them, so his solitude was never invaded. Those who
knew his circumstances respected as well as pitied the poor, proud young
baron, while many of the former friends of the family believed that it
was extinct; which indeed it inevitably would be, with this its only
remaining scion, if things went on much longer as they had been going
for many years past.

The baron had not yet removed a single garment when his attention was
attracted by the strange uneasiness of Beelzebub, who finally jumped
down from his arm-chair, went straight to one of the windows, and
raising himself on his hind legs put his fore-paws on the casing
and stared out into the thick darkness, where it was impossible to
distinguish anything but the driving rain. A loud howl from Miraut at
the same moment proclaimed that he too was aroused, and that something
very unusual must be going on in the vicinity of the chateau, ordinarily
as quiet as the grave. Miraut kept up persistently a furious barking,
and the baron gave up all idea of going to bed. He hastily readjusted
his dress, so that he might be in readiness for whatever should happen,
and feeling a little excited at this novel commotion.

"What can be the matter with poor old Miraut? He usually sleeps from
sunset to sunrise without making a sound, save his snores. Can it be
that a wolf is prowling about the place?" said the young man to
himself, as he buckled the belt of his sword round his slender waist.
A formidable weapon it was, that sword, with long blade, and heavy iron
scabbard.

At that moment three loud knocks upon the great outer door resounded
through the house. Who could possibly have strayed here at this hour, so
far from the travelled roads, and in this tempest that was making
night horrible without? No such thing had occurred within the baron's
recollection. What could it portend?

CHAPTER II. THE CHARIOT OF THESPIS

The Baron de Sigognac went down the broad staircase without a moment's
delay to answer this mysterious summons, protecting with his hand the
feeble flame of the small lamp he carried from the many draughts that
threatened to blow it out. The light, shining through his slender
fingers, gave them a rosy tinge, so that he merited the epithet applied
by Homer, the immortal bard, to the laughing, beautiful Aurora, even
though he advanced through the thick darkness with his usual melancholy
mien, and followed by a black cat, instead of preceding the glorious god
of day.