"The fellow must be mistaken," said I. "This place has not the air of
encouraging visitors;" but, before the words were out of my mouth, the
enterprising _cocher_ had rung the gate bell.
After an interval a gardener appeared, and betrayed such mild,
ingenuous surprise at sight of us that I wished ourselves anywhere
else than before the portals of the Chateau d'Aymaville. Gladly would
I have whipped up our fat, barrel-shaped nag, and driven into the
nearest rabbit-hole, but it was too late. The gardener took the
enquiry as to whether visitors were admitted, with the gravity he
would have given to a question in the catechism: Is your name N. or
M.? Can one see your master's house?
Oh, without doubt, one could see the house. Would _les messieurs_
kindly accompany him? His aspect wept, and mine (unless it belied me)
copied his. "Isn't it hateful?" I asked, _sotto voce_, of the Boy,
expecting sympathy which I did not get. "No, I think it's great fun,"
said he.
"But I'm sure they are not in the habit of showing the house. You can
tell by the man's manner. He's nonplussed. I should think no one has
ever had the cheek to apply for permission before."
"Then they ought to be complimented because we have."
I was silenced, though far from convinced; but if you have made an
engagement with an executioner, it is a point of honour not to sneak
off and leave him in the lurch, when he has taken the trouble to
sharpen his axe, and put on his red suit and mask for your benefit.
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