tly hue, and at night, by the dim,
flickering lamp-light, they looked like a company of spectres. Nothing
in the world is sadder than a collection of old portraits hanging
thus, neglected and forgotten, in deserted halls--representations, half
obliterated themselves, of forms and faces long since returned to dust.
Yet these painted phantoms were most appropriate inhabitants of this
desolate abode; real living people would have seemed out of place in the
death-stricken house.

In the middle of the room stood an immense dining-table of dark,
polished wood, much worm-eaten, and gradually falling into decay. Two
tall buffets, elaborately carved and ornamented, stood on opposite sides
of the room, with only a few odd pieces of Palissy ware, representing
lizards, crabs, and shell-fish, reposing on shiny green leaves, and two
or three delicate wine-glasses of quaint patterns remaining upon the
shelves where gold and silver plate used to glitter in rich profusion,
as was the mode in France. The handsome old chairs, with their high,
carved backs and faded velvet cushions, that had been so firm and
luxurious once, were tottering and insecure; but it mattered little,
since no one ever came to sit in them now round the festive board, and
they stood against the wall in prim order, under the rows of family
portraits.

A smaller room opened out of this one, hung round with faded, moth-eaten
tapestry. In one corner stood a large bed, with four tall, twisted
columns and long, ample curtains of rich brocade, which had been
delicate green and white, but now were of a dingy, yellowish hue, and
cut completely through from top to bottom in every fold. An ebony table,
with some pretty gilded ornaments still clinging to it, a mirror
dim with age, and two large arm-chairs, covered with worn and faded
embroidery, that had been wrought by the fair fingers of some noble dame
long since dead and forgotten, completed the furniture of this dismal
chamber.

In these two rooms were the latticed windows seen in the front of the
chateau, and over them still hung long sweeping curtains, so tattered
and moth-eaten that they were almost falling to pieces. Profound silence
reigned here, unbroken save by occasional scurrying and squeaking
of mice behind the wainscot, the gnawing of rats in the wall, or the
ticking of the death-watch.

From the tapestried chamber a door opened into a long suite of deserted
rooms, which were lofty and of noble proportions,