Vohrenlorf and I walked home together. We entered by the gardens, the sentry saluting us and opening the gate. There was the Pavilion rising behind my apartments, a long, high, glass-roofed building. The sight of it recalled my thought from Coralie to the work of the morning. I nodded my head toward the building and said to Vohrenlorf:
"There's our rendezvous."
He did not answer, but turned to me with his lips quivering.
"What's the matter, man?" I asked.
"For God's sake, sire, don't do it. Send him a message. You mustn't do it."
"My good Vohrenlorf, you are mad," said I.
Yet not Vohrenlorf was mad, but I, mad with the vision of my two phantoms—freedom and pleasure.
CHAPTER XVII.
DECIDEDLY MEDIÆVAL.
I was in the Garden Pavilion only the other morning with one of my sons, teaching him how to use his weapons. Suddenly he pointed at a bullet-mark not in any of the targets, but in the wainscoting above and a little to the right of them.