"For himself."
"For himself! What are you talking about, viscount? Servants in our room! Go to! you act like a frightened girl. Fie, fie! we are old enough to defend ourselves. No; just give me your hand and guide me to my bed, which I cannot find—or else let us light the candle."
"No, no, no!" cried the viscount.
"If you won't give me your hand, you ought at least to pass me the end of a thread; for I am in a veritable labyrinth."
He walked, with arms outstretched, in the direction from which the voice came; but he saw something like a shadow flit by him, accompanied by a wave of sweetest perfume; he closed his arms, but, like Virgil's Orpheus, embraced nothing but air.
"There! there!" said the viscount at the other end of the room; "you are close beside your bed, baron."
"Which of the two is mine?"
"It matters little! I shall not go to bed."
"What's that! you won't go to bed?" exclaimed Canolles, turning about at this imprudent speech; "what will you do, pray?"