In a Glass Darkly J. Sheridan Le Fanu (intellectual books to read .TXT) đ
- Author: J. Sheridan Le Fanu
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âI shanât go inâ âbut you will find it a comfortable place; at all events better than nothing. I would go in with you, but my incognito forbids. You will, I daresay, be all the better pleased to learn that the inn is hauntedâ âI should have been, in my young days, I know. But donât allude to that awful fact in hearing of your host, for I believe it is a sore subject. Adieu. If you want to enjoy yourself at the ball take my advice, and go in a domino. I think I shall look in; and certainly, if I do, in the same costume. How shall we recognize one another? Let me see, something held in the fingersâ âa flower wonât do, so many people will have flowers. Suppose you get a red cross a couple of inches longâ âyouâre an Englishmanâ âstitched or pinned on the breast of your domino, and I a white one? Yes, that will do very well; and whatever room you go into keep near the door till we meet. I shall look for you at all the doors I pass; and you, in the same way, for me; and we must find each other soon. So that is understood. I canât enjoy a thing of that kind with any but a young person; a man of my age requires the contagion of young spirits and the companionship of someone who enjoys everything spontaneously. Farewell; we meet tonight.â
By this time I was standing on the road; I shut the carriage-door; bid him goodbye; and away he drove.
XI The Dragon VolantI took one look about me.
The building was picturesque; the trees made it more so. The antique and sequestered character of the scene, contrasted strangely with the glare and bustle of the Parisian life, to which my eye and ear had become accustomed.
Then I examined the gorgeous old sign for a minute or two. Next I surveyed the exterior of the house more carefully. It was large and solid, and squared more with my ideas of an ancient English hostelrie, such as the Canterbury pilgrims might have put up at, than a French house of entertainment. Except, indeed, for a round turret, that rose at the left flank of the house, and terminated in the extinguisher-shaped roof that suggests a French chĂąteau.
I entered and announced myself as Monsieur Beckett, for whom a room had been taken. I was received with all the consideration due to an English milord, with, of course, an unfathomable purse.
My host conducted me to my apartment. It was a large room, a little sombre, panelled with dark wainscoting, and furnished in a stately and sombre style, long out of date. There was a wide hearth, and a heavy mantelpiece, carved with shields, in which I might, had I been curious enough, have discovered a correspondence with the heraldry on the outer walls. There was something interesting, melancholy, and even depressing in all this. I went to the stone-shafted window, and looked out upon a small park, with a thick wood, forming the background of a chĂąteau, which presented a cluster of such conical-topped turrets as I have just now mentioned.
The wood and chĂąteau were melancholy objects. They showed signs of neglect, and almost of decay; and the gloom of fallen grandeur, and a certain air of desertion hung oppressively over the scene.
I asked my host the name of the chĂąteau.
âThat, Monsieur, is the ChĂąteau de la Carque,â he answered.
âIt is a pity it is so neglected,â I observed. âI should say, perhaps, a pity that its proprietor is not more wealthy?â
âPerhaps so, Monsieur.â
âPerhaps?ââ âI repeated, and looked at him. âThen I suppose he is not very popular.â
âNeither one thing nor the other, Monsieur,â he answered; âI meant only that we could not tell what use he might make of riches.â
âAnd who is he?â I inquired.
âThe Count de St. Alyre.â
âOh! The Count! You are quite sure?â I asked, very eagerly.
It was now the innkeeperâs turn to look at me.
âQuite sure, Monsieur, the Count de St. Alyre.â
âDo you see much of him in this part of the world?â
âNot a great deal, Monsieur; he is often absent for a considerable time.â
âAnd is he poor?â I inquired.
âI pay rent to him for this house. It is not much; but I find he cannot wait long for it,â he replied, smiling satirically.
âFrom what I have heard, however, I should think he cannot be very poor?â I continued.
âThey say, Monsieur, he plays. I know not. He certainly is not rich. About seven months ago, a relation of his died in a distant place. His body was sent to the Countâs house here, and by him buried in PĂšre la Chaise, as the poor gentleman had desired. The Count was in profound affliction; although he got a handsome legacy, they say, by that death. But money never seems to do him good for any time.â
âHe is old, I believe?â
âOld? we call him the âWandering Jew,â except, indeed, that he has not always the five sous in his pocket. Yet, Monsieur, his courage does not fail him. He has taken a young and handsome wife.â
âAnd, she?â I urgedâ â
âIs the Countess de St. Alyre.â
âYes; but I fancy we may say something more? She has attributes?â
âThree, Monsieur, three, at least most amiable.â
âAh! And what are they?â
âYouth, beauty, andâ âdiamonds.â
I laughed. The sly old gentleman was foiling my curiosity.
âI see, my friend,â said I, âyou are reluctantâ ââ
âTo quarrel with the Count,â he concluded. âTrue. You see, Monsieur, he could vex me in two or three ways; so could I him. But, on the whole, it is better each to mind his business, and to maintain peaceful relations; you understand.â
It was, therefore, no use trying, at least for the present. Perhaps he had nothing to relate. Should I
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