It was a
castle in dream. Solitude brooded over the pile as a mother broods
over an empty cot. High above the citadel the gilded ball of the
flagstaff glittered like a warm topaz. Below, the roofs of the
warehouses shone like silver under gauze. A crooked black line marked
the course of the icy river, and here and there a phantom moon flashed
upon it. The quiet beauty of all this was broken by the red harshness
of artificial light which gleamed from a single window in the chateau,
like a Cyclopean eye. Stillness was within. If any moved about on
this floor it was on tiptoe. Death stood at the door and peered into
the darkest corners. For the Marquis de Perigny was about to start out
upon that journey which has no visible end, which leaves no trail
behind: men setting out this way forget the way back, being without
desire.
Who shall plumb the depth of the bitterness in this old man's heart, as
he lay among his pillows, his head moving feebly from side to side, his
attenuated fingers plucking at the coverlet, his tongue stealing slowly
along his cracked and burning lips. Fragments of his life passed in
ragged panorama.
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