In a Glass Darkly by J. Sheridan Le Fanu

Author:J. Sheridan Le Fanu
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Paranormal fiction, Ireland -- Fiction
Publisher: Standard Ebooks
Published: 2017-12-29T00:46:06+00:00

XI The Dragon Volant

I took one look about me.

The build­ing was pic­tur­esque; the trees made it more so. The an­tique and se­questered char­ac­ter of the scene, con­tras­ted strangely with the glare and bustle of the Parisian life, to which my eye and ear had be­come ac­cus­tomed.

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a large room, a little sombre, pan­elled with dark wains­cot­ing, and fur­nished in a stately and sombre style, long out of date.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.

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