Lifting aside the heavy tapestry that hung down in front of the window of the tourelle which formed an angle of the room—a window from which the Bastille might be seen frowning over the Quartier St. Antoine, a third of a mile away—the man shrugged his shoulders, uttered a peevish exclamation, and muttered, next:
"Snow! Snow! Snow! Always snow! Curse the snow!" Then he turned back into the room, letting the curtain fall behind him, and seated himself once more in a heavy fauteuil opposite the great fireplace, up the chimney of which the logs roared in a cheerful blaze.