“Well done, well done; you have not climbed badly for a Parisian.”
“Supposing that the Parisian you have assisted has already had some little experience in mountain scrambling?”
“Ah, true!” said Lucien, laughing. “Have you not a mountain near Paris called Montmartre?”
“Yes, but there are others beside Montmartre which I have ascended. For instance, the Rigi, the Faulhorn, the Gemmi, Vesuvius, Stromboli and Etna.”
“Indeed! Now I suppose you will despise me because I have never done more than surmount Monte Rotundo! Well, here we are! Four centuries ago my ancestors would have opened the portal to you and bade you welcome to the castle. Now their descendants can only show you the place where the door used to be, and say to you, ‘Welcome to the ruins!’ ”
“I suppose the chateau has been in possession of your family since the death of Vicentello d’Istria?” I said, taking up the conversation at the point at which we had dropped it previously.
“No, but before his birth. It was the last dwelling-place of our famous ancestress Savilia, the widow of Lucien de Franchi.”
“Is there not some terrible history connected with this woman?”
“Yes; were it daylight I could now show you from this spot the ruins of the Castle of Valle. There lived the lord of Guidice, who was as much hated as she (Savilia) was beloved, as ugly as she was beautiful. He became enamoured of her, and as she did not quickly respond to his desires, he gave her to understand that if she did not accept him in a given time he would come and carry her off by force. Savilia made pretence of consenting, and invited Guidice to come to dinner at the castle. Guidice was overcome with joy at this, and forgetting that the invitation had only been extorted by menace, accepted it, and came attended only by a few body servants. The gate was closed behind them, and in a few minutes Guidice was a prisoner, and cast into a dungeon, yonder.”
I passed on in the direction indicated, and found myself in a species of square court.