Captain Fracasse Read online

  Produced by Dianne Bean and David Widger

  CAPTAIN FRACASSE

  by Theophile Gautier

  CONTENTS

  I. Castle Misery II. The chariot of Thespis III. The Blue Sun Inn IV. An adventure with brigands V. At the Chateau de Bruyeres VI. A snow-storm and its consequences VII. Captain Fracasse VIII. The Duke of Vallombreuse IX. A melee and a duel X. A midnight adventure XI. The Pont-Neuf XII. The Crowned Radish XIII. A double attack XIV. Lampourde's delicacy XV. Malartic at work XVI. Vallombreuse XVII. The amethyst ring XVIII. A family party XIX. Nettles and cobwebs XX. Chiquita's declaration of love XXI. "Hymen! Oh Hymen!" XXII. The castle of happiness

  CAPTAIN FRACASSE

  CHAPTER I. CASTLE MISERY

  Upon the southern slope of one of those barren hills that rise abruptlyhere and there in the desolate expanse of the Landes, in South-westernFrance, stood, in the reign of Louis XIII, a gentleman's residence, suchas abound in Gascony, and which the country people dignify by the nameof chateau.

  Two tall towers, with extinguisher tops, mounted guard at the angles ofthe mansion, and gave it rather a feudal air. The deep grooves uponits facade betrayed the former existence of a draw-bridge, renderedunnecessary now by the filling up of the moat, while the towers weredraped for more than half their height with a most luxuriant growth ofivy, whose deep, rich green contrasted happily with the ancient graywalls.

  A traveller, seeing from afar the steep pointed roof and lofty towersstanding out against the sky, above the furze and heather that crownedthe hill-top, would have pronounced it a rather imposing chateau--theresidence probably of some provincial magnate; but as he drew near wouldhave quickly found reason to change his opinion. The road which led toit from the highway was entirely overgrown with moss and weeds, save anarrow pathway in the centre, though two deep ruts, full of water, andinhabited by a numerous family of frogs, bore mute witness to the factthat carriages had once passed that way.

  The roof, of dark red tiles, was disfigured by many large,leprous-looking, yellow patches, while in some places the decayedrafters had given way, leaving formidable gaps. The numerousweather-cocks that surmounted the towers and chimneys were so rustedthat they could no longer budge an inch, and pointed persistently invarious directions. The high dormer windows were partially closed byold wooden shutters, warped, split, and in every stage of dilapidation;broken stones filled up the loop-holes and openings in the towers; ofthe twelve large windows in the front of the house, eight were boardedup; the remaining four had small diamond-shaped panes of thick, greenishglass, fitting so loosely in their leaden frames that they shook andrattled at every breath of wind; between these windows a great deal ofthe stucco had fallen off, leaving the rough wall exposed to view.

  Above the grand old entrance door, whose massive stone frame and lintelretained traces of rich ornamentation, almost obliterated by time andneglect, was sculptured a coat of arms, now so defaced that the mostaccomplished adept in heraldry would not be able to decipher it. Onlyone leaf of the great double door was ever opened now, for not manyguests were received or entertained at the chateau in these days of itsdecadence. Swallows had built their nests in every available nook aboutit, and but for a slender thread of smoke rising spirally from a chimneyat the back of this dismal, half-ruined mansion, the traveller wouldhave surely believed it to be uninhabited. This was the only sign oflife visible about the whole place, like the little cloud upon themirror from the breath of a dying man, which alone gives evidence thathe still lives.

  Upon pushing open the practicable leaf of the great worm-eaten door,which yielded reluctantly, and creaked dolefully as it turned uponits rusty hinges, the curious visitor entered a sort of portico, moreancient than the rest of the building, with fine, large columns ofbluish granite, and a lofty vaulted roof. At the point of intersectionof the arches was a stone shield, bearing the same coat of arms that wassculptured over the entrance without. This one was in somewhat betterpreservation than the other, and seemed to bear something resemblingthree golden storks (cigognes) on an azure field; though it was so muchin shadow, and so faded and dingy, that it was impossible to make it outclearly. Fastened to the wall, at a convenient height from the ground,were great iron extinguishers, blackened by the smoke from torches inlong by-gone years, and also iron rings, to which the guests' horseswere made fast in the olden times, when the castle was in its glory. Thedust that lay thick upon them now showed that it was long since they hadbeen made use of.

  From this portico--whence a door on either side opened into the mainbuilding; one leading into a long suite of apartments on the groundfloor, and the other into what had probably been a guard-room--theexplorer passed into an interior court, dismal, damp, and bare. In thecorners nettles and various rank weeds were growing riotously amid thegreat heaps of rubbish fallen from the crumbling cornice high above, andgrass had sprung up everywhere in the crevices of the stone pavement.Opposite the entrance a flight of dilapidated, shaky steps, with a heavystone balustrade, led down into a neglected garden, which was graduallybecoming a perfect thicket. Excepting in one small bed, where a fewcabbages were growing, there was no attempt at cultivation, and naturehad reasserted her rights everywhere else in this abandoned spot,taking, apparently, a fierce delight in effacing all traces of man'slabour. The fruit trees threw out irregular branches without fear ofthe pruning knife; the box, intended to form a narrow border to thecuriously shaped flower-beds and grass-plots, had grown up uncheckedinto huge, bushy shrubs, while a great variety of sturdy weeds hadusurped the places formerly devoted to choice plants and beautiful,fragrant flowers. Brambles, bristling with sharp thorns, which hadthrown their long, straggling arms across the paths, caught and triedto hold back any bold adventurer who attempted to penetrate into themysterious depths of this desolate wilderness. Solitude is averse tobeing surprised in dishabille, and surrounds herself with all sorts ofdefensive obstacles.

  However, the courageous explorer who persisted in following the ancient,overgrown alley, and was not to be daunted by formidable briers thattore his hands and clothing, nor low-hanging, closely interlacedbranches that struck him smart blows in the face as he forced hisway through them, would have reached at last a sort of rocky niche,fancifully arranged as a grotto. Besides the masses of ivy, iris andgladiolus, that had been carefully planted long ago in the intersticesof the rock, it was draped with a profusion of graceful wild vines andfeathery ferns, which half-veiled the marble statue, representing somemythological divinity, that still stood in this lonely retreat. It musthave been intended for Flora or Pomona, but now there were tufts ofrepulsive, venomous-looking mushrooms in the pretty, graceful, littlebasket on her arm, instead of the sculptured fruit or flowers thatshould have filled it. Although her nose was broken, and her fair bodydisfigured by many dark stains, and overgrown in part with clingingmosses, it could still plainly be seen that she had once been verylovely. At her feet was a marble basin, shaped like a shell, half fullof discoloured, stagnant water; the lion's head just above it, nowalmost entirely concealed by a thick curtain of leaves, no longer pouredforth the sparkling stream that used to fall into it with a musicalmurmur. This little grotto, with its fountain and statue, bore witnessto former wealth; and also to the aesthetic taste of some long-deadowner of the domain. The marble goddess was in the Florentine style ofthe Renaissance, and probably the work of one of those Italian sculptorswho followed in the train of del Rosso or Primaticcio, when they cameto France at the bidding of that generous patron of the arts, Francis I;which time was also, apparently, the epoch of the greatest prosperity ofthis noble family, now so utterly fallen into decay.

  Behind the g
rotto rose a high wall, built of stone, crumbling and mouldynow, but still bearing some broken remains of trellis-work, evidentlyintended to be covered with creepers that would entirely conceal thewall itself with a rich tapestry of verdure. This was the limit of thegarden; beyond stretched the wide expanse of the sandy, barren Landes,flecked here and there with patches of scanty heather, and scatteredgroves of pine trees.

  Turning back towards the chateau it became apparent that this side ofit was even more neglected and ruinous than the one we have alreadydescribed; the recent poverty-stricken owners having tried to keep upappearances as far as possible, and concentrated their efforts upon thefront of their dilapidated abode. In the stable, where were stalls fortwenty horses, a miserable, old, white pony stood at an empty manger,nibbling disconsolately at a scanty truss of hay, and frequently turninghis sunken, lack-lustre eyes expectantly towards the door. In front ofan extensive kennel, where the lord of the manor used to keep a wholepack of hounds, a single dog, pathetically thin, lay sleeping tranquillyand soundly, apparently so accustomed to the unbroken solitude of theplace that he had abandoned all habits of watchfulness.

  Entering the chateau the visitor found himself in a broad and loftyhall, containing a grand old staircase, with a richly carved, woodenbalustrade--a good deal broken and defaced now, like everything elsein this doleful Castle Misery. The walls had been elaborately frescoed,representing colossal figures of Hercules supporting brackets upon whichrested the heavily ornamented cornice. Springing from it fantastic vinesclimbed upward on the arched ceiling, and above them the blue sky, fadedand dingy, was grotesquely variegated with dark spots, caused bythe water filtering through from the dilapidated roof. Between theoft-repeated figures of Hercules were frescoed niches, wherein headsof Roman emperors and other illustrious historical characters had beendepicted in glowing tints; but all were so vague and dim now that theywere but the ghosts of pictures, which should be described with theshadows of words--ordinary terms are too substantial to apply to them.The very echoes in this deserted hall seemed startled and amazed as theyrepeated and multiplied the unwonted sound of footsteps.

  A door near the head of the first flight of stairs opened into what hadevidently been the great banqueting hall in the old days when sumptuousrepasts and numerous guests were not uncommon things in the chateau. Ahuge beam divided the lofty ceiling into two compartments, which werecrossed at regular intervals by smaller joists, richly carved, andretaining some traces of gilding. The spaces between had been originallyof a deep blue tint, almost lost now under the thick coating of dust andspiders' webs that no housemaid's mop ever invaded. Above the grand oldchimney-piece was a noble stag's head, with huge, spreading antlers, andon the walls hung rows of ancient family portraits, so faded and mouldynow that most of the faces had a ghastly hue, and at night, by the dim,flickering lamp-light, they looked like a company of spectres. Nothingin the world is sadder than a collection of old portraits hangingthus, neglected and forgotten, in deserted halls--representations, halfobliterated themselves, of forms and faces long since returned to dust.Yet these painted phantoms were most appropriate inhabitants of thisdesolate abode; real living people would have seemed out of place in thedeath-stricken house.

  In the middle of the room stood an immense dining-table of dark,polished wood, much worm-eaten, and gradually falling into decay. Twotall buffets, elaborately carved and ornamented, stood on opposite sidesof the room, with only a few odd pieces of Palissy ware, representinglizards, crabs, and shell-fish, reposing on shiny green leaves, and twoor three delicate wine-glasses of quaint patterns remaining upon theshelves where gold and silver plate used to glitter in rich profusion,as was the mode in France. The handsome old chairs, with their high,carved backs and faded velvet cushions, that had been so firm andluxurious once, were tottering and insecure; but it mattered little,since no one ever came to sit in them now round the festive board, andthey stood against the wall in prim order, under the rows of familyportraits.

  A smaller room opened out of this one, hung round with faded, moth-eatentapestry. In one corner stood a large bed, with four tall, twistedcolumns and long, ample curtains of rich brocade, which had beendelicate green and white, but now were of a dingy, yellowish hue, andcut completely through from top to bottom in every fold. An ebony table,with some pretty gilded ornaments still clinging to it, a mirrordim with age, and two large arm-chairs, covered with worn and fadedembroidery, that had been wrought by the fair fingers of some noble damelong since dead and forgotten, completed the furniture of this dismalchamber.

  In these two rooms were the latticed windows seen in the front of thechateau, and over them still hung long sweeping curtains, so tatteredand moth-eaten that they were almost falling to pieces. Profound silencereigned here, unbroken save by occasional scurrying and squeakingof mice behind the wainscot, the gnawing of rats in the wall, or theticking of the death-watch.

  From the tapestried chamber a door opened into a long suite of desertedrooms, which were lofty and of noble proportions, but devoid offurniture, and given up to dust, spiders, and rats. The apartments onthe floor above them were the home of great numbers of bats, owls, andjackdaws, who found ready ingress through the large holes in the roof.Every evening they flew forth in flocks, with much flapping of wings,and weird, melancholy cries and shrieks, in search of the food not to befound in the immediate vicinity of this forlorn mansion.

  The apartments on the ground floor contained nothing but a few bundlesof straw, a heap of corn-cobs, and some antiquated gardening implements.In one of them, however, was a rude bed, covered with a single, coarseblanket; presumably that of the only domestic remaining in the wholeestablishment.

  It was from the kitchen chimney that the little spiral of smoke escapedwhich was seen from without. A few sticks were burning in the wide,old-fashioned fireplace, but the flames looked pale under the brightlight that streamed down upon them through the broad, straight flue. Thepot that hung from the clumsy iron crane was boiling sleepily, and ifthe curious visitor could have peeped into it he would have seen thatthe little cabbage bed in the garden had contributed of its produce tothe pot-au-feu. An old black cat was sitting as close to the fire as hecould without singeing his whiskers, and gravely watching the simmeringpot with longing eyes. His ears had been closely cropped, and he hadnot a vestige of a tail, so that he looked like one of those grotesqueJapanese chimeras that everybody is familiar with. Upon the table, nearat hand, a white plate, a tin drinking cup, and a china dish, bearingthe family arms stamped in blue, were neatly arranged, evidently inreadiness for somebody's supper. For a long time the cat remainedperfectly motionless, intently watching the pot which had almost ceasedto boil as the fire got low, and the silence continued unbroken; butat last a slow, heavy step was heard approaching from without, andpresently the door opened to admit an old man, who looked half peasant,half gentleman's servant. The black cat immediately quitted his placeby the fire and went to meet him; rubbing himself against the newcomer'slegs, arching his back and purring loudly; testifying his joy in everyway possible to him.

  "Well, well, Beelzebub," said the old man, bending down and stroking himaffectionately, "are you really so glad to see me? Yes, I know you are,and it pleases me, old fellow, so it does. We are so lonely here, mypoor young master and I, that even the welcome of a dumb beast is notto be despised. They do say that you have no soul, Beelzebub, but youcertainly do love us, and understand most times what we say to you too."These greetings exchanged, Beelzebub led the way back to the fire, andthen with beseeching eyes, looking alternately from the face of hisfriend to the pot-au-feu, seemed mutely begging for his share of itscontents. Poor Beelzebub was growing so old that he could no longercatch as many rats and mice as his appetite craved, and he was evidentlyvery hungry.

  Pierre, that was the old servant's name, threw more wood on thesmouldering fire, and then sat down on a settle in the chimney corner,inviting his companion--who had to wait still for his supper aspatiently as he might--to take a seat beside him.
The firelight shonefull upon the old man's honest, weather-beaten face, the few scatteredlocks of snow-white hair escaping from under his dark blue woollencap, his thick, black eyebrows and deep wrinkles. He had the usualcharacteristics of the Basque race; a long face, hooked nose, and dark,gipsy-like complexion. He wore a sort of livery, which was so old andthreadbare that it would be impossible to make out its original colour,and his stiff, soldier-like carriage and movements proclaimed that hehad at some time in his life served in a military capacity. "The youngmaster is late to-night," he muttered to himself, as the daylight faded."What possible pleasure can he find in these long, solitary rambles overthe dunes? It is true though that it is so dreary here, in this lonely,dismal house, that any other place is preferable."

  At this moment a joyous barking was heard without, the old pony in thestable stamped and whinnied, and the cat jumped down from his placebeside Pierre and trotted off towards the door with great alacrity. Inan instant the latch was lifted, and the old servant rose, taking offhis woollen cap respectfully, as his master came into the kitchen. Hewas preceded by the poor old dog, trying to jump up on him, but fallingback every time without being able to reach his face, and Beelzebubseemed to welcome them both--showing no evidence of the antipathyusually existing between the feline and canine races; on the contrary,receiving Miraut with marks of affection which were fully reciprocated.

  The Baron de Sigognac, for it was indeed the lord of the manor who nowentered, was a young man of five or six and twenty; though at firstsight he seemed much older, because of the deep gravity, even sadness,of his demeanour; the feeling of utter powerlessness which povertybrings having effectually chased away all the natural piety andlight-heartedness of youth. Dark circles surrounded his sunken eyes, hischeeks were hollow, his mustache drooped in a sorrowful curve over hissad mouth. His long black hair was negligently pushed back from hispale face, and showed a want of care remarkable in a young man who wasstrikingly handsome, despite his doleful desponding expression. Theconstant pressure of a crushing grief had drawn sorrowful lines in acountenance that a little animation would have rendered charming. Allthe elasticity and hopefulness natural to his age seemed to have beenlost in his useless struggles against an unhappy fate. Though his framewas lithe, vigorous, and admirably proportioned, all his movements wereslow and apathetic, like those of an old man. His gestures were entirelydevoid of animation, his whole expression inert, and it was evidentlya matter of perfect indifference to him where he might chance to findhimself at home, in his dismal chateau, or abroad in the desolateLandes.

  He had on an old gray felt hat, much too large for him, with a dingy,shabby feather, that drooped as if it felt heartily ashamed of itself,and the miserable condition to which it was reduced. A broad collarof guipure lace, ragged in many places, was turned down over ajust-au-corps, which had been cut for a taller and much stouter man thanthe slender, young baron. The sleeves of his doublet were so long thatthey fell over his hands, which were small and shapely, and there werelarge iron spurs on the clumsy, old-fashioned riding-boots he wore.These shabby, antiquated clothes had belonged to his father; they weremade according to the fashion that prevailed during the precedingreign; and the poor young nobleman, whose appearance in them was bothridiculous and touching, might have been taken for one of his ownancestors. Although he tenderly cherished his father's memory, and tearsoften came into his eyes as he put on these garments that had seemedactually a part of him, yet it was not from choice that young deSigognac availed himself of the paternal wardrobe. Unfortunately he hadno other clothes, save those of his boyhood, long ago outgrown, and sohe was thankful to have these, distasteful as they could not fail to beto him. The peasants, who had been accustomed to hold them in respectwhen worn by their old seignior, did not think it strange or absurd tosee them on his youthful successor; just as they did not seem to noticeor be aware of the half-ruined condition of the chateau. It had come sogradually that they were thoroughly used to it, and took it as a matterof course. The Baron de Sigognac, though poverty-stricken and forlorn,was still in their eyes the noble lord of the manor; the decadence ofthe family did not strike them at all as it would a stranger; and yet itwas a grotesquely melancholy sight to see the poor young nobleman passby, in his shabby old clothes, on his miserable old pony, and followedby his forlorn old dog.

  The baron sat down in silence at the table prepared for him, havingrecognised Pierre's respectful salute by a kindly gesture. The oldservant immediately busied himself in serving his master's frugalsupper; first pouring the hot soup--which was of that kind, popularamong the poor peasantry of Gascony, called "garbure"--upon some breadcut into small pieces in an earthen basin, which he set before thebaron; then, fetching from the cupboard a dish of bacon, cold, andcooked in Gascon fashion, he placed that also upon the table, and hadnothing else to add to this meagre repast. The baron ate it slowly,with an absent air, while Miraut and Beelzebub, one on each side of him,received their full share from his kind hand.

  The supper finished, he fell into a deep reverie. Miraut had laid hishead caressingly upon his master's knee, and looked up into his facewith loving, intelligent eyes, somewhat dimmed by age, but still seemingto understand his thoughts and sympathize with his sadness. Beelzebubpurred loudly meantime, and occasionally mewed plaintively to attracthis attention, while Pierre stood in a respectful attitude, cap in hand,at a little distance, motionless as a statue, waiting patiently untilhis master's wandering thoughts should return. By this time the darknesshad fallen, and the flickering radiance from the few sticks blazingin the great fireplace made strange effects of light and shade in thespacious old kitchen. It was a sad picture; this last scion of a noblerace, formerly rich and powerful, left wandering like an uneasy ghost inthe castle of his ancestors, with but one faithful old servant remainingto him of the numerous retinue of the olden times; one poor old dog,half starved, and gray with age, where used to be a pack of thirtyhounds; one miserable, superannuated pony in the stable where twentyhorses had been wont to stand; and one old cat to beg for caresses fromhis hand.

  At last the baron roused himself, and signed to Pierre that he wished toretire to his own chamber; whereupon the servant lighted a pine knot atthe fire, and preceded his master up the stairs, Miraut and Beelzebubaccompanying them. The smoky, flaring light of the torch made the fadedfigures on the wall seem to waver and move as they passed through thehall and up the broad staircase, and gave a strange, weird expression tothe family portraits that looked down upon this little procession asit moved by below them. When they reached the tapestried chamber Pierrelighted a little copper lamp, and then bade the baron good-night,followed by Miraut as he retraced his steps to the kitchen; butBeelzebub, being a privileged character, remained, and curled himself upcomfortably in one of the old arm-chairs, while his master threw himselflistlessly into the other, in utter despair at the thought of hismiserable loneliness, and aimless, hopeless life. If the chamber seemeddreary and forlorn by day, it was far more so by night. The fadedfigures in the tapestry had an uncanny look; especially one, a hunter,who might have passed for an assassin, just taking aim at his victim.The smile on his startlingly red lips, in reality only a self-satisfiedsmirk, was fairly devilish in that light, and his ghastly face horriblylife-like. The lamp burned dimly in the damp heavy air, the wind sighedand moaned along the corridors, and strange, frightful sounds camefrom the deserted chambers close at hand. The storm that had long beenthreatening had come at last, and large, heavy rain-drops were drivenviolently against the window-panes by gusts of wind that made themrattle loudly in their leaden frames. Sometimes it seemed as if thewhole sash would give way before the fiercer blasts, as though a gianthad set his knee against it, and was striving to force an entrance. Nowand again, when the wind lulled for a moment while it gathered strengthfor a fresh assault, the horrid shriek of an owl would be heard abovethe dashing of the rain that was falling in torrents.

  The master of this dismal mansion paid little attention to thislugubrious symphony, but Beel
zebub was very uneasy, starting up at everysound, and peering into the shadowy corners of the room, as if he couldsee there something invisible to human eyes. The baron took up a littlebook that was lying upon the table, glanced at the familiar arms stampedupon its tarnished cover, and opening it, began to read in a listless,absent way. His eyes followed the smooth rhythm of Ronsard's ardentlove-songs and stately sonnets, but his thoughts were wandering farafield, and he soon threw the book from him with an impatient gesture,and began slowly unfastening his garments, with the air of a man who isnot sleepy, but only goes to bed because he does not know what else todo with himself, and has perhaps a faint hope of forgetting his troublesin the embrace of Morpheus, most blessed of all the gods. The sand runsso slowly in the hour-glass on a dark, stormy night, in a half-ruinedcastle, ten leagues away from any living soul.

  The poor young baron, only surviving representative of an ancient andnoble house, had much indeed to make him melancholy and despondent. Hisancestors had worked their own ruin, and that of their descendants,in various ways. Some by gambling, some in the army, some by undueprodigality in living--in order that they might shine at court--so thateach generation had left the estate more and more diminished. The fiefs,the farms, the land surrounding the chateau itself, all had been sold,one after the other, and the last baron, after desperate efforts toretrieve the fallen fortunes of the family--efforts which came too late,for it is useless to try to stop the leaks after the vessel has gonedown--had left his son nothing but this half-ruined chateau and the fewacres of barren land immediately around it. The unfortunate childhad been born and brought up in poverty. His mother had died young,broken-hearted at the wretched prospects of her only son; so that hecould not even remember her sweet caresses and tender, loving care. Hisfather had been very stern with him; punishing him severely for themost trivial offences; yet he would have been glad now even of his sharprebukes, so terribly lonely had he been for the last four years; eversince his father was laid in the family vault. His youthful pride wouldnot allow him to associate with the noblesse of the province withoutthe accessories suitable to his rank, though he would have been receivedwith open arms by them, so his solitude was never invaded. Those whoknew his circumstances respected as well as pitied the poor, proud youngbaron, while many of the former friends of the family believed that itwas extinct; which indeed it inevitably would be, with this its onlyremaining scion, if things went on much longer as they had been goingfor many years past.

  The baron had not yet removed a single garment when his attention wasattracted by the strange uneasiness of Beelzebub, who finally jumpeddown from his arm-chair, went straight to one of the windows, andraising himself on his hind legs put his fore-paws on the casingand stared out into the thick darkness, where it was impossible todistinguish anything but the driving rain. A loud howl from Miraut atthe same moment proclaimed that he too was aroused, and that somethingvery unusual must be going on in the vicinity of the chateau, ordinarilyas quiet as the grave. Miraut kept up persistently a furious barking,and the baron gave up all idea of going to bed. He hastily readjustedhis dress, so that he might be in readiness for whatever should happen,and feeling a little excited at this novel commotion.

  "What can be the matter with poor old Miraut? He usually sleeps fromsunset to sunrise without making a sound, save his snores. Can it bethat a wolf is prowling about the place?" said the young man tohimself, as he buckled the belt of his sword round his slender waist.A formidable weapon it was, that sword, with long blade, and heavy ironscabbard.

  At that moment three loud knocks upon the great outer door resoundedthrough the house. Who could possibly have strayed here at this hour, sofar from the travelled roads, and in this tempest that was makingnight horrible without? No such thing had occurred within the baron'srecollection. What could it portend?