II
When, the kitchen door being opened, that room was found to be empty, Theresia was no longer surprised. Somehow she had expected this. She knew that Bertrand would be gone. The windows of the kitchen gave on the ubiquitous wrought-iron balcony, as did all the other windows of the apartment. That those windows were unfastened, had only been pushed to from the outside, appeared to her as a matter of course. It was not Bertrand who had thrown the shawl over Pepita’s head; therefore someone had come in from the outside and had kidnapped Bertrand—someone who was peculiarly bold and daring. He had not come in from the balcony and through the window, because the latter had been fastened as usual by Pepita much earlier in the evening. No! He had gone that way, taking Bertrand with him; but he must have entered the place in some other mysterious manner, like a disembodied sprite bent on mischief or mystery.
Whilst Pepita fumbled and grumbled, Theresia started on a tour of inspection. Still deeply puzzled, she was no longer afraid. With Pepita to speak and the lamps all turned on, her habitual courage and self-possession had quickly returned to her. She had no belief in the supernatural. Her materialistic, entirely rational mind at once rejected the supposition, hinted at by Pepita, that magical powers had been at work to take Bertrand Moncrif to a place of safety.
Something was going on in her brain, certain theories, guesses, conjectures, which she was passionately eager to set at rest. Nor did it take her long. Candle in hand, she had gone round to explore. No sooner had she entered her own bedroom than the solution of the mystery lay revealed before her, in a shutter, forced open from the outside, a broken pane of glass which had allowed a hand to creep in and surreptitiously turn the handle of the tall French window to allow of easy ingress. It had been quickly and cleverly done; the splinters of glass had made no noise as they fell upon the carpet. But for the disappearance of Bertrand, the circumstances suggested a nimble housebreaker rather than a benevolent agency for the rescue of young rashlings in distress.
The frown of puzzlement deepened on Theresia Cabarrus’s brow, and her mobile mouth with the perfectly arched if somewhat thin lips expressed a kind of feline anger, whilst the hand that held the pewter candlestick trembled perceptibly.
Pepita’s astonishment expressed itself by sundry exclamations: “Name of a name!” and “Is it possible?” The explanation of the mystery had loosened her tongue, and while she set stolidly to work to clear up the debris of glass in her mistress’s bedroom, she allowed free rein to her indignation against the impudent marauder, who in doubt had only been foiled in his attempt at wholesale robbery by some lucky circumstance which would presently come to light.
The worthy old peasant absolutely refused to connect the departure of M. Bertrand with so obvious an attempt at housebreaking.
“M. Bertrand was determined to go, the poor cabbage!” she said decisively; “since thou didst make him understand that his staying here was a danger to thee. He no doubt took an opportunity to slip out the front door whilst thou wast engaged in conversation with that pack of murderers, whom may the good God punish one of these days!”
From which remark we may gather that Pepita had not imbibed revolutionary ideals with the air of her native Andalusia.
Theresia Cabarrus, wearied beyond endurance by all the events of this night, as well as by her old servant’s incessant gabble, finally sent her, still muttering and grumbling, to bed.