I was lodged in a large room on the third floor, and when I awoke the bright sun beamed on the convent where, as I presume, Mme. de Saint-Maclou lay, and on the great Mount beyond it in the distance.  I have never risen with a more lively sense of unknown possibilities in the day before me.  These two women who had suddenly crossed my path, and their relations to the pale puffy-cheeked man at the little château, might well produce results more startling than had seemed to be offered even by such a freak as the original expedition undertaken by Gustave de Berensac and me.  And now Gustave had fallen away and I was left to face the thing alone.  For face it I must.  My promise to the duchess bound me:  had it not I doubt whether I should have gone; for my interest was not only in the duchess.

I had my coffee upstairs, and then, putting on my hat, went down for a stroll.  So long as the duke did not come to Avranches, I could show my face boldly—­and was not he busy preparing for his guests?  I crossed the threshold of the hotel.

Just at the entrance stood Marie Delhasse; opposite her was a thickset fellow, neatly dressed and wearing mutton-chop whiskers.  As I came out I raised my hat.  The man appeared not to notice me, though his eyes fell on me for a moment.  I passed quickly by—­in fact, as quickly as I could—­for it struck me at once that this man must be Lafleur, and I did not want him to give the duke a description of the unknown gentleman who was staying at Avranches.  Yet, as I went, I had time to hear Marie’s slow musical voice say: 

“I’m not coming at all to-day.”

I was very glad of it, and pursued my round of the town with a lighter heart.  Presently, after half an hour’s walk, I found myself opposite the church, and thus nearly back at the hotel:  and in front of the church stood Marie Delhasse, looking at the façade.

Raising my hat I went up to her, her friendliness of the evening before encouraging me.

“I hope you are going to stay to-day?” said I.

“I don’t know.”  Then she smiled, but not mirthfully.  “I expect to be very much pressed to go this afternoon,” she said.

I made a shot—­apparently at a venture.

“Someone will come and carry you off?” I asked jestingly.

“It’s very likely.  My presence here will be known.”

“But need you go?”

She looked on the ground and made no answer.

“Perhaps though,” I continued, “he—­or she—­will not come.  He may be too much occupied.”

“To come for me?” she said, with the first touch of coquetry which I had seen in her lighting up her eyes.

“Even for that, it is possible,” I rejoined.

We began to walk together toward the edge of the open place in front of the church.  The convent came in sight as we reached the fall of the hill.

“How peaceful that looks!” she said; “I wonder if it would be pleasant there!”