Resigning our horses to the keeping of our servants, we followed the grave
ma?tre d'h?tel who had received us. He led us across the spacious hall,
which had all the appearance of an armoury, and up the regal staircase of
polished oak on to a landing wide and lofty. Here, turning to the left, he
opened a door and desired us to give ourselves the trouble of awaiting the
Chevalier. We entered a handsome room, hung in costly Dutch tapestry, and
richly furnished, yet with a sobriety of colour almost puritanical. The
long windows overlooked a broad terrace, enclosed in a grey stone
balustrade, from which some half-dozen steps led to a garden below. Beyond
that ran the swift waters of the Loire, and beyond that again, in the
distance, we beheld the famous Ch?teau de Chambord, built in the days of
the first Francis.
I had but remarked these details when the door again opened, to admit a
short, slender man in whose black hair and beard the hand of time had
scattered but little of that white dust that marks its passage. His face
was pale, thin, and wrinkled, and his grey eyes had a nervous, restless
look that dwelt not long on anything.
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