In spite of its grand feudal air, the chateau at Boiscoran was, after
all, little more than a bachelor’s modest home, and in a very bad state
of preservation. Of the eighty or a hundred rooms which it contained,
hardly more than eight or ten were furnished, and this only in the
simplest possible manner,--a sitting-room, a dining-room, a few
guest-chambers: this was all M. de Boiscoran required during his rare
visits to the place. He himself used in the second story a small room,
the door of which opened upon the great staircase.
When they reached this door, guided by old Anthony, the magistrate said
to the servant,--
“Knock!”
The man obeyed: and immediately a youthful, hearty voice replied from
within,--
“Who is there?”
“It is I,” said the faithful servant. “I should like”--
“Go to the devil!” broke in the voice.
“But, sir”--
“Let me sleep, rascal. I have not been able to close an eye till now.”
The magistrate, becoming impatient, pushed the servant aside, and,
seizing the door-knob tried to open it; it was locked inside. But he
lost no time in saying,--
“It is I, M. de Boiscoran: open, if you please!”
“Ah, dear M. Galpin!” replied the voice cheerfully.
“I must speak to you.”
“And I am at your service, illustrious jurist. Just give me time to veil
my Apollonian form in a pair of trousers, and I appear.”
Almost immediately, the door opened; and M. de Boiscoran presented
himself, his hair dishevelled, his eyes heavy with sleep, but looking
bright in his youth and full health, with smiling lips and open hands.
“Upon my word!” he said. “That was a happy inspiration you had, my dear
Galpin. You come to join me at breakfast?”