, the gloomiest in the house, also looked
into the court; but the widow spent all her time in the salon on the
ground floor, which communicated by a passage with the kitchen built at
the end of the court, so that this salon was made to answer the double
purpose of drawing-room and dining-room combined.

The bedroom of the late Monsieur de Portenduere remained as he had
left it on the day of his death; there was no change except that he was
absent. Madame de Portenduere had made the bed herself; laying upon it
the uniform of a naval captain, his sword, cordon, orders, and hat. The
gold snuff-box from which her late husband had taken snuff for the last
time was on the table, with his prayer-book, his watch, and the cup from
which he drank. His white hair, arranged in one curled lock and framed,
hung above a crucifix and the holy water in the alcove. All the little
ornaments he had worn, his journals, his furniture, his Dutch spittoon,
his spy-glass hanging by the mantel, were all there. The widow had
stopped the hands of the clock at the hour of his death, to which they
always pointed. The room still smelt of the powder and the tobacco of
the deceased. The hearth was as he left it. To her, entering there, he
was again visible in the many articles which told of his daily habits.
His tall cane with its gold head was where he had last placed it, with
his buckskin gloves close by. On a table against the wall stood a gold
vase, of coarse workmanship but worth three thousand francs, a gift from
Havana, which city, at the time of the American War of Independence, he
had protected from an attack by the British, bringing his convoy safe
into port after an engagement with superior forces. To recompense this
service the King of Spain had made him a knight of his order; the
same event gave him a right to the next promotion to the rank of
vice-admiral, and he also received the red ribbing. He then married his
wife, who had a fortune of about two hundred thousand francs. But
the Revolution hindered his promotion, and Monsieur de Portenduere
emigrated.

"Where is my mother?" said Savinien to Tiennette.

"She is waiting for you in your father's room," said the old Breton
woman.

Savinien could not repress a shudder. He knew his mother's rigid
principles, her worship of honor, her loyalty, her faith in nobility,
and he foresaw a scene. He went up to the assault with his heart beating
and his face rather pale. In the dim light which fi