"Gloomy indeed," replied the Countess.
"Ah, my ladies, (cried their host, who was attending them, an old grey-headed man), I remember the time (with a melancholy shake of his head) when that castle, notwithstanding its situation in the forest, was neither sad nor gloomy, but one of the gayest mansions in France."
"And what occasioned an alteration in it?" said Madeline, after waiting a minute to try if the Countess would ask the question.
"Death, my Lady,—death, that pays no regard to rank or riches. The Count de Montmorenci, (continued the old man, advancing a few steps nearer to Madeline), the lord of that castle, had an only son, one of the finest youths perhaps that ever was seen,—the admiration of the rich, the comfort of the poor, the pride and darling of his parents; this beloved son was murdered about seventeen years ago upon the Alps, and ever since that period the Count has never held up his head. To complete his misery, the Countess, on whom he doted, died in two days
