The fine
old tapestry in de Sigognac's own room had been minutely copied, down to
the smallest detail, and the hangings of the bed were of green and white
brocade, in precisely the same delicate tint and graceful pattern as the
old.
Isabelle, with her innate delicacy and perfect taste, had not aimed
at producing a sensation, by any overwhelming magnificence or dazzling
splendour in renovating the intrinsically fine old Chateau de Sigognac,
but had simply wished to gratify and delight the heart of her
husband, so tenderly loved, in giving back to him the impressions and
surroundings of his childhood and youth, robbed of their misery and
sadness. All was bright and gay now in this lordly mansion, erst so
dreary and melancholy; even the sombre old family portraits, cleansed,
retouched and revarnished by skilful hands, smiled down upon them, as
if pleased with the new order of things; especially their own handsome,
richly gilt frames.
After looking through the interior of the chateau, de Sigognac and
Isabelle went out into the court, where no weeds or nettles were to be
seen, no grass growing up between the paving stones, no heaps of rubbish
in the corners, and through the clear glass panes of the numerous
windows looking into it were visible the folds of the rich curtains in
the chambers that were formerly the favourite haunt of owls and bats.
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