“And you had the incredible patience to say nothing!  Ah! you do not love, you do not love.”

“Ma foi!  I have no great rights as yet; and these great ladies are so capricious, and would, perhaps, enjoy playing me a trick.”

“Oh!  M. de Carmainges, you do not love as I do; and yet—­”

“Yet what?”

“You are more happy.”

“Ah! are they cruel in that house?”

“M. de Carmainges, for three months I have loved like a madman her who lives there, and I have not yet had the happiness of hearing the sound of her voice.”

“Diable! you are not far advanced.  But stay.”

“What is it?”

“Did not some one whistle?”

“Indeed, I think I heard something.”

A second whistle was now distinctly heard.

“M. le Comte,” said Ernanton, “you will excuse me for taking leave, but I believe that is my signal.”

A third whistle sounded.

“Go, monsieur,” said Joyeuse; “and good luck to you.”

Ernanton made off quickly, while Joyeuse began to walk back more gloomily than ever.

“Now for my accustomed task,” said he; “let me knock as usual at this cursed door which never opens to me.”

CHAPTER LVI.

The door opens.

On arriving at the door of the house, poor Henri was seized by his usual hesitation.

“Courage!” said he to himself.

But before knocking, he looked once more behind him, and saw the bright light shining through the windows of the hotel.

“There,” said he, “enter for love and joy, people who are invited almost without desiring; why have I not a tranquil and careless heart?  Perhaps I might enter there also, instead of vainly trying here.”

Ten o’clock struck.  Henri lifted the knocker and struck once, then again.

“There,” said he, listening, “there is the inner door opening, the stairs creaking, the sound of steps approaching, always the same thing.”

And he knocked again.

“There,” said he, “he peeps through the trellis-work, sees my pale face, and goes away, always without opening.  Adieu, cruel house, until to-morrow.”

And he turned to go; but scarcely had he taken two steps, when the key turned in the lock, and, to his profound surprise, the door opened, and a man stood bowing on the threshold.  It was the same whom he had seen before.

“Good-evening, monsieur,” said he, in a harsh voice, but whose sound appeared to Du Bouchage sweeter than the song of birds.

Henri joined his hands and trembled so that the servant put out a hand to save him from falling, with a visible expression of respectful pity.

“Come, monsieur,” said he, “here I am:  explain to me, I beg, what you want.”

“I have loved so much,” replied the young man; “my heart has beat so fast, that I hardly know if it still beats.”