meal that Vezin made this discovery, and he at once went upstairs to his
quiet room at the end of the winding passage to think it over alone. In
the yard it was empty enough, true, but there was always the possibility
that the big woman whom he dreaded would come out of some door, with her
pretence of knitting, to sit and watch him. This had happened several
times, and he could not endure the sight of her. He still remembered his
original fancy, bizarre though it was, that she would spring upon him
the moment his back was turned and land with one single crushing leap
upon his neck. Of course it was nonsense, but then it haunted him, and
once an idea begins to do that it ceases to be nonsense. It has clothed
itself in reality.

He went upstairs accordingly. It was dusk, and the oil lamps had not
yet been lit in the passages. He stumbled over the uneven surface of
the ancient flooring, passing the dim outlines of doors along the
corridor--doors that he had never once seen opened--rooms that seemed
never occupied. He moved, as his habit now was, stealthily and on
tiptoe.

Half-way down the last passage to his own chamber there was a sharp
turn, and it was just here, while groping round the walls with
outstretched hands, that his fingers touched something that was not
wall--something that moved. It was soft and warm in texture,
indescribably fragrant, and about the height of his shoulder; and he
immediately thought of a furry, sweet-smelling kitten. The next minute
he knew it was something quite different.

Instead of investigating, however,--his nerves must have been too
overwrought for that, he said,--he shrank back as closely as possible
against the wall on the other side. The thing, whatever it was, slipped