It was long past one o'clock in the morning when Saint-Aignan perceived De Guiche, standing, motionless, leaning against the trunk of a tree, with his eyes fastened upon the lighted window,--the sleepiest hour of night-time, which painters crown with myrtles and budding poppies, the hour when eyes are heavy, hearts throb, and heads feel dull and languid--an hour which casts upon the day which has passed away a look of regret, while addressing a loving greeting to the dawning light.

For De Guiche it was the dawn of unutterable happiness; he would have bestowed a treasure upon a beggar, had one stood before him, to secure him uninterrupted indulgence in his dreams.

It was precisely at this hour that Saint-Aignan, badly advised,--selfishness always counsels badly,--came and struck him on the shoulder, at the very moment he was murmuring a word, or rather a name.
"Ah!" he cried loudly, "I was looking for you." "For me ?" said De Guiche, starting.
"Yes; and I find you seemingly moon-struck.

Is it likely, my dear comte, you have been attacked by a poetical malady, and are making verses ?" The young man forced a smile upon his lips, while a thousand conflicting sensations were muttering defiance of Saint-Aignan in the deep recesses of his heart.

"Perhaps," he said.