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 château. 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It was a large room, a little sombre, panelled with dark wainscoting, and furnished in a stately and sombre style, long out of date.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 château, which presented a cluster of such conical-topped turrets as I have just now mentioned. The wood and château 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 château. "That, Monsieur, is the Château de la Carque," he answered. "It is a pity it is so neglected," I observed. "I should say, perhaps, a pity that its proprietor is not more wealthy?" "Perhaps so, Monsieur." "_Perhaps_?"--I repeated, and looked at him. "Then I suppose he is not very popular." "Neither one thing nor the other, Monsieur," he answered; "I meant only that we could not tell what use he might make of riches." "And who is he?" I inquired. "The Count de St. Alyre." "Oh! The Count! You are quite sure?" I asked, very eagerly. It was now the innkeeper's turn to look at me. "_Quite_ sure, Monsieur, the Count de St. Alyre." "Do you see much of him in this part of the world?" "Not a great deal, Monsieur; he is often absent for a considerable time." "And is he poor?" I inquired. "I pay rent to him for this house. It is not much; but I find he cannot wait long for it," he replied, smiling satirically. "From what I have heard, however, I should think he cannot be very poor?" I continued. "They 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 Count's house here, and by him buried in Père 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." "He is old, I believe?"