Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE NAIAD
A GHOST STORY

FROM THE FRENCH OF

George Sand

BY

KATHERINE BERRY DI ZÉRÉGA

PRESS OF

WILLIAM R. JENKINS

851 & 853 Sixth Avenue

New York

Copyright, 1892,

by

Katherine Berry di Zéréga.

To the late

Lady Frankland

THIS BOOK IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED

BY HER

MOTHER

PREFACE.

When years ago the author of this volume read, with delight, the story in the original, she then decided to translate it, in order that others (unfamiliar with the language) might enjoy a similar pleasure; the work of publication, hardly begun, was interrupted by the illness and sudden death of her only daughter, and to one who in so many ways resembled the heroine of this sketch, this book is now dedicated.

Contents.

The Naiad.

CHAPTER I.
The Three Loaves.

Charged by my father with a very delicate mission, I repaired, towards the end of May, 1788, to the château of Ionis, situated a dozen leagues distant, in the lands lying between Angers and Saumur. I was twenty-two, and already practising the profession of lawyer, for which I experienced but slight inclination, although neither the study of business nor of argument had presented serious difficulties to me. Taking my youth into consideration, I was not esteemed without talent, and the standing of my father, a lawyer renowned in the locality, assured me a brilliant patronage in the future, in return for any paltry efforts I might make to be worthy of replacing him. But I would have preferred literature, a more dreamy life, a more independent and more individual use of my faculties, a responsibility less submissive to the passions and interests of others. As my family was well off, and I an only son, greatly spoiled and petted, I might have chosen my own career, but I would have thus afflicted my father, who took pride in his ability to direct me in the road which he had cleared in advance, and I loved him too tenderly to permit my instinct to outweigh his wishes.

It was a delightful evening in which I was finishing my ride on horseback through the woods that surrounded the ancient and magnificent castle of Ionis. I was well mounted, dressed en cavalier, with a species of elegance, and accompanied by a servant of whom I had not the slightest need, but whom my mother had conceived the innocent idea of giving me for the occasion, desiring that her son should present a proper appearance at the house of one of the most brilliant personages of our patronage.

The night was illuminated by the soft fire of its largest stars. A slight mist veiled the scintillations of those myriads of satellites that gleam like brilliant eyes on clear, cold evenings. This was a true summer sky, pure enough to be luminous and transparent, still sufficiently softened not to overwhelm one by its immeasurable wealth. It was, if I may so speak, one of those soft firmaments that permit one to think of earth, to admire the vaporous lines of narrow horizons, to breathe without disdain its atmosphere of flowers and herbage—in fine, to consider oneself as something in this immensity, and to forget that one is but an atom in the infinite.

In proportion as I approached the seigneurial park the wild perfumes of the forest were mingled with those of the lilacs and acacias, whose blooming heads leaned over the wall. Soon through the shrubbery I saw the windows of the manor gleaming behind their curtains of purple moire, divided by the dark crossbars of the frame work. It was a magnificent castle of the renaissance, a chef-d’œuvre of taste mingled with caprice, one of those dwellings where one is impressed by something indescribably ingenious and bold, which from the imagination of the architect seems to pass into one’s own, and take possession of it, raising it above the usages and preoccupations of a positive world.

I confess that my heart beat fast in giving my name to the lackey commissioned to announce me. I had never seen Madame d’Ionis; she passed for one of the prettiest women in the country, was twenty-two, and had a husband who was neither handsome nor amiable, and who neglected her in order to travel. Her writing was charming, and she found means to show not only a great deal of sense, but still more cleverness in her business letters. Altogether she was a very fine character. This was all that I knew of her, and it was sufficient for me to dread appearing awkward or provincial. I grew pale on entering the salon. My first impression then was one of relief and pleasure, when I found myself in the presence of two stout and very ugly old women, one of whom, Madame the Dowager d’Ionis informed me that her daughter-in-law was at the house of her friends in the neighborhood, and probably would not return before the next day.

“You are welcome, all the same,” added this matron. “We have a very friendly and grateful feeling for your father, and it appears that we stand in great need of his counsel, which you are without doubt charged to communicate to us.”

“I came from him,” I replied, “to talk over the affair with Madame d’Ionis.”

“The Countess d’Ionis does in fact occupy herself with business affairs,” replied the dowager, rather coldly, as if to warn me that I had committed a blunder. “She understands it, she has a good head, and in the absence of my son, who is at Vienna, she is conducting this wearisome and interminable law suit. You must not depend upon me to replace her, for I understand nothing about it, and all that I can do is to retain you until the countess’ return, and offer you a supper, such as it may be, and a good bed.”

Hereupon the old lady, who in spite of the little lesson she had given me, appeared a good enough woman, rang and gave orders for making me at home. I refused to eat anything, having taken care to do so on the road, and knowing that nothing is more annoying than to eat alone, and under the eyes of people with whom one happens to be totally unacquainted.

As my father had allowed me several days in which to execute my commission, I had nothing better to do, than to wait the return of my beautiful client; and I was, in the eyes of herself and family, a messenger of sufficient importance to be entitled to a very cordial hospitality. I did not then await a second invitation to remain in her house, although there was a very comfortable inn where persons of my condition went ordinarily to await the moment of consultation with “people of quality.” Such was still the language of the provinces at this epoch, and it was necessary to appreciate these terms and their value, in order to maintain one’s position without degradation and without impertinence in one’s relations with the world. A bourgeois, and a philosopher (they did not yet say Democrat), I was not in the least convinced of the moral superiority of the nobility, and although they prided themselves upon being philosophical, I knew it was necessary to humor their susceptibilities of etiquette and respect them, in order to be respected oneself. I displayed then a slight timidity with an air of sufficiently good style, having already seen at my father’s house some specimens of all classes of society. The dowager appeared to perceive this, before the lapse of many minutes and no longer assumed an air of condescension in order to welcome, if not as an equal, at least as a friend the son of the family lawyer.

While she was conversing with me, as a woman with whom custom supplies the place of wit, I had the leisure to examine both her countenance and that of the other matron still stouter than she who, seated at some distance and filling in the background of a piece of tapestry, never opened her lips and scarcely raised her eyes in my direction. She was dressed somewhat in the style of the dowager, in a dark silk gown with tight sleeves, and a black lace scarf, surmounting a white cap, tied under her chin. But it was not so fresh or clean, her hands were less white, although equally plump, her type coarser, although coarseness was very evident in the heavy features of the stout dowager of Ionis. In short I was no longer in doubt as to her condition of companion, when the dowager remarked apropos of my refusal to sup.

“No matter, Zéphyrine, we must not forget that M. Nivières is young, and that he may be hungry yet before going to sleep. Order a light supper to be served in his apartment.”

The monumental Zéphyrine arose; she was as tall as she was stout. “And above all,” observed her mistress, “do not let them forget the bread.”

“The bread,” said Zéphyrine, in a fine, husky little voice that offered a pleasing contrast to her stature. Then she repeated, “The bread!” with an intonation strongly marked by doubt and surprise.

“The loaves,” replied the dowager with authority.

Zéphyrine seemed to hesitate an instant and went out, but her mistress recalled her immediately, and gave her this strange order—“Three loaves!”

Zéphyrine opened her mouth to answer, shrugged her shoulders slightly and disappeared.

“Three loaves!” I exclaimed in my turn. “But what kind of an appetite do you suppose I have, Madame la Comtesse?”

“Oh, that is nothing,” said she, “They are quite small.”

She was silent for a moment, I sought for some subject of conversation while awaiting the time when I might retire, when she appeared a prey to a certain perplexity, placed her hand on a bell, and stopped to say as if speaking to herself—“Still three loaves!”

“It is a great deal in fact,” answered I, repressing a strong temptation to laugh. She looked at me in amazement, unconscious that she had spoken aloud.

“You speak of the law suit,” said she, as if to make me forget her distraction, “it is a great deal that they claim. Do you think we will gain it?”

But she paid very little attention to my evasive answers, and rang emphatically. A servant came, she asked for Zéphyrine, who reappeared and in whose ear she whispered, after which she seemed relieved, and began to chat with me like a good-natured gossip, very ignorant, but benevolent and almost maternal, questioning me upon my tastes, my dispositions, my occupations and my pleasures. I made myself more of a child than I was in order to put her at her ease, for I soon remarked that she was one of those women of the great world who contrive to get along with the most mediocre intelligence, and who would prefer not to encounter a greater degree in others. On the whole she showed so much good nature that I was not greatly bored with her during the space of an hour, and that I did not await her permission to leave her with too much impatience.

A groom of the chambers conducted me to my apartment, for it was almost a complete suite, three decidedly handsome rooms, quite large and furnished in the Louis XV style, with a great deal of luxury. My own servant to whom my good mother had given his lesson, was in my bedroom, awaiting the honor of undressing me, in order to appear as well posted in his duties as the valets of great houses.

“This is all very well, my dear Baptiste,” said I to him, when we were alone, “but thou canst go to sleep, I shall undress myself as I have been in the habit of doing all my life.”

Baptiste bade me good-night, and left me. It was only ten o’clock. I had no desire to sleep so soon, so I set myself to examine the furniture and pictures in my room, when my eyes fell upon the repast which had been served near the fire-place, and the three loaves appeared before me in all their mysterious symmetry. They were passably large and arranged in the centre of the Japanese waiter in a pretty basket of old Saxony, with a handsome silver salt-cellar in the midst, and three damask napkins placed at intervals around it.

“What the deuce does this mean?” I asked myself, “and why has this vulgar accessory of my supper, the bread, tormented my aged hostess to such an extent?” “Why were three loaves so expressly ordered? Why not four! Why not ten? Since they take me for an ogre! Upon my word! This is really a bounteous feast, and here are some bottles of wine whose etiquettes promise well. But why three carafes of water? Here again it becomes mysterious and absurd. Does this good old countess imagine that I am triple, or that I carry two guests in my valise?” I was musing upon this enigma when some one knocked at the door of the ante-chamber.

“Come in,” cried I, without moving, thinking that Baptiste had forgotten something. What was my surprise to behold the powerful Zéphyrine in her night cap, holding a candle in one hand and, with a finger placed upon her lips, advancing towards me on tip-toe as if she entertained the absurd idea of not letting the floor creak under her elephantine tread. I certainly grew paler than I had done in preparing to meet the youthful Madame d’Ionis. The spectacle of this voluminous apparition was truly appalling!

“Fear nothing, sir,” said the good old maid ingeniously, as if she had divined my terror. “I come to explain about the extraordinary—the three carafes, and the three loaves.”

“Ah! willingly,” answered I, offering her an armchair, “I was really considerably perplexed.”

“As housekeeper,” said Zéphyrine, refusing to be seated and still holding her candle, “I should be very much mortified if monsieur imagined that I wished to perpetrate a poor joke. I would not permit myself—and still I come to ask monsieur to connive at it, so that my mistress may not be displeased.”

“Go on, Mademoiselle Zéphyrine, I am not of a disposition to be vexed at a joke, above all, when it is an amusing one.”

“Oh! mon Dieu, no, sir, there is nothing amusing about it, but neither is there anything disagreeable. It is only this, madame the dowager countess is very—her head is very—.” Zéphyrine stopped short; she either loved or feared the dowager and could not make up her mind to criticise her. Her embarrassment was comical, for it showed itself in a childish smile curling around the corners of a decidedly small and toothless mouth which caused her round, chubby face, minus forehead and chin, to appear still larger. You might have mistaken it for the full moon grimacing as it is represented on almanacs. Her breathless little voice, and her peculiar lisp had the effect of causing her to appear so extraordinary that I did not dare to look her in the face for fear of losing my countenance.

“Let me see,” said I, endeavoring to encourage her in her revelations, “madame the dowager countess is something of a tease; she likes to amuse herself at the expense of others!”

“No, sir, no indeed. She does it in perfect good faith; she believes, she imagines”—I sought in vain for what the countess might imagine, when Zéphyrine added with an effort—“In fact, sir, my poor mistress believes in spirits!”

“Well, granted,” I replied. “She is not the only person of her sex and age who entertains the same belief; and, it certainly does harm to no one.”

“But it sometimes causes evil to those who fear them, and if monsieur should be afraid of anything in this apartment, I can assure him that nothing ever reappears here.”

“So much the worse, I would have been very pleased to see something supernatural. Ghosts are part of all old manors and this one is so handsome that I would only have imagined very agreeable phantoms.”

“Really, monsieur has then heard something spoken of?”

“In regard to this castle and this apartment, never. I am waiting for you to tell me about it.”

“Well, monsieur, this is the story: In the year—I can’t remember—but it was in the reign of Henri II, monsieur must know better than I when that was, there lived here three young ladies of the d’Ionis family, beautiful as the day, and so amiable that they were adored by everybody. A wicked court lady who was jealous of them, and of the youngest in particular, caused some poison to be placed in the water of a fountain from which they drank and which was used in making their bread. All three died the same night, and as they pretend to say, in the room where we now are. But this is not by any means certain and no one ever imagined such a thing until lately. To be sure they were in the habit of telling a story in the country of three white ladies who had shown themselves for a long time in the castle and in the gardens; but it was so old that no one thought of it any more, and no one believed it, when one of the friends of the family, M. l’abbé de Lamyre, who is an esprit gai and a good talker, having slept in this room, dreamed or pretended to have dreamed of three green ladies who had appeared and prophesied before him. And as he saw that his dream interested madame the dowager, and diverted the young countess, her daughter-in-law, he invented whatever he pleased and made his ghosts talk according to his fancy so well, that madame the dowager is persuaded that the future of the family and that of the law suit, which is tormenting M. le comte, might be revealed by causing these phantoms to reappear and speak. But, as all the persons who have lodged here have seen nothing at all, and have simply laughed at her, she has resolved to put only those here who not having been forewarned would not think of inventing apparitions or of concealing those that they might have seen. This is why she has ordered you to be put in this room without saying anything to you, but as madame is not very—clever, perhaps, she has not been able to keep herself from speaking to me of the three loaves in your presence.”

“To be sure, the three loaves and the three carafes have given me some subject of thought. Nevertheless, I confess that absolutely I can discover no connection whatever.”

“Oh, yes, monsieur, the three ladies of the time of Henri II were poisoned by bread and water.”

“There I see the connection very plainly, but I do not understand how this offering, if it is one, should be agreeable to them. What do you think of it yourself?”

“I think wherever their souls may be they neither know nor care anything about it,” said Zéphyrine with an air of superior modesty. “But you ought to learn how these ideas were suggested to my good old mistress. I bring you the manuscript that Madame d’Ionis, her daughter-in-law, Madame Caroline as we call her here, has herself unearthed by means of directions given in some old scribblings found in the archives of the family. This perusal will interest you more than my conversation, and I am going to wish you good evening after having preferred a little petition, however.”

“With all my heart, my dear young lady, what can I do for you?”

“Do not tell any one in the world, unless Madame Caroline, who will not mind, that I have forewarned you, for madame the dowager would scold me, and would trust me no longer.”

“I promise, and what must I say to-morrow if I am questioned in regard to my dreams?”

“Ah! that, monsieur, is a case in which you must have the kindness to invent something, a dream without sense or connection, whatever you please, provided it includes the three young ladies, otherwise madame the dowager will be like a soul in torment, and will accuse me of not putting the loaves, and carafes and salt-cellar in their places, or rather that I have warned you, and that your incredulity has prevented the ghosts from making their appearance. She is convinced of these ladies’ bad temper and of their refusal to show themselves to those who ridicule them beforehand, were it only in their thoughts.”

Left alone, after having promised Zéphyrine to lend myself to the fancy of her mistress, I opened and read the manuscript of which I shall only relate the circumstances relative to my story. That of the d’Ionis, young ladies appeared to me purely legendary, recounted by Madame d’Ionis on the faith of documents of slender authenticity, which she herself criticised in that light and mocking strain which was the fashion of the day. I pass over then in silence the chronicle of the three dead ladies, thus coldly commented upon, and which had appeared more interesting to me in the sober words of Zéphyrine and will only relate the following fragment, transcribed by madame d’Ionis from a manuscript dated 1650, and revised by an ancient chaplain of the castle.

“It is a fact that I have heard in my youth that the castle of Ionis was haunted by three spirits, exhibiting the appearance of ladies richly dressed, who without menacing any one appeared to be seeking something in the rooms and closets of the house. Masses and prayers recited for their benefit proving ineffectual to prevent their return, some one conceived the idea of causing three white loaves to be blessed, and of putting them in the room where the demoiselles d’Ionis had expired. That night they came without making any noise or frightening any one by their appearance, and it was discovered on the following day that they had nibbled the loaves after the manner of mice but had taken nothing away, and on the following night they had recommenced complaining and making the doors creak and bolts groan. For this reason some one conceived the idea of giving them three pitchers of clear water, which they did not drink, but a portion of which they spilled. At length the prior of Saint —— suggested that they might be entirely appeased by offering them a salt-cellar with white salt, on account of their having been poisoned by a loaf without salt, and as soon as this was done they were heard singing a very beautiful song in which we are assured that they promised, in Latin, to bestow blessings and good fortune upon the younger branch of the Ionis family to whom their property had reverted. This took place, I am told, in the time of King Henri IV, and since then nothing further has been heard of them; but for a long time a belief existed in the d’Ionis family, that by making them this offering at midnight they could be drawn thither and the future revealed through them. It is even said that if the three loaves, three carafes and a salt-cellar should by chance be discovered on a table in the aforesaid castle, astounding things would be seen and heard in this place.”

To this fragment Madame d’Ionis had added the following reflection: “It is much to be regretted for the sake of the d’Ionis family that this fine miracle should have ceased; all its members would then have been virtuous and wise: but, though I have in my hands a formula of invocation arranged by some astrologer formerly attached to the house, I have no hopes that the green ladies will ever reappear here.”

I remained for some time absorbed, not from the effects of this perusal, but rather on account of Madame d’Ionis’ pretty handwriting and her elegant revision of the other reflections that accompanied the legend. I did not then make, as I permit myself to-day, any criticism on the easy scepticism of this beautiful lady. I fully sympathized with her on this point. It was the fashion to regard fantastical things not from an artistic but from an ironical point of view. People prided themselves upon not crediting nurses’ tales or the superstitions of former ages. I was, besides, strongly disposed to fall in love. They had spoken to me so much at home of this amiable person, and my mother had recommended me so strongly on my departure, not to allow my head to be turned that it was already partially accomplished. So far I had only been in love with two or three of my cousins, and these affections, rehearsed in verses as chaste as my flame, had not consumed my heart to such an extent that it was not ready to lend itself to burning much more seriously.

I had brought with me a bundle of law papers that my father had made me promise to look over. I opened it conscientiously; but after having read several pages with my eyes, without taking in the sense of a single word, I soon found out that mode of study was perfectly useless and wisely determined to renounce it. I thought I could make up for my laziness by seriously thinking over the d’Ionis law suit, that I had at the end of my fingers, and I prepared the arguments with which I was to convince the countess of the steps she ought to take. Only, each of these wonderful arguments terminated, I know not how, with some amorous madrigal which had no direct connection with the procedure.

In the midst of this important work I was seized with hunger. The muse is not so hard upon children of a family accustomed to live well as to forbid them to sup with a good appetite. I therefore set myself to do justice to the pâté which smilingly greeted me among my law papers and my alexandrines, and I unfolded the napkin placed at my plate where, to my great surprise, I found a fourth roll.

This surprise yielded quickly to a very simple train of reasoning. If in the plans and previsions of the dowager, the three cabalistic loaves were to remain intact, it was but natural that one should have been consecrated to the demands of my appetite. I tasted the wines and found them of so good a quality that I generously made a sacrifice to the phantoms of the carafes of water, designed for their particular use.

And while eating with great pleasure, I, at length, began to think of the chronicle and to ask myself how I should recount the wonders that I could not dispense with having seen. I regretted that Zéphyrine had not furnished me with more details of the three dead women’s presumed peculiarities. The extract from the magazine of 1650 was not sufficiently explicit: were these ladies to wait until I was asleep before coming, like mice, to nibble the loaves they were supposed to relish so greatly? Or rather, were they likely to appear at any moment, and seat themselves, one at my left, the other at my right, and the third opposite me?

The bell of the castle announced midnight, it was the classic hour, the fatal hour!

CHAPTER II.
The Apparition.

The clock struck twelve, but the last vibration died away without any ghost appearing. I arose, thinking I was rid of them. I had finished eating and, after a dozen leagues on horseback, began to feel the need of sleep, when the bell of the castle which had a very fine timbre solemn and resounding, began again to toll the four quarters and twelve hours with an imposing slowness.

Shall I confess that I felt some emotion at this sort of return of the fantastical hour that I thought had gone by? Why not? So far I had maintained a philosophical composure. Although a fervent disciple of reason, I was none the less a very young man, and a man of imagination, brought up at the knees of a mother, who firmly believed in all the legends which served as lullabies, and which had never appeared in the least laughable to me. I was conscious of experiencing an imperceptible uneasiness, and in order to overcome it—for I felt quite ashamed of it—I hastened to undress myself.

The bell had ceased tolling. I was in bed and about to extinguish my candle, when a clock some distance from the village began in its turn to strike four quarters and twelve hours, but in a tone so lugubrious and with such dreadful nonchalance, that I was seriously discomposed—and still more so, as it had like the castle clock a double stroke, and appeared as if it would never cease.

In fact, for several minutes it seemed as if I would hear it recommence and that it would strike thirty-seven times; but this was a pure illusion, as I assured myself by opening my window. The most profound silence reigned in the castle and throughout the country. The sky was quite overcast, the stars were no longer visible; the air was heavy; and I could see clouds of moths dancing in the ray of light that my candle cast outside. Their uneasiness was a sign of storm. As I have always enjoyed a tempest greatly, I pleased myself with inhaling its approach. Sudden gusts wafted the perfume of the garden towards me. The nightingale sang once more, then ceased, in order to seek a shelter. I forgot my foolish emotion while enjoying this spectacle of reality.

My room opened on the court of honor, which was immense and surrounded by magnificent buildings, whose delicate proportions were defined in pale blue against the dark sky, by the light of the first flashes.

But the wind arose and drove me from the casement from which it seemed desirous of tearing away the curtains. I closed everything and before again retiring, as I wished to brave the ghosts and satisfy Zéphyrine by accomplishing conscientiously what I presumed to be the rites of invocation, I brushed the table and removed the remains of my repast. I placed the three carafes around the basket. I had not disturbed the salt; and wishing to establish a complete victory over myself, by provoking my imagination to its extreme limit, I arranged three chairs around the table and placed three candlesticks upon it, one before each easy chair.

After this, I extinguished all the lights and fell asleep quietly, without failing to compare myself to sire Enguerrand, whose story my mother had often sung to me in the form of a plaintive melody, recounting thus his adventures in the terrible castle of Ardennes.

You can very well believe that my first sleep must have been profound, for I remember nothing more of the storm, and it was not that which awoke me; it was a clinking of glasses on the table, that I at first heard intermingled with my dreams—and that I ended by hearing in reality. I opened my eyes, and—believe me who will, but I was witness of such surprising things, that after twenty years the slightest detail is as clear in my memory as on the first day.

There was some light in the room although I could see no candle burning. It was a species of very vague green flame, which seemed to proceed from the fire-place. By the means of this faint illumination I could see, not very distinctly, but beyond any doubt, three persons, or rather three forms seated on the chairs that I had placed around the table, one at the right, the other at the left, the third between the two first, opposite the first-place, with its back to my bed.

In proportion as my eyes became accustomed to this light, I thought I could distinguish in these three shadows the forms of women, dressed or rather enveloped in voluminous greenish white veils, which at times resembled clouds, and which entirely concealed their faces, forms and hands. I do not know if they moved; but, if so, I could see none of their motions: and still the clinking of the glasses continued, as if they had been pushed and knocked against the basket, in a sort of musical measure. After the lapse of several moments, I confess I grew seriously alarmed. I thought I was the dupe of some mystery, and was about to leap resolutely into the middle of the room in order to frighten those who wished to terrify me when, remembering that in this house there could be none but respectable women, perhaps great ladies, who were doing me the honor of amusing themselves at my expense, I suddenly drew my curtain and hurriedly dressed myself.

When this was accomplished, I pulled back the curtain to watch for the time when I should surprise these malicious people by a loud outcry in my harshest voice when, behold! everything had disappeared, and darkness reigned supreme.

At this period, the means of procuring light instantaneously had not been discovered; I did not even possess that of obtaining it slowly by aid of my gunflint. I was thus compelled to feel my way towards the table, where I found absolutely nothing but the easy chairs, the carafes, the candlesticks and the rolls, in the same order I had placed them.

No perceptible voice had betrayed the departure of the strange visitors; it is true that the wind was still blowing very hard and howled mournfully down the large chimney of my room.

I opened the window and blinds, and after quite a struggle succeeded in fastening them.

Day had not yet dawned, and the slight transparency of the exterior air was not sufficient to permit me seeing every part of my room, so I was compelled to go by the sense of feeling, not wishing to call any one, or ask questions, so much I feared to appear alarmed. I passed into the salon and the room beyond, taking care to make no more noise in my search; then I came back, seated myself upon my bed, struck my watch, and thought over my adventure.

My watch had stopped, and the clocks out of doors struck the half hour, as if to announce that no other means existed of learning the time.

I listened to the wind and strove to examine its sound or to detect any which might proceed from some corner of my apartment. I tortured my eyes and my ears. I racked my brain also to discover if I had not dreamed what I thought I had seen. The thing was possible, although I could remember no dream that had preceded or led up to this nightmare.

I resolved to torment myself no longer, and to await a return of sleep on my bed without undressing myself in case of some new mystification.

But I could not go to sleep again. Nevertheless, I felt tired and the wind soothed me inexpressibly. I dropped off every few moments, and the next instant I would reopen my eyes, and in spite of myself gaze suspiciously into the darkness and emptiness around me.

I was beginning at last to doze, when the clinking recommenced, and, this time, opening my eyes wide, without moving, I saw the three ghosts in their places, motionless apparently with their green veils floating in the verdant light that proceeded from the fire-place. I feigned sleep, for it was probable that my open eyes could not be seen in the shadow of the alcove, and I observed attentively. I was no longer frightened; I no longer experienced anything but a curiosity to surprise a mystery either pleasant or disagreeable (as the case might be), a phantasmagoria with well appointed scenery, enacted by living people, or—I confess that I could find no definition for the second hypothesis; it could only be a foolish, and ridiculous one, and still it tormented me as being possible.

I then saw the three shadows arise, and move rapidly and noiselessly around the table with incomprehensible gestures. They had seemed to me of medium height when seated; standing, they were as tall as men. Suddenly, one of them diminished in size, re-assumed the figure of a woman, became quite small, then grew disproportionately tall, and approached me, while the two others remained standing under the shadow of the fire-place.

This affected me very unpleasantly and with a childish movement, I covered my face with my pillow, as if to place an obstacle between myself and the vision.

Then, ashamed of my stupidity, I looked around attentively. The ghost was seated in an easy chair placed at the foot of my bed. I could not see its face. The head and bust were not invisible, but partially obscured by the curtain of the alcove. The light from the fire-place, grown brighter, revealed only the lower portion of a figure and the folds of a garment whose form and color though indeterminate, could no longer be called into question.

It was fearfully immovable, as if nothing breathed under this species of shroud. I waited several moments that appeared an age to me. I felt that I was losing the coolness with which I had armed myself. I moved in my bed, I thought of flying I knew not where. I resisted this idea. I passed my hands over my eyes, then stretched them out resolutely to seize the spectre by the folds of this perfectly visible garment; but they encountered space. I threw myself upon the chair, it was empty. Light and vision had alike disappeared. I recommenced rushing through the room and the adjoining apartments. As at first, I found them empty. Quite sure this time that I had neither dreamed nor slept, I stayed up until day-break which did not long delay.

Of late years people have made quite a study of the phenomena of hallucinations; they have been observed and classified. Scientific men have experimented upon themselves. I have even seen delicate and nervous women often act as spiritual mediums not without suffering, but without fear, and giving a thorough account of this state of delusion in which they had been.

In my youth, they were not so far advanced, there was no medium between the absolute denial of all visions and a blind belief in apparitions. They laughed at those who were tormented by these visions that were attributed to credulity and fear, and only excused in cases of serious illness.

So during this terrible watch, I reprimanded myself severely and unjustly for my weakness of mind, without ever once thinking of attributing it all to the effect of a bad digestion or atmospherical influence. Such an idea would have been entertained with difficulty as with the exception of a little fatigue and bad humor I did not feel in the least ill.

Thoroughly resolved to boast of my adventure to no one, I retired and slept very well until Baptiste knocked at my door to inform me that breakfast would soon be ready. I admitted him after having thoroughly convinced myself that my door had remained bolted, as I had previously assured myself before going to sleep; I had observed, and I again noticed that the other door of my apartment was in a like condition. I counted the large screws which secured the tiles of the fire-place. I sought in vain for the slightest indication of a secret door.

Besides, of what use would it be, said I to myself, whilst Baptiste was powdering my hair; have I not seen an object without substance, a robe, or a shroud which vanished beneath my touch?

Without this conclusive circumstance, I might have attributed it all to a joke of Madame d’Ionis, as I learned from Baptiste that she had returned the evening before towards midnight.

This news snatched me from my preoccupation. I bestowed particular pains upon my coiffure and my toilet, and was a little vexed that the nature of my profession condemned me to wear black; but my mother had supplied me with such fine linen and such well cut coats that I considered myself on the whole, very presentable. I was neither ill-looking or badly formed. I resembled my mother, who had been very beautiful, and without being foppish, I was accustomed to remark the general approval that a pleasing countenance produces.

Madame d’Ionis was in the salon when I entered. I beheld a bewitching woman indeed; but much too small to have figured in my trio of spectres. Neither was there anything fantastical or diaphanous about her. Hers was a realistic beauty, fresh, gay, lively, expressing gracefully, what was designed in the style of the period, an amiable embonpoint, discussing every subject clearly and sensibly, and revealing great energy of character combined with singular sweetness of manner.

After exchanging several words with her, I understood how, thanks to so much intelligence and resolution, candor and cleverness, she managed to live on good terms with a pretty bad husband and a very stupid mother-in-law.

Scarcely had we begun breakfast, when the dowager, scrutinizing me closely, declared that I looked ill and pale, although I had so far forgotten my adventure as to eat with a good appetite, and to be pleasantly affected by the amiable attention of my beautiful hostess.

Then recollecting Zéphyrine’s instructions, I hastened to say that I had slept well and had had very pleasant dreams.

“Ah! I was sure of it,” cried the old lady evidently enchanted. “One always sleeps well in that room. Tell us your dreams, Monsieur Nivières.”

“They were very confused; still I think I can remember a lady.”

“Only one?”

“Perhaps two!”

“Perhaps three also?” said Madame d’Ionis, smiling.

“Precisely, madame, you remind me that they were three!”

“Pretty?” said the triumphant dowager.

“Rather pretty, but somewhat faded.”

“Really?” said Madame d’Ionis, who seemed to communicate through her eyes with Zéphyrine (who was seated at the lower end of the table), in order to answer me. “And what did they say to you?”

“Incomprehensible things. But if it interests madame, the dowager Countess, I will do my utmost to remember.”

“Ah! my dear child,” said the dowager, “it interests me more than I can say. I will explain by and by. Begin by telling us.”

“But it will be very difficult for me to tell. Can any one recount a dream?”

“Perhaps if your memory were assisted,” said Madame d’Ionis with great coolness, determined to encourage her mother-in-law’s hobby; “did they say nothing to you about the future prosperity of this house?”

“It seems to me they did, in fact.”

“Ah! you see, Zéphyrine,” cried the dowager; “you who believe in nothing and I wager that they spoke of the law suit: come, Monsieur Nivières, tell us all about it.”

A glance from Madame d’Ionis warned me not to answer. I declared that not a word of the law suit had I heard in my dreams. The dowager seemed greatly disappointed, but consoled herself by saying: “It will come! It will come!”

This, “it will come,” was very disagreeable to me, although it was said with the utmost benevolence. I did not in the least care to pass another bad night, but I readily resigned myself to my fate when Madame d’Ionis said to me in an undertone, while the dowager was quarreling with Zéphyrine about her lack of faith.

“It is very amiable of you to lend yourself to this fancy of the day in our house. I trust indeed that you will have only pleasant dreams while with us; and you are not absolutely compelled to see these three young ladies every night. It is sufficient that you should have spoken of them to-day to my excellent mother-in-law without laughing. It gives her great pleasure and does not compromise your courage. All of our friends have decided to see them in order to have some peace.”

I was sufficiently compensated and magnetized by the air of confiding intimacy that this charming woman assumed towards me to recover my ordinary gayety, and I endeavored, during my meal to recall, little by little, the wonderful things that had been revealed to me. Above all I predicted through the green ladies, a long life to the dowager.

“And my asthma, monsieur?” said she, “did they tell you that I would be cured of my asthma?”

“Not exactly; but they spoke of long life, fortune and health.”

“Well, indeed; I ask nothing further of the good God.”

“Now, my child,” said she to her daughter-in-law, “you who tell a story so well, relate to this good young man the cause of his dreams, and tell him the history of the three young ladies of Ionis.”

I assumed an air of surprise, Madame d’Ionis asked permission to give me the manuscript, that she had only prepared, she said, in order to dispense with going over the same story so often.

Breakfast being over, the dowager went to take her siesta.

“It is too warm to go in the garden at noon,” said Madame d’Ionis, “and still I do not wish you to work at that horrid law suit just after leaving the table. So if you care to visit the interior of the castle, which is quite interesting, I will act as your guide.”

“To accept your proposition is indiscreet and presumptuous,” I answered, “and yet I am dying to do so.”

“Well, don’t die, but come on,” said she, with adorable gayety.

But she added immediately, and quite naturally:

“Come with us, my good Zéphyrine; you will open the doors for us.”

An hour before, the addition of Zéphyrine would have been very agreeable to me, but I no longer felt so timid in Madame d’Ionis’ society, and I confess that the presence of a third person annoyed me. I certainly had no sort of presumption, no impertinent ideas; but it seemed to me that I could have talked more sensibly and agreeably in a tête-à-tête. The presence of this full moon blunted my ideas, and impeded the flight of my imagination.

And then Zéphyrine was thinking of the thing, that I, most naturally, would gladly have forgotten.

“You see now, Madame Caroline,” said she to Madame d’Ionis, while crossing the gallery on the ground floor, “there is nothing at all in the green ladies’ room; M. Nivières has slept there undisturbed.”

“Well, dear me! My good creature, I don’t doubt it,” answered the young woman.

“M. Nivières doesn’t impress me as a fool but that doesn’t hinder me from believing that the abbé Lamyre did see something there.”

“Indeed,” said I, with some emotion, “I have occasionally had the honor of seeing Monsieur de Lamyre, and I should have thought him no more of a fool than myself.”

“He is not a fool, sir,” replied Zéphyrine, “he is fond of a joke which gives a serious tone to his jests.”

“No,” said Madame d’Ionis with decision, “he is a clever man with a powerful imagination. He began by making fun at our expense, and telling us stories about ghosts. It was easy then, not for our good dowager, but for the rest of us, to see that he was joking. But perhaps we should not jest too much about certain foolish ideas. It was very evident to me, that one night something frightened him, since then nothing could persuade him to enter that room. But let us speak of something else, for I am sure that M. Nivières is already sick of this story, as for myself it bores me inexpressibly, and since you have already shown him the manuscript, I am absolved from giving myself any further concern about it.”

“It is strange, madame,” replied Zéphyrine laughing, “one would say that you, in your turn, are beginning to put some faith in this story! I then am the only person in the house who remains incredulous.”

We entered the chapel and Madame d’Ionis rapidly sketched its history. She was very cultivated and nothing of a pedant, and exhibited in the course of her explanations all the important rooms, the statues, the paintings and all the rare and precious furniture contained in the castle. She manifested throughout so incomparable a grace and so remarkable a degree of complaisance that I fell in love at first sight, as they say, in love to the extent of being jealous when I reflected that she was perhaps as amiable with every one as with myself.

In this manner we at length arrived at the immense and magnificent hall divided into two galleries by a beautiful rotunda. This hall was called the library, although only a portion of it was consecrated to books. The other half was a sort of museum for pictures and works of art. The rotunda contained a fountain surrounded by flowers. Madame d’Ionis called my attention to this valuable monument, that had recently been removed from the gardens and placed here to preserve it from accident, the fall of a large branch on a stormy night having slightly injured it.

It was a rock of white marble on which marine monsters were intertwined, and above them, on the most elevated portion, a naiad, regarded as a chef-d’œuvre was gracefully seated. This group was thought to be the work of Jean Goujon or of one of his best pupils.

The nymph, instead of being nude, was chastely draped; a circumstance which caused it to be thought that it was the portrait of a modest lady who had not been willing to pose in the simple apparel of a goddess, or permit the artist to interpret her elegant figure in order to exhibit it to the gaze of a profane public. But these draperies, from which the upper part of the bust and arms as far as the shoulders alone were released did not prevent one from appreciating the ensemble of this extraordinary type which characterizes the statuary of the renaissance, those slight proportions, that roundness combined with slenderness, that delicacy allied to strength, that indefinable something more beautiful than nature, which at first surprises us like a dream, and which little by little captivates the most enthusiastic region of the mind. One knows not if these beauties were conceived for the senses, but they do not affect them. They seem to owe their origin to a Divinity in some Eden, or on some Mount Ida, from which they have but descended against their will, to mingle in the realities of earth. Such is the famous Diana of Goujon, majestic, almost terrifying in aspect, despite the serene sweetness of its lineaments, exquisite and monumental, informed with physical vigor and yet calm as intellectual force.

I had as yet seen nothing of that national statuary, that we have perhaps never sufficiently appreciated, and which places the France of that period on a level with the Italy of Michael Angelo. I did not at first comprehend what I beheld. I was besides ill-disposed towards it, while comparing this extraordinary type with the plump and dainty beauty of Madame d’Ionis, a true Louis XV. specimen, ever smiling and more attractive, on account of her vitality, than through any grandeur of the intellect.

“This is more beautiful than true, n’est-ce pas?” said she calling my attention to the long arms and serpentine body of the naiad.

“I don’t think so,” I replied while regarding Madame d’Ionis with involuntary ardor.

She did not appear to pay the least attention.

“Let us stop here,” said she, “the air is so cool and refreshing. If you wish, we will speak of business. Zéphyrine, my dear, you may leave us.”

I was at last alone with her! Two or three times during the past hour, the beautiful glance of her eye, unaffectedly vivacious and loving, had given me a vertigo, and I had thought were Zéphyrine not here I would throw myself at her feet.

But hardly had she left us than I felt myself chained by a sentiment of respect and fear, and at once began to discuss the law suit with a desperate perspicacity.

CHAPTER III.
The Law Suit.

“So,” said she after having listened with attention, “there is no way of losing it?”

“The opinion of my father as well as of myself, is that in order to lose it, it would be necessary to desire its loss.”

“But your worthy father has surely understood that I did wish it absolutely?”

“No, madame,” replied I with firmness, for it was a question of my duty, and I assumed the only part proper for me to play, in the presence of this noble lady. “No, my father does not so understand it. His conscience forbids him to betray the interests confided to him by M. le comte d’Ionis. He thinks that you will induce your husband to adopt a compromise and he will render it as acceptable as possible to the adversaries that you protect. But he will never bring himself to persuade M. d’Ionis that his cause is bad in justice.”

“In legal justice,” she replied, with a sweet sad smile; “but, in real justice, in moral and natural justice, your worthy father knows well that our right leads us to exercise a cruel spoliation.”

“What my father thinks of this subject,” I replied a little confused, “he is only accountable for to his own conscience. When a lawyer can defend a cause where the two justices of which you speak are in his favor, he is very fortunate, thoroughly compensated for those cases where he finds them in opposition; but he ought never to observe this distinction when he has voluntarily accepted the charge, and you know, madame, that my father has only consented to oppose M. d’Aillane because you wished him to do so.”

“I did wish it, yes! I obtained my husband’s consent that this suit should not be confided to another; I hoped that your father, the best and most honest man of my acquaintance would succeed in saving this unhappy family from the rigorous pursuit of my own. A lawyer can always show himself reticent and generous, above all when he knows that he will not be blamed by his principal client. And I am this client, monsieur. It concerns my fortune, and not M. d’Ionis, which nothing menaces.”

“It is true, madame but you are in the power of your husband; and the husband, like the chief of the community....”

“Ah! I know the rest! He has more rights over my fortune than I myself possess, and he uses them in my interest, I am willing to believe it, but he forgets, that in this, my conscience is concerned; and for whom? He has an immense personal fortune and no children; I have then before God the right to despoil myself of a portion of my wealth in order not to ruin honest people, victims of a question of procedure.”

“Such a sentiment is worthy of you, madame, and I am not here to dispute so fine a right, but to remind you of our duty, and to beg of you not to require us to be faithless to our trust. All the concessions consistent with the success of your suit, we will observe, even should we incur the reproaches of M. d’Ionis and those of his mother. But to withdraw from the accepted task, declaring that success is doubtful, and that it would be better to compromise, is what a thorough investigation of the affair forbids us to do, under penalty of falsehood and betrayal.”

“Indeed, no! You are mistaken,” cried Madame d’Ionis excitedly. “I assure you, you are mistaken. These are legal subtilities which may deceive a man grown old in the practice of law, but that a sensible young man ought not to accept as an absolute rule of conduct.... If your father has undertaken the suit, and you admit that he has done so at my request, it is because he foresaw my intentions. Had he been ignorant of them, I should greatly regret the fact, and I would think that you did not entertain the esteem for me that I would have liked to inspire in the members of your family. In this case where one feels that victory would be horrible, one does not fear to propose peace before the battle. To act otherwise is to conceive a false idea of duty. Duty is not a military password, it is a religion, and a religion which would prescribe evil, ceases to be one. Hush! speak to me no more of your charge. Do not place M. d’Ionis’ ambition above my honor, do not make a sacred thing of this ambition. It is a disgraceful thing, no more, and no less. Unite your efforts with mine to save these unfortunate people. Act so that I may find in you a friend after my own heart, rather than an infallible legislator and an implacable lawyer!”

While speaking thus she gave me her hand and enveloped me in the enthusiastic fire of her beautiful eyes. I lost my head and covering her hand with kisses, I felt myself conquered. In fact, I was so in advance I had been of her opinion before seeing her. I still defended myself however, for I had sworn to my father that I would not yield to the sentimental considerations that his client had caused him to foresee in her letters. Madame d’Ionis would not hear a word of my defense.

“You speak,” said she, “like a good son, who is pleading his father’s cause, but I would like you better, were you not so good a lawyer.”

“Ah! madame,” I cried heedless of consequences, “do not say that I am pleading against you, for you would make me hate too much a calling for which I feel that I have not the requisite insensibility.”

I will not weary you with the particulars of the law suit instituted by the d’Ionis family against the d’Aillanes. The conversation I have just reported will suffice to explain my story. It concerned an estate of five hundred thousand francs, that is to say, almost all the funded fortune of our beautiful client. M. d’Ionis made a very bad use of the immense wealth that he possessed on his own side of the house. He was given over to dissipation, and the doctors allowed him but two years to live. It was quite possible that he would leave his widow more debts than money. Should Madame d’Ionis renounce the benefit of the law suit, she would then incur the risk of falling from a state of opulence, into a condition of mediocrity to which she had not been brought up. My father pitied the d’Aillane family greatly, a family deserving the highest esteem, and which included a worthy gentleman, his wife and his two children. The loss of the law suit would plunge them into misery; but my father naturally preferred to devote himself to the future of his client and to preserve her from disaster. This was for him a true case of conscience; but he had recommended me not to urge this consideration with her. “Her soul is romantic and sublime,” said he, “and the more her personal interest is alleged, the greater pride and pleasure she will take in the joy of her sacrifice; but with the approach of age, her enthusiasm will disappear. Then look out for regrets; and look out also for the reproaches that she will justly heap upon us for not having wisely counselled her.”

My father did not know that I was so much of an enthusiast in fact. Engaged in numberless affairs, he had confided to me the care of subduing the generous impulses of this admirable woman, by taking refuge behind pretended scruples which he only considered as accessories. It was a very good idea, but he had not foreseen any more than myself that I would share Madame d’Ionis’ opinion to such an extent. I was at an age when material wealth is of no value in the imagination; it is a period of a wealth of heart.

And then this woman, who produced upon me the effect of a spark on powder; this despicable absent husband condemned by his physicians; the moderate circumstances which threatened her, and towards which she smilingly stretched her arms—how did I know?

I was an only son, my father possessed some fortune and I could also acquire one. I was only a bourgeois, who owed a position to a magistracy in the past, and in the present to the consideration attached to talent and probity; but we were in the midst of a philosophical period, and without thinking ourselves on the verge of a radical revolution, one could readily admit the idea of an impoverished woman of quality, marrying a man of lower condition in easy circumstances.

In short, my youthful imagination was fired, and my young heart instinctively desired the loss of Madame d’Ionis’ fortune. While she talked with animation about the annoyances of wealth and the happiness of a reduced condition à la Jean-Jacques Rousseau, I made such rapid strides in my romance that it seemed as if she were deigning to guess at my thoughts and was alluding to them in each one of the intoxicating words that fell from her lips.

I did not however surrender openly. My word was pledged; I could only promise to try and dissuade my father. I could give no assurance of success, for I did not myself participate in any. I knew the firmness of his decisions. The solution was approaching, we had reached the termination of delays and evasive procedures. Madame d’Ionis proposed a plan, in case she should bring me over to her views. It was that my father should feign illness when the time arrived to plead the cause, that the case then should be confided to me, and that I should lose it!

I confess that I took fright at this hypothesis and that I then understood my father’s scruples. To hold in one’s hands the destiny of a client and to sacrifice her rights to a question of sentiment, is a fine role when one can fill it openly and by her order; but such was not my position. On account of M. d’Ionis, it was necessary to preserve appearances, to execute errors adroitly, and to employ deceit in order that virtue might triumph. I became frightened, I grew pale, I almost wept, for I was in love, and the idea of refusing broke my heart.

“Let us say no more about it,” said Madame d’Ionis kindly, she seemed now to divine, if she had not already done so, the passion she had awakened in me. “Pardon me for having put your conscience to this proof. No! You must not sacrifice it to mine, we must find some other means of securing these poor adversaries. We will search for it together, for you are on my side, I see it, I feel it, in spite of yourself. You must stay with me for several days. Write to your father that I am resisting and that you are endeavoring to overcome my scruples. To my mother-in-law, we will have the appearance of studying the chances of success together. She is persuaded that I am a born lawyer, and Heaven is my witness, that before this deplorable affair, I knew no more about such things than she herself, which isn’t saying much! Come,” she added, resuming her charming and sympathetic gayety, “do not let us torment ourselves and don’t be so sad! We will contrive to find some cause for delay. Ah! I have one now, a most singular and absurd one, but which none the less would exercise an all-powerful influence over the mind of the good dowager, and even over M. d’Ionis. Can’t you guess it?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Well then it is this, to make the green ladies speak.”

“What! really, does M. d’Ionis share his mother’s credulity?”

“M. d’Ionis is very brave, he has given proofs of it; but he believes in ghosts and fears them. Let the three young ladies forbid us to hasten the law suit and the suit will remain inactive.”

“So, you can think of nothing better to satisfy the desire I feel of aiding you, than that of condemning me to the use of abominable impostures? Ah! Madame, how well you understand the art of making people unhappy!”

“What! you are so scrupulous as all that? Haven’t you already participated with a good grace?”

“A joke without consequences was all very well; but if M. d’Ionis inquires into the matter and summons me to declare upon my honor....”

“True! ’Tis only another worthless idea! Let us attempt no more to-day.” “La nuit porte conseil.” “To-morrow, perhaps, I shall at last be able to propose something practicable. It is getting late, and I hear the abbé Lamyre who is looking for us.”

The abbé Lamyre was a charming little man. Although fifty years old, he was still fresh and good-looking. He was kind, frivolous, witty, entertaining, full of fun, and in fact, held philosophical opinions, always agreeing with those whom he conversed with, for the question with him was not to persuade, but to please. He threw his arms around my neck, and heaped praises upon me which I esteemed at their proper value, as coming from one whom I knew lavished them upon everyone, but for which I was more thankful than usual, on account of the pleasure they seemed to afford Madame d’Ionis.

He praised my great talents as a lawyer and poet and forced me to recite some verses, which appeared to be relished more than they deserved. Madame d’Ionis, after having complimented me with an air of emotion and sincerity, left us together to attend to the cares of her household.

The abbé talked of a thousand things that did not interest me. I would have liked to be alone to indulge in a revery, to recall each word, each gesture of Madame d’Ionis; but the abbé attached himself to me, and told me numerous ingenious stories that I consigned to the devil. At last, the conversation assumed a lively interest for me, when it turned upon the burning ground of my relations with Madame d’Ionis.

“I know what brings you here,” said he, “she has already spoken to me about it. Without knowing the day of your visit, she was expecting you. Your father does not wish her to ruin herself, and, parbleu, he is very right. But he will not convince her, and you must either quarrel with her, or let her have her own way. If she believed in the green ladies, à la bonne heure, you might make them speak in her interest, but unfortunately she has no more faith in them than you or I!”

“Madame d’Ionis pretends however that you do believe in them, Monsieur l’abbé.”

“I? She told you that? Yes, yes, I know she treats her little friend as if he were a great coward! Sing the duo with her, I am not afraid of the green ladies, I do not believe in them; but there is certainly one thing that alarms me, it is having seen them.”

“How then do you reconcile such contradictory assertions?”

“Nothing more simple, either there are ghosts or there are none. I myself have seen them, and I have paid the penalty for knowing that they exist. Only I do not consider them malicious, I am not afraid of their injuring me, I was not born a coward, but I mistrust my brain which is composed of saltpetre. I know that shadows have no more power over bodies than bodies have over shadows, since I have held the sleeve of one of these young ladies without discovering any kind of arm. From that moment, which I shall never forget; and which has changed all my ideas about the things of this world and of the next, I have sworn to myself that never again would I put human weakness to such a test. I am not at all desirous of losing my reason. So much the worse for me if I have not sufficient moral strength to coolly and philosophically contemplate what passes my understanding; but why should I deceive myself? I began by trifling with myself, and laughingly summoned the ghost. The ghost appeared.—Bonjour! Once is enough for me, you won’t catch me in it another time.”

One can readily imagine that I was strongly impressed by what I had heard. The abbé’s faith was evident. He did not believe that he was the victim of a mania. Since the emotions he had experienced in “la chambre aux dames,” he had never again dreamed of them. He added that he was convinced that they would have done him no kind of harm or injury, had he possessed sufficient courage to examine them.

“But I did not,” he observed, “for I almost lost consciousness, and realizing my weakness, I said: “Whoever wishes to do so may penetrate this mystery, I will not assume the charge, I am not equal to such a task.”

I questioned the abbé carefully. His vision had been almost exactly like my own. I made a great effort not to let him suspect the similarity of our adventures. I knew he was too much of a gossip to preserve the secret inviolate, and I feared Madame d’Ionis’ sarcasms more than all the demons of the night; so I assumed an air of ignorance while the abbé questioned me, assuring him that nothing had disturbed my sleep; and when the moment arrived at eleven o’clock in the evening, to re-enter this fatal room, I laughingly promised the dowager to keep a secret account of my dreams, and took leave of the company with an air of gayety and valor.

Nevertheless I was far from feeling either the one or the other. The presence of the abbé, the supper and the evening spent under the dowager’s eyes, had rendered Madame d’Ionis more reserved than she had been with me in the morning. She also seemed to say in each allusion to our sudden and cordial intimacy: “You know at what price I have granted it to you.” I was vexed with myself, I had been neither submissive enough, or sufficiently independent, I seemed to have betrayed the mission my father had confided to me, without in the least advancing my chimeras of love.

The sombre interior reacted upon my impressions and my beautiful apartment wore a gloomy and lugubrious air. I knew not what to think of either the abbé’s reason or my own. Had it not been for a feeling of mauvaise honte, I would have asked for other lodgings and I really experienced a sensation of anger, when I saw Baptiste enter with the accursed waiter, the basket, the three loaves and all the absurd accompaniments of the previous evening.

“What does this mean?” said I testily. “Am I hungry? Haven’t I just left the table?”

“Indeed, Monsieur,” he replied, “I think it is very odd. It was Mademoiselle Zéphyrine who ordered me to bring it to you. It was of no use for me to tell her that you were in the habit of passing your nights in sleeping, and not in eating, she answered laughingly:

“Take it all the same, it is a custom we have always observed. It will not annoy your master and you will see that he will be pleased to have you leave it in his room.”

“Very well, mon ami, do me the favor of carrying it back, without saying anything about it in the servant’s hall. I need my table to write upon.”

Baptiste obeyed. I locked myself in, and retired, after having written to my father. I confess that I slept splendidly and dreamed of but one lady, Madame d’Ionis.

The next day, the dowager assailed me anew with questions. I was so rude as to declare that I had dreamed nothing worth mentioning. The good lady was greatly disappointed.

“I am sure,” said she to Zéphyrine, “that you did not put the ladies’ supper in M. Nivières’ room?”

“Pardon me, madame,” replied Zéphyrine, looking at me reproachfully.

Madame d’Ionis seemed also to say with her eyes, that I was disobliging. The abbé exclaimed ingenuously:

“It is strange; these things then happen only to me?”

After breakfast he left, and Madame d’Ionis appointed a meeting with me, at one o’clock, in the library. I was there at noon; but she sent me word by Zéphyrine that she was besieged by importunate visitors and that I must have patience. This was easier to ask than acquire. I waited; the minutes seemed centuries. I asked myself how I had managed to exist up to this time, without this tête-à-tête that I already called daily, and how I could go on living when there would be no further occasion to expect it. I sought for some means that should entail the necessity, and resolved at last to protract the law suit, to the extent of my poor abilities, and I puzzled my brains over a thousand subterfuges which did not even possess the merit of common sense.

While walking up and down the gallery, in my agitation, I every now and then stopped before the fountain and sometimes seated myself upon its brink, that was surrounded by magnificent flowers, artistically disposed in the crevices of the rough rock on top of which rested a block of white marble. This rugged base gave a more finished effect to the work of the chisel causing the water to overflow in brilliant sheets into the lower receptacles, which were adorned with aquatic plants.

It was a delicious spot, and the reflection of the stained glass occasionally imparted an appearance of life to the fantastical features of the statuary.

I regarded the naiad with renewed wonder, surprised to find it so beautiful and realizing at last the exalted sense of this mysterious loveliness which I no longer thought of comparing unfavorably with that of Madame d’Ionis. I felt that all comparisons are puerile between inanimate objects and beings that bear no resemblance to each other. This inspiration of Jean Goujon’s had a beauty peculiar to itself—the face wore an expression of sublime sweetness—and seemed to communicate a feeling of repose and happiness to the mind, like the sensation of freshness imparted by the continuous murmur of the limpid waters of the fountain. At last Madame d’Ionis made her appearance.

“Here is some news,” said she, seating herself familiarly near me; “look at this strange letter that I have just received from M. d’Ionis.”

And she showed it to me with an abandon that affected me strongly. I was disgusted with a husband whose letters to such a wife could be shown without embarrassment to the first comer.

The letter was cold, long and diffuse, the characters slender and tremulous, the orthography very doubtful. Here is the substance of it:

“You ought not to have any scruples about gaining your end. I have none whatever in employing the most rigid legal means. I refuse all other arrangements than those I have already proposed to the d’Aillanes, and I wish to see a termination to this law suit. You may, when it is once gained, extend a helping hand to them, I shall not oppose your generosity, but I wish for no compromise. Their lawyer has offended me in his address in the first place, and the appeal that they have lodged is presumptuous beyond belief. I find M. Nivières very sluggish, and I have expressed my displeasure through the mail to-day. Act, yourself, stimulate his zeal, unless some higher order should issue from ——. You know what I mean, and I am surprised that you say nothing to me about what may have been observed in the room—since my departure. Has no one had the courage to pass the night there and to write down what he may have heard? Must we depend alone on the assertions of the abbé de Lamyre, a man who does not speak seriously? Let some one worthy of belief attempt this proof, unless you have sufficient courage to do so yourself, which would not surprise me.”

As she read this last sentence, Madame d’Ionis burst out laughing.

“M. d’Ionis amuses me,” she said. “He flatters me so that he may induce me to attempt a thing that he would never think of doing himself, and he is indignant at the cowardice of people for whose benefit nothing would induce him to give such an example.”

“What I find most remarkable in this,” said I, “is M. d’Ionis’ faith in these apparitions, and his respect for the decisions he believes them capable of rendering.”

“You see now,” said she, “that this is the only means of subduing his rigor towards the poor d’Aillanes; I told you so, and I repeat it, and you will not lend yourself to it, when the opportunity is so fine. Since he is so anxious to receive the green ladies’ revelations perhaps he will not go so far as to ask you for your word of honor.”

“It seems to me, on the contrary, that I must seriously assume the role of imposter, since M. d’Ionis demands the assertion of a person ‘worthy of belief.’”

“And then you fear the ridicule, the blame, the jests that you would not fail to meet with; but I could answer for M. d’Ionis’ absolute silence so far as that is concerned.”

“No, madame, no! I would fear neither ridicule nor blame, as long as it was a question of obedience to your wishes. But you would despise me if I merited this blame by a false oath. Besides, why not try to induce the d’Aillanes to consent to a compromise conveying honorable conditions to themselves?”

“You know perfectly well that those M. d’Ionis proposes are not honorable.”

“You have then no hope of modifying his intentions?”

She shook her head and was silent. This gesture was an eloquent explanation of the kind of man her husband was, a creature without heart or principle, indifferent to such an array of charms, and given over to excesses.

“Still,” replied I, “he authorizes you to be generous after victory.”

“And what does he take them for?” cried she, crimsoning with anger. “He forgets that the d’Aillanes are the soul of honor, and will never receive as a favor or benefit, what justice causes them to regard as the legal property of their family.”

I was struck with the energy she infused into this reply.

“Are you then so intimate with the d’Aillanes?” I asked. “I was not aware of it.”

She blushed again and answered in the negative.

“I have never had much to do with them,” said she; “but they are nearly enough related to me for our honor to be identical. I am quite sure that it was my uncle’s wish to leave them his fortune, and still more as M. d’Ionis having married me for what is termed mes beaux yeux, did not at that time have the countenance to look up a fortune for me by means of breaking this will, through some legal defect.” Then she added:

“Are you not acquainted with any of the d’Aillanes?”

“I have seen the father quite often, the children never, the son is an officer in a garrison somewhere or other.”

“At Tours,” said she quickly. Then she added, still more hastily:

“At least I think so.”

“They say he is a very fine fellow!”

“I am told so, but I have not seen him since he has grown up.”

This answer reassured me. For an instant it had occurred to me that the disinterested magnanimous motives of Madame d’Ionis might be attributable to a passion that she entertained for her cousin d’Aillane.

“His sister is charming,” said she; “Have you never seen her?”

“Never, isn’t she still in the convent?”

“Yes, at Angers, they say she is an angel. Will you not be proud when you have succeeded in plunging a daughter of a good house into misery? One who counted rightfully, upon an honorable marriage and a life agreeable to her rank and education? This is what troubles her poor father more than anything else. But come, tell me your expedients, for you have sought and found some, have you not?”

“Yes,” I replied, after having reflected as well as one can reflect in a fever. “I have found a solution.”

CHAPTER IV.
The Naiad.

I had hardly imparted this hope of success, when I was terrified at having entertained it myself, but I could not now withdraw. My beautiful client overwhelmed me with questions.

“Well, madame,” said I, “the means must be found of making the oracle speak, without my acting the part of an imposter; but you must furnish me with certain details which I lack, concerning the apparition, whose theatre of action as they affirm is this castle.”

“Will you look over the old papers from which I made my extracts?” cried she joyfully. “I have them here.” She opened a piece of furniture of which she had the key, and showed me quite a long account, with commentaries written at different epochs by different chroniclers attached to the chapel of the castle, or to the chapter of a neighboring convent that had been secularized under the last reign.

As I was in no hurry to undertake an engagement which would have abridged the time accorded to my mission I put off reading this fantastical bundle of papers until evening, and allowed myself to be chastely cajoled by my enchantress. It seemed to me that she was exercising a delicate coquetry, whether it was that she clung to her ideas to the extent of compromising herself a little in order to triumph eventually, whether my resistance excited her legitimate pride of an irresistible woman, or whether, in fine, and I dwelt with delight on this last supposition, she was animated by a particular regard for me.

She was forced to leave me, other visitors were arriving. There was company at dinner; she presented me to her noble neighbors with marked distinction, and showed me more consideration before them, than I had perhaps any right to expect. Some appeared to think that I was receiving more than my position entitled me to, and tried to make her so understand it. She proved that she feared no criticism, and showed so much courage in sustaining me that I began to lose my head.

When we were alone together, Madame d’Ionis asked me what I intended doing with the manuscripts relative to the apparition of the three green ladies? I was over excited, it seemed as if she really loved me and that I had now no occasion to fear her raillery. I then recounted ingenuously, the vision I had seen, and the one similar to it, that the abbé Lamyre had related to me.

“So I am forced to believe,” I added, “that conditions of the soul exist in which, equally without fear, charlatanism or supposition, certain ideas assume images which deceive our senses, and I wish to study these phenomena, that I have already witnessed, under the simple or sage conditions which have produced them. I do not conceal from you, that contrary to my habits of mind, far from guarding myself from the charm of these illusions, I will do everything in my power to yield my intellect up to them. And should I in this poetical disposition of mind, succeed in seeing or hearing some ghost who commands me to obey you, I will not draw back from the oath that M. d’Ionis or his mother may require. No one can force me to swear that I believe in the revelations of spirits or in apparitions of the dead, for perhaps I may not put absolute faith in them, but in asserting that I have heard voices, since even now I can affirm that I have seen shadows, I will not be a liar, and should I be taken for a fool, what do I care as long as you do me the honor of not sharing this opinion?”

Madame d’Ionis exhibited great surprise at what I told her, and asked me many questions relative to my vision in the ladies’ room. She listened without laughing, and was even astonished at the calmness with which I had undergone this strange adventure.

“I see,” said she, “that you are very strong-minded. As to me, I confess, that in your place I would have been afraid. Before permitting you to make another attempt, swear that you will be no more affected or frightened by it than the first time.”

“I think I can promise that,” I replied. “I feel excessively calm, and should I witness any terrifying spectacle, I trust that I shall remain master of myself sufficiently to attribute it solely to my imagination.”

“Do you wish to make this extraordinary invocation to-night, then?”

“Perhaps; but I would prefer first to read all the reports concerning it, and I would also like to glance over some work on this subject, not any derogatory critique, my doubts are sufficiently established, but one of those ancient, simple treatises where among many absurdities, I may chance to discover some ingenious ideas.”

“Very well, you are right,” said she, “but I do not know what work to recommend. I have never dipped into these old books; if you would like, to-morrow, to look over the library”——.

“If you will permit me, I will set about this task at once. It is only eleven o’clock, this is the time that your house subsides into silence. I will sit up in the library, and if my imagination becomes slightly excited, I will then be in a fit frame of mind to return to my room so that I may offer to the three ladies the commemorative supper which possesses the virtue of attracting them hither.”

“I will order the famous tray to be taken there then,” said Madame d’Ionis, smilingly, “and I am forcing myself to look only on the strange side of this affair, not to be too much impressed by it.”

“What, madame, you too!”

“Eh, mon Dieu,” she exclaimed, “after all, what do we know about it? We ridicule everything nowadays; are we any the wiser for it than formerly? We are weak creatures, who think ourselves strong; who knows if we do not thus render ourselves more material than God desired, and if what we take for lucidity of vision is not really blindness. Like myself, you believe in the immortality of the soul. Is an absolute separation between our own and those freed from matter so clear a thing to conceive that we can prove it?”

She talked in this fashion for several minutes with a great deal of intelligence and imagination; then left me, a little disturbed, begging me in case I should become nervous or beset by lugubrious ideas, to abandon my project. I was so happy and so touched by her solicitude, that I expressed my regret at not having a little fear to overcome so that I might better prove my zeal.

I went up stairs to my room, where Zéphyrine had already arranged the basket; Baptiste wanted to take it away.

“Leave it,” said I, “since it is the custom of the house, and go to bed, I have no more need of you than I have ever had.”

“Mon Dieu, monsieur,” said he, “if you will permit me, I will pass the night on an easy chair in your room.”

“And why, my friend?”

“Because I have heard there were ghosts here. Yes, yes, sir, I understand the servants now, they are very much afraid of these ghosts, and I who am an old soldier, I would like to show them that I am not so foolish as they are.”

I refused, however, and left him to arrange the bed, while I went down to the library, after having told him not to wait for me. I wandered through the immense hall before beginning my work, and locked myself in carefully, lest I should be disturbed by some prying or mischievous valet. I then lighted a silver candelabra with numerous branches and began to turn over the leaves of the fantastical pamphlet relative to the green ladies.

The frequent apparition of the d’Ionis demoiselles observed and reported in detail coincided in every particular with what I had seen and with what the abbé had recounted to me. But then neither he nor I had possessed sufficient faith, or courage to question the phantoms. Others had done so, according to the chroniclers, and it had been reserved for them to see the three maidens, no longer as greenish clouds, but in all the brilliancy of their youth and beauty, not all of them at once, but one in particular, while the others remained in the background. Then this funereal beauty answered all serious and decent questions that might be asked of her. She unveiled the secrets of the past, of the present, and of the future. She gave judicious advice. She informed those who were capable of making a good use of them where treasures lay concealed. She foretold disasters that might be averted, mistakes to be repaired. She spoke in the name of God and of the angels. She was a beneficent power to those who consulted her with good and pious designs, but she invariably reproved and threatened mockers, libertines and impious people. According to the manuscript, they had been known to inflict severe punishment upon those whose intentions were wicked or fraudulent, and those who were only influenced by malice or idle curiosity might expect fearful things to befall them, such as they would have bitter cause to regret.

Without particularizing these fearful things, the manuscript furnished the formula of invocation and all the rules to be observed, with so much seriousness and such naïve good faith that I yielded myself to its influence. The apparition assumed such marvelous colors in imagination as to beguile me rather to desire than to fear it. I did not feel in the least depressed or alarmed at the idea of seeing the dead walk or of hearing them speak; on the contrary, I revelled in elysian dreams, and beheld a Beatrix arise in the rays of my empyrean.

“And why should these dreams be denied me,” I exclaimed, mentally, “since the prologue of the vision has already been vouchsafed me? My foolish fears have hitherto rendered me unworthy and incapable of believing in Swedenborgian revelations, such as superior minds credit and which I have mistakenly ridiculed. But now I will gladly renounce these old illusions, and such sentiments will surely be more healthful and agreeable to the soul of a poet than the cold denial of our age. If I pass for a madman, should I even become one, what matters it; I will have lived in an ideal sphere, and will, perhaps, be happier than all the sages of the earth combined.”

Thus I communed with myself, resting my head on my hands. It was about two o’clock in the morning and the most profound silence reigned throughout the castle and the surrounding country, when a sound of delicate and exquisite music, which seemed to proceed from the rotunda snatched me from my revery. I raised my head and pushed back the candlestick, so that I could see to whom I was indebted for this serenade, but the four candles which lighted my writing-table thoroughly, were not sufficient for me to distinguish objects at the end of the hall even, still less the rotunda beyond.

I proceeded at once towards this rotunda and being no longer dazzled by another light, I could distinguish the upper portion of the beautiful group in the fountain, fully illuminated by the moon, whose rays penetrated the arched window of the cupola. The rest of the circular hall was in shadow. In order to assure myself that I was as much alone as I appeared to be, I drew back the bolt of the large glass door which opened on the parterre, and saw in fact that no one was there. The music had seemed to diminish and fade away in proportion to my approach, so that I now could scarcely hear it. I passed into the other gallery, and found it also deserted, but here the sounds which had so charmed me could once more be heard distinctly, and this time they seemed to proceed from the rear.

I paused without turning around, to listen to them; they were sweet and plaintive and formed a melodious combination beyond my comprehension. It was rather a succession of vague and mysterious chords, struck as if by chance and executed by instruments that I could not divine, for their tones resembled nothing that I had ever heard. The effect although pleasing was exceedingly melancholy.

I retraced my steps and convinced myself that these voices, if voices they could be called, issued decidedly from the shell of the tritons and nymphs of the fountain, increasing and diminishing in intensity as the water which now flowed in an irregular and intermittent manner, increased or decreased in the basins.

I saw nothing fantastical in this for I remembered having heard of those Italian jets, which produced hydraulic organs of a more or less successful nature, through means of air compressed by water. These sounds were sweet and very true, perhaps because they attempted no air and only sighed forth harmonious chords somewhat after the manner of eolian harps.

I also remembered that Madame d’Ionis had spoken to me of this music, telling me that it was out of order, and that sometimes it played by itself for several minutes.

This solution did not prevent me from pursuing the course of my poetical reveries. I was grateful to this capricious fountain who reserved its music for me alone, on such a beautiful night and amid so religious a silence.

Seen thus by the light of the moon, the effect was startling, a shower of green diamonds appeared to be descending upon the fresh ferns that were planted around the border. There was something appalling in the appearance of the tritons, immovable in the midst of all this tumult, and their dying murmurs, mingled with the subdued sound of the cascades, made them seem as if in despair that their passionate souls should be chained in bodies of marble. One would have thought it a scene from Pagan life that had been suddenly petrified by the sovereign touch of the naiad.

I then remembered the species of fear that this nymph had caused me in broad daylight, with her air of proud repose in the midst of these monsters writhing beneath her feet.

Can an unemotional soul express true beauty? thought I, and should this creature of marble awake to life, despite her magnificence would she not terrify one, by that air of supreme indifference which renders her so superior to the beings of our race?

I regarded her attentively in the light of the moonbeams which bathed her white shoulders and revealed her small head set upon a firm and slender neck as upon a column. I could not distinguish her features, as she was at too great a height; but her easy attitude was defined in brilliant lines with an incomparable grace.

This is truly, thought I, the idea I would fain picture to myself of the green lady, for surely, seen thus....