This thought carried her back to her father’s house.  What were they doing there at this hour?  Her escape was certainly known by this time.  No doubt they had sent the servants out in all directions.  Her father, most probably, had gone to call in the aid of the police.  She felt almost happy at the idea of being so safely concealed; and looking around her chamber, which appeared even more wretched by daylight than last night, she said,—­

“No, they will never think of looking for me here!”

In the meantime she had discovered a small supply of wood near the fireplace; and, as it was cold, she was busy making a fire, when somebody knocked at her door.  She opened; and Mrs. Chevassat, the wife of the concierge appeared.

“It is I, my pretty young lady,” she said as she entered.  “Not seeing you come down, I said to myself, ‘I must go up to look after her.’  And have you slept well?”

“Very well, madam, thank you!”

“Now, that’s right.  And how is your appetite?  For that was what I came up for.  Don’t you think you might eat a little something?”

Henrietta not only thought of it; but she was very hungry.  For there are no events and no adventures, no excitements and no sorrows, which prevent us from getting hungry; the tyranny of our physical wants is stronger than any thing else.

“I would be obliged to you, madam,” she said, “if you would bring me up some breakfast.”

“If I would!  As often as you desire, my pretty young lady.  Just give me the time to boil an egg, and to roast a cutlet, and I’ll be up again.”

Ordinarily sour-tempered, and as bitter as wormwood, Mrs. Chevassat had displayed all the amiability of which she was capable, hiding under a veil of tender sympathy the annoying eagerness of her eyes.  Her hypocrisy was all wasted.  The efforts she made were too manifest not to arouse the very worst suspicions.

“I am sure,” thought Henrietta, “she is a bad woman.”

Her suspicions were only increased when the worthy woman reappeared, bringing her breakfast, and setting it out on a little table before the fire, with all kinds of hideous compliments.

“You’ll see how very well every thing is cooked, miss,” she said.

Then, while Henrietta was eating, she sat down on a chair near the door, and commenced talking, without ever stopping.  To hear her, the new tenant ought to thank her guardian angel who had brought her to this charming house, No. 23 Water Street, where there was such a concierge with such a wife!—­he, the best of men; she, a real treasure of kindness, gentleness, and, above all, discretion.

“Quite an exceptional house,” she added, “as far as the tenants are concerned.  They are all people of notoriously high standing, from the wealthy old ladies in the best story to Papa Ravinet in the fourth story, and not excepting the young ladies who live in the small rooms in the back building.”