I go up to the first floor. I read the name of Madame Zinca Klork on a
door. I knock. The door is opened.
I am in the presence of a young lady who is perfectly charming, as
Kinko said. She is a blonde of from twenty-two to twenty-three years
old, with the black eyes of the Roumanian type, an agreeable figure, a
pleasant, smiling face. In fact, has she not been informed that the
Grand Transasiatic train has been in the station ever since last
evening, in spite of the circumstances of the journey, and is she not
awaiting her betrothed from one moment to another?
And I, with a word, am about to extinguish this joy. I am to wither
that smile.
Mademoiselle Klork is evidently much surprised at seeing a stranger in
her doorway. As she has lived several years in France, she does not
hesitate to recognize me as a Frenchman, and asks to what she is
indebted for my visit.
I must take care of my words, for I may kill her, poor child.
"Mademoiselle Zinca--" I say.
"You know my name?" she exclaims.
"Yes, mademoiselle. I arrived yesterday by the Grand Transasiatic."
The girl turned pale; her eyes became troubled. It was evident that she
feared something.
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