“Excuse me, monsieur,” said he; “I am half mad, being in love.”

“And I also am in love, but I do not think myself mad for that.”

Henri grew pale.

“You are in love!” said he.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“And you confess it?”

“Is it a crime?”

“But with some one in this street?”

“Yes, for the present.”

“In Heaven’s name tell me who it is!”

“Ah!  M. du Bouchage, you have not reflected on what you are asking me; you know a gentleman cannot reveal a secret, of which only half belongs to him.”

“It is true; pardon, M. de Carmainges; but, in truth, there is no one so unhappy as I am under heaven.”

There was so much real grief and eloquent despair in these words, that Ernanton was profoundly touched.

“Oh! mon Dieu!  I understand,” said he; “you fear that we are rivals.”

“I do.”

“Well; monsieur, I will be frank.”

Joyeuse grew pale again.

“I,” continued Ernanton, “have a rendezvous.”

“A rendezvous?”

“Yes.”

“In this street?”

“Yes.”

“Written?”

“Yes; in very good writing.”

“A woman’s?”

“No; a man’s.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say.  I have an invitation to a rendezvous with a woman, written by a man; it seems she has a secretary.”

“Ah! go on, monsieur.”

“I cannot refuse you, monsieur.  I will tell you the tenor of the note.”

“I listen.”

“You will see if it is like yours.”

“Oh! monsieur, I have no rendezvous—­no note.”

Ernanton then drew out a little paper.  “Here is the note, monsieur,” said he; “it would be difficult to read it to you by this obscure light:  but it is short, and I know it by heart, if you will trust to me.”

“Oh! entirely.”

“This is it, then:  ’M.  Ernanton, my secretary is charged by me to tell you that I have a great desire to talk with you for an hour; your merit has touched me.’  I pass over another phrase still more flattering.”

“Then you are waited for?”

“No; I wait, as you see.”

“Are they to open the door to you?”

“No; to whistle three times from the window.”

Henri, trembling all over, placed one hand on Ernanton’s arm and with the other pointed to the opposite house.

“From there?” said he.

“Oh! no; from there,” said Ernanton, pointing to the “Brave Chevalier.”

Henri uttered a cry of joy.  “Oh! a thousand thanks, monsieur,” said he; “pardon my incivility—­my folly.  Alas! you know, for a man who really loves, there exists but one woman, and, seeing you always return to this house, I believed that it was here you were waited for.”

“I have nothing to pardon, monsieur; for really I half-thought you had come on the same errand as myself.”