CHAPTER II THE CHARIOT OF THESPIS
CHAPTER III THE BLUE SUN INN
CHAPTER IV AN ADVENTURE WITH BRIGANDS
CHAPTER V AT THE CHATEAU DE BRUYERES
CHAPTER VI A SNOW-STORM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
CHAPTER VII CAPTAIN FRACASSE
CHAPTER VIII THE DUKE OF VALLOMBREUSE
CHAPTER IX A MELEE AND A DUEL
CHAPTER X A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE
CHAPTER XI THE PONT-NEUF
CHAPTER XII THE CROWNED RADISH
CHAPTER XIII A DOUBLE ATTACK
CHAPTER XIV LAMPOURDE’S DELICACY
CHAPTER XV MALARTIC AT WORK
CHAPTER XVI VALLOMBREUSE
CHAPTER XVII THE AMETHYST RING
CHAPTER XVIII A FAMILY PARTY
CHAPTER XIX NETTLES AND COBWEBS
CHAPTER XX CHIQUITA’S DECLARATION OF LOVE
CHAPTER XXI HYMEN! OH HYMEN!
CHAPTER XXII THE CASTLE OF HAPPINESS
CAPTAIN FRACASSE
CHAPTER I.
CASTLE MISERY
Upon the southern slope of one of those barren hills that rise abruptly
here and there in the desolate expanse of the Landes, in South-western
France, stood, in the reign of Louis XIII, a gentleman’s residence,
such as abound in Gascony, and which the country people dignify by the
name of château.
Two tall towers, with extinguisher tops, mounted guard at the angles of
the mansion, and gave it rather a feudal air. The deep grooves upon its
facade betrayed the former existence of a draw-bridge, rendered
unnecessary now by the filling up of the moat, while the towers were
draped for more than half their height with a most luxuriant growth of
ivy, whose deep, rich green contrasted happily with the ancient gray
walls.
A traveller, seeing from afar the steep pointed roof and lofty towers
standing out against the sky, above the furze and heather that crowned
the hill-top, would have pronounced it a rather imposing château—the
residence probably of some provincial magnate; but as he drew near
would have quickly found reason to change his opinion. The road which
led to it from the highway was entirely overgrown with moss and weeds,
save a narrow pathway in the centre, though two deep ruts, full of
water, and inhabited by a numerous family of frogs, bore mute witness
to the fact that carriages had once passed that way.
The roof, of dark red tiles, was disfigured by many large,
leprous-looking, yellow patches, while in some places the decayed
rafters had given way, leaving formidable gaps. The numerous
weather-cocks that surmounted the towers and chimneys were so rusted
that they could no longer budge an inch, and pointed persistently in
various directions. The high dormer windows were partially closed by
old wooden shutters, warped, split, and in every stage of dilapidation;
broken stones filled up the loop-holes and openings in the towers; of
the twelve large windows in the front of the house, eight were boarded
up; the remaining four had small diamond-shaped panes of thick,
greenish glass, fitting so loosely in their leaden frames that they
shook and rattled at every breath of wind; between these windows a
great deal of the stucco had fallen off, leaving the rough wall exposed
to view.
Above the grand old entrance door, whose massive stone frame and lintel
retained traces of rich ornamentation, almost obliterated by time and
neglect, was sculptured a coat of arms, now so defaced that the most
accomplished adept in heraldry would not be able to decipher it. Only
one leaf of the great double door was ever opened now, for not many
guests were received or entertained at the château in these days of its
decadence. Swallows had built their nests in every available nook about
it, and but for a slender thread of smoke rising spirally from a
chimney at the back of this dismal, half-ruined mansion, the traveller
would have surely believed it to be uninhabited. This was the only sign
of life visible about the whole place, like the little cloud upon the
mirror from the breath of a dying man, which alone gives evidence that
he still lives.
Upon pushing open the practicable leaf of the great worm-eaten door,
which yielded reluctantly, and creaked dolefully as it turned upon its
rusty hinges, the curious visitor entered a sort of portico, more
ancient than the rest of the building, with fine, large columns of
bluish granite, and a lofty vaulted roof. At the point of intersection
of the arches was a stone shield, bearing the same coat of arms that
was sculptured over the entrance without. This one was in somewhat
better preservation than the other, and seemed to bear something
resembling three golden storks (cigognes) on an azure field; though it
was so much in shadow, and so faded and dingy, that it was impossible
to make it out clearly. Fastened to the wall, at a convenient height
from the ground, were great iron extinguishers, blackened by the smoke
from torches in long by-gone years, and also iron rings, to which the
guests’ horses were made fast in the olden times, when the castle was
in its glory. The dust that lay thick upon them now showed that it was
long since they had been made use of.
From this portico—whence a door on either side opened into the main
building; one leading into a long suite of apartments on the ground
floor, and the other into what had probably been a guard-room—the
explorer passed into an interior court, dismal, damp, and bare. In the
corners nettles and various rank weeds were growing riotously amid the
great heaps of rubbish fallen from the crumbling cornice high above,
and grass had sprung up everywhere in the crevices of the stone
pavement. Opposite the entrance a flight of dilapidated, shaky steps,
with a heavy stone balustrade, led down into a neglected garden, which
was gradually becoming a perfect thicket. Excepting in one small bed,
where a few cabbages were growing, there was no attempt at cultivation,
and nature had reasserted her rights everywhere else in this abandoned
spot, taking, apparently, a fierce delight in effacing all traces of
man’s labour. The fruit trees threw out irregular branches without fear
of the pruning knife; the box, intended to form a narrow border to the
curiously shaped flower-beds and grass-plots, had grown up unchecked
into huge, bushy shrubs, while a great variety of sturdy weeds had
usurped the places formerly devoted to choice plants and beautiful,
fragrant flowers. Brambles, bristling with sharp thorns, which had
thrown their long, straggling arms across the paths, caught and tried
to hold back any bold adventurer who attempted to penetrate into the
mysterious depths of this desolate wilderness. Solitude is averse to
being surprised in dishabille, and surrounds herself with all sorts of
defensive obstacles.
However, the courageous explorer who persisted in following the
ancient, overgrown alley, and was not to be daunted by formidable
briers that tore his hands and clothing, nor low-hanging, closely
interlaced branches that struck him smart blows in the face as he
forced his way through them, would have reached at last a sort of rocky
niche, fancifully arranged as a grotto. Besides the masses of ivy, iris
and gladiolus, that had been carefully planted long ago in the
interstices of the rock, it was draped with a profusion of graceful
wild vines and feathery ferns, which half-veiled the marble statue,
representing some mythological divinity, that still stood in this
lonely retreat. It must have been intended for Flora or Pomona, but now
there were tufts of repulsive, venomous-looking mushrooms in the
pretty, graceful, little basket on her arm, instead of the sculptured
fruit or flowers that should have filled it. Although her nose was
broken, and her fair body disfigured by many dark stains, and overgrown
in part with clinging mosses, it could still plainly be seen that she
had once been very lovely. At her feet was a marble basin, shaped like
a shell, half full of discoloured, stagnant water; the lion’s head just
above it, now almost entirely concealed by a thick curtain of leaves,
no longer poured forth the sparkling stream that used to fall into it
with a musical murmur. This little grotto, with its fountain and
statue, bore witness to former wealth; and also to the aesthetic taste
of some long-dead owner of the domain. The marble goddess was in the
Florentine style of the Renaissance, and probably the work of one of
those Italian sculptors who followed in the train of del Rosso or
Primaticcio, when they came to France at the bidding of that generous
patron of the arts, Francis I; which time was also, apparently, the
epoch of the greatest prosperity of this noble family, now so utterly
fallen into decay.
Behind the grotto rose a high wall, built of stone, crumbling and
mouldy now, but still bearing some broken remains of trellis-work,
evidently intended to be covered with creepers that would entirely
conceal the wall itself with a rich tapestry of verdure. This was the
limit of the garden; beyond stretched the wide expanse of the sandy,
barren Landes, flecked here and there with patches of scanty heather,
and scattered groves of pine trees.
Turning back towards the château it became apparent that this side of
it was even more neglected and ruinous than the one we have already
described; the recent poverty-stricken owners having tried to keep up
appearances as far as possible, and concentrated their efforts upon the
front of their dilapidated abode. In the stable, where were stalls for
twenty horses, a miserable, old, white pony stood at an empty manger,
nibbling disconsolately at a scanty truss of hay, and frequently
turning his sunken, lack-lustre eyes expectantly towards the door. In
front of an extensive kennel, where the lord of the manor used to keep
a whole pack of hounds, a single dog, pathetically thin, lay sleeping
tranquilly and soundly, apparently so accustomed to the unbroken
solitude of the place that he had abandoned all habits of watchfulness.
Entering the château the visitor found himself in a broad and lofty
hall, containing a grand old staircase, with a richly carved, wooden
balustrade—a good deal broken and defaced now, like everything else in
this doleful Castle Misery. The walls had been elaborately frescoed,
representing colossal figures of Hercules supporting brackets upon
which rested the heavily ornamented cornice. Springing from it
fantastic vines climbed upward on the arched ceiling, and above them
the blue sky, faded and dingy, was grotesquely variegated with dark
spots, caused by the water filtering through from the dilapidated roof.
Between the oft-repeated figures of Hercules were frescoed niches,
wherein heads of Roman emperors and other illustrious historical
characters had been depicted in glowing tints; but all were so vague
and dim now that they were but the ghosts of pictures, which should be
described with the shadows of words—ordinary terms are too substantial
to apply to them. The very echoes in this deserted hall seemed startled
and amazed as they repeated and multiplied the unwonted sound of
footsteps.
A door near the head of the first flight of stairs opened into what had
evidently been the great banqueting hall in the old days when sumptuous
repasts and numerous guests were not uncommon things in the château. A
huge beam divided the lofty ceiling into two compartments, which were
crossed at regular intervals by smaller joists, richly carved, and
retaining some traces of gilding. The spaces between had been
originally of a deep blue tint, almost lost now under the thick coating
of dust and spiders’ webs that no housemaid’s mop ever invaded. Above
the grand old chimney-piece was a noble stag’s head, with huge,
spreading antlers, and on the walls hung rows of ancient family
portraits, so faded and mouldy now that most of the faces had a ghastly
hue, and at night, by the dim, flickering lamp-light, they looked like
a company of spectres. Nothing in the world is sadder than a collection
of old portraits hanging thus, neglected and forgotten, in deserted
halls—representations, half obliterated themselves, of forms and faces
long since returned to dust. Yet these painted phantoms were most
appropriate inhabitants of this desolate abode; real living people
would have seemed out of place in the death-stricken house.
In the middle of the room stood an immense dining-table of dark,
polished wood, much worm-eaten, and gradually falling into decay. Two
tall buffets, elaborately carved and ornamented, stood on opposite
sides of the room, with only a few odd pieces of Palissy ware,
representing lizards, crabs, and shell-fish, reposing on shiny green
leaves, and two or three delicate wine-glasses of quaint patterns
remaining upon the shelves where gold and silver plate used to glitter
in rich profusion, as was the mode in France. The handsome old chairs,
with their high, carved backs and faded velvet cushions, that had been
so firm and luxurious once, were tottering and insecure; but it
mattered little, since no one ever came to sit in them now round the
festive board, and they stood against the wall in prim order, under the
rows of family portraits.
A smaller room opened out of this one, hung round with faded,
moth-eaten tapestry. In one corner stood a large bed, with four tall,
twisted columns and long, ample curtains of rich brocade, which had
been delicate green and white, but now were of a dingy, yellowish hue,
and cut completely through from top to bottom in every fold. An ebony
table, with some pretty gilded ornaments still clinging to it, a mirror
dim with age, and two large arm-chairs, covered with worn and faded
embroidery, that had been wrought by the fair fingers of some noble
dame long since dead and forgotten, completed the furniture of this
dismal chamber.
In these two rooms were the latticed windows seen in the front of the
château, and over them still hung long sweeping curtains, so tattered
and moth-eaten that they were almost falling to pieces. Profound
silence reigned here, unbroken save by occasional scurrying and
squeaking of mice behind the wainscot, the gnawing of rats in the wall,
or the ticking of the death-watch.
From the tapestried chamber a door opened into a long suite of deserted
rooms, which were lofty and of noble proportions, but devoid of
furniture, and given up to dust, spiders, and rats. The apartments on
the floor above them were the home of great numbers of bats, owls, and
jackdaws, who found ready ingress through the large holes in the roof.
Every evening they flew forth in flocks, with much flapping of wings,
and weird, melancholy cries and shrieks, in search of the food not to
be found in the immediate vicinity of this forlorn mansion.
The apartments on the ground floor contained nothing but a few bundles
of straw, a heap of corn-cobs, and some antiquated gardening
implements. In one of them, however, was a rude bed, covered with a
single, coarse blanket; presumably that of the only domestic remaining
in the whole establishment.
It was from the kitchen chimney that the little spiral of smoke escaped
which was seen from without. A few sticks were burning in the wide,
old-fashioned fireplace, but the flames looked pale under the bright
light that streamed down upon them through the broad, straight flue.
The pot that hung from the clumsy iron crane was boiling sleepily, and
if the curious visitor could have peeped into it he would have seen
that the little cabbage bed in the garden had contributed of its
produce to the _pot-au-feu_. An old black cat was sitting as close to
the fire as he could without singeing his whiskers, and gravely
watching the simmering pot with longing eyes. His ears had been closely
cropped, and he had not a vestige of a tail, so that he looked like one
of those grotesque Japanese chimeras that everybody is familiar with.
Upon the table, near at hand, a white plate, a tin drinking cup, and a
china dish, bearing the family arms stamped in blue, were neatly
arranged, evidently in readiness for somebody’s supper. For a long time
the cat remained perfectly motionless, intently watching the pot which
had almost ceased to boil as the fire got low, and the silence
continued unbroken; but at last a slow, heavy step was heard
approaching from without, and presently the door opened to admit an old
man, who looked half peasant, half gentleman’s servant. The black cat
immediately quitted his place by the fire and went to meet him; rubbing
himself against the newcomer’s legs, arching his back and purring
loudly; testifying his joy in every way possible to him.
“Well, well, Beelzebub,” said the old man, bending down and stroking
him affectionately, “are you really so glad to see me? Yes, I know you
are, and it pleases me, old fellow, so it does. We are so lonely here,
my poor young master and I, that even the welcome of a dumb beast is
not to be despised. They do say that you have no soul, Beelzebub, but
you certainly do love us, and understand most times what we say to you
too.” These greetings exchanged, Beelzebub led the way back to the
fire, and then with beseeching eyes, looking alternately from the face
of his friend to the _pot-au-feu_, seemed mutely begging for his share
of its contents. Poor Beelzebub was growing so old that he could no
longer catch as many rats and mice as his appetite craved, and he was
evidently very hungry.
Pierre, that was the old servant’s name, threw more wood on the
smouldering fire, and then sat down on a settle in the chimney corner,
inviting his companion—who had to wait still for his supper as
patiently as he might—to take a seat beside him. The firelight shone
full upon the old man’s honest, weather-beaten face, the few scattered
locks of snow-white hair escaping from under his dark blue woollen cap,
his thick, black eyebrows and deep wrinkles. He had the usual
characteristics of the Basque race; a long face, hooked nose, and dark,
gipsy-like complexion. He wore a sort of livery, which was so old and
threadbare that it would be impossible to make out its original colour,
and his stiff, soldier-like carriage and movements proclaimed that he
had at some time in his life served in a military capacity. “The young
master is late to-night,” he muttered to himself, as the daylight
faded. “What possible pleasure can he find in these long, solitary
rambles over the dunes? It is true though that it is so dreary here, in
this lonely, dismal house, that any other place is preferable.”
At this moment a joyous barking was heard without, the old pony in the
stable stamped and whinnied, and the cat jumped down from his place
beside Pierre and trotted off towards the door with great alacrity. In
an instant the latch was lifted, and the old servant rose, taking off
his woollen cap respectfully, as his master came into the kitchen. He
was preceded by the poor old dog, trying to jump up on him, but falling
back every time without being able to reach his face, and Beelzebub
seemed to welcome them both—showing no evidence of the antipathy
usually existing between the feline and canine races; on the contrary,
receiving Miraut with marks of affection which were fully reciprocated.
The Baron de Sigognac, for it was indeed the lord of the manor who now
entered, was a young man of five or six and twenty; though at first
sight he seemed much older, because of the deep gravity, even sadness,
of his demeanour; the feeling of utter powerlessness which poverty
brings having effectually chased away all the natural piety and
light-heartedness of youth. Dark circles surrounded his sunken eyes,
his cheeks were hollow, his mustache drooped in a sorrowful curve over
his sad mouth. His long black hair was negligently pushed back from his
pale face, and showed a want of care remarkable in a young man who was
strikingly handsome, despite his doleful desponding expression. The
constant pressure of a crushing grief had drawn sorrowful lines in a
countenance that a little animation would have rendered charming. All
the elasticity and hopefulness natural to his age seemed to have been
lost in his useless struggles against an unhappy fate. Though his frame
was lithe, vigorous, and admirably proportioned, all his movements were
slow and apathetic, like those of an old man. His gestures were
entirely devoid of animation, his whole expression inert, and it was
evidently a matter of perfect indifference to him where he might chance
to find himself at home, in his dismal château, or abroad in the
desolate Landes.
He had on an old gray felt hat, much too large for him, with a dingy,
shabby feather, that drooped as if it felt heartily ashamed of itself,
and the miserable condition to which it was reduced. A broad collar of
guipure lace, ragged in many places, was turned down over a
just-au-corps, which had been cut for a taller and much stouter man
than the slender, young baron. The sleeves of his doublet were so long
that they fell over his hands, which were small and shapely, and there
were large iron spurs on the clumsy, old-fashioned riding-boots he
wore. These shabby, antiquated clothes had belonged to his father; they
were made according to the fashion that prevailed during the preceding
reign; and the poor young nobleman, whose appearance in them was both
ridiculous and touching, might have been taken for one of his own
ancestors. Although he tenderly cherished his father’s memory, and
tears often came into his eyes as he put on these garments that had
seemed actually a part of him, yet it was not from choice that young de
Sigognac availed himself of the paternal wardrobe. Unfortunately he had
no other clothes, save those of his boyhood, long ago outgrown, and so
he was thankful to have these, distasteful as they could not fail to be
to him. The peasants, who had been accustomed to hold them in respect
when worn by their old seignior, did not think it strange or absurd to
see them on his youthful successor; just as they did not seem to notice
or be aware of the half-ruined condition of the château. It had come so
gradually that they were thoroughly used to it, and took it as a matter
of course. The Baron de Sigognac, though poverty-stricken and forlorn,
was still in their eyes the noble lord of the manor; the decadence of
the family did not strike them at all as it would a stranger; and yet
it was a grotesquely melancholy sight to see the poor young nobleman
pass by, in his shabby old clothes, on his miserable old pony, and
followed by his forlorn old dog.
The baron sat down in silence at the table prepared for him, having
recognised Pierre’s respectful salute by a kindly gesture. The old
servant immediately busied himself in serving his master’s frugal
supper; first pouring the hot soup—which was of that kind, popular
among the poor peasantry of Gascony, called “garbure”—upon some bread
cut into small pieces in an earthen basin, which he set before the
baron; then, fetching from the cupboard a dish of bacon, cold, and
cooked in Gascon fashion, he placed that also upon the table, and had
nothing else to add to this meagre repast. The baron ate it slowly,
with an absent air, while Miraut and Beelzebub, one on each side of
him, received their full share from his kind hand.
The supper finished, he fell into a deep reverie. Miraut had laid his
head caressingly upon his master’s knee, and looked up into his face
with loving, intelligent eyes, somewhat dimmed by age, but still
seeming to understand his thoughts and sympathize with his sadness.
Beelzebub purred loudly meantime, and occasionally mewed plaintively to
attract his attention, while Pierre stood in a respectful attitude, cap
in hand, at a little distance, motionless as a statue, waiting
patiently until his master’s wandering thoughts should return. By this
time the darkness had fallen, and the flickering radiance from the few
sticks blazing in the great fireplace made strange effects of light and
shade in the spacious old kitchen. It was a sad picture; this last
scion of a noble race, formerly rich and powerful, left wandering like
an uneasy ghost in the castle of his ancestors, with but one faithful
old servant remaining to him of the numerous retinue of the olden
times; one poor old dog, half starved, and gray with age, where used to
be a pack of thirty hounds; one miserable, superannuated pony in the
stable where twenty horses had been wont to stand; and one old cat to
beg for caresses from his hand.
At last the baron roused himself, and signed to Pierre that he wished
to retire to his own chamber; whereupon the servant lighted a pine knot
at the fire, and preceded his master up the stairs, Miraut and
Beelzebub accompanying them. The smoky, flaring light of the torch made
the faded figures on the wall seem to waver and move as they passed
through the hall and up the broad staircase, and gave a strange, weird
expression to the family portraits that looked down upon this little
procession as it moved by below them. When they reached the tapestried
chamber Pierre lighted a little copper lamp, and then bade the baron
good-night, followed by Miraut as he retraced his steps to the kitchen;
but Beelzebub, being a privileged character, remained, and curled
himself up comfortably in one of the old arm-chairs, while his master
threw himself listlessly into the other, in utter despair at the
thought of his miserable loneliness, and aimless, hopeless life. If the
chamber seemed dreary and forlorn by day, it was far more so by night.
The faded figures in the tapestry had an uncanny look; especially one,
a hunter, who might have passed for an assassin, just taking aim at his
victim. The smile on his startlingly red lips, in reality only a
self-satisfied smirk, was fairly devilish in that light, and his
ghastly face horribly life-like. The lamp burned dimly in the damp
heavy air, the wind sighed and moaned along the corridors, and strange,
frightful sounds came from the deserted chambers close at hand. The
storm that had long been threatening had come at last, and large, heavy
rain-drops were driven violently against the window-panes by gusts of
wind that made them rattle loudly in their leaden frames. Sometimes it
seemed as if the whole sash would give way before the fiercer blasts,
as though a giant had set his knee against it, and was striving to
force an entrance. Now and again, when the wind lulled for a moment
while it gathered strength for a fresh assault, the horrid shriek of an
owl would be heard above the dashing of the rain that was falling in
torrents.
The master of this dismal mansion paid little attention to this
lugubrious symphony, but Beelzebub was very uneasy, starting up at
every sound, and peering into the shadowy corners of the room, as if he
could see there something invisible to human eyes. The baron took up a
little book that was lying upon the table, glanced at the familiar arms
stamped upon its tarnished cover, and opening it, began to read in a
listless, absent way. His eyes followed the smooth rhythm of Ronsard’s
ardent love-songs and stately sonnets, but his thoughts were wandering
far afield, and he soon threw the book from him with an impatient
gesture, and began slowly unfastening his garments, with the air of a
man who is not sleepy, but only goes to bed because he does not know
what else to do with himself, and has perhaps a faint hope of
forgetting his troubles in the embrace of Morpheus, most blessed of all
the gods. The sand runs so slowly in the hour-glass on a dark, stormy
night, in a half-ruined castle, ten leagues away from any living soul.
The poor young baron, only surviving representative of an ancient and
noble house, had much indeed to make him melancholy and despondent. His
ancestors had worked their own ruin, and that of their descendants, in
various ways. Some by gambling, some in the army, some by undue
prodigality in living—in order that they might shine at court—so that
each generation had left the estate more and more diminished. The
fiefs, the farms, the land surrounding the château itself, all had been
sold, one after the other, and the last baron, after desperate efforts
to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family—efforts which came too
late, for it is useless to try to stop the leaks after the vessel has
gone down—had left his son nothing but this half-ruined château and the
few acres of barren land immediately around it. The unfortunate child
had been born and brought up in poverty. His mother had died young,
broken-hearted at the wretched prospects of her only son; so that he
could not even remember her sweet caresses and tender, loving care. His
father had been very stern with him; punishing him severely for the
most trivial offences; yet he would have been glad now even of his
sharp rebukes, so terribly lonely had he been for the last four years;
ever since his father was laid in the family vault. His youthful pride
would not allow him to associate with the noblesse of the province
without the accessories suitable to his rank, though he would have been
received with open arms by them, so his solitude was never invaded.
Those who knew his circumstances respected as well as pitied the poor,
proud young baron, while many of the former friends of the family
believed that it was extinct; which indeed it inevitably would be, with
this its only remaining scion, if things went on much longer as they
had been going for many years past.
The baron had not yet removed a single garment when his attention was
attracted by the strange uneasiness of Beelzebub, who finally jumped
down from his arm-chair, went straight to one of the windows, and
raising himself on his hind legs put his fore-paws on the casing and
stared out into the thick darkness, where it was impossible to
distinguish anything but the driving rain. A loud howl from Miraut at
the same moment proclaimed that he too was aroused, and that something
very unusual must be going on in the vicinity of the château,
ordinarily as quiet as the grave. Miraut kept up persistently a furious
barking, and the baron gave up all idea of going to bed. He hastily
readjusted his dress, so that he might be in readiness for whatever
should happen, and feeling a little excited at this novel commotion.
“What can be the matter with poor old Miraut? He usually sleeps from
sunset to sunrise without making a sound, save his snores. Can it be
that a wolf is prowling about the place?” said the young man to
himself, as he buckled the belt of his sword round his slender waist. A
formidable weapon it was, that sword, with long blade, and heavy iron
scabbard.
At that moment three loud knocks upon the great outer door resounded
through the house. Who could possibly have strayed here at this hour,
so far from the travelled roads, and in this tempest that was making
night horrible without? No such thing had occurred within the baron’s
recollection. What could it portend?