I entered and announced myself as Monsieur Beckett, for whom a room had been taken. I was received with all the consideration due to an English milord, with, of course, an unfathomable purse.
My host conducted me to my apartment. It was a large room, a little somber, paneled with dark wainscoting, and furnished in a stately and somber style, long out of date. There was a wide hearth, and a heavy mantelpiece, carved with shields, in which I might, had I been curious enough, have discovered a correspondence with the heraldry on the outer walls. There was something interesting, melancholy, and even depressing in all this. I went to the stone-shafted window, and looked out upon a small park, with a thick wood, forming the background of a château which presented a cluster of such conical-topped turrets as I have just now mentioned.
The wood and château were melancholy objects. They showed signs of neglect, and almost of decay; and the gloom of fallen grandeur, and a certain air of desertion hung oppressively over the scene.
I asked my host the name of the château.
"That, Monsieur, is the Château de la Carque," he answered.
"It is a pity it is so neglected," I observed. "I should say, perhaps, a pity that its proprietor is not more wealthy?"
"Perhaps so, Monsieur."
"Perhaps?" I repeated, and looked at him. "Then I suppose he is not very popular."
"Neither one thing nor the other, Monsieur," he answered; "I meant only that we could not tell what use he might make of riches."
"And who is he?" I inquired.