He lighted two candles, and carrying them, alight, in one hand--not without dexterity, for candles played an important part in his life--he went forward. The flickering light showed his face to be a fat one, kind enough, gleaming now with perspiration and fear, but shiny at other times with that Christian tolerance which makes men kind to their own failings. It was very dark within the house, for all the shutters were closed. The Abbe lighted a third candle and fixed it, with a drop of its own wax, on the high mantel of the great banqueting-hall. There were four or five candlesticks on side-tables, and a candelabra stood in the centre of a long table, running the length of the room. In a few minutes the Abbe had illuminated the apartment, which smelt of dust and the days of a dead monarchy. Above his head, the bats were describing complicated figures against a ceiling which had once been painted in the Italian style, to represent a trellis roof, with roses and vines entwined. Half a dozen portraits of men, in armour and wigs, looked down from the walls. One or two of them were rotting from their frames, and dangled a despondent corner out into the room. There were chairs round the table, set as if for a phantom banquet amid these mouldering environments, and their high carved backs threw fantastic shadows on the wall. While the Abbe was still employed with the candles, he heard a heavy step and loud breathing in the hall without, where he had carefully left a light. “Why did you not wait for me on the hill, malhonnete?” asked a thick voice, like the voice of a man, but the manner was the manner of a woman. “I am sure you must have heard me. One hears me like a locomotive, now that I have lost my slimness.” She came into the room as she spoke, unwinding a number of black, knitted shawls, in which she was enveloped. There were so many of them, and of such different shape and texture, that some confusion ensued. The Abbe ran to her assistance. “But, Madame,” he cried, “how can you suspect me of such a crime? I came early to make these preparations. And as for hearing you--would to Heaven I had! For it needs courage to be a Royalist in these days--especially in the dark, by one's self.” He seemed to know the shawls, for he disentangled them with skill and laid them aside, one by one. The Comtesse de Chantonnay breathed a little more freely, but no friendly hand could disencumber her of the mountains of flesh, which must have weighed down any heart less buoyant and courageous. “Ah, bah!” she cried, gaily. “Who is afraid? What could they do to an old woman? Ah! you hold up your hands. That is kind of you. But I am no longer young, and there is my Albert--with those stupid whiskers. It is unfilial to wear whiskers, and I have told him so. And you--who could harm you--a priest? Besides, no one could be a priest, and not a Royalist, Abbe!”