Now, to see him, to catch sight of him! This was the desire of the girl to whom desire was hitherto unknown. She pondered in her heart, in her fancy, in her brain, the least phrases used by the Abbe de Grancey, for all his words had told. “A fine forehead!” said she to herself, looking at the head of every man seated at the table; “I do not see one fine one.--Monsieur de Soulas’ is too prominent; Monsieur de Grancey’s is fine, but he is seventy, and has no hair, it is impossible to see where his forehead ends.” “What is the matter, Rosalie; you are eating nothing?” “I am not hungry, mamma,” said she. “A prelate’s hands----” she went on to herself. “I cannot remember our handsome Archbishop’s hands, though he confirmed me.” Finally, in the midst of her coming and going in the labyrinth of her meditations, she remembered a lighted window she had seen from her bed, gleaming through the trees of the two adjoining gardens, when she had happened to wake in the night.... “Then that was his light!” thought she. “I might see him!--I will see him.” “Monsieur de Grancey, is the Chapter’s lawsuit quite settled?” said Rosalie point-blank to the Vicar-General, during a moment of silence. Madame de Watteville exchanged rapid glances with the Vicar-General. “What can that matter to you, my dear child?” she said to Rosalie, with an affected sweetness which made her daughter cautious for the rest of her days. “It might be carried to the Court of Appeal, but our adversaries will think twice about that,” replied the Abbe. “I never could have believed that Rosalie would think about a lawsuit all through a dinner,” remarked Madame de Watteville. “Nor I either,” said Rosalie, in a dreamy way that made every one laugh. “But Monsieur de Grancey was so full of it, that I was interested.” The company rose from table and returned to the drawing-room. All through the evening Rosalie listened in case Albert Savaron should be mentioned again; but beyond the congratulations offered by each newcomer to the Abbe on having gained his suit, to which no one added any praise of the advocate, no more was said about it. Mademoiselle de Watteville impatiently looked forward to bedtime. She had promised herself to wake at between two and three in the morning, and to look at Albert’s dressing-room windows. When the hour came, she felt almost pleasure in gazing at the glimmer from the lawyer’s candles that shone through the trees, now almost bare of their leaves. By the help of the strong sight of a young girl, which curiosity seems to make longer, she saw Albert writing, and fancied she could distinguish the color of the furniture, which she thought was red. From the chimney above the roof rose a thick column of smoke. “While all the world is sleeping, he is awake--like God!” thought she.