the valet come and gone, monsieur the marquis walked to and fro in his loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still night. rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger: looked like some enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just coming on.