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Would Norbert come to the meeting? Had Francoise contrived to see him? Might he not be absent from home? It was now growing dark, and the servants brought candles into the dining-room, and Diana, contriving to slip away, gained the appointed spot.
"Was the girl's information correct, Count?" asked he. "How are the Duke and M. Norbert, for of course you have seen them both?" "M. Norbert is too much agitated by the sad event to see any one." "Of course that was to be looked for," returned the wily Counsellor; "for the seizure was terribly sudden." M. de Puymandour was too much occupied with his own thoughts to spare much pity for Norbert.
Norbert went into his bedroom, put on a great coat and a pair of high boots, and slipped into his pocket a revolver, the charges of which he had examined with the greatest care. The night was exceedingly dark, a fine, icy rain was falling, and the roads were very heavy.
"Now that is over," exclaimed she, with a light laugh, as she extended her slender fingers to Norbert, so that he might assist her to rise. As soon as she was on her feet, she took a few steps with the prettiest limp imaginable. "Are you in pain?" said he anxiously. "No, I am not indeed; and by this evening I shall have forgotten all about it.
He often took his evening stroll in the direction of Champdoce, and, pipe in mouth, would meditate over his schemes. Pausing on the brow of a hill that overlooked the Chateau, he would shake his fist, and mutter, "He will come; ah, yes, he must come to me!" And he was in the right, for, after a week spent in indecision, Norbert knocked at the door of his father's bitterest enemy.
On the opposite side of the street the houses all had porticoes, and Norbert took up his position in one of these, and peered out carefully. He had studied the whole street, which was not a long one, from beginning to end, and was convinced that he was the only person in it.
Octave de Mussidan did not suit her fancy; there was too great a difference between him and Norbert, and nothing would ever efface from her memory the recollection of the young Marquis as he had appeared before her on the first day of their meeting in the Forest of Bevron, clad in his rustic garb, with the game he had shot dangling from his hand.
All danger now seemed at an end, and he recalled with glee that he had in his strong box the promissory notes, signed by Norbert, to the amount of twenty thousand francs, which he could demand at any moment, now that Norbert was the reigning lord of Champdoce.
"Norbert de Varenne," said he, "the poet, the author of 'Les Soleils Morts, a very expensive man. Every poem he gives us costs three hundred francs and the longest has not two hundred lines. But let us go into the Napolitain, I am getting thirsty." When they were seated at a table, Forestier ordered two glasses of beer.
"All right," said Norbert, suddenly handing her the paper. "Go ahead." And after the exchange of a single glance the two gentlemen composed themselves to listen. "Ha!" exclaimed Mrs. Flitcroft. "Here it is in head-lines on the first page. 'Defence Scores Again and Again. Ridiculous Behavior of a Would-Be Mob.
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