[CHAPTER VII.]
But no place of concealment presented itself. The broad pavement showed a long, unbroken space of moonlit stone, save where one tall tree reared its stately height outside the curb-stone, and flung long, weird shadows across the front of madame's house.
Carmontelle looked up and down the street, and shook his head.
"I can see no hiding-place but the tree," he said.
"We need none better, unless you are too stout to scale it," Van Zandt answered, coolly, turning a questioning glance upon the rather corpulent form of his good-looking companion.
"You will see," laughed the Southerner, softly.
He glanced up and down the street, and seeing no one in sight, made a bound toward the tree, flung out his arms, and scaled it with admirable agility, finding a very comfortable seat among its low-growing branches. Van Zandt followed his example with boyish ease, and they were soon seated close to each other on the boughs of the big tree, almost as comfortable as if they had been lounging on the satin couches of madame's recherché salon. It was delightful up there among the cool green leaves, with the fresh wind blowing the perfume of madame's flowers into their faces.
"I feel like a boy again," said the journalist, gayly.
"Softly; we are opposite the windows of madame's chamber, I think," cautioned Carmontelle.
"She will not come up yet; she will wait in the salon for Remond. It is but a few minutes to midnight."