shall count the minutes."

Monsieur d'Albon mounted his horse at once, and galloped to the old
abbey. When he arrived there, he saw before the iron gate a tall,
spare man with a very kindly face, who answered in the affirmative
when asked if he lived there. Monsieur d'Albon then informed him of
the reasons for his visit.

"What! monsieur," said the other, "was it you who fired that fatal
shot? You very nearly killed my poor patient."

"But, monsieur, I fired in the air."

"You would have done the countess less harm had you fired at her."

"Then we must not reproach each other, monsieur, for the sight of the
countess has almost killed my friend, Monsieur de Sucy."

"Heavens! can you mean Baron Philippe de Sucy?" cried the doctor,
clasping his hands. "Did he go to Russia; was he at the passage of the
Beresina?"

"Yes," replied d'Albon, "he was captured by the Cossacks and kept for
five years in Siberia; he recovered his liberty a few months ago."

"Come in, monsieur," said the master of the house, leading the marquis
into a room on the lower floor where everything bore the marks of
capricious destruction. The silken curtains beside the windows were
torn, while those of muslin remained intact.