ould do nothing for
me."

As the valet was leaving the room, he added,--"Say nothing about my
being unwell to any one, Lubin; it is nothing at all. If I should feel
worse, I will ring."

At that moment, to see any one, to hear a voice, to have to reply, was
more than he could bear. He longed to be left entirely to himself.

After the painful emotions arising from his explanations with the count,
he could not sleep. He opened one of the library windows, and looked
out. It was a beautiful night: and there was a lovely moon. Seen at this
hour, by the mild, tremulous evening light, the gardens attached to
the mansion seemed twice their usual size. The moving tops of the great
trees stretched away like an immense plain, hiding the neighbouring
houses; the flower-beds, set off by the green shrubs, looked like great
black patches, while particles of shell, tiny pieces of glass, and
shining pebbles sparkled in the carefully kept walks. The horses stamped
in the stable and the rattling of their halter chains against the bars
of the manger could be distinctly heard. In the coach-house the men were
putting away for the night the carriage, always kept ready throughout
the evening, in case the count should wish to go out.

Albert was reminded by these surroundings, of the magnificence of his
past life. He sighed deeply.

"Must I, then, lose all this?" he murmured. "I can scarcely, even for
myself, abandon so much splendour without regret; and thinking of
Claire makes it hard indeed. Have I not dreamed of a life of exceptional
happiness for her, a result almost impossible to realise without
wealth?"

Midnight sounded from the neighbouring church of St. Clotilde, and as
the night was chilly, he closed the window, and sat down near the fire,
which he stirred. In the hope of obtaining a respite from his
thoughts, he took up the evening paper, in which was an account of the
assassination at La Jonchere; but he found it impossible to read: the
lines danced before his eyes. Then he thought of writing to Claire. He
sat down at his desk, and wrote, "My dearly loved Claire," but he could
go no further; his distracted brain could not furnish him with a single
sentence.

At last, at break of day, he threw himself on to a sofa, and fell into a
heavy sleep peopled with phantoms.

At half-past nine in the morning, he was suddenly awakened, by the noise
of the door being hastily opened. A servant entered, with a scared look
on his face,