“It is my companions,” said he, “who have come here to spend their holiday.”

“But by what chance? just where we are.”

“Because it is just here, madame, that we each had a rendezvous on our arrival, and on the happy day of their entry in Paris my friends conceived an affection for the wine and the cooking of M. Fournichon.  But you, how did you come to choose this place?”

“I chose, and you will easily understand that, the most deserted part of Paris, a place near the river, where no one was likely to recognize me, or suspect that I could come; but, mon Dieu! how noisy your companions are.”

Indeed, the noise was becoming a perfect storm, but all at once they heard a sound of footsteps on the little staircase which led to their room, and Madame Fournichon’s voice, crying, from below, “M. de St. Maline, M. de St. Maline!”

“Well!” replied the young man.

“Do not go up there, I beg!”

“And why not, dear Madame Fournichon? is not all the house ours to-night?”—­“Not the turrets.”

“Bah! they are part of the house,” cried five or six voices.

“No, they are not; they are private; do not disturb my lodgers.”

“Do not disturb me, Madame Fournichon,” replied St. Maline.

“For pity’s sake!” cried Madame Fournichon.

“Madame,” replied he, “it is midnight, and at nine all fires ought to be extinguished; there is a fire now in your turret, and I must see what disobedient subject is transgressing the king’s edicts.”

And St. Maline continued to advance, followed by several others.

“Mon Dieu!  M. de Carmainges,” cried the duchess, “will those people dare to enter here?”

“I am here, madame; have no fear.”

“Oh! they are forcing the doors,” cried she.

Indeed, St. Maline rushed so furiously against the door, that, being very slight, it was at once broken open.

CHAPTER LVIII.

How st. Maline entered into the turret, and what followed.

Ernanton’s first thought when he saw the door of the antechamber fly open was to blow out the light.

“M. de St. Maline,” cried the hostess, “I warn you that the persons whom you are troubling are your friends.”

“Well! all the more reason to present our compliments to them,” cried Perducas de Pincornay, in a tipsy voice.

“And what friends are they?  We will see!” cried St. Maline.

The good hostess, hoping to prevent a collision, glided among them, and whispered Ernanton’s name in St. Maline’s ear.

“Ernanton!” cried St. Maline, aloud, for whom this revelation was oil instead of water thrown on the fire, “that is not possible.”—­“And why so?”

“Oh! because Ernanton is a model of chastity and a melange of all the virtues.  No, you must be wrong, Madame Fournichon; it cannot be Ernanton who is shut in there.”