But D'Harmental was wrong; Buvat contented himself with raising the curtain, and pressing his good round face against the window, and drumming on the panes with his hands; but even this apparition was of short duration, for he turned round suddenly, as a man does when any one calls him, and let fall the muslin curtain behind him and disappeared. D'Harmental presumed that his disappearance was caused by some appeal to his appetite, and this reminded him, that in his preoccupation about the obstinacy of that unlucky window in refusing to open, he had forgotten his own breakfast, which, it must be confessed, to the shame of his sensibility, was a very great infraction on his habits. Now, however, as there was no chance that the window would open while his neighbors were at dinner, the chevalier determined to profit by the interval by dining himself; consequently he rang for the porter, and ordered him to get from the confectioner the fattest pullet, and from the fruiterer the finest fruit that he could find. As to wine, he had still got some bottles of that which the Abbe Brigaud had sent him.

D'Harmental ate with a certain remorse. He could not understand how he could be at the same time so tormented, and have such a good appetite. Luckily he remembered reading in the works of some moralist or other that sorrow sharpened hunger wonderfully. This maxim set his conscience at rest, and the result was, that the unfortunate pullet was eaten up to the very bones.

Although the act of dining was very natural, and by no means reprehensible, D'Harmental shut the window, leaving, however, a corner of the curtain raised; and, thanks to this precaution, he saw Buvat—who had doubtless finished his repast—appear at the window of his terrace. As we have said, the weather was splendid, and Buvat seemed disposed to profit by it; but as he belonged to that class of beings who enjoy nothing alone, he turned round, with a gesture, which D'Harmental took to be an invitation to Bathilde—who had doubtless followed him into his room—to come on to the terrace to him; consequently he hoped for an instant that Bathilde would appear, and he rose with a beating heart; but he was mistaken. However tempting might be the beautiful evening, and however pressing the invitations of Buvat, both were useless; but it was not thus with Mirza, who, jumping out of the window without being invited, began to bound joyously about the terrace, holding in her mouth a purple ribbon, which she caused to flutter like a streamer, and which D'Harmental recognized as the one which had fastened his neighbor's veil on the preceding night. Apparently, Buvat recognized it also, for he started off in pursuit of Mirza as fast as his little legs would allow him; a pursuit which would doubtless have been indefinitely prolonged, if Mirza had not had the imprudence to take refuge in the arbor. Buvat pursued, and an instant afterward D'Harmental saw him return with the ribbon in his hand, and after smoothing it on his knee, he folded it up, and went in, probably to deposit it in a place of safety.

The Chevalier set Mirza to eat sugar.—Page [353].

[Link to larger image]

This was the moment that the chevalier had waited for; he opened his window and watched. In a minute he saw Mirza put her head out of the arbor, look about her, and jump on to the terrace; then D'Harmental called her in the most caressing and seductive tone possible. Mirza trembled at the sound of his voice, then directed her eyes toward him. At the first look she recognized the man of the bits of sugar—gave a little growl of joy—then, with a rapid gastronomic instinct, she darted through Buvat's window with a single bound, and disappeared.

D'Harmental lowered his head, and, almost at the same instant, saw Mirza coming across the street like a flash of lightning; and before he had time to shut his window, she was already scratching at the door. Luckily for D'Harmental, Mirza had the memory of sugar as strongly developed as he had that of sounds.

It will be easily understood that the chevalier did not make the charming little creature wait; and she darted into the room, bounding, and giving the most unequivocal signs of her joy at his unexpected return. As to D'Harmental, he was almost as happy as if he had seen Bathilde. Mirza was something to the young girl; she was her dearly loved greyhound, so caressed and kissed by her—who laid his head on her knees during the day, and slept on the foot of her bed during the night. The chevalier set Mirza to eat sugar, and sat down; and letting his heart speak, and his pen flow, wrote the following letter: