, and was only
just sufficiently awake when I left her, to accept all the _marrons
glaces_ that yet remained in the pockets of my paletot, and to remind me
that I had promised to take her out next Sunday for a drive in the
country, and a dinner at the Moulin Rouge.

The fountain in the middle of the Marche was now sparkling in the
sunshine like a shower of diamonds, and the business of the market was
already at its height. The shops in the neighboring streets were opening
fast. The "iron tongue" of St. Eustache was calling the devout to early
prayer. Fagged as I was, I felt that a walk through the fresh air would
do me good; so I dismissed the cab, and reached my lodgings just as the
sleepy _concierge_ had turned out to sweep the hall, and open the
establishment for the day. When I came down again two hours later,
after a nap and a bath, I found a _commissionnaire_ waiting for me.

"_Tiens_!" said Madame Bouisse (Madame Bouisse was the wife of the
_concierge_). "_V'la_! here is M'sieur Arbuthnot."

The man touched his cap, and handed me a letter.

"I was told to deliver it into no hands but those of M'sieur himself,"
said he.

The address was in Dalrymple's writing. I tore the envelope open. It
contained only a card, on the back of which, scrawled hastily in pencil,
were the following words:

"To have said good-bye would have made our parting none the lighter. By
the time you decipher this hieroglyphic I shall be some miles on my way:
Address Hotel de Russie, Berlin. Adieu, Damon; God bless you. O.D."

"How long is it since this letter was given to you?" said I, without
taking my eyes from the card.

The _commissionnaire_ made no reply. I repeated the question, looked up
impatiently, and found that the man was already gone.

CHAPTER XX.

THE CHATEAU DE SAINTE AULAIRE.

"Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees,
Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze."

My acquaintance with Mademoiselle Josephine progressed rapidly;
although, to confess the truth, I soon found myself much less deeply in
love than I had at first supposed. For this disenchantment, fate and
myself were alone to blame. It was not her fault if I had invested her
with a thousand imaginary perfections; nor mine if the spell was broken
as soon as I discovered my mistake.

Too impatient to wait till Sunday, I made my way on Saturday afternoon
to Rue Aubry-le-Boucher. I persuaded myself that I was bound to call on
her,