In palaces after the Italian fashion, and Corleone Lodge was one, there were very few doors, but abundance of tapestry screens and curtained doorways.  In every palace of that date there was a wonderful labyrinth of chambers and corridors, where luxury ran riot; gilding, marble, carved wainscoting, Eastern silks; nooks and corners, some secret and dark as night, others light and pleasant as the day.  There were attics, richly and brightly furnished; burnished recesses shining with Dutch tiles and Portuguese azulejos.  The tops of the high windows were converted into small rooms and glass attics, forming pretty habitable lanterns.  The thickness of the walls was such that there were rooms within them.  Here and there were closets, nominally wardrobes.  They were called “The Little Rooms.”  It was within them that evil deeds were hatched.

When a Duke of Guise had to be killed, the pretty Presidente of Sylvecane abducted, or the cries of little girls brought thither by Lebel smothered, such places were convenient for the purpose.  They were labyrinthine chambers, impracticable to a stranger; scenes of abductions; unknown depths, receptacles of mysterious disappearances.  In those elegant caverns princes and lords stored their plunder.  In such a place the Count de Charolais hid Madame Courchamp, the wife of the Clerk of the Privy Council; Monsieur de Monthule, the daughter of Haudry, the farmer of La Croix Saint Lenfroy; the Prince de Conti, the two beautiful baker women of L’Ile Adam; the Duke of Buckingham, poor Pennywell, etc.  The deeds done there were such as were designated by the Roman law as committed vi, clam, et precario—­by force, in secret, and for a short time.  Once in, an occupant remained there till the master of the house decreed his or her release.  They were gilded oubliettes, savouring both of the cloister and the harem.  Their staircases twisted, turned, ascended, and descended.  A zigzag of rooms, one running into another, led back to the starting-point.  A gallery terminated in an oratory.  A confessional was grafted on to an alcove.  Perhaps the architects of “the little rooms,” building for royalty and aristocracy, took as models the ramifications of coral beds, and the openings in a sponge.  The branches became a labyrinth.  Pictures turning on false panels were exits and entrances.  They were full of stage contrivances, and no wonder—­considering the dramas that were played there!  The floors of these hives reached from the cellars to the attics.  Quaint madrepore inlaying every palace, from Versailles downwards, like cells of pygmies in dwelling-places of Titans.  Passages, niches, alcoves, and secret recesses.  All sorts of holes and corners, in which was stored away the meanness of the great.

These winding and narrow passages recalled games, blindfolded eyes, hands feeling in the dark, suppressed laughter, blind man’s buff, hide and seek, while, at the same time, they suggested memories of the Atrides, of the Plantagenets, of the Medicis, the brutal knights of Eltz, of Rizzio, of Monaldeschi; of naked swords, pursuing the fugitive flying from room to room.