“Well, Henri?” said Anne, interested, in spite of himself, at a recital at which he had determined to laugh.

“Oh! it is nearly finished, brother.  Her servant whispered something to her, and she lowered her veil; doubtless he told her I was there, but she did not glance toward me.  I saw her no more, and it seemed to me, when the veil concealed her face, as if the sky had become suddenly overshadowed—­that it was no longer a living thing, but a shade escaped from the tomb, which was gliding silently before me.  She went out of the garden, and I followed her; from time to time the man turned and saw me, for I did not hide myself; I had still the old habits in my mind—­the old leaven in my heart.”

“What do you mean, Henri?”

The young man smiled.  “I mean, brother,” said he, “that I have often thought I loved before, and that all women, until now, have been for me—­women to whom I might offer my love.”

“Oh! and what is this one?” said Anne, trying to recover his gayety, which, in spite of himself, had been a little disturbed by his brother’s confidence.

“My brother,” said Henri, seizing his hand in a fervent grasp, “as truly as I live, I know not if she be a creature of this world or not.”

“Holy Fathers! you would make me afraid, if a Joyeuse could know fear.  However, as she walks, weeps, and gives kisses, it seems to me to augur well.  But finish.”

“There is little more.  I followed her, and she did not try to escape or lead me astray; she never seemed to think of it.”

“Well, and where does she live?”

“By the side of the Bastille, Rue de Lesdiguieres.  At the door, the servant turned and saw me.”

“You asked to speak to him?”

“You will think it ridiculous, but I dared not.”

“You entered the house, then?”

“No, brother.”

“Really, Henri, I am tempted to disown you this evening.  But you returned the next day?”

“Yes, but uselessly, and equally so to La Gypecienne.”

“She had disappeared?”

“Like a shadow.”

“But you inquired?”

“The street has few inhabitants, and no one knew her.  I watched for the servant, but he also had disappeared; however, a light which shone every evening through the Venetian blinds consoled me by the knowledge that she was still there.  At last this disappeared; she had quitted the Rue de Lesdiguieres, and no one knew where she had gone.”

“But you found her again?”

“Chance did it.  Listen:  it is really strange.  I was going along the Rue de Bussy, a fortnight ago, about midnight; you know how strict the regulations are about fire; well, I saw, not only light in the windows of a house, but a real fire, which had broken out in the second story.  I knocked at the door, and a man appeared at the window.  ’You have fire in your house!’ I cried.  ‘Silence!  I beg; I am occupied in putting it out.’  ‘Shall I call the watch?’ I asked.  ‘No! in Heaven’s name, call no one!’ ‘But can I help you?’ ‘Will you?  I shall be very grateful,’ and he threw me the key out of the window.