The white veil of the sleeping girl lay on the floor, in a line. The flickering lights crossed it, and the shadows of the leaves resembled black flat insects, and long slugs, scrambling over it, in a mad race. The foliage of the acacia whispered, and the pines of the forest close by hummed as the wind stirred their myriad vibrating spines. The air laden with the fragrance of the resin, was not balmy only, but warm as well. An owl in the woods called at intervals to-whoo! and waited, expecting an answer, then called again. Then the night-hawk screeched, and fluttered among the trees. In the garden-plots whole colonies of crickets chirped a long quivering song in a thousand parts, perfectly harmonized, all night long, with a rapidity of execution perfectly amazing. From Bernay sounded distant, yet distinct, the chime of midnight. At the same moment the hounds in the yard became restless, and gave tongue spasmodically. The girl sighed in sleep, and turned her head from the light; then she woke, started up, and uttered a scream. The door of the room was open, and Berthier stood in it, looking at her, with the cook and Gustave in the background. At the same moment, a black figure glided from behind the window-curtains, and stood between him and her. ‘Sacré! Madame Plomb, you are up late,’ observed the Intendant, advancing into the chamber, and shutting the door behind him upon the two servants. ‘May I trouble you, Madame Plomb, to retire to your couch?’ He stepped towards her. The woman drew herself up, raised her arm, and the moon flashed along a slender steel blade she brandished. ‘Nonsense, my charmer!’ said Berthier; ‘no acting with me. Put down that little toy and begone.’ ‘Stop!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you see that veil there; there, beast, there on the floor?’ ‘Perfectly well, my angel.’ ‘Pass over it, if you dare.’ ‘I dare!’ he said scornfully, but without advancing. ‘If your foot transgresses that limit, I swear, beast! it will be your death.’ He looked at her; the moon was on her blue-grey face, and she looked at him. Her countenance was terrible: in that light, it was like the face of a fiend. ‘You are a devil,’ he said. ‘You have made me one,’ she answered. Deadly hatred glared out of her wild black eyes; there was resolution in the set lips and hard brow, and Berthier felt that what his wife threatened, that she would execute. He could not endure the flash and glitter of her eye-balls, and he lowered his.