CHAPTER II.
THE RESEMBLANCE OF A PALACE TO A WOOD.
In palaces after the Italian fashion, and Corleone Lodge was one, therewere very few doors, but abundance of tapestry screens and curtaineddoorways. In every palace of that date there was a wonderful labyrinthof chambers and corridors, where luxury ran riot; gilding, marble,carved wainscoting, Eastern silks; nooks and corners, some secret anddark as night, others light and pleasant as the day. There were attics,richly and brightly furnished; burnished recesses shining with Dutchtiles and Portuguese azulejos. The tops of the high windows wereconverted into small rooms and glass attics, forming pretty habitablelanterns. The thickness of the walls was such that there were roomswithin them. Here and there were closets, nominally wardrobes. They werecalled "The Little Rooms." It was within them that evil deeds werehatched.
When a Duke of Guise had to be killed, the pretty Presidente ofSylvecane abducted, or the cries of little girls brought thither byLebel smothered, such places were convenient for the purpose. They werelabyrinthine chambers, impracticable to a stranger; scenes ofabductions; unknown depths, receptacles of mysterious disappearances. Inthose elegant caverns princes and lords stored their plunder. In such aplace the Count de Charolais hid Madame Courchamp, the wife of the Clerkof the Privy Council; Monsieur de Monthule, the daughter of Haudry, thefarmer of La Croix Saint Lenfroy; the Prince de Conti, the two beautifulbaker women of L'Ile Adam; the Duke of Buckingham, poor Pennywell, etc.The deeds done there were such as were designated by the Roman law ascommitted _vi, clam, et precario_--by force, in secret, and for a shorttime. Once in, an occupant remained there till the master of the housedecreed his or her release. They were gilded oubliettes, savouring bothof the cloister and the harem. Their staircases twisted, turned,ascended, and descended. A zigzag of rooms, one running into another,led back to the starting-point. A gallery terminated in an oratory. Aconfessional was grafted on to an alcove. Perhaps the architects of "thelittle rooms," building for royalty and aristocracy, took as models theramifications of coral beds, and the openings in a sponge. The branchesbecame a labyrinth. Pictures turning on false panels were exits andentrances. They were full of stage contrivances, and nowonder--considering the dramas that were played there! The floors ofthese hives reached from the cellars to the attics. Quaint madreporeinlaying every palace, from Versailles downwards, like cells of pygmiesin dwelling-places of Titans. Passages, niches, alcoves, and secretrecesses. All sorts of holes and corners, in which was stored away themeanness of the great.
These winding and narrow passages recalled games, blindfolded eyes,hands feeling in the dark, suppressed laughter, blind man's buff, hideand seek, while, at the same time, they suggested memories of theAtrides, of the Plantagenets, of the Medicis, the brutal knights ofEltz, of Rizzio, of Monaldeschi; of naked swords, pursuing the fugitiveflying from room to room.
The ancients, too, had mysterious retreats of the same kind, in whichluxury was adapted to enormities. The pattern has been preservedunderground in some sepulchres in Egypt, notably in the tomb of KingPsammetichus, discovered by Passalacqua. The ancient poets have recordedthe horrors of these suspicious buildings. _Error circumflexus, locusimplicitus gyris_.
Gwynplaine was in the "little rooms" of Corleone Lodge. He was burningto be off, to get outside, to see Dea again. The maze of passages andalcoves, with secret and bewildering doors, checked and retarded hisprogress. He strove to run; he was obliged to wander. He thought that hehad but one door to thrust open, while he had a skein of doors tounravel. To one room succeeded another. Then a crossway, with rooms onevery side.
Not a living creature was to be seen. He listened. Not a sound.
At times he thought that he must be returning towards hisstarting-point; then, that he saw some one approaching. It was no one.It was only the reflection of himself in a mirror, dressed as anobleman. _That_ he? Impossible! Then he recognized himself, but not atonce.
He explored every passage that he came to.
He examined the quaint arrangements of the rambling building, and theiryet quainter fittings. Here, a cabinet, painted and carved in asentimental but vicious style; there, an equivocal-looking chapel,studded with enamels and mother-of-pearl, with miniatures on ivorywrought out in relief, like those on old-fashioned snuff-boxes; there,one of those pretty Florentine retreats, adapted to the hypochondriasisof women, and even then called _boudoirs_. Everywhere--on the ceilings,on the walls, and on the very floors--were representations, in velvet orin metal, of birds, of trees; of luxuriant vegetation, picked out inreliefs of lacework; tables covered with jet carvings, representingwarriors, queens, and tritons armed with the scaly terminations of ahydra. Cut crystals combining prismatic effects with those ofreflection. Mirrors repeated the light of precious stones, and sparklesglittered in the darkest corners. It was impossible to guess whetherthose many-sided, shining surfaces, where emerald green mingled withthe golden hues of the rising sun where floated a glimmer ofever-varying colours, like those on a pigeon's neck, were miniaturemirrors or enormous beryls. Everywhere was magnificence, at once refinedand stupendous; if it was not the most diminutive of palaces, it was themost gigantic of jewel-cases. A house for Mab or a jewel for Geo.
Gwynplaine sought an exit. He could not find one. Impossible to make outhis way. There is nothing so confusing as wealth seen for the firsttime. Moreover, this was a labyrinth. At each step he was stopped bysome magnificent object which appeared to retard his exit, and to beunwilling to let him pass. He was encompassed by a net of wonders. Hefelt himself bound and held back.
What a horrible palace! he thought. Restless, he wandered through themaze, asking himself what it all meant--whether he was in prison;chafing, thirsting for the fresh air. He repeated Dea! Dea! as if thatword was the thread of the labyrinth, and must be held unbroken, toguide him out of it. Now and then he shouted, "Ho! Any one there?" Noone answered. The rooms never came to an end. All was deserted, silent,splendid, sinister. It realized the fables of enchanted castles. Hiddenpipes of hot air maintained a summer temperature in the building. It wasas if some magician had caught up the month of June and imprisoned it ina labyrinth. There were pleasant odours now and then, and he crossedcurrents of perfume, as though passing by invisible flowers. It waswarm. Carpets everywhere. One might have walked about there, unclothed.
Gwynplaine looked out of the windows. The view from each one wasdifferent. From one he beheld gardens, sparkling with the freshness of aspring morning; from another a plot decked with statues; from a third, apatio in the Spanish style, a little square, flagged, mouldy, and cold.At times he saw a river--it was the Thames; sometimes a great tower--itwas Windsor.
It was still so early that there were no signs of life without.
He stood still and listened.
"Oh! I will get out of this place," said he. "I will return to Dea! Theyshall not keep me here by force. Woe to him who bars my exit! What isthat great tower yonder? If there was a giant, a hell-hound, a minotaur,to keep the gate of this enchanted palace, I would annihilate him. Ifan army, I would exterminate it. Dea! Dea!"
Suddenly he heard a gentle noise, very faint. It was like droppingwater. He was in a dark narrow passage, closed, some few paces furtheron, by a curtain. He advanced to the curtain, pushed it aside, entered.He leaped before he looked.