The remainder of the night, which succeeded La Tour’s release, was passed by Madame d’Aulney, in a state of morbid excitement.  She watched alone by the side of her sleeping infant, and even maternal solicitude was, for a time, suspended by the intense interest, which her own perilous adventure, and the safety of La Tour awakened.  She felt that she had done a deed, for which, if by any chance discovered, she could never hope to obtain forgiveness from her incensed husband.  Still, her conscience acquitted her of any motive criminal in its nature, or traitorous to his real interest; and the reflection that it had been in her power to confer an essential benefit on the man whom she had once deeply, though most unintentionally, injured, was inexpressibly soothing to her feelings.  She counted the moments, which seemed to linger in their flight, and started at the slightest sound, till sufficient time had elapsed to convince her that he must have proceeded far on his way, towards a place of safety.

The dreaded discovery was indeed deferred beyond her utmost expectations.  The guard, who was to relieve Antoine, repaired to his post at the appointed time; and, though surprised to find it vacated, yet as the door was perfectly secure, he contented himself with uttering an oath at his comrade’s negligence, and in a few moments it was almost forgotten.  An hour or more passed away, and no motion was heard within; morning advanced—­he thought it strange that his prisoner should enjoy such sound repose, and a suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon his mind.  He unbarred the door, and his suspicions were, of course, instantly realized.  Repenting the easy faith which had suffered him to delay an examination, he hastened to impart the intelligence, which soon spread dismay and confusion throughout the garrison.

Madame d’Aulney heard the loud voices, and hurried steps of the soldiers without, and the quick note of alarum, whose fearful summons could not be mistaken.  These sounds, though long expected, struck heavily on her heart; and she uttered a fervent petition to the Virgin, to speed the wanderer on his doubtful way.  She heard various reports of what had taken place, from her attendants; but she prudently waited for the storm of passion to subside, before she ventured into the presence of M. d’Aulney, conscious that the utmost effort of self-command would be necessary to meet his eye with her usual composure.

“Methinks you are tardy this morning, madame!” he said, stopping in his hurried walk, and looking fixedly on her countenance, as she at length entered the room where he was alone.

“Our sick child must plead my excuse,” she replied; “he still requires a watchful care, and I am unwilling to consign him to any one less interested than myself.”

“You are a fond mother,” said D’Aulney, resuming his walk; “but, there are few husbands who choose to be neglected for a puling infant.”