Then he held up his hand in the attitude of a man who listens.
“One should not listen,” he whispered, apologetically; “but it is so strange. I thought that if you knew the lady—— Hark!”
I knew that we ought not to listen. But the mystery of the fellow’s manner and the concern of his air constrained me, and I too paused, listening.
From behind the door there came to our strained attentive ears the sound of a woman sobbing. I sought the waiter’s eyes; they were already bent on me. Again the sad sounds came—low, swift, and convulsive. It went to my heart to hear them. I did not know what to do. To go on upstairs to my own room and mind my own business seemed the simple thing—simple, easy, and proper. But my feet were glued to the boards. I could not go, with that sound beating on my ears: I should hear it all the day. I glanced again at the waiter. He was a kind-looking fellow, and I saw the tears standing in his eyes.
“And mademoiselle is so beautiful!” he whispered.
“What the devil business is it of yours?” said I, in a low but fierce tone.
“None,” said he. “I am content to leave it to you, sir;” and without more he turned and went downstairs.
It was all very well to leave it to me; but what—failing that simple, easy, proper, and impossible course of action which I have indicated—was I to do?
