he had not ventured to look at while they
were there, "Saved!"

The poor child had remained all this time in her corner, without
breathing, without moving, with the idea of death before her. She had
lost nothing of the scene between Gudule and Tristan, and the anguish
of her mother had found its echo in her heart. She had heard all the
successive snappings of the thread by which she hung suspended over the
gulf; twenty times she had fancied that she saw it break, and at last
she began to breathe again and to feel her foot on firm ground. At that
moment she heard a voice saying to the provost: "_Corboeuf_! Monsieur
le Prevot, 'tis no affair of mine, a man of arms, to hang witches.
The rabble of the populace is suppressed. I leave you to attend to the
matter alone. You will allow me to rejoin my company, who are waiting
for their captain."

The voice was that of Phoebus de Chateaupers; that which took place
within her was ineffable. He was there, her friend, her protector, her
support, her refuge, her Phoebus. She rose, and before her mother could
prevent her, she had rushed to the window, crying,--

"Phoebus! aid me, my Phoebus!"

Phoebus was no longer there. He had just turned the corner of the Rue de
la Coutellerie at a gallop. But Tristan had not yet taken his departure.

The recluse rushed upon her daughter with a roar of agony. She dragged
her violently back, digging her nails into her neck. A tigress mother
does not stand on trifles. But it was too late. Tristan had seen.

"He! he!" he exclaimed with a laugh which laid bare all his teeth and
made his face resemble the muzzle of a wolf, "two mice in the trap!"

"I suspected as much," said the soldier.

Tristan clapped him on the shoulder,--

"You are a good cat! Come!" he added, "where is Henriet Cousin?"

A man who had neither the garments nor the air of a soldier, stepped
from the ranks. He wore a costume half gray, half brown, flat hair,
leather sleeves, and carried a bundle of ropes in his huge hand. This
man always attended Tristan, who always attended Louis XI. "Friend,"
said Tristan l'Hermite, "I presume that this is the sorceress of whom we
are in search. You will hang me this one. Have you your ladder?"

"There is one yonder, under the shed of the Pillar-House," replied the
man. "Is it on this justice that the thing is to be done?" he added,
pointing to the stone gibbet.

"Yes."

"Ho, he!" continued the man with a huge laugh, which was still