The night seemed dreadfully long to Arthur, and yet hardly long enough.  He discovered soon after his return, that it was Santerre’s purpose to burn the chateau early in the morning, and then to take the inhabitants away with him as prisoners; and he greatly feared that Chapeau would not be able to return in time to prevent the conflagration.  He anxiously watched the first break of day, and listened intently, but for a long time in vain, for the noise of coming feet.  About half-past two, a soldier came and whispered to the sergeant, who then woke Santerre, and whispered to him, but the General was sleepy, and did not wish his dreams should be disturbed.  He muttered something to the sergeant, who again left him, and resumed the seat in which he had sat since he first entered the room.  Denot had risen two or three times during the night, and paced rapidly and uneasily about.  Whenever he had done so, Agatha had firmly grasped both her father’s chair and the Chevalier’s hand, as though she feared he was about to renew his attempts to drag her away, but he did not either touch her or speak to her.  He was probably aware that the sergeant, who sat there without once closing his eyes through the long hours, had orders to prevent him from doing so.

The Chevalier had no watch, and could not see how the hours were going, but it seemed to him as though it were broad day.  He thought it must be five, six, nay seven o’clock; and he could not understand why the lazy republicans remained so passive and so quiet, nor could he imagine why Chapeau was so long in coming.  The whole affair seemed to him so strange that he could hardly help fancying that he was dreaming.  There sat close to him his dear friend Agatha, with her eyes wide open, fixed on Denot, and she had been gazing in this way for hours after hours, without speaking a word.  There was the Marquis close to her, equally silent, but also wide awake, though his eyes were closed.  Arthur was sure that he was awake.  There was Denot marching to and fro.  Adolphe Denot, who but the other day was in the house, not only as a friend, but as a comrade, eager in the cause in which they were all embarked, as much at home in the chateau as Henri Larochejaquelin himself:  and now he was the worst of traitors, and the most cruel of enemies—­there was the sergeant of the republican army, sitting as quiet and composed as though he were merely idling his time away in his own barracks; and there was Santerre—­the much talked of republican brewer and General; the sanguinary, remorseless, fanatic democrat; the sworn enemy of all that was noble, loyal and gentle, the dreaded Santerre; for the Chevalier had now learned the name of the big, clumsy, noisy man, whom he had seen leading his troops into the salon where he was now sleeping—­there he was, sleeping fast:  while care, anxiety, or a sense of duty banished sleep from all the others, he, who had so much more need than others to be watchful, was snoring loud, and