Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Companions of Jehu by Alexandre Dumas (best ereader for comics TXT) 📖
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
Book online «The Companions of Jehu by Alexandre Dumas (best ereader for comics TXT) 📖». Author Alexandre Dumas
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.
CHAPTER XVII. INVESTIGATIONS
Two persons were waiting for Roland’s return; one in anguish, the other with impatience. These two persons were Amélie and Sir John. Neither of them had slept for an instant. Amélie displayed her anguish only by the sound of her door, which was furtively closed as Roland came up the staircase. Roland heard the sound. He had not the courage to pass before her door without reassuring her.
“Be easy, Amélie, I am here,” he said. It did not occur to him that his sister might be anxious for any one but him.
Amélie darted from her room in her night-dress. It was easy to see from her pallor and the dark circles which spread nearly to the middle of her cheeks that she had not closed her eyes all night.
“Has nothing happened to you, Roland?” she cried, clasping her brother in her arms and feeling him over anxiously.
“Nothing.”
“Nor to any one else?”
“No.”
“And you saw nothing?”
“I didn’t say that,” answered Roland.
“Good God! What did you see?”
“I’ll tell that to you later. Meantime, there is no one either killed or wounded.”
“Ah! I breathe again!”
“Now, let me give you a bit of advice, little sister. Go to bed and sleep, if you can, till breakfast. I am going to do the same thing, and can assure you I won’t need any rocking. Good-night, or rather good-morning.”
Roland kissed his sister tenderly. Then affecting to whistle a hunting-air carelessly, he ran up the next flight of steps. Sir John was frankly waiting for him in the hall. He went straight to the young man.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well, I didn’t roll my stone entirely for nothing.”
“Did you see any ghosts?”
“At any rate I saw something that resembled one very closely.”
“Come, tell me all about it.”
“I see you won’t be able to sleep, or at best only fitfully, if I don’t. Here’s what happened, in a nutshell.”
And Roland gave him a minute account of the night’s adventure.
“Excellent,” said Sir John, when Roland had finished. “I hope you have left something for me to do.”
“I am even afraid,” answered Roland, “that I have left you the hardest part.”
Then, as Sir John went over each detail, asking many questions about the localities, he said:
“Listen, Sir John. We will pay the Chartreuse a visit in broad daylight after breakfast, which will not interfere in the least with your night-watch. On the contrary, it will acquaint you with the localities. Only you must tell no one.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Sir John, “do I look like a gabbler?”
“No, that’s true,” cried Roland laughing, “you are not a gabbler, but I am a ninny.” So saying, he entered his bedchamber.
After breakfast the two young men sauntered down the slopes of the garden, as if to take a walk along the banks of the Reissouse. Then they bore to the left, swung up the hill for about forty paces, struck into the highroad, and crossed the woods, till they reached the convent wall at the very place where Roland had climbed over it on the preceding night.
“My lord,” said Roland, “this is the way.”
“Very well,” replied Sir John, “let us take it.”
Slowly, with a wonderful strength of wrist, which betokened a man well trained in gymnastics, the Englishman seized the coping of the wall, swung himself to the top, and dropped down on the other side. Roland followed with the rapidity of one who is not achieving a feat for the first time. They were both on the other
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