“No, Monsieur Digby, not if it did not come from you. We shall sit in the shade yonder for half an hour or so, and then, when you are rested, we 'll join the cotillon.” “Get that boy off to bed, Eccles,” said Cleremont, who did not scruple to utter the words aloud. I started up to make an indignant rejoinder; some fierce insult was on my lips; but passion and excitement and wine mastered me, and I sank back on my seat overcome and senseless. CHAPTER XIII. A NEXT MORNING I could not awake on the day after the _fête_, I was conscious that Nixon was making a considerable noise,--that he shut and opened doors and windows, splashed the water into my bath, and threw down my boots with an unwonted energy; but through all this consciousness of disturbance I slept on, and was determined to sleep, let him make what uproar he pleased. “It 's nigh two o'clock, sir!” whispered he in my ear, and I replied by a snort. “I 'm very sorry to be troublesome, sir; but the master is very impatient: he was getting angry when I went in last time.” These words served to dispel my drowsiness at once, and the mere thought of my father's displeasure acted on me like a strong stimulant. “Does papa want me?” cried I, sitting up in bed; “did you say papa wanted me?” “Yes, sir,” said a deep voice; and my father entered the room, dressed for the street, and with his hat on. “You may leave us,” said he to Nixon; and as the man withdrew, my father took a chair and sat down close to my bedside. “I have sent three messages to you this morning,” said he, gravely, “and am forced at last to come myself.” I was beginning my apologies, when he stopped me, and said, “That will do; I have no wish to be told why you overslept yourself; indeed, I have already heard more on that score than I care for.” He paused, and though perhaps he expected me to say something, I was too much terrified to speak.