“I wished to pay him a neighborly visit,” he said, “that is all.”

  In this way, Chicot did not tell a falsehood, and yet admitted nothing.

  “My dear monsieur,” said Ernanton politely, but reducing considerably the opening of the door which he held half-closed, “I regret I am unable to give you more precise information.”

  “Thank you, monsieur,” said Chicot, “I must look elsewhere, then.”

  “But,” continued Ernanton, as he gradually closed the door, “that does not interfere with my congratulating myself upon the chance which has brought me again into personal communication with you.”

  “You would like to see me at the devil, I believe,” murmured Chicot, as he returned bow for bow.

  However, as, notwithstanding this mental reply, Chicot, in his preoccupation, forgot to withdraw, Ernanton, shutting his face between the door and the doorway, said to him:

  “I wish you a very good-evening, monsieur.” — ”One moment, Monsieur de Carmainges,” said Chicot.

  “Monsieur, I exceedingly regret I am unable to wait,” replied Ernanton, “but the fact is, I am expecting some one who will come and knock at this very door, and this person will be angry with me if I do not show the greatest possible discretion in receiving him.”

  “That is quite sufficient, monsieur, I understand,” said Chicot; “I am sorry to have been so importunate, and I now retire.” — ”Adieu, dear Monsieur l’Ombre.”

  “Adieu, excellent Monsieur Ernanton.”

  And as Chicot drew back a step, he saw the door quietly shut in his face.

  He listened to satisfy himself if the suspicious young man was watching his departure, but he heard Ernanton’s footsteps as he ascended the staircase; Chicot could therefore return to his own house without uneasiness, and shut himself up in it, thoroughly determined not to interfere with his new neighbor’s habits, but, in accordance with his usual custom, equally resolved not to lose sight of him altogether.

  In fact, Chicot was not a man to slumber on a circumstance which, in his opinion, seemed to be important, without having handled and dissected it, with the patience of a first-rate anatomist; in spite of all he could do (and it was a privilege or defect of his organization), every material impression that his mind received presented itself for analysis, by its most prominent features, in such a manner that poor Chicot’s brain suffered considerably on account of such peculiarity, called upon as it was for an immediate investigation of its master’s thought.

  Chicot, whose mind up to that moment had been occupied with that phrase of the Duc de Guise’s letter, namely, “I entirely approve of your plan with regard to the Forty-five,” consequently abandoned that phrase, the examination of which he promised himself to return to at a later period, in order that he might forthwith thoroughly exhaust this fresh subject of preoccupation, which had just taken the place of the older one.

  Chicot reflected, that nothing could possibly be more singular than the fact of Ernanton installing himself, as if he were its master, in that mysterious house whose inhabitants had suddenly disappeared.

  And the more so, since to these original inhabitants a phrase of the Duc de Guise’s letter relative to the Duc d’Anjou might possibly have some reference.

  That was a chance which deserved attentive consideration, and Chicot was in the habit of believing in providential chances.

  He developed, even, whenever he was begged to do so, some very ingenious theories on the subject.

  The basis of these theories was an idea, which, in our opinion, was quite as good as any other; it was as follows:

  Chance is a kind of reserve held in bond by the Deity. Heaven never communicates that reserve except in momentous circumstances, particularly since He has observed that men are sagacious enough to study and foresee the chances which may befall them in accordance with natural causes and regularly organized principles of existence.

  Moreover, Heaven likes to counteract the combinations of those proud members of the human race whose pride in by-gone times He has already punished by drowning them, and whose future pride He surely will punish in destroying them by fire.

  Heaven, therefore we say, or Chicot said, Heaven is pleased to counteract the combinations of those proud and haughty human beings by means with which they are unacquainted, and whose intervention they cannot foresee.

  This theory, as may be perceived, includes some very specious arguments, and might possibly furnish some very brilliant theses; but the reader, anxious, as Chicot was, to know what Carmainges’ object was in that house, will feel obliged to us by tracing the development of them.

  Chicot, accordingly, began to think, that it was strange to see Ernanton in the very house where he bad seen Remy.

  He considered it was strange for two reasons; the first, because of the perfect ignorance in which the two men lived with respect to each other, which led to the supposition that there must have been an intermediary between them unknown to Chicot; and the second reason, because the house must have been sold to Ernanton, who possessed no means of purchasing it.

  “It is true,” said Chicot, as he installed himself as comfortably as he could on his gutter, which was his usual place of observation; “it is true that the young man pretends he is expecting a visit, and that the visit is from a lady; in these days, ladies are wealthy, and allow themselves an indulgence in fancies of all kinds. Ernanton is handsome, young, and graceful; Ernanton has taken some one’s fancy, a rendezvous has been arranged, and he has been directed to purchase this house; he has bought the house, and she has accepted the rendezvous.

  “Ernanton,” continued Chicot, “lives at court; it must be some lady belonging to the court, then, with whom he has this affair. Poor fellow, will he love her? Heaven preserve him from such a thing! he is going to fall headlong into that gulf of perdition. Very good! ought I not to read him a moral lecture thereupon?

  “A moral lecture, which would be both useless and absurd, doubly so the former, and tenfold the latter.

  “Useless, because he won’t understand it, and, even if he did understand it, would refuse to listen to it.

  “Absurd, because I should be doing far better to go to bed, and to think a little about that poor Borromée.

  “On this latter subject,” continued Chicot, who had suddenly become thoughtful, “I perceive one thing; namely, that remorse does not exist, and is only a relative feeling; the fact is, I do not feel any remorse at all for having killed Borromée, since the manner in which Monsieur de Carmainges’ affair occupies my mind makes me forget that I have killed the man; and if he, on his side, had nailed me to the table as I nailed him to the wainscot, he would certainly have had no more remorse than I have about it myself, at the present moment.”

  Chicot had reached so far in his reasonings, his inductions, and his philosophy, which had consumed a good hour and a half altogether, when he was drawn from his train of thought by the arrival of a litter proceeding from the direction of the inn of the “Brave Chevalier.”

  This litter stopped at the threshold of the mysterious house.

  A veiled lady alighted from it, and disappeared within the door which Ernanton held half open.

  “Poor fellow!” murmured Chicot, “I was not mistaken; and it was indeed a lady he was waiting for, and so now I shall go to bed.”

  Whereupon Chicot rose, but remained motionless, although standing up.

  “I am mistaken,” he said, “I shall not be able to go to sleep; but I maintain what I was saying, that if I don’t sleep it will not be remorse which will prevent me, it will be curiosity; and that is so true what I say in that respect, that if I remain here in my observatory, my mind will only be occupied about one thing, and that is to learn which of our noble ladies honors the handsome Ernanton with her affection.

  “Far better, then, to remain where I am; since, if I went to bed, I should certainly get up again to return here.”

  And thereupon Chicot resumed his seat.

  An hour had nearly passed away without our being able to state whether Chicot was engaged in thinking of the unknown lady or Borromée, or whether he was occupied by curiosity or tormented by feelings of remorse, when he fancied he heard the gallop of a horse at the end of the street.

  Such was indeed the case, for soon after a cavalier, wrapped in his cloak, made his appearance.

  The cavalier drew up in the middle of the street, and seemed to be looking about him to see where he was.

  The cavalier then perceived the group which was formed by the litter and its bearers.

  He drove his horse against them. He was armed, for the rattling of his sword against his spurs could be distinctly heard.

  The bearers of the litter seemed desirous of barring his passage, but he addressed a few words to them in a low tone of voice, and not only did they withdraw with every mark of respect, but one of them, as he sprang to the ground from his horse, even received the bridle from his hand. The unknown advanced toward the door and knocked loudly.

  “Well,” said Chicot, “I was right in remaining, after all; my presentiments, which told me that something was going to take place, have not deceived me. Here is the husband, poor Ernanton; we shall presently be witness of something serious.

  “If, however, it be the husband he is very kind to announce his return in so riotous a manner.”

  Notwithstanding the magisterial manner in which the unknown thundered at the door, some hesitation seemed to be shown in opening it.

  “Open!” cried he who was knocking.

  “Open! open!” repeated the bearers.

  “There is no doubt it is the husband,” resumed Chicot; “he has threatened the men that he will have them whipped or hanged, and they have declared themselves on his side.

  “Poor Ernanton, he will be flayed alive.

  “Oh! oh! I shall not suffer such a thing, however,” added Chicot.

  “For in fact,” he resumed, “he assisted me; and consequently, when an opportunity presents itself, I ought to help him. And it seems to me that the opportunity has now arrived, or it never will do so.”

  Chicot was resolute and generous, and curious into the bargain; he unfastened his long sword, placed it under his arm, and hurriedly ran down the staircase.

  He could open his door noiselessly, which is an indispensable piece of knowledge for any one who may wish to listen with advantage.

  Chicot glided under the balcony, then behind a pillar, and waited.

  Hardly had he installed himself there, when the door opposite was opened immediately the unknown had whispered a word through the keyhole, and yet he did not venture beyond the threshold.

  A moment afterward the lady appeared within the doorway.

  She took hold of the cavalier’s arm, who led her to the litter, closed the door of it, and then mounted his horse.

  “There is no doubt on the subject,” said Chicot, “it is the husband, a good-natured fellow of a husband after all, since he does not think it worth his while to explore the house in order to be revenged on my friend Carmainges.”

  The litter then moved off, the cavalier walking his horse beside the door of it.

  “Pardieu!” said Chicot, “I must follow those people and learn who they are, and where they are going; I shall at all events draw some solid counsel from my discovery for my friend Carmainges.”

  Chicot accordingly followed the cortege, observing the precaution, however, of keeping in the shadow of the walls, and taking care that the noise made by the footsteps of the men and of the horses should render the sound of his own inaudible.

  Chicot’s surprise was by no means slight when he saw the litter stop at the door of the “Brave Chevalier.”

  Almost immediately afterward, as if some one had been on the watch, the door was opened.

  The lady, still veiled, alighted; entered and mounted to the turret, the window of the first story of which was lighted.

  The husband followed her, both being respectfully preceded by Dame Fournichon, who carried a flambeau in her hand.

  “Decidedly,” said Chicot, crossing his arms on his chest, “I cannot understand a single thing of the whole affair.”

  CHAPTER LXXXIII.

  SHOWING HOW CHICOT BEGAN TO UNDERSTAND THE PURPORT OF MONSIEUR DE GUISE’S LETTER.

  Chicot fancied that he had already certainly seen, somewhere or another, the figure of this courteous cavalier; but his memory, having become a little confused during his journey from Navarre, where he had met with so many different figures, did not, with its usual facility, furnish him with the cavalier’s name on the present occasion.

  While, concealed in the shade, he was interrogating himself, with his eyes fixed upon the lighted window, as to the object of this lady and gentleman’s tete-à-tete at the “Brave Chevalier,” our worthy Gascon, forgetting Ernanton in the mysterious house, observed the door of the hostelry open, and in the stream of light which escaped through the opening, he perceived something resembling the dark outline of a monk’s figure.

  The outline in question paused for a moment to look up at the same window at which Chicot had been gazing.

  “Oh! oh!” he murmured; “if I am not mistaken, that is the frock of a Jacobin friar. Is Maitre Gorenflot so lax, then, in his discipline as to allow his sheep to go strolling about at such an hour of the night as this, and at such a distance from the priory?”

  Chicot kept his eye upon the Jacobin, who was making his way along the Rue des Augustins, and something seemed instinctively to assure him that he should, through this monk, discover the solution of the problem which he had up to that moment been vainly endeavoring to ascertain.

  Moreover, in the same way that Chicot had fancied he had recognized the figure of the cavalier, he now fancied he could recognize in the monk a certain movement of the shoulder, and a peculiar military movement of the hips, which only belong to persons in the habit of frequenting fencing-rooms and gymnastic establishments.

  “May the devil seize me,” he murmured, “if that frock yonder does not cover the body of that little miscreant whom I wished them to give me for a traveling companion, and who handles his arquebuse and sword so cleverly.”

  Hardly had the idea occurred to Chicot, when, to convince himself of its value, he stretched out his long legs, and in a dozen strides rejoined the little fellow, who was walking along holding up his frock above his thin and sinewy legs in order to be able to get along all the faster.

  This was not very difficult, however, inasmuch as the monk paused every now and then to glance behind him, as if he was going away with great difficulty and with feelings of profound regret.

  His glance was invariably directed toward the brilliantly-lighted windows of the hostelry.

  Chicot had not gone many steps before he felt sure that he had not been mistaken in his conjectures.

  “Hallo! my little master,” he said; “hallo! my little Jacquot; hallo! my little Clement. Halt!”

  And he pronounced this last word in so thoroughly military a tone, that the monk started at it.

  “Who calls me?” inquired the young man rudely, with something rather antagonistic than cordial in his tone of voice.

  “I!” replied Chicot, drawing himself up in front of the monk; “I! don’t you recognize me?”

  “Oh! Monsieur Robert Briquet!” exclaimed the monk.

  “Myself, my little man. And where are you going like that, so late, darling child?”

  “To the priory, Monsieur Briquet.”

  “Very good; but where do you come from?”

  “I?”

  “Of course, little libertine.”

  The young man started.

  “I don’t know what you are saying, Monsieur Briquet,” he replied; “on the contrary, I have been sent with a very important commission by Dom Modeste, who will himself assure you that such is the case, if there be any occasion for it.”

  “Gently, gently, my little Saint Jerome; we take fire like a match, it seems.”

  “And not without reason, too, when one hears such things said as you were saying just now.”

  “Diable! when one sees a frock like yours leaving a tavern at such an hour — ”

  “A tavern, I!”

  “Oh! of course not; the house you left just now was not the ‘Brave Chevalier,’ I suppose? Ah! you see I have caught you!”

  “You were right in saying that I left that house, but it was not a tavern I was leaving.”

  “What!” said Chicot; “is not the hostelry of the sign of the ‘Brave Chevalier’ a tavern?”

  “A tavern is a house where people drink, and as I have not been drinking in that house, that house is not a tavern for me.”

  “Diable! that is a subtle distinction, and I am very much mistaken if you will not some day become a very forcible theologian; but, at all events, if you did not go into that house to drink there, what did you go there for?”

  Clement made no reply, and Chicot could read in his face, notwithstanding the darkness of the night, a resolute determination not to say another word.

  This resolution annoyed our friend extremely, for it had almost grown a habit with him to become acquainted with everything.

  It must not be supposed that Clement showed any ill-feeling in his silence; for, on the contrary, he had appeared delighted to meet, in so unexpected a manner, his learned fencing-master, Maitre Robert Briquet, and had given him the warmest reception that could be expected from the close and rugged character of the youth.

  The conversation had completely ceased. Chicot, for the purpose of starting it again, was on the point of pronouncing the name of Frere Borromée; but, although Chicot did not feel any remorse, or fancied he did not feel any, he could not summon up courage to pronounce that name.

  His young companion, still preserving the same unbroken silence, seemed as if he were awaiting something; it seemed, too, as if he considered it a happiness to remain as long as possible in the neighborhood of the hostelry of the “Brave Chevalier.”