But could that old pauper
have seduced this Ida? There was something impossible in the very
idea. Wandering in this labyrinth of reflections, which crossed,
recrossed, and obliterated one another, the baron reached the rue
Pagevin, and saw a hackney-coach standing at the end of the rue des
Vieux-Augustins where it enters the rue Montmartre. All waiting
hackney-coaches now had an interest for him.
"Can she be there?" he thought to himself, and his heart beat fast
with a hot and feverish throbbing.
He pushed the little door with the bell, but he lowered his head as he
did so, obeying a sense of shame, for a voice said to him secretly:--
"Why are you putting your foot into this mystery?"
He went up a few steps, and found himself face to face with the old
portress.
"Monsieur Ferragus?" he said.
"Don't know him."
"Doesn't Monsieur Ferragus live here?"
"Haven't such a name in the house."
"But, my good woman--"
"I'm not your good woman, monsieur, I'm the portress."
"But, madame," persisted the baron, "I have a letter for Monsieur
Ferragus."
"Ah! if monsieur has a letter," she said, changing her tone, "that's
another matter. Will you let me see it--that letter?"
Auguste showed the folded letter. The old woman shook her head with a
doubtful air, hesitated, seemed to wish to leave the lodge and inform
the mysterious Ferragus of his unexpected visitor, but finally said:--
"Very good; go up, monsieur. I suppose you know the way?"
Without replying to this remark, which he thought might be a trap, the
young officer ran lightly up the stairway, and rang loudly at the door
of the second floor.
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