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....
Suddenly I ceased to reason or reflect. It seemed to me that I saw the
statue move.
I thought that a cloud was passing over the moon and had produced the
illusion; but there was none. Only, it was not the statue that moved, it
was a form that arose from behind or beside her, and which seemed
exactly like her, as if an animate reflection had detached itself from
this body of marble and had quitted it to approach me. For a moment I
doubted the evidence of my senses, but it became so distinct, so
positive, that I was soon convinced that I beheld a real being, and that
I experienced no feeling of terror, nor even any very great surprise.
The living image of the naiad descended the irregular steps of the
monument with a flying motion; her movements were easy and ideally
graceful. She was not much taller than a real woman, although the
elegance of her proportions imparted a stamp of exceptional beauty,
which had intimidated me in the statue; but I no longer experienced
aught of this feeling, and my admiration rose to ecstasy. I stretched
out my arms to seize her, for it seemed as if she were about to rush
towards me leaping over a height of from five to six feet which still
separated us.
I was mistaken. She stopped on the edge of the rock and made me a sign
to move back.
I obeyed mechanically and saw her seat herself upon a marble dolphin,
which at once began to roar in a genuine fashion; then suddenly all
these hydraulic voices increased like a tempest and formed a truly
diabolical concert around her.
I began to be somewhat unnerved when a ghostly greenish light, which
seemed but a more brilliant moonbeam burst from I knew not where,
distinctly revealing the features of the living naiad, so like those of
the statue that I had to look twice in order to assure myself that it
had not quitted its rocky chair of state.
Then, no longer seeking to unravel this mystery without any desire to
comprehend it, I became dumbly intoxicated with the supernatural beauty
of this apparition. The effect that it produced upon me was so absolute,
that I never even thought of approaching it, in order to assure myself
of its immateriality, as I had done before when it had appeared in my
room.
And had I entertained such an idea, which I am altogether unconscious of
doing, the fear of causing it to vanish by an audacious curiosity
probably withheld me.
How did it happen that I was not overcome by the desire of verifying the
evidence of my senses? ’Twas in truth the influence of the sublime
naiad, with clear and living eyes, beaming with a fascinating sweetness,
the naiad, with undraped arms, contours of transparent flesh and supple
motions resembling those of childhood. This daughter of Heaven seemed at
the utmost about fifteen years old. The ensemble of her figure expressed
the perfect chastity of youth, while the charm of a mature womanly soul
illuminated her features.
Her peculiar attire was precisely that of the naiad; a robe or floating
tunic, made of some indescribable and marvellous tissue whose soft folds
seemed wet and clinging; an exquisitely wrought diadem, and showers of
pearls were entwined in her magnificent hair, with that mixture of
peculiar luxury and happy caprice which characterizes the taste of the
renaissance; in singular and charming contrast to the altogether simple
garment, and which evinced its richness only in the easy grace of its
arrangement and the minute finish of the jewels, and delicate details of
the coiffure.
I could have gone on looking at her all my life, without dreaming of
addressing her. I did not observe the silence that had succeeded to the
roar of the fountain, I do not even know whether I stood gazing at her
for a moment or for an hour. It seemed to me of a sudden—as if I had
always seen her, always known her—it was, perhaps, because I was living
a century in a moment’s space.
She was the first to speak. I heard but could not understand all at
once, for the silvery tones of her voice, like her supernatural beauty,
served to complete the illusion.
I listened as if to music, without seeking to attach any particular
sense to her words.
At last I made an effort to shake off this stupor and heard her ask if I
could see her. I know not what I answered, for she added:
“Under what guise dost thou behold me?”
It was only then that I remarked she addressed me as “thou.” I felt
myself drawn to reply in the same fashion, for if she spoke to me _en
reine_, I addressed her as a divinity.
“I see thee,” I replied, “as a being to whom naught upon this earth can
compare.”
It seemed to me that she blushed, for my eyes were becoming accustomed
to the sea-green light which inundated her figure. I beheld her, white
as a lily, with the fresh tint of youth upon her cheek, a melancholy
smile added to her charms.
“What do you see extraordinary in me?” said she.
“Beauty,” I replied, briefly. I was too much moved to add more.
“My beauty,” answered she, “is an effect of the imagination; for it does
not exist in a form that thou canst appreciate. All that is here of me
is my mind. Address me then as a soul and not as a woman. About what did
you wish me to advise you?”
“I no longer remember.”
“And the cause of this forgetfulness?”
“Is thy presence.”
“Try to remember.”
“No, I do not wish to.”
“Then, adieu!”
“No, no,” I exclaimed, approaching her, as if to retain her, but I
stopped short—terrified, for the light suddenly paled and the apparition
seemed fading away.
“In the name of heaven, remain!” I went on, with anguish. “I am
submissive, my love for you is chaste.”
“What love?” she asked, reassuming her brilliancy.
“What love? I know not. Did I speak of love? Oh, yes, I remember now.
Yesterday I loved a woman and I wished to please her, to work her will
at the risk of betraying my duty. If you are a pure essence, as I
believe, you know everything. Must I then explain?”
“No, I know the facts that concern the posterity of the family whose
name I bear.” “But I am no divinity, I cannot read souls, I did not know
that thou lovedst.”
“I love no one. At this moment I love nothing upon earth, and I would
like to die if in another state of existence I could follow you.”
“Thou talkest wildly. To be happy after death, it is necessary to have
led a pure life. Thou hast a difficult duty to fulfill, and it is for
this that thou hast summoned me. Perform thy duty then or thou wilt
never see me more.”
“What is this duty? Speak, henceforth I will obey none but thee.”
“This duty,” answered the naiad, leaning towards me and speaking so low
that I could with difficulty distinguish her voice from the fresh murmur
of the waters, “is to obey thy father. And, afterwards, thou shalt tell
the generous woman who wishes to sacrifice herself, that those whom she
pities will always bless her, but will never accept her sacrifice. I
know their thoughts, for they have summoned and consulted me. I know
that they are fighting for their honor, but that they do not fear what
men call poverty. For proud souls there is no such thing as poverty. Say
this to the lady who will question thee to-morrow, and yield not to the
love that she inspires so far as to make thee betray the religion of thy
family.”
“I will obey, I swear. And, now reveal to me the secrets of eternal
life. Where is your soul now? What different qualities has it acquired
in this removal?”
“All that I can say is this: death does not exist—nothing dies; but
things in the outer world are very different from what one imagines
here. I will tell thee no more. Do not question me.”
“Say at least if I shall see you in this other life.”
“I know not.”
“And in this?”
“Yes, shouldst thou prove worthy.”
“I will prove worthy. But tell me this much, since you can direct and
counsel those who live in this world, can you not pity them?”
“I can.”
“And love them?”
“I love them all as brothers with whom I have lived.”
“Love one then above the others. He will perform miracles of courage and
virtue if you will but interest yourself in him.”
“Let him perform these miracles and he will find me in his thoughts.
Adieu!”
“Wait one moment! O heaven! One moment! It is said that you bestow a
charmed ring upon those who have not offended you, as a pledge of your
protection and as a means of evoking you. Is this true? And wilt you
give it to me?”
“Vulgar minds alone believe in magic. Thou couldst never put faith
therein, thou who speakest of eternal life and who seekest divine truth.
By what means could a soul that communicates with thee without the aid
of real organs bestow upon thee a material and palpable object?”
“Still I see a sparkling ring on your finger.”
“I cannot perceive what thine eyes behold. What kind of a ring dost thou
see?”
“A large circle with an emerald in the form of a star, set in gold.”
“It is strange thou shouldst see that,” said she, after a moment’s
silence. “The involuntary workings of the human mind and the connection
of its dreams with certain past deeds, perchance, include providential
mysteries. The science of these inexplicable things belongs only to the
One who knows the cause and the reason for everything. The hand that
thou thinkest thou dost behold exists only in thine imagination. What is
left of me in the tomb would fill thee with horror; but it may be that
thou seest me such as I was on earth. Tell me how I appear to thee?”
I know not what enthusiastic picture I drew of her. She seemed to listen
with attention and said:
“If I resemble this statue, that should not surprise thee for I acted as
its model. Thus thou bringest back to my mind the memory of what I once
was, and even the jewels thou dost describe, I remember having worn. The
ring thou thinkest thou dost see I lost in a room that I occupied in
this chateau. It fell between two stones under the hearth. I intended to
have had the stone raised on the next day, but I died that very day.
Shouldst thou search for it thou mayst perchance find it. In that case,
I give it to thee as a souvenir of me and of the oath thou hast sworn to
obey me. Behold, the day breaks, farewell!”
This farewell caused me the most acute pain I had ever experienced and I
came near rushing forward once more to seize this shadowy enchantress,
for by degrees I had approached near enough to be within reach of the
hem of her garment, had I dared to touch it, but I had not the courage.
It is true, I had forgotten the threats of the legend against those who
attempted this profanation. I was only held back, powerless, by a
superstitious respect, but a cry of despair broke from my heart and
vibrated even amid the marine shells, held by the tritons of the
fountain. The shadow paused as if withheld by pity.
“What more dost thou desire?” said she. “Day approaches and I cannot
remain.”
“Why not, if such is thy will?”
“I am forbidden to again behold the sun of this earth. I dwell in the
eternal light of a more beautiful world.”
“Take me with thee to that world. I no longer wish to live in this. I
will not remain here I swear, if I must never see thee more.”
“Thou shalt see me again, have no fear,” said she. “Await till thou art
worthy and until then, summon me not. I forbid thee. I will watch over
thee like an invisible providence, and when thy soul is as pure as a ray
of morning, I will then appear to thee, simply on the appeal of thy
pious desire. Submit!”
“Submit!” repeated a solemn voice that resounded at my right. I turned
and beheld one of the phantoms I had already seen in my room, at the
time of the first apparition.
“Submit!” repeated a voice exactly similar, like an echo, at my left,
and I beheld the second ghost.
I was not at all affected by this, although there was something
terrifying in the height of these two spectres and in the deep tones of
their voices. But what cared I for the terrible things I might see or
hear? Nothing could snatch me from the ecstasy in which I was plunged. I
did not even stop to look at these accessory shadows; my eyes sought my
celestial beauty. Alas! she had disappeared, and I no longer beheld
aught save the motionless naiad of the fountain, with its passionless
pose and its cold tones of marble rendered blue by the first rays of
morning.
I know not what became of the sisters; I did not see them disappear. I
went around and around the fountain like a madman. I thought I was
sleeping and I grew bewildered in the confusion of my ideas, hoping that
I would not awake.
But I remembered the promised ring, and went up to my room, where I
found Baptiste, who spoke to me without my being able to gather the
meaning of his words. He appeared worried, perhaps on account of my
expression, but I never thought of questioning him. I looked at the
hearth and soon observed two disconnected stones, which I endeavored to
raise, but it was too difficult an undertaking without the necessary
tools.
Baptiste probably thought me mad, and mechanically endeavoring to aid
me—
“Has monsieur lost anything?” said he.
“Yes, I let one of my rings fall here yesterday.”
“A ring! Monsieur has no rings, I have never seen him wear one.”
“No matter. Let us try to find it.”
He took a knife and scraped the soft stone, to enlarge the crack,
removed the ashes and powdered cement which filled it up, and while
working thus to please me, he asked me what kind of a ring it was in the
same tone he would have asked me what I had been dreaming about.
“It is a gold ring with a star formed of a large emerald,” I replied,
with the coolness of certainty.
He no longer doubted, and detaching a rod from the window curtains, he
bent it in the form of a hook and reached the ring, which he smilingly
presented me. He thought without daring to say so, that it was a gift
from Madame d’Ionis. As for myself, I scarcely looked at it, so sure was
I that it was the same that I had seen on the finger of the ghost; it
was, in fact, exactly like it. I put it on my little finger, never
doubting that it belonged to the defunct demoiselle d’Ionis, or that I
had seen the ghost of that marvelous beauty.
Baptiste showed a great deal of discretion in his behavior, and when he
left me, made me promise to go to bed.
You can readily imagine such was far from my thoughts. I seated myself
before the table, from which Baptiste had removed the famous supper of
three loaves, and compelling myself to recall the details of my
transporting vision, some parts of which I feared I might forget, I
began to write a full account thereof, just as you have read it.
I remained in this state of agitation mingled with ecstasy, till the
rising of the sun. At times I dozed a little, my elbows on the table,
and thought I was again going through my dream; but it ever eluded me,
and Baptiste came and dragged me from the solitude in which I would have
gladly thenceforth have passed my life.
I arranged it so as to go down stairs, just as they were about to take
their places at the table. I had not yet asked myself how I was to give
an account of the vision; I thought of it while making believe
breakfast, for I ate nothing and without feeling wearied or ill, I
experienced an unconquerable disgust for the functions of animal life.
The dowager who did not see very well, was not aware of my trouble. I
answered her usual questions with the vagueness of the preceding days,
but this time without acting any comedy, and with the preoccupation of a
poet when questioned stupidly on the subject of his poem, and who gives
evasive and ironical replies to get rid of stultifying investigations. I
do not know if Madame d’Ionis was anxious or surprised to see me thus. I
did not look at her, I did not even see her. I hardly understood what
she was saying to me, during the mortal constraint of this breakfast.
At last I found myself alone in the library, awaiting her as on previous
days, but without any impatience whatever. Far from it, I felt a lively
satisfaction in sinking into a revery. The weather was admirable; the
sun kissed the trees and the blooming grounds beyond the large masses of
transparent shadows that were projected by the architecture of the
chateau on the nearest flowerbeds. I walked from one end of this vast
hall to the other, stopping each time that I found myself before the
fountain. The windows were closed and the curtains drawn on account of
the heat. These curtains were of a soft shade of blue that I tried to
imagine green, and in this artificial twilight which somewhat recalled
that of my vision, I experienced an incredible sensation of happiness,
and a species of delirious gayety.
I was talking aloud, and laughing without being aware of any cause, when
I felt some one seize me rather roughly by the arm. I turned around and
saw Madame d’Ionis, who had come in without my observing her.
“Come, answer me, look at me at least,” said she with some impatience.
“Are you aware that you frighten me, and that I no longer know what to
think of you?”
“You have your wish,” I answered, “I have tampered with my reason, I
have become insane. But do not reproach yourself on that account; I am
much happier thus, and do not wish to be cured.”
“So,” said she, scrutinizing me anxiously, “this apparition is not then
an absurd story? At least, you think—you have seen it produced?”
“Better than I see you at this moment.”
“Don’t affect such an air of stupid pride—I do not doubt your words.
Tell me all about it quietly.”
“No, never! I implore you do not question me. I cannot, I do not wish to
answer.”
“Really the society of ghosts does not seem to agree with you, my dear
sir, and you will make me think that you have heard some singularly
flattering things, for you are as proud and discreet as a fortunate
lover.”
“Ah! what do you say, madame?” I cried, “No love is possible between two
beings separated by the abyss of a tomb. But you know not of what you
speak, you believe in nothing, you ridicule everything.”
I was so rude in my enthusiasm, that Madame d’Ionis was rather vexed.
“There is one thing which I do not ridicule,” said she quickly; “and
that is my law suit, and since you have promised on your honor, to
consult a mysterious oracle and to obey its orders—”
“Yes,” I replied, taking her hand with a familiarity that was quite out
of place, but so quietly that she was not offended, so well did she
understand the condition of my mind; “yes, madame, you must pardon my
preoccupation and my forgetfulness. It was through devotion to you that
I have played a very dangerous game, and I owe you at least an account
of the result. I have been ordered to carry out my father’s intentions
and make you win your suit.”
Whether she expected this answer, or whether she doubted my sanity,
Madame d’Ionis showed neither surprise or disappointment. She contented
herself with shrugging her shoulders, and shaking my arm as if to awake
me.
“My poor child,” said she, “you have been dreaming, that is all. For a
moment I shared your exaltation, I hoped at least that it would bring
you back to the ideas of delicacy and justice that at heart you cherish.
But I know not what exaggerated scruples or what habits of passive
obedience to your father, have caused you to hear such chimerical words.
Shake off these illusions, there have been no ghosts, nor has there been
any mysterious voice, your head was affected by the indigestible perusal
of that old manuscript, and by the abbé Lamyre’s doleful stories. I am
going to explain how it all happened.”
She talked with me for some time; but my efforts to listen and
understand were in vain. At times it seemed as if she were speaking an
unknown language. When she saw that the words that fell upon my ear were
not communicated to my brain, she grew seriously alarmed about me, felt
my pulse to see if I had any fever, asked me if my head ached, and
begged me to go and lie down. I understood that she gave me permission
to be alone and I gladly ran and threw myself upon my bed, not that I
felt the least fatigue, but because I kept thinking all the time that
could I but sleep, I might again behold the celestial beauty of my
immortal nymph.
I do not know how the rest of the day passed. I had no knowledge of it.
The next morning I saw Baptiste walking through the room on tip-toe.
“What are you doing, _mon ami_?” I asked.
“I am sitting up with you, my dear master,” he replied. “Thank God you
have slept two good hours. You feel better, don’t you?”
“I feel very well, have I then been ill?”
“You had a severe attack of fever last evening, and it lasted part of
the night. It was the effect of the great heat. You never think of
putting on your hat when you go in the garden. Yet _madame votre mère_
gave you so many cautions about it.”
Zéphyrine entered, asked about me with much interest and made me promise
to take _another_ spoonful of _my_ soothing potion.
“Very well,” said I, although I had no recollection of this potion, “a
sick guest is an inconvenience and all I ask is to get well quickly.”
The potion really did me a great deal of good, for I again fell asleep
and dreamed of my immortal nymph. When I opened my eyes, I saw an
apparition at the foot of my bed, which would have charmed me two nights
ago, but which now vexed me like an importunate reproach. It was Madame
d’Ionis, who came herself to see how I was, and to give her personal
supervision to the efforts made in my behalf. She was very friendly, and
showed real interest in me. I thanked her to the best of my ability and
assured her that I was very well.
Upon this, appeared the solemn head of a physician, who examined my
pulse and my tongue, prescribed rest, and said to Madame d’Ionis:
“It is nothing. Keep him from reading, writing and talking until
to-morrow and he will then be able to return to his family.”
Left alone with Baptiste, I questioned him.
“_Mon Dieu_, Monsieur,” said he, “I don’t exactly know what to say. It
seems that the room where you were is considered haunted.”
“The room where I was? Where then am I now?”
I looked around me and recovering from my stupor I at last recognized
that I was not in “_la chambre aux dames_,” but in another apartment of
the chateau.
“As for me,” continued Baptiste, who was of a very positive temperament.
“I slept in the room and saw nothing. I don’t believe any of these
stories. But, when I heard you tormenting yourself during your fever,
always talking about a beautiful lady who exists and who does not exist,
who is dead and who lives—who knows what you haven’t said about it. It
was all so pretty sometimes that I wished to remember it, or that I knew
how to write it down, in order to preserve it, but it did you harm, and
I decided upon bringing you here, where you are better off. Don’t you
see, Monsieur, that this all comes from writing too many verses? Your
father said rightly that it would turn your brain! You would do better
to think only of your law papers.”
“Thou art certainly right, my dear Baptiste,” I answered “and I will try
and take thine advice. In fact it does seem as if I had had an attack of
madness.”
“Of madness? Oh! no indeed, Monsieur. _Dieu merci_. You have wandered a
little in your fever just as it might happen to anyone; but now that it
is all over, if you will take a little chicken broth, your brain will be
as clear as ever.”
I resigned myself to the chicken broth, although I would have preferred
something more nourishing so as to get well quickly. I was very weak,
but little by little my strength came back during the day, and I was
allowed a light supper. The following day, Madame d’Ionis came again to
see me. I had risen and was feeling quite well. I talked very sensibly
with her about what had happened, without however giving her any details
upon the subject. I had been light-headed, I was much ashamed of it, and
begged her to keep my secret; my position as a lawyer would be lost if I
acquired the reputation of a ghost seer; and it would affect my father
seriously.
“Fear nothing,” said she; “I will answer for the discretion of my
people; make sure of your valet’s silence, and the story of this
adventure will never leave the place. Besides, even should something of
the kind be told, we would all be perfectly justified in saying that you
had had an attack of fever, and that it pleased these superstitious
souls to interpret it to suit their credulity. And really, this would
only be the truth. You had a sun stroke coming here on horseback on a
scorching day. You were ill during the night. On the following days I
tormented you with this unfortunate law suit, and I stopped at nothing
to bring you over to my way of thinking.”
She paused, and, in a different tone said:
“Do you remember what I said to you the day before yesterday in the
library?”
“I confess that I did not understand, I was under the influence.”——
“Of the fever? I saw that very plainly.”
“Will it please you to repeat to me, now that my head is no longer
affected, what you were saying about apparitions?”
Madame d’Ionis hesitated.
“Has your memory preserved the idea of this apparition?” said she
carelessly, but examining me rather anxiously.
“No,” I replied, “it is very confused now, confused as a dream of which
one is still conscious, but no longer cares to remember.”
I lied boldly, Madame d’Ionis was deceived, and I saw that she also was
lying, when she pretended having spoken to me in the library only about
the effect of the manuscript, in order to blame herself for having lent
it to me at a time when I was already greatly agitated. It was evident
that through fear caused by my mental condition, she had on that evening
said certain things, that she was very glad now I had not understood,
but I could not imagine what they might be. She saw I was quite
confused, so she believed me cured. I talked very decidedly about my
vision as though it were the effect of a high fever. She made me promise
to think no more of it, and never to torment myself about it.
“Don’t go and think yourself more weak-minded than other people; there
is no one in the world who has not had their hours of delirium. Remain
with us two or three days longer, no matter what the doctor says. I do
not like to send you back to your parents, so weak and pale. We will say
nothing more about the suit, it is useless; I will go and see your
father and talk it over with him; without worrying you any more about
it.”
By evening I was already cured, and I tried to get into my old room, it
was shut up. I risked asking Zéphyrine for the key, who replied that it
had been given to Madame d’Ionis. They did not wish to put anyone there,
until the recently unearthed legend had again been buried in oblivion.
I pretended that I had forgotten something in the room. They had to
yield. Zéphyrine went after the key and entered the room with me. I
searched everywhere without saying what I was looking for. I examined
the hearth and saw the fresh scratches on the disjointed stones, that
Baptiste had left there with his knife. But what did this prove, save
that in my madness I had caused a search for an object that existed only
in the memory of a dream? I had thought that I had found a ring and had
put it on my finger. It was there no longer, without doubt it had never
been there!
I did not even dare to question Baptiste on this subject. They did not
leave me one moment alone in the ladies’ room, and they shut it up
again, as soon as I went out. I felt that there was nothing to keep me
at the chateau d’Ionis, and I left by stealth the next morning so as to
avoid the drive in a carriage with which they had threatened me.
The horse and the fresh air quite set me up again. I galloped rapidly
through the woods that surrounded the chateau, fearing that I might be
pursued by the solicitude of my beautiful hostess. I slackened my pace
when two leagues distant, and arrived quietly at Angers during the
afternoon.
My face was a little changed; my father did not notice it much, but
nothing escapes a mother’s eye, and it worried mine. I succeeded in
quieting her by eating with an appetite; I had compelled Baptiste to
give me his word that he would not say anything; he had made it a
condition however that he would not feel bound, should I chance to fall
ill again.
But I took good care not to do so; I watched over my physical and moral
welfare like a youth bent upon the preservation of his existence. I
worked, but not too much; I took walks regularly, I dwelt upon no
mournful ideas, I abstained from all reading of an exciting nature. The
reason for all this had its source in an obstinate but tranquil mania
and, so to speak, ’twas mistress of itself. I wanted to prove to my own
judgment that I neither had been nor now was out of my mind, and that
there was nothing more certain, in my opinion, than the existence of the
green ladies. I also wished to restore my mind to that state of
clearness necessary to conceal my secret and to nourish it internally as
the source of my intellectual life and the criterion of my moral
existence.
Every trace of the crisis then rapidly disappeared, and seeing me
studious, reasonable and moderate in all things, it would have been
impossible to guess that I was under the dominion of a fixed idea, of a
well regulated monomania.
Three days after my return to Angers, my father sent me to Tours on some
other business. I spent twenty-four hours there, and when I returned
home, I learned that Madame d’Ionis had been there to have an
understanding with my father about the consequences of her law suit. She
had appeared to yield to positive reason; she had consented to gain it.
I was glad that I had not met her. It would be impossible to say that so
charming a woman had become repugnant to me, but it is certain that I
feared more than I desired her presence. Her scepticism, which she
appeared to have renounced one day only to overwhelm me with it on the
next, had produced an injurious effect upon me, and had caused me
inexpressible suffering.
At the end of two months, notwithstanding all the efforts I made to
appear happy, my mother discovered the terrible sadness that permeated
my mind. Everyone observed a great change for the better in me, and at
first she was pleased with it. My manner of life was altogether austere,
and my language as grave and sensible as that of an old magistrate.
Without being devout, I professed to be religious. I no longer
scandalized simple people by my voltairianism. I judged everything
impartially and criticised without bitterness those of whom I did not
approve. All this was edifying, excellent; but I had no taste for
anything, and I bore my life as if it were a burden. I was no longer
young, I experienced no more the ecstasy of enthusiasm or the
allurements of gayety.
I had time then, notwithstanding my important occupations to write
verses, and I would have made time in any case, even had none been
allowed me, for I hardly slept any more and I sought none of those
amusements that absorb three quarters of a young man’s life. I no longer
thought of love, I fled from the world, I ceased to parade myself with
men of my age before the eyes of the beautiful ladies of the land. I was
retiring, meditative, austere, very gentle with my own people, very
modest with everybody, very ardent in legal discussions. Thus I was
esteemed an accomplished young man, but I was thoroughly unhappy.
And it was because I nourished with a strange stoicism, an insane
passion without its parallel. I was in love with a ghost, I could not
even say with a dead woman. All my historical researches resolved
themselves into this. The three demoiselles d’Ionis had possibly never
existed save in legend. Their history, fixed by the latest chroniclers
at the period of Henri II, was already old and uncertain, even at that
date. No evidence of them remained: no title, name or crest among the
d’Ionis family papers that my father happened to have in his possession
on account of the suit, not even a tombstone in any part of the country.
I was thus worshipping a pure fiction, engendered, to all appearance in
the vapors of my brain. But this was precisely what I failed to be
convinced of. I had seen and heard this marvel of beauty; she existed in
a region that it was impossible for me to attain, but from which it was
possible for her to descend to me. To solve the problem of this
indefinable existence, and the mystery of the tie that bound us would
have rendered me insane. I was conscious of the fact, I wished to
explain nothing, to fathom nothing; I lived upon faith, which is “the
evidence of things not seen,” a sublime madness, if reason is only to be
proved by the evidence of the senses.
My madness was not so puerile as might have been feared. I nursed it as
a superior faculty and did not allow it to descend from the heights upon
which I had enthroned it. Thus I abstained from another evocation, lest
I should lose myself in the cabalistic pursuit of some chimera unworthy
of me. The immortal maiden had said that “I must become worthy, if she
were to live in my thoughts.” She had not promised to reappear in the
same form as I had seen her. She had said that this form did not exist
and was but the product of my imagination caused by the elevation of my
feelings towards her. I ought not then to torment my brain to reproduce
her, for it might misrepresent her and cause some other image to
obliterate her own. I wished to purify my life and cultivate the
treasure of conscience, in the hope, that at some given time, this
celestial figure would come to me of her own accord and talk to me in
those cherished tones that through my unworthiness had been vouchsafed
me for so short a time.
Under the influence of this mania, I was in the way of becoming a good
man, and it was rather odd that I should be led to wisdom through
madness. But all this was too subtle and too tense for human nature.
This rupture of my soul with the rest of my being, and of my life with
the temptations of youth, was gradually leading me on to despair,
perhaps even to insanity.
So far I was only melancholy, and although very pale and very thin, I
did not appear to be ill either physically or mentally when the turn
came for the hearing of the case of d’Ionis versus d’Aillane. My father
instructed me to prepare my speech for the following week. It was now
about three months since I had left, on a morning in June for the fatal
chateau d’Ionis.