When Mademoiselle de Vrillac came out of the hour-long swoon into which
her lover's defection had cast her, the expectation of the worst was so
strong upon her that she could not at once credit the respite which
Madame Carlat hastened to announce. She could not believe that she still
lay safe, in her own room above stairs; that she was in the care of her
own servants, and that the chamber held no presence more hateful than
that of the good woman who sat weeping beside her.

As was to be expected, she came to herself sighing and shuddering,
trembling with nervous exhaustion. She looked for _him_, as soon as she
looked for any; and even when she had seen the door locked and double-
locked, she doubted--doubted, and shook and hid herself in the hangings
of the bed. The noise of the riot and rapine which prevailed in the
city, and which reached the ear even in that locked room--and although
the window, of paper, with an upper pane of glass, looked into a
courtyard--was enough to drive the blood from a woman's cheeks. But it
was fear of the house, not of the street, fear from within, not from
without, which impelled the girl into the darkest corner and shook her
wits. She could not believe that even this short respite was hers, until
she had repeatedly heard the fact confirmed at Madame Carlat's mouth.

"You are deceiving me!" she cried more than once. And each time she
started up in fresh terror. "He never said that he would not return
until to-morrow!"

"He did, my lamb, he did!" the old woman answered with tears. "Would I
deceive you?"

"He said he would not return?"