Only the evening before, he had thought himself the most unfortunate of
men.

But here was another misfortune menacing him; a misfortune so terrible
that all the others were forgotten.

From the day on which he had purchased Sairmeuse to this fatal Sunday in
August, 1815, was an interval of twenty years.

Twenty years! And it seemed to him only yesterday that, blushing and
trembling, he had laid those piles of louis d'or upon the desk of the
receiver of the district.

Had he dreamed it?

He had not dreamed it. His entire life, with its struggles and its
miseries, its hopes and its fears, its unexpected joys and its blighted
hopes, all passed before him.

Lost in these memories, he had quite forgotten the present situation,
when a commonplace incident, more powerful than the voice of his
daughter, brought him back to the terrible reality. The gate leading to
the Chateau de Sairmeuse, to _his_ chateau, was found to be locked.

He shook it with a sort of rage; and, being unable to break the
fastening, he found some relief in breaking the bell.

On hearing the noise, the gardener came running to the scene of action.