Contrary to Madame Gravois's orders, I
had opened the glass of my window. Glancing at my watch,--which I had
bought in Philadelphia,--I saw that the hands pointed to half after
seven. I had scarcely finished my toilet before there was a knock at the
door, and Madame Gravois entered with a steaming cup of coffee in one
hand and her bottle of medicine in the other.
"I did not wake Monsieur," she said, "for he was tired."
She gave me another dose of the medicine, made me drink two cups of
coffee, and then I started out with all despatch for the House of the
Lions. As I turned into the Rue Chartres I saw ahead of me four horses,
with their bridles bunched and held by a negro lad, waiting in the
street. Yes, they were in front of the house. There it was, with its
solid green gates between the lions, its yellow walls with the fringe of
peeping magnolias and oranges, with its green-latticed gallery from which
Monsieur Auguste had let himself down after stealing the miniature. I
knocked at the wicket, the same gardienne answered the call, smiled, led
me through the cool, paved archway which held in its frame the green of
the court beyond, and up the stairs with the quaint balustrade which I
had mounted five years before to meet Philippe de St. Gre. As I reached
the gallery Madame la Vicomtesse, gowned in brown linen for riding, rose
quickly from her chair and came forward to meet me.
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