Charles hardly noted what Desiree said. So sunny a nature as his
might have been expected to make light of a minor trouble, more
especially the minor trouble of another. He was unusually
thoughtful. Some event of the morning had, it would appear, given
him pause on his primrose path. He glanced more than once over his
shoulder towards the window, which stood open. He seemed at times
to listen.

Suddenly he rose and went to the window. His action caused a brief
silence, and all heard the clatter of a horse's feet and the quick
rattle of a sword against spur and buckle.

After a glance he came back into the room.

"Excuse me," he said, with a bow towards Mathilde. "It is, I think,
a messenger for me."

And he hurried downstairs. He did not return at once, and soon the
conversation became general again.

"You," said the Grafin, touching Desiree's arm with her fan, "you,
who are now his wife, must be dying to know what has called him
away. Do not consider the 'convenances,' my child."

Desiree, thus admonished, followed Charles. She had not been aware
of this consuming curiosity until it was suggested to her.

She found Charles standing at the open door. He thrust a letter
into his pocket as she approached him, and turned towards her the