Breathing a fervent blessing upon her, he
turned away reluctantly towards his own door. As he paused an instant
before it he saw a shadow moving, turned round quickly, and caught sight
of the very man he had been thinking of, and puzzling over, so much
that evening--whose approach he had not heard at all--passing stealthily
along the corridor, presumably on his way to his own room. Not an
extraordinary circumstance, that; but the baron's suspicions were
instantly aroused, and under pretext of trying to introduce his key
into the lock, he furtively watched him the whole length of the passage,
until a turn in it hid him from view, as he gained an unfrequented part
of the house; a moment later, the sound of a door being softly opened
and closed announced that he had probably reached his own chamber, and
then all was still again.
"Now what does this mean?" said de Sigognac to himself, and haunted by a
vague feeling of anxiety and uneasiness, he could not even bring himself
to lie down upon his bed and rest his weary frame; so, after pacing
restlessly about the room for a while, he concluded to occupy himself in
writing a letter to his good old Pierre; he had promised to apprise him
of his arrival in Paris. He was careful that the handwriting should be
very large, clear, and distinct, for the faithful old servant was not
much of a scholar, and addressed him as follows:
MY GOOD PIERRE:--Here I am at last, actually in Paris, the great
capital, where, according to general belief, I am to fall in with some
sort of good fortune or other, that will enable me to re-establish the
ancient prosperity of my house--though in truth I cannot see where I am
to look for it.
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