They traversed a gallery whose windows looked out upon the patio of the fountain; then, after crossing two large, dark rooms, they came to a high-ceilinged hall panelled in leather, and with a red rug, tarnished by the years, upon the floor.
“Sit down, Señor; the master will be here directly,” said the maid.
Quentin seated himself and began to examine the hall. It was large and rectangular, with three broad, and widely-separated balcony windows looking out upon the garden. The room possessed an air of complete desolation. The painted walls from which the plaster had peeled off in places, were hung with life-size portraits of men in the uniforms and habiliments of nobility: in some of the pictures the canvas was torn; in others, the frames were eaten by moths: the great, rickety, leather-covered armchairs staggered under the touch of a hand upon their backs: two ancient pieces of tapestry with figures in relief, which concealed the doors, were full of large rents: on the panels in the ceiling, spiders wove their white webs: a very complicated seventeenth century clock, with pendulum and dial of copper, had ceased to run: the only things in that antique salon that were out of harmony, were the French fire-place in which some wood was burning, and a little gilt clock upon the marble mantel, which, like a good parvenu, impertinently called attention to itself.
When he had waited a moment, a curtain was pulled aside, and an old man, bent with age, entered the salon. He was followed by a little bow-legged hunchback, crosseyed, grey-haired, and dressed in black.
“Where is the boy?” asked the old man in a cracked voice.
“Right in front of you,” replied the hunchback.
“Come closer!” exclaimed the Marquis, addressing Quentin. “I do not see very well.”
Quentin approached him, and the old man seized his hand and looked at him very closely.
“Come, sit by me. Have you enjoyed good health at school?”
“Yes, Señor Marqués.”