I could not in the
obscurity make out either door or windows belonging to this singular
tower. Was it an old pigeon-house, a tomb, a deserted summer-house? I
could not tell, but its little pointed roof, with a round dormer window,
was extremely graceful. Was it chance or an artist lull of taste that
had covered this tower with creepers and flowers, and surrounded it with
foliage in such capricious fashion that it seemed to be hiding itself
in order to catch all glances? I was gazing at all this when I heard
a faint noise in the shrubbery. I looked in that direction and I
saw--really, it was an anxious moment--I saw a phantom clad in a white
robe and walking with mysterious and agitated rapidity. At a turning
of the path the moon shone on this phantom. Doubt was impossible; I had
before my eyes my friend's wife. Her gait no longer had that coquettish
ease which I had noticed, but clearly indicated the agitation due to
some strong emotion.

I strove to banish the horrible suspicion which suddenly forced itself
into my mind. "No," I said to myself, "so much innocence and beauty can
not be capable of deception; no doubt she has forgotten her fan or her
embroidery, on one of the benches there." But instead of making her way
toward the benches I noticed on the right, the young wife turned to
the left, and soon disappeared in the shadow of the grove in which was
hidden the mysterious turret.

My heart ached. "Where is she going, the hapless woman?" I exclaimed
to myself. "At any rate, I will not let her imagine any one is watching
her." And I hurriedly blew out my candle. I wanted to close my window,
go to bed, and see nothing more, but an invincible curiosity took me
back to the window. I had only been there a few minutes when I plainly
distinguished halting and timid footsteps on the gravel. I could see no
one at first, but there was no doubt that the footsteps were those of a
man. I soon had a proof that I was not mistaken; the elongated outline
of the cousin showed up clearly against the dark mass of shrubbery. I
should have liked to have stopped him, the wretch, for his intention was
evident; he was making his way toward the thicket in which the little
queen had disappeared. I should have liked to shout to him, "You are
a villain; you shall go no farther." But had I really any right to act
thus? I was silent, but I coughed, however, loud enough to be heard by
him.

He suddenly paused in his uneasy walk, looked round o