“Indeed, I do! You had just got to where my poor Suzanne began to be aware. …”
“Ah, yes—that your guest like Paris of old was wishing to make another Menelaus of you; well, then she rose from table. … You remember that she did so?”
“No. … I was perhaps a little—just a little—overcome.”
“Quite so! Well then she rose from table, and said it was time to retire.”
“The truth is, that the last hour I heard strike was eleven,” said the jovial Bailiff.
“Then the party broke up.”
“I don’t think I left the table,” said the Bailiff.
“No, but Madame Magloire and your guest did. She told him which was his room, and Perrine showed him to it; after which, kind and faithful wife as she is, Madame Magloire tucked you into bed, and went into her own room.”
“Dear little Suzanne!” said the bailiff in a voice of emotion.
“And it was then, when she found herself in her room, and all alone, that she got frightened; she went to the window and opened it; the wind, blowing into the room, put out her candle. You know what it is to have a sudden panic come over you, do you not?”
“Oh! yes,” replied the Bailiff naively, “I am very timid myself.”
“After that she was seized with panic, and not daring to wake you, for fear any harm should come to you, she called to the first horseman she saw go by—and luckily, that horseman was myself.”