The beams
of the ceiling (you can touch them), are rotten from age; the
whitewashed walls show their lattice-work and are covered with big
spots; the window-panes are obscured by cobwebs and their frames are
buried in dust. This used to be Chateaubriand's room. It faces the West,
towards the setting sun.
We continued; when we passed in front of a window or a loop-hole, we
warmed ourselves in the warm air coming from without, and this sudden
transition rendered the ruins all the more melancholy and cheerless. The
floors of the apartments are rotting away, and daylight enters through
the fireplaces along the blackened slab where rain has left long green
streaks. The golden flowers on the drawing-room ceiling are falling off,
and the shield that surmounts the mantelpiece is broken into bits. While
we were looking around, a flight of birds entered, flew around for a few
minutes and passed out through the chimney.
In the evening, we went to the lake. The meadow has encroached upon it
and will soon cover it entirely, and wheat will grow in the place of
pond-lilies. Night was falling. The castle, flanked by its four turrets
and framed by masses of green foliage, cast a dark shadow over the
village.
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