“Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
     As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.”

But she also wakened again, and lay beside her unconscious bedmate, occupied with the company of her own thoughts.  “Why should these little concealments ruffle my bosom?  Does not even Nature herself practise wiles?  Look at the innocent birds; do they build where everybody can count their eggs?  And shall a poor human creature try to be better than a bird?  Didn’t I say my prayers under the blanket just now?”

Her companion stirred in her sleep, and she rose upon one elbow to bend upon the sleeper a gaze of ardent admiration.  “Ah, beautiful little chick! how guileless! indeed, how deficient in that respect!” She sat up in the bed and hearkened; the bell struck for midnight.  Was that the hour?  The fates were smiling!  Surely M. Assonquer himself must have wakened her to so choice an opportunity.  She ought not to despise it.  Now, by the application of another and easily wrought charm, that darkened hour lately spent with Palmyre would have, as it were, its colors set.

The night had grown much cooler.  Stealthily, by degrees, she rose and left the couch.  The openings of the room were a window and two doors, and these, with much caution, she contrived to open without noise.  None of them exposed her to the possibility of public view.  One door looked into the dim front room; the window let in only a flood of moonlight over the top of a high house which was without openings on that side; the other door revealed a weed-grown back yard, and that invaluable protector, the cook’s hound, lying fast asleep.

In her night-clothes as she was, she stood a moment in the centre of the chamber, then sank upon one knee, rapped the floor gently but audibly thrice, rose, drew a step backward, sank upon the other knee, rapped thrice, rose again, stepped backward, knelt the third time, the third time rapped, and then, rising, murmured a vow to pour upon the ground next day an oblation of champagne—­then closed the doors and window and crept back to bed.  Then she knew how cold she had become.  It seemed as though her very marrow was frozen.  She was seized with such an uncontrollable shivering that Clotilde presently opened her eyes, threw her arm about her mother’s neck, and said: 

“Ah! my sweet mother, are you so cold?”

“The blanket was all off of me,” said the mother, returning the embrace, and the two sank into unconsciousness together.

* * * * *

Into slumber sank almost at the same moment Joseph Frowenfeld.  He awoke, not a great while later, to find himself standing in the middle of the floor.  Three or four men had shouted at once, and three pistol-shots, almost in one instant, had resounded just outside his shop.  He had barely time to throw himself into half his garments when the knocker sounded on his street door, and when he opened it Agricola Fusilier entered, supported by his nephew Honore on one side and Doctor Keene on the other.  The latter’s right hand was pressed hard against a bloody place in Agricola’s side.