t be confessed, Debray
had himself arranged and watered with so much care that his absence was
half excused in the eyes of the poor woman.

At twenty minutes of twelve, Madame Danglars, tired of waiting, returned
home. Women of a certain grade are like prosperous grisettes in one
respect, they seldom return home after twelve o'clock. The baroness
returned to the hotel with as much caution as Eugenie used in leaving
it; she ran lightly up-stairs, and with an aching heart entered her
apartment, contiguous, as we know, to that of Eugenie. She was fearful
of exciting any remark, and believed firmly in her daughter's innocence
and fidelity to the paternal roof. She listened at Eugenie's door, and
hearing no sound tried to enter, but the bolts were in place. Madame
Danglars then concluded that the young girl had been overcome with the
terrible excitement of the evening, and had gone to bed and to sleep.
She called the maid and questioned her.

"Mademoiselle Eugenie," said the maid, "retired to her apartment with
Mademoiselle d'Armilly; they then took tea together, after which they
desired me to leave, saying that they needed me no longer." Since then
the maid had been below, and like every one else she thought the young
ladies were in their own room; Madame Danglars, therefore, went to bed
without a shadow of suspicion, and began to muse over the recent events.
In proportion as her memory became clearer, the occurrences of the
evening were revealed in their true light; what she had taken for
confusion was a tumult; what she had regarded as something distressing,
was in reality a disgrace. And then the baroness remembered that she had
felt no pity for poor Mercedes, who had been afflicted with as severe a
blow through her husband and son.

"Eugenie," she said to herself, "is lost, and so are we. The affair, as
it will be reported, will cover us with shame; for in a society such as
ours satire inflicts a painful and incurable wound. How fortunate that
Eugenie is possessed of that strange character which has so often
made me tremble!" And her glance was turned towards heaven, where a
mysterious providence disposes all things, and out of a fault, nay, even
a vice, sometimes produces a blessing. And then her thoughts, cleaving
through space like a bird in the air, rested on Cavalcanti. This Andrea
was a wretch, a robber, an assassin, and yet his manners showed the
effects of a sort of education, if not a complete one; he had bee