She had brought a crust of bread from the kitchen, in which she now made a hole for the letter, and fastened it like a weight to her string.  At midnight, having opened her window with extreme caution, she lowered the letter with the crust, which made no noise against either the wall of the house or the blinds.  Presently she felt the string pulled by Brigaut, who broke it and then crept softly away.  When he reached the middle of the square she could see him indistinctly by the starlight; but he saw her quite clearly in the zone of light thrown by the candle.  The two children stood thus for over an hour, Pierrette making him signs to go, he starting, she remaining, he coming back to his post, and Pierrette again signing that he must leave her.  This was repeated till the child closed her window, went to bed, and blew out the candle.  Once in bed she fell asleep, happy in heart though suffering in body,—­she had Brigaut’s letter under her pillow.  She slept as the persecuted sleep,—­a slumber bright with angels; that slumber full of heavenly arabesques, in atmospheres of gold and lapis-lazuli, perceived and given to us by Raffaelle.

The moral nature had such empire over that frail physical nature that on the morrow Pierrette rose light and joyous as a lark, as radiant and as gay.  Such a change could not escape the vigilant eye of her cousin Sylvie, who, this time, instead of scolding her, set about watching her with the scrutiny of a magpie.  “What reason is there for such happiness?” was a thought of jealousy, not of tyranny.  If the colonel had not been in Sylvie’s mind she would have said to Pierrette as formerly, “Pierrette, you are very noise, and very regardless of what you have often been told.”  But now the old maid resolved to spy upon her as only old maids can spy.  The day was still and gloomy, like the weather that precedes a storm.

“You don’t appear to be ill now, mademoiselle,” said Sylvie at dinner.  “Didn’t I tell you she put it all on to annoy us?” she cried, addressing her brother, and not waiting for Pierrette’s answer.

“On the contrary, cousin, I have a sort of fever—­”

“Fever! what fever?  You are as gay as a lark.  Perhaps you have seen some one again?”

Pierrette trembled and dropped her eyes on her plate.

“Tartufe!” cried Sylvie; “and only fourteen years old! what a nature!  Do you mean to come to a bad end?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Pierrette, raising her sweet and luminous brown eyes to her cousin.

“This evening,” said Sylvie, “you are to stay in the dining-room with a candle, and do your sewing.  You are not wanted in the salon; I sha’n’t have you looking into my hand to help your favorites.”

Pierrette made no sign.

“Artful creature!” cried Sylvie, leaving the room.

Rogron, who did not understand his sister’s anger, said to Pierrette:  “What is all this about?  Try to please your cousin, Pierrette; she is very indulgent to you, very gentle, and if you put her out of temper the fault is certainly yours.  Why do you squabble so?  For my part I like to live in peace.  Look at Mademoiselle Bathilde and take pattern by her.”