They arrived at the Castle des Anbiez. The bridge was lowered, and the great court deserted, although it was the hour for work.
They mounted the stairs in haste, and reached the immense hall in which the pious Christmas ceremonies had taken place the evening before.
All the inmates of Maison-Forte, men, women, old people, and children, were kneeling in this vast hall, where reigned the most profound silence.
So absorbed was this crowd in its devotions, and so anxiously did they watch the half-open door of the baron’s chamber, that not one perceived the entrance of the commander and Father Elzear.
At the bottom of the hall, under the dais, was the cradle, the masterpiece of Dame Dulceline and the good chaplain. A few candles still burned in the copper chandeliers. The colossal Christmas log was smoking in the depth of the vast chimney, still ornamented with green branches and fruits and flowers and ribbons.
Nothing seemed more startling than this scene lighted by the first pale rays of a winter day; nothing more painful than the contrast between the feast of the night and the sorrow of the morning.
After having contemplated this quiet and imposing scene, the commander gently called aside some of the baron’s vassals to open a way to the door of the baron’s chamber.
“Monseigneur, the commander, and good Father Elzear!” were the words which circulated among the anxious crowd, as they waited for news of the baron’s condition, whether or not his wounds permitted them to indulge a hope for his recovery.
Pierre des Anbiez and his brother, with a soft and cautious tread, entered the chamber of Raimond V.
The old gentleman, still dressed in his holiday attire, even to his long boots, was lying on his bed. His venerable face was livid, and his flowing white locks were stained with blood.