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He examined the quaint arrangements of the rambling building, and their
yet quainter fittings. Here, a cabinet, painted and carved in a
sentimental but vicious style; there, an equivocal-looking chapel,
studded with enamels and mother-of-pearl, with miniatures on ivory
wrought out in relief, like those on old-fashioned snuff-boxes; there,
one of those pretty Florentine retreats, adapted to the hypochondriasis
of women, and even then called boudoirs. Everywhere--on the ceilings,
on the walls, and on the very floors--were representations, in velvet or
in metal, of birds, of trees; of luxuriant vegetation, picked out in
reliefs of lacework; tables covered with jet carvings, representing
warriors, queens, and tritons armed with the scaly terminations of a
hydra. Cut crystals combining prismatic effects with those of
reflection. Mirrors repeated the light of precious stones, and sparkles
glittered in the darkest corners. It was impossible to guess whether
those many-sided, shining surfaces, where emerald green mingled with
the golden hues of the rising sun where floated a glimmer of
ever-varying colours, like those on a pigeon's neck, were miniature
mirrors or enormous beryls. Everywhere was magnificence, at once refined
and stupendous; if it was not the most diminutive of palaces, it was the
most gigantic of jewel-cases. A house for Mab or a jewel for Geo.
Gwynplaine sought an exit. He could not find one. Impossible to make out
his way. There is nothing so confusing as wealth seen for the first
time. Moreover, this was a labyrinth. At each step he was stopped by
some magnificent object which appeared to retard his exit, and to be
unwilling to let him pass. He was encompassed by a net of wonders. He
felt himself bound and held back.
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