Mr. Bucket rings, goes to the door, briefly whispers Mercury, shuts the door, and stands behind it with his arms folded. After a suspense of a minute or two the door slowly opens and a Frenchwoman enters. Mademoiselle Hortense.
The moment she is in the room Mr. Bucket claps the door to and puts his back against it. The suddenness of the noise occasions her to turn, and then for the first time she sees Sir Leicester Dedlock in his chair.
“I ask you pardon,” she mutters hurriedly. “They tell me there was no one here.”
Her step towards the door brings her front to front with Mr. Bucket. Suddenly a spasm shoots across her face and she turns deadly pale.
“This is my lodger, Sir Leicester Dedlock,” says Mr. Bucket, nodding at her. “This foreign young woman has been my lodger for some weeks back.”
“What do Sir Leicester care for that, you think, my angel?” returns Mademoiselle in a jocular strain.
“Why, my angel,” returns Mr. Bucket, “we shall see.”
Mademoiselle Hortense eyes him with a scowl upon her tight face, which gradually changes into a smile of scorn, “You are very mysterieuse. Are you drunk?”
“Tolerable sober, my angel,” returns Mr. Bucket.
“I come from arriving at this so detestable house with your wife. Your wife have left me since some minutes. They tell me downstairs that your wife is here. I come here, and your wife is not here. What is the intention of this fool’s play, say then?” Mademoiselle demands, with her arms composedly crossed, but with something in her dark cheek beating like a clock.