"But it is wrong to listen behind doors," protested the Abbe.

"Ah, bah!" replied this unregenerate sheep of his flock. "But do
not alarm yourself, Monsieur l'Abbe, I can keep a quiet tongue. And
a political secret--what is it? It is an amusement for the rich--
your politics--but a vice for the poor. Come, let us go to the
chateau, while there is still day, and you can see for yourself
whether we are ready for a guest."

While she spoke she hastily completed a toilet, which, despite the
Abbe's caution, had the appearance of incompleteness, and taking the
great key from behind the door, led the way out into the glare of
the setting sun. She unlocked the great gate and threw her weight
against it with quick, firm movements like the movements of a man.
Indeed, she was a better man than her companion; of a stronger
common sense; with lither limbs and a stouter heart; the best man
that France has latterly produced, and, so far as the student of
racial degeneration may foretell, will ever produce again--her
middle-class woman.

Built close against the flanking tower on the left hand of the
courtyard was a low, square house of two stories only. The whole
ground floor was stabling, room and to spare for half a hundred
horses, and filled frequently enough, no doubt, in the great days of
the Great Henry. On the first floor, to which three or four
staircases gave access, there were plenty of apartments; indeed,
suites of them. But nearly all stood empty, and the row of windows
looked blank and curtainless across the crumbling garden to the
Italian house.