As Maurice re-read and examined it, the door opened. Maurice hastily replaced the ring on his finger, and concealed the note under his pillow. Was this the modesty of newly awakened love; or was it the shame of a patriot, who would not wish it to be known that he was in relation with people imprudent enough to write such a billet, of which the perfume alone was sufficient to compromise both the hand that penned it and the hand that received it?
He who entered was a young man attired as a patriot, but a patriot of surpassing elegance. His jacket was composed of fine cloth, his breeches of cashmere, and his stockings of fine striped silk. As to his bonnet, it might have shamed from the elegance of its form and splendid purple color even those of the Trojan Paris himself. Added to all this, he carried in his belt a pair of pistols of the royal manufacture of Versailles, and a short sabre like those of the pupils of Champ-de-Mars.
"Ah! thou sleepest, Brutus," said the new-comer, "and the country is in danger. Fi, donc!"
"No, Lorin," said Maurice, laughing, "I do not sleep, I dream."
"Yes, I understand, of Eucharis."
"Well, as for me, I cannot understand."
"Bah!"
"Of whom do you speak? Who is this Eucharis?"
"Why the woman—"