M. Deshoulieres went slowly away from the Roulleaus towards his own house. The _cafe_ at the corner of the little Place was brilliantly lit; outside, between great tubs of evergreens and climbing daturas, men were sitting, smoking, drinking coffee, or mixing horrible little decoctions of absinthe. Instead of joining the group, and reading his evening budget of the _Patrie_, the _Gaulois_, or the _Organe du Departement_, M. Deshoulieres strolled away to one of the deserted seats under the trees, where there was not sufficient cheerful light or sound for the attraction of idlers, and he was not likely to be recognised. There was his own house opposite, dark and dreary-looking. Some of the windows round were open, light streamed out, figures sat in the balconies; one woman he noticed particularly in a white shining dress, with a child clambering on her knee; he could hear happy voices, laughter and singing. His own house looked like a dark patch in the middle of it all: presently, one little feeble light passed a window, disappeared, shone out again in the story above. "Veuve Angelin is going upstairs," commented M. Deshoulieres. For the first time a feeling of dissatisfaction took shape in his mind. Why had he no one better than Veuve Angelin to welcome him? Why should his house be unlike those others? It had a balcony,--he had hardly noticed it before,--why might not a lady, in a white shining dress, sit there in a little glow of warm light? He half closed his eyes, and fancied her: a slight figure, dark brown hair, lying lightly on her forehead; grey eyes, with the beseeching look he had more than once remarked. "Every place must be a little sad to me, for I belong to no one." His shining lady would say no such pathetic words. Ah, M. Deshoulieres, you opened your heart to Pity, and another visitant slipped in unawares! It seemed but a little while to himself that he sat there under the trees, yet, when at last he roused himself to move, half the lights had vanished, only two or three excited politicians remained before the _cafe_: there was a September chill in the air in spite of the day's heat. Max was thoroughly ashamed, on glancing round, to realise the time he had wasted. It was too late to light another cigar; he got up, shook himself, and walked across to his house. A little primitive light--just a wick in a glass of oil--burnt feebly within the entrance; at the head of the stairs stood Veuve Angelin, in an injured frame of mind. "So monsieur has come at last," she said sharply, "and all the world has been seeking him for the last two hours. There has been a message from the Eveche: they are all in commotion: Monseigneur may be dead by this time, or recovered, which would be almost as bad, considering that that miserable little Monsieur Pinot would have the credit of it." "What was the message?" asked M. Deshoulieres, calmly.