University of Virginia Library

MARIE DE BERNIERE;
A TALE OF THE CRESCENT CITY.

1. CHAPTER I.
THE FRIENDS—FIRST VISIT TO THE CRESCENT CITY.

It was in the winter of — (it does not matter about
the year) that I made my first visit to the Crescent
City, as New Orleans has been fancifully and felicitously
called. It was not then the wondrous business
metropolis that we now behold it; but sufficiently
stately, magnificent, and populous, even then, to turn
the head of a simple backwoodsman like myself.
Until that period, I had never beheld a city deserving
of the name—had never, in fact, been much beyond
the little village, in West Tennessee, which
constituted the nearest market-town to my father's
plantation. In brief, I was but a humble rustic,
without any of the advantages of travel, and but few
of education. Thus ignorant, at eighteen years of
age, I descended the Mississippi to the queen of cities,
seated at its mouth. I had for a companion, on this
expedition, a young friend, something older than myself,

however, who, besides, had enjoyed a much
larger experience. Frederick Brandon was a Tennessean
also. He had seen something of our American
world—had been once among the Eastern States
and cities, and had passed more than once before
over the route which we now pursued. He knew
every headland, every plantation, and, as it seemed
to me, every person along the river. He was about
five years my senior, and had been better taught than
myself in almost every possible respect. I necessarily
deferred to him; I was pleased and proud to do
so. I had every confidence in his affection, and his
superior knowledge and judgment, and felt that he
could enlighten me on a thousand subjects, of which
my information was distressingly small. He was the
person to do so without mortifying my self-esteem,
having as little vanity and arrogance as I ever met
in any person whose claims were so considerable. To
him, New Orleans was no novelty, though always a
great attraction. He had a sister who had been married
some seven years before to a wealthy Creole of
the city, and frequent visits, and an occasional residence
with her, had made all its places familiar. He
was the man, over all others, to spy out all the secrets
and explore all the haunts of a great metropolis. He
possessed a lively curiosity, with an unexcitable temperament—a
rather rare combination—and was prompt
and active always, without showing either eagerness
or hurry. His nerves seemed to be wrought of steel.
Sternly resolute, even as a gladiator, he was yet not
easily ruffled. A man of great muscular power, he
was yet slow to anger, and preferred always, where
this was possible, to excuse or to escape annoyance,
rather than, with unnecessary haste, to construe it
into an impertinence, which no person was more ready
to resent. With this temperament, at once cool and
curious, New Orleans had few mysteries which he had
not contrived to penetrate. Its walks and cafés, its
theatres and hells—for at this period the Crescent
City could boast of quite a number of licensed gaming
establishments of the most gigantic dimensions—were
all familiar to his footsteps. He seemed everywhere
to carry with him that spell of character, which is an
open sesame, throwing wide to the seeker every avenue
to the most secret recesses of social morals and of
the practices which mostly tend to lay bare, and render
active the secret susceptibilities and propensities
of the erring nature. Not that he himself was
either dissipated or vicious. On the contrary, he
never played, and was singularly temperate in all his
indulgences. I look back after a lapse of near thirty
years upon his character, as I knew it, with almost
the same degree of admiration now, which I felt for
him at first. His powers of caution, of circumspection
rather, of endurance, resistance, and subjectivity, were
indeed wonderful; and it is to their influence I
owe it, that I so soon learned to navigate the mysterious
avenues, and penetrate the doubtful abodes of
the great city, without suffering from its snares and
pitfalls, I could tell some queer stories about our
desultory wanderings and strange discoveries—but
these may serve a turn hereafter. Let it answer now,
that, in the course of a few weeks, I had acquired
such a perfect carte du pays of the municipal and
social world into which I had thus, for the first time,
penetrated, that I too might have taken up the business
of the cicerone, in the goodly city, without greatly
discrediting my master.

2. CHAPTER II.
SOCIETY IN NEW ORLEANS—NEW PARTIES.

Through Brandon's sister, Madame de Chateauneuve,
I obtained my entrée to society. By this word
society, however, must be understood that only of the
Creole or native population at that early day in New
Orleans, when the city numbered some thirty-five
thousand people only. Scarcely any other social
world was recognized. The Anglo-American population
were neither sufficiently numerous, nor in sufficiently
good repute, to form an extensive or an ample
community of their own. The Gallic-American circles
were not easily accessible. They were composed
of a proud aristocratic people, possessed of an equal
share of jealousies and refinements. They regarded
the Anglo-Americans as mere intruders—adventurers
by no means representing the better classes of their
people—traders equally unpolished and reckless, having
no aims that did not lie within the narrow compass
of the sovereign dollar! They despised them accordingly;
and soon learned to detest, even as cordially

as they despised, when they found these adventurers,
as competitors, in trade, unrestrained by the conventions
of a customary society, undiverted from the one
purpose by any sense of grace and luxury, and whose
superior energies—the result, in some measure, of
their deficient refinements and inferior tastes—were
rapidly undermining their prosperity, and wresting
from them hourly the profits of a trade which the
Creole had rather carried on as an amateur than as
a professor.

It would not, I think, be easy to understand, at
this latter day—now that everything is somewhat altered
in these respects—the wholesale aversion with
which the natives of Louisiana, at that period, regarded
the strange population. They made some distinction,
it is true, between members of the same race,
engaged in agriculture, and those employed in trade,
which were greatly favorable to the former class.
Thus, as I was the son of a planter, and destined to
become a planter myself, I was necessarily recognized
as a gentleman—though still after the Anglo-Saxon
formulæ. It did not matter that my planting interest
was a petty one. It was quite sufficient that its
tendencies were recognized as calculated to raise the
social nature, and elevate the tastes of the individual
to a rank very far superior to those which were usually
ascribed to trade.

In consequence of this distinction, my social position
was freed from the usual disabilities of my race
in New Orleans, and Madame de Chateauneuve kindly
achieved the rest. She found for me a sufficient passport.

Under her wing, I went the visiting rounds,
and became incorporated with that circle in which
she moved without impediment. She was a calm,
strong-minded person, very much resembling her
brother; and, like a sensible woman, she swayed her
husband's household, without mortifying his amour
propre.

Monsieur Philip de Chateauneuve was a merchant
of the old school—a class, by the way, quite as well
known to the history of trade among the English, as
among their Gallic neighbors. He was a large importer
of French and German wines, and was properly
interested in his business, without suffering his appetite
for gain to render him heedless of the demands
of society—a nice and difficult distinction which the
Anglo-American has yet justly to appreciate. He
contrived, in other words, to maintain together the
character of the trader and the gentleman—was contented
with moderate profits and a moderate business,
and did not fancy that his sole destination in life lay
in his day-book and ledger. He was thus enabled to
devote some time and study to literature and the fine
arts, of which he was passionately fond; and his collection,
though on a small scale, would have refreshed
the connoisseur, as his gallery was not more petit than
recherche. He had some pictures, picked up during
a twelvemonth's visit to the continent of Europe, and
a correspondence with friendly amateurs in Italy,
which he had been careful to nurse and keep alive.
Monsieur de Chateauneuve was considerably older
than his wife, whom he professed to treat rather as a

child than a woman. To all this she yielded with a
deference seemingly the most implicit, being quite
satisfied to wield the essentials of power, without disputing
about its shows. Her brother was quite a
favorite with her Baron, and in some degree I succeeded,
after a season, to his favor also. But these
details are unnecessary. Enough, that the freedom
of his house afforded me that of several of the oldest
native families, the very families, representing an order
of things rapidly dying out, but which, in numberless
respects, deserved to survive their disabilities,
which, of all things, I should have most desired.

With a very slight smattering of French, which
was sufficiently imperfect to encourage my friends
to correct me graciously—a task which my fair
companions always performed in such a manner as to
make the correction agreeable—I made my way into
society with tolerable success. Though something of
a rustic, I was lively and good-natured, and my equal
simplicity and animation were serviceable to me in a
condition of the social world which if highly sophisticated,
had never yet lost its frankness. I flattered
myself that I grew rather popular, and Brandon
assured me that such was the case. Invitations,
accordingly, poured in upon, and kept me busy. An
incessant round of parties—morning, noon, and evening
reunions—made me something of a gallant; and
I, who had lately worn moccasons and leggings, was
now well satisfied to believe that I had never danced
in anything more grotesque than French opera boots,
and Poniatowski pumps!

One delightful morning in January found Frederick
Brandon and myself eagerly engaged in discussing our
habits for the bal masque of Madame Marie de Berniere.
This lady was a belle and a fortune. She was
the youthful widow of the once notorious Col. Eugene
de Berniere, a sugar planter and a famous swordsman.
He was one of a school now nearly extinct, who
prided himself on his reputation as a fire-eater. He
had been emphatically un mauvais sujet, one of the
most malignant of a tribe whose malignity assumed a
type of fanaticism little short of insanity, and who
seemed anxious to distinguish themselves by a sort of
general warfare against humanity. A fierce, dark,
savage man, ungenial and morose, he had been a domestic
tyrant, and was equally feared by his family,
and loathed by society, which he nevertheless contrived
to bully into the appearance of respect and
certainly into forbearance.

Marie Prideau, now de Berniere, was some twenty
years younger than himself. She had been forced
into his arms when but a child of sixteen, by the
perverse avarice of her needy mother, who very soon
learned to deplore the folly of which she had been
guilty, the cruel fruits of which she was yet not compelled
in her own person to endure. These enured
wholly to the unhappy victim, her daughter. Col.
de Berniere soon taught her an experience in torture
which might have afforded some lessons to the Spanish
Inquisition, in the day of its maturer tyrannies. He
soon grew jealous of the fidelity of the beautiful
creature delivered into his hands, assured as he was,

by the infallible convictions of his nature, that there
was nothing in himself at all calculated to secure or
influence her affections. But his jealousy was wholly
without cause.

The virtues of Marie de Berniere were beyond reproach.
Her prudence, however, was at fault. Of
a high spirit, a frank and ardent temper, she could
not conceal the disgust and aversion which his brutalities
provoked. His treatment of her was harsh and
brutal, amounting at times to violence; and his death,
which happened suddenly, was a grateful relief from
the most cruel of all bonds. She felt it so, and affected
none of the regrets which she could not be
supposed to feel. She was at no great pains to convince
the world that she was unconsolable; still, she
offended against none of the proprieties. She clad
herself and household in the usual habits of mourning.
She abstained from the gayer circles of society; she
violated none of its rules; and her conduct was held
not merely unexceptionable, but, among those who
knew her history, exemplary in a high degree. And
thus she continued till the period of our narrative.

It was now nearly two years since the death of her
tyrant. Her weeds were all discarded; she had resumed
her place in society, and was now preparing to
give her first grand entertainment. All the world,
to employ the superlative idiom of the French, was
agog for the occasion. They knew her story; they
felt her charms; they had not forgotten the great
wealth, which the sudden death of her husband, without
heirs, had secured without restraint to herself.

The public mind was greatly excited, and indulged in
glowing expectations. Conjecture and rumor were
busy in describing, in language the most exaggerated,
the delights and glories which we might anticipate.
The young widow was about to revenge herself for
her long forbearance; and the prediction was confident
and universal that we were soon to enjoy a
festival more brilliant, picturesque, and charming than
had been seen for many years before in our American
Paris. Great preparations for the event were known
to be in progress, and all the auguries were propitious
and all the prophecies were grateful. Anticipation,
however, if I may dare to say so, did not go quite far
enough. The spectacle may have had a self-exaggerating
effect in eyes which, like mine, had not been
familiar with such displays, and which, accordingly,
were without the just standards for determining upon
them, but there is still a considerable circle in the
Crescent City, as it was some thirty years ago, who
will long remember the bal masque of Madame de
Berniere, not less from what actually took place,
than by what was so glowingly promised to public
expectation.

3. CHAPTER III.
PREPARATIONS FOR THE BAL MASQUE—EXPECTATIONS.

I need not shame to say that the event, the anticipations
of which had occasioned such a complete
bouleversement among the fashionables of New Orleans,
turned my head also. I was an eager boy; this was
my first appearance on such a scene, and I was in a
tumult of pleasurable excitement. I had heard of the
masked balls among the Europeans—of their motley
crowds, their wild splendor, their ever-changing aspects
and ever-fruitful provocations to pleasure; the
humors which they elicited, the curious blunders
which they occasioned and developed; their dramatic
éclaircissement—the felicitous fancies and unique
tastes which made their inimitable contrast; the merriment
and wit which flowed or flashed in the keen
encounter of well-chosen characters; and more than
all, the romance of their intrigues, and the results,
as grateful to the heart as to the fancy, which sometimes
sprung from the happy exhibitions which they
made equally of heart and fancy.

These were my thoughts and dreams, leading me
to the encouragement of the wildest expectations, far
beyond the possibility even of what I was really to
enjoy. The romance of the thing appealed to an imagination
only too eager and impetuous, always and
forever on the wing. That indescribable halo with

which the fancy invests the creature of the hope or
the thought, far beyond anything in the capacity of
man to realize, had borne me aloft into that ideal
land of anticipation, where all the aspects that encounter
us are of such stuff only as make the visions
of the inexperienced boy. But the human sense was
present, to give body to the glad and wandering
sentiment. To confess a truth, I had some vague
notions of personal adventure; of some romantic encounter
with beauty in a disguise which I was decreed
to penetrate—beneath which I was to discover charms,
and sensibilities, and affections, which were to be the
more valuable as they had already learned to find a
value in myself. In brief, I was to be made happy
by a happy conquest. Oh dreams! dreams! But
not the less precious that they are nothing more.

4. CHAPTER IV.
BRANDON'S PASSION.

Brandon had his expectations, also, not less pleasant
than mine, and resting on far better foundations.
He did not withhold them from me, though he revealed
them now for the first time. His were hopes and expectations,
rather than mere dreams. That portion
of my romance which ensued from the mystery, did
not belong to his calculations. These he did not suppress.
He had a passion actively working in his
heart, the object of which was no less a person than

the fair widow herself. Of her he had never spoken to
me before; and her home was almost the only one, of
all within the range of his sister's circle, into which I
had not gone in his company. But he had gone thither
alone. This he now revealed to me. He had long
known her, and had loved her even before the death of
her husband. Speaking of him, he had but a single
word—“Brute!” which he repeated with singular
emphasis. From him I now received her story.
Brandon then revealed to me his own relations with
the widow.

“If woman,” said he, “were always her own mistress—were
she not too commonly influenced by what
is called the world, and what she considers its friendships—I
might easily persuade myself to indulge in a
hope which might seem to others unbecoming. But
to you, William, I frankly say that, if I do not greatly
deceive myself, I have a place in Marie's heart. I
loved her when she was the wife of another, though I
knew not the fact myself. Then I saw her but infrequently,
and we had no opportunities for speech together.
But she must even then have seen the earnestness
with which I watched her; and I have a thousand
times fancied since, when endeavoring to recall the
past, that her eye, even then, frequently distinguished
me from among the crowd. Since she has opened
her doors to society, I have availed myself of my
sister's intimacy, to see her frequently. We have
also met when none were present; and I feel my advances
have not been made in vain. I confess to you

frankly, that I love her beyond any woman I have
ever yet beheld.”

“But how will you overcome the difficulty in regard
to religion? I heard your sister last night say, that
she was something of a devotee—quite a wild spiritualist,
and a little too much under the influence of her
ghostly father.”

“She is spiritual only because she is imaginative.
She is religious and a devotee, only because hers is a
very earnest and enthusiastic nature. Her religion,
I fancy, will be no difficulty with me, if mine should
suggest none to her. She is a Catholic, and I, if anything,
am an Episcopalian. There are really no vital
differences between the two creeds, except in respects
which rather concern society than the individual.
The great effort of Protestantism in England was
rather to strip the state of its religion, than the man.
In that country, now, the established church is simply
an instrument of state, one of the political agencies
for the maintenance of a system. I am tolerant. I
do not feel that my faith has any right to quarrel
with the forms of another, which admits her to be
pure, fond, and faithful, simply because it obeys certain
prescriptive modes in its exhibition. My wife
may pray at any altar that she pleases, so that she
really does pray, and always puts me forward in her
prayers. For me, I think it likely she will suffer me
to worship where I please, always provided that I
make no other living woman my madonna.”

I laughed. I had no doubt of his success, and I
told him so. I felt sure that few women could withstand

him. Few men were in possession of more
decided or superior attractions. Something has already
been said of his character. His personal claims
were not a whit behind those of his intellect. A more
manly fellow never left the mountains of Tennessee.
A more graceful person never trod in the palaces of
nobility. Brave, generous, and frank—a splendid
rider, a famous wrestler, a deadly shot—he had yet
other attractions. He could pace a galliard like a
prince, and hold his ground with Hoyle and Phillidor
at whist and chess. Besides, his literary tastes had
been cultivated, and were of a decided character.
His information was large, and of that sort which
society most needs and most desires. He could suggest
a plan for draining a meadow, reclaiming a desert,
improving a crop, and designing a cottage; and, without
obtruding his art, he could frame a sonnet to a
sentiment, or compose the song for a favorite strain
of summer music. It is true that Frederick Brandon
had little wealth; but what of this, if that of Marie
de Berniere could suffice for both? I felt sure, and
spoke confidently of his success. He heard me patiently.

“I do not certainly underrate my hopes,” said he;
“but I am very sure that I do not overrate my fears.
I foresee much difficulty before me, from a cause which
is scarcely visible to you; nor can I now explain it
myself. Enough, that I have a severe struggle before
me, which will test all my strength and ingenuity.
But hither comes my sister. Not a word more. Let
us look now at the visors.”

5. CHAPTER V.
MADAME DE BERNIERE.

That very morning, under the auspices of Madame
de Chateauneuve, I made my first visit to the lovely
Marie de Berniere. She received us very graciously,
and was, I fancied, particularly solicitous of the favorable
regards of Madame de C. Nor had I any reason
to complain. Benevolence and sweetness were apparently
the most distinguishing traits in her composition;
and she very soon put me quite at ease beside
her. When I left her, I felt as if she were an old
acquaintance. I have said that Marie de Berniere
was a belle. She deserved to be so, and would have
had friends in spite of all her fortune. She was but
twenty-two at the time of which I write, and possessed
all the frankness, the delicacy, and freshness of a girl
of seventeen; with the additional advantages of a contemplative
mood derived from a premature experience.
Never did a more beautiful or princely creature glide
through the measured majesty of dance. Her form
was rather above the middling size, but eminently
symmetrical. Her carriage was at once dignified and
unaffected. So much grace and simplicity, with so
much elevation and nobility, were never before united
in the same person. Her features were by no means
regular. Regularity of features, indeed, is seldom
consistent with real or remarkable beauty—but hers

were so perfect in themselves, and each so perfect by
itself, that their combined expression was irresistible,
and readily served to divert the eye from any too
close analysis of details, which might have resulted in
an unfavorable decision upon the whole. In brief,
you were touched, and made to sympathize with the
object, before you could begin its study, and then all
farther examination was prosecuted under a bias which
left the judgment no longer free. You were not allowed
to perceive a deficiency in charms which had
already dazzled the glance and warmed the fancy;
and the mind yielded with the eye, and the heart submitted
at the first summons, to a nameless influence
which was sufficient to prejudice, in its behalf, the
severest purpose of the critic. Such was the effect of
the beauty of Marie de Berniere on most persons. In
this way, perhaps, had it won the young admiration
of my companion. He admitted that he had yielded
without resistance, at a mere glance, when he first
came to New Orleans; but he insisted that the first
impressions of his eye had been confirmed by the subsequent
experience of his mind. We shall see. At
all events, I was not prepared, or indeed, at all disposed,
to question the propriety of his feelings or the
wisdom of his tastes. My first interview with the
beautiful widow awakened in my own heart a warm
and genial attachment for her; not of love, remember,
but of such a kind as to make it easy to understand
how it should be love in the bosom of my friend.
Still, I am disposed to think that, prudent and cool
in all other matters, Frederick Brandon had hurried
into this attachment with all the impulse of the boy,
just freed from the leash at twenty-one. All men
have their rashnesses, and this was his. Admitting
all the charms of Marie de Berniere, there were some
peculiarities about her that never entirely satisfied
myself.

These, I was more sensible of, during a quiet evening
at Madame de Chateauneuve's mansion, preceding
by a few days the bal masque, and where I saw her
for the second time. On this occasion, I studied her
with much more freedom and particularity than before.
That she was a person of many and imposing
beauties, such as must infallibly make themselves
admired and soon beloved by thousands, almost at a
glance, I could easily perceive and will cheerfully
admit. It was the style and manner of her beauty
that did not satisfy me—that startled me, in fact,
and made me to fear, in some degree, as well as to
admire. I felt that there was something unnaturally
powerful in the very intensity of her glance. Nothing
could have been more brilliant than her eye. But it
was fascination, no less than splendor. The effect was
rather to dazzle and confound, than to persuade. If
it had the brilliancy of the diamond—its purity and
clearness—it seemed to possess its hardness also.
The lady had a habit of looking on you, fixedly, into
your very eye—a habit which very seldom pleases
or attracts; her own glittering all the while, with a
piercing shaft-like directness, of the intensity of
which she seemed to be nearly entirely unconscious.
It happened, not unfrequently, while she was thus

looking through you, as it were, that your remarks
would utterly fail to fix her thoughts or command her
attention. Her mind seemed, at such moments, to be
wandering; her faculties absorbed in musings and
contemplations as widely remote from what you were
saying, and even from yourself, as if she were wholly
in another world and presence; and when, by an evident
effort of will, she would recall her consciousness
to the things about her, it was with a seeming restlessness
of mood that robbed the features, for awhile,
of all expression. These were peculiarities which I
did not conceive to be pleasant ones. There was yet
another. There was a something in the occasional
quivering of her thin lips, which produced an uncomfortable
sensation; and she had a habit of drawing
in her breath, at moments of pause, in the conversation,
with a slight sobbing sound, such as an infant
gives out after having cried itself to sleep. This was
another peculiarity which, I confess, tended somewhat
to qualify my admiration of her charms. They
seemed to be so many proofs of an hysterical tendency,
and to betray, also, the weight of some secret
sorrow or anxiety, which we do not relish should
appear conspicuous in the case of youth and feminine
beauty. I doubt whether Frederick Brandon perceived
these peculiarities at all, or they may have
seemed to him only so many additional beauties.

Of her features a brief sketch will suffice. Her
hair was of a light brown; her eye was hazel; her
complexion dazzlingly fair, and distinguished by the
most delicate peach-blossom that ever kindled the

virgin cheek to loveliness. Never was mouth more
sweetly yet expressively fashioned. Her nose was
Grecian; the eye large and eminent; the chin full,
but delicately rounded; the forehead high rather than
massive; the neck long and white, arching beautifully,
and the throat broad and very fair, and worthy of
the well-fashioned bust from which it rose. Of her
figure and carriage I have spoken.

Such was the result of my observations during my
second interview with Madame de Berniere. They
must not be thought unfavorable. Perhaps I sought
for defects, in order to prevent myself from becoming
too much pleased. I must add that, personally, I had
no reason to be less satisfied with her on this than
on the previous occasion. Her attention to me was
quite as friendly as before. She evidently treated me
with special favor; and I was not vain enough to
ascribe this treatment to any cause but the high degree
of favor which my friend enjoyed in her estimation.
But, let us hurry; the masquerade approaches.

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE BAL MASQUE—THE TWO EGYPTIANS.

The bal masque might well have been a native of
the Crescent City. It is here more at home than in
any other portion of the Union. Here it belongs to
the original sources of society—the creation of a
Provençal and Andalusian parentage. It accords with

the flexible mood of the people, their social readiness,
the felicity of their humor, its play, and liveliness.
It is also characteristic of a nature that loves to turn
aside to regions of its own, to dream, and indulge in
fanciful wanderings. It is grateful to the South; it
belongs to starlight and flowers, and appeals to tastes
and sensibilities, which, in consequence of the very
intensity of the native passions, prefers to disguise
the over-earnest impulses, and to mask from exposure
the too eager susceptibilities. That it is a dangerous
recreation, as calculated to promote intrigue, is perhaps
only true of it among a colder and more calculating
people. I doubt if it is employed for any
such purpose in New Orleans. It is simply one of
the sports which constitute the romance of society,
and divert it from its passions. It belongs rather to
the play of the people than to their appetites. It
brings out ingenious resource in conversation; exercises
the subtleties of small social diplomacy; enables
a bashful lover, perhaps, to declare, under a monk's
visage, what he would not venture beneath his own;
but seldom goes a fraction farther. It is the colder
and more deliberate nature that plans and contrives
such an agency for the promotion of more dangerous
and deeper purposes; a prurient and vicious mind,
that forever broods over its mere appetites; nursing,
by means of thought, those characteristics which
properly belong only to the sanguine impulses. The
passions of the warm South, once aroused, would
break through and fling aside all disguises. It cannot
often employ hypocrisy for the purposes of passion;
and is as far as possible from any cold calculations in
respect to it. These belong really to regions where
the blood is never too warm for the control of the
intellect; and where, accordingly, the intellect itself
is made use of to stimulate the ardor and the fervor
of the blood.

But a truce to these preliminaries. Let it suffice
that the bal masque of Madame de Berniere was one
of the most splendid affairs that had ever taken place
in New Orleans. It was decidedly beyond anything
that I had ever dreamed of as likely to occur in our
time and country. It realized all my fancies of what
might happen in foreign lands, where wealth, art,
taste, and luxury combine for the gratification of the
senses and the delight of the imagination.

The mansion of Madame de Berniere was a huge
antique double establishment, situated in the rue de
—, the “court” precinct in the old French city.
Its dimensions were sufficiently ample even for the
vast entertainment which it now afforded.

We came at an early hour. The place was illuminated
gloriously, from basement to attic; the lights
disposed in wreaths, in stars, in crescents, upon the
windows, making deep night in that narrow street
emulous of noonday. The long treble line of carriages
which filled the avenue, even at the early hour
of our coming, declared, as certainly as any other
sign, the sensation which the affair had occasioned
among the ancient aristocracy of this the American
Paris. The broad passage-way, through which the
dwelling was entered, was crowded ere we came; and

it required a struggle to secure ingress, through the
multitude. I was dazzled and bewildered, and but for
Madame de Chateauneuve, must have been lost. What
with the glance of lights, the confusion of tongues,
the splendor and variety of costumes, the blaze of
jewels, and the frequent bursts of a full and noble
orchestra, I was completely taken from my feet. My
eyes wandered from subject to subject, with an absolute
consternation. I began to fancy myself in some
famous European palace, amongst crowned heads and
nobility. There they were, looking like the life.
There were kings and princes; popes and cardinals;
dukes, and lords, and knights; jongleurs and troubadours;
Cleopatra, with her basket of asps and apples;
Anne Bullen, followed by the headsman, and a wondrous
array of other famous individual characters from
the days of Solomon to those of Louis Quatorze, and
later. But mine is not a catalogue, and the reader
must conceive for himself the assortment of distinguished
personages, such as would be likely to make
their appearance on an occasion so grateful to aristocracy.

We struggled as we could, through the dense and
shifting masses, until we reached the dais of reception,
where, until a certain hour—until the guests, in fact,
were all assembled—our fair hostess sat in a modest
state, unmarked, and in ordinary ball costume. Here,
in simplest white, with one pale rose just blossoming
in her hand, Marie de Berniere shone as a star of the
first magnitude. I had the honor to present Madame
Chateauneuve, while Frederick Brandon followed us.

I felt very much like falling upon one knee, as to
royalty, and making my profound obeisance to the
beautiful sovereign, who, looking so much like Una,
the mistress of the snow-white lamb, as described by
Spenser, seemed to be now entirely without defect—
a perfect creature of delight. Her beauty, I confess,
at this moment, seemed completely pure, and without
qualification. She was really in her element.

What was the delight of my friend, I could readily
conjecture, though I am sure, even had his visor been
lifted, that no one could have suspected the fervor of
his fancy, or the depth of his attachment, in that
calm white brow, and that sweet repose and gentle
satisfaction which rayed out modestly from his great
blue eyes. I watched both the parties as he drew
nigh to make his bow, and fancied that the smile
with which she welcomed him was one of peculiar indulgence.
That she knew all of us, though we came
in character and masks, was the natural consequence
of the arrangement for the ball, by which she possessed
an advantage over all her guests. It was one
of the modes adopted for securing the company from
the intrusion of improper or uninvited persons, that
each expected guest was required to apprize her of
the costume in which they would appear. His card,
with her signature, could alone secure admission to
the mansion, which was guarded by a strong police of
gens d' armes.

This plan gave her a key to all the characters present;
and I could see that her eye lingered earnestly
upon the erect form of my friend, shrouded as it was

in the flowing garments of the Egyptian magian.
But we were compelled to give place to other personages.

The preliminaries of reception may have consumed
an hour, when, without signal, Madame Marie de
Berniere disappeared from the circle, in which all was
now life and animation. When she again returned,
it was only to be lost among the thousand masks of
which nothing could be known except by conjecture.
The music timed all our proceedings, whether we
danced, walked, or took refreshments. We had a numerous
range of apartments on an upper and a lower
floor. A piazza in the rear of the building was inclosed
with canvas, artfully arrayed with festoons and
flowers, and draped with shawls and curtains. This,
in turn, conducted, by a flight of steps, into the loveliest
court, where every variety of flower and shrub
was congregated to give softness and sweetness to the
scene. In that warm latitude, even in February, it
was sometimes pleasant to glide into the cool porches,
and inhale the fresh breathings from the cisterns of
the night. All was privilege and pleasure, within the
bounds of propriety and taste. Now we grew together
in groups, interested by the attractive and
spirited dialogue of masks which were doing more
than common justice to the characters they had assumed;
and now we lingered over the prophecies of
some saucy gypsy, who used truth like a winged arrow
—as, by the way, it always is —sure to hit some bosom,
however randomly sent; and now we followed,
laughingly, after the ludicrous antics of some clever

Arlecchino, who might have earned his bread in Italy
where his art is more native than with us.

It was not long before, on every hand, the usual
silly preliminary of “I know you!” had given way to
settled dialogue, and, if the phrase be not an absurdity,
of serious conversation. The groups were now pretty
much broken up into pairs, each drawing aside with
him that mask which promised him most pleasure,
most excited his curiosity, or most gratified his vanity.
Of my own adventures and successes I shall say but
little. It needs not even be told in what costume I
appeared on this to me the most memorable of all
my social experiences. My fortune, I must admit,
was neither a very promising nor highly prominent
one. I may have flirted with a maid of honor, or
fancied that I felt a more than usual interest in a
Sicilian shepherdess—or squeezed, more tenderly than
was prudent, the fingers of a Hebrew damsel who
sighed over her virginity in the character of Jephtha's
daughter. You may conjecture what you please. I
shall make no confessions. It is my friend's story,
not my own, which I have promised you, and we shall
soon get to that. Certain it is, that for my own part
the proceedings were by no means satisfactory. I had
my vis-à-vis, true—and changed her, often enough;
more frequently, perhaps, than was complimentary to
her or profitable to myself; but I made no conquests,
and escaped scot-free myself. I strove, but did not
succeed, in persuading any of them to remove their
masks, though but for an instant, and was rather fatigued
than satisfied, long before anybody else was ennuyée.

Such, however, was far from being the case with
Frederick Brandon. He came to me a little after
midnight. The clocks throughout the house had all
been silenced; and, half wearied, I was stealing a
glance at my watch concealed within the folds of my
vest, when he laid his hand upon my arm. I turned,
with a guilty consciousness, and he saw what I was
doing.

“Fie!” said he, “looking at your watch. What
a barbarian—what a Tennessean! Beware, you must
not suffer our hostess to see you at such a provincialism.”

“She! Where is she? In what habit?”

“Hush! She is not far off! See there—there, as
Zenobia. Is she not a queenly creature?”

“She is, indeed.”

“How the habit suits her! She approaches.”

At these words, Frederick turned, and advanced
towards her. She took his arm promptly, as soon as
offered, and they disappeared among the groups. This
proceeding spoke favorably for my friend's success.
It would seem that they understood each other. I
followed their forms with my eyes, until a group of
masks, loud in merriment, drew nigh, and I shrunk
back from their clamors, into the recess of a window
half shrouded by rich curtains of blue and crimson.
There I threw myself upon a pile of cushions, gradually
losing myself in reverie; in great degree unseen
myself, yet able to see every passing costume. While
I mused, a shadow filled the space. I looked up and
saw the Egyptian habit of my friend.

“Ah, Frederick! So soon returned?” Such were
my words, to which he gave me no answer; but,
wheeling quietly about, he turned away. I rose to
follow, intending to say that I was really monstrous
weary, and meant to seek out his sister, in the hope
to find her similarly disposed to escape; but, just
then, a huge peasant woman of Savoy, followed by an
officer of the “Old Guard,” with a long train at their
heels, interposed, and arrested my progress. Before
I could extricate myself from this multitude, my
Egyptian had disappeared. I had just given up the
pursuit, and was turning again to my recess and cushions,
when I was surprised to find him at my elbow.

He came forward hurriedly, and from a different
quarter of the apartment from that where I had lost
him. I plucked him by the sleeve.

“This time I have you! Well—you have been
with her, and, let me say, you seem to understand
each other. Is it so? Does she smile?”

“Truly,” said he; and I could see that he spoke
with a slight agitation of manner which was quite unusual
with him. “Truly, she does. I have gained
something; but, just now, there's a curious mistake
which has taken place, and which troubles both of us.
Do not be out of the way, William; I may need your
assistance.”

He disappeared at these words, but soon returned,
when I gathered from him the following strange particulars.
He had joined Madame de Berniere, as I
had seen, on his first leaving me, and they had retired
into an alcove together. There, she had proceeded, as

if resuming a conversation which had been interrupted.
What she said was of a character particularly interesting
and grateful to my friend. Her remarks—
her manner of uttering them—and the nature of the
communication, were such as to impress him with the
conviction that she entertained the most lively interest
in himself and fortunes. All this was grateful
enough. But there was this one difficulty about the
matter, which struck and staggered Brandon, and it
was that what she said indicated a foregone conclusion,
and seemed to have reference to some recent
dialogue which had already taken place between the
parties. Her remarks, in fact, were so many responses;—all
of which would have been grateful
enough to my friend, but for the fact that she appeared
to have anticipated the very things which it had been
his purpose to speak to her. He hesitated about declaring
this difficulty, and, for a moment, was persuaded
that he should be content with the favor which
he had found, without troubling himself as to the particular
influences which had drawn it forth; but a
moment's reflection convinced him of the error into
which he should fall by having any subject of mystery
unexplained between them, and, somewhat hesitatingly,
he proceeded to tell her of the difficulty which
troubled him. Spoken in the most delicate and cautious
manner, she was yet shocked and terrified. She
recoiled from him.

“What mean you, Monsieur Brandon?”

“Do not doubt, dear Marie, that what you say is
grateful to me in the last degree. It gives me what

I have long wished to sue for—a hope; it encourages
me to speak my dreams—my desires—but—”

“But what, Monsieur Frederick?”

“But truly, this is the first moment when you have
spoken with me on the subject!”

“Ha! What! You forget?”

“On my honor, no! I forget not a word you have
ever spoken to me. Your words have always been
too precious to me to lose. But, until now, we surely
have exchanged not a syllable this night in regard
to—”

“Ah, Monsieur Frederick! how can this be so,
when, but a little while since, we were interrupted
by that ever-troublesome Parisian, who would be a
Count Poniatowski?”

“You have been deceived, Marie. I was not present
at any such interruption.”

“Impossible!”

“It is true! This is the first time to-night that
I have been honored with your conversation.”

“Ciel! and to whom have I spoken?”

It was a reflection to horrify a sensitive spirit, that
a secret so precious to a woman's heart and dignity
should have been committed to a stranger, in the full
conviction that it was unfolded to the only person in
whom she really felt an interest.

The insidiously mysterious manner in which the
confession had been drawn from her, oppressed her
with a strange yet undefinable sense of terror. Brandon
himself, though profoundly indignant at the baseness
of the manœuvre by which she had been imposed

upon, restrained the warmer expression of his own
feelings, and sought by every means in his power to
soothe the agitation under which she so visibly labored.
But his efforts did not wholly succeed. Her subsequent
responses showed that her mind still dwelt fearfully
upon the incident; and when, at length, the
interview terminated, her last lingering glance was
overshadowed with a sad and mournful presentiment
of coming evil.

7. CHAPTER VII.
THE SECRET INTERVIEW—ALARM AND MYSTERY.

This was the substance of what I got from Brandon,
of what had taken place between Marie de Berniere
and himself. It is probable I should not so
soon have been permitted to know the progress he
had made, had it not been for the present difficulty,
in which my assistance was required. I told him of
the Egyptian whom I had accosted, and confounded
with himself—of his not noticing my address, and
eluding my pursuit.

“He, then, is the intruder,” was Brandon's reply;
“for I certainly have not been near you, not even
in the room, since we parted, when I left you looking
at your watch. You must join me, William, in the
search after him. Let us separate for this purpose.
You take one route, I the opposite. If you find him,
stick by him till I find you.”

We were just about to separate, each turning for
the purpose, when, at the same moment, we caught a
glimpse of the very mask that we prepared to seek.
His habit seemed the fac-simile of that of Brandon.
His person, in bulk and height, was precisely like.
No wonder that Madame de Berniere had been deceived.
There, too, might be seen a triangle hanging
from his left arm, while his right hand grasped
a scroll of unrolled papyrus; items not necessary
to the costume, but about which I remember to
have observed that Brandon was particularly solicitous.
To note these things did not consume a
second. Meanwhile, we made up to the intruder.
Brandon instantly approached him. His anxiety, in
regard to the lady of his love; the doubt lest she
should be in any way compromised; the vexatious
reflection that the other had listened to a precious
confession, meant only for his own ear; nay, the
painful conviction that the stranger, himself, in the
character of Brandon, had drawn forth this confession
—these considerations had all combined to warm my
friend with resentments which none but he could have
so well suppressed, and which were struggling energetically
for utterance within his bosom. They made
him equally prompt and decided. He tapped the
stranger on his shoulder. The other turned quietly
without a start, with the air, indeed, of a person by
whom the salutation was expected. Brandon led him
aside, I following closely.

“A word with you, sir.”

“A dozen, if you please, sir,” was the reply, in
cold monotonous accents.

“You are accommodating. It may require as
many. Suffer me then to ask, sir, who you are, and
by what right are you here?”

“Really, venerable brother, you challenge my
rights as if your own were exclusive. I might return
your question with some propriety. But go to
Madame de Berniere—she can better reply to your
question.”

“The evasion will not serve you, sir. It is by her
that I am commissioned to make the demand.”

“Ah! it is by her, then! Well, sir—go to her,
and say that if she desires it, I will unmask for her
satisfaction, in her presence. But, mark me, in her
presence only.”

“Enough! — William, do you remain with the
stranger. See that he does not escape you.”

This was said in a whisper; and without the pause
of a second, Frederick disappeared. Our simulacrum,
meanwhile, was in no way disquieted. Our proceedings
had not been so quietly conducted but that they
had reached other ears, and curious eyes were beginning
to peer about us. Meanwhile, Brandon had
sought his mistress. She received him with an
eagerness proportioned to her anxiety. He communicated
what had taken place between himself and
the stranger.

“Insolent!” was the exclamation of the haughty
beauty, now thoroughly aroused.

“Say but the word, dear Marie,” was the whisper
of Frederick Brandon, “and I will fling him from the
window.”

He was the person to have done it without a word.
But the fair hostess declined his proffered service.

“No! no! Frederick,” she answered, with a delighted
smile; “no; that would only spoil the assembly.
Besides, it may be some friend or acquaintance
—some one recently arrived in the city—who knows
me well, and who should have been invited. There
may be some mistake. I grant him the interview.
Conduct him to the opposite apartment, to which I
will lead the way. You will wait upon us, Frederick,
at the door.”

The instructions were not given unheard. By the
time that Brandon got back to the spot where he had
left me with the stranger, there was quite a smart
little excitement in the assembly. We were the centre
of a ring—the observed of all observers; though,
by the way, the excitement was mostly due to the
opinion, generally entertained, that this affair was
only the beginning of some new surprise—something
dramatic—which had been devised by our ingenious
hostess, for the amusement of her guests. I was not
a little disquieted, you may be sure, by the novelty
of my position; not so with my Egyptian. He remained
in a state of the most perfect composure,
neither seeming to see, nor to feel, the increasing
curiosity and numbers of the circle around us. Those
of us, myself among the number, who did not believe
him to be a part of the entertainment, began now to
consider him some old friend of the family, who had
just arrived from the river, and had found his way to
the mansion, designing a pleasant surprise to its

mistress. The coincidence of costume was a trifling
difficulty only, which a single moment of conjecture
easily overcame. At length Brandon made his appearance,
and relieved me of my trust. He communicated
to the stranger the consent of Madame de
Berniere to receive him in private, and with no more
words, they proceeded together in the direction of the
chamber assigned for interview. I followed close
behind the two, and was followed, in turn, by some
dozen others, curious to pry into the mystery, and to
retail it to the multitude. When we reached the door
where Madame de Berniere awaited the stranger,
both himself and Brandon entered the room. The
door was instantly closed behind them, and locked;
the key being taken into my hands. In a moment
after, however, a tapping from within caused me to
open it, and Brandon came out; the stranger having
positively refused to unmask as long as he was present.
My friend was anxious and uneasy—that I
could perceive only, as he did not once look upon me;
but he suffered his emotions to be seen in no other
way. We could hear the soft, dignified tones of
Madame de Berniere within, for a few sentences
apparently; but the words were undistinguishable.
These were followed by a subdued manner. A pause
ensued, and the murmuring sounds were renewed. A
single word apparently, spoken by Madame de Berniere
rather loudly, then engaged our attention; and
Brandon turned quickly to the door; but paused, in
consequence of the silence that followed. This was
broken once more by a brief murmur, which the
voice of our hostess was heard to interrupt by the
single exclamation—“Oh!” which we distinctly caught
without. The murmuring continued for several seconds
and suddenly subsided; the pause might have been
for half a minute—a deep silence—broken by such a
shriek from Madame de Berniere—a shriek of horror,
of agony, and of the wildest terror, such as I hope
never to hear again. This was succeeded by a grating
sound, the noise of a falling body, with the rattle and
crash of a chair which seemed to have been crushed
in the same instant. The whole thing was over in a
moment, and, in the next, not waiting for me to open
the door, Frederick Brandon drove it from its fastenings
with a single application of his foot. We rushed
in, followed by a crowd, and there lay the beautiful
Marie de Berniere, prostrate, senseless, with her face
prone upon the floor. But the Egyptian was nowhere
to be seen! How had he escaped? The windows
were all closed; he had not passed by us, that was
certain. There was but one other door to the chamber;
and that led into the ball-room, and was locked, with
the key withdrawn. There was some strange and
terrible mystery! We turned for its solution to the
lovely hostess. She was already raised and supported,
in the arms of Brandon. Not a word escaped him,
and but for the pallor upon his cheeks, and the great
blue corded vein upon his forehead—swollen to a deformity—and
but for the close compression of his
lips, none would have thought that he suffered any but
the most ordinary emotion; his calls for help were
so calmly spoken—his orders so deliberately given
—his nerves so firm—his strength so entirely unshaken!
He raised and bore the fair victim to a sofa.
Her lips were livid—bloodless quite—her eyes open
wide, and glaring upon us, but set and glassy, with a
terrible vacancy of gaze, that declared, much more
emphatically than any speech, the degree of terror
and affright to which she had been so unaccountably
subjected.

Some hours elapsed before she recovered her consciousness,
during which period it was for some time
doubtful if life remained or not, within her heart.
Meanwhile, the company had departed—all but one or
two near kinswomen, and Madame de Chateauneuve
and Frederick Brandon, who refused to leave her until
she had recovered consciousness. This she did, about
daylight; but more than a day elapsed before she had
recovered her reason.

What remains of our story must be resumed for
other and perhaps longer chapters.

8. CHAPTER VIII.

We resume our narrative. Our readers, we trust,
will not have forgotten the condition in which we left
the lovely Marie de Berniere. Her reason had quite
returned to her in the space of the twenty-four hours
immediately following the mysterious fright from
which she had so singularly suffered; but her strength

was recovered much more slowly. For a long time
she remained an invalid. Her system had received
a shock against which her elasticity of mood offered
but feeble resistance. Meanwhile, her friends gathered
about her with fond solicitude. Among these, as a
matter of course, and most conspicuous, were Brandon
and his sister. These were constant in their attentions,
and deeply interested in the progress of her
recovery. Her physician, one of the most skilful in
that day and city, could afford her but little assistance.
It was the mind which had received the blow.
The sufferings of the body arose only from the ailments
of the soul. She herself felt this, and it was to her
priest, rather than her physician, that she looked for
succor chiefly. Father Paulo Roquetti was frequently
beside her couch. He was an Italian; a grave elderly
man, of mild, benevolent manners, and broad great
forehead, which had been smoothed quite as much by
thought and study as by the tonsure. He was a
learned man, a Jesuit, possessing a profound knowledge
of human nature, and with just the capacity to
try and fathom the most secret sources of mental excitation
and anxiety. Under his guidance, from her
childhood the spiritual guide in her mother's family,
the ardent nature of Marie de Berniere had become
greatly schooled and counselled. Her imagination,
eager and lively always, inclining however to religion,
had been tinctured somewhat with supersition, and
the will of the woman, which was in all other respects
strong and impulsive, was, where matters of faith and
the church were concerned, as easily persuaded and
pliant as could be wished by the most exacting of
spiritual fathers.

Paul Roquetti did not show himself very imperative
as a guide and teacher; but he was not the less powerful
because he did not seem greatly inclined to use
his authority. He was a profound master, who knew
how much safer it was to shape and to conduct, than
to endeavor to compel the mind; and he had long
since discovered that the temper, which only showed
itself stubborn under the opposition of another will,
might be rendered sufficiently ductile if persuaded that
it simply obeyed its own. His power over his flock
was prodigious, if for no other reason than because
he appeared to be so wholly unconscious that he possessed
any; and this secret, in connection with his
unquestionable resources of thought and knowledge,
left his authority almost without limit among the
more religious of his followers. Marie de Berniere
was one of those who most readily acknowledged his
influence. He had been to her a mild and indulgent
father, exhibiting a gentle sympathy which had won
her affections, and a patient judgment which had
schooled her conduct from the first hours of her girlhood.
If she had anything for which to reproach
him, it was that he had counselled obedience to those
commands of her mother, which had allied her to a
man whom she did not love, and subjected her to a
tyrant who could provoke no other feelings than
disgust and fear.

Her present condition naturally drew him to her
bedside, and he became very soon the counsellor to

whom she most deferred. We shall see the natural
reason for this hereafter. Her other friends gradually
withdrew, assured of her continued improvement,
while regretting that it should be so slow. There
were sufficient motives for Madame de Chateauneuve,
the sister of Frederick Brandon, lingering after all
the rest, in attendance upon her suffering friend. But
even she discovered, after a little while, that the unhappy
widow yielded only a reluctant ear to worldly
concerns, preferring altogether those of a solemn and
spiritual nature. She felt this apparent slight, but
had no reproaches. Her duty to her brother required
that she should not seem to perceive what she could
not help but feel. Her visits, in turn, became less
frequent, and it was only occasionally that she made
her appearance in the chamber of the invalid; and
this, too, quite as frequently in compliance with the
requisition of Frederick, as because of her own desires
or sense of duty.

Meanwhile, the little world of New Orleans was
full of reports in regard to the cause of terror which
had dismissed the guests at the bal masque of the
fair widow, in such “admired disorder.” Who was
the Egyptian, whose personation of my friend's costume
had enabled him to compass his affaire de cœur
with Madame de Berniere—who had visited her with
such a mortal fright, and had finally disappeared so
unaccountably? The town had its solution of all the
mystery, but, though it would not exactly anticipate
our own, we must forbear to give it. Enough, that a
most frightful story was in circulation, which furnished

equal material for scandal and supersition. I suppose
I heard the story quite as soon as anybody else,
and with much more disquiet than the crowd. I
had already broached the subject of the bal masque,
and the fright, to Frederick, but he either was unwilling
or unable to give me any clue to the mystery.
He had been permitted a private interview with
Madame de Berniere, yet neither that nor those which
his sister had enjoyed, had resulted in any discoveries.
The unhappy object of this mystery shrunk from all
explanation, and her health was quite too delicate to
permit even the least scrupulous curiosity to press the
inquiry upon her. But there had been long and undisturbed
conferences between herself and Father
Roquetti, and, in all probability, she had fully revealed
herself to him. It is certain that, for some
weeks after the affair, nothing was known, positively,
to Frederick Brandon or his sister, calculated to
satisfy their doubts or make them confident of their
knowledge.

In all this time, Frederick Brandon was sufficiently
miserable. I conversed with him frequently, anxious
to feel, yet without seeking to probe, the condition of
his mind. But his unwonted taciturnity spoke volumes,
when I remembered his character and disposition.
He had been latterly suffered to see Marie de
Berniere on several occasions, but for a brief space
only at every visit. At such periods there were always
other persons present; the priest, his own sister, or
some of her kinswomen. At these times her treatment
of Frederick had been distinguished by a marked

regard; though she spoke but little with him, and
then only on indifferent topics. Frequent sighs broke
from her during these interviews, and her eye perused
him always with fondness, and dwelt with a sad and
significant earnestness on the deep, devoted glances
which spoke from his. All this was enough to trouble
my friend; but his mind, if disturbed and unhappy,
was by no means disordered. It never once lost its
balance.

He said to me, returning one day from a visit to
the dwelling of Marie—

“I may as well confide to you, William, that I was
engaged to her. She consented, the very day of the
night of the bal masque, and in the very apartment
in which she received her fright. Since that time,
we have not once had an opportunity of speaking in
private together, and, hitherto, she has evidently
sought to avoid such an interview. At this juncture,
I dare not remonstrate against this. I must submit;
without complaint, or even expostulation. Her life is
quite too precious, and her condition too perilous, to
suffer me to annoy her by a reference to any exciting
matter. But, from what I see, my instincts persuade
me that she is preparing to free herself from our engagement.
I do not mean by this that she is at all
anxious to do so. On the contrary, it is no idle vanity
that assures me of the extreme reluctance with which
she will submit to what appears an inevitable necessity.
She will defer it for some time longer—to the very
last moment; and the very suspense—the anxiety—
this constant brooding over the one purpose—will prolong

her infirmity, and keep her suffering as well in
body as in mind. But that she is preparing to come
to this determination, I foresee; and I am strengthening
myself, as well as I can, against the shock.”

“But what has she said to lead you to this apprehension?”

“Not a syllable; but words are by no means necessary
in such cases. I see it in her looks, and feel it
as the consequence of her actions. My presence
brings her equally pain and pleasure. Her eyes fill
as I approach her, and she wrings my hand with the
grasp of one who takes a farewell. There are a
thousand indefinable things which enable one who
feels quickly and keenly, to understand; and that
which I tell you I believe, I almost feel that I know.”

“And you will submit to lose her?”

“I have not said that! But you will perceive that
her determination must be occasioned by the events
of that fatal night. Now it is important that we get
at a solution of that mystery. What my argument
will be, must depend upon her revelation; for which
I wait impatiently. It will come soon. If she loves
me truly and deeply, as I believe, she will tell me all.
This she will feel as due to me, and to herself, particularly,
for her own justification, if her purpose be
to discard me. But I have broached the subject to
you for a special reason. You spoke, yesterday, of
your purpose to return soon to Tennessee. This you
must not think of at present—not, at least, until my
affair is fully settled. I feel that I shall want you.
I have suspicions of foul play in this business, and I

need the assistance of a friend in whose fidelity I can
put every trust.”

“Foul play, Frederick! Whom do you suspect?”

“Not Marie, of course. But all these stories about
town, and which find supernatural solution of this
mystery, are pure absurdities. But they are not the
less credible among the greater number. It is understood,
of course, that this Egyptian is at the bottom
of the affair. To discover who he is, is the first important
matter. I take for granted that he is an
enemy of mine—most probably he is an admirer of
Marie. Do you remember his manner when we first
encountered him? His haughty carriage—scornful
gesture—the cold insolence of his tone—the dry
brevity of his answers—all full of defiance? These,
at the moment, struck me as evidence of hostility.”

“I remember! And you regard him as a rival?”

“Surely, what else? He has evidently a design
upon her, and it is equally apparent that he possesses
a strange power over her. What is this power, and
who is he? I have been vainly racking my brain for
an answer. I know the fate of all those who aspired
to her hand. She dismissed Bonneville; she slighted
and despised De Castries. Miravent was not more
fortunate. I can recall no more. None of these are
now in attendance upon her. Bonneville has gone
north, De Castries is in France, and Miravent visits
the house no longer.”

“May not one of the two former have returned?”

“I should have heard of it. It is more probable

that there is some new candidate in the field. And
yet, how any such could have wrought such results?”

“Could they have slandered you to her?”

“Very probably; yet I fear nothing from this
quarter. If they had, it would have provoked her
scorn—her indignation only—and not her terrors.
Besides, she would have instantly told me all. No,
no! There is something more than this. It is very
strange, certainly; but I shall soon hear from her,
and then I will fathom the mystery, if there be any,
so help me, Heaven!”

Here our conference ended for the time. The very
next day, my friend was summoned to an interview
with Marie de Berniere. We must reserve the rest
for another chapter.

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE INTERVIEW.

Frederick Brandon eagerly obeyed the summons
of his mistress. He was fortunate in finding the lovely
invalid alone. The meeting was evidently designed
for him. She was still feeble, and apparently quite
as great a sufferer in mental respects as ever. She
received him in her chamber in tears and silence.
He grasped her hand and held it without speaking.
Thus, for a while, they both remained, both seeming
equally reluctant to begin the work of explanation, and
waiting, as it were, for some happy inspiration to

shape the course of an interview which promised to
be full of embarrassments. The reluctance of Frederick
arose entirely from his sympathy for her situation.
He dared not add to her distress by urging his
own anxieties. She felt the delicacy of his consideration,
and, at length, though with a very decided effort,
she began the conference—

“Frederick!—”

“Dear Marie!”

She proceeded:—

“I have summoned you, dear Frederick, to an
interview which could not always be deferred. However
painful to myself, I owe it to you to come to an
explanation with you. In giving you my heart, as I
have done irrevocably, and in consenting to be your
wife—I gave you a right to know all that concerns
me, and all with which my heart is troubled. And
yet, I shrink—oh, Frederick, how I shrink and tremble
at the necessity which compels me—though my
heart breaks under it—to tell you that we must rend
apart and forever the links which bind us, and which
every feeling of my soul would only persuade me, in
spite of all necessities, to bind and rivet more surely
and more tenderly than ever!”

“Marie—dear Marie—oh! wherefore this necessity?”

“Ah! you may well inquire. I shall speak fearlessly
now. It is with no shame, dear Frederick,
that I confess to loving you, as I never thought to
love mortal man; as I never loved mortal man before.
You will—you must—believe me; even though I make

this avowal at the very moment when I implore you
to forget me; and when I propose that we should
sever the sweet ties that we so fondly strove to unite
forever.”

Seeing that she paused, Frederick replied:—

“I can only wonder, but not answer you, dear
Marie. To believe in your love for me, is absolutely
necessary to the feeling which I entertain for you.
It is too precious a faith for me to surrender easily.
I will not make vain professions, Marie; but, in truth,
you must be well assured that no affection in my
bosom rivals in any sort the devotion which it brings
to you. It is for you to say, why, with both hearts
thus united and devoted, there should be a necessity
for tearing them asunder. What is this necessity—
what this terrible mystery which is to prevail against
our hopes and happiness?”

“Terrible, indeed! most terrible! Were it not so,
dear Frederick, would I have the courage, the heart,
the strength for this!”

“Marie—I cannot doubt that you have been the
victim to a great terror! I have witnessed your fright
—your agonies—and the overwhelming affliction which
left you insensible for hours in these arms!”

“Was it in your arms that I lay then, Frederick?”
she asked tenderly.

He answered by pressing her hand within his, and
the tears then gushed from her eyes as from a fountain
suddenly relieved. For a few moments he was silent,
subdued by a sympathy which he found it difficult to
keep from the exhibition of a feminine weakness like

her own. But the strength of the man prevailed.
He resumed—

“I knew your courage, Marie—your energy, resolve,
and spirit; and yet I saw how suddenly and
how completely they were prostrated and overthrown.
I can conceive how great must have been your terror;
but I see not why it should operate against that union
which might secure you against any such annoyance
or suffering hereafter.”

“Ah! if it could! If it could!” was her reply.

“And why should it not? Do you suppose, dear
Marie, that, once mine—my wife—any ruffian would
dare, or daring would escape?”

“Hush! hush!” she exclaimed, looking round her
with shows of expectation and terror in her countenance:
“Forbear, Frederick, you know not what you
say, or whom you threaten. Oh! I know your
strength and courage. I well know that, under your
guardianship, no mortal would ever venture to wrong
or to offend me. But it is no mortal danger that I
dread! Frederick, do you not believe that the spirits
of the dead may reappear on earth—may seek
those whom they have known—may speak words of
rebuke and warning and terror to the living—may
threaten and denounce—may decree, as in my case,
that hearts shall be torn asunder, and hopes be trampled
into nothing—hopes, the fondest and sweetest
that ever dawned upon the soul of woman!—Frederick,
do you believe all this?”

He remained silent as she paused, closely observing
her features, which were almost convulsed; her lips

white and trembling—her eyes glaring rather than
gazing into his own—yet, with such a strange union
of fondness with terror—such devotion with such
despair—that his own heart beat with increasing passion
(rather than with such fears as her words might
have inspired) to behold the affection which was so
evident in hers. His silence disquieted her.

“Speak!” she cried; “speak to me, dear Frederick,
and tell me if you believe these things.”

“Marie—to answer you, I must be calm! I see
that this mystery is somewhat deeper than I had
reason to believe it. Let me entreat you to be
soothed—do not hurry yourself; yet tell me all your
secret, before you demand my answer!”

“Oh! I must speak hurriedly if I would speak at
all! Frederick, dear Frederick—that Egyptian—”

“Ha!”

“Was Colonel de Berniere—”

She fell back gasping. Frederick supported her
head, and his lips were pressed tenderly upon her
brow. She pushed him from her.

“I forget! I forget! Oh, Frederick, this was forbidden.
My love for you was forbidden. I am conmanded
to fling every mortal affection from my heart
—to deny you—to deny myself—to forego all hopes
of human happiness—every dream that ever spoke to
me of joy on earth!”

“And who could deny you this? What is the
power to decree in this sort—to pass such a doom, to
utter such a judgment?”

“He it was—the Egyptian! He said it! He!

The spectre of my deceased husband. He knew all!
He told me all! Our vows, our engagements, our
meetings, when neither of us dreamed that eye beheld
us—in the dim shadows of the evening, and we had
no doubt of our security, and no feeling but that of
bliss!”

“And yet, Marie, all this knowledge might be possessed
by mortals like ourselves! Excellent friends
may have been upon the watch—jealous rivals—
slanderous and suspicious neighbors! A shrewd
guesser, with some slight knowledge, might plausibly
conjecture more; and you remember, dear Marie,
that, believing this Egyptian to be myself, you spoke
freely to him of this very matter.”

“Oh, were these all! But he knew more—he told
me more. Told me, Frederick, of things of which you
knew nothing. Laid bare to me secrets of my own
soul—miserable secrets, such as I fondly imagined
were safely locked up in the closest places of my own
bosom.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, alas! and this brings me to another painful
necessity. These secrets, Frederick, shall be yours
also. You shall see how much I love you—how
entirely—even at the moment when I feel called upon
to expose such secrets as may perhaps change your
affection into loathing!”

“Never, Marie!”

“Ah! we shall see! I will show you things which
I had thought never to breathe even to yourself; and
which, probably, but for this event, I had carried with

me to the grave unspoken. But I owe you all that
is in my heart, though it humbles me to the earth to
be compelled to lay bare the story of its wretched
crimes and weaknesses!”

“Crimes, Marie!”

“Alas! Crimes! For the meditated crime is for
us a crime already committed, Frederick. It is
enough that the heart should entertain the guilt; it
needs not that the hand should execute it also. I
have been guilty, in purpose, of a dreadful crime;
and though my hand forebore the meditated act, it is,
nevertheless—I feel it so—a crime to be repented of
in ashes and in sackcloth; a crime to make me quite
unworthy an affection such as yours!”

“Alas, my Marie! If these high standards of
self-judgment must prevail, who is worthy? I have
my crimes also, Marie.”

“But not like mine, Frederick. Hear me, for I
shall relate the whole, and tell it truly. I will withhold
nothing.”

“Nay, Marie, speak not, I entreat you. I would
rather not know. If we are to be torn asunder—
which I will not yet suffer myself to believe—I would
prefer holding you enshrined in my memory—as you
already are in my affections—as the pure and perfect
being that I thought you first.”

“But this is now impossible, Frederick! Have I
not already declared myself guilty? Your thought
will brood over this confession, and you will suspect
me of crimes of another sort than the real. It is
needful that I should tell you all. You must listen

for my sake. It is needful that I should show cause
for my faith in this terrible visitation; and for the
submission with which I receive its commands.”

Long and sad was the interval of silence which
succeeded before she spoke again. She sunk back
upon the couch and covered her eyes with her hands,
as if to shut out from contemplation the necessity
before her, and to recover the needed strength for
the task which she had declared her resolution to
perform. Frederick, meanwhile, with his elbow resting
upon the pillow, had shaded his eyes also. He
was in deep and anxious contemplation—suffering
greatly from misgiving of various kinds, and brooding
upon what he had already heard. He had already,
in some degree, prepared his mind; and his future
purposes had also, though vaguely and entirely a
shadow, been presented to his vision. At length the
silence was broken by his companion. Marie de
Berniere raised her head and gently laid her hand on
the wrist of her lover. He still remained silent, his
eyes tenderly fixed upon her, with a sort of paternal
sadness—that seemed to deplore the self-delusion of
the beloved object—fatal to itself—yet against which
he had no argument of strength for safety. His
eyes declared fully his belief that she labored under
a delusion; yet showed the sorrows of one who,
at the same time that he felt this conviction, lacked
the necessary means of making his conviction hers.
She discerned the meaning in his glance.

“You think me a foolish creature, Frederick—
deceived by my own fears and superstitions. I wish I

could persuade myself to think as you do. Believe
me, I have nothing but pain and sorrow in the task
before me; and nothing but hopelessness in the future
which lies beyond. And next to my prayer for
pardon, is that which implores that the penance be a
short one. But hear my story—hear me, and decide.
I shall unfold it all; and hope, at least, that when
you have heard my sufferings, you will see some little
apology for my guilt. If it should forfeit me the
love you gave me, at least it will not rob me of your
pity.”

He took her hand tenderly within his own, and
she began her narrative as follows:—

10. CHAPTER X.
THE REVELATION.

“You know my early history, Frederick, as much
of it as need to be known in connection with my present
narrative. You are aware that, when a mere
child, I was condemned to marry a man twenty years
older than myself, and for whom I had no feelings
but indifference and fear. At first, this feeling was
indifference only; and in the end it became dislike as
well as fear. I was quite too young when I married,
properly to understand the obligations of marriage,
of its peculiar interests, its duties and desires. Had
I known, the marriage vows never would have crossed
these lips, in relation to the person who was then

decreed to be my husband. I was taken from school,
almost from the baby-house and doll, to become a
bride. My poor mother, of whom I would say no
evil, was one of those persons, of whom the world
always has its multitude, who regard wealth as the
something all compensative, for which any sacrifice is
justifiable. She knew not any affections that could be
put in opposition to the show and splendor which it
promised; and, believing that I had beauty and
talents, her chief solicitude was to find for them a
market. Of her purposes I knew nothing, until the
moment when I learned that she had procured for me
a purchaser. In this light I certainly did not regard
him then. Col. de Berniere I had frequently beheld
before, but I had never bestowed a single thought
upon him. His person I knew by sight, but I had
always regarded him with indifference. I thought no
more of marrying than I thought of him, and had no
definite conception of the condition until after I had
become a wife. I had been accustomed to submit
implicitly to the will of my mother, and I did so on
this occasion, as on all others, with but little inquietude
or doubt. She bade me prepare to receive Col.
de B. as a husband, long before he had been at any
pains to persuade me that he was a lover. Required
to marry him, the indifference which I had felt for
him before, he soon contrived to ripen into a stronger
sentiment of aversion. This feeling, which I did not
seek to subdue, it became the business of my mother's
life to rebuke and to conceal. She silenced all my
childish complaints; she schooled my love into submission;
she trampled down every resistance that my
young heart ventured to offer to her will. I went to
the altar with fear and tremblings which were ominous.
But my fears were of a vague character, and I
did not certainly dream of the dreadful tyranny under
which I was about to fall. At that early dawn of my
misfortunes, it was dislike and doubt which I felt,
rather than dread or apprehension. Any conjectures
of what the future was really to produce, were totally
absent from my mind. But I was soon tutored by a
stern experience. I cannot go through the details of
this experience. I dare not. How I suffered, how
vain were my appeals, how equally vain my performances—my
submission, my resignation, the entreaties
which I offered, the efforts which I made to disarm the
brutality of my master, or to bear partially his yoke.
Col. de Berniere was at once the most scornful and
the most suspicious of living men. He quarrelled
with all his own friends, and mine. He drove them
from his house. With more than one of them did he
fight, under no provocation but that suggested by his
own brutal humors—by jealousy and intoxication;
and, on each occasion of his quarrel with others, I was
compelled to endure my portion of his caprice and
violence. My hope was not allowed to grow. My
spirit was broken in repeated conflicts, in which even
the most complete submission did not disarm the tyranny.
I seldom left the house, and never cared to
leave it, as I was sure of the most cruel abuse when I
returned. My mother soon became aware of my situation.
She knew not half, but quite enough to make
her expostulate, with maternal interest and warmth.
Alas! She soon found that though she had the power
to bind, and had fatally exercised it, she no longer
possessed the power to loose. Her expostulations increased
the evil. He drove her from his dwelling with
ignominy, and not only denied her entrance, but denied
that I should seek or see her. For three months
did I submit to this cruel denial, until she fell sick.
Her illness proved fatal in the end; but when I heard
how dangerously ill she was, I stole away to her bedside,
just in time to receive her dying prayer and
breath in my bosom. I fondly fancied that this event,
which had taken from me the nearest relative I had
on earth, would commend me somewhat to the pity of
my master. I never dreamed that I should receive
censure and abuse for a disobedience to his commands,
at so extreme a juncture; and hastened home to entreat
his attendance at my mother's house, and his
care of her remains till buried. I met him in the
great passage below, and in few words, but with many
tears, I told him my painful news, and made my humble
request. He had been drinking—I am now prepared
to do him the justice to believe that he knew
not well what I had related—understood nothing, perhaps,
but the simple fact that I had visited the house
which he had interdicted. He seized me by the hair
of my head. He smote me to the earth. He left me
where I had fallen, insensible, with the blood gushing
from my mouth and nostrils, and hurried forth once
more, not to seek the house of mourning, but to join
certain comrades in a midnight revel.”

Here Frederick Brandon, with a fierce ejaculation,
started to his feet and paced the apartment. A pause
ensued. He drew nigh, resumed his seat beside her,
and took her hand silently within his own. He
schooled himself with a firmness perfectly astonishing;
for his heart was like a volcano, ready to flame and
overflow. She continued:—

“How long I lay in this condition, stunned, stupefied,
or in convulsions, I know not. For weeks I
scarcely knew anything, but, in the mean time, a dead
infant was born, prematurely sent into the world, and
perishing under the brutality which nearly proved
fatal to myself. Of all this I knew nothing. Nature
had kindly accorded to my mind a degree of insensibility
which perhaps saved my life. Had I been conscious,
anger, indignation—rage that was impotent—
would have destroyed me. As it was, when my senses
returned to me, and I could remember all that had
taken place, the awfullest of passions possessed my
soul. A terrible feeling took possession of my bosom,
and here, O Frederick, my crime begins. Before
this period, I can really accuse myself of little that
could be considered guilt—childish follies there were
doubtlessly enough. I was a child, and frequently an
erring one. I had been guilty of a weakness rather
than a crime, when I took the solemn vows of marriage
at the altar; and this weakness was one to be excused
under the circumstances; for how, with such a will as
my mother possessed, could I think of exercising a
will of my own? But I had been dutiful and submissive
to my husband. I gave up all my friends, all

society, at his requisition; and it was only when my
parent lay on her dying couch that I ever disobeyed
his commands. To the period when he smote me to
the ground, I feel that I have few causes of self-reproach—regarding
my duties as a wife and daughter.
But from that dreadful moment, Frederick!—Then!
Then!”—

She paused, and Brandon was conscious that her
hand, which had previously lain upon his own, now
grasped his fingers convulsively. He looked into her
face. The eyes were shut and the lips quivering. He
began to be alarmed. “Marie!” he exclaimed, in
accents of apprehension.

“Nay, Frederick, fear nothing. I am only trying
to muster all my strength. Turn your eyes away,
dear Frederick. Humble me not by your looks, while
I am unfolding the dreadful purposes which have once
possessed my soul. Oh! how rapidly in that day did
I then think and resolve! With what a faculty did
memory bring before mine eyes the long history of my
sufferings and sorrows; all that I had lost—all that
I had sacrificed—all that I had endured. Never did
such an array of bitter, dreadful, and humiliating experiences
rise before one poor human imagination,
without maddening the mind, and setting all the passions
in a flame—all concentrating, as it were, in one.
A dark desire for revenge—for escape from my thraldom
— seized upon my soul! I felt called by my
mother's voice, night and day, to take the life of my
tyrant. The fancy became a fixed desire in my mind.
More than once I thought to seize upon a knife and

stab him as he sat before me at the table. I secreted
a knife for this purpose. I was haunted by the memory
of that fierce and cruel woman in Scripture, who
drove the nail into the head of the man who sought
the hospitality of her dwelling. I secreted a nail,
intending to emulate her crime. But it was in proof
that conscience was busy to keep me from the deed,
that I was continually seeking to change the mode of
its execution. I abandoned all these modes. I remembered,
finally, that there was a deadly poison in
the house, which he himself had employed to rid the
garden of the cats which infested it. I knew where
this poison was kept. It was convenient; in that very
closet. It was a dark whitish powder, the name of
which I did not know. `Poison for cats' was the inscription
upon it, and I had heard him remark that a
few grains only would prove fatal to any life. I procured
this powder, and secreted it for days—so tenaciously
did this deadly purpose harbor in my mind!
At length, I absolutely mixed it in a bottle of the wine
which I that day expected him to drink.”

Here she suddenly caught both of Brandon's hands
within her own, and bent round eagerly to look into
his face. As she beheld its expression, she cried—

“Oh! thanks! Thanks, my Frederick. I see you
do not loathe—you will not hate me?”

“Hate you? Ah Marie!”

“Yes, Frederick, I conceal nothing. In that closet
did I mix the fatal potion.”

He turned in the direction pointed out, fixed his

eyes curiously upon it, but said nothing. She continued—

“But God be praised, the voice of my heart at
length spoke audibly to my mind. I repented me, in
season, of the terrible thought. I thrust the deadly
purpose from my soul. I flung the poisoned liquid
from my hands almost as soon as I had mixed it. I
hurried to yonder window, and emptied the bottle into
the garden. Then, beside this couch, I threw myself
upon my knees, and implored the blessed Virgin for
succor to banish all such feelings from my breast. I
found the requisite strength in prayer. Never again
did I harbor a sinful purpose against him. Never did
a hair of his head come to harm through me.”

“Then what have you to fear, dear Marie; and
with what, above all, can your husband now reproach
you?”

“Alas! dear Frederick, who shall say when he is
received to mercy—when he is acquitted of his guilt
—and when his penance shall suffice for atonement?”

“Marie, this argument is not your own?”

“I confess it. It is the suggestion of Father
Paulo.”

Brandon smiled slightly, quietly remarking—

“It struck me as coming from a theologian.”

She proceeded—

“But it was the assurance of Col. de Berniere,
himself, that other sacrifices were required at my
hands before my atonement could be complete! This
is the decree which is brought, referring to the awful
crime which I meditated against him. For this, it is

required that I should deny you now—deny myself—
and rather shroud myself in a convent, devoted to
God, than to think of any other human love!”

“Ha! Impossible! How know you, Marie, that
this Egyptian was a spectre—that he was—?”

“Alas, Frederick! did he not show me those awful
features, but too well remembered, at once of death
and life?—features known too soon, and feared too
long, to be easily forgotten? Besides, Frederick, did
he not unveil to me my own terrible secret—the
meditated crime, which was to precipitate him from
life to judgment, and which my lips had never before
confided to any mortal keeping?”

She paused, and sank back upon the couch exhausted.
Brandon again rose from his seat and paced
the apartment in silence.

“You are sure, Marie,” after a pause, “that you
never once breathed this secret to any ear?”

“Oh, sure! Oh, sure! It was too terrible!
And now—”

Brandon approached and whispered to her. She
answered quickly—

“Ah! that was sin upon sin! I reserved that from
all the rest.”

She would have continued, but he arrested her.

“No more on this point, Marie; I have a reason
for it.”

She remained silent, and he continued to pace the
floor; his eye seeming to wander about the chamber
in a manner which at length struck the attention of
Marie de Berniere, and filled her with new anxieties.

But he motioned her to continue, and she suddenly
resumed—

“How could I question this visitation? I felt the
guilty consciousness of crime, and here came to me the
spectre of the one against whose life I entertained it.
He lays bare to me my criminal heart. He commands
me to deny myself to man and to society, and to live
only for penitence and God! How can I doubt this
mission? He reveals to me the secrets which none
but myself could know, of all the living, and thus
confirms his right to decree and to denounce. I must
submit to this decree. You see for yourself, dear
Frederick, that we must part—”

“A moment! but a moment!” was the response.
“Did this spectre—this Egyptian—unfold any particulars
of your meditated purpose? Did he only
state the fact, or did he exhibit such a knowledge of
details?—”

“All! all! It was in this very chamber that I
mixed the fatal potion—in that closet. There, said
he, could that closet but speak, which beheld you prepare
the poison—that mantle which saw you place
the bottle upon it, in readiness for the dinner-hour—
that casement from which you finally cast it forth—
those plants below which received it, or that pillow
which heard your ineffectual prayer for pardon! Oh,
Frederick, he knew every movement of my soul!”

The eye of Brandon brightened, and he muttered
to himself—

“Every movement of your person, rather. The

spectre only proves that he knows too much!” She
did not distinguish what he said.

“Speak to me, Frederick! Oh! speak,” was the
exclamation of Marie de Berniere. “See you not
that it is all hopeless?”

She knew not well what she said herself. But as
he continued to walk the floor in silence, her agony
of soul became too great for endurance, and raising
herself from the couch, with a strength which was due
wholly to her excited feelings, she darted forward and
seized him by the arm, arresting his further movement
almost by violence. He took her tenderly in
his embrace, and carried her back to the couch.
When she was again composed, he began—

“It is not to be expected, dear Marie, that I, who
have loved you so long and so fervently, should give
you up without a struggle. I have built too fondly,
too profoundly, on your love for me, to be satisfied to
forego, in a single moment, every hope, every dream
of delight, which my fancy has been painting for my
heart! A long future is before me—is probably before
us both. We are both young, and I dare not
doubt that affection in you, which I feel so earnest in
myself. Are we both to live, and live desolate?
Shall the long years, in prospect, be uncheered by
any sunshine? Shall no love blossom and brighten
for our future? Must the years move on wearily and
slowly—cold, unlighted from those sources of happiness,
of which blessed glimpses have been vouchsafed
to us already—and which the benevolent Father of
mankind seems never to have denied to any of his

creatures? Can I easily persuade myself, or suffer
you to believe, that He has especially denied to us
what He accords usually to all. I cannot bring myself
to this. You must give me time to reconcile my
thoughts to this necessity—to school my heart to this
privation—to accommodate my nature to this cheerless
future of isolation which is to make us both prematurely
old.”

“Ah, Frederick, but this isolation need not be
yours! You are young and ardent. You will be reconciled
to my loss. Other women will compensate
you.”

“Never! dear Marie,” was the sad, but subdued
reply. “I am no changeling. My heart yields
slowly to the charms of others, and becomes fixed as
soon as it becomes fond. Believe this assurance. I
will not asseverate. It is not my wont. But, I say
to you, on the honor of a heart that has long been
satisfied to seek yours only, that if I lose you I can
gain no other—will seek no other. I must bury myself
in the solitude of our old forests, and, perhaps,
become useful, or useless, where I no longer expect
to become happy. Suffer me, then, for a while, the
selfish struggle against your isolation. Give me time
to examine our mutual situation, and only permit me
to see you, at occasional periods, alone. You may
deny me your hand—you may refuse to make me
happy;—this may be the final decision; but, in the
mean time, permit me, sometimes, should I desire it,
to see you and speak with you. This privilege will
not prejudice your determination; and, when you reflect,

Marie, upon the sacrifice you call upon me to
make, this, probably, is quite as little as you could
grant.”

“Alas! Frederick, is this wise in you to ask?
Will it be wise in me to grant? Will not such meetings
be adverse to our mutual peace?”

“And is the doom before us now so very favorable
to our mutual peace, Marie?” was the somewhat reproachful
answer.

She was silent.

“At all events,” said he, “suffer me to see you to-morrow,
and once or twice afterwards. In the mean
while I will devote all my thoughts to the consideration
of what you ask, and what I am required to surrender.”

He pressed tenderly the hand which she gave him;
and when he had disappeared, a passion of tears relieved,
temporarily, the sorrows of the poor heart,
that, suffering grievously before, was compelled, in
secret, to admit that its worst miseries were never
felt till now.

11. CHAPTER XI.
STRATAGEM AND COUNTERMINE.

The particulars of this remarkable interview were
given to me by Frederick that very night. I may as
well mention that the story, in a great degree, confirmed
the truth of the common rumor about town. It

is astonishing how such things leak out, or by what happy
instincts the great multitude conceive the particular
causes of trouble, in the affairs of their neighbors.
There were, it is true, many conflicting conjectures,
in regard to the circumstances of terror which
had dissolved the assembly at the masquerade. But
that which gained most currency, insisted that the
Egyptian was the husband; and this led to a farther
charitable suspicion that he had been unfairly dealt
with—a suspicion which had no other foundation in
the public mind than a very general knowledge of
the brutal tyranny which he had exercised over his
wife, and which was commonly thought to have been
quite sufficient to justify almost any mode of redress,
or escape, which long suffering and resentment might
think proper to adopt. There were a few even less
charitable, who fancied that the husband's failings
were of the most harmless character, and hurt nobody
but himself; that the wife was evidently a Tartar,
and had, no doubt, got rid of her allegiance,
rather than of her tyrant. A few of the would-be-philosophical
scouted the idea of spectres in all
periods, ancient and modern; but even these were
found quite busy in giving circulation to the story.
But these need not divert us from our narrative.

“And what think you of all this, Frederick—does
it stagger you?” was my involuntary question as he
finished giving me the preceding details. I confess,
they had greatly staggered me.

“To speak plainly, William, I regard it as an ingenious,
but monstrous jugglery.”

“Indeed! did you tell her that?”

“Oh, no! I knew better. That would have been
the very way to defeat my own object, perhaps, of
finding out the clue to the mystery.”

“But, if it be a piece of jugglery, Frederick, how
do you account for the ghost's possession of Marie's
secret?”

“That gives me as little trouble as any of the rest.
Indeed, it is in that part of the story that I fancy
the clues are to be found by which the imposture is to
be detected. We shall see—as there is a living God,
William, and as I am a living man, I shall penetrate
the mystery.”

“But how?”

“Oh! I see not yet the way, nor can I tell you,
just now, what are the steps I propose to take. I
must think, think strenuously, wrestle with thought
as with an angel—wrestle alone, without food, and in
the depths of night and solitude. I shall need your
help, William, as I warned you; and shall, probably,
have to call in other agents.”

“Does Marie know your objects—your suspicions?”

“No! they occurred to me during the recital of
her narrative; but I felt that every step must be
taken with great caution; since, if there is jugglery,
the best method for its detection is, to be careful to
give it no alarm. A part of my suspicion is, that
every movement of Marie de Berniere is watched, and
that every word she utters, reaches other ears than
those for which she designs them.”

For a long time that night, until the short hours,
we conferred together. Our conversation was of a
character at once deeply interesting and solemn. It
canvassed very equally the separate provinces of the
human and spiritual world—their certain relations,
hopes, and dependencies—their possible communion;
and much of our conversation became practical in
connection with the case immediately before us. But
as much of this discussion was necessarily renewed
between Frederick and Marie de Berniere, I forbear,
in this place, to bring it forward, and will not anticipate
any of the schemes or philosophies of my companion.
We separated for the night, at length. He
refused to sup with me; denied himself everything
but cold water, and, taking the bath in his chamber,
retired, as he had declared his purpose to do, within
himself, and upon thought and prayer wholly. In
the morning I found him wearing an appearance of
greater cheerfulness, and speaking in tones of more
than usual elasticity. I remarked on it.

“It is because I have work before me, and have
already conceived the plan of operations, that I am
so much livelier than usual. One dies more easily in
action than he possibly can in repose. Effort of any
kind, to a soul-seeking performance, is a sort of joy.”

He gave me only a few minutes.

“I shall be busy all the morning,” said he, “and,
in the evening, I must see Marie.”

I strolled about town, listless but anxious, and saw
nothing of Frederick till next day. In the mean time
he had again seen his betrothed, as he had promised.

He found her alone, as sad, probably, as before, but
something calmer, and in better strength for the interview.

“Marie,” said Frederick, “I have brought you a
letter from my sister. Read it; it will, perhaps, speak
to your heart quite as emphatically as myself.”

“Ah! can you think so, Frederick?” was the reproachful
answer, as she received the letter. She
opened it with a deep sigh and began reading. Frederick
sat beside her; as she read, his eyes alternately
gazing upon her and upon the vacant walls of the
apartment. The letter was, in reality, his own. He
had his motive for making a statement aloud which
was at variance with the fact. It ran thus:—

The quick, intelligent mind of Marie de Berniere
readily understood the necessity of caution, if she
regarded the desires or the objects of her lover; and
the first sentences of the letter schooled her sufficiently
to the effort at self-possession, which it was,
nevertheless, very difficult to make. Her emotions of
surprise were apparent upon her cheeks, in their
varying hues, and the restless and sudden vivacity of
her eyes. But his will prevailed. She drew the
writing-materials to her side, and penned a single
sentence, addressed to Madame de Chateauneuve,
which Frederick conveyed, without reading, to his
pocket. She suffered him, at the same time, without
seeming to note the action, to gather up and conceal
the billet which he had brought. The scene was further
enlivened by a dialogue, which we do not think
it necessary to repeat, in which the lovers found but
little difficulty in discoursing of their affections, and
discussing their denial—as if it were now a thing
unavoidable—without suffering their conversation to

exhibit any doubts of the supernatural origin of that
decree which had been pronounced against their union.
It was long before they separated; and Frederick
fancied that he had gained something towards his
object, when he left Marie in much better spirits than
before, and with something like a hope glistening in
her eyes, which her lips as mournfully persisted in
denying to his ears.

That afternoon Frederick came to me.

“Your services, William, are about to begin. To-night
you must look for me in a disguise. I have
prepared another for you. I have also found you
other lodgings. Inform your landlady that you will
be absent for a week or ten days from the city, and
burden yourself with none of your traps. Leave
everything as it is. I will find for you a wardrobe,
with everything necessary, where we go.”

Sure enough, when the night had fairly set in, I
was waited upon by a middle-aged gentleman of the
old school, in costume and manner. This was Brandon.
His disguise was admirable. I complimented
him upon his skill in masquerading.

“So much,” said he, “for the habits of us wandering
youth in New Orleans. But we have had recent
proof that there is one person who is a better masquer
than myself.”

He was followed by a porter bearing a trunk,
which contained a sufficient wardrobe for us both, but
adapted to our new change of habit. I at once proceeded
to make my toilet, with my friend's assistance,
and with old-fashioned coat and pantaloons, a massive

wig, broad-brimmed chapeau, and all the usual et
cetera—to say nothing of a great gold-headed cane
—I found myself, after the labor of half an hour,
translated from a state of full-blooded dandyism and
youth into a state of full-bottomed seniority, with the
bulk and general appearance of a senator from one of
the country parishes. Brandon was at great pains
with me, and we set forth, the porter carrying the
trunk. We proceeded to an obscure hotel in C—
street, where our employee was rewarded and dismissed.
The trunk was put into the bar-room, while
we went into supper, of which I was the only consumer.
Brandon ate nothing. He disappeared while
I was smoking a cigar in the bar-room, and was gone
for half an hour. He brought with him, on his return,
another porter, to whom the trunk was given in
charge. Our score settled, we left the hotel, and in
a little space of time we reached the very street and
neighborhood in which stood the antique habitation
of the De Bernieres. At the door of an old dwelling-house,
on the opposite side of the way, we stopped and
hammered. We were admitted by an elderly lady,
who looked quite as much the German as the French
woman. She evidently expected us. Our trunk was
dispatched to a chamber, and the porter dismissed.
A few words with the old lady, and her two venerable
lodgers retired to their apartment. This looked over
upon the street. Brandon soon drew me to the window,
which was small, and furnished with heavy blinds.

“Look,” said he, as he threw open the shutter;
“there is the dwelling of Madame de Berniere obliquely

opposite, and at a reasonable distance. You
are now established, my dear William, in the honorable
capacity of a spy. Here, for a few days, if you
really desire to serve me, you will maintain a patient
watch, which must be unwearying. I shall sometimes
relieve you. But it is highly important to see what
persons enter that dwelling; and, not less so, perhaps,
to see by what persons her servants are approached.
This you can only do by day; for the night I have
made other provision. A few days will probably suffice.
In particular, keep an eye upon the old mulatto
fellow, Andres. I have made the discovery that he is
hostile to me, and is really reluctant that I should
visit the house of his mistress; particularly since
the affair of the masquerade. This is one strong argument
against the ghost of the colonel, since it is
scarcely to be thought that the supernatural world
would find it necessary to make an alliance with the
African. Enough! I will leave you now, but will
return again by midnight. Adios!

12. CHAPTER XII.
PHILOSOPHY OF THE SUPERNATURAL.

I resume my narrative, passing over numerous
small occurrences which may be noticed hereafter.
Of the long and serious conversation which I had
that night with Frederick Brandon, I shall say nothing;
as much of the material was necessarily employed

the next day in his conference with Marie de
Berniere. To this conference let us now proceed.
At the appointed hour, the carriage of Madame de
Chateauneuve stopped suddenly at the door of the
fair young mourner's habitation. The door was instantly
opened to receive her, and she was soon
welcomed to the embraces of her friend. Marie
was already dressed to receive her; but habited so
plainly, and in a style so unusual for the street, that
none of her servants dreamed, when she was making
her toilet, that she was preparing or designing to go
abroad. In this proceeding, by a just instinct, she
consulted the unexpressed objects of her lover. Her
attendants were quite taken by surprise when she
ordered her bonnet and cloak. Her maid, indeed,
expostulated with her with that earnestness which duty
and affection may be suffered to indulge in; first, in
regard to her health, sudden exposure to capricious
weather, and all that sort of thing; and, next, in
relation to her style of dress, which the Tabitha asseverated,
was by no means fit to be seen by fashionable
eyes. But Marie silenced the officious damsel by
a word, which was sufficiently positive without being
harsh or stern. She herself, by the way, took the
initiate in all the proceeding, and spoke to her visitor
as if the proposed drive was altogether an extemporaneous
suggestion of her own.

“I am so rejoiced that you are come,” said she,
“for somehow, I feel to-day, for the first time, like
taking a little sunshine and fresh air. Everything
looks so gloomy here. You shall give me a seat, dear

Ninine (a pet term of endearment to her friend), and
talk to me as we ride, and cheer me, if you can, into
better spirits. I am so glad that you are come.”

And, hurrying her toilet, and wrapping herself
closely up in the ample territory of a shawl of Thibet,
she took her friend's arm and eagerly led the way to
the carriage.

“If the Father should come?” was the apparent
question of the old dark mulatto servant-man, Andres,
as, with a hesitating and reluctant manner; he opened
the door.

“Tell him that I have gone out to ride, Andres;
that I want fresh air and sunshine. Say that I am
gone with Madame de Chateauneuve.”

Nothing more was said, and the carriage, with its
precious burden, was soon out of sight of the porter,
who yet lingered at the door. The drive, by Madame
de Chateauneuve's instructions, was purposely a circuitous
one. It led at first directly out of the city,
but when a certain distance had been reached, the
carriage was wheeled about, and, after wending its
way through other parts of the city, was at length
brought to a stand before Madame de Chateauneuve's
dwelling. The friends alighted and entered the house,
where Brandon was in waiting to receive them. He
saw them approaching from the window, but did not
dare to descend and assist them, as he was unwilling
that any watchful or suspicious eye might detect his
presence on this occasion. His plan of operations
was one which must fail without the nicest precautions,
and, as he observed to me the night before,

“Whether I am to play against man or devil, it is
evident that my opponent is an old and adroit manager
of the cards. We must beware that he does not
get the deal.” The impatience of Madame de Berniere,
when they encountered, left him little time or
occasion for preliminaries.

“You have provoked my doubts and curiosity,
Frederick, to such a degree that I could not sleep last
night. It is not that I believe it in your power to
shake my faith in what I have seen and know. But
the bare possibility that I may have been deceived,
which your view of the case has suggested—my great
respect for your judgment, which is confessedly so
cool and so sagacious—my own present dissatisfaction
and discontent—in short, the total loss of that peace
of mind which should undoubtedly have followed my
complete resignation to that fate which required that
I should make every sacrifice of self; these all combine
to make me eager to hear anything—even though
it be against my hope—if it will only silence my
anxieties. Tell me, then, Frederick, what is it that
you know, or wherefore and whom do you suspect?”

“I have said, Marie, that I regarded you as the
victim of a most cunning and shocking imposture. I
am not the man easily to delude myself, and until I
am assured, myself, I am not the man to attempt to
delude others. I have listened patiently and thoughtfully
to the curious and startling narrative of facts
which you have given me. Startling they are—and
they would be terrible indeed, were there not certain
peculiarities in the history of this affair, which seem

to me to divest it of all its supernatural elements,
and reduce it to nothing more stupendous than a well-conceived
and cleverly played scheme of a practised
and subtle juggler.”

“But that face of death, Frederick—those fearful
and glassy eyes, which stared into my own, freezing
me to my very soul; that voice, so entirely the same;
that ghastly aspect, and over all, the revelation of
that terrible secret which I had fondly imagined was
buried and obliterated in the insane thought in which
it had existence.”

“Stay, Marie; suffer me to proceed. In particular,
let me request that you do not allow your imagination
to become once more the ally of this superstition.
It has done some mischief in this manner already.
It was in some degree the knowledge of this susceptibility
of yours that first persuaded the ghost-raiser
to an experiment upon your fears, in which he has
hitherto been only too successful.”

“But do you, then, not believe at all in ghosts,
Frederick?”

“I have no knowledge of the subject, Marie. I
have never seen a ghost; but am rather more inclined
to believe in them than otherwise, since I believe in
the immortality of the soul—since I know not where
or how the soul is employed after it shuffles off its
earthly garment; and since I can easily believe that
there are many cases, where, for specific purposes
of mortal benefit, the Deity may permit the freed
spirit to resume its habit and reappear in the ancient
places which it has long abandoned.”

“Well?”

“You would contend that this is one of those very
cases, but I confidently say, `No.' Indeed, it would
be one of those cases which, by showing to me what
monstrous crimes might be committed under such a
sanction, would be almost conclusive, to my mind,
against the whole doctrine of pneumatology. I am
not unwilling to believe that the spectre may be permitted
to reappear for warning and counsel—in order to
succor the innocent whom no help could otherwise reach
—or to baffle the meditated guilt to which there is no
means of earthly opposition. But how can I persuade
myself that the Deity will yield such privilege to the
spirit who seeks only to mortify and affright; to the
guilty spirit also: one who, in life, was himself a
criminal—brutally regardless of the nature which he
outraged! Should he be permitted, in both lives, to
exercise a power of wrong? Shall he, after death,
be suffered to renew his outrages to the mortal terror
and prolonged suffering of his former victim?—to
her public shame and exposure?”

“Alas, Frederick! but I too was guilty!”

“Not to him! You meditated a crime against him,
it is true; but as you did not execute your offence, as
he did not suffer from it, your real crime was against
the Deity. To both did you endeavor to atone. You
repented of your evil purpose almost as soon as you
conceived it; certainly in season to prevent its execution.
It was a guilty thought only, which better
thoughts have sufficed to eradicate. He surely has no
work of vengeance to execute!”

“But he may execute the vengeance of the good
God, Frederick?”

“Scarcely! How can we suppose that the Deity
will employ against the offender the agency of a far
greater criminal? How suppose that he will leave to
the spirit of malice to execute the decrees of justice?
This would be to put into the hands of the aggressor
the means of further aggression. Of course, we cannot
pretend to sit in judgment upon the will and purposes
of God. But it is not denied to us that we
shall exercise our best modes of thinking—our human
faculties of reason—according to the usual standards
of mortal judgment. We know that the unfortunate
person whose spectre you suppose yourself to have seen
was a heinous criminal—a bold blasphemer—a brutal
tyrant—a man who died literally with curses upon his
lips! That he should be in a situation to receive miraculous
power from the Divine Father of Good—that
he should be chosen as the special agent for the prosecution
of omniscient judgment—is scarcely compatible
with possibility, according to any of those laws and principles
which a merely human reason recognizes as characteristic
of propriety or justice. If we are to regard
this as a supernatural visitation, how much more
reasonable to ascribe it to the malicious dispensations
of a Power of Evil, rather than one of Good! This
power, it is quite probable, from all that we see and
learn, is as active and present now, in malignant
hostility to the interests of earth, as it was five
thousand years ago. It may work its miracles also;
and the mission which it is thought to execute, in the

present instance, is of a kind rather to proceed from
a cruel and envious than from a benevolent original.
What does it seek? To vex and separate the hearts
that love would unite; to disturb the repose and destroy
the happiness of that being to whom it allowed
neither peace nor happiness in life; to continue, beyond
the grave, a persecution which it delighted to indulge
while living; to mar the harmony and order of society;
to fill our souls with vague terrors—with a constant
sense of insecurity—with the dread of evils ever at
the elbow—and to inspire horror in scenes the most
sweet and peaceful! And all for what? Because of
ancient offences—meditated and not performed, and
amply repented, if not wholly atoned for. Are we to
suppose that all our thoughts are thus watched by
malignant spirits, in order that we may be tormented
by their capricious hate and tyranny? Why was
this revelation never made to you before? Why was
this terrible rebuke to your hopes left unadministered
so long? Why, if the purpose had been to adjudge
you unworthy of all future happiness, such as the
natural affections of youth bestow, why were you not
counselled to the proper preparation for this sacrifice,
that you might wean your thoughts from every but
immortal attachments—taught sternly, at an earlier
season, that, for the meditated crime of your heart,
you were to make that heart expiate by a dark and
gloomy isolation for its single unhappy fault? This
warning was doubly necessary at an early period, to
prevent you from involving other destinies with your
own! You do not say that your spectral visitant
warned you against me? He did not say to you that
I did not truly and tenderly love you—that I had
not built largely and with confidence upon the hopes
with which my love for you had inspired me? He
did not say that I was unworthy of you, or that we
were unfit for each other?”

“No! no! Frederick, no!”

“Why, then, am I to share your punishment? I
was certainly in no way privy to your offence. If I
truly and tenderly love you—if I am guiltless of this
crime; if the prospect be a reasonable one, that we
should be happy together in the bonds of marriage—
what are we to think of that benevolence or justice
in the Father of all blessings—whom we are taught
to honor chiefly because of his fast attributes of benevolence
and justice—if he shall forbear his judgment
upon the guilty until he can sweep, with the same
doom, the innocent also? Allowing that this messenger
of evil comes from the grave, it is impossible that
I can persuade myself that his mission is from God!
Rather”—

“Forbear, Frederick, forbear! For my sake!”

“But in truth, dear Marie, he comes from neither!
He is but a vulgar ghost of mortal manufacture. You
perceive that he does not come at all until we are
engaged to be married. This is a fact of considerable
significance! For thirteen months has this ghost kept
quietly in possession of your secret. For that space
of time you too have been permitted to sleep quietly,
with all its weight upon your conscience. There was
no incumbent duty felt, in all this period, to awaken

your guilty heart—to check and rebuke your enjoyments—to
school you with terrors of the future. You
might engage in dances and song—to wander through
the fascinating mazes of a gay society, on the brink
always of eternal dangers, yet without a word of
warning. It is only when you are in possession of
another secret, that the awful monitor wakes up to
chide you for the past and to warn you against the
future. Clearly, then, it is the marriage that disturbs
the ghost, and not your past offences. He leaves his
cerements, and revisits the glimpses of our moon, when
he finds that you are about to wed another. Was
your crime, upon which he now so much insists, of no
importance, and totally unmeriting regard? It would
seem so. One would say, reasoning from common
laws, that our excellent ghost has not so much desired
to make you a penitent, as to keep you a widow.”

The case was put with evident effect. A pause ensued,
in which Frederick Brandon appeared to await
her answer. She replied after a little interval.

“You are reasoning, Frederick, as men are apt to
reason in ordinary concerns. But how shall we sit
in judgment upon the means and processes, the agents
and creatures, by which the Deity thinks fit to work.
Lucifer, himself, we are told, is but a creature of his
will, who works in obedience to his manifestation.”

“I do not gainsay this. I say nothing against it;
nor do I propose, dear Marie, to reason for the propriety
of God's performances. But this is what men
call a begging of the question. This is really the

question. Is it the Deity who works, or is it the man,
or is it the devil? You assume the former, and I
deny it; and we have but one process left to us, that
of human reason (or it is our mockery only) to determine
upon our several opinions. Neither of us may
assume anything in the matter.”

“But the peculiar revelation which is made by this
messenger, Frederick?”

“To that I shall come directly. There are still
some preliminary considerations. Assuming that
Heaven has designed to influence your conduct by a
special messenger—and here, dear Marie, we must be
wonderfully cautious not to suffer the amour propre
too readily to persuade us of an importance in one
particular instance, which is to secure us this peculiar
consideration of the Deity—assuming, I say, that this
visitor is not only what he really pretends, but that
he is a special messenger from God—and the question
occurs, has he pursued a course which is consistent
with the usual workings of heavenly interposition?
The ministry of God, when he would work upon the
stubborn heart of man, is as really gentle and unobtrusive,
as silent and natural, as is the gentle falling
of the dews by night upon the feverish and famished
plant. Was the season chosen for this warning altogether
consistent with a divine and benevolent intention?
Would God delight, not only to counsel the
sinner, but to scare and shame him to confession by
a coup de theatre? Would he choose the scene of
revelry for such an annunciation? Were there not a

thousand other and better opportunities in the long
interval of thirteen months before—the still hours of
the night—the solitude of one's chamber—one of those
periods when the heart inclines to look back, and to
sigh and weep over the memorials of the past!—when
the mind is most free for contemplation and reflection,
and the conscience most susceptible to all teachings
which appeal to it through its consciousness of past
errors and mistakes? Is it not reasonable to conjecture,
from all that we know of the Deity, that he
would choose for such a purpose some such period of
self-security and solitude? But, on the other hand,
how natural for the vulgar mortal, conceiving the idea
of producing an impression by some cunning jugglery
(such as I take this to be) to execute his design just
at the period chosen—when there would be a great
and vulgar sensation in consequence—a town talk—
and when the superstitious terrors of the victim would
be necessarily heightened by the most cruel mortification
of her pride! How could we suppose that the
Deity would work through such a medium, or with
such motives? You remember the spectre in Job?
How a thing was secretly brought to him, his ear only
receiving it faintly and imperfectly at first. The hour
chosen was that of midnight—when the deep sleep
has fallen upon earth and all its living creatures. His
instincts promptly teach him to shudder even at this
little whisper. It is premonitory. It is sent to prepare
and strengthen him against what follows. He
feels the approach of the unknown presence, which he
does not see, which had not yet spoken audibly.
Then he becomes conscious that a spirit stands before
him, vague, formless, indefinite—shapeless and featureless—but
looking a terrible power before his eyes.
The voice then follows. The burden of the speech is
spoken! How brief—how simple—how awful—how
utterly wanting in details—yet ample, as addressing
itself to a conscience already fully counselled by all
its instincts. And thus it is everywhere in sacred
history, that the Spirit of God reveals himself to the
objects of his interest. He awes, but he does not scare
them. He endows them with an adequate strength
to endure his visitation, and does not overwhelm them
with such terrors as threaten life. It is in this particular
that we find the conclusive difference between the
really supernatural visitation and the simulacrum. It
is in this particular that the art of the juggler fails.
That you should have been stricken into senselessness
almost to death, by the spectre, is to me conclusive of
the total absence of the supernatural. Look at all
the cases that occur in sacred history. It is with a
whisper that the Deity calls the boy Samuel, at midnight,
to his mission. He accommodates his voice to
the strength of the being whom he summons, and nowhere
leaves him without the strength to endure his
presence. It is thus that he enables his inspired men
to seek him in the lonely mountains, the multitude
being kept away—and they are never crushed by the
encounter. There is but a single instance that I can
recall, looking like an exception to this rule—which it
really is not—and that is the sudden, silent hand, at
the feast of Belshazzar, which wrote Heaven's judgment
upon the wall. Awe and fear possessed the
hearts of the spectators, but not an utter death-like
prostration of the faculties. But it was in secret only,
in the ear of Daniel, that the mysterious signification
of the writing was made known. It is one of the
wondrous features which distinguish the operations of
the Deity, that they are so quiet, so unobtrusive, so
wholly unostentatious. Were it otherwise, his visitations
would utterly wreck the reason of men; and a
miracle, instead of being what it is, a special advent
of truth, would be only a visitation of death. Ours
is a day of human marvels, and science performs for
the ignorant her full amount of miracles. In the
spectre that we now discuss, I fancy that I can discern
some of the workings of human science, and quite as
much of a human art. Let us look to some other
particulars. I am very sure that the features of which
you speak, as distinguishing the spectre—the glazed
eyes, which yet see—the wan cheeks—the whitened lips
—the general aspect of the grave and death, which it
wore, are all rather due to chemical agents than to
the spiritual world. But, then, you recognized a
striking resemblance to the features of the late Colonel
de Berniere?”

“I certainly did.”

“Now, then, if it were important to the mission of
the spectre that you should see and recognize his
features, and that they should so strikingly resemble
those of the person of whom it claimed to be the
spirit, why should they wear the appearance of death,
also, as well as life? If the spirit were living, why

voluntarily assume the features of the grave, when it
was the object to impress you with the recollection of
the living man? Why, on the other hand, if the aspect
of the grave were to be worn—of absolute death
—why is it that the exhibition was not one of that
complete corruption and decay which we know to be
inevitable after a thirteen months' burial? The spectre
tries to do too much. He does not rely upon his supernatural
endowments so much as upon your memory
and your conscience. He shows himself in a doubtful-double—at
once the spirit of a dead and a living
man, without wholly or correctly representing either!
But there is a still more striking difficulty in this personification.
Colonel de Berniere seems to have grown
a number of inches since his burial. Nobody who knew
him in New Orleans—and everybody did—but must
remember that he was of under-size—I think he could
not have been more than five feet four or five inches
high; and yet you will remember that the ghost was able
to impose himself upon you, in my Egyptian costume,
and yet I am fully five feet eleven. I myself remarked,
when I conducted him to you, that the appearance
was not only very like, but that he was just of
my height. We stood side by side, for a moment, at
the entrance, and our shoulders were on the same
level. I noticed one difference, that my simulacrum
stooped a little, which I do not; this would prove him
to be even taller than myself. Now, Colonel de Berniere
not only did not stoop, but was remarkable for
his erectness; throwing himself back rather, as is common
with persons consciously small, who are necessarily
compelled to do so if they would seek the eyes
of their neighbors. You, I suppose, dear Marie, were
quite too much frightened to have discriminated these
things, else how could you suppose the Egyptian, at
one moment, to be me, and, in the very next, Colonel
de Berniere?”

Marie seemed to admit the charge by her silence,
her head drooping, but her eyes dilating—her soul at
sea—at strife, in that deep interest which her lover
had provoked in the singular and now dubious question
which he had raised. He resumed—

“Now, Marie, it is one way to defeat a supernatural
mission, which seeks only to impress warning and
convey command, so to terrify the mind of the person
receiving the visitation, as nearly to rob him of life
and reason. We are bound to assume the condition
in which you were left, as rather against than in favor
of the supernatural pretension of your visitor. Such
results never are known to follow a genuine spiritual
visitation. But terror is easily inspired, even
to death, by the blundering cruelty of mere vulgar
agents among men. I have glanced already at the
reason for this, but the point is one of too much importance
to the argument to be passed over lightly;
and I dwell on it the more particularly as one of the
most famous metaphysicians of the age has adverted
to the subject, arguing against the supernatural altogether.
It is Coleridge who contends that no mortal
could survive the presence of a real ghost; and he gives
an anecdote of two youths, one of whom endeavored
to frighten the other, who coolly mocked his pretensions,

and, being armed with a loaded pistol, warned
him that he would fire if he persisted. But the
former, having secretly drawn the bullet, persevered,
and fearlessly stood the shot. The other, when he
found his bullet of no avail against the spectre, swooned
instantly, and finally died. The argument of the
`old man eloquent' is not urged with his usual ingenuity
or profundity. He overlooks one element of
the subject to which I have already adverted. The
mortal might well frighten to death the mortal who
relied wholly on carnal weapons, and offered merely a
general sentiment of incredulity to a philosophy which
has baffled the most thorough investigations. We, however,
are to assume that the power which decrees the
advent and the duty of the ghost, will so provide that
his object shall not be rendered ineffectual. We must
not doubt that he will prepare the mind of the spectator
with a supernatural strength adequate to the encounter.
His instincts, as in the case of Job, will
become his premonitors. Coleridge's student had
none of these premonitions, and his death was the
consequence of an instantaneous transition from a blind
and boyish incredulity to an equally boyish belief in
the reality of the spectre! The solemn purposes of
the Deity will not suffer to be baffled by the infirmities
of the flesh, when it is so certainly in his power to
succor and sustain the shrinking nature of humanity
by a provision as mysterious as that by which it is
assailed. That your Egyptian, in his first contact
with you, myself, and others, should have inspired no
such mysterious doubts and sensibilities as oppressed
Job—and such as seem, in all cases, to have attended
the approach of the supernatural guest—is sufficiently
against his pretensions. That he should have frightened
you into convulsions is not more conclusive in
his favor than is the attainment of the same result
by the trick of the brutal juggler, when he seizes upon
the unprepared and superstitious child, and overwhelms
him with a terror against which, if from a divine intelligence,
the spectator is always measurably armed
and protected.”

13. CHAPTER XIII.
RUSE DE GUERRE.

It must not be supposed that Frederick Brandon
was allowed to pursue this long analysis without frequent
interruptions from his fair companion; frequent questionings,
doubts, and suggestions occurred during his
progress, which we have not thought necessary to
put on record. Nor must the reader fancy that the
lover was, at any time, so abrupt in his expressions,
as, in our anxiety to contract our narrative to certain
dimensions, we may have suffered him sometimes to
appear. His philosophies compassed, also, a much
larger province of thought than it has been within our
desire or ability to exhibit. Many things were said
in order to soften suggestions which might have startled
the superstitious nature; and much soothing was
employed to pacify the timid in her superstitious fancies.

In all his conversation, Brandon was properly
heedful of all her feelings and distresses. He had
schooled his mind to progress, and, calm himself,
mentally—whatever might be the emotions feverishly
working in his heart, he had been able to address
himself to the woman whom he loved, with a care that
never once forgot the physician in the philosopher.
He had succeeded, certainly, in awakening in the mind
of his hearer some of that skepticism which had justified
his own. This was indicated in her enlivened expression
of countenance—in her anxiety that he should
proceed—and in a certain resumption of her former elasticity
of mood, which at one time had rendered her quite
as volatile and gay as she was susceptible. He was
at no loss to follow up the train of opinion and argument
with which he had begun.

“All this,” said Marie de Berniere, after a pause,
speaking in low tones—scarce breathing, indeed, from
excitement—“all this is certainly very strange, and
very strongly urged. But your argument, Frederick,
with some exceptions, relates only to general speculations
upon the merely probable or possible in such an
affair. In these respects you have made your views
plausible; but how are you to overcome the one great
fact touching the secret revelation?”

“Forgive me, Marie, if I claim to have dealt in
something more than generalities. These I have
employed as subsidiary only to positive arguments
bearing upon decisive points in the case. For example,
the appearance of the spectre, looking neither

like the living nor the dead, partaking of both in some
degree—a spirit shrouded in corruption—”

“But we are not to know what are the characteristics
of such an apparition—with what purpose
designed—from what condition suffering—under what
necessities made active.”

“You have not examined my objections thoroughly,
Marie. I object that the spectre was, at once, too
much and too little specific; that he showed too
many and too few details; that he so mixed the aspects
of both conditions, of life and death, as properly
to represent neither. But, I pass this particular over.
There is one point which seems a staggering one:
that Colonel de Berniere, who in life was six inches
shorter than myself, should, as a spectre, be my superior
in height; a matter scarcely consistent with the
necessity which he seemed to acknowledge of appearing
to you, as he did, at the first hour of his demise.
Whether a spectre may dilate in one region and not
another, grow in height and not in bulk, is a question,
to determine which we have no absolute criteria.
But, according to all vulgar human thinking, the case
would be an exceedingly anomalous one; and I repeat,
one is at a loss to account for any supernatural necessity
to exhibit the features of the spiritual man, or
living man, at all, in a case of supernatural visitation;
since, in such cases, it is evident that the spectre has
only to rely upon his mission, to find all your instincts
friendly to his recognition. There was no
necessity to appeal to you for the recollection of features
which look like neither death nor life; nor stare

at you through eyes fixed and glassy; nor speak to
you through lips blue and clammy with corruption.
It would not so much offend our sense of propriety,
that he should appear to you entirely as he did when
alive, or entirely as he did when dead; or not to appear
to you at all, except in a vague outline formed
by cloud and vapor. As he appears to you, it does
not seem that he resembles either condition, that of
the dead, the living, or the spiritual; but as a something
made up of all three. This seems to me to
have been the error of a mountebank, rather than a
ghost.”

“Frederick, you confound me.”

“I do not aim at this, Marie. My desire is only
to enlighten you, and to free you from one of the
most monstrous impositions that cunning ever attempted
upon credulity. The juggler who pulls these
wires, built quite as much upon your imaginative susceptibilities
as upon his own adroitness.”

“I confess myself greatly impressed by what you
have said; but when I remember that dreadful revelation—that
cruel secret—”

“This seems to me scarcely more difficult than any
other portion of the mystery. I little doubt that you
yourself have betrayed this secret a thousand times.”

“How, when, where, to whom?”

“To the night, to the air, to the silence, to the birds!
Persons of the sanguine temperament are continually
talking aloud, particularly in their sleep. This is certain,
where the mind is an imaginative one. It never
sleeps. You have never deliberately designed telling

this secret. Nay, you have watched your lips with
sleepless anxiety, lest they should prattle unadvisedly.
Yet the very anxieties of that watch have probably
forced you into speech the moment your observing
faculties were at rest; and you have soliloquized the
apprehensions aloud in respect to the grievous burden
which lay pressing at your heart. Nature has revenged
herself in sleep for the constraints which you
put upon her when you were awake; and your unconscious
lips were compelled to unclose their portals,
nightly, for the escape of that prisoner whom you kept,
during your wakeful hours, under such heavy bonds.
A secret, in this condition, is the most restless of spiritual
things. The deplorable necessity which such a
captive imposed upon the barber of King Midas, you
have not forgotten. The keeper of it, weary of his
task, gladly seeks to transfer his captive to some
other's keeping.”

“But supposing this conjecture to be justly founded;
supposing me to talk in my sleep—which I believe I
do, for I dream a great deal—who is there to watch
the appearance of the prisoner, and take possession
of it when it leaves its captivity? Colonel de Berniere
evidently never knew it while he lived. For months
before his death we slept in separate apartments. In
all that time, and even since his death, I have invariably
slept alone, my maid occupying an adjacent
chamber, in which she could only hear my bell. She
could not, by any possibility, have heard the murmurs
of my voice while I slept, or anything less than my loudest
summons, when awake. That Colonel de Berniere

never knew or suspected my meditated offence when
alive, I am very sure. He had never spared me the
discovery, the shame, and probably the punishment
due to my unhappy error. And, for my maid—can
it be supposed that, if she had made the discovery, I
should have been able to escape her assumptions in
consequence, and in due degree with the importance
of the secret?”

“My dear Marie, neither Colonel de Berniere nor
your maid effected the discovery. I am very sure that
the latter knows nothing of this, though she may be in
possession of some other secrets not wholly disconnected
with it; and as for the former, whether he
knows now or not, I am quite as sure that he is altogether
innocent of the offence of troubling you. But
if you spoke not your secret in your sleep—if you
suffered or summoned no confidant while you deliberately
revealed it, it is yet most probable that your
own lips have in some way made the revelation first.
You say that you withheld it wholly from the confessional?”

“To my shame and sorrow I did!”

“You have spoken it in your prayers in your
closet, when you fancied you had no other auditor
than God himself, and when you invited him to listen?”

“Surely, Frederick, I have so prayed and so spoken
in my prayers.”

“How easy, then, to suppose that you were heard
by other than spiritual ears.”

“Ha! How?”

“Nay, I am prepared to believe that you were seen
when you compounded the poison with the wine!”

“Impossible!”

“Not more impossible than the ghost! Nay, Marie,
we are only to believe the ghost, when all human
agencies are shown to be unequal to the mystery.
The miracle is such only, when it is totally beyond
the ability of mortal to achieve. Hearken to me, now,
for this brings me to another of the arguments which
persuade me that you are the victim of a fraud. In
your statement to me, of all the particulars, you
mentioned that when the poison was mixed, and in
your hands for use—when the medicated wine was
about to be placed in the way of Colonel de Berniere,
your better thoughts came to your aid—your soul revolted
at the crime; and with the firmness of a spirit
totally emancipated from the snares of Satan, and
shuddering to have been so far seduced to sin, you
cast away the fatal liquor, and fell upon your knees
in penitence and prayer to God. This was in your
chamber—in your closet—and when you fancied yourself
utterly alone?”

“The door was locked!—what reason have you
to think that I was not alone?”

“The very best of reasons; which I gather from
the revelations of the spectre himself. You may remember,
while telling me of the event, that I asked
you, cursorily—led to the inquiry by a sudden suspicion—whether
the spectre showed an intimate acquaintance
with the details of your meditated crime
—whether, in other words, he distinctly named your

offence, and showed such a knowledge of the particular
facts, as proved that he did not rely upon a vague
suggestion, made at random, rather with the view to
surprising a guilty conscience of which he had suspicion,
than with the design to chide and denounce for
offences fully known?”

“Yes—and I then told you that he betrayed the
most surprising knowledge of all the particulars;
described the poison; named it (and I myself did not
know the name before); mentioned where I procured
it; how I mixed it; what I did with it; when first
mixed; where I threw it from the window; and of the
prayer which I made by the bedside, prostrate upon
the floor; the very words I spoke; the very tears I
shed!”

“Precisely! Now, then, Marie, this very particularity
assured me that your Egyptian was no ghost;
certainly, none dispatched from heaven. When you
first told me of these details, I could scarce desist
from the exclamation aloud, that he knew too much!
at all events he said too much. He proved to me,
not that he was a prophet, but that he had been a
witness. For why should the spectre do more than
appeal to your conscience for the sufficient proof of
his charge? Are we to suppose that the direct
minister of Heaven, assured of what he says, would
doubt, for a moment, his power to compel your faith
in his mission by a simple general statement of the
guilty act which you had meditated? What need had
he to say more than—`Woman, what hast thou done!
What didst thou design against thy husband's life in

the moment of his debauchery and security! How
didst thou mingle the deadly potion with his drink,
meaning to dispatch him to judgment with all his sins
upon his head! And wouldst thou now wed another?
Retire thou, rather, into the shades of the convent,
and there deplore thy sins in sackcloth, that thy soul
be not forfeit forever!'—What more would have been
necessary to strike the guilty heart into confession?
and it would have been enough for you! But our
ghost was not content with this; secure in his facts,
he was not satisfied unless he could overwhelm you
with them. He thought you might be stubborn. He
allowed too little for conscience. He aimed to do that
which the true prophet does not think necessary to
attempt—to prove to you the things which your own
soul knew needed no proof whatsoever! The ghost, as
I said before, proved too much. He proves to me, dear
Marie, that he was a living witness of all your proceedings—all,
at least, which were connected with your
meditated offence!”

“Impossible! Oh, Frederick! impossible!”

The nice sensibilities of the woman shrunk at the
idea of a surveillance so audacious and unmanly, as
left her no security even in the sacred recesses of her
chamber.

“Solemnly, dear Marie, I say and believe this to
be the truth. I have labored intently to reason out
this mysterious affair. I may not satisfy you, but I am
myself satisfied. The progress of my inquiry has
brought me, step by step, to these several conclusions:
that the Egyptian is an impostor—that his purpose is

to separate us—nay, not only to prevent your marrying
with me, but to prevent your marriage altogether,
and with anybody—that he has fathomed your secret
by merely human means—that he has employed
merely human agencies; however obscure and difficult
this may seem to you, in imposing upon you the appearance
of Colonel de Berniere—and (a vital particular
in the future prosecution of our inquiry) that he
had acquired, within your chamber, all the knowledge
which he possesses.”

“In the name of Heaven, Frederick, what is it that
you suspect?”

“That your dwelling is pierced by secret passages,
and that your chamber is accessible from without by
avenues which you do not dream of.”

“I will have it instantly pulled down.”

“Nay, nay; softly: by no means. That would certainly
enable us to prove the facility with which your
chamber might be penetrated, but would leave the
rest still doubtful, to trouble your thoughts with
future misgivings. Besides, it would probably defeat
all our efforts to discover the impostor.”

“But who can this be, Frederick? I see that you
have your suspicions of him, also.”

“I confess it, Marie, but must plead with you to
allow me, for the present, to keep this one conjecture
to myself. It is not improbable, however, that I shall
lead you to him hereafter, by irresistible conclusions.
But let me proceed. It has been one of my frequent
subjects of reverie, the construction of houses for defence
and security, upon plans at once satisfying the

rigorous selfishness of the feudal Baron, of Gothic
periods, and the no less selfish, but more voluptuous
fancies of the Eastern Caliphs. I must premise,
by telling you that constructiveness is, perhaps, my
most prominent phrenological development. In exercising
it in my dreams, I have indulged in the most
mixed, various, and wonderful problems of architecture;
and, at one time of my life, in the deep shades
of our forest domain in Tennessee, I had planned the
most audacious experiment in castle-building, with the
very materials out of which we frame the common log-house.
I had towers and bastions, and wings and
keeps, donjon and drawbridge. The wall was, on
one side, to be incorporated with the dwelling, and on
another side the towers were to overhang the dear
little Indian lakelet of Istahkapah, upon which my
infant eyes first opened to the light. I had gardens
of rare luxury, with verandas leading into them, and
these so embowered with vines, fruit, and foliage, that
the memories of Bagdad, and of the great Haroun,
should be forced, irresistibly, upon the mind of all
who entered them. A vast area was to be inclosed
by the fortifications and flanking towers of the castle,
in which I was to practise a thousand sorceries, for
the delight and wonder of the twin spirit whom I
should beguile into my forest empire. Of these dreaming
structures, these wild schemes of a restless fancy,
I trust, dear Marie, that I shall yet be permitted, in
spite of our ghost, to unfold to you, as part proprietor,
the wondrous history; at moments when your heart
shall most easily incline you to forgive the builder for
his boyish follies. At this moment, however, I have
only to say—as suiting a present purpose—that one
of my favorite studies was the contrivance of secret
passages through the walls of the castle; and stair-flights,
entrances, and facilities for escape, such as
should blind the sharpest conjecture, and baffle the
most vigorous pursuit. You can have no idea of the
degree of perfection which I attained in the prosecution
of these fancies—how admirably I contrived my
avenues in spaces inconceivably small, which I yet
contrived to gain from wall and chimney without leaving
any apparent region unaccounted for; how artfully
I introduced passages into apartments, and sections
of apartments, where it was beyond common
conjecture that such could be; and with what happy
ingenuity I contrived modes of opening the secret entrance
into the apartment, making it easy and difficult
at once—easy of use to him who knew, and when the
emergency required it, and difficult of detection by the
stranger, even where its presence was suspected.
Thus my domains were penetrable or impenetrable,
as I myself thought proper; and my privacy might
be guarded by material agents, whose prompt efficiency
was comparable to such as are usually ascribed to
spells of magic. Thus could I escape unseen into the
forest, and from the forest find my way back, equally
unseen, to any quarter of my castle. Vaulted passages
beneath the ground, connected with a secret
stairway in one of my flanking towers, conducted me
out to slopes and gentle swells of earth, which I was
never to clear of umbrage, and my opening from the
vaulted passage into the ample sunshine was itself a
discovery and an invention, which, were the subterranean
a more desirable realm for the habitation of the
great body of mankind, I hold to be of so much value,
that I should certainly guard its profits by a patent.”

Marie was beguiled into a smile. Her lover proceeded—

“These studies naturally made me observant of
the susceptibilities, for similar purposes, of the ordinary
dwellings of the citizen; and, whenever I was
left to my musings, in a strange house, I caught myself
meditating the dimensions of the walls, the spaces
between them and the chimneys, the depths of fireplaces,
the wainscoting, any apparent inequalities, or
unnecessary enlargement of parts, any want of symmetry
and proportion or adaptation—in short, a thousand
minutiæ which might either provoke doubts or
furnish suggestions of the subject. It will surprise
you, as it did me, to learn that such schemes as I had
only planned in thought, were comparatively common
in practice, and that, in numerous instances, in almost
every large city, human ingenuity has wrought out the
secret passage, and opened the mysterious outlet,
through the walls of the ordinary citizen. Many
houses, thus perforated, I am satisfied exist in this
very place. I suspect several, and have discovered
my conjectures to be right in some instances already.
But I never seem to have thought of the matter when
in your dwelling—having my thoughts always more
gratefully employed; always—until the moment when
the subject flashed upon me, as a direct consequence

of that statement of details, which the Egyptian
made, when he unfolded to you your painful secret.
It appeared to me conclusive of a human witness
rather than a supernatural visitant, and seemed to me
just the sort of testimony which a person would be
likely to afford, who had been actually present at the
scene. How could he have been present? A single
glance around the apartment led me to the conviction
that it was admirably riddled with secret avenues. I
knew it to be an old Spanish structure, and from its
size and massiveness, I thought it not impossible that
it had once been employed for government or religious
purposes. Tradition may have told you something
on this subject, but the matter is by no means
important. The secret passages are unquestionably
in the dwelling, very possibly connecting all the
apartments; and now the question occurs—how are
we to penetrate the mystery without being discovered
by the enemy, or alarming him in his hiding-places?
It is important not only to discover how your house
is haunted, but by whom. Are you prepared, dear
Marie, to facilitate my examination—which can only
effectually be done by yielding yourself to a series of
regulations, the value of which I have already discussed
to my own satisfaction, though it is probable I
shall not be able, in the case of some of them, to furnish
reasons which will be satisfactory at present to
yourself?”

Marie proposed to be docile, and her lover proceeded
thus—

“You will again ride forth to-morrow with Madame

de Chateauneuve. We shall again meet here on further
consultation. You will express no suspicions,
and show none. I believe that your servants are
spies upon you. I know that old Andres, your porter,
is hostile to myself. If they are in the employ
of another, your absence to-day will occasion them
great uneasiness and curiosity, particularly as you
disclosed nothing of your purpose previously. Continue
your reserve. Say nothing of your ride to-morrow,
but come—will you not?”

“Will I not, Frederick?”

“There is something further. Make up your mind
to retire for a time into the country—to your plantation.
It will be a sufficient plea, for doing this, that
a change of air is essential to your recovery, and a
change of scene necessary to your peace of mind.
Let your preparations go on openly. It is possible
that some one will come and counsel you against it.
Mark that person. If you persist, it is possible some
person will recommend to you a female companion.
Mark that person also. But among these preparations,
there is one that is to be made for me. Here
is a small case that has the look of a dressing-case.
It contains, however, nothing but a few folds of cloth
thickly coated with an impressible wax. Contrive to
send out your porter on some business that will keep
him a couple of hours absent. When he is gone, suddenly
dispatch your maid to my sister, who will detain
her. You will instruct her to wait for an answer to
your note, which may be written on any pretext you
please. When they are withdrawn, take the impression

of all the keys in your house, leading to every
chamber, in the waxed cloths, and restore them to
the case, which you see has a curious lock. It is one
that cannot be tampered with. Here is the key.
Keep it in your bosom unseen. The task of taking
the impressions, I beg that you will execute between
the hours of nine and eleven to-morrow morning.
Your servants will return by twelve, and, at half-past
twelve, my sister will come for you. You will take
the box with you into the carriage.”

“But why this, Frederick; and why are you so particular
about the hours of nine and eleven?”

“The first question I will readily answer. When
you are in the country I will take possession of your
house, through keys that I will have manufactured
from the impressions in wax. They will give ingress
at any hour. You must pardon me if I decline, for
the present, giving an answer to your second question.
All shall be explained hereafter. Do you trust me,
Marie?”

“Oh, willingly, Frederick. I have no doubts of
you.”

“Something further, then, Marie. Here is a letter,
addressed to yourself, written with my hand and
sealed with my initials. But the seal, as you perceive,
is broken. You are to take it, place it in your
bosom, allow yourself to be seen with it by your servants,
and then lock it away in your desk. You are
by no means to read it. It is written, and thus confided
to you, as a snare to any one who may tamper
with your cabinet. It contains matter totally un

known to you, which is, however, so expressed, as to
seem to originate with yourself. If your ghost pries
into your secret places, he will probably possess himself
of the contents of this letter. If so, you will hear
of him again. The bait is one that he will fasten
upon fiercely, if he be the impostor I suspect. In
this case, he will revisit you within the next forty-eight
hours—do not be alarmed—for he will then only
approve himself to you as as impostor, for he will
charge you with that of which you know nothing,
showing, clearly, that he gathers his intelligence
from any but spiritual sources. But if he be a sagacious
ghost, he may make you hear rather than see
him. He will avoid endangering his first impression,
by a repetition of the experiment. Still, this is possible.
At all events, I am confident that he will, within
the space I have mentioned, revisit you in some guise.
Even without this letter, he will have reason to seek
you—your movement to-day will have alarmed him,
particularly as you have gone forth with my sister.
It will be naturally conjectured that you have seen
and been with me. It will be apprehended that, with
recovering health and spirits, you are losing the impression
of terror, the wholesome effect of which was
to decree me to banishment, and you to widowhood.
A fear lest his victim should escape him, lest his design
should be defeated, will make the enemy anxious
and active. I repeat my convictions, that you will
either see or hear of him. In that event, it is another
argument against his supernatural pretension, since it
is so easy to predict his movements. Yours, I feel
very sure, are regularly watched and reported. I,
too, have my spies upon the alert, to ascertain if this
be the case. If it be, it affords us another reason to
doubt the ghost's honesty. But, we must spare no
pains-taking, to render our proofs ample for conviction.
You will see, from what has been said, how important
it is to watch every movement, every word,
every emotion, lest anything escape us to make the
offender vary, and to awaken his suspicions that ours
are aroused.”

I have really only given the heads of this long and
important conference—just enough to show how thorough
were the investigations of Brandon—in what
way he was preparing to work—how cool were his
speculations—with what severity he probed the argument—and
what determined earnestness distinguished
his character. I have forborne all that was digressive
in the interview between the parties—the varying
emotions of Marie de Berniere, and the tender solicitude
of her lover. The expressions and passages of
affection that took place, are equally suppressed.
The reader will conjecture them from a first appreciation
of Brandon's manliness, and of the warmth and
soul of Marie. It is enough now, if I add that the
result of the conference was to awaken in the fair
widow suspicions not dissimilar to those of Brandon,
in regard to this mystery. His ingenious analysis
seemed to prove already that she had been made the
dupe of her fears. Her indignation was greatly
awakened by the idea that a gross and brutal imposition
had been practised upon her senses; and the

gratitude which she felt for him who had done thus
much for her enlightenment, added greatly to the
strength of those sympathies which she had felt for
him before. She frankly promised to obey him in all
respects, and with a last exhortation to be wary, to
show no eagerness or agitation, and express no suspicions,
he assisted her to the carriage, when she was
accompanied by Madame de Chateauneuve to the
dwelling within whose walls harbored the whole secret
of her painful and absorbing mystery. To this, it is
probable that a few more chapters will afford us all
the clues.

14. CHAPTER XIV.
MARIE DE BERNIERE.

While Frederick Brandon was thus conferring with
and counselling his mistress, I had been doing the
small part which he had assigned me. Never did
lover keep more vigilant watch over the dwelling of
his lady-love, than I over the gloomy and antique
mansion of Madame de Berniere. I have stated, I
believe, that when the fair widow took her departure
on her unexpected morning ride, Andres, the mulatto
porter, stood for some seconds watching the carriage
until it had turned the corner. He was joined in this
watch by the Betty of my lady, her pert and officious
chambermaid. These two conversed together for a
few minutes with great apparent interest. The result

of their conference seemed to be some mutual arrangement,
in the performance of which Andres thrust
his porter's key into her hands, re-entered the house,
appeared soon after with his hat and cane, and, after
another brief conference, hurried away. Of course,
I noted the direction which he took, at the same time
not losing sight of the chambermaid. She loitered
at the entrance for a little while, having a word to
say to more than one person passing, and would probably
still have loitered but for a sudden call from
within. She looked round hastily, and my eyes at
the same moment detected a man's arm, in black
sleeves, thrust without the door. I saw only as far
as the elbow. She obeyed the summons, for such it
was, hastily re-entered, and closed the door behind
her. Some other particulars, slight enough, occurred
during my watch throughout the day; of none of
which was I unmindful, though, of their importance,
to the objects of my friend, I had serious misgivings.
I expressed this doubt to him when he returned that
afternoon, and for a time relieved me of my watch;
but he was of a different opinion. The direction
taken by Andres, when he left the chambermaid in
possession of the house, seemed to confirm his conjectures;
and when I told him of the man's arm from
within, he rubbed his hands with satisfaction.

“Impunity has made the fellow incautious!” he
exclaimed.

“What fellow?”

“Never ask me now. Wait, mon ami, till the
game further unfolds itself. I will not trust a conjecture

out of my keeping, lest it shall deceive others
as well as myself. Enough that, thus far, my suspicions
seem in a fair way to be confirmed. But give
me something to eat; I am famishing.”

He looked so. His face was very pale, and his
eye was at once heavy and vacant. His mind had
been under a severe tension for many hours, and his
frame felt the affliction. I poured him out a goblet
of wine, a huge one, which he swallowed at a single
gulp. He ate voraciously of the food put before
him; and when satisfied, he proceeded to put me in
possession of the substance of the matter which I have
already narrated.

“If she has firmness,” he proceeded, “I have every
hope of success. But I tremble for her strength
to-night. She will probably be subjected to a terrible
trial, and one, too, which will result from my own
proceedings. That is, if my conjectures are well
founded. If she stands it—if she does not fail, or
forget, all must go right. I have done all I could to
fortify her against the trial. The enemy will suffer
checkmate, unless—”

He paused, and strode the chamber for awhile;
then resumed—

“There is but one escape—one means of evasion
from the effects of that letter. It is not possible, in
a matter of this sort—so much of which depends upon
the imagination—to guard every point of the game.
There is but one—but one—and that is one which
may lose me every advantage. But—”

This was so much soliloquy, I could not then comprehend

the particular subject of his solicitude, and
he vouchsafed no explanation. He may have seen
that I was a little piqued, for he suddenly turned to
me and caught my hand.

“William, my dear fellow, friendship must serve
without questioning, at times. There are exigences
which demand it. If you know me well, you will not
doubt that you may see into my whole heart at any
moment, when it really becomes desirable. Believing
that I know you, I have no fear that your self-esteem
will overthrow your sympathies. Be content with me,
and wait for the proper hour of discovery. Now, I
can show nothing. It is only in the performance of
what is absolutely essential to the duty before me,
that I can talk at all. The development of the problem,
thus far, in the only secure way, has left me
without strength for any more. I must have sleep
for an hour or two. At all events do not suffer me
to sleep for more.”

He threw himself upon the bed, and to my surprise
was asleep in less than five minutes—sound asleep—
not even seeming to breathe. I hung over him with
concern for a moment, half fancying that he slept his
last. Before the end of two hours he awoke of himself.

“I was resolved not to sleep a moment longer than
two hours, and the animal has succumbed duly to the
will which governs it.”

These were his first words on awaking. He sprang
out of bed on the instant, as if with a new life; his
tone perfectly restored.

“My nerves are right again,” he added; “I feel

the capacity for work once more; but I have lived
twenty years, William, in this last month. In all
probability, in another month, you will find my hair
absolutely gray. Oh, what a trial! But it is for
her! I am content to perish, to save her from such
a fate!”

He left me a little after. Night had fallen, and my
watch was remitted.

“But,” said he, “with the hour of nine to-morrow,
pray resume your place at the window. I will relieve
you as soon as possible. It is to-morrow which shall
relieve me of all my fears, or crush my hopes forever.

15. CHAPTER XV.

I must continue as a raconteur; my own agency, at
this point, being of little interest, and, perhaps, no
importance to the action. At nine o'clock in the
morning I had duly resumed my place of watch at
the window. There was soon a movement at the
dwelling which I watched. But a few moments after
I had taken my station, the outer door was thrown
open, and Andres, the porter, appeared, with hat on
head, and cane in hand, ready to go forth. The
maid-servant came to the door with him; there was a
short confabulation between them, when he took his
departure, she closing the door behind him. Ten
minutes more elapsed, when she reappeared, shawled
and bonneted, and sallied out also. The door was

then reclosed by some one within, whom I did not
see. More than an hour then passed, before either
of these parties returned. They showed themselves
nearly at the same moment; Andres, the porter, first,
and while he knocked, the maid-servant was seen approaching
from below. He seemed somewhat surprised
to behold her; and the two, having joined at
the entrance, talked together with some earnestness.
Suddenly they paused, and drew apart, and, in the
next moment, the portals were opened by some person
from within. At twelve o'clock, exactly, the carriage
of Madame de Chateauneuve drove up; the
knocker resounded; Andres reappeared, and the lady
visitor descended and hurried into the dwelling.
There she remained not long. When she came forth,
she was accompanied by the fair widow. I stared, as
intently as possible, in the hope to see her face, but
unprofitably. It was covered by a thick veil. But I
could see that she suffered from some deep and painful
emotion. She fairly tottered as she walked, and I
observed that Madame de Chateauneuve supported
her to the carriage with a most careful solicitude. They
were soon housed within it, the door closed, and the
vehicle was whirled away, in a few moments, from
my sight. As on the day before, Andres immediately
took his departure also, the maid-servant, for the
time, taking upon herself the charge of the establishment.
He returned in the space of an hour, and, at
three o'clock, precisely, the carriage returned also,
the widow being again supported by Madame de Chateauneuve,
who entered the dwelling with her, and
remained within for a couple of hours, the carriage
driving off and returning for her at the end of that
time. The two probably dined together. These were
the events as I witnessed them throughout the day.
Night closed at length, and my watch was ended.

It was eight o'clock in the evening when Frederick
came, and I saw immediately that much had taken
place, in the mean time, of a definite character. He
brought with him a bundle and a box, which for the
time he consigned to the security of his trunk. He
showed me the contents that very night. He was
more quiet and composed than usual, by which I knew
that he was not dissatisfied with events; but he exhibited
no exultation. It was with some impatience that
I waited for his narrative, which he seemed in no
hurry to unfold. He first supped with me, and when
all was cleared away, and we had smoked a cigar each,
I gathered from him the following particulars, which
I report in the manner of a witness.

Madame de Berniere, having been driven to the
house of Madame de Chateauneuve, at once retired
to her chamber, where she remained for a while in a
state of extreme distress, not weeping nor moaning,
but seemingly in despair, and utterly disconsolate.
At length she was persuaded to see Frederick, who
waited for her in the parlor. She descended to him,
and he received her with a degree of composure,
which, considering her distress, appeared to her
rather unfeeling. She seemed to reproach him with
it.

“You seem not to know how much I suffer, Frederick.

You little know the tortures I endure to satisfy
you. Alas! Frederick, I have learned enough to
satisfy us both, even you, who are naturally so skeptical.”

She spoke this with a fearful shudder.

“You wrong me, Marie! It is because things
have gone precisely as I expected, that I am so composed.
I see that my calculations are about to be
verified.”

“Indeed! I know not what you expected—what
your anticipations were. You will be disappointed.”

“I think not, Marie. I expected you to be again
visited by your tormentor, and I see that I was right.”

“Ah! Should that satisfy you? Is it that which
leaves you so composed, while it tears me to pieces?”

“Nay, Marie, do you not perceive that if I am
able to predict the reappearance of the ghost, he is
somewhat under mortal influence?”

“One may guess successfully at times, and prove
nothing by doing so. You could scarcely guess everything
Frederick.”

“That is to be seen, Marie! That will depend on
what you tell me.”

“And do you require that I shall go through the
terrible narrative! Must I describe the horrors of
the last night.”

“If you believe that my love deserves anything at
your hands, Marie—yes! If you desire to satisfy me,
as you yourself appear satisfied, of the truth of a
terror which I too must believe to be legitimate before
I can give you up! You know my doubts. Believe

me that they are now stronger than ever—certainly
quite as strong. That you would be again
visited by your tormentor, I was well assured. I
warned you of it. Nay, I felt that his visit would be
necessary, and that you should endure it, in order to
afford us the opportunity to detect the imposture.
Painful and terrifying as it would be to you, I confess
for this reason, I desired it. Had the ghost not again
troubled you, I might have been staggered in my doubts.
As it is, I am confirmed. That I should so successfully
guess, Marie, shows that I have successfully
reasoned upon the matter.”

“That he should reappear, I myself have expected,
for the last month. I, too, looked for him
last night.”

“Yes! as you have looked for him every night
since his first appearance. But it was only last night
that I predicted his appearance. He did not come
in obedience to your fears, Marie, but to my will. I
required him to come, and he came.”

“You! O, Frederick, this is mere vanity.”

“Let us see, dear Marie—tell me.”

“Frederick, Frederick—of what use to repeat? I
tell you that this powerful being knows my very
thoughts—not only what I have done, and would have
done, but what I have only lately thought to do—what
yesterday I thought to do.”

“I too,” answered Frederick, with a smile—“I too
Marie, claim to know your thoughts quite as well as
the spectre. Love looks into the very heart of the

beloved object, and needs not any look out of the eyes,
any utterance of the lips.”

“Do not mock me, Frederick.”

“Mock you, Marie! Mock anything or anybody,
Marie, when both of our hearts are at stake! Do
not think it. Do not suppose that I do or ask anything
in mere curiosity, with the love of experiment,
or because of a childish humor. The affair is too
serious for both—too terrible for you—of too life-long
necessity and care to me. But, let me entreat you
to unburden yourself. Tell me all as it happened.
Omit nothing; for things, however seemingly small,
in such a case as this, may be of the most real and
absolute importance. In the first place, did you comply
with all my instructions? You sent away the
servants, I know; did you succeed in taking the impressions
of the keys in the wax?”

“I did.”

“Are they here—have you brought them?” he
eagerly demanded. At a sign from Marie, the box
containing them was handed him by his sister, while
Marie, herself, delivered to him the little strange-looking
key which opened it. Frederick, at once,
examined the contents of the box, and seemed satisfied.
He relocked it and secured the key.

“This is so far well, Marie; and now—”

“Oh! why relate? Why strive? All is useless,
Frederick! The being who haunts me is too certainly
from the other world. Take my word for it, Frederick,
and spare me the revelation.”

“Not a word of it, Marie; for I am sworn to save
you from the arts of this accursed juggler!”

“Hold, Frederick.”

“Forgive me, Marie! But when I know how completely
you are the victim of his arts and your own
imagination, I cannot easily restrain myself. Let me
entreat you to narrate all that has happened. Let me,
at least, judge of the affair also. You have promised
me this already. Do not regard me as wantonly
heedless of your feelings, if I conjure you to the fulfilment
of this promise. He came!—as I told you he
would come. Well! Did you again see him, or did
you only hear him?”

“I heard—I saw nothing.”

“If I remember rightly, I told you that such would
be the case—that it would not be his policy again to
show himself, and that he would probably appeal to
one of your senses only. Had you slept before you
heard him?”

“Not a wink! I could not sleep! I could only
think of what you had told me, and to look for him
and wait for him.”

“My poor Marie! Your nervous excitability facilitates
his arts. But as you were awake, and of course
particularly conscious, you must have observed whether
his coming was announced or preceded by any circumstances
calculated to arrest your attention. Pray recall
these if you can, and let me hear. It is important
to the affair.”

“Everything was still. It was after midnight.
The room was in utter darkness, for, as you had counselled

me, I extinguished the light—though I never
could sleep well with a light in the room—and my
desire for sleep was such that I would have extinguished
my candle even without your instructions.”

“Well?”

“My attention was first caught by a low sighing
sound, which seemed to rise just beside my bed.”

“Was it momentary only, or continued?”

“Continued, for a few seconds.”

“Did it rise and fall, or was it broken, or did it
continue evenly as it begun?”

“As it begun, I think. I did not notice any variation.
At the same moment, or soon after, I experienced
again that cold breath, as if from the grave,
which accompanied it before.”

“Ah! that cold breath—yes!”

“Oh! it had a deathly faintness, chilling me to the
heart, and as I felt it spread over me, I trembled at
what I had to expect. That, alone, Frederick, proved
the approach of something unearthly.”

“Nothing worse than the opening of a door, Marie!
But, go on.”

“Ah! Frederick, this incredulity is dreadful. But
it will be silenced when you hear.”

“We shall see. You heard then a rustling sound?”

“I did—and then the voice.”

“Exactly; but before you tell me anything more,
let me know if you disposed, as I told you, of the
opened letter which I gave you?”

“I did.”

“Did you leave it where it might be seen, while you
were at dinner with my sister?”

“In the toilet-box—of course, I forbore to look
into it myself.”

“And you have not done so since?”

“Surely not.”

“It remained on your toilet all the afternoon and
night?”

“Yes; during the whole time.”

“And you kept as much out of the chamber as
possible?”

“Avoided it almost wholly until I retired for the
night.”

“Good!—Have you brought the letter with you
now?”

“I have it here;” touching her bosom.

“Very well. And now, dear Marie, let it remain
there for awhile, and go on with your narration. The
visitor spoke to you at last?”

“Believe me, Frederick, it was exactly the voice of
Colonel de Berniere!”

“Of course! That was to be expected. That was
what you expected. You are to assume that the
imitation was as perfect as possible!”

“It was his very voice! And he adjured me
against my doubts—O! very solemnly, very forcibly,
very eloquently.”

“But this was surely very unlike Colonel de Berniere
in his lifetime. Do you not think that, if his
voice undergoes no change, there should be also as little
change as possible in his style and manner of speech?

But, let me not interrupt you. He exhorted you
against your doubts, and was particularly earnest
against your suffering the wholesome effect of his
first visit to become impaired?”

“That, in truth, was what he said.”

“You see, I can interpret for the ghost. Let me
state further, that he again brought before your eyes,
with fearful distinctness, the alleged crime which
gives him power over you. He was terribly impressive
in the picture which he drew of your meditated
guilt; and awful were his assurances that it could only
be atoned for by a life of self-denial?”

“He certainly said that, also, Frederick.”

“See you not, then, that he leaves the grave only
to repeat things which poor living mortals can say
just as well?”

“Ah! if that were all, Frederick; but what if he
read my secret thoughts?”

“That were something, Marie, if, indeed, you
have any secret thoughts. But that is doubtful.
There are few natures so wanting in secretiveness as
yours. You are possessed of as few reserves as any
living being. It is not in your nature to be secret,
Marie; were you more secretive you would be more
suspicious, and less easily deceived. You are frank
and impulsive, and are very apt to exhibit on your
face what is swelling and striving in your heart. But
what were the especial secrets, known to no living
person but yourself, which the visitor yet made known
to you?”

“You are very skeptical, but you shall hear; and I

cannot hope that you will be able to explain away
what I am now going to tell you. You must not take
it amiss, Frederick, if, compelled as I am to show you
everything that was said to me, I reveal to you those
thoughts and purposes of my own, which I had otherwise
never spoken of to you. You must know, then,
that, among other things, the being said thus—I give
it nearly in his own language: —

“You are even now meditating,” said he, “to bestow
a fortune on the man for whom you feel a passion.
You propose to confer upon him a property of
forty thousand dollars! What right have you to this
property? None! You forfeited all right to it by
your crime. You are, yourself, but a pensioner.
Shall you presume, you who are a convict in the sight
of God, if not in your own eyes, to deal in magnificent
gifts. Even were the property yours, in your
own right, and not that of the husband whom you
have wronged, it would require all of it, ay, and much
more, in prayers, penance, solitude, the utter abandonment
of the world, the utter resignation of your
whole being to a religious life, to atone for your terrible
sin. Beware, Marie de Berniere, of what you
do! Beware that you do not close against yourself
all the doors of mercy. Let not your passion for
this new lover become the means for prolonging your
punishment—for making it of eternal duration.”

“And had you meditated this bounty, Marie?”
asked Frederick, in a subdued voice.

“Forgive me, Frederick, but I had, more than a
month ago; and when I felt that there was an impassable

gulf between us, I came to the resolution to
do so. Nay, the very amount which this being indicated,
was the very amount which I had designed to
convey to you.”

“And you said nothing of this purpose to anybody
—to my sister, to your solicitor, to your confessor?”

“To no one!”

“And did you think, Marie, to compensate me with
this money for the loss of yourself? Did you believe
that my affections could be bought off with a fortune?
Did you suppose that I would accept this money,
Marie?”

“Oh! why not?”

“Enough, that it could not be so; that your bounty
would have been tendered in vain. I am not wealthy,
Marie, but I am not a pensioner. Wronged by you,
in the privation of yourself, I could have taken nothing
at your hands. But, it needs not that I should dwell
on this. And this revelation of your ghost, you conceive
conclusive of his mysterious and supernatural
mission?”

“What else can I suppose?”

“Ah! Marie, you have still to learn how powerfully
subtle is the capacity of the cool philosopher to
penetrate the secrets of the human heart.”

“But how should he know, Frederick, that I had
designed to convey to you this property?”

“How should he know? How should I know the
same thing?”

“You?”

“Yes! Ask my sister. She will tell you that

three days ago I told her the same thing; and that
was two days in advance of your ghostly revelation.”

“Impossible!”

“True!—But I did not leave it to her testimony
alone to establish the truth of what I said. Now take
from your bosom the letter which I gave you, and
about which I gave you such special directions. You
will see that it has served its purpose. It will show
you the mysterious source from which your ghost
picked up your secret.”

Madame de Berniere hastily snatched the letter
from her bosom, and rapidly perused it, with signs of
extreme astonishment as she did so. It had been artfully
prepared, as if after a conference with herself,
and was a seemingly ingenious disclaimer, on the part
of Brandon, of the fortune which (it was alleged) she
had proposed to bestow upon him, while declaring her
purpose to retire from the world. The very amount
thus asserted to have been proffered, forty thousand
dollars, was stated in figures. “As if forty thousand
dollars, Marie”—such was a part of the language—
“could reconcile me for your loss. As if I, revelling
in your wealth, could remember with satisfaction, that
you are in solitude, and dooming me to an even worse
solitude than your own. No! no! Marie, I cannot
receive your money in lieu of yourself!”

There was much more in the same vein, but it needs
not be given here.

“How could you know, Frederick, that I had any
such design?”

“From my knowledge of you and your character
—your heart, your generous impulses.”

“But the very amount, too—how could you happen
on that?”

“A good guess only, founded upon what you had
voluntarily told me, long ago, of the extent of your
possessions, and a knowledge of the persons, Colonel
de Berniere's remote kindred, for whom you have
hitherto provided, and for whom you would consider
yourself still bound to provide. I thought it just as
likely as not, that you would endeavor to force upon
me at least half of your fortune.”

“And so I would, and such was my very purpose.
And you suppose that the contents of this letter became
known to my visitor?”

“It was prepared for him! And if you still entertain
any doubts that he has possessed himself of its
contents—that from these, alone, he has derived his
knowledge of your purposes, there is one circumstance
that should remove all doubts from your mind.”

“What is that?”

“You say that you meditated this purpose more
than a month ago; yet, you see, that he has not conceived
it essential to warn you against it in all this
interval. He has waited until the evidence was actually
embodied by the hands of another. In plain
terms, he knew nothing of your secret purposes until
I wrote them out in a good broad, bold English hand,
and placed them in the treacherous guardianship of
your cabinet, in your own hands and chamber.”

“Father in heaven! to what am I exposed.”

“To the arts of a most pernicious and cunning impostor,
whom we shall detect and expose fully, if you
will only be resolute, and do not suffer your impulse
and your imagination to become the involuntary allies
of his frauds.”

“What further shall I do, Frederick?—save me,
save me! Convince me of what you suspect, dear
Frederick, if you love me, if you would in truth preserve
me for yourself.”

He caught her in a fervent embrace.

“I will save you, Marie! You are too precious to
my heart and hope to lose.”

The conversation was continued much longer; but
its results will suffice our purposes, contained in the
closing directions of Brandon.

“You are watched here, as far as is possible, at
every step. Your mulatto porter, Andres, and your
chambermaid, are both spies upon you. It is possible
that your cook and coachman are both in the league
against you. To guard against all of these, and other
persons, have all my precautions been taken. My
training as a woodsman has taught me a sort of forest
strategy which has been very useful to me in city life,
strange as it may appear. I, too, have my spies upon
you. Scarcely ever do you leave your house, but
Andres disappears also. He goes ever in the same
direction. He visits, on such occasions, always the
same person.”

“Who is that?”

“Not yet! It is not yet time for you to know,
But such is the case, and I know that Andres and

your girl have an understanding in regard to this
matter. I thought it likely that the ghost would find
some human allies who would openly approach you
with exhortations against me and my sister. But, it
is evident that they feel the ground to be too dangerous.
They will attempt nothing openly, and we have
only to guard against their secret operations. They
will now hardly oppose directly any of your purposes,
if expressed boldly on your part, as purposes entirely
determined. You must now prepare for a visit to
your plantation. Go for a week. Let your servants,
and all others who seek you, hear of your design.
Have no reserves about it. Your health has suffered
—you need change of air—you will recruit for a week
or so in the country. Set out as soon as possible.
Carry all your servants with you. This will in some
degree satisfy the ghost of the safety of your movements,
since these are, all of them, the spies which he
keeps upon you. He will look to them to report of
the first danger arising from your meeting with me.
We will not meet; and the better to disarm their suspicions,
you will exhibit to them the most invariable
despondency and affliction. This is what they look
to see as the proper fruits of their operations. Before
you go, however, you must sign this paper which I
have prepared. Read it. You will see that it contains
a full authority for me to take possession and
have the charge of your house during your absence.
It is barely possible that I may have to assert this
authority and to show this paper. I will not do so
unless it shall become necessary to justify myself for
being found there; an event which I will do my best
to guard against.”

Here the conference ended; the parties soon separated;
and in two days after, Marie de Berniere suddenly
left town for her plantation residence.

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Meanwhile, Frederick Brandon was busy making
all the necessary preparations for the further object
which he had in view. As soon as Marie de Berniere
had left the city, he came to me.

“This very night, William, we begin our explorations.
I feel that they will not be in vain. Our antagonist
can do nothing to prevent us now. It is
only necessary that we choose our time with reference
to his employment elsewhere; and, fortunately, I am
in a situation to know where he is at certain moments.”

“But who is he, Fred?”

“Wait, William. We shall know something more
—perhaps all—this very night. Look at these keys.
They give us access to the dwelling of Marie. See
this box and bag. They contain my probes and instruments
for penetrating secret places. I pride
myself on my faculty that way. You must assist me
in carrying my tools. You will take the bag and I
the box. At nine to-night we must enter our new
lodgings. My adversary is anxious, but he can do
nothing more.”

“How do you know that he is anxious?”

“By instincts, such as ordinary people too much
undervalue, but which were never given to us in vain.
I feel that he is anxious. I know that he is now disarmed.
Perhaps I conjecture his anxiety by the deportment
of his agents. I saw old Andres, and the
chamber-maid of Marie this morning as they followed
their mistress. They did not see me, and I could
watch them at pleasure. They had the look of persons
thoroughly bewildered. Marie whispered to my
sister, just as they were about to separate, that she
was earnestly urged not to leave town. But the dear
woman was firm. They fear that we shall meet elsewhere—they
feel, or rather their secret tutor feels
that, out of that house, he can no longer raise the
ghost at pleasure.”

After a little further conversation, which I need
not report, Frederick once more disappeared. With
dark, he returned, bringing some small articles with
him, which he did not show to me. He was in excellent
spirits. Doing or contemplating work, he had
the energy and eye of an eagle; and his conversation
rose frequently into passionate bursts of eloquence.
A wonderful capacity for labor and a rare enthusiasm
of temperament were his great secrets, in connection
with a quality of calm, calculating thought,
which is quite as rare in such association. At the
appointed time we sat out for the region devoted to
exploration—I carrying the bag, he the box and
some small bundles, all concealed under our cloaks.
The night was sufficiently dark to cover our movements.

It was cloudy, the streets were imperfectly
lighted; this was not a trading portion of the city;
and, in the short space between our house and that
of Madame de Berniere, we met nobody. The key
was applied to the outer door and fitted to a charm.
We were soon sheltered within the gloomy and mysterious
edifice, which I have already described as a
double house, large, lofty, and of antique character.
It was probably one of the very oldest fabrics of this
already ancient city. Having secured the door behind
us, we laid down our burdens, and prepared to
strike a light; an operation which, in these days of
locofocoism, would be pronounced a very tedious one,
working, as we did, with the old implements, flint
and steel, and tinder-box. We had with us a dark
lantern, which soon gave us a certain, though a feeble
guidance. As soon as the light was fairly kindled,
and before taking another step, Frederick proceeded
to thrust a steel awl into the wood of the outer entrance,
just above the bolt of the lock, so that nobody
could enter from without even if in possession of a
key. Our key we had taken out of the lock as soon
as the door was made fast.

“We must provide, in this way, that no one shall
surprise us.”

The same precautions, I may as well mention, were
taken in regard to every door through which we
passed.

“The communications between the several rooms,”
said Frederick, “may not be by secret avenues. We

must guard against the enemy coming upon us through
the ordinary passages.”

We found ourselves, as soon as the lamp was lighted,
in the great hall of the building, constituting the first
entrance from the street. It was a long, rather broad,
and lofty passage, at the lower end of which the stair-flight
wound upward through the building. The floor
was of dingy white-marble slabs, not a little worn.
Frederick made me remark the fact that the wall was
lined and panelled throughout with black cypress, instead
of being plastered; the panelling was heavy,
with great massive mouldings of wood, while the
stair-flight left no space beneath, but was closed in,
and seemed to form a spacious closet, or series of
closets, all of which was done in a heavy panelling,
the same as the wall. We tried at these apparent
closets, and found one of them partly open. It was
a crypt, employed for hanging up cloaks, hats, umbrellas,
&c.; the pegs still bore some articles, apparently
of servants' clothing. There was evidently
space for several other closets, though we found but
one more, and that was locked.

“We may examine these hereafter,” said Frederick.
“How deep that closet may go, is a question. But,
though we see, apparently, all the space accounted
for, yet it is surprising how much may still really be
concealed from the most inquiring eye, unless submitted
to tests of actual measurement. Let us first secure
this back door, and then ascend to the chamber.
It is there that we must seek the secret.”

We drove another little spear of steel over the bolt

of the lock, so as to prevent its motion, and then
moved up the massive stairway. It creaked beneath
our steps, and the slight sound, suddenly made in the
silence of that dim, ancient, and (as alleged) haunted
habitation, stirred my heart with a disquieting sensation.
But we went forward boldly, and as rapidly as
we could under the guidance of our dark lantern. On
reaching the second floor, Frederick bade me observe
that the walls continued to be heavily panelled as
below; but we did not linger to examine them. My
companion, at once fitting his key, led the way into
the chamber of Marie de Berniere. It was a spacious
and beautifully furnished apartment, hung with great
mirrors, and graced with several old cabinet pictures,
all French, and from the hands of eminent painters.
Our light did not suffice for their examination, nor
had we the leisure for this purpose. But it was evident
that Frederick surveyed the scene with a deep,
as with a silent, interest. The mirror before which
the beloved object attires and adorns her person, the
bath which purely receives her pure and lovely form,
the couch on which she dreams of innocent happiness
—these can never be beheld by a noble-hearted lover,
without awakening the most sweet and touching emotions.
Frederick held up the lamp and looked around
him without a word, but with evident curiosity and a
full heart. At length, he spoke—

“My poor Marie! What has she not been compelled
to endure in this place—a place in which luxury
and taste have equally striven to secure her happiness.
It is for me, and because of me, that she has

been made to suffer so much. I would die to relieve
her of this sorrow, William. She loves me—that I
feel. Here, she has prayed for me, wept for me,
dreamed of me.”

His voice faltered. I fancied that I could see a
big tear gathering in his eye, but he turned from me
at the moment.

“Love,” he continued—“tears—are not inconsistent
with manhood. I feel that I am a strong man;
yet, as I love, I am more assured of my manhood
from the earnestness and strength of the passion of
tenderness which fills my soul whenever I hear her
name, whenever the tender thought tells me of her.
How weak is the heart which cannot love. It confounds
a brutal insensibility with strength, and is only
coarse and unfeeling—not, in fact, human—when it
fancies itself strong.”

We now proceeded diligently to our task. Our bag
and box were opened. They were filled with a variety
of instruments, such as I had never before seen, and
the uses of which, at first, I did not know. Some of
them were instruments for measurement; others were
slender steel probes for sounding and penetrating
cavities. There were compasses, and squares, and
saws of particularly delicate make, such as the surgeons
use. There were also long and broad knife-blades, of
singular thinness, which could be made to pass between
the joints of planks without widening their
crevices. The uses of all these I had occasion to learn
as we proceeded.

“This, if you recollect, William, was the chamber in

which the Egyptian first made his appearance. That
night, Marie must have transferred her couch to an
upper room. This apartment was partly given up to
the guests. It was probably designed as a retiring
room for the ladies. That door, which opens behind
the stair-flight, and conducts, through a closed passage,
to the chief saloon, was locked, if you remember,
when we tried it, fancying that the Egyptian might
have escaped that way. It leads, also, through the
same passage, to a door which opens on the veranda,
as well as to the one that conducts to the saloon.
The veranda was closed in with canvas, and we
entered it through the door of the passage, but only
from the opposite apartment. There is a private
stair-way, I fancy, leading from the same passage.
It was through the door which we entered to-night,
that we followed the Egyptian into this chamber. I
am satisfied that he did not escape by the passage.
We must look elsewhere for his mode of disappearance.”

“Always supposing that he was no ghost.”

“Of that I am quite satisfied,” was the cool response.
He continued,—

“Now see. His approach is always announced by
a sound of sighing, and by a cold breath of air. You
see where her bed stands. She can hear this sighing
sound where she lies; she also feels the cold breath in
the same place. It follows that the door which opens
upon her, the draught from which she feels, must be
tolerably near. It might be from the passage, yet, as
that door was fast locked, and the key on this side,

when the Egyptian escaped us, I take it for granted
that the sighing and breathing do not come from that
quarter. It is most likely to arise from the opposite
side, on which the chimney stands. The distance from
the couch to this wall is about ten feet—an easy
distance. The fireplace, you perceive, is one of an
ancient fashion, very deep, and designed for enormous
wood fires. But deep as it is, and broad, you will
yet perceive that it bears no sort of relation to the
immense breadth of surface which the chimney itself
occupies. There is a space here, on one side, you
perceive, of more than two feet; on the other, of little
more than fourteen inches. Why this difference?
Let us now measure the depth of the fireplace, which,
you see, is very great, and must have consumed a very
enormous and unnecessary quantity of fuel. You see
the depth? Compare this depth with that of the walls
on each side of the chimney. They are not one-half
as much recessed, yet the outer wall of the chimney
must necessarily be panelled with that of the rest of
the house. Assuming this panelling to be directly
against the bricks, and the thickness of the wall far
exceeds any that we build in modern times, involving
a prodigious waste of material, and quite unnecessary,
unless the purpose was to build a fortress, and prepare
against cannon. This is not likely. This wall is
hollow. Now, walls should be made hollow in a moist
climate. It might be well, as a matter of charity,
that free avenues should be given to the rats. I think
it only good taste to have rats in a large, old dwelling;
but the hollows here are quite too large, and the first
laws of art require the recognition of economy of
space and material as vital principles. There is no
hodman so obtuse as not to know this. Here, then, in
this immediate neighborhood, lies our mystery. Let
us now examine this heavy panelling, which you perceive
is richly wrought in black cypress, with heavy
mouldings, extending not only over the whole face of
the wall, but from the mantle up to the ceiling, over
the whole front of the fireplace. Let us see if there
be anything peculiar in this moulding. What do you
perceive?”

I looked with all my eyes; but everything seemed
uniform. I could see no part which differed from the
rest.

“The joinery,” said Frederick, resuming—“has
been well done. But the design of the panelling, you
will perceive, is clumsy and tasteless, showing a striking
contrast between the merits of the plan and the
execution. In other words, the person who could
execute such neat work, ought to have designed a
more pleasing form of panelling. You will perceive
that the sections of the panels are oblong and rather
narrow, while the dividing plates between each pair of
panels are broad and massive. You will also note
that there is but one grand horizontal dividing line of
plate, belting the wall, and separating the panels;
making two sets only in a wall fully twelve feet high.
Thus, we have the panels about two feet in width, to
six feet in height. There is, as you see, no wainscot,
unless the central belt of plate, which is six feet from
the floor, can be so considered. Now, then, if we could

open one of these panels, we should find the aperture
to be just about six feet high, by two feet and a few
inches broad, a width quite sufficient for the passage
of any ordinary man. If there be such an opening,
it must open inwardly, the plates dividing the panels
effectually preventing it from opening outwards; besides,
such a mode of opening would reveal seams and
hinges. As good taste and beauty have not been subserved
by this plan of panelling, we must look for some
other motive. I have shown you one. I am persuaded
that these plates cover a secret door, and that it is in
close proximity to this chimney. The question now
is, how to find it out?”

“How will you proceed?”

“The laws are quite simple in all such cases. To
find the whereabouts of a secret passage, closet, case,
or drawer, you have only to find a certain space which
is obviously unemployed and unaccounted for. To
look for obstruction is the next object. If there be a
door here, of the dimensions I speak of, it must be independent
of the lower and the upper plates crossing
the panels. The lower plate, as you perceive, runs
along the floor, forming its moulding; in other words,
the washboard. It is to be remarked that the paint is
uniform throughout. The common practice is to give
the washboard a different color from the wall. But
this, being a legitimate part of the panelling, has been
justifiably excepted from the rule. Now this door,
wherever it is, must work freely of the washboard and
of the upper plate, six feet above. If much used,
unless the work were admirably done, it might, under

a better light than ours, betray its seams; but our
easier course will be, not wasting time and eyesight,
to probe our way along with our instruments.”

We did so. I held the lantern; and, with his thin
spatula, my friend, on his knees, proceeded to insinuate
the blade between the heavy plate-moulding, and
the rest of the panel. He commenced at the fireplace,
working backwards, to the rear of the building.
After a few moments, he said—

“It is here! I was sure of it! I have not been
mistaken! It is the very first panel adjoining the
fireplace. You see, William, as I pass the knife
down to the floor a depth of six inches, the width of
the lower plate, or washboard, I find no obstruction
the whole width of the panel?”

I noted the proceeding.

“Now,” said he, “let us mount these chairs, and
probe the corresponding plate above. If that offers
no obstruction, we may be assured of what we seek.”

This was done. The result corresponded entirely
to what we had discovered below. The spatula worked
free of obstruction.

“Now, then, our difficulties begin. We must now
find out where the hinges are, and how the door is
secured in the rear. In all probability, it is connected
with some spring, which may be beneath the floor, or
in the side of the fireplace; possibly in the wall, concealed
somewhere in the panelling. What are the
conditions of such a secret? The first is concealment.
The second is facility. It must be of such a nature
as not readily to be found; and yet it must be convenient

to the hand, or the foot, of him who seeks
egress. Such springs are usually small, and they are
correspondingly feeble. To work efficiently, they must
be as near as possible to the door upon which they
operate, and whose hinges they influence. If we can
find the hinges, we can find the fastenings. They
must be opposite to the hinges. If we find the fastenings,
we know in what direction to look for the secret
springs.”

Thus saying, Frederick proceeded with a large
spatula to feel his way along the perpendicular lines
of panel.

“A secret which is suspected to exist,” said he, as
he worked, “is already more than half revealed. Take
this knife into your hand. Press it as I do. Do you
feel the hard obstruction here?”

“I do.”

“It is the upper hinge. There are probably three.
Come down to the middle one; or—let me have the
knife, and hold the lantern. I am more practised in
this sort of experiment.”

It was not long before the knife was again held by
the obstruction. I again felt it. It was evidently
metallic, and hard. I could make it sound, with a
slight effort with the blade. A third trial brought us
to the third hinge, which was probably a full inch
below the lower plate, or washboard.

“Here, then, we have the hinges. The fastening
is necessarily opposite, and against the chimney.
Now comes our most tedious scrutiny. It must be
concealed somewhere in the panelling of the mantle-piece.

It must lie within convenient reach, yet must
not attract the eye. It lies probably in some partially
apparent nail-hole, or in some seam near the corner,
or it may be among the tiles which line the side of the
fireplace. Our first process will be to feel for an obstruction
on the opposite side.”

His spatula was employed, but none was felt. But
it was quite enough for Frederick, that he found the
knife-blade to work with comparative freedom up and
down, everywhere, except in one place.

“You see,” he observed, “that it binds here. This
is about four feet from the floor, and tolerably convenient
to the hand. That we feel no other obstruction
than the binding of the wood, is conclusive to me
that the spring is in the rear of the door, working
like a bolt, against it. This leads me to the conclusion
that it is to be found by operating from the fireplace.
Give me the lantern.”

Throwing fully open the door of the lantern, so that
the light should be as ample as it could afford, Frederick
kneeled upon the hearth, never troubling himself
with fear of soot and ashes, and thrust his head
and light into the vaulted chimney-place. Here he
worked for some time with patience and in silence. At
length he called me.

“I fancy I have found it. Look you here. Here
—let me guide your finger. Do you feel a small cavity
like a two-inch auger-hole?”

I did. It was on the side of the fireplace next the
secret door, and just behind, in the angle of the crosspiece
of marble which ran directly over the fireplace.

“You perceive,” said he, “that once know where
the opening lies, and a person standing outside cannot
miss it. Stand without now, on the corner of the
fireplace, and thrust your fore-finger firmly into this
crevice.”

I obeyed him. A slight clicking sound was heard
as I did so.

“Look,” said he, “does the door open?”

It stood wide, but dark, before me, while the light
was still in Frederick's hands and up the chimney. I
saw nothing; and so silently had the well-oiled hinges
and the spring performed their office, that I had never
suspected the result. It was only when I attempted
to pass my hand over the panelling that I found the
vacant space. Frederick did not immediately leave
the fireplace after I made my report. He was employed,
with a probe, feeling the secret opening, and
examining the opposite side of the wall also. Certainly,
he was the most remarkably cool person in the
world, having, at the same time, such powerful passions.
He exhibited no sort of surprise at the result.
In fact, he had calculated on it as confidently as on
a solved problem. When he came forth, he proceeded
to inspect the opening, about which, as I had never
seen a secret door, or any similar machinery, I was
excessively curious. The lantern was thrust into the
recess, and Frederick—peering eagerly, all the while,
over his shoulder—examined it closely, looking particularly
to the flooring of the recess. The space
was just sufficiently wide for the entrance of a single
person. It was ample for this purpose. Kneeling

down, Frederick felt around the floor of the closet.
He drew my attention to the fact that it was separated
entirely from the walls around it; was separated
equally from the floor of the chamber, and from the
beams of the dwelling. He next showed me four stout
cords, fully an inch in diameter, working in grooves
against the chimney; and the opposite wall, which
was of plank, smoothed, but not panelled as in that of
the chamber. Standing upon a chair, he discovered
the tackle and pulleys above, and a stouter rope connected
with them, the end of which was passed down
through a central groove in the chimney, which, in
the centre, was perpendicularly recessed so as to afford
additional space to the person within the cavity.

“The rope,” said he, “finds its way to the lower
story, by which the ghost works his way up. This
accounts for the sighing sound which precedes his
appearance, and forms one of the spiritual influences
operating upon the imagination of my poor Marie.
The other mysterious influence is that cold breath,
which, you perceive, must be the draught wholly occasioned
by the opening of this door. You perceive,
William, that here we have a square box, in which a
good-sized man may comfortably stand. But, clearly,
there is much more space to be accounted for. There
is still some eight feet in length, from this partition
of plank to the outer wall, in the rear of the building;
as the walls of this and the other house necessarily
lie squarely and parallel to each other. This
being inevitable, it is probable that another door lies
in that plank partition. That must inwardly open,

and the fastening, therefore, must be on this side.
Let us look for it. Let me have the lantern.”

After a brief search he called to me.

“See here; the very hinges are apparent on this
side. The work has been rudely done. Indeed, the
whole machinery exhibits but a humble condition of
art. It would not long have baffled any individual at
all curious or accustomed to such investigations. Now
for the fastenings, which must lie somewhere in this
neighborhood.”

It required but little painstaking to discover the
thin bolt of steel, working in a groove of the plank,
which was employed to secure the door of the recess.
Barely passing his hand over the region where he
suspected it to lie, Frederick discovered and tried it.
The aperture at once unfolded itself to his gaze.
Thrusting the lantern into this closet, for such it was,
it was discovered to contain a small table, which completely
crossed the space, just leaving sufficient room
for the swinging of the door. Frederick passed into
the closet, and in a moment after said to me—

“Here is a discovery with a vengeance. Here is
the ghost himself. Here is his mask of death, the
frightful face of mortality and Colonel de Berniere—
here is the Egyptian garment with which the scoundrel
simulated me at the ball, and here are sundry
other matters, the uses of which I do not so readily
perceive.”

These were held up to me, one by one, at the entrance,
as the space would not suffer both of us to
enter. The secret was thus far conclusively discovered,

and the pretensions of the ghost thoroughly laid at
rest—so far as we were concerned. Frederick made
other discoveries, but we need not linger in detailing
them, as they were all simply dependent upon the
main facts in our possession. Emerging from the
inner recess, and carefully closing the door behind him,
Frederick paused for a few moments, as if for rest
and reflection. At length he said—

“It is now necessary that I should go below, and
see from what sort of Tartarus our afflicted ghost
emerges nightly. To do this, however, is not so easy.
It will give us some work, though I have provided, in
some degree, against the necessity. You perceive
that the ghost works his way up, planted upon this
board or floor, by means of these short ropes, which
hang within the grooves in the chimney. These four
smaller ropes are connected above, as you perceive,
with four slender arms of iron, which meet in the
centre, and are held up by a bolt and tackle fixed in
the ceiling overhead. The thicker ropes find their
way below, where they are fastened, until the ghost
ascends, when he brings with him that by which he
has worked his way, and secures it, until he desires
to return, by a loop (which is measured carefully in
the rope, so as to bring this footboard level with the
floor) to this iron spike, which lies, as you see, conveniently,
here in the corner. Now, as this great rope
is made fast below, the question is, how shall we get
at it, or in other words, be able to descend?”

For this difficulty I was utterly unprepared; but it

was otherwise with my friend. He smiled at the
blankness of my visage, and said—

“The process is a simple one—simply, by substituting
one rope for another, and shipping that by which
the tackle is worked at present.”

With these words he drew from his bag a small
coil of rope, suitable to the purpose. He had provided
against the contingency which he had fully anticipated.
Standing on a chair, which the floor of
the closet could barely sustain, he worked overhead
with the dexterity of a sailor. He soon fastened the
rope, which he brought, to the centre of the iron
arms to which the four smaller ropes of the machine
were suspended, passed the cords through the grooves
of the block, and threw the ends to me. Coming
down from the chair, we secured it, with proper tension,
to the spike, leaving the drooping ends below;
then reascending, he fairly divided with his knife the
rope by which the machine was formerly sustained.
But he did not suffer it to slide below. On the contrary,
his purpose was to splice it above, and once
more restore it, as it had been, as soon as his own
survey below was complete, and he had effected all
his objects. His arrangements made, he dropped the
ends of his rope through the groove in the chimney,
along with that in former use; and taking with him
the lantern, between his feet, standing upright, proceeded
to let himself down. There was now no obstruction,
and the machine gradually sank with him.
For the first foot of its movement, we heard the sighing

sound of the rope very distinctly. We heard no
other sounds, for it was now discovered that the face
of the wall, all around, had been lined with woollen
stripes, which effectually prevented the chafing of the
wooden frame against the sides. Once down, Frederick
drew up the platform, upon which I descended
in like manner. We found ourselves in a deep damp
cell, floored with brick, several feet below the basement
story of the dwelling; which, by the way, was
raised some three feet above the surface of the ground.
Immediately beside us, as we descended, we discovered
that the lower story was penetrable precisely as the
upper—a discovery which, as we were also easily
enabled to find the means of entrance from below,
made our future proceedings comparatively easy.
But our researches did not stop here. Pursuing them
with earnestness, we found an outlet, by an arched
way, under ground, conducting from the dwelling,
through the garden, and into the precincts of other
habitations. There we followed, through damp, dark
avenues, snails and worms lying in our path, and
glimmering upon the walls, which were coated with
damp and slime. Our discoveries were wonderful;
and we found that we could make our way into the
other dwellings, fully fifty yards distant, by means
precisely similar to those by which the ghost had entered
that of Madame de Berniere. Frederick took
good note of these avenues, which he conceived to
have been the work of the Spaniards, when they held
possession of the city, and that they showed traces of
the Spanish Inquisition.[1] But we must not linger.
Having followed our labyrinths as far as they seemed
to lead, showing us the connecting links between several
houses, we returned, and once more reascended
to the secret closet opening upon the chamber of
Madame de Berniere. While here, Frederick Brandon
said to me—

“You think we have seen all; but look here. Do
you not see that there is no brick wall connecting with
the chimney of the adjoining house? Do you not
perceive that the wall of the adjoining house, as opposed
to our eye, is of wood, and corresponds exactly
with that opening to the chamber of Madame de Berniere?
Be assured, it is penetrable in the same
manner, and we shall be able easily to find the fastening.”

He did so, and was about to press the spring, when
he paused.

“The adjoining dwelling is a school-house—a school
for young ladies. It is occupied by an ancient maiden
lady, who is one of the teachers. It will be an awkward
thing if I open upon her chamber; and should
she detect me, the presumption will be against us with
regard to the use of these secret passages!”

He paused for consideration, but after a little while
said—

“I will risk it. I must get all the clues to this infernal
machinery.”

He did so, and found himself in a school-room, filled
with desks and benches; books lay about confusedly,
and it was evident that the room had been only recently
employed for the purposes of instruction.
Nobody was to be seen. The house was wrapped in
the most death-like silence. Frederick did not pursue
his researches in this quarter.

“Enough,” said he, “for the present. We may
find it necessary hereafter to look further. We have
done work enough for the night. These two houses
were evidently built at the same time. They were
probably owned by the same proprietor. They are
very old—I should think among the oldest of the permanent
abodes of New Orleans. They may have had
a common purpose; but these are not proper inquiries
at this moment. We have now other matters to engage
our attention. But before we proceed further,
let us have some refreshments. I am positively
wearied.”

Our box afforded us some eatables and a flask of
wine. Frederick ate very heartily, and drank freely.

“I must eat and drink,” said he, “whenever engaged
on such labors as have lately troubled me. For
twenty-four hours at a time, when thus employed, I
can eat nothing; but the moment I reach a certain
stand-point in my progress, where I can look and feel
that my feet may be surely put down—when, in fact,
conjecture becomes conviction—then my appetite

comes back to me, and I have the vigor of a score of
Indians on a long scout.”

He did eminent justice to our repast. This over,
he said—

“Now, William, the question is, what is to be done
with this ghost? Simply to lay him, will not answer.
I confess, my feeling is such as inclines me rather to
lay him out! When I think of the suffering he has
caused my poor Marie, to say nothing of myself, and
of that base and selfish malignity which has made him
labor to destroy all our hope and happiness in the
future, I feel that I could put him to death with as
little remorse as I would crush the adder who awaits
me in the pathway. I have been thinking that it
would be a proper plan to take him in the very act of
villany, and make a ghost of him in fact. It seems
his ambition to appear one, and it would be retributive
justice only to make him so in reality.”

“But who is he, Frederick? You know him!”

“Yes, as well as I can know anything which, perfectly
assured of, one yet lacks the necessary proofs.
But the question is not, who is he? Let him perish, if
he so pleases, without a name. It is no crime, surely,
to kill a ghost. A crime is committed in the dark,
the criminal unseen, unknown; but the bolt falls truly,
nevertheless, since it is at the moment when his crime
is doing; and it is only when judgment is over, and
execution done, that you hold the light to his face to
ascertain whose dog it is that has been shot. Now
can I so arrange it that this scoundrel shall be taken
and executed at the very moment when he is about to

play the deceased husband in my lady's chamber—
the mask of death upon his face, the robes of the grave
about his limbs—tricked out to the full in all his ugly
and accursed devices? I could so manage the ropes
that he pulls, that he should draw the noose about
his own neck, inextricably, and lose all power of
escape with the very efforts which he makes to do so.”

“Can you do so?” I asked.

“Easily. I can work such a snare as shall halter
and hold him suspended in his secret closet.”

“Do it!” I answered thoughtlessly: “It will be
poetical justice, if not common law.”

But Frederick shook his head.

“He would deserve it, truly; and it would be only
an appropriate form of justice; but, as I think of
Marie, I dare not. The horror of such a sight, and
such a thought, even if she did not behold the sight,
would never depart from her imagination. It would
be a deadly spectre forever before her eyes. My
passions—could I think of myself only—would, I feel,
prompt me to something of the kind. But, remembering
her, I must content myself with detecting and exposing
the wretch!—Nay, I dare not even expose him
—except to herself, and possibly to one other besides
yourself.”

“Indeed! And why not?”

“For the best reasons. If my suspicions are rightly
entertained, the ghost is no other than Father Paul
Roquetti, Marie's confessor!”

“Is it possible!”

“I am sure of it! I felt sure of it from the first.

I knew that he was my enemy on the first occasion
when we met; and the proofs have been accumulating
ever since. Marie is a devout Catholic; will be slow
to believe even in the errors of some of its priesthood;
and will dread lest the world should confound him
with his church; an error of judgment of which the
world is too commonly guilty. I must guard against
giving her pain, and my discovery, though rendered
perfectly conclusive in her eyes, must yet forbear exposing
the offender to any unnecessary shame.”

“But you do not mean to say that the scoundrel
shall escape entirely?”

“Far from it. But I do not mean to punish him
myself, or to make him suffer the penalties of the law.
The secular arm shall not touch his head, if the ecclesiastical
authority will take up the matter honestly.
That the Catholic Church here is quite prepared
to do so, I am satisfied. The venerable head of it,
in this place, is too wise and too good a man to suffer
the offender to escape through any idle fear that his
sins will be visited upon the church to which he
belongs. Priests are but men. They err, like all of
us. They have the same passions and infirmities—
they are even more exposed to temptation. Heaven
knows what a host of priestly offenders are every day
published in our newspapers, from all the Protestant
churches in the country. But who thinks of charging
the faith with the faults of the priesthood?”

“And what now?” said I, seeing Frederick moving
to the secret passage.

“I will not snare him by the neck, William, but I

will so contrive my snares as to leave him without
escape. But I can do no more to-night. It nears
the small hours. I will but put things as I found
them, and pick up and remove my own traps. After
that, we will depart. We shall lodge together.”

17. CHAPTER XVII.
CONCLUSION.

We reached our lodgings, carrying our bag and
box, without meeting anybody. We swallowed a
bowl of coffee each, on our return, and Frederick soon
after tumbled into bed. Spite of the coffee, which had
been made strong, he was instantly asleep, and slept
like a top. I remained awake for two goodly hours,
soliciting the friendly sleep in vain. But Frederick
was awake with the dawn, and off. What he did that
day I know not; but he was busy. At night he
came again; and again, that night, we penetrated the
dwelling of Marie, and the secret entrance. There,
and about the house, we worked with continued industry
for several goodly hours, making as little stir
as possible, and studiously avoiding noise and loud talking.
If we had occasion to use a hammer or to drive
a nail, we covered hammer, nail, and board with woollen
or cotton waddings. I need not now tell you what
was done. Enough that we put certain wires in motion,
by which to secure the ghost, though not to in

jure him. We also contrived secret places of hiding
for other parties, should these become necessary to
our purposes. All these proceedings were not effected,
however, in a single night. It took us several,
before we had finished our work; and much of the
work—all, in fact, that could be accomplished abroad,
was done elsewhere during the day. Frederick worked
like a hero; as none, indeed, but a hero or a genius
can work. His whole soul was in his performance,
and this is the one secret only which makes performance
successful. His cheerfulness amounted to enthusiasm;
so that, when most intensely at work, his
spirits seemed most happily at play, his fancy luxuriating
in the most grateful wantonness, and his moods
never once putting on the aspect of a care. And in
this temper lies the secret of the best work always.
It is the mule-nature that goes doggedly to its tasks.
Such a nature may suffice for turning a mill, but not
for glorious or great achievement.

All his preparations completed for the proper reception
of the ghost, the next step of Frederick
Brandon was to recall Marie de Berniere from her
plantation to her town residence; and then to compel
the spectre to reappear. To effect these objects, he prepared
to dispatch his sister, Madame de Chateauneuve,
on a visit to his betrothed. But watched as was the
latter, it was necessary that certain precautions should
be taken, even for this object, by which to avoid all
suspicion of what was in hand; and, in fact, to direct
the doubts of the enemy to a wholly different quarter.
Accordingly, Frederick set to work to compose a letter

to Marie, which I was permitted to read as he wrote.
It ran thus:—

“How I rejoice, dearest Marie, that the advice of
my sister has been productive of such beneficial effects
—that your health improves, and that your mind is
again recovering its freedom from the painful effects
of its strange unhappy hallucinations. I was well
assured, from the first, that a disordered imagination,
and a highly excited state of your nervous
system, were the true secrets of your suffering, and
that the vulgar trick of some artful and malicious
rival, co-operating with the diseased state of your
mind, has been the real secret of the unnatural events
which have disturbed you. You perceive, as I told
you, the pure air of the country has been in the last
degree beneficial. You have had no dreadful visions.
Your imagination has conjured up no terrible phantoms.
Henceforth, I doubt not that you will be entirely
free from annoyance. The privilege which your
love so generously gives me, of protecting you for the
future, with the sacred rights of a husband, while it
makes my happiness complete, will make your peace
secure. And shall we not both of us, dear Marie, be
eminently happy? Need I repeat to you the assurance
that I shall live mostly for this object? Need I
repeat the asseverations of a love which you should
by this time sufficiently understand, and your faith in
which prompts you now so graciously to consent to my
prayers and desire? You have made me happy by
this consent. Oh! dearest Marie, return soon to the
city, that our marriage may no longer be delayed.

My sister, who has just brought me your precious billet,
will bring you this. Let me entreat you, if your
health and composure be sufficiently restored, to take
advantage of her companionship, and return with her.”

Such was the tenor of the letter. I have only
given such portions of it as were written with an
object other than that simply of addressing the affections
and sensibilities of his betrothed. He designed
much of the preceding for other eyes than those of
Marie, and Madame de Chateauneuve had her instructions,
which were to be conveyed to the former, so to
dispose of the letter as that it should be quite accessible
to all or any of the servants. She was also to be
counselled to let several days elapse, after receiving it,
before she offered to act on its chief suggestion by
returning to the city.

“We must allow the enemy sufficient time. You
will perceive, William, that much depends upon our
being able to compel the ghost to reappear. We must
fully convict him.”

I thought he elaborated too much. I said so.

“You surely have sufficient evidence for this purpose
already—the secret door and passage—the mask
and death—the disguise of the Egyptian—”

“This is the too common error. People are too
apt to fire the train before they are quite sure that
the enemy is decidedly over the mine. Most failures
come from precipitance, and the feeble eagerness of
the parties. In all cases, particularly of this sort, the
proper rule is `to mak' sicker'—to guard against
every possibility of failure—to leave no contingency

unprovided for—to leave to the enemy no aperture
for evasion. It is scarcely possible so to secure any
game, where you contend against great ingenuity
working in secret. That we have so far succeeded, is
due entirely to the fact that we have worked in secret;
and that our first move was utterly to disarm the suspicion
that we worked at all. In dealing with an
imagination so vivid as that of Marie's, a nervous system
so susceptible, a spiritual mood whose native
tendency, earnest and enthusiastic, is to religion, we
are particularly required to meet every point of evasion
which an ingenious and subtle fancy might, by
possibility, suggest. Superstition, once in full possession
of the imagination, utterly possesses the understanding,
and precludes reason from entering at all;
and it is surprising, when thus possessed, how ingenious
it becomes in keeping itself in possession. Do
you not see that, if I use only the proofs which we
now have, we prove nothing really against the criminal:
we show that she has been deceived and deluded,
but do not show by whom; and nothing has been done
to drive this secret and powerful enemy from her
councils, where he has indirectly ruled for possibly
fifteen years—ever since her childhood? Besides,
my dear fellow, what should prevent the ingenious
superstition, and even the ingenious affection of Marie,
from saying: `Ah! Frederick loves me, and would
wish to cure me of my fears, to cure me for himself.
He has provided this death-mask—he has placed this
costume of the Egyptian here—he—' Who will
prove that we did not put them there?”

“But she cannot, by any conjecture, charge you
with the creation of this secret passage!”

“No! But she may possibly reason thus in respect
to this secret passage, still under the bias of a superstition
which is in full possession, and tenacious of its
hold: `Old houses, Frederick himself has told me,
are not unfrequently thus provided with secret passages.
He has suspected the presence of one in my
house, which is one of the oldest of the old city; one
of the most massive, and particularly susceptible of
use in this manner. His conjecture has been verified
by his search. But what then? This proves nothing
against the spectre, unless you can show that, because
a ghost is independent of such aids, he will scorn to
appear in a dwelling which offers him such unnecessary
facilities.' No doubt all this sort of reasoning is false;
but it is natural in all such cases. If the heart of
man is desperately wicked, the head is quite as desperately
ingenious; and it is by sophistications wholly
that superstitions can work upon cultivated minds.
With the ignorant the case is otherwise. The instincts
serve, and no argument is needed to prevail over the
understanding; but with the intellectual and accomplished,
subtleties, engendered by the mind—by education
itself—take the place of common sense; and a
false philosophy will clothe itself in the garments of
an angel of light—a Gabriel in golden armor, seemingly
impenetrable to any thrust from the Ithuriel
spear skepticism. I have thought of all that is needful,
I assure you, to make my case conclusive, and
perfectly to reach the convictions of Marie; I must

take physical hold upon the ghost—I must shake the
supernatural out of him—must take him, as Dunstan
took the devil, fairly by the proboscis, and so tweak
it as to make him roar like any ordinary mortal!
And I will do it, be sure, with sufficient unction, as
soon as I have a chance!”

“Well, if you will suffer me, I shall be pleased to
be present at the operation. This taking a ghost by
the nose, will be something of a novelty in our country.
But when did you get the letter from Madame de
Berniere, to which yours is the answer?”

“I have received no such letter. I expressly cautioned
Marie not to write. Nor is my letter so much
meant for her perusal, as for that of the ghost. That
I have assumed so much, in writing as I have written,
will be forgiven by Marie in consideration of the circumstances.
On this head, I think she properly understands
me; I have taken particular pains, in our conversations
before she went, that she should do so. Of
course, it is understood that her tacit acquiescence in
what I have written binds her to nothing. It is understood
that my proceeding is one designed for her
extrication, for her freedom only from the ghost, and
not her bondage to myself. It will be quite time to
discuss the latter subject, when we have settled the
former. But I have no fears of the result if I once
succeed in my discoveries, and succeed in satisfying
her. I have no doubt that the process of tweaking
the nose of the ghost will be conclusive in respect to
my claims to the hand of Marie.”

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

A week had fully elapsed after this conversation,
when one evening Frederick Brandon said to me:—

“My sister returned this morning to the city.
Marie comes back to-morrow. And now, what say
you to taking lodgings to-night with me at her house?”

“Agreed—to be sure.”

“But let me warn you. Once there, we must stay
there until the affair is over. We shall certainly have
to remain there for this and the ensuing night. It
may be longer. I cannot now venture the loss of a
single hour. I must be in waiting and on the watch.
I have contrived a hiding-place for both of us, where
we shall escape notice, and from whence we may
emerge at any moment. I have also laid in ample
supplies of meat and drink, so that we shall not suffer.
I have pass keys for every apartment. I can feel my
way along every avenue. My sister will give to Marie
all the necessary instructions. She has, as you are
aware, only to pull a button which links unsuspiciously
at the head of her bed, close against the wall, to
give the alarm, in a moment, if she hears or sees the
ghost. We shall have some wires to pull, the moment
after. All this you know.”

Under the cover of the night, loaded with provisions
for several days, we made our way without interruption
to the haunted dwelling. Our dark lantern was
not forgotten, nor extra supplies of fuel. We found

our way to an ancient lumber closet, beneath the stairs,
on the second story, which gave us a large recess,
blocked in by old trunks, bandboxes, and furniture
—a child's cradle, apparently of the time of Queen
Elizabeth, black with age, and of the most antique
fashion, being the prominent object. It had rocked
the infant form of that very Colonel de Berniere
whose sleepless spirit we had come to lay. Here we
lay, rather snugly—somewhat fettered in our movements,
but not uncomfortably so—and with the privilege
of stealing out, whither we pleased, as soon as
everybody was asleep. We adjusted our den in such
a manner as to afford us equal ease and security. The
place was one evidently which persons did not often
appear to penetrate. Before taking possession of it,
we went the rounds of the establishment—reviewed all
the secret places—all the avenues—saw that everything
wore its old aspect—tried all the keys to the
secret doors, and felt that we could find egress and
ingress when and where we pleased—and saw heedfully
to the operation of the wire which we had conducted
to the bedhead of the haunted lady. This
done, we returned to our den among the bandboxes,
opened wide the door of our lantern, so as to throw
its light wholly upon the recess, clapped it on top of
an old trunk looking inwards, and then proceeded to
look to the contents of the two provision baskets which
we had brought. These we stowed away in the cradle
of the ghost, i. e., when he was a mere mortal infant.
His spectre did not affect our appetite. We had a
good supply of red wines, which we used freely as a
substitute for tea and coffee, and with a couple of
cloaks and blankets we made out to sleep lovingly together,
with but little space for much changing of
position through the night.

We woke some time after daylight, but it was still
dark to us, except for the lamp-light, where we were.
The lamp we had to keep burning, and occasionally to
replenish. To strike a light, in the old times, when
friction-matches were not, might have endangered our
secret. A little after we had awakened, Frederick
ventured out, but soon returned.

“They can't arrive,” said he, “before mid-day,
and the servants and carriage will come first. Marie
will drive with my sister, and will bring her round in
the evening, and take tea with her. We may be at
ease till meridian. And now for our breakfast.”

We ate, and walked about for awhile, but towards
11 o'clock A. M., thought it prudent, like sagacious
rats, to take to our hole. We did so, and lay perdu.
It was mid-day—fully one o'clock—when we heard a
bustle below, and the loud voice of Andres, and the
pert voice of the chamber-maid. The back door was
then thrown open, and the cook went out to the
kitchen, but soon returned. A long confabulation
followed between the parties, the Betty of my lady
concluding at last by a loud outcry for something to
eat, declaring herself fairly famished, and utterly
miserable from the vile country fare to which for the
last two weeks she had been so cruelly and unnecessarily
subjected. Meanwhile, Andres seemed to have
absented himself. It was fully an hour before we

heard his voice again, and he came in just in time to
join in taking dinner with the chamber-maid. Of this
event we guessed the particulars from an occasional
clashing of plates, and the smacking of a cork, which
might have been porter, or, more probably, champagne.
Good tastes may be acquired in the cellar quite as
soon as in the parlor, and education, in a servant's
hall, may sometimes cast discredit, in more ways than
one, on the progress of civilization up stairs.

But feeding, like other good things, must have an
end some time or other. The bustle below stairs
ceased, and very soon we heard my lady's maid in
my lady's chamber. There she bustled about for a
goodly hour, her tongue earnestly engaged all the while
in seeming soliloquy, though that of Andres might be
heard as a sort of thorough-bass, giving force and
dignity to her affetuoso. At intervals we could hear
the movements of both the parties, with the drawing
of tables, the rattling of chairs, and the evident
scraping of the broom over walls and carpets. Our
ears, in the almost total suspension of the exercise of
our other senses, became singularly acute in our place
of hiding. Here we remained undisturbed, almost
unapproached. It was quite sunset by our watches
when Marie de Berniere came home, accompanied by
Madame de Chateauneuve. They went at once to the
chamber of the former, where tea was served them.
We could hear from our den the subdued murmur of
their voices for a couple of hours more. But Madame
de Chateauneuve at length took her departure. An
hour elapsed and the house remained perfectly quiet.

Then the tongue of my lady's Betty was heard once
more in the chamber. She was evidently assisting
her mistress in disembarrassing her for the night.
This duty seemed to be at length finished. The
chamber door was heard to close. We heard it locked
carefully within; and then the footsteps of the maid,
ascending the stairs over our heads, on her way to
her own sleeping-room in the third story. When this
sound had fairly ceased, we were conscious of a noise
—slight indeed, but to our keen senses sufficiently
obvious—again at the door of Marie's chamber.

“She is withdrawing the key from the lock,” said
Frederick, “as I counselled her through my sister.”

Frederick now carefully trimmed the lamp, shutting
the door of it as soon as it was done. In the brief
moments, when the light was cast upon his countenance,
I saw that his face was very pale, but all the
muscles were rigid, and the mouth was silently and
firmly compressed. We had still, in all probability,
some two hours to wait.

“Be patient,” said my friend; “according to rule,
ghosts have no right to revisit the glimpses of the
moon till 12 o'clock. Midnight is the dawning for the
spiritual world. What a reflection. They find life
and light only when our mortal world is dark, and in
a slumber that mocks the external attributes of death.
Well, we shall see! We shall hear! It is something
to reconcile us to such a tedious watch, that we may
fairly grapple with a ghost.”

“Should your conjectures and suspicions, after all,

prove unfounded—should there be a real ghost, Frederick!”

Darkness is wonderfully favorable to the marvellous.
Credulity grows in just degree with our ignorance and
incapacity. I should probably during the day, have
never entertained or uttered such a suggestion.

“Can you suppose it possible, after our discoveries?”
queried my friend. “Nay, it is possible, for I am not
prepared to deny the possibility, or even the occurrence
of the supernatural and spectral; but it surely is not
a probability in the present case. At all events, it
will not be very long before we are enabled to resolve
doubts. Let but Marie be firm enough to do as she
has been counselled, and only pull the wire, the button
of which is behind her bolster, and we secure the
visitor, shadowy or real. We shall be seasonably
warned by our little metallic monitor.”

He pointed to a little copper ball which hung
beneath the stairs just above our heads. This, by the
way, was connected by a wire with the button so conveniently
placed by the couch of Madame de Berniere.
The same button was connected by another wire, which
we had conducted into the secret crypt through which
the ghost was expected to enter the chamber. While
the first wire, acting upon the bell, warned us of his
entrance, the opposite wire was contrived in such a
manner as effectually to prevent the working of the
spring by which the ghost let himself out again—
effectually barring his egress from the apartment.
We had tried our machinery thoroughly, so as to

assure ourselves of its proper and prompt working at
the moment of alarm.

I was silent after this, and stretched myself out as
well as I could, leaning my back and head against the
partition. Frederick felt the movement.

“If you are drowsy,” said he, “indulge yourself.
You will probably have time enough. The bell will
waken you, and I can, at a moment, should it fail to
do so.”

But I disclaimed the desire, of which I was really
mentally unconscious, and roused myself up for awhile;
though now both of us remained silent. But nature
had been a little too much overtaxed, in my case, as
in that of my friend, and though sympathizing with
him fervently, and really extremely anxious about the
result, I yielded finally to that arch-beguiler, sleep,
and closed eyes and senses wholly to the external
world. I was awakened suddenly by Frederick's
grasp upon my shoulder, and by the subsiding tinkle
of the little bell within my ears. My faculties were all
in hand in a moment. Frederick rose, his movements
quite measured and necessarily deliberate. We both
moved with caution, he leading the way, surmounting
boxes and cradle, and without any casualty, we extricated
ourselves, and emerged from the closet. I
carried the lamp, Frederick the keys, and we proceeded
at once, along the passage to the door of Marie's
chamber. We heard a bustle as we proceeded; then
came the sounds of Madame de Berniere's raised voice;
but we heard no voice in reply. I opened the lantern
door; and Frederick applied the key to the lock. It

opened readily—we pushed in without pausing, and,
turning the key, relocked the door. We were fairly in
the sacred chamber of youth, beauty, and innocence.
The voice of Marie saluted us, something between a
cry and a speech. What she said then I know not;
but I saw her, sitting up in the bed, her eyes bright
as two unsunned jewels of the mine, and her hand
extended in the direction of the chimney. Then I
deciphered her words.

“Save me, my friends. He is here! My enemy.
He who pursues me. He has spoken to me—he has
dared to threaten. He is here—there—he spoke to
me from that direction.”

She pointed towards the secret door. I had held
the light towards it; but it was closed, and I saw
nothing. Frederick, however, coolly took the lantern
from my hand; and, going to the toilet, lighted the two
waxen candles which stood upon it. The room was at
once visible in every quarter. Still, I saw nobody.
Frederick's face was fearfully pale; but he said
nothing. His lips were rigidly caught by his teeth.
I readily conjectured all his emotions. Everything
depended upon this discovery. Should he have failed!
Should there be no detection—no human victim—all
the fancies, and the superstitions of the woman whom he
so much loved, would be confirmed, fatally, to all his
hopes. He seized one of the candles in his hand,
raised it aloft, saw that the secret door was fully fastened,
and at once proceeded to the chimney. A moment
after, he laughed aloud, somewhat hysterically,
and the next moment, thrusting the candle into my

hands, he stooped into the fireplace and drew down
the ghost, by a pair of very well-made mortal legs, from
the recesses of the chimney.

“Come out!” he said, with great deliberation.
“You can hide no longer.”

The spectre was reluctant. The vigorous grasp of
Frederick assisted his movements, and dragged him
from his hiding-place. He stood upon the hearth,
speechless, immovable; and when I thrust the candle
towards his face, the suspicions of my friend were all
confirmed. There stood the living embodiment of the
excellent father, Paul Roquetti!

19. CHAPTER XIX.

The good father, this time, wore no death's head;
but he carried it in his hand. He had evidently taken
it from his face in the moment of alarm, and was so
paralyzed by detection, that he had forgotten to drop
it. He was a woeful picture, not only of idiotic confusion,
but of soot and ashes. He wore motley for
the nonce, and hardly needed a mask for concealment.
He offered no resistance, as drawing a stout cord from
his pocket, Frederick prepared to secure his arms behind
him. But here Madame de Berniere interposed—

“Frederick, for my sake, spare him this—”

Frederick paused without answering, and looking
with searching eyes into the face of the culprit, seemed
to ask himself, by the brief examination, whether he

ought to, or could safely forbear the precaution which
he had meditated.

“He is an Italian!” said he to me, in an under tone,
but sufficiently loud for the Father to hear. The latter
raised his eyes for the first time, but they sank
almost instantly beneath the glance of my friend, as
beneath that of a master.

“And this,” said Frederick, “is one of a race that
boasted such names as Scipio and Cicero, Cato and
Julius Cæsar. How characteristics alter in a few
centuries. Soul yields to sense, courage to subtlety,
and the fearless and eager nature becomes the cold,
the secret, the timid and assassin-like. And yet all
these traits are found associated with genius and the
rarest capacity for design. It is a mystery. We
may trust him, I think”—looking searchingly into the
priest's face—“but not out of sight. Hither.”

The eye of Frederick seemed to indicate what he
wished as well to myself as to Paul Roquetti. I
opened the door of the chamber, and he followed me
out like a submissive spaniel. Frederick came behind
him, bringing one of the candles. The other
was left with madame de Berniere in her chamber.
She now rose to make her toilet. Frederick placed
his candle on the front window of the passage overlooking
the street. He touched his repeater. It was
two o'clock in the morning.

“We shall soon have visitors,” said he; “the light
is a signal.”

By this time, the servant-maid had hurried from

above in her night-dress, aroused by the unavoidable
bustle.

“In—to your mistress,” said Frederick, sternly.
“But first, go into that room”—pointing to the one
opposite Madame de Berniere's chamber—“and
bring us out some chairs.”

There was no questioning that eagle glance, those
stern simple tones with which he commanded her.
She obeyed promptly, without a word, looking awfully
distressed and inquiringly at the priest. She had
scarcely placed the chairs, and entered the chamber
of her lady, when we beheld Andres, the porter,
making his way up. At the sight of him, Paul Roquetti
looked towards him appealingly.

“Be seated, sir,” said Frederick, in tones of command,
rather than entreaty, pointing at the same
time to one of the chairs. The person addressed
obeyed instinctively. Meanwhile, Andres reached
the top of the steps, on the same platform with ourselves.
The fellow's face was dark with a savage
expression, and his eye scowled fiercely.

“Down, sir,” said Frederick, “and be in readiness
to answer the door.”

“I want to see my mistress,” said the fellow, insolently,
and continuing to advance.

“You do as I bid you—not a step further, I say.”

“I must see my mistress.” He pressed forward.

“See to the priest,” said Frederick, and with the
words, with but a bound, he sprang upon the mulatto,
grasped him by the throat, wheeled him about, and
plunged him headlong down the steps, just as the

scoundrel was drawing a knife from his bosom. The
act was so decisive, the power with which it was executed
so prodigious, that it seemed to operate upon
the priest and negro like a sudden thunderbolt falling
at their feet. Andres, prostrate for a moment on the
first landing or platform of the stair-flight, bruised,
half stunned, and rising slowly, was evidently cowed
into submission. But he glared up at us, with one
malignant flash of his dark and savage eyes, before
he picked himself up, and continued, more deliberately,
his downward progress.

“Bad blood, both. The mixture of the Spanish
blood with that of the African produces always a
malignant cross. We must keep a sharp eye on
both.”

At this moment the house-bell rung below, and the
mulatto porter, obeying habit rather than will, was
heard to open the outer door.

“It is my sister and Monsieur de Chateauneuve,”
said Frederick. “That candle has told them all.”

The next moment we heard their voices, and they
were soon on their way up stairs. Marie de Berniere
emerged from her chamber at the same instant, and
the parties met in the passage. Again Andres made
his appearance coming up, but the vigilant eye of
Frederick beheld him, and ordered him down again.
The fellow did not venture to dispute the order; the
taste which he had enjoyed of my friend's summary
mode of enforcing obedience, was of excellent effect.

Of course, all was curiosity and inquiry—congratulations
and exclamations. The impostor ghost sat

motionless with shame, in silence, a spectacle of loathing
and reproach. Monsieur de Chateauneuve addressed
him—

“So, so! good father, this is a beautiful game you
have been playing. Ah, well! what have you to say
for yourself?”

He was silent. Marie de Berniere then spoke, and
her words betrayed the conflict between her indignation
and sorrow.

“How, Father Paul, have I deserved this treatment
at your hands? You who blessed me at birth,
upon whose words I hung in childhood, to whom I
looked as to a father; to whom I listened—to whom
I made my confession.”

The guilty man looked up, and his eye gleamed
fiercely, as he replied, quickly—

“You did not confess!”

Monsieur de Chateauneuve promptly put in—

“And for a good reason. She had an instinct that
told her you did not need it. No one need tell anything
to the spy who steals all one's secrets. Satan!
You would be a ghost—I have a mind to gratify you
on the spot. If I only had a rope!”

We need not report all that was said on the occasion.
Enough now that we give the substance of the
events. A brief conversation aside, between Frederick
and Monsieur de Chateauneuve, sent the latter
off. He was gone about an hour. Meanwhile, the
two ladies had retired to the chamber of Madame de
Berniere, leaving Father Paul in the keeping of
Frederick and myself. The fellow, Andres, made

several showings of himself upon the stairs, but was
invariably arrested by the eye and voice of my friend,
and driven back. Frederick, finally, as he became
chafed at the pertinacity of the mulatto, pulled a pair
of pistols from his coat, and sternly assured him that
if he appeared again before he was summoned, he
should be rewarded with an ounce of lead. The fellow
respected the warning. Thus we remained for
more than an hour, when at dawn a carriage drove
up to the door. It opened, a bustle followed, and the
venerable Archbishop D—, of the Roman Catholic
Church—a person who united all the most amiable of
social traits, with all that was pure and becoming in
his station—who was equally beloved and honored by
all sects and classes—ascended the stairs under the
guidance of Monsieur de Chateauneuve. He stood
before the culprit, his face filled with the sternest
sorrow.

“Paul, you are guilty!”

The person addressed hung his head in silence.
The Archbishop then spoke to Frederick, whom he
had met before, and knew.

“Mr. Brandon, what is your wish and purpose?
This man is a double offender—against the laws of
the Church and those of the land. He is in your
hands. I have not a word to say in his behalf. Let
the laws of the land pronounce upon his offences.
The Church will pronounce its judgments also.”

But Frederick said, quickly—

“No, sir; he is in your hands. For this purpose,
it was, not less than that a full exposure should be

made to you, that your presence was requested.
Madame de Berniere would prefer, for her own sake,
and that of the Church, which his connection dishonors,
that the secular arm should forbear him. So
far as he is concerned, I have done my duty. If I
doubted that the Church would do its duty also, then
only, would I deliver him to the justice of the country.
But of this I have no doubt. Though not of your
faith, reverend sir, I am too well satisfied that it is
neither your policy nor wish to screen the offender. I
resign him to your hands.”

“Thanks, sir; you do me justice only. I thank
you for myself and for the Church, which has not
always been dealt with justly. Paul Roquetti, remain
here. You will return with me.”

At this moment, Madames de Berniere and Chateauneuve
both emerged from the chamber, and were
affectionately embraced by the venerable Archbishop.
The former lady requested us now to enter the room,
while Frederick laid bare the secret avenues within
and beneath its walls.

“You will be confounded,” said Frederick, “at the
extent of these ramifications, and the wonderful
power for harm which this man exercised.”

“It is wonderful,” said the Archbishop, “that such
a power should be desirable to one so old. But, the
love of power is, perhaps, the last of the passions to
leave us.”

We need not follow the party, as Frederick unfolded
the secret avenues, and showed all the clues.

“What a ghost story our friend has spoiled!” said

Monsieur de Chateauneuve, tapping his snuffbox, and
handing it to the Archbishop. When we returned to
the place where the culprit had been left, he was
gone!

The Archbishop was terribly angry, but his anger
was unavailing. Andres was questioned, but he knew
nothing. Frederick smiled, and said to the Archbishop—

“Do you know one Louise Porterier, living in the
street —?”

“Yes. She is a mulattress—”

“No—a Cuban. She is a fruitier, and has seven
children. She is the wife of Paul Roquetti.”

“Wife! Saints and angels, Mr. Brandon! what
is it you tell me?”

“Truth! I have not been employing myself in
vain for the last three weeks. I have fathomed this
man's entire history. This woman is his wife, though
she passes as a widow with another name. She is
wealthy. She has become so at the expense of your
flock, perhaps your church, and to the ruin of this
wretched man. Remarkably endowed as he is with
talent—Italian talent—a rare subtlety and some eloquence,
he is literally the mere creature and slave of
this woman. He has fled. The fellow, Andres, there,
assisted his flight. The woman will follow him with
all her children. Look to see the house vacant in
two weeks.”

“Pity, knowing these things, that you had not insisted
upon his being surrendered to the civil authorities.
We can—we will—degrade him; make him

perpetually loathsome and odious among our people;
but such a soul, so corrupt, will hardly suffer, as he
ought, from a spiritual sentence.”

“Perhaps not, and yet—”

Frederick looked to Marie. She smiled to him
gratefully. Base criminal as Paul Roquetti had
proved himself, at last, after a sixty years' reputation
of sanctity, Marie could only remember him as the
honored Christian teacher of her infant and youthful
nature.

The Archbishop did his duty. Father Paul Roquetti
was degraded—a sentence more heavy and terrible,
in a spiritual sense, than that of excommunication
even, was passed upon him. He was blotted from the
pages of the Christian church. As Frederick had
predicted, Louise Porterier disappeared, with all her
family, in two weeks after. No traces exist of any of
these parties, at least under these names. What
remains? Three days after the eventful discovery,
which concluded the claims of the ghost, Frederick
had an interview with Marie de Berniere.

“Frederick,” she said, “look at this. If you are
now willing to marry me, I am yours.”

She threw off the cap she had worn, and let her
long hair free. It fell voluminous and soft upon her
shoulders. But it was mottled with gray!

“See the agonies of one little month in this writing
of the grave!”

This was all she said; he opened his arms, and she
buried her face, sobbing audibly, in his bosom. Need
I say that they became one. With tearful eyes, and

broken accents, the excellent Archbishop himself
united them in the most precious and permanent
bonds of life. They were happy—lived happily as
one;—for what an indulgent manhood was his!—
what a devoted dependence, subduing all affectations,
formed the secret and the spirit in the love of her
fearfully tested affections. Friends! dear friends!
Is it possible that I see ye no more around that happy
board, which made all happy!