Château
The gates stand open. Some one has broken open the gates. Or perhaps no one had troubled to close them.
The porter's lodge, under the limes, is empty.
The avenue of ancient, stately lime trees that leads to the château, is overgrown, in this one year, deep with grass and moss. The trees, that have not been trimmed, shade it too darkly. The leaves of the lime-trees are falling. In another year it would seem strange if the leaves fell so, before the end of August; but in this year no death seems strange. The dead leaves lie deep in the avenue.
At the end of the avenue the château stands, helplessly. Through long times and much history, its towers commanded the valley and the great road of the river. Its name rang in high councils, and its banners knew the winds of many wars.
Again its sons went out to battle. They were three of them. They went, just more than a year ago, three gay young chasseurs alpins. They are all three of them dead, on the field of honour.
The little aged orange trees are all dead in their green tubs in the courtyard. The ivy has grown across the great barred entrance door. The lantern over the door is full of swallows' nests.
The old Monsieur and the old Madame are gone away. How could they have lived on in the house that was not to be for their sons?
We asked many people in the village, but no one knew where they had gone.