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After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate

dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the

onyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long

sleep. He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through.

A dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to

him once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about

it.

As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down

to a light French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a

small round table close to the open window. It was an exquisite

day. The warm air seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and

buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl that, filled with

sulphur-yellow roses, stood before him. He felt perfectly happy.

Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front

of the portrait, and he started.

"Too cold for Monsieur?" asked his valet, putting an omelette on

the table. "I shut the window?"