Thus it came about that the poor old castle was renewed, decked with a painted and plastered mask, as inferior to the genuine original as the mask of a harlequin to the face beneath. As I have already said, I was born in Strasbourg Cathedral, that gem of Alsace, beneath the classic sculptured stone in the great porch. When one has had such a cradle, reared as I was to venerate antiquity and all its triumphs of art, it is natural to protest against the impunity of those who destroy the noble works of the ancients. The restored portion was tenanted—the terrace, I mean—by barn and other Owls, comical creatures who gave themselves the airs of the first lords of the soil, dukes and duchesses forsooth. One evening after a long day’s flight I arrived at this castle, wearied and in the worst of tempers; out of tune with the world and myself. I was haunted by ennui, and one of those unskilful sportsmen who respect neither age nor species, and to whom nothing is sacred. {373} By chance I alighted on the balustrade of the terrace, from the midst of which a group of half-dead cypresses was waving as the hour of midnight sounded through the chill air. In romances this hour is never allowed to strike with impunity, but in the true tale I am relating, events must follow their natural course. The hour struck and nothing particular happened. It occurred to me to go to roost so as to be ready for a fresh start in the morning. I accordingly settled myself. THE DUKE AND DUCHESS. I was just going to sleep when the pale moonlight revealed an Owl sheltering with one wing an Owlet of rather striking appearance, while with the other he draped himself as would an operatic hero with his toga. I soon overheard them talking about the moon, the weather, &c., or rather singing sentiment to a very lame tune. “Poor pale moon, if one only believed lovers, its light was made for them!” I always shrank from intruding myself upon the hospitality of others, so I whispered to a passing Bat, “My dear, would you be so good as to tell your masters a centenarian Rook seeks shelter for the night.” “Who are you addressing?” replied the Bat; “I am neither nurse nor lackey. I am in the service of the Duchess, and have the honour of being her first maid-in-waiting. But who are you, Mrs. Rook of a hundred summers? Where do you hail from? How shall I announce you? What is your title?” “My titles to consideration are my age and need of rest.” “What a silly old crone,” said the stupid creature as she left me. “Nobles are never tired. Weariness is no title, it is the common attribute of the vulgar!” Soon I came across the third maid-in-waiting, who proved herself two degrees less impertinent. “Do you know,” she said, “the first maid has just been scolded on your account? The Duchess was just singing a nocturnal duet with my Lord, when she remarked, ‘How dare you? I am invisible to the poor.’ Besides, she only entertains titled persons, and it seems you have no title.”