Harry went to bed that night very well pleased with himself, his hostess, and her daughter. He liked the little, simple, talkative countess; he was piqued by Adèle’s reserve, coolness, indifference—he hardly knew what to call it; the something which seemed to indicate that Harry Rochester was a creature far too insignificant for the notice of Mademoiselle Adèle de Vaudrey. "And she is clever, too," he thought. "Faith, how she sent Aglionby to the right-about! Polignac is a scoundrel; what will they do if he turns them out? And how did he come across Aglionby? She will not marry him, at any rate; that’s one comfort." It is very unromantic, but the truth must be told. Thoughts of Adèle did not keep Harry one instant from sleep. His bed was a dark mysterious-looking box, with brown damask curtains drawn closely round it. Withdrawing the curtains, he saw a magnificent quilt of crimson satin, snowy sheets, a lace-trimmed pillow. He scrambled up, barking his legs against the high boards composing the sides, and the moment he laid his head on the pillow forgot Aglionby, Marlborough, Adèle, and duty. When Madame de Vaudrey bade good-night to her daughter she said: "Eh bien, fillette; je l’aime, le bel Anglais. Il est brave, intelligent, modeste, parfaitement aimable, n’est-ce pas?" "Oh, petite maman, que voulez-vous? Est-ce que je _dois_ l’aimer, moi aussi?" And kissing her mother on both cheeks Adèle ran off laughing. Harry was awakened in the morning by the loud singing of the birds. He had left his window wide open, and the scent of flowers and perfume from the fir wood at the extremity of the estate gave him fragrant greeting. He sprang out of bed, and stood at the window inhaling the luscious odours, listening to the song of the birds and the incessant hoarse croak of the frogs, gazing at the grass glistening with dew. "I should like a week’s holiday here," he thought. "Ay me! it is breakfast, and then for Breda!" But he had only just left his room when he heard below a violent clanging of the bell, followed by a strange voice speaking in the hall, and a hasty running to and fro. Hurrying downstairs, he met Adèle de Vaudrey at the foot of the staircase. "Come with me, Monsieur," she said the moment she saw him. "Mamma is not down yet." She preceded him through the hall door, at which he now saw a light calash drawn up, and behind it ten horses, nine of them sat by Dutch dragoons, the tenth being the steed of the soldier who stood at the door, and whose voice it was that Harry had heard. From the horses, clouds of vapour rose into the fresh morning air; the pace had evidently been forced. In the calash were two men: the elder, in the uniform of a Dutch officer of high rank, reclined on the cushions, half-supported by a young aide-de-camp seated at his side. He was deathly pale; his eyes were closed.