t was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the

Marquis, with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone

sweeps of staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the

principal door. A stony business altogether, with heavy stone

balustrades, and stone urns, and stone flowers, and stone faces of

men, and stone heads of lions, in all directions. As if the Gorgon’s

head had surveyed it, when it was finished, two centuries ago.

Upon the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis,

flambeau preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing

the darkness to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of

the great pile of stable building away among the trees. All else was

so quiet, that the flambeau carried up the steps, and the other

flambeau held at the great door, burnt as if they were in a close

room of state, instead of being in the open night air. Other sound

than the owl’s voice there was none, save the falling of the

fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of those dark nights

that hold their breath by the hour together, and then heave a long

low sigh, and hold their breath again.

The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis

crossed a hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and

knives of the chase; grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and

riding-whips, of which