The worthy tyrant’s advice was sensible and good, and de Sigognac resolved to follow it without delay.  Since Isabelle’s departure, no attraction existed for him in the troupe, and he was very glad of a valid pretext for quitting it; though he could not leave his humble friends without some regrets.  It was necessary that he should disappear for a while—­plunge into obscurity, until the excitement consequent upon the violent death of the young Duke of Vallombreuse should be forgotten in some new tragedy in real life.

So, after bidding farewell to the worthy comedians, who had shown him so much kindness, he departed from the gay capital—­mounted on a stout pony, and with a tolerably well-filled purse—­his share of the receipts of the troupe, which he had fairly earned.  By easy stages he travelled slowly towards his own ruined chateau.  After the storm the bird flies home to its nest, no matter how ragged and torn it may be.  It was the only refuge open to him, and in the midst of his despondency he felt a sort of sad pleasure at the thought of returning to his ancestral home—­desolate and forlorn as it was—­where it would have been better, perhaps, for him to have quietly remained—­for his fortunes were not improved, and this last crowning disaster had been ruinous to all his hopes and prospects of happiness.

“Ah, well!” said he to himself, sorrowfully, as he jogged slowly on, “it was predestined that I should die of hunger and ennui within those crumbling walls, and under my poor, dilapidated, old roof, that lets the rain run through it like a huge sieve.  No one can escape his destiny, and I shall accomplish mine.  I am doomed to be the last de Sigognac.”

Then came visions of what might have been, that made the sad present seem even darker by contrast; and his burden was well-nigh too heavy for him to bear, when he remembered all Isabelle’s goodness and loveliness—­now lost to him forever.  No wonder that his eyes were often wet with tears, and that there was no brightness even in the sunshine for him.

It is needless to describe in detail a journey that lasted twenty days, and was not marked by any remarkable incidents or adventures.  It is enough to say that one fine evening de Sigognac saw from afar the lofty towers of his ancient chateau, illuminated by the setting sun, and shining out in bold relief against the soft purple of the evening sky; whilst one of the few remaining casements had caught the fiery sunset glow, and looked like a great carbuncle set in the fine facade of the stately old castle.  This sight aroused a strange tenderness and agitation in the young baron’s breast.  It was true that he had suffered long and acutely in that dreary mansion, yet after all it was very dear to him—­far more than he knew before he had quitted it—­and he was deeply moved at seeing it again.  In a few moments more the glorious god of day had sunk behind the western horizon, and the chateau seemed to retreat, until it became scarcely perceptible as