ou hear the footsteps of two women descending the stairs, go out,
and, without once turning round, take the road which leads to where the
poor count is lying."

"But if, by any mischance, two other persons were to descend, and I were
to be mistaken?"

"You will hear one of the two clap her hands together softly. Go."

Manicamp turned round, bowed once more, and left the room, his heart
overflowing with joy. In fact, he knew very well that the presence of
Madame herself would be the best balm to apply to his friend's wounds. A
quarter of an hour had hardly elapsed when he heard the sound of a door
opened softly, and closed with like precaution. He listened to the light
footfalls gliding down the staircase, and then hard the signal agreed
upon. He immediately went out, and, faithful to his promise, bent
his way, without once turning his head, through the streets of
Fontainebleau, towards the doctor's dwelling.

Chapter XXI. M. Malicorne the Keeper of the Records of France.

Two women, their figures completely concealed by their mantles, and
whose masks effectually hid the upper portion of their faces, timidly
followed Manicamp's steps. On the first floor, behind curtains of
red damask, the soft light of a lamp placed upon a low table faintly
illumined the room, at the other extremity of which, on a large bedstead
supported by spiral columns, around which curtains of the same color as
those which deadened the rays of the lamp had been closely drawn, lay De
Guiche, his head supported by pillows, his eyes looking as if the mists
of death were gathering; his long black hair, scattered over the pillow,
set off the young man's hollow temples. It was easy to see that fever
was the chief tenant of the chamber. De Guiche was dreaming. His
wandering mind was pursuing, through gloom and mystery, one of those
wild creations delirium engenders. Two or three drops of blood, still
liquid, stained the floor. Manicamp hurriedly ran up the stairs, but
paused at the threshold of the door, looked into the room, and seeing
that everything was perfectly quiet, he advanced towards the foot of the
large leathern armchair, a specimen of furniture of the reign of Henry
IV., and seeing that the nurse, as a matter of course, had dropped off
to sleep, he awoke her, and begged her to pass into the adjoining room.

Then, standing by the side of the bed, he remained for a moment
deliberating whether it would be better to awaken Guiche, in order