CHAPTER VI
Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound! Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways, And all the widely-silent places round, Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays What never yet was sung in mortal lays. THOMSON
The Count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened and preparedfor the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothee, remembering what shehad lately witnessed there, feared to obey, and, not one of the otherservants daring to venture thither, the rooms remained shut up till thetime when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, an hour, forwhich the whole household waited with impatience.
After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the Count, attended him in hiscloset, where they remained alone for near half an hour, and, on leavingwhich, his Lord delivered to him a sword.
'It has seen service in mortal quarrels,' said the Count, jocosely, 'youwill use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. Tomorrow, let mehear that there is not one ghost remaining in the chateau.'
Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. 'You shall be obeyed, myLord,' said he; 'I will engage, that no spectre shall disturb the peaceof the chateau after this night.'
They now returned to the supper-room, where the Count's guests awaitedto accompany him and Ludovico to the door of the north apartments, andDorothee, being summoned for the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, whothen led the way, followed by most of the inhabitants of the chateau.Having reached the back stair-case, several of the servants shrunk back,and refused to go further, but the rest followed him to the top of thestair-case, where a broad landing-place allowed them to flock round him,while he applied the key to the door, during which they watched him withas much eager curiosity as if he had been performing some magical rite.
Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothee, whohad lingered far behind, was called forward, under whose hand the dooropened slowly, and, her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, sheuttered a sudden shriek, and retreated. At this signal of alarm, thegreater part of the crowd hurried down the stairs, and the Count, Henriand Ludovico were left alone to pursue the enquiry, who instantly rushedinto the apartment, Ludovico with a drawn sword, which he had just timeto draw from the scabbard, the Count with the lamp in his hand, andHenri carrying a basket, containing provisions for the courageousadventurer.
Having looked hastily round the first room, where nothing appeared tojustify alarm, they passed on to the second; and, here too all beingquiet, they proceeded to a third with a more tempered step. The Counthad now leisure to smile at the discomposure, into which he had beensurprised, and to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass thenight.
'There are several chambers beyond these, your excellenza,' saidLudovico, pointing to a door, 'and in one of them is a bed, they say.I will pass the night there, and when I am weary of watching, I can liedown.'
'Good;' said the Count; 'let us go on. You see these rooms shew nothing,but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been so much engagedsince I came to the chateau, that I have not looked into them till now.Remember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, to-morrow, to throw openthese windows. The damask hangings are dropping to pieces, I will havethem taken down, and this antique furniture removed.'
'Dear sir!' said Henri, 'here is an arm-chair so massy with gilding,that it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, more then anything else.'
'Yes,' said the Count, stopping a moment to survey it, 'there is ahistory belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it.--Let uspass on. This suite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; it ismany years since I was in them. But where is the bed-room you speak of,Ludovico?--these are only anti-chambers to the great drawing-room. Iremember them in their splendour!'
'The bed, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'they told me, was in a room thatopens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite.'
'O, here is the saloon,' said the Count, as they entered the spaciousapartment, in which Emily and Dorothee had rested. He here stood fora moment, surveying the reliques of faded grandeur, which itexhibited--the sumptuous tapestry--the long and low sophas of velvet,with frames heavily carved and gilded--the floor inlaid with smallsquares of fine marble, and covered in the centre with a piece ofvery rich tapestry-work--the casements of painted glass, and the largeVenetian mirrors, of a size and quality, such as at that period Francecould not make, which reflected, on every side, the spacious apartment.These had formerly also reflected a gay and brilliant scene, for thishad been the state-room of the chateau, and here the Marchioness hadheld the assemblies, that made part of the festivities of her nuptials.If the wand of a magician could have recalled the vanished groups, manyof them vanished even from the earth! that once had passed over thesepolished mirrors, what a varied and contrasted picture would they haveexhibited with the present! Now, instead of a blaze of lights, anda splendid and busy crowd, they reflected only the rays of the oneglimmering lamp, which the Count held up, and which scarcely served toshew the three forlorn figures, that stood surveying the room, and thespacious and dusky walls around them.
'Ah!' said the Count to Henri, awaking from his deep reverie, 'how thescene is changed since last I saw it! I was a young man, then, and theMarchioness was alive and in her bloom; many other persons were here,too, who are now no more! There stood the orchestra; here we tripped inmany a sprightly maze--the walls echoing to the dance! Now, they resoundonly one feeble voice--and even that will, ere long, be heard no more!My son, remember, that I was once as young as yourself, and that youmust pass away like those, who have preceded you--like those, who, asthey sung and danced in this once gay apartment, forgot, that years aremade up of moments, and that every step they took carried them nearerto their graves. But such reflections are useless, I had almostsaid criminal, unless they teach us to prepare for eternity, since,otherwise, they cloud our present happiness, without guiding us to afuture one. But enough of this; let us go on.'
Ludovico now opened the door of the bed-room, and the Count, as heentered, was struck with the funereal appearance, which the dark arrasgave to it. He approached the bed, with an emotion of solemnity, and,perceiving it to be covered with the pall of black velvet, paused; 'Whatcan this mean?' said he, as he gazed upon it.
'I have heard, my Lord,' said Ludovico, as he stood at the feet, lookingwithin the canopied curtains, 'that the Lady Marchioness de Villeroidied in this chamber, and remained here till she was removed to beburied; and this, perhaps, Signor, may account for the pall.'
The Count made no reply, but stood for a few moments engaged in thought,and evidently much affected. Then, turning to Ludovico, he asked himwith a serious air, whether he thought his courage would support himthrough the night? 'If you doubt this,' added the Count, 'do not beashamed to own it; I will release you from your engagement, withoutexposing you to the triumphs of your fellow-servants.'
Ludovico paused; pride, and something very like fear, seemed strugglingin his breast; pride, however, was victorious;--he blushed, and hishesitation ceased.
'No, my Lord,' said he, 'I will go through with what I have begun; andI am grateful for your consideration. On that hearth I will make a fire,and, with the good cheer in this basket, I doubt not I shall do well.'
'Be it so,' said the Count; 'but how will you beguile the tediousness ofthe night, if you do not sleep?'
'When I am weary, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'I shall not fear tosleep; in the meanwhile, I have a book, that will entertain me.'
'Well,' said the Count, 'I hope nothing will disturb you; but if youshould be seriously alarmed in the night, come to my apartment. I havetoo much confidence in your good sense and courage, to believe you willbe alarmed on slight grounds; or suffer the gloom of this chamber, orits remote situation, to overcome you with ideal terrors. To-morrow, Ishall have to thank you for an important service; these rooms shall thenbe thrown open, and my people will be convinced of their error. Goodnight, Ludovico; let me see you early in the morning, and remember whatI lately said to you.'
'I will, my Lord; good night to your excellenza; let me attend you withthe light.'
He lighted the Count and Henri through the chambers to the outer door;on the landing-place stood a lamp, which one of the affrighted servantshad left, and Henri, as he took it up, again bade Ludovico good night,who, having respectfully returned the wish, closed the door upon them,and fastened it. Then, as he retired to the bed-chamber, he examined therooms, through which he passed, with more minuteness than he had donebefore, for he apprehended, that some person might have concealedhimself in them, for the purpose of frightening him. No one, however,but himself, was in these chambers, and, leaving open the doors,through which he passed, he came again to the great drawing-room, whosespaciousness and silent gloom somewhat awed him. For a moment he stood,looking back through the long suite of rooms he had quitted, and, as heturned, perceiving a light and his own figure, reflected in one of thelarge mirrors, he started. Other objects too were seen obscurely on itsdark surface, but he paused not to examine them, and returned hastilyinto the bed-room, as he surveyed which, he observed the door of theoriel, and opened it. All within was still. On looking round, his eyewas arrested by the portrait of the deceased Marchioness, upon which hegazed, for a considerable time, with great attention and some surprise;and then, having examined the closet, he returned into the bed-room,where he kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which revived hisspirits, which had begun to yield to the gloom and silence of the place,for gusts of wind alone broke at intervals this silence. He now drew asmall table and a chair near the fire, took a bottle of wine, and somecold provision out of his basket, and regaled himself. When he hadfinished his repast, he laid his sword upon the table, and, not feelingdisposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had spoken of.--Itwas a volume of old Provencal tales. Having stirred the fire upon thehearth, he began to read, and his attention was soon wholly occupied bythe scenes, which the page disclosed.
The Count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper-room, whither those ofthe party, who had attended him to the north apartment, had retreated,upon hearing Dorothee's scream, and who were now earnest in theirenquiries concerning those chambers. The Count rallied his guests ontheir precipitate retreat, and on the superstitious inclination whichhad occasioned it, and this led to the question, Whether the spirit,after it has quitted the body, is ever permitted to revisit the earth;and if it is, whether it was possible for spirits to become visible tothe sense. The Baron was of opinion, that the first was probable, andthe last was possible, and he endeavoured to justify this opinion byrespectable authorities, both ancient and modern, which he quoted.The Count, however, was decidedly against him, and a long conversationensued, in which the usual arguments on these subjects were on bothsides brought forward with skill, and discussed with candour, butwithout converting either party to the opinion of his opponent. Theeffect of their conversation on their auditors was various. Though theCount had much the superiority of the Baron in point of argument, hehad considerably fewer adherents; for that love, so natural to thehuman mind, of whatever is able to distend its faculties with wonder andastonishment, attached the majority of the company to the side of theBaron; and, though many of the Count's propositions were unanswerable,his opponents were inclined to believe this the consequence of theirown want of knowledge, on so abstracted a subject, rather than thatarguments did not exist, which were forcible enough to conquer his.
Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father'sglance called a blush upon her countenance, and she then endeavouredto forget the superstitious tales she had been told in her convent.Meanwhile, Emily had been listening with deep attention to thediscussion of what was to her a very interesting question, and,remembering the appearance she had witnessed in the apartment of thelate Marchioness, she was frequently chilled with awe. Several times shewas on the point of mentioning what she had seen, but the fear of givingpain to the Count, and the dread of his ridicule, restrained her; and,awaiting in anxious expectation the event of Ludovico's intrepidity, shedetermined that her future silence should depend upon it.
When the party had separated for the night, and the Count retired tohis dressing-room, the remembrance of the desolate scenes he had latelywitnessed in his own mansion deeply affected him, but at length hewas aroused from his reverie and his silence. 'What music is that Ihear?'--said he suddenly to his valet, 'Who plays at this late hour?'
The man made no reply, and the Count continued to listen, and thenadded, 'That is no common musician; he touches the instrument with adelicate hand; who is it, Pierre?'
'My lord!' said the man, hesitatingly.
'Who plays that instrument?' repeated the Count.
'Does not your lordship know, then?' said the valet.
'What mean you?' said the Count, somewhat sternly.
'Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing,' rejoined the mansubmissively--'Only--that music--goes about the house at midnight often,and I thought your lordship might have heard it before.'
'Music goes about the house at midnight! Poor fellow!--does nobody danceto the music, too?'
'It is not in the chateau, I believe, my Lord; the sounds come from thewoods, they say, though they seem so near;--but then a spirit can do anything!'
'Ah, poor fellow!' said the Count, 'I perceive you are as silly as therest of them; to-morrow, you will be convinced of your ridiculous error.But hark!--what voice is that?'
'O my Lord! that is the voice we often hear with the music.'
'Often!' said the Count, 'How often, pray? It is a very fine one.'
'Why, my Lord, I myself have not heard it more than two or three times,but there are those who have lived here longer, that have heard it oftenenough.'
'What a swell was that!' exclaimed the Count, as he still listened, 'Andnow, what a dying cadence! This is surely something more than mortal!'
'That is what they say, my Lord,' said the valet; 'they say it isnothing mortal, that utters it; and if I might say my thoughts'--
'Peace!' said the Count, and he listened till the strain died away.
'This is strange!' said he, as he turned from the window, 'Close thecasements, Pierre.'
Pierre obeyed, and the Count soon after dismissed him, but did not sosoon lose the remembrance of the music, which long vibrated in his fancyin tones of melting sweetness, while surprise and perplexity engaged histhoughts.
Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber, heard, now and then, thefaint echo of a closing door, as the family retired to rest, and thenthe hall clock, at a great distance, strike twelve. 'It is midnight,'said he, and he looked suspiciously round the spacious chamber. The fireon the hearth was now nearly expiring, for his attention having beenengaged by the book before him, he had forgotten every thing besides;but he soon added fresh wood, not because he was cold, though the nightwas stormy, but because he was cheerless; and, having again trimmedhis lamp, he poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair nearer to thecrackling blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind, that howled mournfullyat the casements, endeavoured to abstract his mind from the melancholy,that was stealing upon him, and again took up his book. It had been lentto him by Dorothee, who had formerly picked it up in an obscure cornerof the Marquis's library, and who, having opened it and perceivedsome of the marvels it related, had carefully preserved it for her ownentertainment, its condition giving her some excuse for detaining itfrom its proper station. The damp corner into which it had fallen, hadcaused the cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the leaves to be sodiscoloured with spots, that it was not without difficulty the letterscould be traced. The fictions of the Provencal writers, whether drawnfrom the Arabian legends, brought by the Saracens into Spain, orrecounting the chivalric exploits performed by the crusaders, whom theTroubadors accompanied to the east, were generally splendid and alwaysmarvellous, both in scenery and incident; and it is not wonderful, thatDorothee and Ludovico should be fascinated by inventions, which hadcaptivated the careless imagination in every rank of society, in aformer age. Some of the tales,
however, in the book now before Ludovico,were of simple structure, and exhibited nothing of the magnificentmachinery and heroic manners, which usually characterized the fables ofthe twelfth century, and of this description was the one he now happenedto open, which, in its original style, was of great length, but whichmay be thus shortly related. The reader will perceive, that it isstrongly tinctured with the superstition of the times.
THE PROVENCAL TALE
'There lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble Baron, famous forhis magnificence and courtly hospitalities. His castle was graced withladies of exquisite beauty, and thronged with illustrious knights; forthe honour he paid to feats of chivalry invited the brave of distantcountries to enter his lists, and his court was more splendid than thoseof many princes. Eight minstrels were retained in his service, who usedto sing to their harps romantic fictions, taken from the Arabians, oradventures of chivalry, that befel knights during the crusades, or themartial deeds of the Baron, their lord;--while he, surrounded by hisknights and ladies, banqueted in the great hall of his castle, where thecostly tapestry, that adorned the walls with pictured exploits ofhis ancestors, the casements of painted glass, enriched with armorialbearings, the gorgeous banners, that waved along the roof, the sumptuouscanopies, the profusion of gold and silver, that glittered on thesideboards, the numerous dishes, that covered the tables, the number andgay liveries of the attendants, with the chivalric and splendid attireof the guests, united to form a scene of magnificence, such as we maynot hope to see in these DEGENERATE DAYS.
'Of the Baron, the following adventure is related. One night, havingretired late from the banquet to his chamber, and dismissed hisattendants, he was surprised by the appearance of a stranger of a nobleair, but of a sorrowful and dejected countenance. Believing, that thisperson had been secreted in the apartment, since it appeared impossiblehe could have lately passed the anti-room, unobserved by the pages inwaiting, who would have prevented this intrusion on their lord, theBaron, calling loudly for his people, drew his sword, which he had notyet taken from his side, and stood upon his defence. The stranger slowlyadvancing, told him, that there was nothing to fear; that he came withno hostile design, but to communicate to him a terrible secret, which itwas necessary for him to know.
'The Baron, appeased by the courteous manners of the stranger, aftersurveying him, for some time, in silence, returned his sword into thescabbard, and desired him to explain the means, by which he had obtainedaccess to the chamber, and the purpose of this extraordinary visit.
'Without answering either of these enquiries, the stranger said, that hecould not then explain himself, but that, if the Baron would follow himto the edge of the forest, at a short distance from the castle walls,he would there convince him, that he had something of importance todisclose.
'This proposal again alarmed the Baron, who could scarcely believe, thatthe stranger meant to draw him to so solitary a spot, at this hour ofthe night, without harbouring a design against his life, and he refusedto go, observing, at the same time, that, if the stranger's purposewas an honourable one, he would not persist in refusing to reveal theoccasion of his visit, in the apartment where they were.
'While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more attentively thanbefore, but observed no change in his countenance, or any symptom, thatmight intimate a consciousness of evil design. He was habited likea knight, was of a tall and majestic stature, and of dignified andcourteous manners. Still, however, he refused to communicate the subjectof his errand in any place, but that he had mentioned, and, at the sametime, gave hints concerning the secret he would disclose, that awakeneda degree of solemn curiosity in the Baron, which, at length, induced himto consent to follow the stranger, on certain conditions.
'"Sir knight," said he, "I will attend you to the forest, and will takewith me only four of my people, who shall witness our conference."
'To this, however, the Knight objected.
'"What I would disclose," said he, with solemnity, "is to you alone.There are only three living persons, to whom the circumstance is known;it is of more consequence to you and your house, than I shall nowexplain. In future years, you will look back to this night withsatisfaction or repentance, accordingly as you now determine. As youwould hereafter prosper--follow me; I pledge you the honour of aknight, that no evil shall befall you;--if you are contented to darefuturity--remain in your chamber, and I will depart as I came."
'"Sir knight," replied the Baron, "how is it possible, that my futurepeace can depend upon my present determination?"
'"That is not now to be told," said the stranger, "I have explainedmyself to the utmost. It is late; if you follow me it must bequickly;--you will do well to consider the alternative."
'The Baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he perceived hiscountenance assume a singular solemnity.'
[Here Ludovico thought he heard a noise, and he threw a glance round thechamber, and then held up the lamp to assist his observation; but, notperceiving any thing to confirm his alarm, he took up the book again andpursued the story.]
'The Baron paced his apartment, for some time, in silence, impressed bythe last words of the stranger, whose extraordinary request he feared togrant, and feared, also, to refuse. At length, he said, "Sir knight, youare utterly unknown to me; tell me yourself,--is it reasonable, that Ishould trust myself alone with a stranger, at this hour, in a solitaryforest? Tell me, at least, who you are, and who assisted to secrete youin this chamber."
'The knight frowned at these latter words, and was a moment silent;then, with a countenance somewhat stern, he said,
'"I am an English knight; I am called Sir Bevys of Lancaster,--and mydeeds are not unknown at the Holy City, whence I was returning to mynative land, when I was benighted in the neighbouring forest."
'"Your name is not unknown to fame," said the Baron, "I have heard ofit." (The Knight looked haughtily.) "But why, since my castle is knownto entertain all true knights, did not your herald announce you? Whydid you not appear at the banquet, where your presence would have beenwelcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle, and stealing to mychamber, at midnight?"
'The stranger frowned, and turned away in silence; but the Baronrepeated the questions.
'"I come not," said the Knight, "to answer enquiries, but to revealfacts. If you would know more, follow me, and again I pledge thehonour of a Knight, that you shall return in safety.--Be quick in yourdetermination--I must be gone."
'After some further hesitation, the Baron determined to follow thestranger, and to see the result of his extraordinary request; he,therefore, again drew forth his sword, and, taking up a lamp, bade theKnight lead on. The latter obeyed, and, opening the door of the chamber,they passed into the anti-room, where the Baron, surprised to findall his pages asleep, stopped, and, with hasty violence, was going toreprimand them for their carelessness, when the Knight waved his hand,and looked so expressively upon the Baron, that the latter restrainedhis resentment, and passed on.
'The Knight, having descended a stair-case, opened a secret door,which the Baron had believed was known only to himself, and, proceedingthrough several narrow and winding passages, came, at length, to a smallgate, that opened beyond the walls of the castle. Meanwhile, the Baronfollowed in silence and amazement, on perceiving that these secretpassages were so well known to a stranger, and felt inclined to returnfrom an adventure, that appeared to partake of treachery, as well asdanger. Then, considering that he was armed, and observing the courteousand noble air of his conductor, his courage returned, he blushed, thatit had failed him for a moment, and he resolved to trace the mystery toits source.
'He now found himself on the heathy platform, before the great gates ofhis castle, where, on looking up, he perceived lights glimmering inthe different casements of the guests, who were retiring to sleep; and,while he shivered in the blast, and looked on the dark and desolatescene around him, he thought of the comforts of his warm chamber,rendered cheerful by the blaze of wood, and felt, for a moment, t
he fullcontrast of his present situation.'
[Here Ludovico paused a moment, and, looking at his own fire, gave it abrightening stir.]
'The wind was strong, and the Baron watched his lamp with anxiety,expecting every moment to see it extinguished; but, though the flamewavered, it did not expire, and he still followed the stranger, whooften sighed as he went, but did not speak.
'When they reached the borders of the forest, the Knight turned, andraised his head, as if he meant to address the Baron, but then, closinghis lips in silence, he walked on.
'As they entered, beneath the dark and spreading boughs, the Baron,affected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated whether to proceed,and demanded how much further they were to go. The Knight replied onlyby a gesture, and the Baron, with hesitating steps and a suspicious eye,followed through an obscure and intricate path, till, having proceeded aconsiderable way, he again demanded whither they were going, and refusedto proceed unless he was informed.
'As he said this, he looked at his own sword, and at the Knightalternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected countenance disarmedthe Baron, for a moment, of suspicion.
'"A little further is the place, whither I would lead you," said thestranger; "no evil shall befall you--I have sworn it on the honour of aknight."
'The Baron, re-assured, again followed in silence, and they soon arrivedat a deep recess of the forest, where the dark and lofty chesnutsentirely excluded the sky, and which was so overgrown with underwood,that they proceeded with difficulty. The Knight sighed deeply as hepassed, and sometimes paused; and having, at length, reached a spot,where the trees crowded into a knot, he turned, and, with a terrificlook, pointing to the ground, the Baron saw there the body of a man,stretched at its length, and weltering in blood; a ghastly wound wason the forehead, and death appeared already to have contracted thefeatures.
'The Baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horror, looked atthe Knight for explanation, and was then going to raise the body andexamine if there were yet any remains of life; but the stranger, wavinghis hand, fixed upon him a look so earnest and mournful, as not onlymuch surprised him, but made him desist.
'But, what were the Baron's emotions, when, on holding the lamp nearthe features of the corpse, he discovered the exact resemblance of thestranger his conductor, to whom he now looked up in astonishment andenquiry? As he gazed, he perceived the countenance of the Knight change,and begin to fade, till his whole form gradually vanished from hisastonished sense! While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice washeard to utter these words:--'
[Ludovico started, and laid down the book, for he thought he heard avoice in the chamber, and he looked toward the bed, where, however, hesaw only the dark curtains and the pall. He listened, scarcely daringto draw his breath, but heard only the distant roaring of the sea in thestorm, and the blast, that rushed by the casements; when, concluding,that he had been deceived by its sighings, he took up his book to finishthe story.]
'While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utterthese words:--*
(* This repetition seems to be intentional. Ludovico is picking up thethread.)
'The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble knight of England, liesbefore you. He was, this night, waylaid and murdered, as he journeyedfrom the Holy City towards his native land. Respect the honour ofknighthood and the law of humanity; inter the body in christian ground,and cause his murderers to be punished. As ye observe, or neglect this,shall peace and happiness, or war and misery, light upon you and yourhouse for ever!'
'The Baron, when he recovered from the awe and astonishment, into whichthis adventure had thrown him, returned to his castle, whither he causedthe body of Sir Bevys to be removed; and, on the following day, it wasinterred, with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel of the castle,attended by all the noble knights and ladies, who graced the court ofBaron de Brunne.'
Ludovico, having finished this story, laid aside the book, for he feltdrowsy, and, after putting more wood on the fire and taking anotherglass of wine, he reposed himself in the arm-chair on the hearth. Inhis dream he still beheld the chamber where he really was, and, once ortwice, started from imperfect slumbers, imagining he saw a man's face,looking over the high back of his armchair. This idea had so stronglyimpressed him, that, when he raised his eyes, he almost expected tomeet other eyes, fixed upon his own, and he quitted his seat and lookedbehind the chair, before he felt perfectly convinced, that no person wasthere.
Thus closed the hour.