But the pleasure which the young man experienced in examining these curiosities was succeeded by a feeling of extraordinary frigidity and depression. In addition to the icy atmosphere of a house closed at all seasons to the generous rays of the sun, in addition to the silence without, there was something funereal in the regularity of that interior arrangement, which no one ever disturbed, and in that artistic and noble luxury which no one was invited to enjoy. It was evident from those tight-locked doors of which the servant kept the keys, from the cleanliness unmarred by the slightest speck of dust, from the heavy closed curtains, that the master never entered the salon, and that the only constant visitors were a broom and a duster. Emile thought with horror of the life that the dead and gone Marquise de Boisguilbault, young and lovely as she was, must have led in that house, dumb and dead for centuries, and he forgave her with all his heart for having gone elsewhere for a breath of fresh air before she died. "Who knows," he thought, "that she did not contract in this tomb one of those slow, deep-seated maladies which cannot be cured when the remedy is sought too late?" He was confirmed in that idea when the door slowly opened and the châtelain in person appeared before him. Save for the coat it was the statue of the _Commander_ come down from his pedestal; the same measured gait, the same pallor, the same absence of expression, the same solemn and petrified face. Monsieur de Boisguilbault was barely seventy years of age, but his was one of those organizations which have not, which have never had any age. He had not originally a bad figure nor an ugly face. His features were quite regular; his figure was still erect and his step firm, so long as he did not hurry. But excessive thinness had done away with all pretence of shape, and his clothes seemed to be hung upon a man of wood. His face neither repelled by disdain, nor inspired aversion; but as it expressed absolutely nothing, as one would have sought in vain at the first glance to detect upon it any trace of a thought or emotion referable to any known type of humanity, it inspired fear; and Emile involuntarily thought of the German legend, in which a very well-dressed individual appears at the door of the château and apologizes for being unable to enter in the state in which he is, for fear of disturbing the company. "Why, you seem to me to be very decently dressed," says the hospitable châtelain. "Come in, I beg you." "No, no," the other replies, "it is impossible, and you would blame me if I did. Be good enough to listen to me in the doorway; I bring you news from the other world." "What do you mean by that? Come in; it rains, and the storm will soon burst." "Look at me carefully," says the mysterious visitor, "and you will see that I cannot sit at your table without violating all the laws of hospitality. Can it be that you don't see that I am dead?" The châtelain looks at