resistance to the iron shutters of the windows and doors. The riots
and the civil wars so frequent in those tumultuous times were ample
justification for these precautions.

As six o'clock was striking from the great tower of the Abbey
Saint-Martin, the lover of the hapless countess passed in front of the
hotel de Poitiers and paused for a moment to listen to the sounds made
in the lower hall by the servants of the count, who were supping.
Casting a glance at the window of the room where he supposed his love
to be, he continued his way to the adjoining house. All along his way,
the young man had heard the joyous uproar of many feasts given throughout
the town in honor of the day. The ill-joined shutters sent out streaks
of light, the chimneys smoked, and the comforting odor of roasted
meats pervaded the town. After the conclusion of the church services,
the inhabitants were regaling themselves, with murmurs of satisfaction
which fancy can picture better than words can paint. But at this
particular spot a deep silence reigned, because in these two houses
lived two passions which never rejoiced. Beyond them stretched the
silent country. Beneath the shadow of the steeples of Saint-Martin,
these two mute dwellings, separated from the others in the same street
and standing at the crooked end of it, seemed afflicted with leprosy.
The building opposite to them, the home of the criminals of the State,
was also under a ban. A young man would be readily impressed by this
sudden contrast. About to fling himself into an enterprise that was
horribly hazardous, it is no wonder that the daring young seigneur
stopped short before the house of the silversmith, and called to mind
the many tales furnished by the life of Maitre Cornelius,--tales which
caused such singular horror to the countess. At this period a man of
war, and even a lover, trembled at the mere word "magic." Few indeed
were the minds and the imaginations which disbelieved in occult facts