In a moment a few gleams of sunlight struggled through a rift in the
clouds, and a shower of colored light fell over the wild garden. The
brown tiles of the roof glowed in the light, the mosses took bright
hues, strange shadows played over the grass beneath the trees; the
dead autumn tints grew vivid, bright unexpected contrasts were evoked
by the light, every leaf stood out sharply in the clear, thin air.
Then all at once the sunlight died away, and the landscape that seemed
to have spoken grew silent and gloomy again, or rather, it took gray
soft tones like the tenderest hues of autumn dusk.

"It is the palace of the Sleeping Beauty," the Councillor said to
himself (he had already begun to look at the place from the point of
view of an owner of property). "Whom can the place belong to, I
wonder. He must be a great fool not to live on such a charming little
estate!"

Just at that moment, a woman sprang out from under a walnut tree on
the right-hand side of the gateway, and passed before the Councillor
as noiselessly and swiftly as the shadow of a cloud. This apparition
struck him dumb with amazement.

"Hallo, d'Albon, what is the matter?" asked the Colonel.

"I am rubbing my eyes to find out whether I am awake or asleep,"
answered the magistrate, whose countenance was pressed against the
grating in the hope of catching a second glimpse of the ghost.

"In all probability she is under that fig-tree," he went on,
indicating, for Philip's benefit, some branches that over-topped the