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.
[Illustration]