Oscar, however confiding he might be, noted that the departure of the cousin exactly coincided with the kiss he had given his wife?  Were these two blind, or did they pretend not to see, or was I myself the victim of an illusion?  However, conversation had died away; the mistress of the house, singular symptom, was silent and serious, and Oscar wriggled in his chair, like a man who is not altogether at ease.  What was passing in their minds?

Soon we heard the clock in the drawing-room strike ten, and Oscar, suddenly rising, said:  “My dear fellow, in the country it is Liberty Hall, you know; so I will ask your permission to go in—­I am rather tired this evening.  George,” he added to me, “they will show you your room; it is on the ground floor; I hope that you will be comfortable there.”

Everybody got up silently, and, after bidding one another good-night in a somewhat constrained manner, sought their respective rooms.  I thought, I must acknowledge, that they went to bed rather too early at my friend’s.  I had no wish to sleep; I therefore examined my room, which was charming.  It was completely hung with an old figured tapestry framed in gray wainscot.  The bed, draped in dimity curtains, was turned down and exhaled that odor of freshly washed linen which invites one to stretch one’s self in it.  On the table, a little gem dating from the beginning of the reign of Louis XVI, were four or five books, evidently chosen by Oscar and placed there for me.  These little attentions touch one, and naturally my thoughts recurred to the dear fellow, to the strange incident of the evening, to the vexations and tortures hidden, perhaps, by this apparent happiness.  I was ridiculous that night—­I already pitied him, my poor friend.

I felt quite touched, and, full of melancholy, went and leaned against the sill of the open window.  The moon had just risen, the sky was beautifully clear, whiffs of delicious perfumes assailed my nostrils.  I saw in the shadow of the trees glowworms sparkling on the grass, and, in the masses of verdure lit up mysteriously by the moon, I traced strange shapes of fantastic monsters.  There was, above all, a little pointed roof surmounted by a weathercock, buried in the trees at about fifty paces from my window, which greatly interested me.  I could not in the obscurity make out either door or windows belonging to this singular tower.  Was it an old pigeon-house, a tomb, a deserted summer-house?  I could not tell, but its little pointed roof, with a round dormer window, was extremely graceful.  Was it chance or an artist lull of taste that had covered this tower with creepers and flowers, and surrounded it with foliage in such capricious fashion that it seemed to be hiding itself in order to catch all glances?  I was gazing at all this when I heard a faint noise in the shrubbery.  I looked in that direction and I saw—­really, it was an anxious moment—­I saw a phantom clad in a white robe and walking with mysterious and agitated rapidity.  At a turning of the path the moon shone on this phantom.  Doubt was impossible; I had before my eyes my friend’s wife.  Her gait no longer had that coquettish ease which I had noticed, but clearly indicated the agitation due to some strong emotion.