In a Glass Darkly J. Sheridan Le Fanu (intellectual books to read .TXT) 📖

the vastness of the place. An awful sense of expectation was upon me, and I was horribly frightened when the body that lay on the catafalque said (without stirring), in a whisper that froze me, “They come to place me in the grave alive; save me.”

I found that I could neither speak nor move. I was horribly frightened.

The two people who approached now emerged from the darkness. One, the Count de St. Alyre glided to the head of the figure and placed his long thin hands under it. The white-faced Colonel, with the scar across his face, and a look of infernal triumph, placed his hands under her feet, and they began to raise her.

With an indescribable effort I broke the spell that bound me, and started to my feet with a gasp.

I was wide awake, but the broad, wicked face of Colonel Gaillarde was staring, white as death, at me, from the other side of the hearth. “Where is she?” I shuddered.

“That depends on who she is, Monsieur,” replied the Colonel, curtly.

“Good heavens!” I gasped, looking about me.

The Colonel, who was eyeing me sarcastically, had had his demitasse of café noir, and now drank his tasse, diffusing a pleasant perfume of brandy.

“I fell asleep and was dreaming,” I said, least any strong language, founded on the role he played in my dream, should have escaped me. “I did not know for some moments where I was.”

“You are the young gentleman who has the apartments over the Count and Countess de St. Alyre?” he said, winking one eye, close in meditation, and glaring at me with the other.

“I believe so⁠—yes,” I answered.

“Well, younker, take care you have not worse dreams than that some night,” he said, enigmatically, and wagged his head with a chuckle. “Worse dreams,” he repeated.

“What does Monsieur the Colonel mean?” I inquired.

“I am trying to find that out myself,” said the Colonel; “and I think I shall. When I get the first inch of the thread fast between my finger and thumb, it goes hard but I follow it up, bit by bit, little by little, tracing it this way and that, and up and down, and round about, until the whole clue is wound up on my thumb, and the end, and its secret, fast in my fingers. Ingenious! Crafty as five foxes! wide awake as a weasel! Parbleu! if I had descended to that occupation I should have made my fortune as a spy. Good wine here?” he glanced interrogatively at my bottle.

“Very good,” said I, “Will Monsieur the Colonel try a glass?”

He took the largest he could find, and filled it, raised it with a bow, and drank it slowly. “Ah! ah! Bah! That is not it,” he exclaimed, with some disgust, filling it again. “You ought to have told me to order your Burgundy, and they would not have brought you that stuff.”

I got away from this man as soon as I civilly could, and, putting on my hat, I walked out with no other company than my sturdy walking stick. I visited the inn-yard, and looked up to the windows of the Countess’s apartments. They were closed, however, and I had not even the unsubstantial consolation of contemplating the light in which that beautiful lady was at that moment writing, or reading, or sitting and thinking of⁠—anyone you please.

I bore this serious privation as well as I could, and took a little saunter through the town. I shan’t bore you with moonlight effects, nor with the maunderings of a man who has fallen in love at first sight with a beautiful face. My ramble, it is enough to say, occupied about half-an-hour, and, returning by a slight detour, I found myself in a little square, with about two high gabled houses on each side, and a rude stone statue, worn by centuries of rain, on a pedestal in the centre of the pavement. Looking at this statue was a slight and rather tall man, whom I instantly recognized as the Marquis d’Harmonville: he knew me almost as quickly. He walked a step towards me, shrugged and laughed:

“You are surprised to find Monsieur Droqville staring at that old stone figure by moonlight. Anything to pass the time. You, I see, suffer from ennui, as I do. These little provincial towns! Heavens! what an effort it is to live in them! If I could regret having formed in early life a friendship that does me honour, I think its condemning me to a sojourn in such a place would make me do so. You go on towards Paris, I suppose, in the morning?”

“I have ordered horses.”

“As for me I await a letter, or an arrival, either would emancipate me; but I can’t say how soon either event will happen.”

“Can I be of any use in this matter?” I began.

“None, Monsieur, I thank you a thousand times. No, this is a piece in which every role is already cast. I am but an amateur, and induced, solely by friendship, to take a part.”

So he talked on, for a time, as we walked slowly toward the Belle Etoile, and then came a silence, which I broke by asking him if he knew anything of Colonel Gaillarde.

“Oh! yes, to be sure. He is a little mad; he has had some bad injuries of the head. He used to plague the people in the War Office to death. He has always some delusion. They contrived some employment for him⁠—not regimental, of course⁠—but in this campaign Napoleon, who could spare nobody, placed him in command of a regiment. He was always a desperate fighter, and such men were more than ever needed.”

There is, or was, a second inn, in this town, called l’Ecu de France. At its door the Marquis stopped, bade me a mysterious good night, and disappeared.

As I walked slowly toward my inn, I met, in the shadow of a row of poplars, the garçon who had brought me my Burgundy a little time