The next evening, at about the same hour, the young officer, after
convincing himself that every one in the Château des Noires-Fontaines
had gone to bed, opened his door softly, went downstairs holding his
breath, reached the vestibule, slid back the bolts of the outer door
noiselessly, and turned round to make sure that all was quiet. Reassured
by the darkened windows, he boldly opened the iron gate. The hinges
had probably been oiled that day, for they turned without grating,
and closed as noiselessly as they had opened behind Roland, who walked
rapidly in the direction of Pont d’Ain at Bourg.
He had hardly gone a hundred yards before the clock at Saint-Just struck
once; that of Montagnac answered like a bronze echo. It was half-past
ten o’clock. At the pace the young man was walking he needed only twenty
minutes to reach the Chartreuse; especially if, instead of skirting the
woods, he took the path that led direct to the monastery. Roland was
too familiar from youth with every nook of the forest of Seillon
to needlessly lengthen his walk ten minutes. He therefore turned
unhesitatingly into the forest, coming out on the other side in about
five minutes. Once there, he had only to cross a bit of open ground to
reach the orchard wall of the convent. This took barely another five
minutes.
At the foot of the wall he stopped, but only for a few seconds. He
unhooked his cloak, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it over the wall.
The cloak off, he stood in a velvet coat, white leather breeches, and
top-boots. The coat was fastened round the waist by a belt in which were
a pair of pistols. A broad-brimmed hat covered his head and shaded his
face.
With the same rapidity with which he had removed his garment that might
have hindered his climbing the wall, he began to scale it. His foot
readily found a chink between the stones; he sprang up, seizing the
coping, and was on the other side without even touching the top of the
wall over which he bounded. He picked up his cloak, threw it over
his shoulder, hooked it, and crossed the orchard to a little door
communicating with the cloister. The clock struck eleven as he passed
through it. Roland stopped, counted the strokes, and slowly walked
around the cloister, looking and listening.
He saw nothing and heard no noise. The monastery was the picture of
desolation and solitude; the doors were all open, those of the cells,
the chapel, and the refectory. In the refectory, a vast hall where the
tables still stood in their places, Roland noticed five or six bats
circling around; a frightened owl flew through a broken casement, and
perched upon a tree close by, hooting dismally.
“Good!” said Roland, aloud; “I’ll make my headquarters here; bats and
owls are the vanguards of ghosts.”
The sound of that human voice, lifted in the midst of this solitude,
darkness and desolation, had something so uncanny, so lugubrious about
it, that it would have caused even the speaker to shudder, had not
Roland, as he himself said, been inaccessible to fear. He looked about
for a place from which he could command the entire hall. An isolated
table, placed on a sort of stage at one end of the refectory, which had
no doubt been used by the superior of the convent to take his food apart
from the monks, to read from pious books during the repast, seemed to
Roland best adapted to his needs. Here, backed by the wall, he could
not be surprised from behind, and, once his eye grew accustomed to the
darkness, he could survey every part of the hall. He looked for a seat,
and found an overturned stool about three feet from the table, probably
the one occupied by the reader or the person dining there in solitude.
Roland sat down at the table, loosened his cloak to insure greater
freedom of movement, took his pistols from his belt, laid one on the
table, and striking three blows with the butt-end of the other, he said,
in a loud voice: “The meeting is open; the ghosts can appear!”
Those who have passed through churches and cemeteries at night have
often experienced, without analyzing it, the supreme necessity of
speaking low and reverently which attaches to certain localities. Only
such persons can understand the strange impression produced on any
one who heard it by that curt, mocking voice which now disturbed the
solitude and the shadows. It vibrated an instant in the darkness, which
seemed to quiver with it; then it slowly died away without an echo,
escaping by all the many openings made by the wings of time.
As he had expected, Roland’s eyes had accustomed themselves to the
darkness, and now, by the pale light of the rising moon, whose long,
white rays penetrated the refectory through the broken windows, he could
see distinctly from one end to the other of the vast apartment. Although
Roland was as evidently without fear internally as externally, he was
not without distrust, and his ear caught the slightest sounds.
He heard the half-hour strike. In spite of himself the sound startled
him, for it came from the bell of the convent. How was it that, in this
ruin where all was dead, a clock, the pulse of time, was living?
“Oh! oh!” said Roland; “that proves that I shall see something.”
The words were spoken almost in an aside. The majesty of the place and
the silence acted upon that heart of iron, firm as the iron that had
just tolled the call of time upon eternity. The minutes slowly passed,
one after the other. Perhaps a cloud was passing between earth and
moon, for Roland fancied that the shadows deepened. Then, as midnight
approached, he seemed to hear a thousand confused, imperceptible sounds,
coming no doubt from the nocturnal universe which wakes while the other
sleeps. Nature permits no suspension of life, even for repose. She
created her nocturnal world, even as she created her daily world, from
the gnat which buzzes about the sleeper’s pillow to the lion prowling
around the Arab’s bivouac.
But Roland, the camp watcher, the sentinel of the desert, Roland, the
hunter, the soldier, knew all those sounds; they were powerless to
disturb him.
Then, mingling with these sounds, the tones of the clock, chiming the
hour, vibrated above his head. This time it was midnight. Roland counted
the twelve strokes, one after the other. The last hung, quivering upon
the air, like a bird with iron wings, then slowly expired, sad and
mournful. Just then the young man, thought he heard a moan. He listened
in the direction whence it came. Again he heard it, this time nearer at
hand.
He rose, his hands resting upon the table, the butt-end of a pistol
beneath each palm. A rustle like that of a sheet or a gown trailing
along the grass was audible on his right, not ten paces from him. He
straightened up as if moved by a spring.
At the same moment a shade appeared on the threshold of the vast hall.
This shade resembled the ancient statues lying on the tombs. It was
wrapped in an immense winding-sheet which trailed behind it.
For an instant Roland doubted his own eyes. Had the preoccupation of his
mind made him see a thing which was not? Was he the dupe of his senses,
the sport of those hallucinations which physicians assert, but cannot
explain? A moan, uttered by the phantom, put his doubts to flight.
“My faith!” he cried in a burst of laughter, “now for a tussle, friend
ghost!”
The spectre paused and extended a hand toward the young officer.
“Roland! Roland!” said the spectre in a muffled voice, “it would be a
pity not to follow to the grave those you have sent there.”
And the spectre, without hastening its step, continued on its way.
Roland, astounded for an instant, came down from the stage, and
resolutely followed the ghost. The path was difficult, encumbered with
stones, benches awry, and over-turned tables. And yet, through all
these obstacles, an invisible channel seemed open for the spectre, which
pursued its way unchecked.
Each time it passed before a window, the light from with out, feeble
as it was, shone upon the winding-sheet and the ghost, outlining the
figure, which passed into the obscurity to reappear and vanish again at
each succeeding one, Roland, his eyes fixed upon the figure, fearing to
lose sight of it if he diverted his gaze from it, dared not look at the
path, apparently so easy to the spectre, yet bristling with obstacles
for him. He stumbled at every step. The ghost was gaining upon him. It
reached the door opposite to that by which it had entered. Roland saw
the entrance to a dark passage. Feeling that the ghost would escape him,
he cried: “Man or ghost, robber or monk, halt or I fire!”
“A dead body cannot be killed twice, and death has no power over the
spirit,” replied the ghost in its muffled voice.
“Who are you?”
“The Shade of him you tore violently from the earth.”
The young officer burst into that harsh, nervous laugh, made more
terrible by the darkness around him.
“Faith!” said he, “if you have no further indications to give me, I
shall not trouble myself to discover you.”
“Remember the fountain at Vaucluse,” said the Shade, in a voice so faint
the words seemed to escape his lips like a sigh rather than articulate
speech.
For an instant Roland felt, not his heart failing him, but the sweat
pouring from his forehead. Making an effort over himself, he regained
his voice and cried, menacingly: “For a last time, apparition or
reality, I warn you that, if you do not stop, I shall fire!”
The Shade did not heed him, but continued on its way.
Roland paused an instant to take aim. The spectre was not ten paces from
him. Roland was a sure shot; he had himself loaded his pistols, and only
a moment before he had looked to the charge to see that it was intact.
As the spectre passed, tall and white, beneath the gloomy vault of the
passage, Roland fired. The flash illumined the corridor like lightning,
down which the spectre passed with unfaltering, unhastening steps. Then
all was blacker than before. The ghost vanished in the darkness. Roland
dashed after him, changing his other pistol from the left hand to the
right. But short as his stop had been, the ghost had gained ground.
Roland saw him at the end of the passage, this time distinctly outlined
against the gray background of the night. He redoubled his pace, and as
he crossed the threshold of the passage, he fancied that the ghost was
plunging into the bowels of the earth. But the torso still remained
visible.
“Devil or not,” cried Roland, “I follow you!”
He fired a second shot, which filled the cavernous space, into which the
ghost had disappeared, with flame and smoke.
When the smoke had cleared away, Roland looked vainly around. He was
alone. He sprang into the cistern howling with rage. He sounded the
walls with the butt-end of his pistol, he stamped on the ground; but
everywhere, earth and stone gave back the sound of solid objects. He
tried to pierce the darkness, but it was impossible. The faint moonlight
that filtered into the cistern died out at the first steps.
“Oh!” cried Roland, “a torch! a torch!”
No one answered. The only sound to be heard was the spring bubbling
close at hand. Realizing that further search would be useless, he
emerged from the cavern. Drawing a powder-horn and two balls from his
pocket, he loaded his pistols hastily. Then he took the path along which
he had just come, found the dark passage, then the vast refectory, and
again took his place at the end of the silent hall and waited.
But the hours of the night sounded successively, until the first gleam
of dawn cast its pallid light upon the walls of the cloister.
“Well,” muttered Roland, “it’s over for to-night. Perhaps I shall be
more fortunate the next time.”
Twenty minutes later he re-entered the Château des Noires-Fontaines.