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THE ROOM IN THE DRAGON VOLANT
By J. Sheridan LeFanu
_Other books by J. Sheridan LeFanu_
The Cock and Anchor
Torlogh O'Brien
The Home by the Churchyard
Uncle Silas
Checkmate
Carmilla
The Wyvern Mystery
Guy Deverell
Ghost Stories and Tales of Mystery
The Chronicles of Golden Friars
In a Glass Darkly
The Purcell Papers
The Watcher and Other Weird Stories
A Chronicle of Golden Friars and Other Stories
Madam Crowl's Ghost and Other Tales of Mystery
Green Tea and Other Stones
Sheridan LeFanu: The Diabolic Genius
Best Ghost Stories of J.S. LeFanu
The Best Horror Stories
The Vampire Lovers and Other Stories
Ghost Stories and Mysteries
The Hours After Midnight
J.S. LeFanu: Ghost Stories and Mysteries
Ghost and Horror Stones
Green Tea and Other Ghost Stories
Carmilla and Other Classic Tales of Mystery
The Room in the Dragon Volant
_Prologue_
_The curious case which I am about to place before you, is referred
to, very pointedly, and more than once, in the extraordinary Essay upon
the Drug of the Dark and the Middle Ages, from the pen of Doctor
Hesselius_.
_This Essay he entitles_ Mortis Imago, _and he, therein, discusses the_
Vinum letiferum, _the_ Beatifica, _the_ Somnus Angelorum, _the_ Hypnus
Sagarum, _the_ Aqua Thessalliae, _and about twenty other infusions and
distillations, well known to the sages of eight hundred years ago, and
two of which are still, he alleges, known to the fraternity of thieves,
and, among them, as police-office inquiries sometimes disclose to this
day, in practical use_.
_The Essay,_ Mortis Imago, _will occupy, as nearly as I can at
present calculate, two volumes, the ninth and tenth, of the collected
papers of Dr. Martin Hesselius_.
_This Essay, I may remark in conclusion, is very curiously enriched by
citations, in great abundance, from medieval verse and prose romance,
some of the most valuable of which, strange to say, are Egyptian_.
_I have selected this particular statement from among many cases
equally striking, but hardly, I think, so effective as mere narratives;
in this irregular form of publication, it is simply as a story that I
present it_.
Chapter I
ON THE ROAD
In the eventful year, 1815, I was exactly three-and-twenty, and had just
succeeded to a very large sum in consols and other securities. The first
fall of Napoleon had thrown the continent open to English excursionists,
anxious, let us suppose, to improve their minds by foreign travel; and
I--the slight check of the "hundred days" removed, by the genius of
Wellington, on the field of Waterloo--was now added to the philosophic
throng.
I was posting up to Paris from Brussels, following, I presume, the route
that the allied army had pursued but a few weeks before--more carriages
than you could believe were pursuing the same line. You could not look
back or forward, without seeing into far perspective the clouds of dust
which marked the line of the long series of vehicles. We were
perpetually passing relays of return-horses, on their way, jaded and
dusty, to the inns from which they had been taken. They were arduous
times for those patient public servants. The whole world seemed posting
up to Paris.
I ought to have noted it more particularly, but my head was so full of
Paris and the future that I passed the intervening scenery with little
patience and less attention; I think, however, that it was about four
miles to the frontier side of a rather picturesque little town, the name
of which, as of many more important places through which I posted in my
hurried journey, I forget, and about two hours before sunset, that we
came up with a carriage in distress.
It was not quite an upset. But the two leaders were lying flat. The
booted postilions had got down, and two servants who seemed very much
at sea in such matters, were by way of assisting them. A pretty little
bonnet and head were popped out of the window of the carriage in
distress. Its _tournure_, and that of the shoulders that also
appeared for a moment, was captivating: I resolved to play the part of
a good Samaritan; stopped my chaise, jumped out, and with my servant lent
a very willing hand in the emergency. Alas! the lady with the pretty
bonnet wore a very thick black veil. I could see nothing but the pattern
of the Brussels lace as she drew back.
A lean old gentleman, almost at the same time, stuck his head out of the
window. An invalid he seemed, for although the day was hot he wore a
black muffler which came up to his ears and nose, quite covering the
lower part of his face, an arrangement which he disturbed by pulling it
down for a moment, and poured forth a torrent of French thanks, as he
uncovered his black wig, and gesticulated with grateful animation.
One of my very few accomplishments, besides boxing, which was cultivated
by all Englishmen at that time, was French; and I replied, I hope and
believe grammatically. Many bows being exchanged, the old gentleman's
head went in again, and the demure, pretty little bonnet once more
appeared.
The lady must have heard me speak to my servant, for she framed her
little speech in such pretty, broken English, and in a voice so sweet,
that I more than ever cursed the black veil that baulked my romantic
curiosity.
The arms that were emblazoned on the panel were peculiar; I remember
especially one device--it was the figure of a stork, painted in carmine,
upon what the heralds call a "field or." The bird was standing upon one
leg, and in the other claw held a stone. This is, I believe, the emblem
of vigilance. Its oddity struck me, and remained impressed upon my
memory. There were supporters besides, but I forget what they were. The
courtly manners of these people, the style of their servants, the
elegance of their traveling carriage, and the supporters to their arms,
satisfied me that they were noble.
The lady, you may be sure, was not the less interesting on that account.
What a fascination a title exercises upon the imagination! I do not mean
on that of snobs or moral flunkies. Superiority of rank is a powerful
and genuine influence in love. The idea of superior refinement is
associated with it. The careless notice of the squire tells more upon
the heart of the pretty milk-maid than years of honest Dobbin's manly
devotion, and so on and up. It is an unjust world!
But in this case there was something more. I was conscious of being
good-looking. I really believe I was; and there could be no mistake
about my being nearly six feet high. Why need this lady have thanked me?
Had not her husband, for such I assumed him to be, thanked me quite
enough and for both? I was instinctively aware that the lady was looking
on me with no unwilling eyes; and, through her veil, I felt the power of
her gaze.
She was now rolling away, with a train of dust behind her wheels in the
golden sunlight, and a wise young gentleman followed her with ardent
eyes and sighed profoundly as the distance increased.
I told the postilions on no account to pass the carriage, but to keep it
steadily in view, and to pull up at whatever posting-house it should
stop at. We were soon in the little town, and the carriage we followed
drew up at the Belle Étoile, a comfortable old inn. They got out of the
carriage and entered the house.
At a leisurely pace we followed. I got down, and mounted the steps
listlessly, like a man quite apathetic and careless.
Audacious as I was, I did not care to inquire in what room I should find
them. I peeped into the apartment to my right, and then into that on my
left. _My_ people were not there. I ascended the stairs. A
drawing-room door stood open. I entered with the most innocent air in
the world. It was a spacious room, and, beside myself, contained but one
living figure--a very pretty and lady-like one. There was the very
bonnet with which I had fallen in love. The lady stood with her back
toward me. I could not tell whether the envious veil was raised; she was
reading a letter.
I stood for a minute in fixed attention, gazing upon her, in vague hope
that she might turn about and give me an opportunity of seeing her
features. She did not; but with a step or two she placed herself before
a little cabriole-table, which stood against the wall, from which rose
a tall mirror in a tarnished frame.
I might, indeed, have mistaken it for a picture; for it now reflected a
half-length portrait of a singularly beautiful woman.
She was looking down upon a letter which she held in her slender
fingers, and in which she seemed absorbed.
The face was oval, melancholy, sweet. It had in it, nevertheless, a
faint and undefinably sensual quality also. Nothing could exceed the
delicacy of its features, or the brilliancy of its tints. The eyes,
indeed, were lowered, so that I could not see their color; nothing but
their long lashes and delicate eyebrows. She continued reading. She must
have been deeply interested; I never saw a living form so motionless--I
gazed on a tinted statue.
Being at that time blessed with long and keen vision, I saw this
beautiful face with perfect distinctness. I saw even the blue veins that
traced their wanderings on the whiteness of her full throat.
I ought to have retreated as noiselessly as I came in, before my
presence was detected. But I was too much interested to move from the
spot, for a few moments longer; and while they were passing, she raised
her eyes. Those eyes were large, and of that hue which modern poets term
"violet."
These splendid melancholy eyes were turned upon me from the glass, with
a haughty stare, and hastily the lady lowered her black veil, and turned
about.
I fancied that she hoped I had not seen her. I was watching every look
and movement, the minutest, with an attention as intense as if an ordeal
involving my life depended on them.