e Sigognacs are never beaten," said the old retainer loftily. "No
matter what may come of it, I am glad, my dear young master, that you
killed that insolent duke. The whole thing was conducted in strict
accordance with the code of honour--what more could be desired? How
could any valiant gentleman object to die gloriously, sword in hand,
of a good, honest wound, fairly given? He should consider himself most
fortunate."

"Ah well! perhaps you are right--I will not dispute you," said de
Sigognac, smiling secretly at the old man's philosophy. "But I am very
tired, and would like to go to my own room now--will you light the lamp,
my good Pierre, and lead the way?"

Pierre obeyed, and the baron, preceded by his old servant and followed
by his old dog and cat, slowly ascended the ancient staircase. The
quaint frescoes were gradually fading, growing ever paler and more
indistinct, and there were new stains on the dull blue sky of the
vaulted ceiling, where the rain and melting snow of winter storms had
filtered through from the dilapidated roof. The ruinous condition of
everything in and about the crumbling old chateau, to which de Sigognac
had been perfectly accustomed before he quitted it, and taken as a
matter of course, now struck him forcibly, and increased his dejection.
He saw in it the sad and inevitable decadence of his race, and said
to himself, "If these ancient walls had any pity for the last forlorn
remnant of the family they have sheltered for centuries, they would fall
in and bury me in their ruins."

When he reached the landing at the head of the stairs he took the lamp
from Pierre's hand, bade him good-night and dismissed him--not willing
that even his faithful old servant, who had cared for him ever since his
birth, should witness his overpowering emotion. He walked slowly through
the great banqueting hall, where the comedians had supped on that
memorable night, and the remembrance of that gay scene rendered the
present dreary solitude and silence more terrible than they had ever
seemed to him before. The death-like stillness was only broken by
the horrid gnawing of a rat somewhere in the wall, and the old family
portraits glared down at him reproachfully, as he passed on below them
with listless step and downcast eyes, oblivious of everything but his
own deep misery, and his yearning for his lost Isabelle. As he came
under the last portrait of all, that of his own sweet young mother,
he suddenly looked up