Ch. 3 - Avignon to Genoa

Goblin, having shown les oubliettes, felt that her great coup was
struck. She let the door fall with a crash, and stood upon it with
her arms a-kimbo, sniffing prodigiously.

When we left the place, I accompanied her into her house, under the
outer gateway of the fortress, to buy a little history of the
building. Her cabaret, a dark, low room, lighted by small windows,
sunk in the thick wall--in the softened light, and with its forge-
like chimney; its little counter by the door, with bottles, jars,
and glasses on it; its household implements and scraps of dress
against the wall; and a sober-looking woman (she must have a
congenial life of it, with Goblin,) knitting at the door--looked
exactly like a picture by OSTADE.

I walked round the building on the outside, in a sort of dream, and
yet with the delightful sense of having awakened from it, of which
the light, down in the vaults, had given me the assurance. The
immense thickness and giddy height of the walls, the enormous
strength of the massive towers, the great extent of the building,
its gigantic proportions, frowning aspect, and barbarous
irregularity, awaken awe and wonder. The recollection of its
opposite old uses: an impregnable fortress, a luxurious palace, a
horrible prison, a place of torture, the court of the Inquisition:
at one and the same time, a house of feasting, fighting, religion,
and blood: gives to every stone in its huge form a fearful
interest, and imparts new meaning to its incongruities. I could
think of little, however, then, or long afterwards, but the sun in
the dungeons. The palace coming down to be the lounging-place of
noisy soldiers, and being forced to echo their rough talk, and
common oaths, and to have their garments fluttering from its dirty
windows, was some reduction of its state, and something to rejoice
at; but the day in its cells, and the sky for the roof of its
chambers of cruelty--that was its desolation and defeat! If I had
seen it in a blaze from ditch to rampart, I should have felt that
not that light, nor all the light in all the fire that burns, could
waste it, like the sunbeams in its secret council-chamber, and its
prisons.

Before I quit this Palace of the Popes, let me translate from the
little history I mentioned just now, a short anecdote, quite
appropriate to itself, connected with its adventures.

'An ancient tradition relates, that in 1441, a nephew of Pierre de
Lude, the Pope's legate, seriously insulted some distinguished
ladies of Avignon, whose relations, in revenge, seized the young
man, and horribly mutilated him. For several years the legate kept
HIS revenge within his own breast, but he was not the less resolved
upon its gratification at last. He even made, in