forget himself for the sake of the boy.

When they brought the Vicomte home that night, Juliette was the first
to wake. She heard the noise outside the great gates, the coach slowly
drawing up, the ring for the doorkeeper, and the sound of Matthieu's
mutterings, who never liked to be called up in the middle of the night
to let anyone through the gates.

Somehow a presentiment of evil at once struck the young girl: the
footsteps sounded so heavy and muffled along the flagged courtyard,
and up the great oak staircase. It seemed as if they were carrying
something heavy, something inert or dead.

She jumped out of bed and hastily wrapped a cloak round her thin
girlish shoulders, and slipped her feet into a pair of heelless shoes,
then she opened her bedroom door and looked out upon the landing.

Two men, whom she did not know, were walking upstairs abreast, two
more were carrying a heavy burden, and Matthieu was behind moaning and
crying bitterly.

Juliette did not move. She stood in the doorway rigid as a statue.
The little cortege went past her. No one saw her, for the landings in
the Hotel de Marny are very wide, and Matthieu's lantern only threw a
dim, flickering light upon the floor.

The men stopped outside the Vicomte's room. Matthieu opened it, and
then the five men disappeared within, with their heavy burden.

A moment later old Petronelle, who had been Juliette's nurse, and was