he pillow; and, as a last proof, he
himself in the costume of the day before, which he had not taken off,
for fear of being surprised by some nocturnal visit.

D'Harmental jumped from his bed. His first look was for his neighbor's
window: it was already open, and he saw Bathilde passing and repassing
in her room; the second was for his glass, which told him that
conspiracies suited him--indeed, his face was paler than usual, and
therefore more interesting; his eyes were rather feverish, and therefore
more expressive: so that it was evident that, when he had smoothed his
hair and arranged his collar and cravat, he would be a most interesting
person to Bathilde. D'Harmental did not say this, even to himself; but
the bad instinct which always impels our poor souls to evil whispered
these thoughts to him, so that when he went to his toilet he suited his
dress to the expression of his face--that is to say, that he dressed
entirely in black, that his hair was arranged with a charming
negligence, and that he left his waistcoat more than usually open, to
give place to his shirt-frill, which fell with an ease full of coquetry.
All this was done in the most preoccupied and careless manner in the
world; for D'Harmental, brave as he was, could not help remembering that
at any minute he might be arrested; but it was by instinct that, when
the chevalier gave the last look in the glass, before leaving his little
dressing-room, he smiled at himself with a melancholy which doubled the
charm of his countenance. There was no mistake as to the meaning of this
smile, for he went directly to the window.

Perhaps Bathilde had also her projects for the moment when her neighbor
should reappear, perhaps she had arranged a defense which should consist
in not looking toward him, or in closing her window after a simple
recognition; but at the noise her neighbor's window made in opening, all
was forgotten, and she ran to the window, crying out:

"Ah! there you are. Mon Dieu! monsieur, how anxious you have made me!"

This exclamation was ten times more than D'Harmental had hoped for. If
he, on his part, had prepared some well-turned and eloquent phrases,
they were all forgotten, and clasping his hands:

"Bathilde! Bathilde!" he cried, "you are, then, as good as you are
beautiful!"

"Why good?" asked Bathilde. "Did you not tell me that if I was an
orphan, you also were without parents? Did you not say that I was your
sister, and you were my brot