The others kept silence, so great was the impression produced even upon
the sceptics by Dame Perrine's narrative, but Scozzone wiped away a
tear, and Pagolo crossed himself.
"When the prior," resumed Dame Perrine, "saw the devil's messenger thus
crushed by the wrath of God, he believed, poor dear man, that he was
forever delivered from the snares of the tempter; but he reckoned
without his host, a very appropriate expression, as he had been so
imprudent as to extend his hospitality to one possessed of the devil. On
the following night, just after he had dropped off to sleep, he was
awakened by the clanking of chains; he opened his eyes, instinctively
turned them toward the door, and saw that it swung open unaided, and at
the same time a phantom clad in the white robe of a novice drew near the
bed, took him by the arm, and cried, 'I am Antonia! Antonia, who loves
thee! and God has given me full power over thee because thou hast
sinned, in thought if not in act.' And every night at midnight the
terrible apparition returned, implacably true to its word, until at last
Don Enguerrand made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and died, by the
special favor of God, just as he knelt before the Holy Sepulchre.
"But Antonia was not satisfied. She fell back upon all the monks in
general, and, as there were very few who had not sinned as deeply as the
poor prior, she visited them all one after another during the night,
roughly awaking them, and crying in an awe-inspiring voice: 'I am
Antonia! I am Antonia, who loves thee!'
"Hence the name of the ghostly monk.
"When you are walking through the streets at night, and a figure with a
gray or white hood dogs your steps, hasten home; it is the ghostly monk
in quest of prey.
"When the convent was demolished to make room for the château, they
hoped to be rid of the spectre, but it seems that he is fond of the
spot. At various times he has reappeared. And now, God forgive us our
sins! the unhappy wretch has appeared again. May God preserve us from
his wicked designs!"
"Amen!" said Dame Ruperta, crossing herself.
"Amen!" said Hermann, with a shudder.
"Amen!" said Jacques Aubry, laughing.
And each of the others repeated the word with an inflection
corresponding to the impression produced upon him.
VIII
WHAT ONE SEES AT NIGHT FROM THE TOP OF A
POPLAR
On the following day, which was that on which the whole court was to
return from Fontainebleau, it was Dame Ruperta's turn to announce to the
same auditory that she had a momentous revelation to make.
As may be imagined, after such an interesting announcement, the whole
party assembled once more in the same spot at the same hour.
They were entirely at their ease, because Benvenuto had written to
Ascanio that he should stay behind for two or three days to prepare the
hall where his Jupiter was to be displayed, which Jupiter was to be cast
immediately upon his return.
The provost had simply made his appearance at the Hôtel de Nesle to ask
if there was any news of Colombe; but upon being informed by Dame
Perrine that everything was _in statu quo_, he at once returned to the
Châtelet.
The occupants of the Grand and Petit-Nesle enjoyed entire freedom of
action, therefore, both masters being absent.
In the ease of Jacques Aubry, although he was to have met Gervaise that
evening, curiosity carried the day over love, or rather he hoped that
Dame Ruperta would be less diffuse than Dame Perrine, and that she would
have finished so early that he might hear her story and still keep his
appointment.
This is what Ruperta had to tell.
Dame Perrine's narrative ran in her head all night long, and from the
moment that she entered her bedroom she trembled in every limb lest
Antonia's spirit should pay her a visit, notwithstanding the blessed
relics which hung about her bed.
She barricaded her door, but that was a very inadequate precaution; the
old servant was too well versed in the ways of phantoms not to be aware
that they know nothing of closed doors. Nevertheless she would have
liked also to barricade the window looking upon the garden of the
Grand-Nesle, but the original proprietor had neglected to provide the
window with shutters, and the present proprietor deemed it useless to
burden himself with that expense.
Ordinarily there were curtains at the window; but at this time, as luck
would have it, they were at the laundry. The window offered no
protection, therefore, save an unpretentious pane of glass, as
transparent as the air that it excluded.
On entering the room Ruperta looked under the bed, felt in all the
drawers and closets, and did not leave a single corner uninspected. She
knew that the devil occupies but little space when he draws in his tail
and claws and horns, and that Asmodeus was corked up in a bottle for
nobody knows how many years.
The room was entirely untenanted, and there was not the slightest trace
of the ghostly monk.
Ruperta went to bed therefore somewhat more at ease, but she left her
lamp burning none the less. She was no sooner in bed than she looked
toward the window, and saw outside the window a gigantic figure, whose
outlines were just discernible in the darkness, and which intercepted
the light of the stars. The moon was invisible as it was in its last
quarter.
Good Ruperta shivered with fear; she was on the point of crying out or
knocking, when she remembered the colossal statue of Mars which reared
its head before her window. She immediately looked again in that
direction, and recognized perfectly all the outlines of the god of war.
This reassured Ruperta for the moment, and she determined positively to
go to sleep.
But sleep, the poor man's treasure so often coveted by the rich, is at
no man's orders. At night God opens heaven's gates for him, and the
capricious rascal visits whom he pleases, turning aside disdainfully
from him who calls, and knocking at their doors who least expect him.
Ruperta invoked him long before he paid heed to her.
At last, toward midnight, fatigue won the day. Little by little, the
good woman's faculties became confused, her thoughts which were in
general but ill connected, broke the imperceptible thread which held
them, and scattered like the beads of a rosary. Her heart alone,
distraught by fear, was still awake; at last it too fell fast asleep,
and all was said; the lamp alone kept vigil.
But, like all things of earth, the lamp found rest two hours after
Ruperta had closed her eyes in the sleep of the just. Upon the pretext
that it had no oil to burn, it began to grow dim, sputtered, blazed up
for an instant, and then died.
Just at that time Ruperta had a fearful dream; she dreamed that, as she
was returning home from visiting Perrine, the ghostly monk pursued her;
but happily, against all precedents of those who dream, Ruperta to her
joy found that she had the legs of fifteen years, and fled so swiftly
that the ghostly monk, although he seemed to glide and not to run over
the ground, only arrived in time to have the door slammed in his face.
Ruperta thought, still dreaming, that she heard him snarl and pound upon
the door. But, as may be imagined, she was in no haste to let him in.
She lit her lamp, ran up the stairs four at a time, jumped into bed, and
put out the light.
But, just as she put out the light, she saw the monk's head outside her
window; he had crawled up the wall like a lizard, and was trying to come
through the glass. In her dream, she heard the grinding of his nails
against it.
He sleep can be so sound as to hold out against a dream of that sort.
Ruperta awoke with her hair standing on end, and dripping with icy
perspiration. Her eyes were open, staring wildly around, and in spite of
her they sought the window. With that she uttered a fearful shriek, for
this is what she saw.
She saw the head of the colossal Mars shooting forth flame from its eyes
and nose and mouth and ears.
She thought at first that she was still asleep, and that it was a
continuation of her dream; but she pinched herself till the blood came
to make sure that she was really awake; she crossed herself, and
repeated mentally three _Paters_ and two _Aves_, and the extraordinary
phenomena did not disappear.
Ruperta summoned strength enough to put out her hand, seize her broom,
and pound against the ceiling with the handle thereof. Hermann slept in
the room above hers, and she hoped that the sturdy Teuton would be
aroused and hurry to her assistance. But in vain did Ruperta knock:
Hermann gave no sign of life.
Thereupon she changed the direction of her blows, and, instead of
knocking on the ceiling to arouse Hermann, began to knock on the floor
to arouse Pagolo, who slept in the room below.
But Pagolo was as deaf as Hermann, and Ruperta pounded to no purpose.
She then abandoned the vertical for the horizontal line. Ascanio was her
neighbor, and she knocked on the partition with her broom-handle.
But all was silence in Ascanio's quarters, as in those of Hermann and
Pagolo. It was evident that neither of the three was at home. In an
instant it occurred to Ruperta that the monk had carried off all three
of them.
As there was little consolation in this idea, Ruperta's terror waxed
greater and greater, and, as she was certain that no one would come to
her assistance, she thrust her head beneath the bedclothes and waited.
She waited an hour, an hour and a half, two hours perhaps, and as she
heard no noise, she regained her courage in a measure, softly removed
the sheet from her head, and ventured to look with one eye, then with
both. The vision had disappeared. The head of Mars had gone out, and all
was dark once more.
Although the silence and darkness were calculated to set her mind at
rest, it will readily be understood that Dame Ruperta and slumber were
at odds for the balance of the night. The poor woman lay, with her ear
on the alert and both eyes wide open, until the first rays of dawn
reflected on her window announced that the time for ghosts to walk had
passed.
Now this is what Ruperta had to tell, and it must be said in her honor
that her narrative produced an even deeper impression than that of the
preceding night; its effect upon Dame Perrine and Hermann, Scozzone and
Pagolo, was particularly noticeable. The two men essayed to make excuses
for not hearing Ruperta, but their voices trembled so, and their
embarrassment was so great, that Jacques Aubry roared with laughter.
Dame Perrine and Scozzone, on the other hand, did not breathe a word.
They turned red and pale by turns, so that, if it had been daylight and
you could have followed upon their faces the reflection of what was
taking place in their minds, you would have believed them at the point
of death from apoplexy, and again from inanition, all within ten
seconds.
"And so, Dame Perrrine," said Scozzone, who was the first to recover her
self-possession, "you claim to have seen the monk's ghost walking in the
garden of the Grand-Nesle?"
"As plainly as I see you, my child," was Dame Perrrine's reply.
"And you, Ruperta, saw the head of the Mars on fire?"
"I can see it still."
"Look you," said Dame Perrine, "the accursed ghost must have chosen the
head of the statue for his domicile; and as a ghost must of course take
a little exercise now and then like a natural being, he comes down at
certain hours, walks hither and thither, and when he's tired goes back
into the head. Idols and spirits, you see, understand one another, like
thieves on market day; they live in hell together, and this horrible
false god Mars naturally enough offers his hospitality to the infernal
monk."
"Pelieve you zo, Dame Perrine?" queried the innocent German.
"I am sure of it, Monsieur Hermann, sure of it."
"It makes my flesh to greep, on my vord!" muttered Hermann with a
shudder.
"So you believe in ghosts, Hermann?" asked Aubry.
"Ja, I do pelieve in tem."
Jacques Aubry shrugged his shoulders, but as he did so he determined to
solve the mystery. It was the easiest thing in the world for one who,
like himself, went in and out of the house as familiarly as if he were
one of the family. He made up his mind, therefore, that he would go and
see Gervaise the next day, but that on this evening he would remain at
the Grand-Nesle until ten o'clock; at ten o'clock he would say good
night to everybody and pretend to go away, but that he would remain
within the precincts, climb a poplar, and make the acquaintance of the
phantom from a hiding place among the branches.
Everything fell out as the student planned. He left the studio alone as
usual, shut the door leading into the quay with a great noise to
indicate that he had gone out, then ran rapidly to the foot of the
poplar, seized the lowest branch, drew himself up to it by his wrists,
and in an instant was at the top of the tree. There he was just on a
level with the head of the statue, and overlooked both the Grand and
Petit-Nesle, so that nothing could take place in the courtyard or garden
of either unseen by him.
While Jacques Aubry was taking up his position on his lofty perch, a
grand soirée was in progress at the Louvre, and all the windows were
ablaze with light. Charles V. had finally decided to leave
Fontainebleau, and venture within the walls of the capital, and the two
sovereigns had entered Paris that same evening.
A gorgeous welcoming fête awaited the Emperor there. There was a
banquet, gaming, and a ball. Gondolas lighted by colored lanterns glided
up and down the Seine, laden with musicians, and made melodious pauses
in front of the famous balcony, from which, thirty years later, Charles
IX. was to fire upon his people, while boats gayly decked with flowers
conveyed from one bank of the river to the other those guests who were
on their way from the Faubourg Saint-Germain to the Louvre, or who were
returning to the Faubourg Saint-Germain.
Among the guests the Vicomte de Marmagne was naturally included.
As we have said, the Vicomte de Marmagne, a tall, pink-cheeked, insipid
dandy, claimed to be a great destroyer of hearts. On this occasion he
thought that a certain pretty little countess, whose husband happened to
be with the army in Savoy, cast meaning glances at him; thereupon he
danced with her, and fancied that her hand was not insensible to the
pressure he ventured to bestow upon it. And so, when he saw the fair
object of his thoughts leave the ball-room, he imagined, from the glance
she gave him as she departed, that, like Galatea, she was flying toward
the willows in the hope of being pursued. Marmagne therefore set out in
pursuit, and as she lived in the vicinity of Rue Hautefeuille his course
lay from the Louvre to the Tour de Nesle, and thence along the quay and
through Rue des Grands Augustins to Rue Saint-André. He was walking
along the quay when he heard steps behind him.
It was about one o'clock in the morning. The moon, as we have said, was
entering her last quarter, so that the night was quite dark. Among the
rare moral qualities with which nature had endowed Marmagne, courage did
not hold a prominent position. He began therefore after a while to be
somewhat disturbed by these footsteps, which seemed to be following his
own, and quickened his gait, wrapping himself more closely than ever in
his cloak, and instinctively grasping the hilt of his sword.
But the acceleration of speed profited him not; the steps behind
governed themselves by his, and even seemed to gain upon him, so that,
just as he passed the doorway of the church of the Augustins he realized
that he should very soon be overtaken by his fellow traveller unless he
quickened his pace still more to a racing speed. He was just about to
adopt that extreme course when the sound of a voice mingled with the
sound of the footsteps.
"Pardieu! my fine sir, you do well to walk fast," said the voice, "for
this isn't a very safe place, especially at this hour; right here, you
know of course, is where my worthy friend Benvenuto was
attacked,--Benvenuto, the sublime artist, who is at Fontainebleau at
this moment, and has no suspicion of what is going on under his roof.
But as we are going in the same direction apparently, we can walk along
together, and if we meet any cut-throats they will look twice before
they attack us. I offer you therefore the safeguard of my companionship,
if you will give me the honor of yours."
At the first word our student uttered, Marmagne knew that it was the
voice of one who wished him no ill, and at the name of Benvenuto he
remembered and recognized the garrulous law student, who had on a
previous occasion given him so much useful information concerning the
interior of the Grand-Nesle. He at once halted, and waited for master
Jacques Aubry to come up, for his society would be of advantage to him
in two ways. In the first place, he would serve as a sort of body guard,
and might in the mean while give him some fresh information concerning
his enemy, which his hatred would enable him to turn to advantage. He
therefore welcomed the student with his most agreeable manner.
"Good evening, my young friend," he said, in reply to the familiar
harangue addressed to him by Jacques Aubry in the darkness. "What were
you saying of our good Benvenuto, whom I hoped to meet at the Louvre,
but who has remained at Fontainebleau, like the fox that he is!"
"Well, by my soul, here's luck!" cried Jacques Aubry. "What, is it you,
my dear vicomte--de--You forgot to tell me your name, or I forgot to
remember it. You come from the Louvre? Was it very lovely, very lively,
with love-making galore? We are in good luck, my gentleman, aren't we? O
you heart-breaker!"
"Faith!" said Marmagne with a simper, "you're a sorcerer, my dear
fellow; yes, I come from the Louvre, where the king said some very
gracious things to me, and where I should still he if a certain
fascinating little countess had not signified to me that she preferred a
solitude _à deux_ to all that crush. But whence come you?"
"Whence come I?" rejoined Aubry, with a hearty laugh. "Faith! you remind
me! Poor Benvenuto! On my word, he doesn't deserve it!"
"Pray what has happened to our dear friend?"
"In the first place, you must know that I come from the Grand-Nesle,
where I have passed two hours clinging to the branch of a tree like any
parrot."
"The devil! that was no very comfortable position!"
"Never mind, never mind! I don't regret the cramp I got there, for I saw
things, my friend, I saw things--Why, simply in thinking of them I
suffocate with laughter."
As he spoke Jacques Aubry did laugh, so joyously and frankly that,
although Marmagne had as yet no idea what he was laughing at, he could
not forbear joining in the chorus. But his ignorance of the cause of the
student's amusement naturally made him the first to cease.
"Now, my young friend, that I have been drawn on by your hilarity to
laugh in confidence," said Marmagne, "may I not know what wonderful
things they were to amuse you so? You know that I am one of Benvenuto's
faithful friends, although I have never met you at his house, as my
occupation leaves me very little time to devote to society, and that
little I prefer to devote to my mistresses rather than my friends, I
confess. But it is none the less true that whatever affects him affects
me. Dear Benvenuto! Tell me what is going on at the Grand-Nesle in his
absence? That interests me more than I can explain to you."
"What is going on?" said Aubry. "No, no, that's a secret."
"A secret to me!" said Marmagne. "A secret to me, who love Benvenuto so
dearly, and who this very evening outdid King François I. in eulogizing
him! Ah! that is too bad," added the viscount, with an injured
expression.
"If I were only sure that you would mention it to nobody, my dear--What
the devil is your name, my dear friend?--I would tell you about it, for
I confess that I am as anxious to tell my story as King Midas's reeds
were to tell theirs."
"Tell it then, tell it," said Marmagne.
"You won't repeat it to anybody?"
"To nobody, I swear!"
"On your word of honor?"
"On the faith of a nobleman."
"Fancy then--But, in the first place, my dear friend, you know the
story of the monk's ghost, don't you?"
"Yes, I've heard of it. A phantom that is said to haunt the
Grand-Nesle."
"Just so. Well, well! if you know that, I can tell you the rest. Fancy
that Dame Perrine--"
"Colombe's governess?"
"Just so. Well, well, it's easy to see that you're a friend of the
family. Fancy then that Dame Perrine, in a nocturnal walk which she was
taking for her health, thought that she saw the ghostly monk also taking
a walk in the garden of the Grand-Nesle, while at the same time Dame
Ruperta--You know Dame Ruperta?"
"Isn't she Cellini's old servant?"
"Just so. While Dame Ruperta, during one of her fits of sleeplessness,
saw flames darting from the eyes, nose, and mouth of the great statue of
Mars which you have seen in the gardens of the Grand-Nesle."
"Yes, a veritable _chef-d'œuvre_!" said Marmagne.
"_Chef-d'œuvre_ is the word. Cellini makes nothing else. Flow, these
two respectable ladies--I speak of Dame Perrine and Dame Ruperta--agreed
between themselves that the two apparitions had the same cause, and that
the demon, who stalked abroad at night in the guise of the ghostly monk,
ascended at cock-crow into the head of the god Mars, a fitting retreat
for a lost soul like him, and was there consumed by such fierce flames
that they came out through the statue's eyes, nose, and ears."
"What sort of a fairy tale is this, my dear man?" said Marmagne, unable
to tell whether the student was joking or talking seriously.
"The tale of a ghost, my friend, nothing more nor less."
"Can it be that an intelligent fellow like you believes in such stuff?"
"Why no, I don't believe in it," said Jacques Aubry. "That is just why I
concluded to pass the night in a poplar tree to clear up the mystery,
and find out who the demon really is who is upsetting the whole
household. So I pretended to come out, but instead of closing the door
of the Grand-Nesle behind me I closed it in front of me, glided back in
the darkness without being seen, and got safely to the poplar upon which
I had my eye: five minutes later I was snugly ensconced among the
branches on a level with Mars's head. Now guess what I saw."
"How can I guess, pray?"
"To be sure, one must be a sorcerer to guess such things. In the first
place I saw the great door open; the door at the top of the steps, you
know?"
"Yes, yes, I know it," said Marmagne.
"I saw the door open and a man put his nose out to see if there was any
one in the courtyard. It was Hermann, the fat German."
"Yes, Hermann, the fat German," echoed Marmagne.
"When he was fully assured that the courtyard was deserted, having
looked about everywhere, except in the tree, where, as you can imagine,
he was very far from suspecting my presence, he came out, closed the
door behind him, descended the five or six steps, and went straight to
the door of the Petit-Nesle, where he knocked three times. At that
signal a woman came out of the Petit-Nesle and opened the door. This
woman was our friend Dame Perrine, who apparently has a weakness for
walking about at night with our Goliath."
"No, really? Oh the poor provost!"
"Wait a moment, wait, that's not all! I was looking after them as they
went into the Petit-Nesle, when suddenly I heard the grating of a
window-sash at my left. I turned; the window opened and out came
Pagolo,--that brigand of a Pagolo!--who would have believed it of him
with all his protestations, and his Paters and Aves?--out came Pagolo,
and, after looking about as cautiously as Hermann, straddled the
windowsill, slid down the gutter, and went from balcony to balcony until
he reached the window--guess of whose room, viscount!"
"How can I tell? was it Dame Ruperta's?"
"Oh no! Scozzone's, nothing less! Scozzone, Benvenuto's beloved
model,--a lovely brunette, my word for it. Can you believe it of the
rascal, viscount?"
"Indeed, it's most diverting," said Marmagne. "Is that all you saw?"
"Wait a bit, wait a bit, my dear fellow! I have kept the best till the
last, the best morsel for the _bonne bouche_; wait a bit, we aren't
there yet, but we soon shall be, never fear!"
"I am listening," said Marmagne. "On my honor, my dear fellow, it couldn't
be more diverting."