s. Let us meet there to-morrow
at sunrise. I will bring with me my sword or my pistols, or both if you
like."

The seconds of General Feraud looked at each other.

"Pistols, General," said the cuirassier.

"So be it. Au revoir--to-morrow morning. Till then let me advise you to
keep close if you don't want the gendarmerie making inquiries about you
before it gets dark. Strangers are rare in this part of the country."

They saluted in silence. General D'Hubert, turning his back on their
retreating forms, stood still in the middle of the road for a long time,
biting his lower lip and looking on the ground. Then he began to walk
straight before him, thus retracing his steps till he found himself
before the park gate of his intended's house. Dusk had fallen.
Motionless he stared through the bars at the front of the house,
gleaming clear beyond the thickets and trees. Footsteps scrunched on
the gravel, and presently a tall stooping shape emerged from the lateral
alley following the inner side of the park wall.

Le Chevalier de Valmassigue, uncle of the adorable Adele, ex-brigadier
in the army of the Princes, bookbinder in Altona, afterwards shoemaker
(with a great reputation for elegance in the fit of ladies' shoes) in
another small German town, wore silk stockings on his lean shanks, low
shoes with silver buckles, a brocaded waistcoat. A long-skirted coat,
a la francaise, covered loosely his thin, bowed back. A small
three-cornered hat rested on a lot of powdered hair, tied in a queue.

"Monsieur le Chevalier," called General D'Hubert, softly.

"What? You here again, mon ami? Have you forgotten something?"

"By heavens! that's just it. I have forgotten something. I am come to
tell you of it. No--outside. Behind this wall. It's too ghastly a thing
to be let in at all where she lives."

The Chevalier came out at once with that benevolent resignation some
old people display towards the fugue of youth. Older by a quarter of a
century than General D'Hubert, he looked upon him in the secret of
his heart as a rather troublesome youngster in love. He had heard his
enigmatical words very well, but attached no undue importance to what a
mere man of forty so hard hit was likely to do or say. The turn of mind
of the generation of Frenchmen grown up during the years of his exile
was almost unintelligible to him. Their sentiments appeared to him
unduly violent, lacking fineness and measure, their language needlessly
exaggerated.