ves, the day after
the fire, in Mautrec Street. The house which the mayor had taken for
them had been for more than a century in the possession of the great
Julias family, and is still considered one of the finest and most
magnificent mansions in Sauveterre.

In less than ten minutes Dr. Seignebos and M. Folgat had reached the
house. From the street, nothing was visible but a tall wall, as old as
the castle, according to the claims of archaeologists, and covered
all over with a mass of wild flowers. In this wall there is a huge
entrance-gate with folding-doors. During the day one-half is opened, and
a light, low open-work railing put in, which rings a bell as soon as it
is pushed open.

You then cross a large garden, in which a dozen statues, covered with
green moss, are falling to pieces on their pedestals, overshadowed by
magnificent old linden-trees. The house has only two stories. A large
hall extends from end to end of the lower story; and at the end a wide
staircase with stone steps and a superb iron railing leads up stairs.
When they entered the hall, Dr. Seignebos opened a door on the right
hand.

"Step in here and wait," he said to M. Folgat. "I will go up stairs and
see the count, whose room is in the second story, and I will send you
the countess."

The young advocate did as he was bid, and found himself in a large
room, brilliantly lighted up by three tall windows that went down to the
ground, and looked out upon the garden. This room must have been superb
formerly. The walls were wainscoted with arabesques and lines in gold.
The ceiling was painted, and represented a number of fat little angels
sporting in a sky full of golden stars.

But time had passed its destroying hand over all this splendor of the
past age, had half effaced the paintings, tarnished the gold of the
arabesques, and faded the blue of the ceiling and the rosy little loves.
Nor was the furniture calculated to make compensation for this decay.
The windows had no curtains. On the mantelpiece stood a worn-out clock
and half-broken candelabra; then, here and there, pieces of furniture
that would not match, such as had been rescued from the fire at
Valpinson,--chairs, sofas, arm-chairs, and a round table, all battered
and blackened by the flames.

But M. Folgat paid little attention to these details. He only thought of
the grave step on which he was venturing, and which he now only looked
at in its full strangeness and extreme boldness.