But after a time Michel grew weary of lying on this movable and prickly sofa. When Guérin threw him down into the brook a goodly quantity of mud became attached to his garments, and the dampness soon penetrated to his skin. His stay before the kitchen fire had been short, so short that the dampness now returned, more penetrating than ever. He began, therefore, to walk up and down in the turret-room, cursing the foolish timidity to which he owed not only the cold, stiffness, and hunger he began to feel, but also--more dismal still--the loss of Mary's presence. He scolded himself for not securing his own profit out of the valiant enterprise he had undertaken, and for losing courage to end successfully an affair he had so well begun. Let us hasten to say here, in order that we may not misrepresent our hero's character, that the consciousness of his mistake did not make him a whit more courageous, and it never for an instant occurred to him to go frankly to the marquis and ask for hospitality,--a desire for which had been one of the determining motives of his flight. Meantime the soldiers had arrived, and Michel, attracted by the noise to the narrow casement of his turret-chamber, saw the Demoiselles de Souday, their father, the general, and his officers, passing and repassing before the brilliantly lighted windows of the main building. It was then that, seeing Rosine in the courtyard beneath, he asked, with all the modesty of his character, for a bit of bread, and declared himself hungry. Hearing, soon after, a light step apparently approaching his room, he began to feel a lively satisfaction under two heads: first, he was likely to get something to eat; and next, he should probably hear news of Mary. "Is that you, Rosine?" he asked, when he heard a hand endeavoring to open the door. "No, it is not Rosine; it is I, Monsieur Michel," said a voice. Michel recognized it as Mary's voice; but he could not believe his ears. The voice continued:-- "Yes, I,--I, who am very angry with you!" As the tone of the voice was not in keeping with the words, Michel was less alarmed than he might have been. "Mademoiselle Mary!" he cried; "Mademoiselle Mary! Good heavens!" He leaned against the wall to keep himself from falling. Meanwhile the young girl had opened the door. "You!" cried Michel,--"you, Mademoiselle Mary! Oh, how happy I am!" "Not so happy as you say." "Why not?" "Because, as you must admit, in the midst of your happiness you are dying of hunger." "Ah, mademoiselle! who told you that?" stammered Michel, coloring to the whites of his eyes. "Rosine. Come, Rosine, quick!" continued Mary. "Here, put your lantern on this bench, and open the basket at once; don't you see that Monsieur Michel is devouring it with his eyes?"