It was once one of the finest houses around Paris. The gardens were filled with flowers, the lawns were spacious; in front of the large main door, in the grand, paved courtyard stood a beautiful fountain, the waters of which fell round the statue of one of our ancestors who had lived at the time of Louis XIV. His smile had always struck me as being cold and insincere even mocking. Royalty had been entertained in this house. It had been commended by innumerable monarchs for its splendour. But now....
It was the sort of home coming that I hoped I would never be unfortunate enough to experience. The rain poured down, making a swamp out of the once green fields. The wind blew through the trees with a whine. My heart sang, despite all this, I was coming home after all. And then, there it was! But how changed! I have seldom seen such gloom and desolation. The iron gates lay rusting in the shrubbery, which was overgrown with weeds. There were weeds everywhere. The high wall was beginning to look like the walls of a castle upon which a cannon had been constantly firing. In its corner, the well-known statue of Cupid stood now headless. The courtyard was no better. The grand fountain was reduced to a shambles of stone. The mocking, smiling statue of my cavalier ancestor still stood there, like an ill omen. He still stood where he had always been. Yet he was the one thing I would have gladly let the mob, who had caused all this, break up into fragments. I splashed across the courtyard, and stood looking at the house for a moment, before mounting the steps and raising the huge knocker with the lion's head. Even that came away and fell at my feet with a clang.
I managed to make myself heard through kicking at the door. If I had expected to see a well-loved face within, I was rudely disappointed. The hateful features of old Henri glared at me. Why he was still here I don’t know. Even the mob probably did not think it worthwhile molesting him. The least he could do was to let me in. After all, I should have been master of this old ruin. He even did that small thing grumbling.
The interior of the house had been even more severely hit by the mad mob than the outside, The huge hall was hardly recognizable. Windows had been smashed, tapestries torn down, portraits, many of them masterpieces, had been strewn around the floor and trodden underfoot. A stinking smell of mildew and dust struck me. I entered the dining-room. (The old man had by now disappeared. I was not sorry. I would rather be alone than in his company). The long table still stood in the centre. The mob, unable to take it away as a prize had contented themselves with mutilating it. Names had been carved in the oak, and someone had chipped away part of one leg. The fireplace was filled with soot, and there still remained the logs placed on the hearth to feed the fire. A large cabinet in which wine had been kept had been thrown on its face. The empty wine bottles strewn round the room told their own tale of the drunken mob. Everything that it was possible to destroy in any way had been destroyed. I did not go into any other rooms downstairs. I knew what I would see and I was already sick of the sight.
I climbed the stairs. The suits of armour that had stood at regular intervals had been removed. The stained glass windows were covered with dust and cobwebs. I even thought I saw a mouse run along the landing. The banisters were no longer there. They had been knocked down. At the top of the stairs, the same tale of destruction showed itself. Bedroom after bedroom had been stripped of tapestries and carpets and the four poster beds looked as if someone had run his sword through and through them. Ironically enough, mine was in a better condition than any of the others. If I did not mind sleeping between covers that had been trampled on with muddy boots, I might be able to sleep the night in "comfort". I saw the bedroom of my younger brother, which was next to mine. I saw the spot where he had fallen. He had been killed during the crowd's rampage. He was more "fortunate" than the rest of my family. They had been carried off to provide sport for the people of Paris, who enjoyed watching the victims of "La Guillotine".
Needless to say, I did not sleep at all. Even if the thunder was not roaring outside, I would not have slept. Towards morning, the rain ceased. I sat in the one whole chair left in the house, brooding. What was left for me? No family, no home, no one on whom I could rely. Despair set in. I was tempted at times to end it all quickly. But at last when the sun broke through the clouds, I decided to leave. I could not stay here one minute longer. I made my way to the front door. I saw the old man standing there, looking at me. I wondered how he could live here in a hole like this. I opened the huge door, slowly. It creaked loudly on its hinges. I walked out, crossed the weed covered court and found my horse in the tumble down stable where I had left him. I rode away, black despair in my heart, casting a backward glance at the poor house and the statue of the cavalier ancestor, who stood regarding me mockingly. |