there was no danger of the dragon volant’s closing its doors on that occasion till three or four in the morning. there were quartered there many servants of great people, whose masters would not leave the ball till the last moment, and who could not return to their corners in the dragon volant till their last services had been rendered.

i knew, therefore, i should have ample time for my mysterious excursion without exciting curiosity by being shut out.

and now we pulled up under the canopy of boughs, before the sign of the dragon volant, and the light that shone from its hall-door.

i dismissed my carriage, ran up the broad stair-case, mask in hand, with my domino fluttering about me, and entered the large bedroom. the black wainscoting and stately furniture, with the dark curtains of the very tall bed, made the night there more somber.

an oblique patch of moonlight was thrown upon the floor from the window to which i hastened. i looked out upon the landscape slumbering in those silvery beams. there stood the outline of the chateau de la carque, its chimneys and many turrets with their extinguisher-shaped roofs black against the soft grey sky. there, also, more in the foreground, about midway between the window where i stood and the chateau, but a little to the left, i traced the tufted masses of the grove which the lady in the mask had appointed as the trysting-place, where i and the beautiful countess were to meet that night.

i took “the bearings” of this gloomy bit of wood, whose foliage glimmered softly at top in the light of the moon.

you may guess with what a strange interest and swelling of the heart i gazed on the unknown scene of my coming adventure.

but time was flying, and the hour already near. i threw my robe upon a sofa; i groped out a pair of hoots, which i substituted for those thin heelless shoes, in those days called “pumps,” without which a gentleman could not attend an evening party. i put on my hat and, lastly, i took a pair of loaded pistols, which i had been advised were satisfactory companions in the then unsettled state of french society; swarms of disbanded soldiers, some of them alleged to be desperate characters, being everywhere to be met with. these preparations made, i confess i took a looking-glass to the window to see how i looked in the moonlight; and being satisfied, i replaced it, and ran downstairs.

in the hall i called for my servant.

“st. clair,” said i; “i mean to take a little moonlight ramble, only ten minutes or so. you must not go to bed until i return. if the night is very beautiful, i may possibly extend my ramble a little.”

so down the steps i lounged, looking first over my right, and then over my left shoulder, like a man uncertain which direction to take, and i sauntered up the road, gazing now at the moon, and now at the thin white clouds in the opposite direction, whistling, all the time, an air which i had picked up at one of the theatres.

when i had got a couple of hundred yards away from the dragon volant, my minstrelsy totally ceased; and i turned about, and glanced sharply down the road, that looked as white as hoar-frost under the moon, and saw the gable of the old inn, and a window, partly concealed by the foliage, with a dusky light shining from it.

no sound of footstep was stirring; no sign of human figure in sight. i consulted my watch, which the light was sufficiently strong to enable me to do. it now wanted but eight minutes of the appointed hour. a thick mantle of ivy at this point covered the wall and rose in a clustering head at top.

it afforded me facilities for scaling the wall, and a partial screen for my operations if any eye should chance to be looking that way. and now it was done. i was in the park of the chateau de la carque, as nefarious a poacher as ever trespassed on the grounds of unsuspicious lord!

before me rose the appointed grove, which looked as black as a clump of gigantic hearse plumes. it seemed to tower higher and higher at every step; and cast a broader and blacker shadow toward my feet. on i marched, and was glad when i plunged into the shadow which concealed me. now i was among the grand old lime and chestnut trees — my heart beat fast with expectation.

this grove opened, a little, near the middle; and, in the space thus cleared, there stood with a surrounding flight of steps a small greek temple or shrine, with a statue in the center. it was built of white marble with fluted corinthian columns, and the crevices were tufted with grass; moss had shown itself on pedestal and cornice, and signs of long neglect and decay were apparent in its discolored and weather-worn marble. a few feet in front of the steps a fountain, fed from the great ponds at the other side of the chateau, was making a constant tinkle and splashing in a wide marble basin, and the jet of water glimmered like a shower of diamonds in the broken moonlight. the very neglect and half-ruinous state of all this made it only the prettier, as well as sadder. i was too intently watching for the arrival of the lady, in the direction of the chateau, to study these things; but the half-noted effect of them was romantic, and suggested somehow the grotto and the fountain, and the apparition of egeria.

as i watched a voice spoke to me, a little behind my left shoulder. i turned, almost with a start, and the masque, in the costume of mademoiselle de la vallière, stood there.

“the countess will be here presently,” she said. the lady stood upon the open space, and the moonlight fell unbroken upon her. nothing could be more becoming; her figure looked more graceful and elegant than ever. “in the meantime i shall tell you some peculiarities of her situation. she is unhappy; miserable in an ill — assorted marriage, with a jealous tyrant who now would constrain her to sell her diamonds, which are —”

“worth thirty thousand pounds sterling. i heard all that from a friend. can i aid the countess in her unequal struggle? say but how the greater the danger or the sacrifice, the happier will it make me. can i aid her?”

“if you despise a danger — which, yet, is not a danger; if you despise, as she does, the tyrannical canons of the world; and if you are chivalrous enough to devote yourself to a lady’s cause, with no reward but her poor gratitude; if you can do these things you can aid her, and earn a foremost place, not in her gratitude only, but in her friendship.”

at those words the lady in the mask turned away and seemed to weep.

i vowed myself the willing slave of the countess. “but,” i added, “you told me she would soon be here.”

“that is, if nothing unforeseen should happen; but with the eye of the count de st. alyre in the house, and open, it is seldom safe to stir.”

“does she wish to see me?” i asked, with a tender hesitation.

“first, say have you really thought of her, more than once, since the adventure of the belle étoile?”

“she never leaves my thoughts; day and night her beautiful eyes haunt me; her sweet voice is always in my ear.”

“mine is said to resemble hers,” said the mask.

“so it does,” i answered. “but it is only a resemblance.”

“oh! then mine is better?”

“pardon me, mademoiselle, i did not say that. yours is a sweet voice, but i fancy a little higher.”

“a little shriller, you would say,” answered the de la vallière, i fancied a good deal vexed.

“no, not shriller: your voice is not shrill, it is beautifully sweet; but not so pathetically sweet as hers.”

“that is prejudice, monsieur; it is not true.”

i bowed; i could not contradict a lady.

“i see, monsieur, you laugh at me; you think me vain, because i claim in some points to be equal to the countess de st. alyre. i challenge you to say, my hand, at least, is less beautiful than hers.” as she thus spoke she drew her glove off, and extended her hand, back upward, in the moonlight.

the lady seemed really nettled. it was undignified and irritating; for in this uninteresting competition the precious moments were flying, and my interview leading apparently to nothing.

“you will admit, then, that my hand is as beautiful as hers?”

“i cannot admit it. mademoiselle,” said i, with the honesty of irritation. “i will not enter into comparisons, but the countess de st. alyre is, in all respects, the most beautiful lady i ever beheld.”

the masque laughed coldly, and then, more and more softly, said, with a sigh, “i will prove all i say.” and as she spoke she removed the mask: and the countess de st. alyre, smiling, confused, bashful, more beautiful than ever, stood before me!

“good heavens!” i exclaimed. “how monstrously stupid i have been. and it was to madame la comtesse that i spoke for so long in the salon!” i gazed on her in silence. and with a low sweet laugh of good nature she extended her hand. i took it and carried it to my lips.

“no, you must not do that,” she said quietly, “we are not old enough friends yet. i find, although you were mistaken, that you do remember the countess of the belle étoile, and that you are a champion true and fearless. had you yielded to the claims just now pressed upon you by the rivalry of mademoiselle de la valière, in her mask, the countess de st. alyre should never have trusted or seen you more. i now am sure that you are true, as well as brave. you now know that i have not forgotten you; and, also, that if you would risk your life for me, i, too, would brave some danger, rather than lose my friend forever. i have but a few moments more. will you come here again tomorrow night, at a quarter past eleven? i will be here at that moment; you must exercise the most scrupulous care to prevent suspicion that you have come here, monsieur. you owe that to me.”

she spoke these last words with the most solemn entreaty.

i vowed again and again that i would die rather than permit the least rashness to endanger the secret which made all the interest and value of my life.

she was looking, i thought, more and more beautiful every moment. my enthusiasm expanded in proportion.

“you must come tomorrow night by a different route,” she said; “and if you come again, we can change it once more. at the other side of the chateau there is a little churchyard, with a ruined chapel. the neighbors are afraid to pass it by night. the road is deserted there, and a stile opens a way into these grounds. cross it and you can find a covert of thickets, to within fifty steps of this spot.”

i promised, of course, to observe her instructions implicitly.

“i have lived for more than a year in an agony of irresolution. i have decided at last. i have lived a melancholy life; a lonelier life than is passed in the cloister. i have had no one to confide in; no one to advise me; no one to save me from the horrors of my existence. i have found a brave and prompt friend at last. shall i ever forget the heroic tableau of the hall of the belle étoile? have you — have you really kept the rose i gave you, as we parted? yes — you swear it. you need not; i trust you. richard, how often have i in solitude repeated your name, learned from my servant. richard, my hero! oh! richard! oh, my king! i love you!”

i would have folded her to my heart — thrown myself at her feet. but this beautiful and — shall i say it — inconsistent woman repelled me.

“no, we must not waste our moments in extravagances. understand my case. there is no such thing as indifference in the married state. not to love one’s husband,” she continued, “is to hate him. the count, ridiculous in all else, is formidable in his jealousy. in mercy, then, to me, observe caution. affect to all you speak to, the most complete ignorance of all the people in the chateau de la carque; and, if anyone in your presence mentions the count or countess de st. alyre, be sure you say you never saw either. i shall have more to say to you tomorrow night. i have reasons that i cannot now explain, for all i do, and all i postpone. farewell. go! leave me.”

she waved me back, peremptorily. i echoed her “farewell,” and obeyed.

this interview had not lasted, i think, more than ten minutes. i scaled the park wall again, and reached the dragon volant before its doors were closed.

i lay awake in my bed, in a fever of elation. i saw, till the dawn broke, and chased the vision, the beautiful countess de st. alyre, always in the dark, before me.