Some instinct, some strange warning, sent the sleeper on the bed flying from it, dazed as she was. Snatching at the initialled cup of gold veining she thrust it behind the curtain on the window sill. An act of panic merely, for a second glance round the room convinced her that there was too much to be hidden, if hidden anything should be. With a leap she was back in bed, and drew the bedclothes up to her neck.
"Nevertheless, can I come in?" asked the _concierge_.
The young woman came in and closed the door after her. She approached the bed and whispered--then glancing round the room with a shrug she picked up a dressing-gown and held it that Fanny might slip her arms into it.
"She has travelled all night. She is unfit to move."
"I cannot keep her any longer. She was for coming straight here when the train came in at five. I have kept her at coffee at my house. _Tant pis!_ You have a right to be here!"
The _concierge_ drew the curtain a little wider and the cup was exposed. She thrust it back into the shadow; the door opened and Philippe's mother walked in. She was very tall, in black, and a deep veil hung before her face.
"_Bonjour_, madame," she said, and her veiled face dipped in a faint salute.
She took no notice of this, but leaning a little on a stick she carried, said, "I understand that it is right that I should find my house occupied. They told me it would be by an officer. Such occupation I believe ceases on the return of the owner."
The _concierge_ standing behind her, shrugged her shoulders impatiently, as if she would say, "I have explained, and explained again!"
The lady seemed to sink into a stupor, and bending her head in silence stared at the floor. Fanny, sitting upright in bed, waited for her to speak. The _>concierge_, her face still as an image, waited too.
Philippe's mother began to sway upon her stick.
"Do please sit down," said Fanny, breaking the silence at last.
"When will you go?" demanded the old lady, suddenly.
"Who gave you that lamp? That is mine." She pointed to a glass lamp which stood upon the table.
"Mademoiselle borrowed it," said the voice of the _concierge_. "I lent it to her."
"Why are my things lent when I am absent? My armchair--dirty, soiled, torn! Paul's picture--there is a hole in the corner. Who made that hole in the corner?"