When he found himself on the road to Gargilesse, at the point where the road to Boisguilbault branches off, his horse, which was equally attached to both places, turned toward Boisguilbault. Emile did not notice it at first, and, when he did notice it, he said to himself that Providence willed it so; that he had left the melancholy old man, whom he had promised to love as his father, all alone for three days; and that, at the risk of being coldly received, he must go at once and obtain his pardon. The gates of the park were not closed for the night when he arrived at the foot of the hill. He entered and rode in the direction of the chalet, expecting that, even if he did not find the marquis there, he would surely arrive as soon as it was dark. Having hitched _Corbeau_ to the balcony rail of the ground floor, he knocked softly at the door of the Swiss chalet, and, as a little breeze had sprung up with the sunset, it seemed to him that he could hear sounds inside and the marquis's feeble voice bidding him come in. But it was a pure illusion, for when he had opened the door he noticed that the interior was empty. However, Monsieur de Boisguilbault might be in the invisible room to which he was accustomed to retire at night. Emile coughed and stamped on the floor to give notice of his presence, determined to go away without seeing him, rather than pass through the door that was closed to everybody without exception. As no sound replied to the noise he made, he concluded that the marquis was still at the château, and he was about to walk in that direction when a gust of wind blew a window violently open, also a door at the end of the room. He turned toward the door, expecting to see Monsieur de Boisguilbault, but no one appeared, and Emile found himself looking into a small study, the disorderly arrangement of which was as noticeable as the scrupulous neatness of the apartments at the château. He would have considered it an impertinence on his part to enter the room or even to scrutinize from a distance the cheap, common furniture and the mass of old books and papers which he saw confusedly at the first glance. But there was one thing that arrested his attention in spite of himself--a life-size portrait of a woman, hung at the farther end of that den, directly opposite him, so that it was impossible for him not to see it, to say nothing of the fact that it would have been difficult not to gaze at so fine a painting and so charming a face. [Illustration: _EMILE EXAMINES THE PORTRAIT OF THE MARQUISE DE BOISGUILBAULT._ _Nothing could be more refined and charming than that youthful face; doubtless it was Madame de Boisguilbault, and our hero forgot himself altogether as he gazed with deep interest at the features of that woman, whose life and death must have had so vast an influence on the destiny of the recluse._]