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Chapter 7


The panel which was opposite the bed had been so
blackened by time and effaced by dust that at first he
could distinguish only confused lines and undecipherable
contours; but the while he was thinking of other things
his eyes continually wandered back to it with that
mysterious and mechanical persistence which the gaze
sometimes has. Singular details began to detach themselves
from the confused and obscure whole. His curiosity was
roused. When the attention becomes fixed it is like a
light; and the tapestry growing gradually less cloudy
finally appeared to him in its entirety, and stood out
distinctly against the sombre wall, as though vaguely

It was only a panel with a coat of arms upon it, the
blazon, no doubt, of former owners of the château; but
this blazon was a strange one.

The escutcheon was at the foot of the panel, and it was
not this that first attracted attention. It was of the bizarre
shape of German escutcheons of the fifteenth century. It
was perpendicular and rested, although rounded at the base,
upon a worn, moss covered stone. Of the two upper angles,
one bent to the left and curled back upon itself like the
turned down corner of a page of an old book; the other,
which curled upward, bore at its extremity an immense
and magnificent morion in profile, the chinpiece of which
protruded further than the visor, making the helm
look like a horrible head of a fish. The crest was
formed of two great spreading wings of an eagle, one
black, the other red, and amid the feathers of these wings
were the membranous, twisted and almost living branches
of a huge seaweed which bore more resemblance to a
polypus than to a plume. From the middle of the plume
rose a buckled strap, which reached to the angle of a rough
wooden pitchfork, the handle of which was stuck in the
ground, and from there descended to a hand, which held it.

To the left of the escutcheon was the figure of a woman,
standing. It was an enchanting vision. She was tall and
slim, and wore a robe of brocade which fell in ample folds
about her feet, a ruff of many pleats and a necklace of
large gems. On her head was an enormous and superb turban
of blond hair on which rested a crown of filigree that
was not round, and that followed all the undulations of the
hair. The face, although somewhat too round and large,
was exquisite. The eyes were those of an angel, the mouth
was that of a virgin; but in those heavenly eyes there was
a terrestrial look and on that virginal mouth was the smile
of a woman. In that place, at that hour, on that tapestry,
this mingling of divine ecstasy and human voluptuousness
had something at once charming and awful about it.

Behind the woman, bending towards her as though whispering
in her ear, appeared a man.

Was he a man? All that could be seen of his body--legs,
arms and chest--was as hairy as the skin of an ape;
his hands and feet were crooked, like the claws of a tiger.
As to his visage, nothing more fantastic and frightful could
be imagined. Amid a thick, bristling beard, a nose like an
owl's beak and a mouth whose corners were drawn by a
wild-beast-like rictus were just discernible. The eyes
were half hidden by his thick, bushy, curly hair. Each
curl ended in a spiral, pointed and twisted like a gimlet,
and on peering at them closely it could be seen that each
of these gimlets was a little viper.

The man was smiling at the woman. It was disquieting
and sinister, the contact of these two equally chimerical
beings, the one almost an angel, the other almost a monster;
a revolting clash of the two extremes of the ideal. The
man held the pitchfork, the woman grasped the strap with
her delicate pink fingers.

As to the escutcheon itself, it was sable, that is to say,
black, and in the middle of it appeared, with the vague
whiteness of silver, a fleshless, deformed thing, which, like
the rest, at length became distinct. It was a death's head.
The nose was lacking, the orbits of the eyes were hollow
and deep, the cavity of the ear could be seen on the right
side, all the seams of the cranium could be traced, and
there only remained two teeth in the jaws.

But this black escutcheon, this livid death's head,
designed with such minuteness of detail that it seemed to
stand out from the tapestry, was less lugubrious than the
two personages who held up the hideous blazon and who
seemed to be whispering to each other in the shadow.

At the bottom of the panel in a corner was the date:

Victor Hugo