for once it was misplaced.

[Illustration:  GRANDE RUE, MORLAIX.]

Not only the house, but the whole street was in darkness.  Not the ghost of a glimmer appeared from any window or doorway; not a gas-light from end to end.  Oil lamps ought to have been slung across from house to house to keep up the character of the thoroughfare; but here, apparently, consistency was less thought of than economy.  We looked and looked, every moment expecting a cloaked watchman to appear, with lantern casting weird flashes around and a sepulchral voice calling the hour and the weather.  But Il Sereno of Majorca had no counterpart in Morlaix; the darkness, silence and solitude remained unbroken.

We were the sole group of humanity visible, and must have appeared singular as the still flaring candle lighted up our faces, pale and anxious from fatigue, threw out in huge proportions the head of our guide, bound up as if prepared for the grave for which he was fast qualifying.

After a time Misery gave another peal at the bell, and, borrowing a stick, drummed a tattoo upon the door that might have waked the departed Mediaevals.  This at length brought forth fruit.

A latticed window was opened, a white figure appeared, a nightcapped head was put forth without ceremony, a feminine voice, sleepy and indignant, demanded who thus disturbed the sacred silence of the night.

“The gentlemen are here,” said Andre, mildly.  “Come down and open the door.  A pretty reception this, for tired travellers.”

“What gentlemen?” asked the voice, which belonged to no less a person than Madame la bouchere herself.

“Parbleu! why the gentlemen you are expecting.  The gentlemen la Patrone sent to you about and that you agreed to lodge for the night.”

“Andre—­I know your voice, though I cannot see your form—­you have been taking too much, and to-morrow I shall complain to Madame Hellard.  How dare you wake quiet people out of their first sleep?”

“First sleep!  Has la bouchere not been to the theatre?”

“Theatre, you good-for-nothing!  Do I ever join in such frivolities?  I have been in bed and asleep ever since ten o’clock—­where you ought to be at this hour of the night.”

“But la Patrone sent to engage rooms for these gentlemen and you promised to give them.  They have come.  Open the door.  We cannot stay here till daybreak.”