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. It was the first check in the
carrying out of her little programme, a programme so neatly
arranged, but with this defect, mainly arising from
inexperience, that it had made no sort of allowance for
unforeseen circumstances--and yet of such so many were likely
to arise. She had quite settled in her own mind what she was
going to say to Madame Bertrand, and also what Madame Bertrand
would say to her, but she had not provided for this other
contingency of not finding her at all. She sat and considered
for a minute. Two or three men came in laughing and talking,
and stared in her face as they passed by and called for what
they wanted. She began to feel uncomfortable; she could not
stay there till Madame Bertrand returned; what if she were to
go to the Redoute first, and then return to the hotel? Yes,
that would be the best plan; if only she had not felt so very