cious that D'Harmental was there, trembling with love and hope.

He remained thus for more than half an hour, breathing the night air,
which had never seemed to him so pure and fresh, and began to feel that
Bathilde had become one of the necessities of his life; but as he could
not pass the whole night at his window, he then closed it, and came into
his room, although only to follow up the recollections with which it was
filled. He opened his piano, and passed his fingers over the keys, at
the risk of re-exacting the anger of the lodger on the third floor. From
the piano he passed to the unfinished portrait of Bathilde. At length he
slept, listening again in his mind to the air sung by Mademoiselle
Berry, whom he finished by believing to be one and the same person as
Bathilde. When he awoke, D'Harmental jumped from his bed and ran to the
window. The day appeared already advanced; the sun was shining
brilliantly; yet Bathilde's window remain hermetically closed.

The chevalier looked at his watch; it was ten o'clock, and he began to
dress. We have already confessed that he was not free from a certain
almost feminine coquetry; but this was the fault of the time, when
everything was mannered--even passion. At this time it was not a
melancholy expression on which he reckoned. The joy of return had given
to his face a charming expression of happiness, and it was evident that
a glance from Bathilde would crown him king of the creation. This glance
he came to the window to seek, but Bathilde's remained closed.
D'Harmental opened his, hoping that the noise would attract her
attention; nothing stirred. He remained there an hour: during this hour
there was not even a breath of wind to stir the curtains: the young
girl's room must be abandoned. He coughed, opened and closed the
window, detached little pieces of plaster from the wall, and threw them
against the window--all in vain.

To surprise succeeded uneasiness; this window, so obstinately closed,
must indicate absence, if not misfortune. Bathilde absent!--where could
she be? What had happened to disturb her calm, regular life? Who could
he ask? No one but Madame Denis could know. It was quite natural that
D'Harmental should pay a visit to his landlady on his return, and he
accordingly went down. Madame Denis had not seen him since the day of
the breakfast. She had not forgotten his attention when she fainted. She
received him like the prodigal son. Fortunately for D'Harmental