It is true that, six years ago, before Baron Léon was married, and when he was about three-and-twenty, these same strangers remarked upon the bad state of repair into which the château had fallen, pointing out that in many of the rooms, now disused and shut up, the plaster was peeling from the ceilings and exquisite cornices, and that other parts had reached a state of absolute ruin; but, whatever pain this decay may have caused to the owners, it only added to the tranquil picturesque charm which seemed to cling to the old place. There was a lovely pitch of roof, and the slate, worn out as it was, had gained a rich depth as beautiful as that of a rain-cloud, making a perfect setting for the delicate and fantastic chimneys which sprang lightly into the air. The château was of no great size, nor could it in any way compare with those grand historic houses of which Touraine is justly proud; but whatever architect imagined it had been imbued with the same spirit, and had indulged in the same grace of detail. There was no stiffness, apparently scarcely an attempt at symmetry; yet it would have been difficult to detect a flaw in the harmony of form and colour. A light lantern turret clung to one angle, a wilful little outer staircase ran up, quite unexpectedly, to a balcony, small ferns pierced the crevices of the grey stone, where lizards darted in and out, here and there in spring a rosy cyclamen appeared. The place was never without delight, whether seen under the warm radiance of the sun, which brought out the lizards and intensified into sharpness the rich shadow of each bit of carving, and every golden patch of lichen on the mellow stone, or clothed with a more restful and sympathetic charm under the soft cloudy half-lights of a grey day. Behind the château rose a low wooded hill, in front ran a long terrace, which separated it from the flower-beds and a broad stretch of turf. The kitchen-garden and the pond, where frogs kept up a turbulent croaking, were on one side.
But the decay which may add a charm to architecture becomes dreary and unlovely in a garden. Six years ago the turf was uncared for, the flowers grew untrimmed; it was evident that the fortunes of the family were at a low ebb. So with the interior. The greater number of rooms were closed, and only two or three servants remained of the many who had been there during the lifetime of the Baron Bernard. The Baron Bernard had been a man of sense and integrity, highly respected in the neighbourhood—unfortunately, he was drowned in the river at a comparatively early age, leaving a widow; one son, Léon; two daughters, Félicie and Claire; and a well-ordered estate.
For a few years this continued, but with Léon grown up came change. He was a young man with the easiest of tempers, a genuine charm of face and manner, and the most extravagant tastes. His mother and sisters adored, and did their best to spoil him. They succeeded admirably. He began to spend money at the earliest possible age at which a man masters that easiest of accomplishments, and he denied himself nothing. There had been savings daring his boyhood; he fancied the sum inexhaustible, and looked upon it as loose cash intended to be flung away. It was not, it need hardly he remarked, at Poissy that the money was spent; Paris—Paris became the one place in the world where he cared to pass his days, with an occasional flying visit to Poissy, where his intendant was installed with the impossible task before him of meeting increased expenditure upon diminishing receipts. M. Georges seldom saw his employer, and then was put off by good-humoured banter. If he carried his tale to Mme. de Beaudrillart, she invariably treated him as the one to blame, and would only repeat that it was natural for a young man to enjoy himself during the early years of his life. Money must be raised somehow.
“In that case, madame,” said little M. Georges, as firmly as he could, “portions of the property will have to be sold. Monsieur le baron will consent?”
She paused, struck with dismay.
“You mean that it is absolutely necessary?”
“I mean that no other course whatever remains—except to borrow.”
“Oh, no borrowing!” returned Mme. de Beaudrillart, hastily, and M. Georges smiled covertly, aware of M. Léon’s debts in Paris. She walked to the window, and came back. “If it must be,” she said, reluctantly, “you had better dispose of some of the outlying property. But permit me to remark, Monsieur Georges, that it appears to me that perhaps greater experience might have prevented such a sacrifice.”
Experience had, at any rate, taught poor M. Georges the undesirability of entering upon an argument with Mme. de Beaudrillart. He bowed low, and retired to write to M. Léon, who sent him an airy letter to the effect that in years to come it would be easy enough to buy back whatever their misfortunes required them to part with at the present moment. Mme. de Beaudrillart, whenever she encountered M. Georges, looked at him with displeasure; the only person from whom he received any sympathy was Mlle. Claire, and hers scarcely reached the point of blaming Léon.
The first piece of property sold soon carried another with it. Rich vineyards and mills found immediate purchasers, and changed hands easily. The worst of it was that Poissy was left with land which was not so profitable, and that the rentals became quickly reduced, while M. Léon’s expend it are did not diminish in the same proportion, for if by fits and starts he practised a little economy, it was followed by a reaction, as if he imagined that what he had saved gave him something more to spend. Debts and mortgages, like venomous spiders, crept over poor Poissy, and, once having got it in their clutches, held it tight. They reached this point at last, that nothing remained with which to satisfy his creditors except the château itself; and when the fact forced itself upon his mind, the shock was sufficiently great to stun even M. Léon.