"You don't know the castle. Pen "Fun" Pavilion www.biquge.info" the innkeeper said quietly.

"Of course," replied Ivar, "one should not judge too prematurely. All I know at the moment is that they know how to select a good land surveyor. Maybe there's something else to draw on. As he spoke, he stood up trying to get rid of the innkeeper in front of him, for the guy was biting his lip uncertainly. It is not easy to earn his trust.

Ivar was about to walk out when he saw a swarthy portrait in a dull frame on the wall. He had already looked at it when he slept on the bunk near the hearth, but when he looked at it from such a distance, he couldn't see what it was, and he thought it was an ordinary bottom plate nailed to a wooden frame. But now it became clear that it was a painting, a bust of a man in his fifties. His head was so low that he could barely see his eyes, and his forehead was so high and thick that he couldn't lift his head. Because of this posture, his full beard was suppressed by his chin, and he was still falling down. His left hand was hidden in his thick hair, but it seemed like he couldn't hold it up.

"Who is he?" Ivar asked, "Is it the Count?" He stood in front of the portrait and turned towards the innkeeper.

"No," said the innkeeper, "he's a castle keeper." ”

"What a beautiful castle keeper," said Ivar, "but it is a pity that he gave birth to an uneducated son." ”

"No, no," said the innkeeper, drawing Ivar closer and whispering to his ear, "Cyril was bragging yesterday, and his father was no more than a vice-guard, and the lowest-ranking one. At this point, Ivar felt that the innkeeper was like a child.

"This scoundrel!" Ivar said with a smile. But the innkeeper didn't laugh, and he continued: "But just talk about his father, and his power is not small." ”

"Stand up for me," said Ivar, "and you think everyone is powerful, and I may be powerful, right?" ”

"No," he replied timid but serious, "I don't think you have power. ”

"You've got great eyes," said Ivar, "and to be honest, I'm not really a powerful man. So I don't think I respect the powerful as much as you do, it's just that I'm not as honest as you are, and I don't often want to admit it. With that, Ivar patted him lightly on the cheek, in order to cheer him up and arouse his friendship. This actually made him smile slightly. He was still very young, with a very tender face, and barely a beard; How could he marry a wife who was so big and older than him? From a small window, she could be seen bare on her elbows in the kitchen. Ivar didn't want to earn his trust any longer, and he didn't want to scare away the smile he had so easily made at the end. So he made a mere gesture to him to open the door, and stepped into the clear morning.

Now he could see the castle. In the bright and shining sky, it appears to be well-defined, and when the sun shines on it, it appears even clearer. In the mountains, everything seems so light. So comfortably flying in the air, or at least, it looks so from below.

In general, the vision of this castle was expected by Ivar. It is neither an ancient fortress nor a novel edifice, but a jumble of buildings consisting of countless small buildings tightly packed together, some of which are one-story and two-storey. If Ivar didn't know it was a castle, he might have thought of it as a small town. As far as he could see, there was only one tower, and he was not sure whether it belonged to a house or a church. At this time, flocks of crows were flying around the tower.

Ivar walked forward, staring at the castle, but he didn't think about anything. But when he approached the castle, he could not help but be disappointed; It turned out to be nothing more than a cold-shaped castle, a messy collection of medieval buildings, and if there was anything to be praised, the only advantage was that they were all stone, but the plaster had long since peeled away, and the stone seemed to be weathering and eroding. Suddenly, Ivar remembered the villages and towns of his native Russia. It was no less than this so-called castle, and if the problem was only to go up here for sightseeing, then it would be too worthwhile to travel so far, and it would be better to revisit his hometown, which he had not been back to see for a long time. So he mentally compared the bell tower of the church in his hometown with the tower above him. The bell tower in my hometown stands tall and tall. Soaring from the bottom to the top, with a wide roof covered with red tiles, it is a masterpiece on earth - what other building can one make? Moreover, it has a higher purpose than ordinary housing and a clearer meaning than the hustle and bustle of everyday life. And the tower above him—the only tower that could be seen—now appeared to be clearly a dwelling, or a tower of the main building, round from top to bottom, partly covered with ivy, and small windows, peeking out of the ivy, glittering in the sunlight, a flash of madness. The top of the tower was covered with something like an attic, and the castle walls above were uneven, intermittent and very ugly, as if it had been designed by the trembling or careless hands of a child, and it appeared to be clearly defined against the blue sky. Like a man suffering from melancholy, who was supposed to lock him in the highest room of the house, only to emerge from the roof and stand tall for the world to look at him.

It is said that the French Emperor Napoleon IV was at the banquet at the famous Versailles Palace Lin Yiqing, and Queen Victoria also wanted to entertain Lin Yiqing at Buckingham Palace. Earl Rothchild would have been very disappointed to entertain him in such a place, right?

And he is going to make this place disappear forever - with Lin Yiqing, the hateful devil of the East, and the Jewish Rothschild, who is hated by His Majesty the Tsar of the Russian Empire!

When Prince Bertie arrived at the racecourse, the boulevard was almost empty. The horse race had already begun, for the kind of chariots that should have been there were gone, and only a few carriages were left scattered, with their hooves whistled, hurrying over, as if to regain the lost time. The coachman turned from the groom's seat and asked Bertie if he should run. Bertie told him to keep the horse steady, because Late Wood was late Bertie didn't care. When it was really important to get there on time, Bertie watched too many horse races, and too often saw people participating in horse races. Besides, feeling the gentle blowing of the blue air in the slight jolt of the carriage, and the more tranquil view of the beautiful, leafy chestnut trees, like watching the sea from the deck of a ship, is more suited to Bertie's lazy mood. Sometimes, the chestnut tree throws a few petals to amuse the warm and pleasant wind, which gently lifts the petals, swirls them, and then lets them fall on the boulevard with a white light. It's really comfortable to sway with the car like this, close your eyes and enjoy spring, drifting like wings, and not feeling a little nervous. When the car stopped at the entrance of Jolly, Bertie was really sorry. It would be nice if Bertie had had time to regret it and go down with the bumps in the car, avoiding the warm days of early summer. However, it was too late, and the carriage had already stopped in front of the arena. A faint commotion came over Bertie. The sound came from the side of the rising stands, as low and deep as the echo of the sea. The crowd made a noise that rolled like a ball, and Bertie didn't bother to look at them, and couldn't help but think of Justend. In that remote city, when people go up from the remote alleys to the esplanade, the vast sea rumbles and splashes with dim foam, and before they can draw their eyes, they can already feel the salty sea breeze whistling vigorously overhead, and they can already hear a low rumbling sound. A game must be going on. But in the middle of the meadow from Bertie's to the horse's gallop now, there was a smoke that swayed like an inner impact, full of colour and rumbling: it was crowds of spectators and gamblers. Bertie couldn't see the track, but he could see the race from the hot reaction. The riders must have set out and dispersed from the crowd, and a few were vying for first place, for shouts and shouts of excitement were drifting through the crowd: Bertie could not see the running, but heard the people shouting and screaming. From the direction in which the head turned, Bertie guessed that the rider and the horse must have now reached the top of the oval meadow, and were turning back, for the whole chaotic crowd was moving towards an invisible focus of Bertie, more and more unified, more and more unified, like sharing an extended neck. And from this open throat, with a thousand crushed individual voices, buzzing, rumbling, merging into a splashing wave, higher and higher waves. This wild wave was rising, drumming, and had filled the entire space, up to the indifferent blue sky. Bertie stared at the faces of several men: writhing like cramps inside, eyes stunned and shining, lips clenched, jaws cocked greedily, noses fluttering like horses. Soberly observing these forgetful intoxicating people, Bertie felt funny and horrible. A man stood in an armchair next to Bertie, well-dressed and with a face that should have been handsome, but now he was mad and captivated by the invisible demon. He raised his staff and swung it at the empty sky, like a whip to drive something forward. His whole body, which made others laugh indescribably, followed with a galloping motion. His heels were like stepping on a horse, and he kept falling together on the armchair, and his right hand used his cane as a whip and waved it into the air again and again, while his left hand trembled and shouted a white lottery ticket. The white lottery ticket shook more and more rapidly, like a foam fire extinguisher, spraying on the tide that was surging and vaguely rushing. Now, there must have been a few horses huddled around the bend, for the rumble suddenly gathered into the shouting of two, three, four of each other's names, and like a cry of slaughter, a bunch of people in distress shouted and roared. This burst of shouts was like pulling the valve of the demon.

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