"And the present Countess?" said I at last, looking around the walls in vain.
"There is no portrait of Madame the Countess."
"She was not at dinner," I ventured. "Is she not well?"
"Oh, she is well, I am happy to say. She often dines in her own apartments."
"She is well and yet keeps to her apartments?" I said, with as much surprise as I thought the circumstance might naturally occasion.
"She does not keep to her apartments exactly," replied the man, a little annoyed. "She walks in the garden much of the time. Is there anything else I may show you, Monsieur?"
He stood at the curtained entrance, as if to attend my leaving the room, and I thought best to take the hint. No doubt he had purposely followed me, to hinder my going too far.
I returned to the hall, which was very silent, the two players being deep in their chess. Somewhere in my wake the manservant vanished, and I seemed free to explore in another direction. The Countess walked much in the garden, the man had said. It was a fine afternoon—might she not be walking there now?
Feigning carelessness, I went out a small door at the rear of the hall, and found myself in that narrow part of the garden which lay between two wings of the house, and which our chamber overlooked. This part, which was really a terrace, was separated by a low Italian balustrade from the greater garden below and beyond. I walked up the middle path to where there was an opening in the balustrade at the head of a flight of steps. But here my confidence received a check. Half-way down the steps was sitting a burly fellow, who rose at my appearance, and said:
"Pardon, Monsieur: no further this way, if you please. I am ordered to stop everybody."