Antoine de Chaulieu returned to spend his last night in his bachelor
apartments. His wardrobe and other small possessions, had already been
packed up and sent to his future home; and there was nothing left
in his room now, but his new wedding suit, which he inspected with
considerable satisfaction before he undressed and lay down to sleep.
Sleep, however, was somewhat slow to visit him; and the clock had
struck one, before he closed his eyes. When he opened them again,
it was broad daylight; and his first thought was, had he overslept
himself! He sat up in bed to look at the clock which was exactly
opposite, and as he did so, in the large mirror over the fireplace,
he perceived a figure standing behind him. As the dilated eyes met his
own, he saw it was the face of Jacques Rollet. Overcome with horror he
sunk back on his pillow, and it was some minutes before he ventured
to look again in that direction; when he did so, the figure had
disappeared.

The sudden revulsion of feeling such a vision was calculated to
occasion in a man elate with joy, may be conceived! For some time
after the death of his former foe, he had been visited by not
unfrequent twinges of conscience; but of late, borne along by success,
and the hurry of Parisian life, these unpleasant remembrances had
grown rarer, till at length they had faded away altogether. Nothing
had been further from his thoughts than Jacques Rollet, when he closed
his eyes on the preceding night, nor when he opened them to that sun
which was to shine on what he expected to be the happiest day of his
life! Where were the high-strung nerves now! The elastic frame! The
bounding heart!

Heavily and slowly he arose from his bed, for it was time to do so;
and with a trembling hand and quivering knees, he went through