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The Pavilion

           Beyondthathedge,thatgarden,andthatcottage,adarkmistenvelopedwithitsfoldsthatimmensitywhereParissleptavastvoidfromwhichglitteredafewluminouspoints,thefuneralstarsofthathell!

           Butford’Artagnanallaspectswereclothedhappily,allideasworeasmile,allshadeswerediaphanous.Theappointedhourwasabouttostrike.Infact,attheendofafewminutesthebelfryofSt.Cloudletfallslowlytenstrokesfromitssonorousjaws.Therewassomethingmelancholyinthisbrazenvoicepouringoutitslamentationsinthemiddleofthenight;buteachofthosestrokes,whichmadeuptheexpectedhour,vibratedharmoniouslytotheheartoftheyoungman.

           Hiseyeswerefixeduponthelittlepavilionsituatedattheangleofthewall,ofwhichallthewindowswereclosedwithshutters,exceptoneonthefirststory.Throughthiswindowshoneamildlightwhichsilveredthefoliageoftwoorthreelindentreeswhichformedagroupoutsidethepark.Therecouldbenodoubtthatbehindthislittlewindow,whichthrewforthsuchfriendlybeams,theprettyMme.Bonacieuxexpectedhim.

           Wrappedinthissweetidea,d’Artagnanwaitedhalfanhourwithouttheleastimpatience,hiseyesfixeduponthatcharminglittleabodeofwhichhecouldperceiveapartoftheceilingwithitsgildedmoldings,attestingtheeleganceoftherestoftheapartment.

           ThebelfryofSt.Cloudsoundedhalfpastten.

           Thistime,withoutknowingwhy,d’Artagnanfeltacoldshiverrunthroughhisveins.

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Roboto Lora
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