“I am no philosopher like you, dear Madame,” she said. “To me I own the story of the great Revolution is just like a very fearful though most fascinating tragedy; it is the personal histories mixed up in it that always come into my mind. And oh, by-the-by, I am so much obliged to you for lending me Monsieur de Beauchesne’s book; it has interested me exceedingly. Indeed, for a time, some parts of it almost haunted me.”
“You mean, of course, his Louis XVII. I forgot I had lent it you. Yes, it is a very impressive book, and a very exhaustive account of what is always full of fresh interest—the history of the Royal Family in the Temple. Of course the dauphin is the central figure. Monsieur de Beauchesne has really got together everything that is known about the poor little prince. One or two of the anecdotes are intensely touching.”
“Almost too much so. I can’t imagine ever being able to read them without tears,” the English lady replied. “Monsieur de Beauchesne seems quite to set beyond a doubt the child’s death in his prison,” she went on, after a little pause. “It is almost disappointing, there is such a fascination about the subject. And one would fain have hoped that perhaps, after all, though his princeship was over forever, the poor boy had some peaceful years, even in a comparatively humble position.”
The Marquise remained silent for a moment or two. When she spoke, her voice was very grave and almost solemn.
“I don’t think it is to be hoped or wished that it was so,” she said. “For my part, I would rather believe he died at the time generally supposed. Nothing in the annals of child saints or martyrs could be more beautiful, more holy, than those last days of his life in the Temple. One can scarcely think it possible that a soul so near heaven had longer to stay on earth. And yet No, Clemency, I hope he died that 8th of June. His life, had he lived, did he live, must have been too sad.”
Something in her words and tone struck her companion. She looked up eagerly.
“There is a shade of uncertainty in your way of speaking, dear Madame,” she said. “You don’t mean to say that you have any other theory on the subject, besides all the stories Monsieur de Beauchesne refutes so carefully?”
“No,” said the old lady. “I have no theory, but—I had a strange adventure once, Clemency, and though I have told it to very few— no one now living remembers it—I have never lost the impression it left on my mind.” She stopped. Miss Poynsett opened her lips to speak, but hesitated. Her eager look and questioning eyes, however, told their own story. Madame de Romars understood her.
“I will tell it to you if you like,” she said. “There is no reason why I should not; it can do no one any harm. And I fear you will be disappointed; there is so little to tell.”
“No, no; whatever it is, it will interest me,” said Clemency. “And thank you so much. I hope there is nothing painful to yourself in it?”
“Not exactly. Oh no; it only brings back past days, and sadder than that, past hopes and bright anticipations never to be realized. For I was very young then—not twenty-one—and I think nearly all the friends just at that time associated with me are dead—yes, all. But I will tell you my story. It was, as nearly as I can remember, in the year 1844. We, my husband and I, were staying with a party of friends, mostly young—I myself was little more than a bride—at a charming old château in the further extremity of Normandy. The château was old, but recently restored, so that, especially as the restoration had been carried out with the greatest care and good taste; it really combined the attractions of antiquity with those of modern life.
“It had been for centuries the home of our hosts’ ancestors; the present festivities were a sort of ‘housewarming,’ after the restorations, as well as to do honour to the finçailles of the lovely young and only daughter of the family, a girl of eighteen, who was to be married a few weeks later in the season. All of these details are irrelevant to my little story, but they have remained in my memory as a sort of frame to it, or, one might say, a bright background to the strange sad impression my adventure left.
“Our days passed delightfully. The country was picturesque and beautiful. There were points of interest of various kinds, old Roman remains, famous ‘views,’ charming woods; every day some new excursion to one or other of these was planned, and, thanks to the quite exceptionally fine weather, these were successfully carried out. Yes, it was a very happy time.”
Madame de Romars stopped for a moment and sighed. Clemency waited in quiet sympathy. She did not know the whole details of her old friend’s history, but she knew that trials and disappointments of no common severity had fallen to her share, and she felt half repentant that she had asked for the story. After a moment, the Marquise went on—
“One day, an expedition was arranged to visit the ancient Abbaye de Cérisy. I was delighted to make one of the party, especially as we were to stop at the Château de Selcourt on the way, which we did. This is one of the few remaining really Feudal Châteaux, interesting on that ground alone, though it is also worth visiting for its quantity of old tapestry, furniture, and some queer pictures. One I remember well, was a picture of the Blessed Virgin, surrounded by her cousins, knights in full ‘Moyen Age’ armour, and ladies in the garb of nuns. At Selcourt, too, there are seven fishponds, considered a unique curiosity. Then we drove on to Cérisy. We had spent more time than we intended at Selcourt, so that when we got to the Abbaye, it was already rather late afternoon.
“We hastened to visit the church, the old cloisters, etc. , and the architectural connoisseurs among us were loud in their praise of the grandly simple Norman style. There was one fishpond at Cérisy too; a very large one, and there was a legend—I forget what—connected with it which interested some of our party. I got tired of the discussion about it, and wandered off by myself, choosing accidently a path which led, I found, to some old, half-ruinous buildings. This sort of thing has always had a great attraction for me, and I had a curiosity to find the building which, in former days, must have been the Abbot’s house. I was really delighted when suddenly, at the angle of a wall which I had been skirting, I came upon a very massive and most curiously carved door, in an almost perfect state of preservation.
“I felt like the prince in the Sleeping Beauty story, only my door was not overgrown with nettles and brambles. On the contrary, it was slightly ajar, and had evidently been opened not long before, for a very slight touch made it turn on its hinges enough for me to see before me a large wide stone staircase, with handsome and curiously carved rampe also in stone. This was too enticing to resist. Up I mounted, pleasantly excited by a slight sense of impropriety in my proceedings, and had almost reached the small landing at the top of the staircase when I was confronted by a young peasant girl, who, startled and alarmed by my appearance, stood there as if to remonstrate against my going further.
“But, the blood of my curiosity and love of adventure was ‘up’ by this time; I moved on, taking no notice whatever of her evident terror and half-whispered, stammering remonstrances. My whole attention was absorbed by the strangeness of the interior which I began to catch sight of. The door of a room on my right was wide open, revealing a sort of thick hedge or wall of close-growing cactus and other unfamiliar, weird-looking exotic shrubs. They were of an unusual height, and though I have visited many botanical gardens in my time, and had even possessed, in my own conservatories, many curious foreign plants, I have never seen any to equal these, nor could I have given a name to any one of them. They must have been there, growing where they stood, for many and many a year; for their branches, in several cases, reached up to the old black beams of the apartment, and the lower part of this strange hedge, so to call it, quite concealed from view, where I first stood, the room behind.
“But a step or two forward and a slight turn to the right showed me more. I perceived that the hedge stopped, leaving an entrance way as it were, and standing just in it, most of the interior was revealed to me. I saw before me a fair-sized room, at once strongly impressing me by its ancient and old-world aspect.
In one corner, that on my right, stood a large square black oak bedstead of the style known as ‘Henri IV.,’ the faded, though well-preserved hangings and coverlet were of the same period, for to an eye trained and accustomed to judge of such things almost from childhood, thus much can be perceived at a glance. The dark wooden chairs, their seats covered with tapestry, were of the same period; and had evidently, so bravely to stand the wear and tear of centuries, been of the very best materials. “A fairly good fire was burning in the open stone hearth, and some preparation for a meal seemed to be simmering upon it, but my gaze was drawn upwards by the really splendid carving of the old mantelpiece and jambs, and I was on the point of moving forward to examine It more closely, when my presumption was suddenly arrested. From the further side of the room came a deep sepulchral voice.
“Madame,” it said—I can hear it now—‘que demandez-vous?’ and turning towards the left, where the afternoon light happened to fall, I saw, half concealed by a large olive-green-coloured curtain of heavy cloth, the strangest being my eyes have ever rested upon. I did not see the whole of the figure; it remained half shrouded by the curtain, and by the screen of plants I have tried to describe, but the face was very plainly visible. Whether it was that of a man or a woman I have never been able to decide; the unuttered exclamation that rose to my lips was a strange one.
“‘That is the face of a Bourbon!’
“For familiar to me from my earliest years have been the strongly marked, to me, unmistakable features of that unfortunate race.
“The snow-white hair of the mysterious being was drawn back from the forehead and concealed by some kind of skull cap or cowl, again covered in its turn by something black and floating like a veil; a black cape or mantle shrouded as much of the rest of the body as was visible. The figure neither rose nor moved, but remained seated in front of a small table covered with book, papers, writing materials, etc. , and as I stood, half-stunned, ‘interdite’, as we say, again came the deep voice, accompanied this time by a glance of the haughtiest and sternest—
“‘Que voulez-vous, Madame? On n’entre pas ici.’
“My position was not a dignified one, only my curiosity had supported me so far! But, notwithstanding its increasing intensity, I dared not persist. With one glance round the extraordinary scene, a glance that has printed it forever on my memory, and hastily murmured words of respectful apology, I retreated, to find myself once more on the landing outside, where the peasant girl, by this time almost imbecile with terror, shiveringly awaited me. I don’t know if she half pushed or pulled me down the stairs—but once outside, I turned and asked her the reason of her extraordinary behaviour. After all, I had done no harm; I was only interested in the old buildings; what was she afraid of, and who was the person she served?
“I could obtain no satisfactory reply. She had not been long there, she said; she belonged to a distant part of the country—as, indeed, her costume showed—and could tell me nothing of the Abbaye nor its inmates. Then she re-entered the building, and closed the door in my face—not rudely, but as if completely indifferent to any but the one idea of getting me off the premises. Poor girl, I dare say a reprimand of the sharpest was in store for her!
“I retraced my steps in the direction where I had left my friends. A few paces further on, I almost ran against an aged priest, evidently bound for the place I had just left. An expression of surprise and annoyance crossed his face on seeing me, or rather the direction whence I came. He did not speak, but stopped short, and stood there motionless, openly watching me till I passed through a great archway in a wall a little further on, and was lost to his sight.
“Close at hand were my friends, somewhat impatiently awaiting my return by the famous fishpond. Its legend—a gruesome one enough, of its having been used as a burial-place for their prisoners by some bloodthirsty monks of old, to the benefit of the fat carp and pike— had been discussed and quarrelled over sufficiently, and the whole party was now anxious to get home to the cheery château. During the drive thither, I told my story, which was received with great interest. Various plans were formed for revisiting Cérisy, and trying to solve the mystery, but somehow they were never carried out.
“Nor did the inquiries set on foot in the neighbourhood about the strange inhabitant of the ruined Abbaye, ever bring anything to light concerning him. Our party shortly after broke up. I never revisited my friends at their château. Something prevented my going to them the following year, and after that, I had no longer any reason for doing so. Troubles, as unexpected as undeserved, fell thickly on our kind hosts, the once happy family there—and but a few years after the merry gathering I have described, the poor mother, of all the group, was left to mourn alone the blighted hopes and vanished brightness.
“For such sorrows as hers there is no consolation in this world to be found, so you can understand that the associations of my one visit to that part of the country came to be sad enough. And notwithstanding my curiosity about the being I have described, I never could make up my mind to revisit the neighbourhood of Cérisy.”
Madame de Romars stopped. Clemency Poynsett looked up inquiringly.
“How sad!” she said feelingly. “Yes, dear Madame, I well understand. But, tell me, please—do you really think it possible— had you the feeling that the figure you saw was—was perhaps really Louis XVII. —the poor little prince, grown into——Stay would he have been as old as the recluse of the Abbaye at the time you named; about the year 1844, was it not?”
“He was born in 1785,” said the Marquise. “He would have been, therefore, fifty-nine at the date of my adventure. Certainly, the person I saw looked much older than that, to judge in an ordinary way. But then—consider what the Prince went through! Had he lived, it is scarcely to be expected he would ever have recovered his health bodily or mental; at least, he could never have been like other people. No; if Louis XVII. lived, I can scarcely help picturing him to myself at sixty as at best much such a prematurely aged, fearfully marked human being as the strange vision I came across. I hope it was not he—I cannot endure to think it was—to picture the long monotonous years that must have passed in that sad captivity of concealment, and, in all probability, in great physical suffering too.
“For I think the poor creature I saw must have been paralyzed or something of that kind. Yet there was such dignity, such reserve and presence about the strange being—no angry chatter of scolding; just the few cold, haughty, yet not uncourteous words I have repeated.”
“Whoever it was—man or woman—must have been quite of the upper classes,” said Miss Poynsett.
“Oh dear, yes—a thousand times yes. The tone, the accent, the manner—all showed it. Poor old man, for I think it was a man, Louis XVII. or not—there was a sad story shut up in that strange room—a story almost certainly connected with that awful time a century ago. How often since, I have wished I could have shown some kindness to the recluse, infused some little brightness into that almost unearthly life! But it could not have been. And whoever it was, it is all over now——”
“I, too, hope it was not the Prince,” said Clemency, “strangely fascinating though the idea is. But there were the Bourbon features.”
“Yes,” agreed her old friend. “There were those undoubtedly: the unmistakable Bourbon features.”
“Halfway Between the Stiles”
(A Right-of-Way Incident.)
(A story from Uncanny Tales)
By the road, Scarby village is good three miles from Colletwood, the nearest town and railway station. But there is a short cut over the hills for foot passengers. Over the hills they call it, but between the hills would be more correct, for there is a sort of tableland once you have climbed a short, steep bit up from the town, which extends nearly to Scarby, sloping gradually down to the village.
And on each side of this tableland the hills rise again, north and south, much higher to the north than to the south. So this flat stretch, though at some considerable height, is neither ble
ak nor exposed, being sheltered on the colder side, and fairly open to the sunshine south and west.
It is a pleasant place, and so it must have been considered in the old days; for a large monastery stood there once, of which the ruins are still to be seen, and of which the memory is still preserved in the name—“Monksholdings”.
Pleasant, but a trifle inconvenient, as the only carriage-road makes a great round from Colletwood, winding along the base of the hill on the north side till it reaches the village, then up again by the gradual slope, half a mile or so—a drive in all of three to four miles, whereas, as the bird flies or the pedestrian walks, the distance from the town is barely a quarter of that.
In the old days there was probably no road at all, the hill-path doubtless serving all requirements. Naturally enough, therefore, it came to be looked upon as entirely public property, and people forgot—if, indeed, any one had ever thought of it—that though the monastery was a ruin, the once carefully kept land round about the old dwelling-place of Monksholdings was still private property.
And the sensation was great when suddenly the news reached the neighbourhood that this “unique estate,” as the agents called it, was sold—sold by the old Duke of Scarshire, who scarcely remembered that he owned it, to a man who meant to live on it, to build a house which should be a home for several months of the year for himself and his family.
There was considerable growling and grumbling; and this rose to its height when a rumour got about that the hill-path—such part of it, that is to say, as lay within the actual demesne— was to be closed—must be closed, if the site already chosen for the new house was to be retained; for the house would actually stand upon the old foot-track, and there could be no two opinions that this position had been well and wisely selected.
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Mrs Molesworth Page 16