She grew serious and absorbed in thought, yet not so entirely abstracted as to be unconscious of the beauty of the gardens through which she was walking,—the well-kept lawns, the beds and borders of flowers,—the graceful pergolas of climbing roses, and the shady paths which went winding in and out through shrubberies and under trees, here and there affording glimpses of the lake, glittering as with silver and blue. Presently at a turn in one of these paths she had a view of the front of the Château Fragonard, with its fountains in full play on either side, and was enchanted with the classic purity of its architectural design, which seemed evidently copied from some old-world model of an Athenian palace.
“I don’t think it’s possible to see anything lovelier!” she said to herself. “And what luck it is for me to live here! Who could have guessed it! It’s like a dream of fairyland!”
She gathered a rose hanging temptingly within reach, and fastened it in her bodice.
“Let me see!” she went on, thinking—“It’s just a week since I was ‘drowned’ in Devon! Such a little while!—why Ma hasn’t had time yet to get her mourning properly fitted! And Pa! I wonder how he really ‘carries’ himself, as they say, under his affliction! I think it will be a case of ‘bearing up wonderfully,’ for both of them. One week!—and my little boat of life, tied so long by a worn rope to a weedy shore, has broken adrift and floated away by itself to a veritable paradise of new experience. But,—am I counting too much on my good fortune, I wonder? Perhaps there will be some crushing drawback,—some terrorizing influence—who knows! And yet—I think not. Anyhow, I have signed, sealed, and delivered myself over to my chosen destiny;—it is wiser to hope for the best than imagine the worst.”
Arrived at the hall door of the Château she found it open, and passed in unquestioned, as an admitted member of the household. She saw a neat maid busying herself with the arrangement of some flowers, and of her she asked the way to her rooms. The girl at once preceded her up the wide staircase and showed her the passage leading to the beautiful suite of apartments she had seen in the morning, remarking:
“Madame will be quite private here,—this passage is shut off from the rest of the house, and is an entry to these rooms only, and if Madame wants any service she will ring and I will come. My name is Rose.”
“Thank you, Rose!” and Diana smiled at her, feeling a sense of relief to know that she could have the attention of a simple ordinary domestic such as this pleasant-looking little French femme-de-chambre,—for somehow she had connected the dumb negro who had at first admitted her to the Château with a whole imagined retinue of mysterious persons, sworn to silence in the service of Dimitrius. “I will not trouble you more than I can help—hark!—what is that noise?”
A low, organ-like sound as of persistent thudding and humming echoed around her,—it suggested suppressed thunder. The girl Rose looked quite unconcerned.
“Oh, that is the machine in the Doctor’s laboratory,” she said. “But it does not often make any noise. We do not know quite what it is,—we are not permitted to see!” She smiled, and added: “But Madame will not long be disturbed—it will soon cease.”
And indeed the thunderous hum died slowly away as she spoke, leaving a curious sense of emptiness on the air. Diana still listened, vaguely fascinated,—but the silence remained unbroken. Rose nodded brightly, in pleased affirmation of her own words, and left the room, closing the door behind her.