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- Александр Дюма
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At
midnight
,
with
a
beating
heart
,
trembling
hands
,
and
a
livid
countenance
,
he
descended
from
the
tree
,
took
a
ladder
,
leaned
it
against
the
wall
,
mounted
it
to
the
last
step
but
one
,
and
listened
.
All
was
perfectly
quiet
,
not
a
sound
broke
the
silence
of
the
night
;
one
solitary
light
,
that
of
the
housekeeper
,
was
burning
in
the
house
.
This
silence
and
this
darkness
emboldened
Boxtel
;
he
got
astride
the
wall
,
stopped
for
an
instant
,
and
,
after
having
ascertained
that
there
was
nothing
to
fear
,
he
put
his
ladder
from
his
own
garden
into
that
of
Cornelius
,
and
descended
.
Then
,
knowing
to
an
inch
where
the
bulbs
which
were
to
produce
the
black
tulip
were
planted
,
he
ran
towards
the
spot
,
following
,
however
,
the
gravelled
walks
in
order
not
to
be
betrayed
by
his
footprints
,
and
,
on
arriving
at
the
precise
spot
,
he
proceeded
,
with
the
eagerness
of
a
tiger
,
to
plunge
his
hand
into
the
soft
ground
.
He
found
nothing
,
and
thought
he
was
mistaken
.
In
the
meanwhile
,
the
cold
sweat
stood
on
his
brow
.
He
felt
about
close
by
it
,
--
nothing
.
He
felt
about
on
the
right
,
and
on
the
left
,
--
nothing
.
He
felt
about
in
front
and
at
the
back
,
--
nothing
.
He
was
nearly
mad
,
when
at
last
he
satisfied
himself
that
on
that
very
morning
the
earth
had
been
disturbed
.
