I at once rushed out in search of Her Majesty, questioning the people whom I met on my way. No one had seen her. I ran into the forest, where I knew that she was fond of going; I called out; no reply. More and more anxious, I was about to hunt in another direction, when my eyes fell upon traces of feet that had left their imprint on the snow. I examined them: the foot-prints were too small to belong to a man; they had evidently been made by women's shoes. I therefore followed the trail as carefully as an Indian hunter. Nor was I mistaken: after half-an-hour's walk, I heard clear voices calling out and soon I saw the little Queen arrive, happy and careless, followed by her two companions: "Well, M. Paoli, you were running after us, I will bet. Just think, we got lost, without knowing, and were looking for our way. It was great fun!" I did not venture to admit that I was far from sharing this opinion and I confined myself to warning the Queen that her mother was anxious. "Then let us hurry back as fast as we can," she said, her face suddenly becoming overcast. And I have no doubt that Her Majesty, on returning, was soundly scolded. Strangely enough, I was able to lay my hand on "the black man" on the evening of the very same day. It was a very clear night, with the moon shining on the snow-clad mountains, and I resolved to go down to Aix on foot, instead of using the funicular railway. I therefore took the path that led through the wood; and, on reaching a glade at a few yards from the royal villa, I perceived a shadow that appeared to be hiding behind the trees. "There's the famous black man," I thought. But, as the shadow had all the air of an animal of the human species, I also contemplated the possible presence of an anarchist charged to watch the approaches to the royal residence. I took out my revolver and shouted: "Who goes there?" "I, monsieur le commissaire!" replied a familiar voice, while the shadow took shape, emerged from the trees, stepped forward and gave the military salute. I then recognised one of my own inspectors, whom I had instructed to go the rounds of the precincts of the Queens' chalet nightly. He was the individual who had been taken for "the black man." However, he seemed none the worse for it. 4. When the Queen had visited all the places in the immediate neighbourhood of the Corbières and tasted sufficiently of the pleasure of looking upon herself as a new Little Red Riding-hood in her wild solitudes, or a new Sleeping Beauty (whose Prince Charming was not to come until many years later), she expressed the wish to go on the longer excursions which the country-side afforded. We therefore set out, one fine morning, for the Abbey of Hautecombe, situated on the banks of the poetic Lac du Bourget, which inspired Lamartine with one of his most beautiful meditations.