My sense of high-gear adventure had reached its zenith now.
There was something thrilling, something stimulating in this stealthy
night entrance into a deserted castle. It was an experience, at all
events; there was no _concierge_ to stump before one through dim
passages and up winding staircases; no flood of dates and names and
anecdotes poured inexorably into one's bored ears to insure a _douceur_
when the tour of the chateau should be done.
The door--faithless Marie-Jeanne!--opened as readily as the outer gate.
We were entering. I glimpsed in a dim vista a superb Gothic hall of
magnificent architecture and most imposing proportions, arched and
carved and stretching off with apparent endlessness into the gloom.
Holding up my light, I scanned the place with growing interest. It had
not been demolished, but neither had it been spared. The furniture
was gone, save for a few scattered chairs and a table; the walls were
defaced with cartoons and scrawled inscriptions; the floor was
stained, and littered with empty bottles and broken plates. From the
chimney-place--a medieval-art jewel topped with carved and colored
enamels--pieces had been hacked away by some deliberately destructive
hand.
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