In the doorway, which was ten feet high, the little bent form of the Marquis de Gemosac stood waiting.
“Ah! ah!” he said, with that pleasant manner of his generation, which was refined and spirituelle and sometimes dramatic, and yet ever failed to touch aught but the surface of life. “Ah! ah! Safely accomplished—the great journey. Safely accomplished. You permit—”
And he embraced Barebone after the custom of his day. “From all sides,” he said, when the door was closed, “I hear that you have done great things. From every quarter one hears your praise.”
He held him at arm’s length.
“Yes,” he said. “Your face is graver and—more striking in resemblance than ever. So now you know—now you have seen.”
“Yes,” answered Barebone, gravely. “I have seen and I know.”
The Marquis rubbed his white hands together and gave a little crackling laugh of delight as he drew forward a chair to the fire, which was of logs as long as a barrel. The room was a huge one, and it was lighted from end to end with lamps, as if for a reception or a ball. The air was damp and mouldly. There were patches of grey on the walls, which had once been painted with garlands of roses and Cupids and pastoral scenes by a noted artist of the Great Age.
The ceiling had fallen in places, and the woodwork of the carved furniture gave forth a subtle scent of dry rot.
But everything was in an exquisite taste which vulgarer generations have never yet succeeded in imitating. Nothing was concealed, but rather displayed with a half-cynical pride. All was moth-ridden, worm-eaten, fallen to decay—but it was of the Monarchy. Not half a dozen houses in Paris, where already the wealth, which has to-day culminated in a ridiculous luxury of outward show, was beginning to build new palaces, could show room after room furnished in the days of the Great Louis. The very air, faintly scented it would seem by some forgotten perfume, breathed of a bygone splendour. And the last of the de Gemosacs scorned to screen his poverty from the eyes of his equals, nor sought to hide from them a desolation which was only symbolic of that which crushed their hearts and bade them steal back from time to time like criminals to the capital.
“You see,” he said to Colville and Barebone, “I have kept my promise, I have thrown open this old house once more for to-night’s meeting. You will find that many friends have made the journey to Paris for the occasion—Madame de Chantonnay and Albert, Madame de Rathe and many from the Vendée and the West whom you have met on your journey. And to-night one may speak without fear, for none will be present who are not vouched for by the Almanac de Gotha. There are no Royalists pour rire or pour vivre to-night. You have but time to change your clothes and dine. Your luggage arrived yesterday. You will forgive the stupidity of old servants who have forgotten their business. Come, I will lead the way and show you your rooms.”