he postilions had quickened the pace, she

was left far behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the

Furies, was rapidly diminishing the league or two of distance that

remained between him and his chateau.

The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and

rose, as the rain falls, impartially, on the rusty, ragged, and toilworn

group at the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of

roads, with the aid of the blue cap without which he was nothing,

still enlarged upon his man like a spectre, as long as they could

bear it. By degrees, as they could bear no more, they dropped off

one by one, and lights twinkled in little casements; which lights, as

the casements darkened, and more stars came out, seemed to have

shot up into the sky instead of having been extinguished.

The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many

overhanging trees, was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time;

and the shadow was exchanged for the light of a flambeau, as his

carriage stopped, and the great door of his chateau was opened to

him.

“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from

England?”

“Monseigneur, not yet.”

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

Chapter XV

THE GORGON’S HEAD