He turned back angrily into the forest to seek his unlucky beast.  The gurgle of water fell on his ear; hard by was a spring, where at least he could water the mustang.  He stooped to examine it; there was yet light enough in the sunset sky to throw back from that little mirror the reflection of his thin, oval face, his long, curling hair, and his pointed beard and mustache.  Yes! this was his face,—­the face that many women in Paris had agreed was romantic and picturesque.  Had those wretched greenhorns never seen a real man before?  Were they idiots, or insane?  A sudden recollection of the silence and seclusion of the building suggested certainly an asylum,—­but where were the keepers?

It was getting darker in the wood; he made haste to recover his horse, to drag it to the spring, and there bathe its shoulder in the water mixed with whiskey taken from his flask.  His saddle-bag contained enough bread and meat for his own supper; he would camp for the night where he was, and with the first light of dawn make his way back through the wood whence he came.  As the light slowly faded from the wood he rolled himself in his saddle-blanket and lay down.

But not to sleep.  His strange position, the accident to his horse, an unusual irritation over the incident of the frightened servants,—­trivial as it might have been to any other man,—­and, above all, an increasing childish curiosity, kept him awake and restless.  Presently he could see also that it was growing lighter beyond the edge of the wood, and that the rays of a young crescent moon, while it plunged the forest into darkness and impassable shadow, evidently was illuminating the hollow below.  He threw aside his blanket, and made his way to the hedge again.  He was right; he could see the quaint, formal lines of the old garden more distinctly,—­the broad terrace, the queer, dark bulk of the house, with lights now gleaming from a few of its open windows.

Before one of these windows opening on the terrace was a small, white, draped table with fruits, cups, and glasses, and two or three chairs.  As he gazed curiously at these new signs of life and occupation, he became aware of a regular and monotonous tap upon the stone flags of the terrace.  Suddenly he saw three figures slowly turn the corner of the terrace at the further end of the building, and walk towards the table.  The central figure was that of an elderly woman, yet tall and stately of carriage, walking with a stick, whose regular tap he had heard, supported on the one side by an elderly Cure in black soutaine, and on the other by a tall and slender girl in white.

They walked leisurely to the other end of the terrace, as if performing a regular exercise, and returned, stopping before the open French window; where, after remaining in conversation a few moments, the elderly lady and her ecclesiastical companion entered.  The young girl sauntered slowly to the steps of the terrace, and leaning against a huge vase as she looked over the garden, seemed lost in contemplation.  Her face was turned towards the wood, but in quite another direction from where he stood.