“Yes; but that is when the princess within secretly favours his efforts,” said Isabelle, with a mischievous smile, “and in some mysterious way constitutes herself his accomplice; being tired of her seclusion, perhaps, or else in love with the bold intruder—­neither of which is my case you know, de Sigognac!  Surely if I’m not afraid—­I, who am more timid than the trembling doe when she hears the dread sound of the hunter’s horn and the baying of the hounds you should not fear—­you, who are brave as Alexander the Great himself.  Sleep in peace to-night, my friend, I pray you, and sleep soundly—­not with one eye open, as you have done so often of late for my sake; and now, good night.”

She held out to him a pretty little hand, white and soft enough to have belonged to a veritable princess, which he kissed as reverently as if it had been a queen’s; then waited to hear her turn the big, clumsy, iron key three times in the lock—­no easy task for her delicate fingers—­and push home the heavy bolt.  Breathing a fervent blessing upon her, he turned away reluctantly towards his own door.  As he paused an instant before it he saw a shadow moving, turned round quickly, and caught sight of the very man he had been thinking of, and puzzling over, so much that evening—­whose approach he had not heard at all—­passing stealthily along the corridor, presumably on his way to his own room.  Not an extraordinary circumstance, that; but the baron’s suspicions were instantly aroused, and under pretext of trying to introduce his key into the lock, he furtively watched him the whole length of the passage, until a turn in it hid him from view, as he gained an unfrequented part of the house; a moment later, the sound of a door being softly opened and closed announced that he had probably reached his own chamber, and then all was still again.

“Now what does this mean?” said de Sigognac to himself, and haunted by a vague feeling of anxiety and uneasiness, he could not even bring himself to lie down upon his bed and rest his weary frame; so, after pacing restlessly about the room for a while, he concluded to occupy himself in writing a letter to his good old Pierre; he had promised to apprise him of his arrival in Paris.  He was careful that the handwriting should be very large, clear, and distinct, for the faithful old servant was not much of a scholar, and addressed him as follows: 

My good Pierre:—­Here I am at last, actually in Paris, the great capital, where, according to general belief, I am to fall in with some sort of good fortune or other, that will enable me to re-establish the ancient prosperity of my house—­though in truth I cannot see where I am to look for it.  However, some happy chance may bring me into relations with the court, and if I could only get to speak to the king—­the great dispenser of all favours—­the important and famous services rendered by my ancestors to his royal predecessors would surely incline him