In the outward seeming, at least, it was all that the most fastidious
could have required; a gem of Renaissance architecture in its turrets,
its quaint, scrolled windows, and the carving of its stone facade.
Age and romance breathed from every inch of it. For not less than four
hundred years it had watched the changing life of Paris; and even to
a lay person like myself a glance proclaimed it one of those ancestral
_hotels_, the pride of noble French families, about which many romantic
stories cling.
At another time it would have charmed me hugely, but to-day, as I stood
gazing, somehow, my spirits fell. Was it the almost sepulchral silence
of the place, the careful drawing of every shutter, the fact that the
grilled gateway leading to the court of honor was locked? I did not
know; I don't know yet; but I had an odd, eerie feeling. It seemed like
a place of waiting, of watching, and of gloom.
This was unreasonable; it was even down-right ridiculous. I began to
think that late events were throwing me off my base. "It's a house like
any other, and a jolly fine old one!" I assured myself, approaching the
grilled entrance and producing one of my cards.
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