ltuous but a short time before, once
more betook himself to the cell where the gypsy had slept for so many
weeks under his guardianship.

As he approached it, he fancied that he might, perhaps, find her there.
When, at the turn of the gallery which opens on the roof of the side
aisles, he perceived the tiny cell with its little window and its little
door crouching beneath a great flying buttress like a bird's nest under
a branch, the poor man's heart failed him, and he leaned against a
pillar to keep from falling. He imagined that she might have returned
thither, that some good genius had, no doubt, brought her back, that
this chamber was too tranquil, too safe, too charming for her not to
be there, and he dared not take another step for fear of destroying
his illusion. "Yes," he said to himself, "perchance she is sleeping, or
praying. I must not disturb her."

At length he summoned up courage, advanced on tiptoe, looked, entered.
Empty. The cell was still empty. The unhappy deaf man walked slowly
round it, lifted the bed and looked beneath it, as though she might be
concealed between the pavement and the mattress, then he shook his head
and remained stupefied. All at once, he crushed his torch under his
foot, and, without uttering a word, without giving vent to a sigh, he
flung himself at full speed, head foremost against the wall, and fell
fainting on the floor.

When he recovered his senses, he threw himself on the bed and rolling
about, he kissed frantically the place where the young girl had slept
and which was still warm; he remained there for several moments as
motionless as though he were about to expire; then he rose, dripping
with perspiration, panting, mad, and began to beat his head against the
wall with the frightful regularity of the clapper of his bells, and
the resolution of a man determined to kill himself. At length he fell
a second time, exhausted; he dragged himself on his knees outside the
cell, and crouched down facing the door, in an attitude of astonishment.

He remained thus for more than an hour without making a movement, with
his eye fixed on the deserted cell, more gloomy, and more pensive than a
mother seated between an empty cradle and a full coffin. He uttered not
a word; only at long intervals, a sob heaved his body violently, but it
was a tearless sob, like summer lightning which makes no noise.

It appears to have been then, that, seeking at the bottom of his lonely
thoughts for th