“You do wrong in not sending for the doctor, sir,” said Lubin, his valet.  “I ought to disobey you, and send for him myself.”

“It would be useless,” replied Albert sadly; “he could do nothing for me.”

As the valet was leaving the room, he added,—­“Say nothing about my being unwell to any one, Lubin; it is nothing at all.  If I should feel worse, I will ring.”

At that moment, to see any one, to hear a voice, to have to reply, was more than he could bear.  He longed to be left entirely to himself.

After the painful emotions arising from his explanations with the count, he could not sleep.  He opened one of the library windows, and looked out.  It was a beautiful night:  and there was a lovely moon.  Seen at this hour, by the mild, tremulous evening light, the gardens attached to the mansion seemed twice their usual size.  The moving tops of the great trees stretched away like an immense plain, hiding the neighbouring houses; the flower-beds, set off by the green shrubs, looked like great black patches, while particles of shell, tiny pieces of glass, and shining pebbles sparkled in the carefully kept walks.  The horses stamped in the stable and the rattling of their halter chains against the bars of the manger could be distinctly heard.  In the coach-house the men were putting away for the night the carriage, always kept ready throughout the evening, in case the count should wish to go out.

Albert was reminded by these surroundings, of the magnificence of his past life.  He sighed deeply.

“Must I, then, lose all this?” he murmured.  “I can scarcely, even for myself, abandon so much splendour without regret; and thinking of Claire makes it hard indeed.  Have I not dreamed of a life of exceptional happiness for her, a result almost impossible to realise without wealth?”

Midnight sounded from the neighbouring church of St. Clotilde, and as the night was chilly, he closed the window, and sat down near the fire, which he stirred.  In the hope of obtaining a respite from his thoughts, he took up the evening paper, in which was an account of the assassination at La Jonchere; but he found it impossible to read:  the lines danced before his eyes.  Then he thought of writing to Claire.  He sat down at his desk, and wrote, “My dearly loved Claire,” but he could go no further; his distracted brain could not furnish him with a single sentence.

At last, at break of day, he threw himself on to a sofa, and fell into a heavy sleep peopled with phantoms.

At half-past nine in the morning, he was suddenly awakened, by the noise of the door being hastily opened.  A servant entered, with a scared look on his face, and so out of breath from having come up the stairs four at a time, that he could scarcely speak.

“Sir,” said he, “viscount, be quick, fly and hide, save yourself, they are here, it is the—­”

A commissary of police, wearing his sash, appeared at the door.  He was followed by a number of men, among whom M. Tabaret could be seen, keeping as much out of sight as possible.