erve from
him for whom she has sacrificed everything! How ought she really to
be supremely loved! She becomes at once a queen and a wife, and it is
impossible to thank and love her sufficiently. Morrel longed intensely
for the moment when he should hear Valentine say, "Here I am,
Maximilian; come and help me." He had arranged everything for her
escape; two ladders were hidden in the clover-field; a cabriolet was
ordered for Maximilian alone, without a servant, without lights; at the
turning of the first street they would light the lamps, as it would be
foolish to attract the notice of the police by too many precautions.
Occasionally he shuddered; he thought of the moment when, from the
top of that wall, he should protect the descent of his dear Valentine,
pressing in his arms for the first time her of whom he had yet only
kissed the delicate hand.

When the afternoon arrived and he felt that the hour was drawing near,
he wished for solitude, his agitation was extreme; a simple question
from a friend would have irritated him. He shut himself in his room, and
tried to read, but his eye glanced over the page without understanding
a word, and he threw away the book, and for the second time sat down
to sketch his plan, the ladders and the fence. At length the hour
drew near. Never did a man deeply in love allow the clocks to go on
peacefully. Morrel tormented his so effectually that they struck eight
at half-past six. He then said, "It is time to start; the signature was
indeed fixed to take place at nine o'clock, but perhaps Valentine will
not wait for that." Consequently, Morrel, having left the Rue Meslay
at half-past eight by his timepiece, entered the clover-field while
the clock of Saint-Phillippe du Roule was striking eight. The horse and
cabriolet were concealed behind a small ruin, where Morrel had often
waited.

The night gradually drew on, and the foliage in the garden assumed a
deeper hue. Then Morrel came out from his hiding-place with a beating
heart, and looked through the small opening in the gate; there was yet
no one to be seen. The clock struck half-past eight, and still another
half-hour was passed in waiting, while Morrel walked to and fro, and
gazed more and more frequently through the opening. The garden became
darker still, but in the darkness he looked in vain for the white dress,
and in the silence he vainly listened for the sound of footsteps. The
house, which was discernible through the trees, r