Beyond the door that was open stretched a passageway, and at the end
of the passageway came another door. Once we were through the latter,
the spotlight of my escort fell upon a flight of stairs, six steps
high, as I counted. I noted also that the treads were of the same red
square tiles as the floor of the reception hall. Only the nosings were
of wood, a wood much worn from long service. At the top of the steps my
guide opened one last door.
I now found myself in a very dark room, so dark, indeed, that I paused
just inside the threshold from fear of colliding with some piece of
furniture. The man, however, drew aside the top of his lantern and
from the flame within it began to light the three wicks of a massive
iron candlestick, a sort of tripod fashioned to represent three lances
supporting one another.
The room brightened. I noted that it contained this candelabrum, one
chair, and one bed, the latter simple, home-made articles such as a
peasant might improvise for himself.
“And I wish you a good night, Monsieur,” said my guide, with a bow.
“Please sleep quite at your ease. I shall have the honor of waking you
in time, myself.”
“At sunrise?” said I.
“At sunrise,” he answered, “or perhaps ... perhaps a moment or two
before sunrise....”
That seemed to me a very natural thing to say, and I returned his
courtesy:
“Good night, Monsieur!”
He went away. I listened to his footsteps as they clacked on the tiles
of the six steps, and then on the pavement of the passage. Finally I
heard the door into the anteroom swing to, and, less to my surprise
than to my alarm, the great iron bolts slide back into their places:
the grating sound they made, however slight, was quite audible in the
absolute silence of the mansion.