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other emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows,
hastily brought in and tethered to anything that would hold them,
were looking stupidly on, or lying down chewing the cud of
nothing particularly repaying their trouble, which they had picked
up in their interrupted saunter. Some of the people of the chateau,
and some of those of the posting-house, and all the taxing
authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded on the
other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was highly
fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated
into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was
smiting himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this
portend, and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur
Gabelle behind a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of
the said Gabelle (double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop,
like a new version of the German ballad of Leonora? It portended
that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.

The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had
added the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had
waited through about two hundred years.

It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home
into the heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round
its hilt was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:
“Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from JACQUES.”
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