The guests sprang to their feet with a cry of dismay. Monseigneur de Narbonne-Lara had fallen out of his chair in an apoplectic fit. CHAPTER X. ‘Come here, children--my angels, Gabriel and Gabrielle!’ said Madame Plomb, standing in the corridor at an open window. ‘Come and see what is to be seen.’ The yellow cat, who had been seated on a little work-table in the lady’s boudoir, bounded lightly to the floor, and obeyed its mistress’s call. Reaching her, the cat leaped to her shoulder, that being the situation in which it would obtain an uninterrupted view of what it was called to witness. Gabrielle followed, still in white, for she had no other clothes with her, looking very pale, with dark rings round her eyes. Madame Berthier made no allusion to the occurrences of the night; they seemed to have faded from her recollection, and her attention had been concentrated on cat’s cradles, which she was able to execute with great ease, now that she had Gabrielle’s fingers on which to elaborate the changes. In the courtyard was Berthier’s travelling carriage, with the horses attached, and the coachman standing beside them. Foulon and his son-in-law were near the carriage. ‘Adolphe! my dressing-case,’ said the old man. ‘Monsieur, you will find it in the well under the seat.’ ‘Are the pistols in the sword-case?’ asked Berthier. ‘Monsieur will find them in the sword-case.’ ‘You have packed up my green velvet coat, and you have provided silk stockings?’ asked Foulon. ‘Monsieur will find everything in his trunk.’ ‘But you have forgotten the canister of snuff.’ ‘Monsieur, I ask pardon, it is under the seat.’ ‘Ah!’ said Foulon, pointing up at the window, and nudging Berthier; ‘contrasts,--see!’ The Intendant looked up, and caught sight of the three faces looking down on the preparations,--the yellow-faced cat, the blue-faced wife, the pale-faced peasant-girl. ‘You are surely going to salute the cheeks of your lady, before you start, my friend,’ said Foulon. Then, in a loud voice to his daughter,--‘Well now, Imogène, how are you this morning? eh! In rude health and buoyant spirits. Capital! And how is my little darling? What! pale as the moon. The naughty dogs must have disturbed your innocent slumbers. Oh, Poulet! oh, Pigeon! you rascals,’ he shook his forefinger at the dogs,--‘how shall I forgive you for having broken the rest of my little mignonne! for having robbed her of her roses! for having filled her maiden breast with fear! Oh, you dogs! oh, oh!’ ‘Is everything ready?’ asked Berthier of Adolphe. ‘Everything--everything,’ replied the footman. ‘See that the dogs be properly fed, Gustave.’ ‘Certainly, monsieur.’