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 many a peasant, gone to his benefactor
Death, had felt the weight when his lord was angry.
Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
the night, Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going
on before, wen