His days were spent thus: early in the
morning he went to say a short prayer in the half-ruined chapel where
his ancestors lay, ere he repaired to the kitchen where his simple
breakfast awaited him; that disposed of, he and old Pierre fetched their
swords, and fought their friendly duels; after which he mounted Bayard,
or the pony he had brought home with him, and went off for long,
solitary rides over the desolate Landes. Returning late in the afternoon
he sat, sad and silent as of old, until his frugal supper was prepared,
partook of it, also in silence, and then retired to his lonely chamber,
where he tried to read some musty old volume which he knew by heart
already, or else flung himself on his bed--never without kissing the
sacred pillow that had supported Isabelle's beloved head--and lay there
a prey to mournful and bitter meditations, until at last he could forget
his troubles and grief in sleep. There was not a vestige left of the
brilliant Captain Fracasse, nor of the high-spirited rival of the
haughty Duke of Vallombreuse; the unfortunate young Baron de Sigognac
had relapsed entirely into the sad-eyed, dejected master of Castle
Misery.
One morning he sauntered listlessly down into the garden, which was
wilder and more overgrown than ever--a tangled mass of weeds and
brambles.
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