aid the duchess, "are you so accessible
to the charms of music that you forget that you are my cavalier?"

"Oh, pardon, madame," said D'Harmental, leaping to the shore, and
holding out his hand to the duchess, "but I thought I recognized that
voice, and I confess it brought back such memories!"

"That proves that you are an habitue of the opera, my dear chevalier,
and that you appreciate, as it deserves, Mademoiselle Berry's talent."

"What, is that voice Mademoiselle Berry's?" asked D'Harmental, with
astonishment.

"It is, monsieur; and if you do not believe me," replied the duchess,
"permit me to take Laval's arm, that you may go and assure yourself of
it."

"Oh, madame," said D'Harmental, respectfully retaining the hand she was
about to withdraw, "pray excuse me. We are in the gardens of Armida, and
a moment of error may be permitted among so many enchantments;" and,
presenting his arm again to the duchess, he conducted her toward the
chateau. At this instant a feeble cry was heard, and feeble as it was,
it reached D'Harmental's heart, and he turned involuntarily.

"What is it?" asked the duchess, with an uneasiness mixed with
impatience.

"Nothing, nothing," said Richelieu; "it is little Berry, who has the
vapors. Make yourself easy, madame. I know the disease; it is not
dangerous. If you particularly wish it, I would even go to-morrow to
learn how she is."

Two hours after this little accident--which was not sufficient to
disturb the fete in any way--D'Harmental was brought back to Paris by
the Abbe Brigaud, and re-entered his little attic in the Rue du
Temps-Perdu, from which he had been absent six weeks.

CHAPTER XXIV.

JEALOUSY.

The first sensation D'Harmental experienced on returning was one of
inexpressible satisfaction at finding himself again in that little room
so filled with recollections. Though he had been absent six weeks, one
might have supposed that he had only quitted it the day before, as,
thanks to the almost maternal care of Madame Denis, everything was in
its accustomed place. D'Harmental remained an instant, his candle in his
hand, looking around him with a look almost of ecstasy. All the other
impressions of his life were effaced by those which he had experienced
in this little corner of the world. Then he ran to the window, opened
it, and threw an indescribable look of love over the darkened windows of
his neighbor. Doubtless Bathilde slept the sleep of an angel,
uncons