Impatient and apprehensive, I recommenced the rehearsal of my part merely to kill time.

Just as I was concluding, the long-delayed rattle of the key in the lock came to my ear--no unwelcome sound.

M.Paul (I could just see through the dusk that it _was_ M.Paul, for light enough still lingered to show the velvet blackness of his close-shorn head, and the sallow ivory of his brow) looked in.
"Brava!" cried he, holding the door open and remaining at the threshold.

"J'ai tout entendu.

C'est assez bien.