"Well, it seems I must quit the room I've occupied, to go into one in which no one has set foot during the eight years I have been in the house; and, to judge by the look of it, no one had visited it for a long time before. It's so dark, so dismal; the window-panes, which are two inches thick with dust, hardly allow the daylight to penetrate into the room."
"I had an idea—God forgive me—that she was going to recount to me all the spiders' webs she had found there. What do you think of it, my charming pupil?"
Blanche did not answer, for she had paid no attention to what Marguerite said; she was committing to memory the sweet refrain which had appeared so pretty to her, and was repeating in a low voice,—
"I love to eternity;"
and Chaudoreille, seeing her steeped in reverie, would not disturb her, fully persuaded that the young girl could not defend her heart against the charms of the villanelle.
"It's not a question of spiders," resumed the old servant, rather ill-humoredly; "if I had not seen that which—but at the bottom of a closet Mademoiselle Blanche found a diabolical book; it was the conjuring-book of a sorcerer named Odoard. Have you ever heard tell of a sorcerer by that name?"
"No, not that I remember. If you were to ask me about a brave man, a man of spirit, a rake of honor, most certainly I should have known him; but a sorcerer! What the devil do you think I should have to do with him? These people don't fight."
"Monsieur Chaudoreille,—you who are so brave,—you must render me a service."
"What is it?" inquired Chaudoreille, paying more attention to Marguerite's words.
"Just now, after having burned the conjuring-book of that Odoard, surnamed the great Tier of Tags, I made another inspection of my room, sprinkling holy water everywhere, as you may well suppose."