“Oh, tiger’s heart wrapped in a painter’s hide,” he retorted, laughing outright.
We drove on in silence for perhaps a quarter of an hour longer; then at last our horses’ hoofs resounded upon stone, and we drew up. My officer descended from the carriage; I followed him. We were standing under a massive archway lighted by a hanging lantern. Before a small door pierced in the stone wall fronting us a sentinel was posted, with his musket presented in salute.
The three gendarmes sprang from their saddles.
“Farewell, Herr Veinricht,” said the provost-marshal. “I have enjoyed our drive together more than I can tell you.” Then turning to his subordinates, “Conduct this gentleman to the Tower chamber,” he commanded.
One of the gendarmes preceding me, the other two coming behind, I was conveyed up a winding stone staircase, into a big octagonal-shaped room.
The room was lighted by innumerable candles set in sconces round the walls. It was comfortably, even richly furnished, and decorated with a considerable degree of taste. A warm-hued Persian carpet covered the stone floor; books, pictures, bibelots, were scattered discriminatingly about; and in one corner there stood a grand piano, open, with a violin and bow lying on it.
My gendarmes bowed themselves out, shutting the door behind them with an ominous clangour.
“If this is my dungeon cell,” I thought, “I shall not be so uncomfortable, after all. But how preposterous of them to force me to wear my dress-suit.”
I threw myself into an easy-chair, buried my face in my hands, and tried to reflect upon my situation.
I can’t tell how much time may have passed in this way; perhaps twenty minutes or half an hour. Then, suddenly, I was disturbed by the sound of a light little cough behind me, a discreet little “ahem.” I looked up quickly. A lady had entered the apartment, and was standing in the middle of it, smiling in contemplation of my desperate attitude.