of utter desolation in the night.

He heard the clock strike two, and shortly after, in a fit of
exasperation, thinking to discipline his mind with reading, lighted the
candle on the bedside stand, found his book, and fumbled vainly in the
little silver casket beside the candlestick for a cigarette.

Now a sincere smoker can do without smoking for hours on end, as long
as the deprivation is voluntary. But let him be without the wherewithal
to smoke if he have the mind to, and he must procure it instantly
though the heavens fall. It was so then with Duchemin. And what greater
folly could there be than to want a cigarette and do without one when
there were plenty in the drawing-room, to be had for the taking?

He rose, girdled about him his dressing-gown, took up the candlestick,
opened his door. The hallway was as empty and silent as he had expected
to find it. He had no fear of disturbing the household, for his
slippers were of felt and silent and the stairs were of stone and
creakless.

Shielding the candle flame with his hand, and somewhat dazzled by the
light thus cast into his face, he passed the floor on which the three
ladies of the château had each her separate suite of rooms, and gained
the drawing-room as noiselessly as any ghost.

The fire had died down till only embers glowed, faint under films of
ash, like an old anger growing cold with age.

The cigarettes were not where he had expected to find them, near one
end of a certain table. Duchemin put down the candlestick and moved