I held out scarce an
hour against the long-nosed gentleman, who was evidently of great skill.
Apparently the Count, by his ejaculations, thought little of my playing,
but he was so glad when my defeat made room for him, that I escaped his
displeasure. I too was glad, for now, while Monsieur de Pepicot kept the
Count occupied at chess, I should be free to go about the chateau in
search for its mistress. And grateful I was to Monsieur de Pepicot for
having beaten me, for he might easily have left me as the victor and
used this opportunity for his own purpose. I could not think it was
generosity that had made him do otherwise: I could only wonder what his
purpose was, that would bear so much waiting.

For appearance's sake, I watched the two players awhile: then I imitated
the Captain, and sauntered to the court-yard, wondering if there might
be any servant there whom I could sound. But the men lounging there were
not of a simple-looking sort. They were all of forbidding aspect, and
they stared at me so hard that I returned into the hall. The Count was
intent upon the game. Pushed by the mere impulse of inquiry, I went up
the staircase as if to go to the chamber to which I had before been
conducted. But instead of going all the way up, I turned off at the
first landing into a short corridor, resolved to wander wherever I
might: if anybody stopped me, I could pretend to have lost my way.

The corridor led into a drawing-room richly tapestried and furnished;
that into another room, which contained musical instruments; that into a
gallery where some portraits were hung. So far I had got access by a
series of curtained archways. The further end of the gallery was closed
by a door. I was walking toward that door, when I heard a step in the
room I had last traversed. I immediately began to look at the pictures.

A man entered and viewed me suspiciously. He was, by his dress and air,
a servant of some authority in the household, and had not the military
rudeness of the fellows in the court-yard.

"What is it Monsieur will have?" he asked, with outward courtesy enough.

"I am looking at the portraits," said I.

"I will explain them to you," said he. "That is Monsieur the Count in
his youth, painted at Paris by a celebrated Italian." And he went on to
point out the Count's children, now dead, and his first wife, before
going back to a former generation.

"And the present Countess?" said I at last, looking around the walls in