, in a chamber in the south wing of Government-house--the
part which had been inhabited by the French functionaries. He would
allow no one to occupy any apartments of the north wing (that which was
appropriated to the governor of the town), while the daughter of the
late governor and her guests remained there. His secretary, who had
taken some hours' rest before, was busy writing, after midnight, in an
apartment in the same wing. He was preparing dispatches for the Central
Assembly, now sitting in the interior.

Monsieur Pascal was far from being on good terms with himself this
night. If, in the morning, he had doubted his capacity for being
governor of the town, he this night doubted his qualifications for the
office of secretary, which he had thus far filled to his own
satisfaction. To-night he could not command his ideas--he could not fix
his attention. He wrote a paragraph, and then he dreamed; he planned a
proposition, and then he forgot it again; and, in despair, started up to
pace the floor, and disperse intrusive thoughts by exercise. These
thoughts would intrude again, however; and he found himself listlessly
watching through the window a waving treetop, or a sinking star, while
his pen dried in his hand.

These intrusive ideas were of Afra. He had never thought of love, in
regard to himself, even enough to despise it, or to resolve against it:
and the time was apparently come when love was to revenge himself for
this neglect. Perhaps it was this idea, as much as the attractions of
Afra herself, that haunted him to-night. He felt that his hour was
come; that he was henceforth, like other men, to be divided between two
pursuits, to be dependent upon another for his tranquillity. He felt
already that he could never again see Mademoiselle Raymond, or hear of
her, without emotion. He had never understood love at first sight, and
had hardly believed in it:--he now did not understand it; but he could
not but believe in it. He felt actually haunted. Every breath of air
that whispered in the window brought her voice. Everything that moved
in the night breeze made him start as if it was herself. At last, in
despair about his task, which must be finished before dawn, he covered
his eyes with his hands, as he leaned back in his chair, resolving not
to move till he had ascertained what it was that he wanted to write
next.

A slight noise in the direction of the door, however, made him look up;
and he saw