Perigny.
He looked again and saw a great hotel, surrounded by a high wall, along
the top of which, ran a cheval-de-frise. Inside all was gloomy and
splendid, rich and ancient. Magnificent tapestries graced the walls,
famous paintings, rare cut-glass, chased silver and filigreed gold, and
painted porcelain.
Rochelle.
Again; and in his dream-vision he saw mighty palaces and many lights,
the coming and going of great personages, soldiers famed in war,
statesmen, beautiful women with satin and jewels and humid eyes; great
feasts, music, and the loveliest flowers.
Paris.
His! All these things were his. It was empire; it was power, content,
riches. His! Had he not starved, begged, suffered? These were his,
all his, his by human law and divine. That letter! It had lain under
the marquis's eyes all this time, and he had not known. That was well.
But that fate should so unceremoniously thrust it into his hands! Ah,
that was all very strange, obscure. The wind, coming with a gust,
stirred the beads of his rosary; and he remembered. He cast a glance
at his pack. Could he carry it again? He caught up his rosary.
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