In the midst of her anxiety, a new trouble broke upon her,--the transformation taking place in her guardian, Jean. Not that the Breton permitted himself liberties; the deference he paid her was daily more marked and his attitude--that of devoté before an image--was more intensified; but the devoté had eyes and the eyes would light up on beholding his mistress; he had hands and those hands would tremble in placing food on the table. She felt that he loved her with a wild, deep love which only his iron will controlled. She instinctively accentuated the difference in their ranks; she no longer walked with him through the woods. Her fear of him increased daily until she entered none of the castle's apartments, remaining constantly in the boudoir or in Baby's little chamber which adjoined her own. "This misfortune," she soliloquized, for as such she designated Vilon's passion, "has its cause in my disguise. Had I appeared to him in my proper character he would never have dared. My God, help me! At the mercy of a man whose eyes dart lightning, and from whom I must conceal my fears, I have need of all my self-possession. If I falter, this splendid animal will grip me." One night she lay awake listening to Vilon's furtive footfalls in the antechamber where, in his impassioned fidelity, he kept guard. Such vigilance, far from tranquilizing the girl, filled her with ever increasing terror. She tossed upon the gilded Pompadour bed, whose woodwork was carved in capricious and elegant mythological designs. The Marquise's pale shade seemed to be near. The child's tranquil breathing came to her from his little low bed, back of the embroidered Chinese screen. A tiny lamp, whose light was softened by a green glass globe, projected unsteady rays, which magnified shadows and increased her terror. She was fast becoming a victim to insomnia. Her lids closed but the light shining through them wrought figures of fantastic dragons and pale oblique-eyed damsels and mandarins with drooping mustaches who first became animated and then disappeared. When these grotesque visions vanished, there glowed on the silken background goddesses and nymphs of Watteau pattern, who, descending from amid the bed carvings, danced gayly on with clattering satin shoes and gleaming bosoms. Their laughs rang shrill as they too vanished and there arose from the depths of the tangled forest the tanned countenance and blond hair of Jean Vilon. He seized one of the nymphs around the waist; the nymph was herself; she struggled vainly; he clasped his rude hands around her delicate neck and compressed it with gradually increasing force, almost extinguishing life. In order to assure herself that all was delusion she opened wide her eyes just as the brass enameled clock pealed forth midnight.