glass of Bordeaux to his lips, when he put it down.

“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention at the

horizontal lines of black and stone colour.

“Monseigneur! That?”

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“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.”

It was done.

“Well?”

“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that

are here.”

The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked

out into the vacant darkness, and stood, with that blank behind

him, looking round for instructions.

“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them again.”

That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper.

He was halfway through it, when he again stopped with his glass

in his hand, hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and

came up to the front of the chateau.

“Ask who is arrived.”

It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few

leagues behind Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had

diminished the distance rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up

with Monseigneur on the road. He had heard of Monseigneur, at

the posting-houses, as being before him.

He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him

then and there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little

while he came. He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.

Monseigneur