As he spoke, some one knocked three times at the chevalier's door.
"Who is there?" asked D'Harmental from the window, in a voice which, in spite of all his firmness, betrayed some emotion.
"A friend," answered a voice.
"Well?" asked Bathilde, with anxiety.
"Thanks to you, God still continues to protect me: it is a friend who knocks. Once again, thanks, Bathilde." And the chevalier closed his window, sending the young girl a last salute which was very like a kiss; then he opened to the Abbe Brigaud, who, beginning to be impatient, had knocked a second time.
"Well," said the abbe, on whose face it was impossible to see the smallest change, "what has happened, then, my dear pupil, that you are shut in thus by bolts and bars? Is it as a foretaste of the Bastille?"
"Holla! abbe," said D'Harmental, in a cheerful voice, "no such jokes, I beg; they might bring misfortune."
"But look! look!" said Brigaud, throwing his eyes round him, "would not any one suppose they were visiting a conspirator? Pistols on the table, a sword on the pillow, and a hat and cloak on the chair. Ah! my dear pupil, you are discomposed, it appears to me! Come, put all this in order, that I may not be able to perceive, when I pay my paternal visit, what passes during my absence."
D'Harmental obeyed, admiring, in this man of the Church, the sang-froid which he himself found it difficult to attain.
"Very good," said Brigaud, watching him, "and this shoulder-knot which you have forgotten, and which was never made for you (for it dates from the time when you were in jackets), put it away too; who knows?—you may want it."