sound. In her terror, which increased
every moment, she had the man wakened, meaning to give him some order
which still she did not give. At last, the poor woman wandered up and
down, coming and going in feverish agitation; she looked out of all the
windows and opened them in spite of the cold; then she went downstairs
and opened the door into the courtyard, looking out and listening.
"Nothing! nothing!" she said. Then she went up again in despair. About
a quarter past twelve, she cried out: "Here he is! I hear the horse!"
Again she went down, followed by the man who went to open the iron gate
of the courtyard. "It is strange," she said, "that he should return by
the Conches woods!"

As she spoke she stood still, horrorstruck, motionless, voiceless. The
man shared her terror, for, in the furious gallop of the horse, the
clang of the empty stirrups, the neigh of the frightened animal, there
was something, they scarcely knew what, of unspeakable warning. Soon,
too soon for the unhappy wife, the horse reached the gate, panting and
sweating, but alone; he had broken the bridle, no doubt by entangling
it. Olympe gazed with haggard eyes at the servant as he opened the gate;
she saw the horse, and then, without a word, she ran to the chateau
like a madwoman; when she reached it she fell to the ground beneath the
general's windows crying out: "Monsieur, they have murdered him!"

The cry was so terrible it awoke the count; he rang violently, bringing
the whole household to their feet; and the groans of Madame Michaud, who
as she lay on the ground, gave birth to a child that died in being born,
brought the general and all the servants about her. They raised the poor
dying woman, who expired, saying to the general: "They have murdered
him!"

"Joseph!" cried the count to his valet, "go for the doctor; there may
yet be time to save her. No, better bring the curate; the poor woman is
dead, and her child too. My God! my God! how thankful I am that my wife
is not here. And you," he said to the gardener, "go and find out what
has happened."

"I can tell you," said the pavilion servant, coming up, "Monsieur
Michaud's horse has come back alone, the reins broke, his legs bloody;
and there's a spot of blood on the saddle."

"What can be done at this time of night?" cried the count. "Call
up Groison, send for the keepers, saddle the horses; we'll beat the
country."

By daybreak, eight persons--the count, Groison, the three keepers, an