The lamp burned dimly in the damp heavy air, the wind sighed
and moaned along the corridors, and strange, frightful sounds came
from the deserted chambers close at hand. The storm that had long been
threatening had come at last, and large, heavy rain-drops were driven
violently against the window-panes by gusts of wind that made them
rattle loudly in their leaden frames. Sometimes it seemed as if the
whole sash would give way before the fiercer blasts, as though a giant
had set his knee against it, and was striving to force an entrance. Now
and again, when the wind lulled for a moment while it gathered strength
for a fresh assault, the horrid shriek of an owl would be heard above
the dashing of the rain that was falling in torrents.
The master of this dismal mansion paid little attention to this
lugubrious symphony, but Beelzebub was very uneasy, starting up at every
sound, and peering into the shadowy corners of the room, as if he could
see there something invisible to human eyes. The baron took up a little
book that was lying upon the table, glanced at the familiar arms stamped
upon its tarnished cover, and opening it, began to read in a listless,
absent way. His eyes followed the smooth rhythm of Ronsard's ardent
love-songs and stately sonnets, but his thoughts were wandering far
afield, and he soon threw the book from him with an impatient gesture,
and began slowly unfastening his garments, with the air of a man who is
not sleepy, but only goes to bed because he does not know what else to
do with himself, and has perhaps a faint hope of forgetting his troubles
in the embrace of Morpheus, most blessed of all the gods.
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