But who was the torturer?
What being in that house had him so much in her power?
Madame I believed to be in her chamber; the room whence he had stepped was dedicated to the portress's sole use; and she, Rosine Matou, an unprincipled though pretty little French grisette, airy, fickle, dressy, vain, and mercenary--it was not, surely, to _her_ hand he owed the ordeal through which he seemed to have passed?
But while I pondered, her voice, clear, though somewhat sharp, broke out in a lightsome French song, trilling through the door still ajar: I glanced in, doubting my senses.

There at the table she sat in a smart dress of "jaconas rose," trimming a tiny blond cap: not a living thing save herself was in the room, except indeed some gold fish in a glass globe, some flowers in pots, and a broad July sunbeam.
Here was a problem: but I must go up-stairs to ask about the medicine.
Dr.John sat in a chair at Georgette's bedside; Madame stood before him; the little patient had been examined and soothed, and now lay composed in her crib.

Madame Beck, as I entered, was discussing the physician's own health, remarking on some real or fancied change in his looks, charging him with over-work, and recommending rest and change of air.

He listened good-naturedly, but with laughing indifference, telling her that she was "trop bonne," and that he felt perfectly well.
Madame appealed to me--Dr.John following her movement with a slow glance which seemed to express languid surprise at reference being made to a quarter so insignificant.
"What do you think, Miss Lucie ?" asked Madame.

"Is he not paler and thinner ?" It was very seldom that I uttered more than monosyllables in Dr.John's presence; he was the kind of person with whom I was likely ever to remain the neutral, passive thing he thought me.