Day was breaking, and he could distinguish the escutcheons over the door, and knocked. Someone, without opening the door, shouted out the required information, adding a few insults to those who disturb people in the middle of the night.
The house inhabited by the clerk had neither bell, knocker, nor porter. Charles knocked loudly at the shutters with his hands. A policeman happened to pass by. Then he was frightened, and went away.
“I am mad,” he said; “no doubt they kept her to dinner at Monsieur Lormeaux’.” But the Lormeaux no longer lived at Rouen.
“She probably stayed to look after Madame Dubreuil. Why, Madame Dubreuil has been dead these ten months! Where can she be?”
An idea occurred to him. At a café he asked for a Directory, and hurriedly looked for the name of Mademoiselle Lempereur, who lived at No. 74 Rue de la Renelle-des-Maroquiniers.
As he was turning into the street, Emma herself appeared at the other end of it. He threw himself upon her rather than embraced her, crying—
“What kept you yesterday?”
“I was not well.”
“What was it? Where? How?”
She passed her hand over her forehead and answered, “At Mademoiselle Lempereur’s.”
“I was sure of it! I was going there.”
“Oh, it isn’t worth while,” said Emma. “She went out just now; but for the future don’t worry. I do not feel free, you see, if I know that the least delay upsets you like this.”