Yet, when the first excitement was over, there were many things about him which puzzled, even while they interested her. She began to feel uncertain as to whether she understood him. That which seemed a joke, en passant, on reflection appeared to contain some hidden meaning. The castle itself was a continual theme with him. The number of its large, unoccupied chambers, which he bade her find inhabitants for among those whose dwellings were so scant of room that they could not even observe the decencies of life: the vast grounds, almost untrodden by human feet, among which he was always pretending to seek for concealed hermitages; then the retinue of gentlemen and ladies who were called servants, but whose principal occupation, Eugene insisted, was to make work for others;—these were a never-failing source of raillery. All these things, which flattered Adelaide's pride, seemed to him but subjects of mere banter, and certainly did not excite that reverence for the "state" in which she lived which she expected and desired. Then there was M. Bertolot, a poor French teacher, nowise elated by the condescension with which she, one of the greatest ladies in the land, entertained him. Calm, self-possessed, he received her attentions with as much [{328}] quiet dignity as if he were her equal. Certainly he did not pay her homage; and as homage was precisely that for which she had married, she could scarcely avoid feeling a little aggrieved on the subject, or feeling as if she had been defrauded of something that was her due; though her natural good sense forbade her from showing her sensitiveness to her guests.
The castle was very large—so large, in fact, that Adelaide had never entered all the chambers. More than half of it had been dismantled, and was generally kept locked. An old steward who kept the keys alone knew all the intricacies of that part of the house, which he asserted had, in ancient times, lodged a large body of retainers, and that it could now, in case of necessity, accommodate whole regiments of soldiers.
One day, in a merry mood, Eugene proposed to his sister to escort her through her own house on a tour of discovery. She assented. The house was in the form of a quadrangle, enclosing a flower garden of considerable size. In the midst was a reservoir, into which a water-god, exquisitely sculptured in marble, was pouring a continual jet of water. Marble pillars supported the upper story of the mansion, forming beneath an arched and cloistered walk round three sides of the garden. Already had Eugene spent hours here in meditation, for it was ever cool, shady, and sequestered; and it being understood that here the family alone were admitted, the servants consequently kept aloof.
"Beautiful cloisters those would make," said Eugene. "When you exchange your ducal coronet for a nun's veil, Adelaide, and your jewelled chain for a rosary, you can come here and tell your beads. Your convent is provided already."
"What an absurd idea!" said the duchess.
"Nay," said Eugene, "such things have been, and may be again."
"Nonsense! this age is too wise for that"
They passed on. Even Eugene was surprised at the extent of accommodation in the furnished and inhabited part of the building. The old duke had so divided the place that he and his duchess had had their separate establishments under one roof, without being cognizant even of each other's proceedings. For the last years of their lives they had met only on state days and on state occasions.
Adelaide now inhabited suite of rooms occupied by the former duchess. Until to-day she had never entered those set apart for the duke.
A shudder ran through her veins as as she traversed them, for something seemed to whisper her, that here, to another duke would die like the former—married, yet wifeless—and that the entailed dwelling, with its vast grounds and cherished heirlooms, would pass away from her altogether.