When, after near a week, she again ventured thither, she made Annette her companion, and confined her walk to the lower grounds, but often started as the leaves rustled in the breeze, imagining, that some person was among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, she looked forward with apprehensive expectation. She pursued her walk thoughtfully and silently, for her agitation would not suffer her to converse with Annette, to whom, however, thought and silence were so intolerable, that she did not scruple at length to talk to her mistress.
“Dear madam,” said she, “why do you start so? one would think you knew what has happened.”
“What has happened?” said Emily, in a faltering voice, and trying to command her emotion.
“The night before last, you know, madam—”
“I know nothing, Annette,” replied her lady in a more hurried voice.
“The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden.”
“A robber!” said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone.
“I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could he be?”
“Where did you see him, Annette?” rejoined Emily, looking round her, and turning back towards the château.
“It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the gardener. It was twelve o’clock at night, and, as he was coming across the court to go the back way into the house, what should he see—but somebody walking in the avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean guessed how it was, and he went into the house for his gun.”