“The de Sigognacs are never beaten,” said the old retainer loftily.  “No matter what may come of it, I am glad, my dear young master, that you killed that insolent duke.  The whole thing was conducted in strict accordance with the code of honour—­what more could be desired?  How could any valiant gentleman object to die gloriously, sword in hand, of a good, honest wound, fairly given?  He should consider himself most fortunate.”

“Ah well! perhaps you are right—­I will not dispute you,” said de Sigognac, smiling secretly at the old man’s philosophy.  “But I am very tired, and would like to go to my own room now—­will you light the lamp, my good Pierre, and lead the way?”

Pierre obeyed, and the baron, preceded by his old servant and followed by his old dog and cat, slowly ascended the ancient staircase.  The quaint frescoes were gradually fading, growing ever paler and more indistinct, and there were new stains on the dull blue sky of the vaulted ceiling, where the rain and melting snow of winter storms had filtered through from the dilapidated roof.  The ruinous condition of everything in and about the crumbling old chateau, to which de Sigognac had been perfectly accustomed before he quitted it, and taken as a matter of course, now struck him forcibly, and increased his dejection.  He saw in it the sad and inevitable decadence of his race, and said to himself, “If these ancient walls had any pity for the last forlorn remnant of the family they have sheltered for centuries, they would fall in and bury me in their ruins.”

When he reached the landing at the head of the stairs he took the lamp from Pierre’s hand, bade him good-night and dismissed him—­not willing that even his faithful old servant, who had cared for him ever since his birth, should witness his overpowering emotion.  He walked slowly through the great banqueting hall, where the comedians had supped on that memorable night, and the remembrance of that gay scene rendered the present dreary solitude and silence more terrible than they had ever seemed to him before.  The death-like stillness was only broken by the horrid gnawing of a rat somewhere in the wall, and the old family portraits glared down at him reproachfully, as he passed on below them with listless step and downcast eyes, oblivious of everything but his own deep misery, and his yearning for his lost Isabelle.  As he came under the last portrait of all, that of his own sweet young mother, he suddenly looked up, and as his eyes rested on the calm, beautiful countenance—­which had always worn such a pathetic, mournful expression that it used to make his heart ache to look at it in his boyish days—­it seemed to smile upon him.  He was startled for an instant, and then, thrilling with a strange, exquisite delight, and inspired with new hope and courage, he said in a low, earnest tone, “I accept my dear dead mother’s smile as a good omen—­perhaps all may not be lost even yet—­I will try to believe so.”