The Companions of Jehu

“Before you’re up,” said Echo.

“All right,” said Roland. “Come back to me the day after tomorrow.”

“Willingly, Monsieur Louis. What do you want us to do?”

“Never mind; just come.”

“Oh! we’ll come.”

“That means that the moment you say, ‘Come,’ you can count upon us, Monsieur Louis.”

“Well, then I’ll have some information for you.”

“What about?”

“The ghosts.”

Amélie gave a stifled cry; Madame de Montrevel alone heard it. Louis dismissed the two peasants, and they jostled each other at the door in their efforts to go through together.

Nothing more was said that evening about the Chartreuse or the pavilion, nor of its supernatural tenants, spectres or phantoms who haunted them.

CHAPTER XV. THE STRONG-MINDED MAN

At ten o’clock everyone was in bed at the Château des Noires-Fontaines, or, at any rate, all had retired to their rooms.

Three or four times in the course of the evening Amélie had approached Roland as if she had something to say to him; but each time the words died upon her lips. When the family left the salon, she had taken his arm, and, although his room was on the floor above hers, she had accompanied him to his very door. Roland had kissed her, bade her good-night, and closed his door, declaring himself very tired.

Nevertheless, in spite of this assertion, Roland, once alone, did not proceed to undress. He went to his collection of arms, selected a pair of magnificent pistols, manufactured at Versailles, and presented to his father by the Convention. He snapped the triggers, and blew into the barrels to see that there were no old charges in them. They were in excellent condition. After which he laid them side by side on the table; then going to the door, looking out upon the stairs, he opened it softly to see if any one were watching. Finding the corridor and stairs empty, he went to Sir John’s door and knocked.

“Come in,” said the Englishman. Sir John, like himself, was not prepared for bed.

“I guessed from the sign you made me that you had something to say to me,” said Sir John, “so I waited for you, as you see.”

“Indeed, I have something to say to you,” returned Roland, seating himself gayly in an armchair.

“My kind host,” replied the Englishman, “I am beginning to understand you. When I see you as gay as you are now, I am like your peasants, I feel afraid.”

“Did you hear what they were saying?”

“I heard them tell a splendid ghost story. I, myself, have a haunted castle in England.”

“Have you ever seen the ghosts, my lord?”

“Yes, when I was little. Unfortunately, since I have grown up they have disappeared.”

“That’s always the way with ghosts,” said Roland gayly; “they come and go. How lucky it is that I should return just as the ghosts have begun to haunt the Chartreuse of Seillon.”

“Yes,” replied Sir John, “very lucky. Only are you sure that there are any there?”

“No. But I’ll know by the day after to-morrow.”

“How so?”

“I intend to spend to-morrow night there.”

“Oh!” said the Englishmen, “would you like to have me go with you?”

“With pleasure, my lord. Only, unfortunately, that is impossible.”

“Impossible, oh!”

“As I have just told you, my dear fellow.”

“But why impossible?”

“Are you acquainted with the manners and customs of ghosts, Sir John?” asked Roland gravely.

“No.”

“Well, I am. Ghosts only show themselves under certain conditions.”

“Explain that.”

“Well, for example, in Italy, my lord, and in Spain, the most superstitious of countries, there are no ghosts, or if there are, why, at the best, it’s only once in ten or twenty years, or maybe in a century.”

“And to what do you attribute their absence?”

“To the absence of fogs.”

“Ah! ah!”

“Not a doubt of it. You understand the native atmosphere of ghosts is fog. Scotland, Denmark and England, regions of fog, are overrun with ghosts. There’s the spectre of Hamlet, then that of Banquo, the shadows of Richard III. Italy has only one spectre, Cæsar, and then where did he appear to Brutus? At Philippi, in Macedonia and in Thessaly, the Denmark of Greece, the Scotland of the Orient; where the fog made Ovid so melancholy he named the odes he wrote there Tristia. Why did Virgil make the ghost of Anchises appear to Eneas? Because he came from Mantua. Do you know Mantua? A marsh, a frog-pond, a regular manufactory of rheumatism, an atmosphere of vapors, and consequently a nest of phantoms.”

“Go on, I’m listening to you.”

“Have you seen the Rhine?”

“Yes.”

“Germany, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Still another country of fairies, water sprites, sylphs, and consequently phantoms (‘for whoso does the greater see, can see the less’), and all that on account of the fog. But where the devil can the ghosts hide in Italy and Spain? Not the least bit of mist. And, therefore, were I in Spain or Italy I should never attempt to-morrow’s adventure.”

“But all that doesn’t explain why you refuse my company,” insisted Sir John.

“Wait a moment. I’ve just explained to you that ghosts don’t venture into certain countries, because they do not offer certain atmospheric conditions. Now, let me explain the precautions we must take if we wish to see them.”

“Explain! explain!” said Sir John, “I would rather hear you talk than any other man, Roland.”

And Sir John, stretching himself out in his easy-chair, prepared to listen with delight to the improvisations of this fantastic mind, which he had seen under so many aspects during the few days of their acquaintance.

Roland bowed his head by way of thanks.

“Well, this is the way of it, and you will grasp it readily enough. I have heard so much about ghosts in my life that I know the scamps as if I had made them. Why do ghosts appear?”

“Are you asking me that?” inquired Sir John.

“Yes, I ask you.”

“I own that, not having studied ghosts as you have, I am unable to give you a definitive answer.”

“You see! Ghosts show themselves, my dear fellow, in order to frighten those who see them.”

“That is undeniable.”

“Of course! Now, if they don’t frighten those to whom they appear, they are frightened by them; witness M. de Turenne, whose ghosts proved to be counterfeiters. Do you know that story?”

“No.”

“I’ll tell it to you some day; don’t let’s get mixed up. That is just why, when they decide to appear – which is seldom – ghosts select stormy nights, when it thunders, lightens and blows; that’s their scenery.”

“I am forced to admit that nothing could be more correct.”

“Wait a moment! There are instances when the bravest man feels a shudder run through his veins. Even before I was suffering with this aneurism it has happened to me a dozen times, when I have seen the flash of sabres and heard the thunder of cannon around me. It is true that since I have been subject to this aneurism I rush where the lightning flashes and the thunder growls. Still there is the chance that these ghosts don’t know this and believe that I can be frightened.”

“Whereas that is an impossibility, isn’t it?” asked Sir John.

“What will you! When, right or wrong, one feels that, far from dreading death, one has every reason to seek it, what should he fear? But I repeat, these ghosts, who know so much, may not know that only ghosts know this; they know that the sense of fear increases or diminishes according to the seeing and hearing of exterior things. Thus, for example, where do phantoms prefer to appear? In dark places, cemeteries, old cloisters, ruins, subterranean passages, because the aspect of these localities predisposes the soul to fear. What precedes their appearance? The rattling of chains, groans, sighs, because there is nothing very cheerful in all that? They are careful not to appear in the bright light, or after a strain of dance music. No, fear is an abyss into which you descend step by step, until you are overcome by vertigo; your feet slip, and you plunge with closed eyes to the bottom of the precipice. Now, if you read the accounts of all these apparitions, you’ll find they all proceed like this: First the sky darkens, the thunder growls, the wind howls, doors and windows rattle, the lamp – if there is a lamp in the room of the person the ghosts are trying to frighten – the lamp flares, flickers and goes out – utter darkness! Then, in the darkness, groans, wails and the rattling of chains are heard; then, at last, the door opens and the ghost appears. I must say that all the apparitions that I have not seen but read about have presented themselves under similar circumstances. Isn’t that so, Sir John?”

“Perfectly.”

“And did you ever hear of a ghost appearing to two persons at the same time?”

“I certainly never did hear of it.”

“It’s quite simple, my dear fellow. Two together, you understand, have no fear. Fear is something mysterious, strange, independent of the will, requiring isolation, darkness and solitude. A ghost is no more dangerous than a cannon ball. Well, a soldier never fears a cannon ball in the daytime, when his elbows touch a comrade to the right and left. No, he goes straight for the battery and is either killed or he kills. That’s not what the phantoms want. That’s why they never appear to two persons at the same time, and that is the reason I want to go to the Chartreuse alone, my lord. Your presence would prevent the boldest ghost from appearing. If I see nothing, or if I see something worth the trouble, you can have your turn the next day. Does the bargain suit you?”

“Perfectly! But why can’t I take the first night?”

“Ah! first, because the idea didn’t occur to you, and it is only just that I should benefit by my own cleverness. Besides, I belong to the region; I was friendly with the good monks in their lifetime, and there may be a chance of their appearing to me after death. Moreover, as I know the localities, if it becomes necessary to run away or pursue I can do it better than you. Don’t you see the justice of that, my dear fellow?”

“Yes, it couldn’t be fairer; but I am sure of going the next night.”

“The next night, and the one after, and every day and night if you wish; I only hold to the first. Now,” continued Roland rising, “this is between ourselves, isn’t it? Not a word to any one. The ghosts might be forewarned and act accordingly. It would never do to let those gay dogs get the best of us; that would be too grotesque.”

“Oh, be easy about that. You will go armed, won’t you?”

“If I thought I was only dealing with ghosts, I’d go with my hands in my pockets and nothing in my fobs. But, as I told you, M. de Turenne’s ghosts were counterfeiters, so I shall take my pistols.”

“Do you want mine?”

“No, thanks. Though yours are good, I am about resolved never to use them again.” Then, with a smile whose bitterness it would be impossible to describe, he added: “They brought me ill-luck. Good-night! Sir John. I must sleep soundly to-night, so as not to want to sleep to-morrow night.”

Then, shaking the Englishman’s hand vigorously a second time, he left the room and returned to his own. There he was greatly surprised to find the door, which he was sure he had left closed, open. But as soon as he entered, the sight of his sister explained the matter to him.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, partly astonished, partly uneasy; “is that you, Amélie?”

“Yes, it is I,” she said. Then, going close to her brother, and letting him kiss her forehead, she added in a supplicating voice: “You won’t go, will you, dear Roland?”

“Go where?” asked Roland.

“To the Chartreuse.”

“Good! Who told you that?”

“Oh! for one who knows, how difficult it is to guess!”

“And why don’t you want me to go to the Chartreuse?”

“I’m afraid something might happen to you.”

“What! So you believe in ghosts, do you?” he asked, looking fixedly into Amélie’s eyes.

Amélie lowered her glance, and Roland felt his sister’s hand tremble in his.

“Come,” said Roland; “Amélie, at least the one I used to know, General de Montrevel’s daughter and Roland’s sister, is too intelligent to yield to these vulgar terrors. It’s impossible that you can believe these tales of apparitions, chains, flames, spectres, and phantoms.”

“If I did believe them, Roland, I should not be so alarmed. If ghosts do exist, they must be souls without bodies, and consequently cannot bring their material hatred from the grave. Besides, why should a ghost hate you, Roland; you, who never harmed any one?”

“Good! You forget all those I have killed in war or in duels.”

Amélie shook her head. “I’m not afraid of them.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

The young girl raised her beautiful eyes, wet with tears, to Roland, and threw herself in his arms, saying: “I don’t know, Roland. But I can’t help it, I am afraid.”

The young man raised her head, which she was hiding in his breast, with gentle force, and said, kissing her eyelids softly and tenderly: “You don’t believe I shall have ghosts to fight with to-morrow, do you?”

“Oh, brother, don’t go to the Chartreuse!” cried Amélie, eluding the question.

“Mother told you to say this to me, didn’t she?”

“Oh, no, brother! Mother said nothing to me. It is I who guessed that you intended to go.”

“Well, if I want to go,” replied Roland firmly, “you ought to know, Amélie, that I shall go.”

“Even if I beseech you on my knees, brother?” cried Amélie in a tone of anguish, slipping down to her brother’s feet; “even if I beseech you on my knees?”

“Oh! women! women!” murmured Roland, “inexplicable creatures, whose words are all mystery, whose lips never tell the real secrets of their hearts, who weep, and pray, and tremble – why? God knows, but man, never! I shall go, Amélie, because I have resolved to go; and when once I have taken a resolution no power on earth can make me change it. Now kiss me and don’t be frightened, and I will tell you a secret.”

Amélie raised her head, and gazed questioningly, despairingly, at Roland.

“I have known for more than a year,” replied the young man, “that I have the misfortune not to be able to die. So reassure yourself, and don’t be afraid.”

Roland uttered these words so dolefully that Amélie, who had, until then, kept her emotion under control, left the room sobbing.

The young officer, after assuring himself that her door was closed, shut his, murmuring: “We’ll see who will weary first, Fate or I.”

CHAPTER XVI. THE GHOST

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.