Certainly Monsieur Roger had heard, certainly he tried to convince himself; but when his looks fell upon Paul, his reason forsook him and he doubted again, and even he hoped. Some days passed in a semi-sadness that made every one feel uneasy. The children, without knowing why, knew that something had happened which troubled the mutual happiness of their life. Monsieur and Madame Dalize alone understood and pitied their friend Roger. They endeavored to interest him in other things,—but Monsieur Roger refused walks, excursions, and the invitations of the neighbors. He had asked Monsieur Dalize to let him alone for a while, as he felt the need of solitude.

One morning Albert said to his father,—

"Father, Paul and I wish to go with a fishing-party to the farm, as we did last year. Will you allow us to do so?"

"Yes," answered Monsieur Dalize; "but on one condition."

"What is it?"

"That you take Monsieur Roger with you."

Albert looked at his father, and answered,—

"Then you refuse?"

"Why, no,—I only make that condition."

"Yes, father; but as we cannot fulfil the condition, it is equal to a refusal."

"Why cannot you fulfil it? What is there so difficult about it?"

"You know as well as I, my dear father, Monsieur Roger has been for some time very sad, very preoccupied; he wants to remain by himself, and consequently he will refuse to go to the farm."

"Who knows?"

"Well, at all events, I would not dare to ask him."

"Well, then, let Paul do it."

"But what would Paul say?"

"He will say that I am detained here, that I cannot come with you, and that, not thinking it prudent to allow you to go fishing alone, I object to it unless Monsieur Roger will consent to take my place."

"Very well, father," said Albert, in a disappointed tone. "We will see whether Paul succeeds; but I am afraid he will not."

But Paul did succeed. Monsieur Roger could not resist the request so pleasantly made by the boy. That evening, after dinner, they left home to sleep at the farm, which was situated on the borders of the River Yonne. They had to get up at daybreak in order to begin their fishing. The farmers gave up to Monsieur Roger the only spare room they had in the house. Albert and Paul had to sleep in what they called the turret. This turret, the last mossy vestige of the feudal castle, whose very windows were old loop-holes, now furnished with panes of glass, stood against one end of the farm-house. It was divided into three stories: the first story was a place where they kept hay and straw; in the second there slept a young farm-boy; the higher story was reserved for another servant, who was just now absent.

"In war we must do as the warriors do," cried Albert, gayly; "besides, we have not so long to sleep. You may take whichever room you like the best."

"I will take the highest story, if you are willing," answered Paul; "the view must be beautiful."

"Oh, the view! through the loop-holes and their blackened glasses! However, you can climb up on the old platform of the turret if you wish. It is covered with zinc, like the roof of an ordinary house; but, all the same, one can walk upon it. Come, I will show it to you."

The wooden staircase was easily ascended by the boys. When they had reached the room which Paul was to occupy, Albert pointed his hand towards the ceiling and made Paul remark a large bolt.

"See," said he: "you have only to get upon a chair to draw this bolt and to push the trap-door, which gives admission to the turret. On the roof you will, in fact, see a beautiful view."

"I shall do that to-morrow morning, when I get up," answered Paul.

Albert, after he had said good-night to his friend, descended the staircase and slept in the bed which the farm-boy had yielded to him; the latter was to spend the night upon a bed of hay in the first story.

A distant clock in the country had struck twelve. Monsieur Roger had opened the window of his room, and, being unable to sleep, was thinking, still the prey to the fixed idea, still occupied by the strange resemblance; and now the two names of Paul and George mingled together in his mind and were applied only to the one and the same dear being. Suddenly the odor of smoke came to him, brought on the breeze. In the cloudy night he saw nothing, and still the smoke grew more and more distinct. Every one was asleep at the farm: no light was burning, no sound was heard. Monsieur Roger bent over the window-sill and looked uneasily around him. The loop-holes of the lower story of the turret were illuminated; then sparks escaped from it, soon followed by jets of flame. At the same instant the wooden door which opened into the yard was violently burst open, and Monsieur Roger saw two young people in their night-gowns fleeing together and crying with a loud voice. This was all so quick that Monsieur Roger had had neither the time nor the thought of calling for help. A spasm of fear had seized him, which was calmed, now that Paul and Albert were safe; but the alarm had been given, and the farm-hands had awakened. But what help could they expect? The nearest village was six miles off; the turret would be burned before the engines could arrive. Monsieur Roger had run out with the others to witness this fire which they could not extinguish. He held Albert in his arms, embraced him, and said to him,—

"But, tell me, where is Paul?"

Albert looked around him.

"He must be here,—unless fright has made him run away."

"No, he is not here. But you are sure that he ran out of the tower, are you not?"

"Certainly, since it was he who came and shook me in my bed while I was asleep."

At this moment a young boy in a night-gown came out of the crowd, and, approaching Albert, said,—

"No; it was I, sir, who shook you."

Monsieur Roger looked at the boy who had just spoken, and he felt a horrible fear take possession of him. He saw that it was the farm-boy. It must have been he whom he had seen fleeing a moment before with Albert. But Paul? Had he remained in the turret? And the flames which licked the walls had almost reached the floor where Paul was sleeping. Was the poor boy still asleep? Had he heard nothing?

"A ladder!" cried Monsieur Roger, with a cry of fear and despair.

The ladder was immediately brought; but it was impossible to place it against the turret, whose base was in flames.

Monsieur Roger in a second had examined the battlements which composed the roof. He ran towards the farm-house, climbed up the staircase to the top story, opened a trap-door, and found himself upon the roof. Crawling on his hands and knees, following the ridge of the roof, he reached the turret, and found himself even with the story where Paul Solange was asleep. The loop-hole was before him. With a blow of his elbow he broke the glass; then he cried,—

"Paul! Paul!"

Below the people looked at him in mournful silence. No reply came from the room; he could see nothing through the darkness. Monsieur Roger had a gleam of hope: Paul must have escaped. But a sheet of fire higher than the others threw a sudden light through the loop-hole on the other side.

Monsieur Roger was seized with indescribable anguish. Paul Solange was there in his bed. Was he asleep? Monsieur Roger cried out anew with all his force. Paul remained motionless. Then Monsieur Roger leaned over the roof, and said to the people below,—

"Cry at the top of your voices! Make a noise!"

But the next moment he made a sign to them to be silent,—for Monsieur Roger had felt somebody crawling behind him, somebody who had followed his perilous path. It was Albert Dalize.

"Oh, my friend,—my poor friend!" cried Monsieur Roger; "what can we do? Is it not enough to make you crazy? See! the staircase is in flames. You can hardly pass your arm through the loop-holes. Whether he wakes or not, he is lost." And then he said, with an awful gravity, "Then, it is better he should not awake."

"No," replied Albert, quickly; "there is an opening at the top of the tower."

"There is an opening?"

"Yes, a trap-door, which I showed him only a little while ago, before we went to sleep."

Monsieur Roger raised himself upon the roof to a standing position.

"What are you doing?" cried Albert.

"I am going to try to reach the top of the tower."

"It is useless; the bolt opens in the room. Paul only can open it."

"Paul can open it."

"If he awakes. But how is it he does not awake?"

And in his turn Albert called to his friend.

Paul made no movement. The flames were gaining, growing more and more light, and the smoke was filtering through the plank floor and filling the room.

"Ah, I understand," cried Monsieur Roger, "I understand: he is not sleeping. That is not sleep,—that is asphyxia."

"Asphyxia?" repeated Albert, in a voice choked with fear.

The scene was terrible. There was the boy, a prisoner, who was going to die under the eyes of those who loved him, and separated from them solely by a circle of stone and of fire,—a circle which they could not cross. He was going to die without any knowledge that he was dying. Asphyxia held him in a death-like trance. Albert saw the floor of the room crack and a tongue of flame shoot up, which lighted up the sleeping face of Paul Solange. Then he heard a strange cry from a terrified and awful voice. The voice cried,—

"George! George!"

And it was Monsieur Roger who had twice called that name.