I opened a
side-door, and entered a large room, where were, in a corner, some rusty
and cobwebbed bird-cages, but nothing more. It was a wainscoted room, but
a white mildew stained the panels. I looked from the window: it commanded
that dismal, weed-choked quadrangle into which I had once looked from
another window. I opened a door at its farther end, and entered another
chamber, not quite so large, but equally dismal, with the same prison-like
look-out, not very easily discerned through the grimy panes and the sleet
that was falling thickly outside. The door through which I had entered made
a little accidental creak, and, with my heart at my lips, I gazed at it,
expecting to see Charke, or the skeleton of which I had talked so lightly,
stalk in at the half-open aperture. But I had an odd sort of courage which
was always fighting against my cowardly nerves, and I walked to the door,
and looking up and down the dismal passage, was reassured.
Well, one room more--just that whose deep-set door fronted me, with a
melancholy frown, at the opposite end of the chamber. So to it I glided,
shoved it open, advancing one step, and the great bony figure of Madame de
la Rougierre was before me.
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