It was just the same, everything in exactly the same place, even to the books on the table. I examined them: some were quite modern, drawings by Gavarni and De Musset's poems; some were more antique.
Amongst them was a work in gilded boards, the history of the Saluce family, written by one Armand de Saluce, in the year 1820, and dedicated rather fulsomely to the then head of the house.
He was some poor relation evidently, Armand, and his language was very flowery; and from his little book one might have imagined the Saluces a family of saints and lambs.
I turned the pages this way and that, till I found what he had to say about Philippe.
Philippe de Saluce, according to Armand, had died in consequence of an unfortunate love-affair.
It did not say he had drowned his fiancée—that he was a murderer.
With the book in my hand I fell asleep, lulled by the drowsy warmth of the room, and the softness of the cushions of the window-seat.
When I awoke the light had changed, and, looking at my watch, I found it to be nearly six o'clock.
I rose, put the book on the table, and came downstairs.