It was very dark within the house, for all the shutters were closed.
The Abbe lighted a third candle and fixed it, with a drop of its own wax, on the high mantel of the great banqueting-hall.

There were four or five candlesticks on side-tables, and a candelabra stood in the centre of a long table, running the length of the room.

In a few minutes the Abbe had illuminated the apartment, which smelt of dust and the days of a dead monarchy.

Above his head, the bats were describing complicated figures against a ceiling which had once been painted in the Italian style, to represent a trellis roof, with roses and vines entwined.
Half a dozen portraits of men, in armour and wigs, looked down from the walls.

One or two of them were rotting from their frames, and dangled a despondent corner out into the room.
There were chairs round the table, set as if for a phantom banquet amid these mouldering environments, and their high carved backs threw fantastic shadows on the wall.
While the Abbe was still employed with the candles, he heard a heavy step and loud breathing in the hall without, where he had carefully left a light.
"Why did you not wait for me on the hill, malhonnete ?" asked a thick voice, like the voice of a man, but the manner was the manner of a woman.