"
"And the dress, M'sieur Philip!" exclaimed D'Arcambal behind them,
in the voice of a happy boy. "It is an honor to escort that, to
say nothing of the silly girl that's in it. That dress, sir,
belonged to a beautiful lady who was called Camille, and who died
over a century ago."
"Father, please do be good!" protested Jeanne. "Remember!"
"Ah, so I will," said her father. "I had forgotten that you were
to tell M'sieur Philip these things."
They entered another room illuminated by a single huge lamp
suspended above a table spread with silver and fine linen. The
room was as great a surprise as the other two had been. It
contained no chairs. What Philip mentally designated as benches,
with deep cushion seats of greenish leather, were arranged about
the table. These same curious seats furnished other parts of the
room. From the pictures on the walls to the ancient helmet and
cuirass that stood up like a legless sentinel in one corner, this
room, like the others, breathed of extreme age. Over a big open
fireplace, in which half a dozen birch logs were burning, hung a
number of old-fashioned weapons; a flintlock, a pair of obsolete
French dueling pistols, a short rapier similar to that which
Pierre wore, and two long swords.
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