Decidedly, that was an excellent idea of Pere Planus.

“Come to bed,” he said triumphantly.  “We’ll go and show you your room.”

Sigismond Planus’s bedroom was on the ground floor, a large room simply but neatly furnished; with muslin curtains at the windows and the bed, and little squares of carpet on the polished floor, in front of the chairs.  The dowager Madame Fromont herself could have found nothing to say as to the orderly and cleanly aspect of the place.  On a shelf or two against the wall were a few books:  Manual of Fishing, The Perfect Country Housewife, Bayeme’s Book-keeping.  That was the whole of the intellectual equipment of the room.

Pere Planus glanced proudly around.  The glass of water was in its place on the walnut table, the box of razors on the dressing-case.

“You see, Risler.  Here is everything you need.  And if you should want anything else, the keys are in all the drawers—­you have only to turn them.  Just see what a beautiful view you get from here.  It’s a little dark just now, but when you wake up in the morning you’ll see; it is magnificent.”

He opened the widow.  Great drops of rain were beginning to fall, and lightning flashes rending the darkness disclosed the long, silent line of the fortifications, with telegraph poles at intervals, or the frowning door of a casemate.  Now and then the footsteps of a patrol making the rounds, the clash of muskets or swords, reminded them that they were within the military zone.

That was the outlook so vaunted by Planus—­a melancholy outlook if ever there were one.

“And now good-night.  Sleep well!”

But, as the old cashier was leaving the room, his friend called him back: 

“Sigismond.”

“Here!” said Sigismond, and he waited.

Risler blushed slightly and moved his lips like a man who is about to speak; then, with a mighty effort, he said: 

“No, no-nothing.  Good-night, old man.”

In the dining-room the brother and sister talked together a long while in low tones.  Planus described the terrible occurrence of the evening, the meeting with Sidonie; and you can imagine the—­“Oh! these women!” and “Oh! these men?” At last, when they had locked the little garden-door, Mademoiselle Planus went up to her room, and Sigismond made himself as comfortable as possible in a small cabinet adjoining.

About midnight the cashier was aroused by his sister calling him in a terrified whisper: 

“Monsieur Planus, my brother?”

“What is it?”

“Did you hear?”

“No.  What?”

“Oh! it was awful.  Something like a deep sigh, but so loud and so sad!  It came from the room below.”

They listened.  Without, the rain was falling in torrents, with the dreary rustling of leaves that makes the country seem so lonely.

“That is only the wind,” said Planus.

“I am sure not.  Hush!  Listen!”