She went in. A man was sitting at one of the
tables, a tall bottle of red wine at his side, and a dish of
cutlets before him, eating his late _dejeuner_, and reading a
newspaper; whilst a waiter moved about, arranging knives and
forks, table-napkins, and _pistolets_, with occasional pauses
for such glimpses of the outer world as could be obtained
through the muslin curtains hanging before the somewhat dingy
windows.
"Is Madame Bertrand at home?" asked Madelon, coming up to him.
The man stared down at the shabbily dressed little figure
before him, glanced at the bundle hanging on her arm, and then
answered civilly enough that Madame Bertrand was not at home.
Did Mademoiselle want anything?
"I wanted to speak to Madame Bertrand," answered Madelon
rather piteously; "will she be back soon, do you think? When
can I see her?"
"_Eh, je n'en sais rien_," said the man. "If Mademoiselle wants
to see her, she had better call again--or she can leave a
message," and he went on laying the tables.
Madelon sat down despondingly on a chair near the door, hardly
knowing what to do next.
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