He had gained the side of the hotel.  From a window above came a faint yellow haze such as might radiate from a single candle.  This was the signal that all was clear.  The man tested the ladder, which was of rope, and it withstood his weight.  Very gently he began to climb, stopping every three or four rounds and listening.  The only noise came from the armory where a parcel of mercenaries were moving about.  Up, up, round by round, till his fingers touched the damp cold stone of the window ledge; the man raised himself, leaned toward the left, and glanced obliquely into the room.  It was deserted.  A candle burned in a small alcove.  The man drew himself quickly into the room, which was a kind of gallery facing the grand staircase.  A sound coming from the hall below caused the intruder to slip behind a curtain.  A lackey was unbarring the door.  The man in the gallery wondered why.

“My very nerves have ears,” he murmured.  “If I were sure . . . to pay madame a visit while she sleeps and dreams!” His hand grew tense around the hilt of his sword.  “No; let us play Iago rather than Tarquinius; let ambition, rather than love, strike the key-note.  Greed was not born to wait.  As yet I have robbed no man save at cards; and as every noble cheats when he can, I can do no less.  Neither have I struck a man in the back.  And I like not this night’s business.”

On the cold and silent night came ten solemn strokes from the clock of St.-Germain l’Auxerrois.  Then all was still again.  The man came from behind the curtain, his naked sword flashing evilly in the flickering light.  He took up the candle and walked coolly down the wide corridor.  The sureness of his step could have originated only in the perfect knowledge of the topography of the hotel.  He paused before a door, his ear to the keyhole.

“She sleeps! . . . and the wolf prowls without the door!” He mused over the wayward path by which he had come into the presence of this woman, who slept tranquilly beyond these panels of oak.  He felt a glow on his cheeks, a quickening of his pulse.  To what lengths would he not go for her sake?  Sure of winning her love, yes, he would become great, rise purified from the slough of loose living.  He had never killed a man dishonorably; he had won his duels by strength and dexterity alone.  He had never taken an advantage of a weakling; for many a man had insulted him and still walked the earth, suffering only the slight inconvenience of a bandaged arm or a tender cheek, and a fortnight or so in bed.  Conde had once said of him that there was not a more courageous man in France; but he could not escape recalling Conde’s afterthought:  that drink and reckless temper had kept him where he was.  There was in him a vein of madness which often burst forth in a blind fury.  It had come upon him in battle, and he had awakened many a time to learn that he had been the hero of an exploit.  He was not a boaster;