“And do you allow your betrothed to break his word? What o’clock is it, Laramée?”
“Monseigneur, I have just posted the two sentinels on the rampart.”
“That is to say it is eight o’clock, is it not, captain?” merrily answered the baron to the majordomo, tending his glass.
“Yes, monseigneur, somewhat past eight.”
“Ah, that!” replied the old gentleman, replacing his glass on the table, not without having emptied it. “I hope nothing has happened to Honorat.”
“Father, why not send a messenger on horseback to Berrol at once?” said Reine, with keen interest.
“You are right, my child; at any rate, we would feel assured: there is not much to fear, but at night the road through the morasses of Berrol is not safe.”
“Whom shall I send for the chevalier, monseigneur?” said Laramée.
The baron was about to reply when the Chevalier de Berrol appeared, preceded by a valet who carried a lamp.
“Where in the devil do you come from, my son?” said the Baron des Anbiez, extending his hand to Honorat, whom he called son since he was to marry his daughter. “Did you meet the fairies in the quagmires of Berrol?”