MADAME LA MARQUISE
so the word ran, before seeking her little cot the night before, had caught a nod, or the lift of Leà’s brow, arched over a meaning eye, or a significant smile—some sort of wireless, anyway, with Leà as chief operator, and a private wire to Louis’ room, immediately over Gaston’s. What she had learned had kept the girl awake half the night and sent her skipping on her toes at the break of dawn to the little passageway at the far end of the court-yard, where she had cried over Gaston and kissed him good-by, Leà being deaf and dumb and blind. All this occurred before the horrible old bogie (Lemois was the bogie), who had given strict orders that everything should be done for the comfort of the boy before he left the Inn, was fairly awake; certainly before he was out of bed.
“By thunder!—I could hardly keep the tears out of my eyes I was so sorry for her,” Louis had said when he burst into my room an hour before getting-up time. “I heard the noise and thought he was suffering again and needed help, and so I hustled out and came bump up against them as they stood at the foot of the stairs. I wasn’t dressed for company and dared not go back lest they should see me, and