France -- History -- Louis XIII, 1610-1643 -- Fiction
At last the baron roused himself, and signed to Pierre that he wished
to retire to his own chamber; whereupon the servant lighted a pine knot
at the fire, and preceded his master up the stairs, Miraut and
Beelzebub accompanying them. The smoky, flaring light of the torch made
the faded figures on the wall seem to waver and move as they passed
through the hall and up the broad staircase, and gave a strange, weird
expression to the family portraits that looked down upon this little
procession as it moved by below them. When they reached the tapestried
chamber Pierre lighted a little copper lamp, and then bade the baron
good-night, followed by Miraut as he retraced his steps to the kitchen;
but Beelzebub, being a privileged character, remained, and curled
himself up comfortably in one of the old arm-chairs, while his master
threw himself listlessly into the other, in utter despair at the
thought of his miserable loneliness, and aimless, hopeless life. If the
chamber seemed dreary and forlorn by day, it was far more so by night.
The faded figures 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-satisfied smirk, was fairly devilish in that light, and his
ghastly face horribly life-like. The lamp burned dimly in the damp
heavy air, the wind sighed and moaned along the corridors, and strange,
frightful sounds came from the deserted chambers close at hand. The
storm that had long been threatening had come at last, and large, heavy
rain-drops were driven violently against the window-panes by gusts of
wind that made them rattle loudly in their leaden frames. Sometimes it
seemed as if the whole sash would give way before the fiercer blasts,
as though a giant had set his knee against it, and was striving to
force an entrance. Now and again, when the wind lulled for a moment
while it gathered strength for a fresh assault, the horrid shriek of an
owl would be heard above the dashing of the rain that was falling in
torrents.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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