Louise returned, with a glass of wine and a few biscuits.
"We're dining presently," she said. "There, drink that and be sensible, Emilie. Does Eduard know you're here?"
"No. He was out when I left. I waited till he was out . . . Louise, I won't go back! I've telegraphed to Henri to help me. I'm expecting him here."
They heard voices below.
"Listen!" said Louise.
"Who is it?"
"Perhaps it's some one who has come late . . . But that's impossible . . . I hear a noise on the stairs . . ."
"My God!" cried Emilie. "It's Eduard! Hide me! Say you don't know where I am!"
"I can't do that, Emilie. Keep calm, Emilie, be sensible. Go to my bedroom, if you like . . ."
Emilie fled. It was a renewed flight, the fluttering of a young bird, a frail butterfly, hither and thither. Her eyes seemed to be seeking, vaguely and anxiously. . . . She and Louise had to go down to the next landing and Emilie managed to escape to Marianne's room, once the boudoir which they had shared between them:
"My own little room!" she sobbed, throwing herself into a chair.
