The Room in the Dragon Volant by J. Sheridan LeFanu (page 2)

Chapter XI

THE DRAGON VOLANT

I took one look about me.

The building was picturesque; the trees made it more so. The antique and sequestered character of the scene contrasted strangely with the glare and bustle of the Parisian life, to which my eye and ear had become accustomed.

Then I examined the gorgeous old sign for a minute or two. Next I surveyed the exterior of the house more carefully. It was large and solid, and squared more with my ideas of an ancient English hostelrie, such as the Canterbury Pilgrims might have put up at, than a French house of entertainment. Except, indeed, for a round turret, that rose at the left flank of the house, and terminated in the extinguisher-shaped roof that suggests a French chateau.

I entered and announced myself as Monsieur Beckett, for whom a room had been taken. I was received with all the consideration due to an English milord, with, of course, an unfathomable purse.

My host conducted me to my apartment. It was a large room, a little somber, paneled with dark wainscoting, and furnished in a stately and somber style, long out of date. There was a wide hearth, and a heavy mantelpiece, carved with shields, in which I might, had I been curious enough, have discovered a correspondence with the heraldry on the outer walls. There was something interesting, melancholy, and even depressing in all this. I went to the stone-shafted window, and looked out upon a small park, with a thick wood, forming the background of a chateau which presented a cluster of such conical-topped turrets as I have just now mentioned.

The wood and chateau were melancholy objects. They showed signs of neglect, and almost of decay; and the gloom of fallen grandeur, and a certain air of desertion hung oppressively over the scene.

I asked my host the name of the chateau.

“That, Monsieur, is the Chateau de la Carque,” he answered.

“It is a pity it is so neglected,” I observed. “I should say, perhaps, a pity that its proprietor is not more wealthy?”

“Perhaps so, Monsieur.”

“_Perhaps_?” I repeated, and looked at him. “Then I suppose he is not very popular.”

“Neither one thing nor the other, Monsieur,” he answered; “I meant only that we could not tell what use he might make of riches.”

“And who is he?” I inquired.

“The Count de St. Alyre.”

“Oh! The Count! You are quite sure?” I asked, very eagerly.

It was now the innkeeper’s turn to look at me.

“_Quite_ sure, Monsieur, the Count de St. Alyre.”

“Do you see much of him in this part of the world?”

“Not a great deal, Monsieur; he is often absent for a considerable time.”

“And is he poor?” I inquired.

“I pay rent to him for this house. It is not much; but I find he cannot wait long for it,” he replied, smiling satirically.

“From what I have heard, however, I should think he cannot be very poor?” I continued.

“They say, Monsieur, he plays. I know not. He certainly is not rich. About seven months ago, a relation of his died in a distant place. His body was sent to the Count’s house here, and by him buried in Pere la Chaise, as the poor gentleman had desired. The Count was in profound affliction; although he got a handsome legacy, they say, by that death. But money never seems to do him good for any time.”

“He is old, I believe?”

“Old? We call him the ‘Wandering Jew,’ except, indeed, that he has not always the five _sous_ in his pocket. Yet, Monsieur, his courage does not fail him. He has taken a young and handsome wife.”

“And she?” I urged–

“Is the Countess de St. Alyre.”

“Yes; but I fancy we may say something more? She has attributes?”

“Three, Monsieur, three, at least most amiable.”

“Ah! And what are they?”

“Youth, beauty, and–diamonds.”

I laughed. The sly old gentleman was foiling my curiosity.

“I see, my friend,” said I, “you are reluctant–“

“To quarrel with the Count,” he concluded. “True. You see, Monsieur, he could vex me in two or three ways, so could I him. But, on the whole, it is better each to mind his business, and to maintain peaceful relations; you understand.”

It was, therefore, no use trying, at least for the present. Perhaps he had nothing to relate. Should I think differently, by-and-by, I could try the effect of a few Napoleons. Possibly he meant to extract them.

The host of the Dragon Volant was an elderly man, thin, bronzed, intelligent, and with an air of decision, perfectly military. I learned afterwards that he had served under Napoleon in his early Italian campaigns.

“One question, I think you may answer,” I said, “without risking a quarrel. Is the Count at home?”

“He has many homes, I conjecture,” said the host evasively. “But–but I think I may say, Monsieur, that he is, I believe, at present staying at the Chateau de la Carque.”

I looked out of the window, more interested than ever, across the undulating grounds to the chateau, with its gloomy background of foliage.

“I saw him today, in his carriage at Versailles,” I said.

“Very natural.”

“Then his carriage, and horses, and servants, are at the chateau?”

“The carriage he puts up here, Monsieur, and the servants are hired for the occasion. There is but one who sleeps at the chateau. Such a life must be terrifying for Madame the Countess,” he replied.

“The old screw!” I thought. “By this torture, he hopes to extract her diamonds. What a life! What fiends to contend with–jealousy and extortion!”

The knight having made his speech to himself, cast his eyes once more upon the enchanter’s castle, and heaved a gentle sigh–a sigh of longing, of resolution, and of love.

What a fool I was! And yet, in the sight of angels, are we any wiser as we grow older? It seems to me, only, that our illusions change as we go on; but, still, we are madmen all the same.

“Well, St. Clair,” said I, as my servant entered, and began to arrange my things.

“You have got a bed?”

“In the cock-loft, Monsieur, among the spiders, and, _par ma foi_! the cats and the owls. But we agree very well. _Vive la bagatelle_!”

“I had no idea it was so full.”

“Chiefly the servants, Monsieur, of those persons who were fortunate enough to get apartments at Versailles.”

“And what do you think of the Dragon Volant?”

“The Dragon Volant! Monsieur; the old fiery dragon! The devil himself, if all is true! On the faith of a Christian, Monsieur, they say that diabolical miracles have taken place in this house.”

“What do you mean? _Revenants_?”

“Not at all, sir; I wish it was no worse. _Revenants_? No! People who have never returned–who vanished, before the eyes of half-a-dozen men all looking at them.”

“What do you mean, St. Clair? Let us hear the story, or miracle, or whatever it is.”

“It is only this, Monsieur, that an ex-master-of-the-horse of the late king, who lost his head–Monsieur will have the goodness to recollect, in the revolution–being permitted by the Emperor to return to France, lived here in this hotel, for a month, and at the end of that time vanished, visibly, as I told you, before the faces of half-a-dozen credible witnesses! The other was a Russian nobleman, six feet high and upwards, who, standing in the center of the room, downstairs, describing to seven gentlemen of unquestionable veracity the last moments of Peter the Great, and having a glass of _eau de vie_ in his left hand, and his _tasse de cafe,_ nearly finished, in his right, in like manner vanished. His boots were found on the floor where he had been standing; and the gentleman at his right found, to his astonishment, his cup of coffee in his fingers, and the gentleman at his left, his glass of _eau de vie_–“

“Which he swallowed in his confusion,” I suggested.

“Which was preserved for three years among the curious articles of this house, and was broken by the _cure_ while conversing with Mademoiselle Fidone in the housekeeper’s room; but of the Russian nobleman himself, nothing more was ever seen or heard. _Parbleu_! when _we_ go out of the Dragon Volant, I hope it may be by the door. I heard all this, Monsieur, from the postilion who drove us.”

“Then it _must_ be true!” said I, jocularly: but I was beginning to feel the gloom of the view, and of the chamber in which I stood; there had stolen over me, I know not how, a presentiment of evil; and my joke was with an effort, and my spirit flagged.

Chapter XII

THE MAGICIAN

No more brilliant spectacle than this masked ball could be imagined. Among other _salons_ and galleries, thrown open, was the enormous Perspective of the “Grande Galerie des Glaces,” lighted up on that occasion with no less than four thousand wax candles, reflected and repeated by all the mirrors, so that the effect was almost dazzling. The grand suite of _salons_ was thronged with masques, in every conceivable costume. There was not a single room deserted. Everyplace was animated with music voices, brilliant colors, flashing jewels, the hilarity of extemporized comedy, and all the spirited incidents of a cleverly sustained masquerade. I had never seen before anything in the least comparable to this magnificent _fete._ I moved along, indolently, in my domino and mask, loitering, now and then, to enjoy a clever dialogue, a farcical song, or an amusing monologue, but, at the same time, keeping my eyes about me, lest my friend in the black domino, with the little white cross on his breast, should pass me by.

I had delayed and looked about me, specially, at every door I passed, as the Marquis and I had agreed; but he had not yet appeared.

While I was thus employed, in the very luxury of lazy amusement, I saw a gilded sedan chair, or, rather, a Chinese palanquin, exhibiting the fantastic exuberance of “Celestial” decoration, borne forward on gilded poles by four richly-dressed Chinese; one with a wand in his hand marched in front, and another behind; and a slight and solemn man, with a long black beard, a tall fez, such as a dervish is represented as wearing, walked close to its side. A strangely-embroidered robe fell over his shoulders, covered with hieroglyphic symbols; the embroidery was in black and gold, upon a variegated ground of brilliant colors. The robe was bound about his waist with a broad belt of gold, with cabalistic devices traced on it in dark red and black; red stockings, and shoes embroidered with gold, and pointed and curved upward at the toes, in Oriental fashion, appeared below the skirt of the robe. The man’s face was dark, fixed, and solemn, and his eyebrows black, and enormously heavy–he carried a singular-looking book under his arm, a wand of polished black wood in his other hand, and walked with his chin sunk on his breast, and his eyes fixed upon the floor. The man in front waved his wand right and left to clear the way for the advancing palanquin, the curtains of which were closed; and there was something so singular, strange and solemn about the whole thing, that I felt at once interested.

I was very well pleased when I saw the bearers set down their burthen within a few yards of the spot on which I stood.

The bearers and the men with the gilded wands forthwith clapped their hands, and in silence danced round the palanquin a curious and half-frantic dance, which was yet, as to figures and postures, perfectly methodical. This was soon accompanied by a clapping of hands and a ha-ha-ing, rhythmically delivered.

While the dance was going on a hand was lightly laid on my arm, and, looking round, a black domino with a white cross stood beside me.

“I am so glad I have found you,” said the Marquis; “and at this moment. This is the best group in the rooms. _You_ must speak to the wizard. About an hour ago I lighted upon them, in another _salon,_ and consulted the oracle by putting questions. I never was more amazed. Although his answers were a little disguised it was soon perfectly plain that he knew every detail about the business, which no one on earth had heard of but myself, and two or three other men, about the most cautious Persons in France. I shall never forget that shock. I saw other people who consulted him, evidently as much surprised and more frightened than I. I came with the Count de St. Alyre and the Countess.”

He nodded toward a thin figure, also in a domino. It was the Count.

“Come,” he said to me, “I’ll introduce you.”

I followed, you may suppose, readily enough.

The Marquis presented me, with a very prettily-turned allusion to my fortunate intervention in his favor at the Belle Etoile; and the Count overwhelmed me with polite speeches, and ended by saying, what pleased me better still:

“The Countess is near us, in the next salon but one, chatting with her old friend the Duchesse d’Argensaque; I shall go for her in a few minutes; and when I bring her here, she shall make your acquaintance; and thank you, also, for your assistance, rendered with so much courage when we were so very disagreeably interrupted.”

“You must, positively, speak with the magician,” said the Marquis to the Count de St. Alyre, “you will be so much amused. _I_ did so; and, I assure you, I could not have anticipated such answers! I don’t know what to believe.”

“Really! Then, by all means, let us try,” he replied.

We three approached, together, the side of the palanquin, at which the black-bearded magician stood.

A young man, in a Spanish dress, who, with a friend at his side, had just conferred with the conjuror, was saying, as he passed us by:

“Ingenious mystification! Who is that in the palanquin? He seems to know everybody!”

The Count, in his mask and domino, moved along, stiffly, with us, toward the palanquin. A clear circle was maintained by the Chinese attendants, and the spectators crowded round in a ring.

One of these men–he who with a gilded wand had preceded the procession–advanced, extending his empty hand, palm upward.

“Money?” inquired the Count.

“Gold,” replied the usher.

The Count placed a piece of money in his hand; and I and the Marquis were each called on in turn to do likewise as we entered the circle. We paid accordingly.

The conjuror stood beside the palanquin, its silk curtain in his hand; his chin sunk, with its long, jet-black beard, on his chest; the outer hand grasping the black wand, on which he leaned; his eyes were lowered, as before, to the ground; his face looked absolutely lifeless. Indeed, I never saw face or figure so moveless, except in death. The first question the Count put, was: “Am I married, or unmarried?”

The conjuror drew back the curtain quickly, and placed his ear toward a richly-dressed Chinese, who sat in the litter; withdrew his head, and closed the curtain again; and then answered: “Yes.”

The same preliminary was observed each time, so that the man with the black wand presented himself, not as a prophet, but as a medium; and answered, as it seemed, in the words of a greater than himself.

Two or three questions followed, the answers to which seemed to amuse the Marquis very much; but the point of which I could not see, for I knew next to nothing of the Count’s peculiarities and adventures.

“Does my wife love me?” asked he, playfully.

“As well as you deserve.”

“Whom do I love best in the world?”

“Self.”

“Oh! That I fancy is pretty much the case with everyone. But, putting myself out of the question, do I love anything on earth better than my wife?”

“Her diamonds.”

“Oh!” said the Count. The Marquis, I could see, laughed.

“Is it true,” said the Count, changing the conversation peremptorily, “that there has been a battle in Naples?”

“No; in France.”

“Indeed,” said the Count, satirically, with a glance round.

“And may I inquire between what powers, and on what particular quarrel?”

“Between the Count and Countess de St. Alyre, and about a document they subscribed on the 25th July, 1811.”

The Marquis afterwards told me that this was the date of their marriage settlement.

The Count stood stock-still for a minute or so; and one could fancy that they saw his face flushing through his mask.

Nobody, but we two, knew that the inquirer was the Count de St. Alyre.

I thought he was puzzled to find a subject for his next question; and, perhaps, repented having entangled himself in such a colloquy. If so, he was relieved; for the Marquis, touching his arms, whispered.

“Look to your right, and see who is coming.”

I looked in the direction indicated by the Marquis, and I saw a gaunt figure stalking toward us. It was not a masque. The face was broad, scarred, and white. In a word, it was the ugly face of Colonel Gaillarde, who, in the costume of a corporal of the Imperial Guard, with his left arm so adjusted as to look like a stump, leaving the lower part of the coat-sleeve empty, and pinned up to the breast. There were strips of very real sticking-plaster across his eyebrow and temple, where my stick had left its mark, to score, hereafter, among the more honorable scars of war.

Chapter XIII

THE ORACLE TELLS ME WONDERS

I forgot for a moment how impervious my mask and domino were to the hard stare of the old campaigner, and was preparing for an animated scuffle. It was only for a moment, of course; but the count cautiously drew a little back as the gasconading corporal, in blue uniform, white vest, and white gaiters–for my friend Gaillarde was as loud and swaggering in his assumed character as in his real one of a colonel of dragoons–drew near. He had already twice all but got himself turned out of doors for vaunting the exploits of Napoleon le Grand, in terrific mock-heroics, and had very nearly come to hand-grips with a Prussian hussar. In fact, he would have been involved in several sanguinary rows already, had not his discretion reminded him that the object of his coming there at all, namely, to arrange a meeting with an affluent widow, on whom he believed he had made a tender impression, would not have been promoted by his premature removal from the festive scene of which he was an ornament, in charge of a couple of _gendarmes_.

“Money! Gold! Bah! What money can a wounded soldier like your humble servant have amassed, with but his sword-hand left, which, being necessarily occupied, places not a finger at his command with which to scrape together the spoils of a routed enemy?”

“No gold from him,” said the magician. “His scars frank him.”

“Bravo, Monsieur le prophete! Bravissimo! Here I am. Shall I begin, _mon sorcier_, without further loss of time, to question you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he commenced, in stentorian tones. After half-a-dozen questions and answers, he asked: “Whom do I pursue at present?”

“Two persons.”

“Ha! Two? Well, who are they?”

“An Englishman, whom if you catch, he will kill you; and a French widow, whom if you find, she will spit in your face.”

“Monsieur le magicien calls a spade a spade, and knows that his cloth protects him. No matter! Why do I pursue them?”

“The widow has inflicted a wound on your heart, and the Englishman a wound on your head. They are each separately too strong for you; take care your pursuit does not unite them.”

“Bah! How could that be?”

“The Englishman protects ladies. He has got that fact into your head. The widow, if she sees, will marry him. It takes some time, she will reflect, to become a colonel, and the Englishman is unquestionably young.”

“I will cut his cock’s-comb for him,” he ejaculated with an oath and a grin; and in a softer tone he asked, “Where is she?”

“Near enough to be offended if you fail.”

“So she ought, by my faith. You are right, Monsieur le prophete! A hundred thousand thanks! Farewell!” And staring about him, and stretching his lank neck as high as he could, he strode away with his scars, and white waistcoat and gaiters, and his bearskin shako.

I had been trying to see the person who sat in the palanquin. I had only once an opportunity of a tolerably steady peep. What I saw was singular. The oracle was dressed, as I have said, very richly, in the Chinese fashion. He was a figure altogether on a larger scale than the interpreter, who stood outside. The features seemed to me large and heavy, and the head was carried with a downward inclination! The eyes were closed, and the chin rested on the breast of his embroidered pelisse. The face seemed fixed, and the very image of apathy. Its character and _pose_ seemed an exaggerated repetition of the immobility of the figure who communicated with the noisy outer world. This face looked blood-red; but that was caused, I concluded, by the light entering through the red silk curtains. All this struck me almost at a glance; I had not many seconds in which to make my observation. The ground was now clear, and the Marquis said, “Go forward, my friend.”

I did so. When I reached the magician, as we called the man with the black wand, I glanced over my shoulder to see whether the Count was near.

No, he was some yards behind; and he and the Marquis, whose curiosity seemed to be by this time satisfied, were now conversing generally upon some subject of course quite different.

I was relieved, for the sage seemed to blurt out secrets in an unexpected way; and some of mine might not have amused the Count.

I thought for a moment. I wished to test the prophet. A Church-of-England man was a _rara avis_ in Paris.

“What is my religion?” I asked.

“A beautiful heresy,” answered the oracle instantly.

“A heresy?–and pray how is it named?”

“Love.”

“Oh! Then I suppose I am a polytheist, and love a great many?”

“One.”

“But, seriously,” I asked, intending to turn the course of our colloquy a little out of an embarrassing channel, “have I ever learned any words of devotion by heart?”

“Yes.”

“Can you repeat them?”

“Approach.”

I did, and lowered my ear.

The man with the black wand closed the curtains, and whispered, slowly and distinctly, these words which, I need scarcely tell you, I instantly recognized:

_”I may never see you more; and, oh! I that I could forget you!–go–farewell–for God’s sake, go!”_

I started as I heard them. They were, you know, the last words whispered to me by the Countess.

“Good Heavens! How miraculous! Words heard most assuredly, by no ear on earth but my own and the lady’s who uttered them, till now!”

I looked at the impassive face of the spokesman with the wand. There was no trace of meaning, or even of a consciousness that the words he had uttered could possibly interest me.

“What do I most long for?” I asked, scarcely knowing what I said.

“Paradise.”

“And what prevents my reaching it?”

“A black veil.”

Stronger and stronger! The answers seemed to me to indicate the minutest acquaintance with every detail of my little romance, of which not even the Marquis knew anything! And I, the questioner, masked and robed so that my own brother could not have known me!

“You said I loved someone. Am I loved in return?” I asked.

“Try.”

I was speaking lower than before, and stood near the dark man with the beard, to prevent the necessity of his speaking in a loud key.

“Does anyone love me?” I repeated.

“Secretly,” was the answer.

“Much or little?” I inquired.

“Too well.”

“How long will that love last?”

“Till the rose casts its leaves.”

The rose–another allusion!

“Then–darkness!” I sighed. “But till then I live in light.”

“The light of violet eyes.”

Love, if not a religion, as the oracle had just pronounced it, is, at least, a superstition. How it exalts the imagination! How it enervates the reason! How credulous it makes us!

All this which, in the case of another I should have laughed at, most powerfully affected me in my own. It inflamed my ardor, and half crazed my brain, and even influenced my conduct.

The spokesman of this wonderful trick–if trick it were–now waved me backward with his wand, and as I withdrew, my eyes still fixed upon the group, and this time encircled with an aura of mystery in my fancy; backing toward the ring of spectators, I saw him raise his hand suddenly, with a gesture of command, as a signal to the usher who carried the golden wand in front.

The usher struck his wand on the ground, and, in a shrill voice, proclaimed: “The great Confu is silent for an hour.”

Instantly the bearers pulled down a sort of blind of bamboo, which descended with a sharp clatter, and secured it at the bottom; and then the man in the tall fez, with the black beard and wand, began a sort of dervish dance. In this the men with the gold wands joined, and finally, in an outer ring, the bearers, the palanquin being the center of the circles described by these solemn dancers, whose pace, little by little, quickened, whose gestures grew sudden, strange, frantic, as the motion became swifter and swifter, until at length the whirl became so rapid that the dancers seemed to fly by with the speed of a mill-wheel, and amid a general clapping of hands, and universal wonder, these strange performers mingled with the crowd, and the exhibition, for the time at least, ended.

The Marquis d’Harmonville was standing not far away, looking on the ground, as one could judge by his attitude and musing. I approached, and he said:

“The Count has just gone away to look for his wife. It is a pity she was not here to consult the prophet; it would have been amusing, I daresay, to see how the Count bore it. Suppose we follow him. I have asked him to introduce you.”

With a beating heart, I accompanied the Marquis d’Harmonville.

Chapter XIV

MADEMOISELLE DE LA VALLIERE

We wandered through the _salons_, the Marquis and I. It was no easy matter to find a friend in rooms so crowded.

“Stay here,” said the Marquis, “I have thought of a way of finding him. Besides, his jealousy may have warned him that there is no particular advantage to be gained by presenting you to his wife; I had better go and reason with him, as you seem to wish an introduction so very much.”

This occurred in the room that is now called the “Salon d’Apollon.” The paintings remained in my memory, and my adventure of that evening was destined to occur there.

I sat down upon a sofa, and looked about me. Three or four persons beside myself were seated on this roomy piece of gilded furniture. They were chatting all very gaily; all–except the person who sat next me, and she was a lady. Hardly two feet interposed between us. The lady sat apparently in a reverie. Nothing could be more graceful. She wore the costume perpetuated in Collignan’s full-length portrait of Mademoiselle de la Valiere. It is, as you know, not only rich, but elegant. Her hair was powdered, but one could perceive that it was naturally a dark brown. One pretty little foot appeared, and could anything be more exquisite than her hand?

It was extremely provoking that this lady wore her mask, and did not, as many did, hold it for a time in her hand.

I was convinced that she was pretty. Availing myself of the privilege of a masquerade, a microcosm in which it is impossible, except by voice and allusion, to distinguish friend from foe, I spoke:

“It is not easy, Mademoiselle, to deceive me,” I began.

“So much the better for Monsieur,” answered the mask, quietly.

“I mean,” I said, determined to tell my fib, “that beauty is a gift more difficult to conceal than Mademoiselle supposes.”

“Yet Monsieur has succeeded very well,” she said in the same sweet and careless tones.

“I see the costume of this, the beautiful Mademoiselle de la Valiere, upon a form that surpasses her own; I raise my eyes, and I behold a mask, and yet I recognize the lady; beauty is like that precious stone in the ‘Arabian Nights,’ which emits, no matter how concealed, a light that betrays it.”

“I know the story,” said the young lady. “The light betrayed it, not in the sun but in darkness. Is there so little light in these rooms, Monsieur, that a poor glowworm can show so brightly? I thought we were in a luminous atmosphere, wherever a certain Countess moved?”

Here was an awkward speech! How was I to answer? This lady might be, as they say some ladies are, a lover of mischief, or an intimate of the Countess de St. Alyre. Cautiously, therefore, I inquired,

“What Countess?”

“If you know me, you must know that she is my dearest friend. Is she not beautiful?”

“How can I answer, there are so many countesses.”

“Everyone who knows me, knows who my best beloved friend is. You don’t know me?”

“That is cruel. I can scarcely believe I am mistaken.”

“With whom were you walking, just now?” she asked.

“A gentleman, a friend,” I answered.

“I saw him, of course, a friend; but I think I know him, and should like to be certain. Is he not a certain Marquis?”

Here was another question that was extremely awkward.

“There are so many people here, and one may walk, at one time with one, and at another with a different one, that–“

“That an unscrupulous person has no difficulty in evading a simple question like mine. Know then, once for all, that nothing disgusts a person of spirit so much as suspicion. You, Monsieur, are a gentleman of discretion. I shall respect you accordingly.”

“Mademoiselle would despise me, were I to violate a confidence.”

“But you don’t deceive me. You imitate your friend’s diplomacy. I hate diplomacy. It means fraud and cowardice. Don’t you think I know him? The gentleman with the cross of white ribbon on his breast? I know the Marquis d’Harmonville perfectly. You see to what good purpose your ingenuity has been expended.”

“To that conjecture I can answer neither yes nor no.”

“You need not. But what was your motive in mortifying a lady?”

“It is the last thing on earth I should do.”

“You affected to know me, and you don’t; through caprice, or listlessness, or curiosity, you wished to converse, not with a lady, but with a costume. You admired, and you pretend to mistake me for another. But who is quite perfect? Is truth any longer to be found on earth?”

“Mademoiselle has formed a mistaken opinion of me.”

“And you also of me; you find me less foolish than you supposed. I know perfectly whom you intend amusing with compliments and melancholy declamation, and whom, with that amiable purpose, you have been seeking.”

“Tell me whom you mean,” I entreated. “Upon one condition.”

“What is that?”

“That you will confess if I name the lady.”

“You describe my object unfairly,” I objected. “I can’t admit that I proposed speaking to any lady in the tone you describe.”

“Well, I shan’t insist on that; only if I name the lady, you will promise to admit that I am right.”

“_Must_ I promise?”

“Certainly not, there is no compulsion; but your promise is the only condition on which I will speak to you again.”

I hesitated for a moment; but how could she possibly tell? The Countess would scarcely have admitted this little romance to anyone; and the mask in the La Valliere costume could not possibly know who the masked domino beside her was.

“I consent,” I said, “I promise.”

“You must promise on the honor of a gentleman.”

“Well, I do; on the honor of a gentleman.”

“Then this lady is the Countess de St. Alyre.”

I was unspeakably surprised; I was disconcerted; but I remembered my promise, and said:

“The Countess de St. Alyre _is_, unquestionably, the lady to whom I hoped for an introduction tonight; but I beg to assure you, also on the honor of a gentleman, that she has not the faintest imaginable suspicion that I was seeking such an honor, nor, in all probability, does she remember that such a person as I exists. I had the honor to render her and the Count a trifling service, too trifling, I fear, to have earned more than an hour’s recollection.”

“The world is not so ungrateful as you suppose; or if it be, there are, nevertheless, a few hearts that redeem it. I can answer for the Countess de St. Alyre, she never forgets a kindness. She does not show all she feels; for she is unhappy, and cannot.”

“Unhappy! I feared, indeed, that might be. But for all the rest that you are good enough to suppose, it is but a flattering dream.”

“I told you that I am the Countess’s friend, and being so I must know something of her character; also, there are confidences between us, and I may know more than you think of those trifling services of which you suppose the recollection is so transitory.”

I was becoming more and more interested. I was as wicked as other young men, and the heinousness of such a pursuit was as nothing, now that self-love and all the passions that mingle in such a romance were roused. The image of the beautiful Countess had now again quite superseded the pretty counterpart of La Valliee, who was before me. I would have given a great deal to hear, in solemn earnest, that she did remember the champion who, for her sake, had thrown himself before the saber of an enraged dragoon, with only a cudgel in his hand, and conquered.

“You say the Countess is unhappy,” said I. “What causes her unhappiness?”

“Many things. Her husband is old, jealous, and tyrannical. Is not that enough? Even when relieved from his society, she is lonely.”

“But you are her friend?” I suggested.

“And you think one friend enough?” she answered; “she has one alone, to whom she can open her heart.”

“Is there room for another friend?”

“Try.”

“How can I find a way?”

“She will aid you.”

“How?”

She answered by a question. “Have you secured rooms in either of the hotels of Versailles?”

“No, I could not. I am lodged in the Dragon Volant, which stands at the verge of the grounds of the Chateau de la Carque.”

“That is better still. I need not ask if you have courage for an adventure. I need not ask if you are a man of honor. A lady may trust herself to you, and fear nothing. There are few men to whom the interview, such as I shall arrange, could be granted with safety. You shall meet her at two o’clock this morning in the Park of the Chateau de la Carque. What room do you occupy in the Dragon Volant?”

I was amazed at the audacity and decision of this girl. Was she, as we say in England, hoaxing me?

“I can describe that accurately,” said I. “As I look from the rear of the house, in which my apartment is, I am at the extreme right, next the angle; and one pair of stairs up, from the hall.”

“Very well; you must have observed, if you looked into the park, two or three clumps of chestnut and lime trees, growing so close together as to form a small grove. You must return to your hotel, change your dress, and, preserving a scrupulous secrecy as to why or where you go, leave the Dragon Volant, and climb the park wall, unseen; you will easily recognize the grove I have mentioned; there you will meet the Countess, who will grant you an audience of a few minutes, who will expect the most scrupulous reserve on your part, and who will explain to you, in a few words, a great deal which I could not so well tell you here.”

I cannot describe the feeling with which I heard these words. I was astounded. Doubt succeeded. I could not believe these agitating words.

“Mademoiselle will believe that if I only dared assure myself that so great a happiness and honor were really intended for me, my gratitude would be as lasting as my life. But how dare I believe that Mademoiselle does not speak, rather from her own sympathy or goodness, than from a certainty that the Countess de St. Alyre would concede so great an honor?”

“Monsieur believes either that I am not, as I pretend to be, in the secret which he hitherto supposed to be shared by no one but the Countess and himself, or else that I am cruelly mystifying him. That I am in her confidence, I swear by all that is dear in a whispered farewell. By the last companion of this flower!” and she took for a moment in her fingers the nodding head of a white rosebud that was nestled in her bouquet. “By my own good star, and hers–or shall I call it our ‘belle etoile?’ Have I said enough?”

“Enough?” I repeated, “more than enough–a thousand thanks.”

“And being thus in her confidence, I am clearly her friend; and being a friend would it be friendly to use her dear name so; and all for sake of practicing a vulgar trick upon you–a stranger?”

“Mademoiselle will forgive me. Remember how very precious is the hope of seeing, and speaking to the Countess. Is it wonderful, then, that I should falter in my belief? You have convinced me, however, and will forgive my hesitation.”

“You will be at the place I have described, then, at two o’clock?”

“Assuredly,” I answered.

“And Monsieur, I know, will not fail through fear. No, he need not assure me; his courage is already proved.”

“No danger, in such a case, will be unwelcome to me.”

“Had you not better go now, Monsieur, and rejoin your friend?”

“I promised to wait here for my friend’s return. The Count de St. Alyre said that he intended to introduce me to the Countess.”

“And Monsieur is so simple as to believe him?”

“Why should I not?”

“Because he is jealous and cunning. You will see. He will never introduce you to his wife. He will come here and say he cannot find her, and promise another time.”

“I think I see him approaching, with my friend. No–there is no lady with him.”

“I told you so. You will wait a long time for that happiness, if it is never to reach you except through his hands. In the meantime, you had better not let him see you so near me. He will suspect that we have been talking of his wife; and that will whet his jealousy and his vigilance.”

I thanked my unknown friend in the mask, and withdrawing a few steps, came, by a little “circumbendibus,” upon the flank of the Count. I smiled under my mask as he assured me that the Duchess de la Roqueme had changed her place, and taken the Countess with her; but he hoped, at some very early time, to have an opportunity of enabling her to make my acquaintance.

I avoided the Marquis d’Harmonville, who was following the Count. I was afraid he might propose accompanying me home, and had no wish to be forced to make an explanation.

I lost myself quickly, therefore, in the crowd, and moved, as rapidly as it would allow me, toward the Galerie des Glaces, which lay in the direction opposite to that in which I saw the Count and my friend the Marquis moving.

Chapter XV

STRANGE STORY OF THE DRAGON VOLANT

These _fetes_ were earlier in those days, and in France, than our modern balls are in London. I consulted my watch. It was a little past twelve.

It was a still and sultry night; the magnificent suite of rooms, vast as some of them were, could not be kept at a temperature less than oppressive, especially to people with masks on. In some places the crowd was inconvenient, and the profusion of lights added to the heat. I removed my mask, therefore, as I saw some other people do, who were as careless of mystery as I. I had hardly done so, and began to breathe more comfortably, when I heard a friendly English voice call me by my name. It was Tom Whistlewick, of the –th Dragoons. He had unmasked, with a very flushed face, as I did. He was one of those Waterloo heroes, new from the mint of glory, whom, as a body, all the world, except France, revered; and the only thing I knew against him, was a habit of allaying his thirst, which was excessive at balls, _fetes_, musical parties, and all gatherings, where it was to be had, with champagne; and, as he introduced me to his friend, Monsieur Carmaignac, I observed that he spoke a little thick. Monsieur Carmaignac was little, lean, and as straight as a ramrod. He was bald, took snuff, and wore spectacles; and, as I soon learned, held an official position.

Tom was facetious, sly, and rather difficult to understand, in his present pleasant mood. He was elevating his eyebrows and screwing his lips oddly, and fanning himself vaguely with his mask.

After some agreeable conversation I was glad to observe that he preferred silence, and was satisfied with the _role_ of listener, as I and Monsieur Carmaignac chatted; and he seated himself, with extraordinary caution and indecision, upon a bench, beside us, and seemed very soon to find a difficulty in keeping his eyes open.

“I heard you mention,” said the French gentleman, “that you had engaged an apartment in the Dragon Volant, about half a league from this. When I was in a different police department, about four years ago, two very strange cases were connected with that house. One was of a wealthy _emigre_, permitted to return to France by the Em–by Napoleon. He vanished. The other–equally strange–was the case of a Russian of rank and wealth. He disappeared just as mysteriously.”

“My servant,” I said, “gave me a confused account of some occurrences, and, as well as I recollect, he described the same persons–I mean a returned French nobleman and a Russian gentleman. But he made the whole story so marvelous–I mean in the supernatural sense–that, I confess, I did not believe a word of it.”

“No, there was nothing supernatural; but a great deal inexplicable,” said the French gentleman. “Of course, there may be theories; but the thing was never explained, nor, so far as I know, was a ray of light ever thrown upon it.”

“Pray let me hear the story,” I said. “I think I have a claim, as it affects my quarters. You don’t suspect the people of the house?”

“Oh! it has changed hands since then. But there seemed to be a fatality about a particular room.”

“Could you describe that room?”

“Certainly. It is a spacious, paneled bedroom, up one pair of stairs, in the back of the house, and at the extreme right, as you look from its windows.”

“Ho! Really? Why, then, I have got the very room!” I said, beginning to be more interested–perhaps the least bit in the world, disagreeably. “Did the people die, or were they actually spirited away?”

“No, they did not die–they disappeared very oddly. I’ll tell you the particulars–I happen to know them exactly, because I made an official visit, on the first occasion, to the house, to collect evidence; and although I did not go down there, upon the second, the papers came before me, and I dictated the official letter dispatched to the relations of the people who had disappeared; they had applied to the government to investigate the affair. We had letters from the same relations more than two years later, from which we learned that the missing men had never turned up.”

He took a pinch of snuff, and looked steadily at me.

“Never! I shall relate all that happened, so far as we could discover. The French noble, who was the Chevalier Chateau Blassemare, unlike most _emigres_ had taken the matter in time, sold a large portion of his property before the revolution had proceeded so far as to render that next to impossible, and retired with a large sum. He brought with him about half a million of francs, the greater part of which he invested in the French funds; a much larger sum remained in Austrian land and securities. You will observe then that this gentleman was rich, and there was no allegation of his having lost money, or being in any way embarrassed. You see?”

I assented.

“This gentleman’s habits were not expensive in proportion to his means. He had suitable lodgings in Paris; and for a time, society, and theaters, and other reasonable amusements, engrossed him. He did not play. He was a middleaged man, affecting youth, with the vanities which are usual in such persons; but, for the rest, he was a gentle and polite person, who disturbed nobody–a person, you see, not likely to provoke an enmity.”

“Certainly not,” I agreed.

“Early in the summer of 1811 he got an order permitting him to copy a picture in one of these _salons_, and came down here, to Versailles, for the purpose. His work was getting on slowly. After a time he left his hotel here, and went, by way of change, to the Dragon Volant; there he took, by special choice, the bedroom which has fallen to you by chance. From this time, it appeared, he painted little; and seldom visited his apartments in Paris. One night he saw the host of the Dragon Volant, and told him that he was going into Paris, to remain for a day or two, on very particular business; that his servant would accompany him, but that he would retain his apartments at the Dragon Volant, and return in a few days. He left some clothes there, but packed a portmanteau, took his dressing case and the rest, and, with his servant behind his carriage, drove into Paris. You observe all this, Monsieur?”

“Most attentively,” I answered.

“Well, Monsieur, as soon as they were approaching his lodgings, he stopped the carriage on a sudden, told his servant that he had changed his mind; that he would sleep elsewhere that night, that he had very particular business in the north of France, not far from Rouen, that he would set out before daylight on his journey, and return in a fortnight. He called a _fiacre_, took in his hand a leather bag which, the servant said, was just large enough to hold a few shirts and a coat, but that it was enormously heavy, as he could testify, for he held it in his hand, while his master took out his purse to count thirty-six Napoleons, for which the servant was to account when he should return. He then sent him on, in the carriage; and he, with the bag I have mentioned, got into the _fiacre_. Up to that, you see, the narrative is quite clear.”

“Perfectly,” I agreed.

“Now comes the mystery,” said Monsieur Carmaignac. “After that, the Count Chateau Blassemare was never more seen, so far as we can make out, by acquaintance or friend. We learned that the day before the Count’s stockbroker had, by his direction, sold all his stock in the French funds, and handed him the cash it realized. The reason he gave him for this measure tallied with what he said to his servant. He told him that he was going to the north of France to settle some claims, and did not know exactly how much might be required. The bag, which had puzzled the servant by its weight, contained, no doubt, a large sum in gold. Will Monsieur try my snuff?”

He politely tendered his open snuff-box, of which I partook, experimentally.

“A reward was offered,” he continued, “when the inquiry was instituted, for any information tending to throw a light upon the mystery, which might be afforded by the driver of the _fiacre_ ’employed on the night of’ (so-and-so), ‘at about the hour of half-past ten, by a gentleman, with a black-leather bag-bag in his hand, who descended from a private carriage, and gave his servant some money, which he counted twice over.’ About a hundred-and-fifty drivers applied, but not one of them was the right man. We did, however, elicit a curious and unexpected piece of evidence in quite another quarter. What a racket that plaguey harlequin makes with his sword!”

“Intolerable!” I chimed in.

The harlequin was soon gone, and he resumed.

“The evidence I speak of came from a boy, about twelve years old, who knew the appearance of the Count perfectly, having been often employed by him as a messenger. He stated that about half-past twelve o’clock, on the same night–upon which you are to observe, there was a brilliant moon–he was sent, his mother having been suddenly taken ill, for the _sage femme_ who lived within a stone’s throw of the Dragon Volant. His father’s house, from which he started, was a mile away, or more, from that inn, in order to reach which he had to pass round the park of the Cheteau de la Carque, at the site most remote from the point to which he was going. It passes the old churchyard of St. Aubin, which is separated from the road only by a very low fence, and two or three enormous old trees. The boy was a little nervous as he approached this ancient cemetery; and, under the bright moonlight, he saw a man whom he distinctly recognized as the Count, whom they designated by a sobriquet which means ‘the man of smiles.’ He was looking rueful enough now, and was seated on the side of a tombstone, on which he had laid a pistol, while he was ramming home the charge of another.

“The boy got cautiously by, on tiptoe, with his eyes all the time on the Count Chateau Blassernare, or the man he mistook for him–his dress was not what he usually wore, but the witness swore that he could not be mistaken as to his identity. He said his face looked grave and stern; but though he did not smile, it was the same face he knew so well. Nothing would make him swerve from that. If that were he, it was the last time he was seen. He has never been heard of since. Nothing could be heard of him in the neighborhood of Rouen. There has been no evidence of his death; and there is no sign that he is living.”

“That certainly is a most singular case,” I replied, and was about to ask a question or two, when Tom Whistlewick who, without my observing it, had been taking a ramble, returned, a great deal more awake, and a great deal less tipsy.

“I say, Carmaignac, it is getting late, and I must go; I really must, for the reason I told you–and, Beckett, we must soon meet again.”

“I regret very much, Monsieur, my not being able at present to relate to you the other case, that of another tenant of the very same room–a case more mysterious and sinister than the last–and which occurred in the autumn of the same year.”

“Will you both do a very good-natured thing, and come and dine with me at the Dragon Volant tomorrow?”

So, as we pursued our way along the Galerie des Glaces, I extracted their promise.

“By Jove!” said Whistlewick, when this was done; “look at that pagoda, or sedan chair, or whatever it is, just where those fellows set it down, and not one of them near it! I can’t imagine how they tell fortunes so devilish well. Jack Nuffles–I met him here tonight–says they are gypsies–where are they, I wonder? I’ll go over and have a peep at the prophet.”

I saw him plucking at the blinds, which were constructed something on the principle of Venetian blinds; the red curtains were inside; but they did not yield, and he could only peep under one that did not come quite down.

When he rejoined us, he related: “I could scarcely see the old fellow, it’s so dark. He is covered with gold and red, and has an embroidered hat on like a mandarin’s; he’s fast asleep; and, by Jove, he smells like a polecat! It’s worth going over only to have it to say. Fiew! pooh! oh! It is a perfume. Faugh!”

Not caring to accept this tempting invitation, we got along slowly toward the door. I bade them good-night, reminding them of their promise. And so found my way at last to my carriage; and was soon rolling slowly toward the Dragon Volant, on the loneliest of roads, under old trees, and the soft moonlight.

What a number of things had happened within the last two hours! what a variety of strange and vivid pictures were crowded together in that brief space! What an adventure was before me!

The silent, moonlighted, solitary road, how it contrasted with the many-eddied whirl of pleasure from whose roar and music, lights, diamonds and colors I had just extricated myself.

The sight of lonely nature at such an hour, acts like a sudden sedative. The madness and guilt of my pursuit struck me with a momentary compunction and horror. I wished I had never entered the labyrinth which was leading me, I knew not whither. It was too late to think of that now; but the bitter was already stealing into my cup; and vague anticipations lay, for a few minutes, heavy on my heart. It would not have taken much to make me disclose my unmanly state of mind to my lively friend Alfred Ogle, nor even to the milder ridicule of the agreeable Tom Whistlewick.

Chapter XVI

THE PARC OF THE CHATEAU DE LA CARQUE

There was no danger of the Dragon Volant’s closing its doors on that occasion till three or four in the morning. There were quartered there many servants of great people, whose masters would not leave the ball till the last moment, and who could not return to their corners in the Dragon Volant till their last services had been rendered.

I knew, therefore, I should have ample time for my mysterious excursion without exciting curiosity by being shut out.

And now we pulled up under the canopy of boughs, before the sign of the Dragon Volant, and the light that shone from its hall-door.

I dismissed my carriage, ran up the broad stair-case, mask in hand, with my domino fluttering about me, and entered the large bedroom. The black wainscoting and stately furniture, with the dark curtains of the very tall bed, made the night there more somber.

An oblique patch of moonlight was thrown upon the floor from the window to which I hastened. I looked out upon the landscape slumbering in those silvery beams. There stood the outline of the Chateau de la Carque, its chimneys and many turrets with their extinguisher-shaped roofs black against the soft grey sky. There, also, more in the foreground, about midway between the window where I stood and the chateau, but a little to the left, I traced the tufted masses of the grove which the lady in the mask had appointed as the trysting-place, where I and the beautiful Countess were to meet that night.

I took “the bearings” of this gloomy bit of wood, whose foliage glimmered softly at top in the light of the moon.

You may guess with what a strange interest and swelling of the heart I gazed on the unknown scene of my coming adventure.

But time was flying, and the hour already near. I threw my robe upon a sofa; I groped out a pair of hoots, which I substituted for those thin heelless shoes, in those days called “pumps,” without which a gentleman could not attend an evening party. I put on my hat and, lastly, I took a pair of loaded pistols, which I had been advised were satisfactory companions in the then unsettled state of French society; swarms of disbanded soldiers, some of them alleged to be desperate characters, being everywhere to be met with. These preparations made, I confess I took a looking-glass to the window to see how I looked in the moonlight; and being satisfied, I replaced it, and ran downstairs.

In the hall I called for my servant.

“St. Clair,” said I; “I mean to take a little moonlight ramble, only ten minutes or so. You must not go to bed until I return. If the night is very beautiful, I may possibly extend my ramble a little.”

So down the steps I lounged, looking first over my right, and then over my left shoulder, like a man uncertain which direction to take, and I sauntered up the road, gazing now at the moon, and now at the thin white clouds in the opposite direction, whistling, all the time, an air which I had picked up at one of the theatres.

When I had got a couple of hundred yards away from the Dragon Volant, my minstrelsy totally ceased; and I turned about, and glanced sharply down the road, that looked as white as hoar-frost under the moon, and saw the gable of the old inn, and a window, partly concealed by the foliage, with a dusky light shining from it.

No sound of footstep was stirring; no sign of human figure in sight. I consulted my watch, which the light was sufficiently strong to enable me to do. It now wanted but eight minutes of the appointed hour. A thick mantle of ivy at this point covered the wall and rose in a clustering head at top.

It afforded me facilities for scaling the wall, and a partial screen for my operations if any eye should chance to be looking that way. And now it was done. I was in the park of the Chateau de la Carque, as nefarious a poacher as ever trespassed on the grounds of unsuspicious lord!

Before me rose the appointed grove, which looked as black as a clump of gigantic hearse plumes. It seemed to tower higher and higher at every step; and cast a broader and blacker shadow toward my feet. On I marched, and was glad when I plunged into the shadow which concealed me. Now I was among the grand old lime and chestnut trees–my heart beat fast with expectation.

This grove opened, a little, near the middle; and, in the space thus cleared, there stood with a surrounding flight of steps a small Greek temple or shrine, with a statue in the center. It was built of white marble with fluted Corinthian columns, and the crevices were tufted with grass; moss had shown itself on pedestal and cornice, and signs of long neglect and decay were apparent in its discolored and weather-worn marble. A few feet in front of the steps a fountain, fed from the great ponds at the other side of the chateau, was making a constant tinkle and splashing in a wide marble basin, and the jet of water glimmered like a shower of diamonds in the broken moonlight. The very neglect and half-ruinous state of all this made it only the prettier, as well as sadder. I was too intently watching for the arrival of the lady, in the direction of the chateau, to study these things; but the half-noted effect of them was romantic, and suggested somehow the grotto and the fountain, and the apparition of Egeria.

As I watched a voice spoke to me, a little behind my left shoulder. I turned, almost with a start, and the masque, in the costume of Mademoiselle de la Valliere, stood there.

“The Countess will be here presently,” she said. The lady stood upon the open space, and the moonlight fell unbroken upon her. Nothing could be more becoming; her figure looked more graceful and elegant than ever. “In the meantime I shall tell you some peculiarities of her situation. She is unhappy; miserable in an ill–assorted marriage, with a jealous tyrant who now would constrain her to sell her diamonds, which are–“

“Worth thirty thousand pounds sterling. I heard all that from a friend. Can I aid the Countess in her unequal struggle? Say but how the greater the danger or the sacrifice, the happier will it make me. _Can_ I aid her?”

“If you despise a danger–which, yet, is not a danger; if you despise, as she does, the tyrannical canons of the world; and if you are chivalrous enough to devote yourself to a lady’s cause, with no reward but her poor gratitude; if you can do these things you can aid her, and earn a foremost place, not in her gratitude only, but in her friendship.”

At those words the lady in the mask turned away and seemed to weep.

I vowed myself the willing slave of the Countess. “But,” I added, “you told me she would soon be here.”

“That is, if nothing unforeseen should happen; but with the eye of the Count de St. Alyre in the house, and open, it is seldom safe to stir.”

“Does she wish to see me?” I asked, with a tender hesitation.

“First, say have you really thought of her, more than once, since the adventure of the Belle Etoile?”

“She never leaves my thoughts; day and night her beautiful eyes haunt me; her sweet voice is always in my ear.”

“Mine is said to resemble hers,” said the mask.

“So it does,” I answered. “But it is only a resemblance.”

“Oh! then mine is better?”

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I did not say that. Yours is a sweet voice, but I fancy a little higher.”

“A little shriller, you would say,” answered the De la Valliere, I fancied a good deal vexed.

“No, not shriller: your voice is not shrill, it is beautifully sweet; but not so pathetically sweet as hers.”

“That is prejudice, Monsieur; it is not true.”

I bowed; I could not contradict a lady.

“I see, Monsieur, you laugh at me; you think me vain, because I claim in some points to be equal to the Countess de St. Alyre. I challenge you to say, my hand, at least, is less beautiful than hers.” As she thus spoke she drew her glove off, and extended her hand, back upward, in the moonlight.

The lady seemed really nettled. It was undignified and irritating; for in this uninteresting competition the precious moments were flying, and my interview leading apparently to nothing.

“You will admit, then, that my hand is as beautiful as hers?”

“I cannot admit it. Mademoiselle,” said I, with the honesty of irritation. “I will not enter into comparisons, but the Countess de St. Alyre is, in all respects, the most beautiful lady I ever beheld.”

The masque laughed coldly, and then, more and more softly, said, with a sigh, “I will prove all I say.” And as she spoke she removed the mask: and the Countess de St. Alyre, smiling, confused, bashful, more beautiful than ever, stood before me!

“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed. “How monstrously stupid I have been. And it was to Madame la Comtesse that I spoke for so long in the _salon!_” I gazed on her in silence. And with a low sweet laugh of good nature she extended her hand. I took it and carried it to my lips.

“No, you must not do that,” she said quietly, “we are not old enough friends yet. I find, although you were mistaken, that you do remember the Countess of the Belle Etoile, and that you are a champion true and fearless. Had you yielded to the claims just now pressed upon you by the rivalry of Mademoiselle de la Valiere, in her mask, the Countess de St. Alyre should never have trusted or seen you more. I now am sure that you are true, as well as brave. You now know that I have not forgotten you; and, also, that if you would risk your life for me, I, too, would brave some danger, rather than lose my friend forever. I have but a few moments more. Will you come here again tomorrow night, at a quarter past eleven? I will be here at that moment; you must exercise the most scrupulous care to prevent suspicion that you have come here, Monsieur. _You owe that to me_.”

She spoke these last words with the most solemn entreaty.

I vowed again and again that I would die rather than permit the least rashness to endanger the secret which made all the interest and value of my life.

She was looking, I thought, more and more beautiful every moment. My enthusiasm expanded in proportion.

“You must come tomorrow night by a different route,” she said; “and if you come again, we can change it once more. At the other side of the chateau there is a little churchyard, with a ruined chapel. The neighbors are afraid to pass it by night. The road is deserted there, and a stile opens a way into these grounds. Cross it and you can find a covert of thickets, to within fifty steps of this spot.”

I promised, of course, to observe her instructions implicitly.

“I have lived for more than a year in an agony of irresolution. I have decided at last. I have lived a melancholy life; a lonelier life than is passed in the cloister. I have had no one to confide in; no one to advise me; no one to save me from the horrors of my existence. I have found a brave and prompt friend at last. Shall I ever forget the heroic tableau of the hall of the Belle Etoile? Have you–have you really kept the rose I gave you, as we parted? Yes–you swear it. You need not; I trust you. Richard, how often have I in solitude repeated your name, learned from my servant. Richard, my hero! Oh! Richard! Oh, my king! I love you!”

I would have folded her to my heart–thrown myself at her feet. But this beautiful and–shall I say it–inconsistent woman repelled me.

“No, we must not waste our moments in extravagances. Understand my case. There is no such thing as indifference in the married state. Not to love one’s husband,” she continued, “is to hate him. The Count, ridiculous in all else, is formidable in his jealousy. In mercy, then, to me, observe caution. Affect to all you speak to, the most complete ignorance of all the people in the Chateau de la Carque; and, if anyone in your presence mentions the Count or Countess de St. Alyre, be sure you say you never saw either. I shall have more to say to you tomorrow night. I have reasons that I cannot now explain, for all I do, and all I postpone. Farewell. Go! Leave me.”

She waved me back, peremptorily. I echoed her “farewell,” and obeyed.

This interview had not lasted, I think, more than ten minutes. I scaled the park wall again, and reached the Dragon Volant before its doors were closed.

I lay awake in my bed, in a fever of elation. I saw, till the dawn broke, and chased the vision, the beautiful Countess de St. Alyre, always in the dark, before me.

Chapter XVII

THE TENANT OF THE PALANQUIN

The Marquis called on me next day. My late breakfast was still upon the table. He had come, he said, to ask a favor. An accident had happened to his carriage in the crowd on leaving the ball, and he begged, if I were going into Paris, a seat in mine. I was going in, and was extremely glad of his company. He came with me to my hotel; we went up to my rooms. I was surprised to see a man seated in an easy chair, with his back towards us, reading a newspaper. He rose. It was the Count de St. Alyre, his gold spectacles on his nose; his black wig, in oily curls, lying close to his narrow head, and showing like carved ebony over a repulsive visage of boxwood. His black muffler had been pulled down. His. right arm was in a sling. I don’t know whether there was anything unusual in his countenance that day, or whether it was but the effect of prejudice arising from all I had heard in my mysterious interview in his park, but I thought his countenance was more strikingly forbidding than I had seen it before.

I was not callous enough in the ways of sin to meet this man, injured at least in intent, thus suddenly, without a momentary disturbance.

He smiled.

“I called, Monsieur Beckett, in the hope of finding you here,” he croaked, “and I meditated, I fear, taking a great liberty, but my friend the Marquis d’Harmonville, on whom I have perhaps some claim, will perhaps give me the assistance I require so much.”

“With great pleasure,” said the Marquis, “but not till after six o’clock. I must go this moment to a meeting of three or four people whom I cannot disappoint, and I know, perfectly, we cannot break up earlier.”

“What am I to do?” exclaimed the Count, “an hour would have done it all. Was ever _contretemps_ so unlucky?”

“I’ll give you an hour, with pleasure,” said I.

“How very good of you, Monsieur, I hardly dare to hope it. The business, for so gay and charming a man as Monsieur Beckett, is a little _funeste_. Pray read this note which reached me this morning.”

It certainly was not cheerful. It was a note stating that the body of his, the Count’s cousin, Monsieur de St. Amand, who had died at his house, the Chateau Clery, had been, in accordance with his written directions, sent for burial at Pere la Chaise, and, with the permission of the Count de St. Alyre, would reach his house (the Chateau de la Carque) at about ten o’clock on the night following, to be conveyed thence in a hearse, with any member of the family who might wish to attend the obsequies.

“I did not see the poor gentleman twice in my life,” said the Count, “but this office, as he has no other kinsman, disagreeable as it is, I could scarcely decline, and so I want to attend at the office to have the book signed, and the order entered. But here is another misery. By ill luck I have sprained my thumb, and can’t sign my name for a week to come. However, one name answers as well as another. Yours as well as mine. And as you are so good as to come with me, all will go right.”

Away we drove. The Count gave me a memorandum of the Christian and surnames of the deceased, his age, the complaint he died of, and the usual particulars; also a note of the exact position in which a grave, the dimensions of which were described, of the ordinary simple kind, was to be dug, between two vaults belonging to the family of St. Amand. The funeral, it was stated, would arrive at half–past one o’clock A.M. (the next night but one); and he handed me the money, with extra fees, for a burial by night. It was a good deal; and I asked him, as he entrusted the whole affair to me, in whose name I should take the receipt.

“Not in mine, my good friend. They wanted me to become an executor, which I, yesterday, wrote to decline; and I am informed that if the receipt were in my name it would constitute me an executor in the eye of the law, and fix me in that position. Take it, pray, if you have no objection, in your own name.”

This, accordingly, I did.

You will see, by–and–by, why I am obliged to mention all these particulars.

The Count, meanwhile, was leaning back in the carriage, with his black silk muffler up to his nose, and his hat shading his eyes, while he dozed in his corner; in which state I found him on my return.

Paris had lost its charm for me. I hurried through the little business I had to do, longed once more for my quiet room in the Dragon Volant, the melancholy woods of the Chateau de la Carque, and the tumultuous and thrilling influence of proximity to the object of my wild but wicked romance.

I was delayed some time by my stockbroker. I had a very large sum, as I told you, at my banker’s, uninvested. I cared very little for a few day’s interest–very little for the entire sum, compared with the image that occupied my thoughts, and beckoned me with a white arm, through the dark, toward the spreading lime trees and chestnuts of the Chateau de la Carque. But I had fixed this day to meet him, and was relieved when he told me that I had better let it lie in my banker’s hands for a few days longer, as the funds would certainly fall immediately. This accident, too, was not without its immediate bearing on my subsequent adventures.

When I reached the Dragon Volant, I found, in my sitting-room, a good deal to my chagrin, my two guests, whom I had quite forgotten. I inwardly cursed my own stupidity for having embarrassed myself with their agreeable society. It could not be helped now, however, and a word to the waiters put all things in train for dinner.

Tom Whistlewick was in great force; and he commenced almost immediately with a very odd story.

He told me that not only Versailles, but all Paris was in a ferment, in consequence of a revolting, and all but sacrilegious practical joke, played of on the night before.

The pagoda, as he persisted in calling the palanquin, had been left standing on the spot where we last saw it. Neither conjuror, nor usher, nor bearers had ever returned. When the ball closed, and the company at length retired, the servants who attended to put out the lights, and secure the doors, found it still there.

It was determined, however, to let it stand where it was until next morning, by which time, it was conjectured, its owners would send messengers to remove it.

None arrived. The servants were then ordered to take it away; and its extraordinary weight, for the first time, reminded them of its forgotten human occupant. Its door was forced; and, judge what was their disgust, when they discovered, not a living man, but a corpse! Three or four days must have passed since the death of the burly man in the Chinese tunic and painted cap. Some people thought it was a trick designed to insult the Allies, in whose honor the ball was got up. Others were of opinion that it was nothing worse than a daring and cynical jocularity which, shocking as it was, might yet be forgiven to the high spirits and irrepressible buffoonery of youth. Others, again, fewer in number, and mystically given, insisted that the corpse was _bona fide_ necessary to the exhibition, and that the disclosures and allusions which had astonished so many people were distinctly due to necromancy.

“The matter, however, is now in the hands of the police,” observed Monsieur Carmaignac, “and we are not the body they were two or three months ago, if the offenders against propriety and public feeling are not traced and convicted, unless, indeed, they have been a great deal more cunning than such fools generally are.”

I was thinking within myself how utterly inexplicable was my colloquy with the conjuror, so cavalierly dismissed by Monsieur Carmaignac as a “fool”; and the more I thought the more marvelous it seemed.

“It certainly was an original joke, though not a very clear one,” said Whistlewick.

“Not even original,” said Carmaignac. “Very nearly the same thing was done, a hundred years ago or more, at a state ball in Paris; and the rascals who played the trick were never found out.”

In this Monsieur Carmaignac, as I afterwards discovered, spoke truly; for, among my books of French anecdote and memoirs, the very incident is marked by my own hand.

While we were thus talking the waiter told us that dinner was served, and we withdrew accordingly; my guests more than making amends for my comparative taciturnity.

Chapter XVIII

THE CHURCHYARD

Our dinner was really good, so were the wines; better, perhaps, at this out-of-the-way inn, than at some of the more pretentious hotels in Paris. The moral effect of a really good dinner is immense–we all felt it. The serenity and good nature that follow are more solid and comfortable than the tumultuous benevolences of Bacchus.

My friends were happy, therefore, and very chatty; which latter relieved me of the trouble of talking, and prompted them to entertain me and one another incessantly with agreeable stories and conversation, of which, until suddenly a subject emerged which interested me powerfully, I confess, so much were my thoughts engaged elsewhere, I heard next to nothing.

“Yes,” said Carmaignac, continuing a conversation which had escaped me, “there was another case, beside that Russian nobleman, odder still. I remembered it this morning, but cannot recall the name. He was a tenant of the very same room. By-the-by, Monsieur, might it not be as well,” he added, turning to me with a laugh, half joke whole earnest, as they say, “if you were to get into another apartment, now that the house is no longer crowded? that is, if you mean to make any stay here.”

“A thousand thanks! no. I’m thinking of changing my hotel; and I can run into town so easily at night; and though I stay here for this night at least, I don’t expect to vanish like those others. But you say there is another adventure, of the same kind, connected with the same room. Do let us hear it. But take some wine first.”

The story he told was curious.

“It happened,” said Carmaignac, “as well as I recollect, before either of the other cases. A French gentleman–I wish I could remember his name–the son of a merchant, came to this inn (the Dragon Volant), and was put by the landlord into the same room of which we have been speaking. _Your_ apartment, Monsieur. He was by no means young–past forty–and very far from good-looking. The people here said that he was the ugliest man, and the most good-natured, that ever lived. He played on the fiddle, sang, and wrote poetry. His habits were odd and desultory. He would sometimes sit all day in his room writing, singing, and fiddling, and go out at night for a walk. An eccentric man! He was by no means a millionaire, but he had a _modicum bonum_, you understand–a trifle more than half a million of francs. He consulted his stockbroker about investing this money in foreign stocks, and drew the entire sum from his banker. You now have the situation of affairs when the catastrophe occurred.”

“Pray fill your glass,” I said.

“Dutch courage, Monsieur, to face the catastrophe!” said Whistlewick, filling his own.

“Now, that was the last that ever was heard of his money,” resumed Carmaignac. “You shall hear about himself. The night after this financial operation he was seized with a poetic frenzy: he sent for the then landlord of this house, and told him that he long meditated an epic, and meant to commence that night, and that he was on no account to be disturbed until nine o’clock in the morning. He had two pairs of wax candles, a little cold supper on a side-table, his desk open, paper enough upon it to contain the entire Henriade, and a proportionate store of pens and ink.

“Seated at this desk he was seen by the waiter who brought him a cup of coffee at nine o’clock, at which time the intruder said he was writing fast enough to set fire to the paper–that was his phrase; he did not look up, he appeared too much engrossed. But when the waiter came back, half an hour afterwards, the door was locked; and the poet, from within, answered that he must not be disturbed.

“Away went the _garcon_, and next morning at nine o’clock knocked at his door and, receiving no answer, looked through the key-hole; the lights were still burning, the window-shutters were closed as he had left them; he renewed his knocking, knocked louder, no answer came. He reported this continued and alarming silence to the innkeeper, who, finding that his guest had not left his key in the lock, succeeded in finding another that opened it. The candles were just giving up the ghost in their sockets, but there was light enough to ascertain that the tenant of the room was gone! The bed had not been disturbed; the window-shutter was barred. He must have let himself out, and, locking the door on the outside, put the key in his pocket, and so made his way out of the house. Here, however, was another difficulty: the Dragon Volant shut its doors and made all fast at twelve o’clock; after that hour no one could leave the house, except by obtaining the key and letting himself out, and of necessity leaving the door unsecured, or else by collusion and aid of some person in the house.

“Now it happened that, some time after the doors were secured, at half-past twelve, a servant who had not been apprised of his order to be left undisturbed, seeing a light shine through the key-hole, knocked at the door to inquire whether the poet wanted anything. He was very little obliged to his disturber, and dismissed him with a renewed charge that he was not to be interrupted again during the night. This incident established the fact that he was in the house after the doors had been locked and barred. The inn-keeper himself kept the keys, and swore that he found them hung on the wall above his head, in his bed, in their usual place, in the morning; and that nobody could have taken them away without awakening him. That was all we could discover. The Count de St. Alyre, to whom this house belongs, was very active and very much chagrined. But nothing was discovered.”

“And nothing heard since of the epic poet?” I asked.

“Nothing–not the slightest clue–he never turned up again. I suppose he is dead; if he is not, he must have got into some devilish bad scrape, of which we have heard nothing, that compelled him to abscond with all the secrecy and expedition in his power. All that we know for certain is that, having occupied the room in which you sleep, he vanished, nobody ever knew how, and never was heard of since.”

“You have now mentioned three cases,” I said, “and all from the same room.”

“Three. Yes, all equally unintelligible. When men are murdered, the great and immediate difficulty the assassins encounter is how to conceal the body. It is very hard to believe that three persons should have been consecutively murdered in the same room, and their bodies so effectually disposed of that no trace of them was ever discovered.”

From this we passed to other topics, and the grave Monsieur Carmaignac amused us with a perfectly prodigious collection of scandalous anecdote, which his opportunities in the police department had enabled him to accumulate.

My guests happily had engagements in Paris, and left me about ten.

I went up to my room, and looked out upon the grounds of the Chateau de la Carque. The moonlight was broken by clouds, and the view of the park in this desultory light acquired a melancholy and fantastic character.

The strange anecdotes recounted of the room in which I stood by Monsieur Carmaignac returned vaguely upon my mind, drowning in sudden shadows the gaiety of the more frivolous stories with which he had followed them. I looked round me on the room that lay in ominous gloom, with an almost disagreeable sensation. I took my pistols now with an undefined apprehension that they might be really needed before my return tonight. This feeling, be it understood, in no wise chilled my ardor. Never had my enthusiasm mounted higher. My adventure absorbed and carried me away; but it added a strange and stern excitement to the expedition.

I loitered for a time in my room. I had ascertained the exact point at which the little churchyard lay. It was about a mile away. I did not wish to reach it earlier than necessary.

I stole quietly out and sauntered along the road to my left, and thence entered a narrower track, still to my left, which, skirting the park wall and describing a circuitous route all the way, under grand old trees, passes the ancient cemetery. That cemetery is embowered in trees and occupies little more than half an acre of ground to the left of the road, interposing between it and the park of the Chateau de la Carque.

Here, at this haunted spot, I paused and listened. The place was utterly silent. A thick cloud had darkened the moon, so that I could distinguish little more than the outlines of near objects, and that vaguely enough; and sometimes, as it were, floating in black fog, the white surface of a tombstone emerged.

Among the forms that met my eye against the iron-grey of the horizon, were some of those shrubs or trees that grow like our junipers, some six feet high, in form like a miniature poplar, with the darker foliage of the yew. I do not know the name of the plant, but I have often seen it in such funereal places.

Knowing that I was a little too early, I sat down upon the edge of a tombstone to wait, as, for aught I knew, the beautiful Countess might have wise reasons for not caring that I should enter the grounds of the chateau earlier than she had appointed. In the listless state induced by waiting, I sat there, with my eyes on the object straight before me, which chanced to be that faint black outline I have described. It was right before me, about half-a-dozen steps away.

The moon now began to escape from under the skirt of the cloud that had hid her face for so long; and, as the light gradually improved, the tree on which I had been lazily staring began to take a new shape. It was no longer a tree, but a man standing motionless. Brighter and brighter grew the moonlight, clearer and clearer the image became, and at last stood out perfectly distinctly. It was Colonel Gaillarde. Luckily, he was not looking toward me. I could only see him in profile; but there was no mistaking the white moustache, the _farouche_ visage, and the gaunt six-foot stature. There he was, his shoulder toward me, listening and watching, plainly, for some signal or person expected, straight in front of him.

If he were, by chance, to turn his eyes in my direction, I knew that I must reckon upon an instantaneous renewal of the combat only commenced in the hall of Belle Etoile. In any case, could malignant fortune have posted, at this place and hour, a more dangerous watcher? What ecstasy to him, by a single discovery, to hit me so hard, and blast the Countess de St. Alyre, whom he seemed to hate.

He raised his arm; he whistled softly; I heard an answering whistle as low; and, to my relief, the Colonel advanced in the direction of this sound, widening the distance between us at every step; and immediately I heard talking, but in a low and cautious key. I recognized, I thought, even so, the peculiar voice of Gaillarde. I stole softly forward in the direction in which those sounds were audible. In doing so, I had, of course, to use the extremest caution.

I thought I saw a hat above a jagged piece of ruined wall, and then a second–yes, I saw two hats conversing; the voices came from under them. They moved off, not in the direction of the park, but of the road, and I lay along the grass, peeping over a grave, as a skirmisher might observing the enemy. One after the other, the figures emerged full into view as they mounted the stile at the roadside. The Colonel, who was last, stood on the wall for awhile, looking about him, and then jumped down on the road. I heard their steps and talk as they moved away together, with their backs toward me, in the direction which led them farther and farther from the Dragon Volant.

I waited until these sounds were quite lost in distance before I entered the park. I followed the instructions I had received from the Countess de St. Alyre, and made my way among brushwood and thickets to the point nearest the ruinous temple, and crossed the short intervening space of open ground rapidly.

I was now once more under the gigantic boughs of the old lime and chestnut trees; softly, and with a heart throbbing fast, I approached the little structure.

The moon was now shining steadily, pouring down its radiance on the soft foliage, and here and there mottling the verdure under my feet.

I reached the steps; I was among its worn marble shafts. She was not there, nor in the inner sanctuary, the arched windows of which were screened almost entirely by masses of ivy. The lady had not yet arrived.

Chapter XIX

THE KEY

I stood now upon the steps, watching and listening. In a minute or two I heard the crackle of withered sticks trod upon, and, looking in the direction, I saw a figure approaching among the trees, wrapped in a mantle.

I advanced eagerly. It was the Countess. She did not speak, but gave me her hand, and I led her to the scene of our last interview. She repressed the ardor of my impassioned greeting with a gentle but peremptory firmness. She removed her hood, shook back her beautiful hair, and, gazing on me with sad and glowing eyes, sighed deeply. Some awful thought seemed to weigh upon her,

“Richard, I must speak plainly. The crisis of my life has come. I am sure you would defend me. I think you pity me; perhaps you even love me.”

At these words I became eloquent, as young madmen in my plight do. She silenced me, however, with the same melancholy firmness.

“Listen, dear friend, and then say whether you can aid me. How madly I am trusting you; and yet my heart tells me how wisely! To meet you here as I do–what insanity it seems! How poorly you must think of me! But when you know all, you will judge me fairly. Without your aid I cannot accomplish my purpose. That purpose unaccomplished, I must die. I am chained to a man whom I despise–whom I abhor. I have resolved to fly. I have jewels, principally diamonds, for which I am offered thirty thousand pounds of your English money. They are my separate property by my marriage settlement; I will take them with me. You are a judge, no doubt, of jewels. I was counting mine when the hour came, and brought this in my hand to show you. Look.”

“It is magnificent!” I exclaimed, as a collar of diamonds twinkled and flashed in the moonlight, suspended from her pretty fingers. I thought, even at that tragic moment, that she prolonged the show, with a feminine delight in these brilliant toys.

“Yes,” she said, “I shall part with them all. I will turn them into money and break, forever, the unnatural and wicked bonds that tied me, in the name of a sacrament, to a tyrant. A man young, handsome, generous, brave, as you, can hardly be rich. Richard, you say you love me; you shall share all this with me. We will fly together to Switzerland; we will evade pursuit; in powerful friends will intervene and arrange a separation, and shall, at length, be happy and reward my hero.”

You may suppose the style, florid and vehement, in which poured forth my gratitude, vowed the devotion of my life, and placed myself absolutely at her disposal.

“Tomorrow night,” she said, “my husband will attend the remains of his cousin, Monsieur de St. Amand, to Pere la Chaise. The hearse, he says, will leave this at half-past nine. You must be here, where we stand, at nine o’clock.”

I promised punctual obedience.

“I will not meet you here; but you see a red light in the window of the tower at that angle of the chateau?”

I assented.

“I placed it there, that, tomorrow night, when it comes, you may recognize it. So soon as that rose-colored light appears at that window, it will be a signal to you that the funeral has left the chateau, and that you may approach safely. Come, then, to that window; I will open it and admit you. Five minutes after a carriage-carriage, with four horses, shall stand ready in the _porte-cochere_. I will place my diamonds in your hands; and so soon as we enter the carriage our flight commences. We shall have at least five hours’ start; and with energy, stratagem, and resource, I fear nothing. Are you ready to undertake all this for my sake?”

Again I vowed myself her slave.

“My only difficulty,” she said, “is how we shall quickly enough convert my diamonds into money; I dare not remove them while my husband is in the house.”

Here was the opportunity I wished for. I now told her that I had in my banker’s hands no less a sum than thirty thousand pounds, with which, in the shape of gold and notes, I should come furnished, and thus the risk and loss of disposing of her diamonds in too much haste would be avoided.

“Good Heaven!” she exclaimed, with a kind of disappointment. “You are rich, then? and I have lost the felicity of making my generous friend more happy. Be it so! since so it must be. Let us contribute, each, in equal shares, to our common fund. Bring you, your money; I, my jewels. There is a happiness to me even in mingling my resources with yours.”

On this there followed a romantic colloquy, all poetry and passion, such as I should in vain endeavor to reproduce. Then came a very special instruction.

“I have come provided, too, with a key, the use of which I must explain.”

It was a double key–a long, slender stem, with a key at each end–one about the size which opens an ordinary room door; the other as small, almost, as the key of a dressing-case.

“You cannot employ too much caution tomorrow night. An interruption would murder all my hopes. I have learned that you occupy the haunted room in the Dragon Volant. It is the very room I would have wished you in. I will tell you why–there is a story of a man who, having shut himself up in that room one night, disappeared before morning. The truth is, he wanted, I believe, to escape from creditors; and the host of the Dragon Volant at that time, being a rogue, aided him in absconding. My husband investigated the matter, and discovered how his escape was made. It was by means of this key. Here is a memorandum and a plan describing how they are to be applied. I have taken them from the Count’s escritoire. And now, once more I must leave to your ingenuity how to mystify the people at the Dragon Volant. Be sure you try the keys first, to see that the locks turn freely. I will have my jewels ready. You, whatever we divide, had better bring your money, because it may be many months before you can revisit Paris, or disclose our place of residence to anyone: and our passports–arrange all that; in what names, and whither, you please. And now, dear Richard” (she leaned her arm fondly on my shoulder, and looked with ineffable passion in my eyes, with her other hand clasped in mine), “my very life is in your hands; I have staked all on your fidelity.”

As she spoke the last word, she, on a sudden, grew deadly pale, and gasped, “Good God! who is here?”

At the same moment she receded through the door in the marble screen, close to which she stood, and behind which was a small roofless chamber, as small as the shrine, the window of which was darkened by a clustering mass of ivy so dense that hardly a gleam of light came through the leaves.

I stood upon the threshold which she had just crossed, looking in the direction in which she had thrown that one terrified glance. No wonder she was frightened. Quite close upon us, not twenty yards away, and approaching at a quick step, very distinctly lighted by the moon, Colonel Gaillarde and his companion were coming. The shadow of the cornice and a piece of wall were upon me. Unconscious of this, I was expecting the moment when, with one of his frantic yells, he should spring forward to assail me.

I made a step backward, drew one of my pistols from my pocket, and cocked it. It was obvious he had not seen me.

I stood, with my finger on the trigger, determined to shoot him dead if he should attempt to enter the place where the Countess was. It would, no doubt, have been a murder; but, in my mind, I had no question or