Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/315

. 6, 1862.] “Now, look at me.”

St. Ernancourt slowly raised his head, and almost shrieked at the spectacle before him. It was that of a tall, gaunt figure, on which hung loosely sundry garments of knightly armour in a very charred condition; the face was of the hue of the grave, the long tangled locks hanging round it, but the worst of all was the fierce glance of despair which gleamed from his dark eyes.

St. Ernancourt gazed with horror on that face and form, and as he looked the recollection flashed on him that he had seen those stern lineaments before, and starting up, he exclaimed:

“The Baron de Valentin!”

“Yes,” replied the Spectre. “I was the Baron when on earth, and now I am worse than nobody. Listen to me Alphonso Albert Ferdinand, Comte de St. Ernancourt. I always opposed your union with my daughter on account of the ancient feud with your father’s house, but now I will withdraw all opposition to your alliance, if you will do something for me.”

“Say on,” stammered the knight, as well as his terror would permit him, “anything consistent with my knightly honour, I will do for her sake.”

“Give me my bones,” said the Spectre.

“Your bones,” said the knight. “I never had them; besides, you are in them now.”

“No, I am not,” replied the defunct baron, while the ghost of a smile flitted across his face. “They lent me these down below, but they don’t fit at all comfortably. I will tell you all about it; and, if you please, will take a chair, for I am rather tired. You must know, that in consequence of my having killed five hundred Turks, roasted sixteen Jews, and given 15,000 lbs. of the best wax candles to the Convent of St. Joseph, which is close by, our Reverend Father, the Pope, sent me a letter promising me only a month’s detention in purgatory. Soon after that I died of drinking, as you know, and my spirit went below, and endured, as patiently as it could, all the désagrémens of my situation. Being a good Catholic, and conversant with our faith, you are doubtless aware that it is the custom of all suffering souls at the end of their purgatorial penance to return to their burial-place, clothe themselves in their fleshly garments, and then repairing to the regions below, they present themselves to the “Old Gentleman,” who sets them at liberty if their credentials prove to be correct. At the end of my month I flew eagerly to our family vault, and lifted the lid of my coffin. To my horror I perceived it was empty, and I vainly searched the church and churchyard. I could not find my body anywhere. I should have fainted, only spirits can’t forget themselves, even in that way. I can assure you, Sir Knight, that the impossibility of oblivion, either by sleep or fainting, is one of the greatest tortures of purgatory. Weary of my useless search, I at last returned to the infernal regions, and sought and obtained an interview with One I would rather not mention, for they say when you talk of him he is sure to appear.”

[Here a faint chuckle came from the corner; but neither the Knight nor the Ghost heard it, so the Spectre went on with his story.]

“I told him that I could find neither my body nor the Pope’s letter which was buried with me, but assured him over and over again that I spoke the truth, and begged him to let me go as my month was up. He either did not, or would not believe me; in fact, was not at all gentlemanly about the business, so most wrongfully I have been kept below now quite a twelvemonth, and I see no prospect of release till my bones are found. I assure you,” said the Spectre, beginning to whimper, “I am very much to be pitied; you have no idea what unpleasant company I have to keep, and what a painful life it is. The only thing I am allowed to drink is Eau de Brimstone, and it is not nice. One privilege the dev—, he, I mean, allows me, is every now and then to revisit my former haunts in this borrowed set of bones. Of course, the first use I made of this liberty was to visit my daughter, who, I am sorry to say, has been subject to hysterics ever since; but she has behaved very well, and has promised never to marry till my bones are found. I knew in this lay my only hopes, for I remembered how you loved her, and the castle. So I determined to pay you this visit as soon as possible.”

“What am I to do?” said the unhappy knight. “I would willingly help you, but I don’t know anything about your bones.”

“But I do,” said a voice at his elbow, and turning his head, the count beheld the—don’t start gentle readers—beheld the black gentleman in propria personâ, horns, and tail, and all.”all. [sic]

The Ghost stormed in a perfect rage of passion. “You old rascal! you villain!” thundered he; “so you have been cheating me all this time.”

“Of course I have,” grinned the Demon; “it is my sole business and pleasure to cheat you all. However, I mean to be kind for once, and will even give you your bones, which includes giving your daughter to this young gentleman, provided he will grant me one little thing.”

“Name it,” said the Ghost.

’Tis but a little thing,” said Old Nick; “on granting it the knight shall have all earthly blessings, and you the spiritual ones you covet.”

“What is it?” asked the knight.

“Promise to come and stay with me, at my Chateau d’Enfers as soon as you are defunct, and bring your fair lady with you, I will give you both a warm reception.” (The fiend chuckled at his own wit.) “Here, sign this paper, just one scratch of the pen, and all shall be as you wish.”

“Oh, Alphonso, please do it,” said the Ghost, who I am sorry to say followed the plan he had always adopted, and only thought of No. I.

“No, by my knightly honour! No, by all my hopes of heaven!” swore the knight.

“Very well,” replied the Old Gentleman, “I have plenty to do down below, and so must go; but you will think better of it by to-morrow, so I will call again, at this hour to-morrow, and get your final answer. Come along, Old Bones,” said he, scoffingly, to the baron; “I can’t part with you yet,” and seizing him by the throat, the Demon and his protégé vanished, leaving the knight in a state of mind more easily imagined than described.