More than once, as she deftly arranged her water-colours, music scores, and needlework in their respective boxes, the young woman blew upon her dainty rosy fingers, the cold in this room being quite as intense as in her neighbour's, for in this room, too, there was no fire. There was a great difference between this life and the life she had led in her husband's luxurious home, where everything had combined to encourage the indolence in which she so delighted; and yet, she looked far more happy than when, half reclining in her comfortable armchair, with her feet resting upon a big velvet cushion, she idly watched the sunbeams rioting in her beautiful garden, and dreamily listened to the soft murmur of the fountain. In short, this once indolent creature, who thought a drive in a luxurious carriage entirely too fatiguing, did not seem to regret her vanished splendour in the least, but blithely hummed a merry tune as she drew on her overshoes and took a small umbrella from the cupboard, ready to brave snow, wind, and cold without a murmur. These preparations for departure concluded, Florence cast a hasty glance in the mirror, passed her hand over the waves of golden hair,--hair which was as smooth and glossy, in spite of her early toilet, as if a maid had spent an hour over the young woman's coiffure; then, throwing her body slightly backward, she stretched out her arms and allowed her graceful head to sink languidly upon her left shoulder, giving at the same time a little yawn that said as plainly as any words: "Ah, how pleasant it would be to stay in a nice, comfortable bed, instead of going out in the cold at four o'clock in the morning!" But the next moment, as if reproaching herself for her weakness, Florence hastily donned her hat and cloak, picked up her umbrella, lighted her candle, extinguished the lamp, and went swiftly but lightly down-stairs. The clock in the Luxembourg was just striking four. "Dear me! it is four o'clock already," she murmured, as she reached the foot of the last flight of stairs; then, in her clear, young voice, she called out: "Pull the rope, please." And in another moment the door of the house had closed behind her, and she was in the street. It was late in the month of December, and the night was very dark. A cold wind was whistling through the deserted street, which was but dimly lighted by an occasional street lamp. As soon as she was out of the house, she gave a slight cough, apparently as a sort of a signal. A louder hum! hum! answered it. But it was so dark that Florence could scarcely see Michel, who had come out a few seconds before, and stationed himself on the other side of the street, for it was he who had thus responded to his fair neighbour's signal. Then the two, without addressing so much as a word to each other, started down the street,--he on the left side, she on the right.