Walter was really concerned at the bonne femme's account of his little friend, but at that moment he could spare but a passing thought to any subject save one; and having gleaned all the intelligence he was likely to obtain respecting it, he cut short the colloquy with a hasty "Bon soir," and bounded on his way with such impetuous speed, that the entrance-gate of St Hilaire was still vibrating with the swing with which it had closed behind him, when he was half through the avenue, and just at one of its side openings into a little grove, or labyrinth, in which was a building, called Le Pavillon de Diane. He stopped to gaze for a moment at the gleam of its white walls, discernible through an opening in the thicket, for the sight was associated with many "blissful memories." But the present _was all_ to him, and again he was starting onward, when his steps were arrested by sounds that mingled with the cooing of the wood-pigeon among "the umbrageous multitude of leaves." Other sounds were none at that stillest hour of the still sultry evening; and among the mingled tones, Walter's ear caught some not to be mistaken, for the voice that uttered them was that of Adrienne. Its breathings were, however, in a higher and less mellifluous key than those of the plaintive bird; but a third voice, sweeter than either, uttered a low undertone, and _that_ voice was the voice of Madelaine. Quick was the ear of Walter to recognise and distinguish those familiar accents, but its sense of melody yielded _of course_ to the fond prejudice, which could not have been expected to find harshness in the tones of his mistress, or allow superior sweetness to those of another voice. Whatever were his secret thoughts on that head, it is not to be supposed that at such a moment he stopped to compare the "wood-notes wild," as coolly and critically as if he were weighing the merits of a pair of opera-singers. No--after a second of attention--not half a one of doubt--he sprang aside from the road leading to the mansion, and was lightly and swiftly threading the tortuous woodpath, and could now discern, through one of its bowery archways, the sparkling of the little fountain that played before one of the three entrances to the pavilion, and another turn of the sylvan puzzle would have brought him to the spot; but in his impatience he lost the well-known clue, and in a moment found himself at the back, instead of the front of the small temple. The corner would have been rounded at three steps; but at that critical moment, a word spoken by the most vehement of the fair colloquists--spoken at the highest key of a voice, whose powers Walter was now for the first time fully aware of--arrested his steps as by art magic. His own name was uttered, associated with words of such strange import, that Walter's astonishment, overpowering his reflective faculties, made him excusable in remaining, as he did, rooted to the spot, a listener to what passed within.