Very nearly sunset when I got out of the coach, between the wheels, dead leaves fluttering in small whirlwinds.

My heart was pounding. I looked around me. I thought I saw my meeting ahead of the giant figure of Robert, but there was no more than some nitwit who looked at me with wide eyes, surprised that appearance unknown. I asked the driver and the road, counting other respects with the descriptions of Martha, I set one up.

In the low doorways of the shops were groups of people talking. Ahead of me, some walkers advancing quietly, at a slow pace. As I approached they stopped, looked at me from head to toe like a curious animal, and as soon as I turned my back, I heard behind me whispers and chuckles. I felt a chill to watch the village malevolent curiosity.

I was relieved when I saw before me rise the towers of the gate. He knew very well that door in his letters Mary called the gate of hell, because I had to go through her when she went to the city, called by his mother.

To penetrate beneath the dark vault, suddenly saw the “castle” in the middle of the archway which formed a sort of black framework.

I was just at a distance of a thousand steps. The white walls of the house, the setting sun bathed with a purple tint, arose from a group of trees of undulating foliage. The zinc roofs shone, it would have said that they fell a cascade of boiling water. The windows seemed to throw flares, and above the roof was piled a thick cloud, like a canopy formed by a whirl of black smoke.