Who will ever know or who can tell what a terrible conflict took place in the soul of the “Rosier” between good and evil, the tumultuous attack of Satan, his artifices, the temptations which he offered to this timid virgin heart?  What suggestions, what imaginations, what desires were not invented by the evil one to excite and destroy this chosen one?  He seized his hat, Mme. Husson’s saint, his hat, which still bore the little bunch of orange blossoms, and going out through the alley at the back of the house, he disappeared in the darkness.

Virginie, the fruiterer, on learning that her son had returned, went home at once, and found the house empty.  She waited, without thinking anything about it at first; but at the end of a quarter of an hour she made inquiries.  The neighbors had seen Isidore come home and had not seen him go out again.  They began to look for him, but could not find him.  His mother, in alarm, went to the mayor.  The mayor knew nothing, except that he had left him at the door of his home.  Mme. Husson had just retired when they informed her that her protege had disappeared.  She immediately put on her wig, dressed herself and went to Virginie’s house.  Virginie, whose plebeian soul was readily moved, was weeping copiously amid her cabbages, carrots and onions.

They feared some accident had befallen him.  What could it be?  Commandant Desbarres notified the police, who made a circuit of the town, and on the high road to Pontoise they found the little bunch of orange blossoms.  It was placed on a table around which the authorities were deliberating.  The “Rosier” must have been the victim of some stratagem, some trick, some jealousy; but in what way?  What means had been employed to kidnap this innocent creature, and with what object?

Weary of looking for him without any result, Virginie, alone, remained watching and weeping.

The following evening, when the coach passed by on its return from Paris, Gisors learned with astonishment that its “Rosier” had stopped the vehicle at a distance of about two hundred metres from the town, had climbed up on it and paid his fare, handing over a gold piece and receiving the change, and that he had quietly alighted in the centre of the great city.

There was great excitement all through the countryside.  Letters passed between the mayor and the chief of police in Paris, but brought no result.

The days followed one another, a week passed.

Now, one morning, Dr. Barbesol, who had gone out early, perceived, sitting on a doorstep, a man dressed in a grimy linen suit, who was sleeping with his head leaning against the wall.  He approached him and recognized Isidore.  He tried to rouse him, but did not succeed in doing so.  The ex-"Rosier” was in that profound, invincible sleep that is alarming, and the doctor, in surprise, went to seek assistance to help him in carrying the young man to Boncheval’s drugstore.  When they lifted him up they found an empty bottle under him, and when the doctor sniffed at it, he declared that it had contained brandy.  That gave a suggestion as to what treatment he would require.  They succeeded in rousing him.