“What are you trying to do?” Quentin asked him.
“To turn this key; but it’s so dirty....”
“Let me have it,” said Quentin; and taking a large crowbar, he turned the key with scarcely an effort. A jet of water ran into a small trough, from which it flowed through the various ditches that irrigated the different parts of the garden.
“Where are the young ladies?” asked Quentin.
“At mass: they’ll be back in a little while.”
“What’s doing here? How is everything getting on?”
“Badly. Worse every day,” answered the gardener. “How different this house used to look! Money used to flow here like wheat. They said that every time the clock struck, the Marquis made an ounce of gold. And such luxury! If you had walked through these patios thirty years ago, you’d have thought you were in heaven!”
“What was here?”
“You would have met the armed house-guards, all gaudily attired—with short coats, stiff-brimmed hats, and guns.”
“What did they do?”