Having gone to bed, Théophraste lay awake for some time. He amused himself by thinking of Cartouche and all the wonderful things he had done. While he tried to fall asleep, his mind kept continually going back to the same theme. Suddenly he opened his frightened eyes in the darkness, and laid his hand on his wife’s arm, waking her. Then, in a voice so low that he alone knew he had spoken, he said, “Do you hear anything?” Marceline woke with a start, and they both strained their ears. They heard something in the apartment. It was a peculiar sound like the purring of a cat. It seemed as if it came from the office, and they listened intently for some minutes, too frightened to move. Théophraste, as we have said before, was not a brave man, and he would have given a hundred thousand francs for it to have been daylight. Marceline whispered in his ear, “Go and see what is the matter. You must, Théophraste. Take the revolver from the table drawer.” Théophraste just had the strength to answer, “You know very well it is not loaded.” They listened again, but the noise had stopped. Marceline hoped that they had been mistaken. Théophraste, quaking with fear, then got out of the bed, and taking the revolver, softly opened the door which led into the office. The night was clear, and the moon shone across the large blue table-cloth which was spread on the table. Théophraste recoiled. He pushed the door to by pressing his back against it, as if he would hinder whatever he had seen from entering the room. “What is it?” demanded Marceline, raising herself from the pillows. Théophraste, with chattering teeth, answered, “It does not purr any more, but it has moved. It is on the tea-table.” “What is on the tea-table?” “The cat!” “Are you sure it was in its right place last night?” asked Marceline. “Perfectly sure. I put my scarf-pin on it when I was going to bed.” “Oh, you only think that you did it,” said Marceline. “Shall I light the lamp?” “No, no. We can escape in the darkness. If I open the door on the landing we can call the conciergerie.” “You are not afraid, then?” asked Marceline, who, now that she heard it was the cat, was recovering her senses. “It was an illusion that we had. You must have changed his place last night.” “After all it is very possible,” said Théophraste. He only wanted to get back to bed. “Put it in its place,” insisted Marceline. Théophraste decided to do so. He went into the office, and with a hasty, trembling hand took the cat from the tea-table and put it on the desk, and soon found himself back in bed. By this time they had recovered their composure. They even smiled in the darkness to think that they had been afraid. However, a quarter of an hour elapsed, and they were frightened to hear again the rattle of the ornament. “Oh, it is not possible,” cried Marceline; “we are the victims of hallucination. There is nothing to astonish us after what has happened at the Conciergerie.”