At three in the afternoon the portress, who had seen Mademoiselle
Esther brought home half dead by a young man at two in the morning,
had just held council with the young woman of the floor above, who,
before setting out in a cab to join some party of pleasure, had
expressed her uneasiness about Esther; she had not heard her move.
Esther was, no doubt, still asleep, but this slumber seemed
suspicious. The portress, alone in her cell, was regretting that she
could not go to see what was happening on the fourth floor, where
Mademoiselle Esther lodged.

Just as she had made up her mind to leave the tinman's son in charge
of her room, a sort of den in a recess on the entresol floor, a cab
stopped at the door. A man stepped out, wrapped from head to foot in a
cloak evidently intended to conceal his dress or his rank in life, and
asked for Mademoiselle Esther. The portress at one felt relieved; this
accounted for Esther's silence and quietude. As the stranger mounted
the stairs above the portress' room, she noticed silver buckles in his
shoes, and fancied she caught sight of the black fringe of a priest's
sash; she went downstairs and catechised the driver, who answered
without speech, and again the woman understood.

The priest knocked, received no answer, heard a slight gasp, and
forced the door open with a thrust of his shoulder; charity, no doubt
lent him strength, but in any one else it would have been ascribed to
practice. He rushed to the inner room, and there found poor Esther in
front of an image of the Virgin in painted plaster, kneeling, or
rather doubled up, on the floor, her hands folded. The girl was dying.
A brazier of burnt charcoal told the tale of that dreadful morning.
The domino cloak and hood were lying on the ground. The bed was