by the rhythmic sound of the good father's jaws. Stephane leaned
his elbows on the table; his attitude expressive of dreamy
melancholy; his head inclined and leaning against the palm of his
right hand; his black tunic without any collar exposing a neck of
perfect whiteness; his long silky hair falling softly upon his
shoulders; the pure and delicate contour of his handsome face; his
sensitive mouth, the corners curving slightly upwards, all reminded
Gilbert of the portrait of Raphael painted by himself, all, except
the expression, which was very different.

A profound melancholy filled Gilbert's heart. Nothing about him
commanded his sympathies, nothing promised any companionship for
his soul; at his left the stern face of a drowsy tyrant, made more
sinister by sleep; opposite him a young misanthrope, for the moment
lost in clouds; at his right an old epicure who consoled himself
for everything by eating figs; above his head the dragons of the
Apocalypse. And then this great vaulted hall was cold, sepulchral;
he felt as though he were breathing the air of a cellar; the
recesses and the corners of the room were obscured by black
shadows; the dark wainscotings which covered the walls had a
lugubrious aspect; outside were heard ominous noises. A gale of
wind had risen and uttered long bellowings like a wounded bull, to
which the grating of weathercocks and the dismal cry of the owls
responded.

When Gilbert had re-entered his own room he opened the window that
he might better hear the majestic roll of the river. At the same
moment a voice, carried by the wind from the great square tower,
cried to him: