hus for nearly an hour, but without having kept any
measure of time. Then she gave a cry of joy, for through the window,
which no curtain now obscured, she saw her neighbor's door open, and
D'Harmental enter with a candle in his hand.

By a miracle of foresight Bathilde had been right--the man in the felt
hat and the cloak, who had protected Buvat, was really the young
stranger, for the stranger had on a felt hat and a cloak; and moreover,
hardly had he returned and shut the door, with almost as much care as
Buvat had his, and thrown his cloak on a chair, than she saw that he had
a tight coat of a dark color, and in his belt a sword and pistols. There
was no longer any doubt: it was from head to foot the description given
by Buvat. Bathilde was the more able to assure herself of this, that
D'Harmental, without taking off any of his attire, took two or three
turns in his room, his arms crossed, and thinking deeply; then he took
his pistols from his belt, assured himself that they were primed, and
placed them on the table near his bed, unclasped his sword, took it half
out of the scabbard, replaced it, and put it under his pillow; then,
shaking his head, as if to shake out the somber ideas that annoyed him,
he approached the window, opened it, and gazed earnestly at that of the
young girl, who, forgetting that she could not be seen, stepped back,
and let the curtain fall before her, as if the darkness which surrounded
her were not a sufficient screen.

She remained thus motionless and silent, her hand on her heart, as if to
still its beatings; then she quietly raised the curtain, but that of her
neighbor was down, and she saw nothing but his shadow passing and
repassing before it.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CONSUL DUILIUS.

The morning following the day, or rather the night, on which the events
we have just related had occurred, the Duc d'Orleans, who had returned
to the Palais Royal without accident, after having slept all night as
usual, passed into his study at his accustomed hour--that is to say,
about eleven o'clock. Thanks to the sang-froid with which nature had
blessed him, and which he owed chiefly to his great courage, to his
disdain for danger, and his carelessness of death, not only was it
impossible to observe in him any change from his ordinary calm, which
ennui only turned to gloom, but he had most probably already forgotten
the strange event of which he had so nearly been the victim.

The study int