My friends were happy, therefore, and very chatty; which latter relieved me of the trouble of talking, and prompted them to entertain me and one another incessantly3 with agreeable stories and conversation, of which, until suddenly a subject emerged which interested me powerfully, I confess, so much were my thoughts engaged elsewhere, I heard next to nothing.
“Yes,” said Carmaignac, continuing a conversation which had escaped me, “there was another case, beside that Russian nobleman, odder still. I remembered it this morning, but cannot recall the name. He was a tenant4 of the very same room. By-the-by, Monsieur, might it not be as well,” he added, turning to me with a laugh, half joke whole earnest, as they say, “if you were to get into another apartment, now that the house is no longer crowded? that is, if you mean to make any stay here.”
“A thousand thanks! no. I’m thinking of changing my hotel; and I can run into town so easily at night; and though I stay here for this night at least, I don’t expect to vanish like those others. But you say there is another adventure, of the same kind, connected with the same room. Do let us hear it. But take some wine first.”
The story he told was curious.
“It happened,” said Carmaignac, “as well as I recollect5, before either of the other cases. A French gentleman — I wish I could remember his name — the son of a merchant, came to this inn (the Dragon Volant), and was put by the landlord into the same room of which we have been speaking. Your apartment, Monsieur. He was by no means young — past forty — and very far from good-looking. The people here said that he was the ugliest man, and the most good-natured, that ever lived. He played on the fiddle6, sang, and wrote poetry. His habits were odd and desultory7. He would sometimes sit all day in his room writing, singing, and fiddling8, and go out at night for a walk. An eccentric man! He was by no means a millionaire, but he had a modicum9 bonum, you understand — a trifle more than half a million of francs. He consulted his stockbroker10 about investing this money in foreign stocks, and drew the entire sum from his banker. You now have the situation of affairs when the catastrophe11 occurred.”
“Pray fill your glass,” I said.
“Dutch courage, Monsieur, to face the catastrophe!” said Whistlewick, filling his own.
“Now, that was the last that ever was heard of his money,” resumed Carmaignac. “You shall hear about himself. The night after this financial operation he was seized with a poetic12 frenzy13: he sent for the then landlord of this house, and told him that he long meditated14 an epic15, and meant to commence that night, and that he was on no account to be disturbed until nine o’clock in the morning. He had two pairs of wax candles, a little cold supper on a side-table, his desk open, paper enough upon it to contain the entire Henriade, and a proportionate store of pens and ink.
“Seated at this desk he was seen by the waiter who brought him a cup of coffee at nine o’clock, at which time the intruder said he was writing fast enough to set fire to the paper — that was his phrase; he did not look up, he appeared too much engrossed16. But when the waiter came back, half an hour afterwards, the door was locked; and the poet, from within, answered that he must not be disturbed.
“Away went the gar?on, and next morning at nine o’clock knocked at his door and, receiving no answer, looked through the key-hole; the lights were still burning, the window-shutters were closed as he had left them; he renewed his knocking, knocked louder, no answer came. He reported this continued and alarming silence to the innkeeper, who, finding that his guest had not left his key in the lock, succeeded in finding another that opened it. The candles were just giving up the ghost in their sockets17, but there was light enough to ascertain18 that the tenant of the room was gone! The bed had not been disturbed; the window-shutter was barred. He must have let himself out, and, locking the door on the outside, put the key in his pocket, and so made his way out of the house. Here, however, was another difficulty: the Dragon Volant shut its doors and made all fast at twelve o’clock; after that hour no one could leave the house, except by obtaining the key and letting himself out, and of necessity leaving the door unsecured, or else by collusion and aid of some person in the house.
“Now it happened that, some time after the doors were secured, at half-past twelve, a servant who had not been apprised19 of his order to be left undisturbed, seeing a light shine through the key-hole, knocked at the door to inquire whether the poet wanted anything. He was very little obliged to his disturber, and dismissed him with a renewed charge that he was not to be interrupted again during the night. This incident established the fact that he was in the house after the doors had been locked and barred. The inn-keeper himself kept the keys, and swore that he found them hung on the wall above his head, in his bed, in their usual place, in the morning; and that nobody could have taken them away without awakening20 him. That was all we could discover. The Count de St. Alyre, to whom this house belongs, was very active and very much chagrined21. But nothing was discovered.”
“And nothing heard since of the epic poet?” I asked.
“Nothing — not the slightest clue — he never turned up again. I suppose he is dead; if he is not, he must have got into some devilish bad scrape, of which we have heard nothing, that compelled him to abscond22 with all the secrecy23 and expedition in his power. All that we know for certain is that, having occupied the room in which you sleep, he vanished, nobody ever knew how, and never was heard of since.”
“You have now mentioned three cases,” I said, “and all from the same room.”
“Three. Yes, all equally unintelligible24. When men are murdered, the great and immediate25 difficulty the assassins encounter is how to conceal26 the body. It is very hard to believe that three persons should have been consecutively27 murdered in the same room, and their bodies so effectually disposed of that no trace of them was ever discovered.”
From this we passed to other topics, and the grave Monsieur Carmaignac amused us with a perfectly28 prodigious29 collection of scandalous anecdote30, which his opportunities in the police department had enabled him to accumulate.
My guests happily had engagements in Paris, and left me about ten.
I went up to my room, and looked out upon the grounds of the Chateau31 de la Carque. The moonlight was broken by clouds, and the view of the park in this desultory light acquired a melancholy32 and fantastic character.
The strange anecdotes33 recounted of the room in which I stood by Monsieur Carmaignac returned vaguely34 upon my mind, drowning in sudden shadows the gaiety of the more frivolous35 stories with which he had followed them. I looked round me on the room that lay in ominous36 gloom, with an almost disagreeable sensation. I took my pistols now with an undefined apprehension37 that they might be really needed before my return tonight. This feeling, be it understood, in no wise chilled my ardor38. Never had my enthusiasm mounted higher. My adventure absorbed and carried me away; but it added a strange and stern excitement to the expedition.
I loitered for a time in my room. I had ascertained39 the exact point at which the little churchyard lay. It was about a mile away. I did not wish to reach it earlier than necessary.
I stole quietly out and sauntered along the road to my left, and thence entered a narrower track, still to my left, which, skirting the park wall and describing a circuitous40 route all the way, under grand old trees, passes the ancient cemetery41. That cemetery is embowered in trees and occupies little more than half an acre of ground to the left of the road, interposing between it and the park of the Chateau de la Carque.
Here, at this haunted spot, I paused and listened. The place was utterly42 silent. A thick cloud had darkened the moon, so that I could distinguish little more than the outlines of near objects, and that vaguely enough; and sometimes, as it were, floating in black fog, the white surface of a tombstone emerged.
Among the forms that met my eye against the iron-grey of the horizon, were some of those shrubs43 or trees that grow like our junipers, some six feet high, in form like a miniature poplar, with the darker foliage44 of the yew45. I do not know the name of the plant, but I have often seen it in such funereal46 places.
Knowing that I was a little too early, I sat down upon the edge of a tombstone to wait, as, for aught I knew, the beautiful Countess might have wise reasons for not caring that I should enter the grounds of the chateau earlier than she had appointed. In the listless state induced by waiting, I sat there, with my eyes on the object straight before me, which chanced to be that faint black outline I have described. It was right before me, about half-a-dozen steps away.
The moon now began to escape from under the skirt of the cloud that had hid her face for so long; and, as the light gradually improved, the tree on which I had been lazily staring began to take a new shape. It was no longer a tree, but a man standing47 motionless. Brighter and brighter grew the moonlight, clearer and clearer the image became, and at last stood out perfectly distinctly. It was Colonel Gaillarde. Luckily, he was not looking toward me. I could only see him in profile; but there was no mistaking the white moustache, the farouche visage, and the gaunt six-foot stature48. There he was, his shoulder toward me, listening and watching, plainly, for some signal or person expected, straight in front of him.
If he were, by chance, to turn his eyes in my direction, I knew that I must reckon upon an instantaneous renewal49 of the combat only commenced in the hall of Belle50 étoile. In any case, could malignant51 fortune have posted, at this place and hour, a more dangerous watcher? What ecstasy52 to him, by a single discovery, to hit me so hard, and blast the Countess de St. Alyre, whom he seemed to hate.
He raised his arm; he whistled softly; I heard an answering whistle as low; and, to my relief, the Colonel advanced in the direction of this sound, widening the distance between us at every step; and immediately I heard talking, but in a low and cautious key. I recognized, I thought, even so, the peculiar53 voice of Gaillarde. I stole softly forward in the direction in which those sounds were audible. In doing so, I had, of course, to use the extremest caution.
I thought I saw a hat above a jagged piece of ruined wall, and then a second — yes, I saw two hats conversing54; the voices came from under them. They moved off, not in the direction of the park, but of the road, and I lay along the grass, peeping over a grave, as a skirmisher might observing the enemy. One after the other, the figures emerged full into view as they mounted the stile at the roadside. The Colonel, who was last, stood on the wall for awhile, looking about him, and then jumped down on the road. I heard their steps and talk as they moved away together, with their backs toward me, in the direction which led them farther and farther from the Dragon Volant.
I waited until these sounds were quite lost in distance before I entered the park. I followed the instructions I had received from the Countess de St. Alyre, and made my way among brushwood and thickets55 to the point nearest the ruinous temple, and crossed the short intervening space of open ground rapidly.
I was now once more under the gigantic boughs56 of the old lime and chestnut57 trees; softly, and with a heart throbbing58 fast, I approached the little structure.
The moon was now shining steadily59, pouring down its radiance on the soft foliage, and here and there mottling the verdure under my feet.
I reached the steps; I was among its worn marble shafts60. She was not there, nor in the inner sanctuary61, the arched windows of which were screened almost entirely62 by masses of ivy63. The lady had not yet arrived.
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1
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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7
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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9
modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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stockbroker
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| n.股票（或证券），经纪人（或机构） | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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21
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
abscond
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| v.潜逃，逃亡 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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34
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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41
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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42
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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43
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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44
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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45
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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46
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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47
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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48
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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49
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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50
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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51
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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52
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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53
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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54
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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55
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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56
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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57
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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59
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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60
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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61
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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62
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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63
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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