As he drove away, I turned to look at the building before me, which up to this time I had not sufficiently noted. It was a long, two-storied house, which evidently at an early period had been a mansion of no mean pretension. The pilasters which ornamented the windows, the balustrades of the parapet, and the pediment above the entrance, were still remaining, though in a dilapidated condition. The garden in front showed also some signs of that quaint taste originally borrowed from the Dutch, and the yew-trees still preserved some faint resemblance to the beasts and animals after which they had once been fashioned, though time and growth had altered the outlines, and given to many a goodly lion or stag the bristly coat of a porcupine. A little fountain, which spouted from a sea-monster's nostrils, was grass-grown and choked with weeds. Everything betokened neglect and ruin; even the sundial had fallen across the walk, and lay moss-grown and forgotten; as though to say that Time had no need of a record there. The jalousies, which were closed in every window, permitted no view of the interior; nor did anything, save a faint curl of light blue smoke from one chimney, give token of habitation.
I could not help smiling to myself at the absurd fancy which had suffered me to feel that this deserted quarter, this lonesome dwelling, contained anything either adventurous or strange about it, or that I should find either in the “pension” or its guests wherewithal to interest or amuse me. With this thought I opened the wicket, and, crossing the garden, pulled the bell-rope that hung beside the door.
The deep clanging echoed again and again to my summons, and ere it ceased the door was opened, and M. Rubichon himself stood before me: no longer, however, the M. Rubichon of the morning, in garments of worn and tattered poverty, but attired in a suit which, if threadbare, was at least clean and respectable-looking,—a white vest, and ruffles also, added to the air of neatness of his costume; and whether from his own deserts, or my surprise at the transformation, he seemed to me to possess the look and bearing of a true gentleman.
Having welcomed me with the well-bred and easy politeness of one who knew the habits of society, he gave orders to a servant girl to conduct me to a room, adding, “May I beg of monsieur to make a rapid toilet, for the dinner will be served in less than ten minutes?”
The M. Rubichon of the morning no more prepared me for that gentleman at evening than did the ruinous exterior of the dwelling for the neat and comely chamber into which I was now installed. The articles of furniture were few, but scrupulously clean; and the white curtains of the little bed, the cherry-wood chairs, the table, with its gray marble top,—all were the perfection of that propriety which gives even to humble things a look of elegance.
I had but time to make a slight change in my dress when the bell sounded for dinner, and at the same instant a gentle knock came to my door. It was M. Rubichon, come to conduct me to the salle, and anxious to know if I were satisfied with my chamber.
“In summer, Monsieur, if we shall have the happiness of possessing you here at that season, the view of the garden is delightful from this window; and,—you have not noticed it, of course, but there is a little stair, which descends from the window into the garden, which you will find a great convenience when you wish to walk. This way, now. We are a small party to-day, and indeed shall be for a few weeks. What name shall I have the honor to announce?”
“Mr. Burke.”
“Ah! an Irish name,” said he, smiling, as he threw open the door of a spacious but simply furnished apartment, in which about a dozen persons were standing or sitting around the stove.
I could not help remarking, that as Monsieur Rubichon presented me to his other guests, my name seemed to meet a kind of recognition from each in turn. My host perceived this, and explained it at once by saying,—