few minutes the Abbe had illuminated the apartment, which smelt of
dust and the days of a dead monarchy. Above his head, the bats were
describing complicated figures against a ceiling which had once been
painted in the Italian style, to represent a trellis roof, with
roses and vines entwined. Half a dozen portraits of men, in armour
and wigs, looked down from the walls. One or two of them were
rotting from their frames, and dangled a despondent corner out into
the room.

There were chairs round the table, set as if for a phantom banquet
amid these mouldering environments, and their high carved backs
threw fantastic shadows on the wall.

While the Abbe was still employed with the candles, he heard a heavy
step and loud breathing in the hall without, where he had carefully
left a light.

"Why did you not wait for me on the hill, malhonnete?" asked a thick
voice, like the voice of a man, but the manner was the manner of a
woman. "I am sure you must have heard me. One hears me like a
locomotive, now that I have lost my slimness."

She came into the room as she spoke, unwinding a number of black,
knitted shawls, in which she was enveloped. There were so many of
them, and of such different shape and texture, that some confusion
ensued. The Abbe ran to her assistance.

"But, Madame," he cried, "how can you suspect me of such a crime? I
came early to make these preparations. And as for hearing you--
would to Heaven I had! For it needs courage to be a Royalist in