The Room in the Dragon Volant

by him as a messenger. He stated that about half-past twelve o’clock, on the same night⁠—upon which you are to observe, there was a brilliant moon⁠—he was sent, his mother having been suddenly taken ill, for the sage femme who lived within a stone’s throw of the Dragon Volant. His father’s house, from which he started, was a mile away, or more, from that inn, in order to reach which he had to pass round the park of the Château de la Carque, at the site most remote from the point to which he was going. It passes the old churchyard of St. Aubin, which is separated from the road only by a very low fence, and two or three enormous old trees. The boy was a little nervous as he approached this ancient cemetery; and, under the bright moonlight, he saw a man whom he distinctly recognised as the Count, whom they designated by a sobriquet which means ‘the man of smiles.’ He was looking rueful enough now, and was seated on the side of a tombstone, on which he had laid a pistol, while he was ramming home the charge of another.

“The boy got cautiously by, on tiptoe, with his eyes all the time on the Count Château Blassemare, or the man he mistook for him; his dress was not what he usually wore, but the witness swore that he could not be mistaken as to his identity. He said his face looked grave and stern; but though he did not smile, it was the same face he knew so well. Nothing would make him swerve from that. If that were he, it was the last time he was seen. He has never been heard of since. Nothing could be heard of him in the neighbourhood of Rouen. There has been no evidence of his death; and there is no sign that he is living.”

“That certainly is a most singular case,” I replied; and was about to ask a question or two, when Tom Whistlewick who, without my observing it, had been taking a ramble, returned, a great deal more awake, and a great deal less tipsy.

“I say, Carmaignac, it is getting late, and I must go; I really must, for the reason I told you⁠—and, Beckett, we must soon meet again.”

“I regret very much, Monsieur, my not being able at present to relate to you the other case, that of another tenant of the very same room⁠—a case more mysterious and sinister than the last⁠—and which occurred in the autumn of the same year.”

“Will you both do a very good-natured thing, and come and dine with me at the Dragon Volant tomorrow?”

So, as we pursued our way along the Galerie des Glaces, I extracted their promise.

“By Jove!” said Whistlewick, when this was done; “look at that pagoda, or sedan chair, or whatever it is, just where those fellows set it down, and not one of them near it! I can’t imagine how they tell fortunes so devilish well. Jack Nuffles⁠—I met him here tonight⁠—says they are gipsies⁠—where are they, I wonder? I’ll go over and have a peep at the prophet.”

I saw him plucking at the blinds, which were constructed something on the principle of Venetian blinds; the red curtains were inside; but they did not yield, and he could only peep under one that did not come quite down.

When he rejoined us, he related: “I could scarcely see the old fellow, it’s so dark. He is covered with gold and red, and has an embroidered hat on like a mandarin’s; he’s fast asleep; and, by Jove, he smells like a polecat! It’s worth going over only to have it to say. Fiew! pooh! oh! It is a perfume. Faugh!”

Not caring to accept this tempting invitation, we got along slowly toward the door. I bid them good night, reminding them of their promise. And so found my way at last to my carriage; and was soon rolling slowly toward the Dragon Volant, on the loneliest of roads, under old trees, and the soft moonlight.

What a number of things had happened within the last two hours! what a variety of strange and vivid pictures were crowded together in that brief space! What an adventure was before me!

The silent, moonlighted, solitary road, how it contrasted with the many-eddied whirl of pleasure from whose roar and music, lights, diamonds and colours, I had just extricated myself.

The sight of lonely Nature at such an hour, acts like a sudden sedative. The madness and guilt of my pursuit struck me with a momentary compunction and horror. I wished I had never entered the labyrinth which was leading me, I knew not whither. It was too late to think of that now; but the bitter was already stealing into my cup; and vague anticipations lay, for a few minutes, heavy on my heart. It would not have taken much to make me disclose my unmanly state of mind to my lively friend, Alfred Ogle, nor even to the milder ridicule of the agreeable Tom Whistlewick.

XVI

The Parc of the Château de la Carque

There was no danger of the Dragon Volant’s closing its doors on that occasion till three or four in the morning. There were quartered there many servants of great people, whose masters would not leave the ball till the last moment, and who could not return to their corners in the Dragon Volant, till their last services had been rendered.

I knew, therefore, I should have ample time for my mysterious excursion without exciting curiosity by being shut out.

And now we pulled up under the canopy of boughs, before the sign of the Dragon Volant, and the light that shone from its hall-door.

I dismissed my carriage, ran up the broad staircase, mask in hand, with my domino fluttering about me, and entered the large bedroom. The black wainscoting and stately furniture, with the dark curtains of the very tall bed, made the