He took down a candlestick, lighted it at one of the chandeliers, and went towards the door. The whole house was wrapped in sleep. Oh! the awful stillness of that vast house, where not a soul seemed to breathe, that house with its interminable corridors, so high and so cold, like long, deserted lanes. Thus alone, in the silence of the night, he experienced a new sense of satisfaction, for was not the house absolutely his? Every living occupant, man or beast, was at his bidding, under his sway; and at this hour, when all slept under his protection, his proprietorship was accentuated, and he realised to the full that he was absolute master. In his long flowered dressing-gown, holding the candlestick aloft in his right hand, with his iron-grey head, clean-shaven visage, and true judge's nose, large and massive as if hewn in one piece, and in keeping with the cold, hard expression of his countenance, he could have been taken for the spirit of avenging justice, or for some statue, descended from its pedestal to carry light into the surrounding darkness.
Monsieur de Pontivy crossed a long passage, turned to the left, then went up three steps, and turning again, found himself on a narrow staircase leading to the second floor. It was there that the young secretary slept, in a little room looking on the courtyard. He lifted the candle to assure himself he was not mistaken, then knocked softly, twice. Receiving no answer he knocked again, somewhat louder.
"He sleeps soundly enough," he muttered; "at that age it comes easy."
The Councillor was on the point of returning. After all, it would be time enough to speak of the paper at breakfast, and already day was beginning to break. But again those subtle, insinuating suspicions crept into his mind. Yes! he must assure himself at once! And he knocked again, this time almost pushing the door. It was not fastened, and gave way, disclosing an empty room and a bed untouched. With a rapid glance he searched the room. All was in order.
"What!" he exclaimed, "at his age! This is promising, certainly."
And he began to wonder which servant was accessory to these midnight rambles, for this was surely not the first. The hall door was barred and double-barred when young Robespierre took leave of Monsieur de Pontivy. The porter was certainly culpable. Yes, the whole domestic staff was privy to the misconduct of his secretary! The very next day the Councillor would have a reckoning with them all, and it would be a terrible reckoning! But just at that moment, when Monsieur de Pontivy was about to leave the room, he noticed the young man's hat and stick lying near. He stopped in surprise.
Was Robespierre in the house, then?
Monsieur de Pontivy again looked at the bed. No, it had not been slept in. Other details struck him: the coat and vest hanging up, and the frilled waistcoat carefully folded on a chair. It was enough,—the young man had not gone out.
Where was he? In Louison's room, undoubtedly, on the third floor! Louison, his daughter's maid! She was from Perigord, sprightly and complaisant, cunning enough, a veritable soubrette, with her sly ways and her round cheeks. Ah! how stupid he had been to have taken her into the house, considering her age and bearing, scarcely twenty-two, and dark and passionate as a Catalonian.
"I ought to have known as much," he said.