“In that case, then, you have reason to believe that the man in the overcoat, as you describe him, is living in the conservatories.”

“It is not unlikely.”

“And have these conservatories a means of exit?”

“Yes, count, toward the town.”

Henri remained silent for some time; his heart was throbbing most violently, for these details, which were apparently matters of indifference to him, who seemed throughout the whole of this mystery as if he were gifted with the power of prevision, were, in reality, full of the deepest interest for him.

Night had in the meantime closed in, and the two young men were conversing together without any light in Joyeuse’s apartment.

Fatigued by his journey, oppressed by the strange events which had just been related to him, unable to struggle against the emotions which they had aroused in his breast, the count had thrown himself on his brother’s bed, and mechanically directed his gaze toward the deep blue heavens above him, which seemed set as with diamonds.

The young ensign was seated on the ledge of the window, and voluntarily abandoned himself to that listlessness of thought, to that poetic reverie of youth, to that absorbing languor of feeling, which the balmy freshness of evening inspires.

A deep silence reigned throughout the park and the town; the gates were closed, the lights were kindled by degrees, the dogs in the distance were barking in their kennels at the servants, on whom devolved the duty of shutting up the stables in the evening.

Suddenly the ensign rose to his feet, made a sign of attention with his head, leaned out of the window, and then, calling in a quick, low tone to the count, who was reclining on the bed, said: 

“Come, come!”

“What is the matter?” Henri inquired, arousing himself by a strong effort from his reverie.

“The man! the man!”

“What man?”

“The man in the overcoat, the spy!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Henri, springing from the bed to the window, and leaning on the ensign.

“Stay,” continued the ensign; “do you see him yonder?  He is creeping along the hedge; wait a moment, he will show himself again.  Now look toward that spot which is illuminated by the moon’s rays, there he is; there he is.”

“Yes.”

“Do you not think he is a sinister-looking fellow?”

“Sinister is the very word,” replied Du Bouchage, in a gloomy voice.

“Do you believe he is a spy?”

“I believe nothing, and yet I believe everything.”

“See, he is going from the prince’s pavilion to the conservatories.”

“The prince’s pavilion is in that direction, then?” inquired Du Bouchage, indicating with his finger the direction from which the stranger appeared to be proceeding.

“Do you see that light whose rays are trembling through the leaves of the trees.”—­“Well?”