gain they bid farewell, and Blassemare departed.

Blassemare's head was as full of strange images as the steam of a
witch's caldron. He had his own notions of honor--somewhat fantastic and
inconsistent, but still strong enough to prevent his betraying to Le
Prun the secret of which he had just made himself completely master. He
was mortified intensely by the discovery of a successful rival where he
had so coolly and confidently flattered himself with a solitary
conquest. He looked upon himself as the _dupe_ of a young girl and her
melancholy lover. His vanity, his spleen, and his guilty fancy, which,
with the discovery of his difficulties, expanded almost into a passion,
all stimulated him to continue the pursuit, and his brain teemed with
schemes for outwitting them both, supplanting his rival, and gaining his
point.

Full of these, he reached the Chateau des Anges--a sage, trustworthy,
and virtuous counsellor for old Le Prun to lean on in his difficulties!

"You did wrong, in my opinion, to unmask your suspicions to old
Charrebourg," said Blassemare, after he and Le Prun had talked over the
affair.

"But he has not seen my wife since, and she, therefore, knows nothing of
them."

"Were I in your place, notwithstanding, I should see him again, undo the
effect of what I had said, and so prevent his putting Madame Le Prun on
her guard."

"You are right for once. I thought of doing so myself."

Le Prun generally acted promptly; and so he left Blassemare to his
meditations. Framing his little speech of apology as he went along, he
traversed several passages, descended a stair in one of the towers, and
found himself at last at the lobby of the Visconte's suite of rooms. It
was now night--and these apartments lying in the oldest part of the
chateau, and little frequented, were but very dimly lighted. There was
nobody waiting in the anteroom--the servant had probably taken advantage
of his master's repose, or reverie, to steal away to the gay society of
his brother domestics; and these sombre and magnificently constructed
rooms were as deserted as they were dim.

Having called in vain, the Fermier-General lighted a candle at the murky
lamp, and entered the Visconte's apartment. His step was arrested by a
howling from the inner chambers that might have spoken the despair of an
evil spirit.

"Charrebourg! Visconte! Charrebourg!"

No answer--There was a silence--then another swelling howl.

"Psha!--it is that cursed