ousehold; Buvat was still
absent, and it was easy to see by Bathilde's eyes that she had had but
little sleep. As soon as she saw D'Harmental, she understood that some
expedition was preparing. D'Harmental again wore that dark costume in
which she had never seen him but on that evening when, on returning, he
had thrown his mantle on a chair, and displayed to her sight the pistols
in his belt. Moreover, she saw by his spurs that he expected to ride
during the day. All these things would have appeared insignificant at
any other time, but, after the nocturnal betrothal we have described,
they took a new and grave importance. Bathilde tried at first to make
the chevalier speak, but he told her that the secret she asked did not
belong to himself, and she desisted. An hour after, Nanette appeared,
with a distressed face. She came from the library; Buvat had not been
there, and no one had heard anything of him.

Bathilde could contain herself no longer; she fell into Raoul's arms,
and burst into tears. Then Raoul confessed to her his fears, and that
the papers which the pretended Prince de Listhnay had given Buvat to
copy were politically important, by which he might have been compromised
and arrested, but had nothing to fear, and that the passive part which
he had played in this affair did not endanger him in the least.

Bathilde, having feared some much greater misfortune, eagerly seized on
this idea. She did not confess to herself that the greater part of her
uneasiness was not for Buvat, and that all the tears she shed were not
for the absent.

When D'Harmental was near Bathilde, time appeared to fly; he was
astonished when he found that he had been with her an hour and a half,
and remembering that at two o'clock he had to arrange his new treaty
with Roquefinette, he rose to go. Bathilde turned pale. D'Harmental, to
reassure her, promised to come to her again after the departure of the
person he expected.

The chevalier had only been a few minutes at his window when he saw
Roquefinette appear at the corner of the Rue Montmartre. He was mounted
on a dapple-gray horse, both swift and strong, and evidently chosen by a
connoisseur. He came along leisurely, like a man to whom it is equally
indifferent whether he is seen or not. On arriving at the door he
dismounted, fastened up his horse, and ascended the stairs. As on the
day before, his face was grave and pensive, his compressed lips
indicated some fixed determination, an