Ah, _mesdames et messieurs_, you smile, perhaps, and shrug your shoulders! But in your own lives has there not been some such moment? At least I trust so! Recall it!--and remember that I was young and ardent; remember that love had come to me not timidly by slow steps, but with one glorious burst of happiness, flinging wide the gates of my heart at a single touch, as, to my mind, love always should. But if you have had no such moment, if you have stopped your ears and hurried on when love called you to tarry--if life is for you so poor, and gray, and savorless--then, I pray you, put this tale aside, for of that which follows you will understand not a word. Nor indeed would I care to tell it to such an audience. How long I sat there, wrapped in this garment of purest joy, I know not--an hour perhaps, or even two. I was aroused by the rattle of oar in rowlock coming from the river at my feet. I glanced out absently across the water just as a boat shot from the shadow of the farther shore, crossed the strip of moonlight in mid-stream, and disappeared again into the shadow cast by the trees which edged the garden. I saw it clearly but an instant; yet that instant had sufficed to wake me from my abstraction, for it showed me that the boat was weighted deep in the water with a crowd of men who wore about their necks the tri-colored scarf of the Republic. As I stared down at the river, trying to comprehend the meaning of this vision, a second boat similarly loaded followed the first. I sat intent, listening to the rattle of the oars. Then I heard the boats grate upon the gravel of the bank and the sound of men leaving them, talking together in voices so subdued that only a faint murmur reached me. What could it mean? What was the object of this midnight expedition? Then my heart stood still. The soldiers had entered the garden and were advancing cautiously in the shadow of the hedge. The grass muffled their footsteps, but now and then gun clanked against bayonet, or scabbard against boot. I sat where I was, quite secure in my clump of evergreens, straining my ears, my eyes, trying to understand. I could just discern the squad as it approached, halted, moved on again; and each time it left behind it a dim figure, stationary in the shadow. As I stared, the leader came suddenly into a patch of moonlight. His face was turned toward the château, and instantly I recognized the rough countenance, the fierce mustachios of Dubosq. In a flash I understood. They were after M. le Comte. They were posting sentries about the house. Dubosq was making sure that this time his quarry would not break through the trap.