The Second Ghost Story Megapack

by Various Writers

  “Poor Jean! He will be glad, won’t he? What a dear fellow you are!”

  “Nonsense,” said I; “we need a gardener; you said so yourself, Lys.”

  But Lys leaned over and kissed me, and then bent down and hugged Môme—who whistled through his nose in sentimental appreciation.

  “I am a very happy woman,” said Lys.

  “Môme was a very bad dog to-day,” I observed.

  “Poor Môme!” said Lys, smiling.

  When dinner was over and Môme lay snoring before the blaze—for the October nights are often chilly in Finistere—Lys curled up in the chimney corner with her embroidery, and gave me a swift glance from under her dropping lashes.

  “You look like a schoolgirl, Lys,” I said teasingly. “I don’t believe you are sixteen yet.”

  She pushed back her heavy burnished hair thoughtfully. Her wrist was as white as surf foam.

  “Have we been married four years? I don’t believe it,” I said.

  She gave me another swift glance and touched the embroidery on her knee, smiling faintly.

  “I see,” said I, also smiling at the embroidered garment. “Do you think it will fit?”

  “Fit?” repeated Lys. Then she laughed.

  “And,” I persisted, “are you perfectly sure that you—er—we shall need it?”

  “Perfectly,” said Lys. A delicate color touched her cheeks and neck. She held up the little garment, all fluffy with misty lace and wrought with quaint embroidery.

  “It is very gorgeous,” said I; “don’t use your eyes too much, dearest. May I smoke a pipe?”

  “Of course,” she said selecting a skein of pale blue silk.

  For a while I sat and smoked in silence, watching her slender fingers among the tinted silks and thread of gold.

  Presently she spoke: “What did you say your crest is, Dick?”

  “My crest? Oh, something or other rampant on a something or other—”

  “Dick!”

  “Dearest?”

  “Don’t be flippant.”

  “But I really forget. It’s an ordinary crest; everybody in New York has them. No family should be without ’em.”

  “You are disagreeable, Dick. Send Josephine upstairs for my album.”

  “Are you going to put that crest on the—the—whatever it is?”

  “I am; and my own crest, too.”

  I thought of the Purple Emperor and wondered a little.

  “You didn’t know I had one, did you?” she smiled.

  “What is it?” I replied evasively.

  “You shall see. Ring for Josephine.”

  I rang, and, when ’Fine appeared, Lys gave her some orders in a low voice, and Josephine trotted away, bobbing her white-coiffed head with a “Bien, Madame!”

  After a few minutes she returned, bearing a tattered, musty volume, from which the gold and blue had mostly disappeared.

  I took the book in my hands and examined the ancient emblazoned covers.

  “Lilies!” I exclaimed.

  “Fleur-de-lis,” said my wife demurely.

  “Oh!” said I, astonished, and opened the book.

  “You have never before seen this book?” asked Lys, with a touch of malice in her eyes.

  “You know I haven’t. Hello! What’s this? Oho! So there should be a de before Trevec? Lys de Trevec? Then why in the world did the Purple Emperor—”

  “Dick!” cried Lys.

  “All right,” said I. “Shall I read about the Sieur de Trevec who rode to Saladin’s tent alone to seek for medicine for St. Louise? Or shall I read about—what is it? Oh, here it is, all down in black and white—about the Marquis de Trevec who drowned himself before Alva’s eyes rather than surrender the banner of the fleur-de-lis to Spain? It’s all written here. But, dear, how about that soldier named Trevec who was killed in the old fort on the cliff yonder?”

  “He dropped the de, and the Trevecs since then have been Republicans,” said Lys—“all except me.”

  “That’s quite right,” said I; “it is time that we Republicans should agree upon some feudal system. My dear, I drink to the king!” and I raised my wine glass and looked at Lys.

  “To the king,” said Lys, flushing. She smoothed out the tiny garment on her knees; she touched the glass with her lips; her eyes were very sweet. I drained the glass to the king.

  After a silence I said: “I will tell the king stories. His majesty shall be amused.”

  “His majesty,” repeated Lys softly.

  “Or hers,” I laughed. “Who knows?”

  “Who knows?” murmured Lys; with a gentle sigh.

  “I know some stories about Jack the Giant-Killer,” I announced. “Do you, Lys?”

  “I? No, not about a giant-killer, but I know all about the werewolf, and Jeanne-la-Flamme, and the Man in Purple Tatters, and—O dear me, I know lots more.”

  “You are very wise,” said I. “I shall teach his majesty, English.”

  “And I Breton,” cried Lys jealously.

  “I shall bring playthings to the king,” said I—“big green lizards from the gorse, little gray mullets to swim in glass globes, baby rabbits from the forest of Kerselec—”

  “And I,” said Lys, “will bring the first primrose, the first branch of aubepine, the first jonquil, to the king—my king.”

  “Our king,” said I; and there was peace in Finistere.

  I lay back, idly turning the leaves of the curious old volume.

  “I am looking,” said I, “for the crest.”

  “The crest, dear? It is a priest’s head with an arrow-shaped mark on the forehead, on a field—”

  I sat up and stared at my wife.

  “Dick, whatever is the matter?” she smiled. “The story is there in that book. Do you care to read it? No? Shall I tell it to you? Well, then: It happened in the third crusade. There was a monk whom men called the Black Priest. He turned apostate, and sold himself to the enemies of Christ. A Sieur de Trevec burst into the Saracen camp, at the head of only one hundred lances, and carried the Black Priest away out of the very midst of their army.”

  “So that is how you come by the crest,” I said quietly; but I thought of the branded skull in the gravel pit, and wondered.

  “Yes,” said Lys. “The Sieur de Trevec cut the Black Priest’s head off, but first he branded him with an arrow mark on the forehead. The book says it was a pious action, and the Sieur de Trevec got great merit by it. But I think it was cruel, the branding,” she sighed.

  “Did you ever hear of any other Black Priest?”

  “Yes. There was one in the last century, here in St. Gildas. He cast a white shadow in the sun. He wrote in the Breton language. Chronicles, too, I believe. I never saw them. His name was the same as that of the old chronicler, and of the other priest, Jacques Sorgue. Some said he was a lineal descendant of the traitor. Of course the first Black Priest was bad enough for anything. But if he did have a child, it need not have been the ancestor of the last Jacques Sorgue. They say he was so good he was not allowed to die, but was caught up to heaven one day,” added Lys, with believing eyes.

  I smiled.

  “But he disappeared,” persisted Lys.

  “I’m afraid his journey was in another direction,” I said jestingly, and thoughtlessly told her the story of the morning. I had utterly forgotten the masked man at her window, but before I finished I remembered him fast enough, and realized what I had done as I saw her face whiten.

  “Lys,” I urged tenderly, “that was only some clumsy clown’s trick. You said so yourself. You are not superstitious, my dear?”

  Her eyes were on mine. She slowly drew the little gold cross from her bosom and kissed it. But her lips trembled as they pressed the symbol of faith.

  III

  About nine o’clock the next morning I walked into the Groix Inn and sat down at the long discolored oaken table, nodding good-day to Marianne Bruyere, who in turn bobbed her white coiffe at me.

  “My clever Bannalec maid,�
� said I, “what is good for a stirrup-cup at the Groix Inn?”

  “Schist?” she inquired in Breton.

  “With a dash of red wine, then,” I replied.

  She brought the delicious Quimperle cider, and I poured a little Bordeaux into it. Marianne watched me with laughing black eyes.

  “What makes your cheeks so red, Marianne?” I asked. “Has Jean Marie been here?”

  “We are to be married, Monsieur Darrel,” she laughed.

  “Ah! Since when has Jean Marie Tregunc lost his head?”

  “His head? Oh, Monsieur Darrel—his heart, you mean!”

  “So I do,” said I. “Jean Marie is a practical fellow.”

  “It is all due to your kindness—” began the girl, but I raised my hand and held up the glass.

  “It’s due to himself. To your happiness, Marianne”; and I took a hearty draught of the schist. “Now,” said I, “tell me where I can find Le Bihan and Max Fortin.”

  “Monsieur Le Bihan and Monsieur Fortin are above in the broad room. I believe they are examining the Red Admiral’s effects.”

  “To send them to Paris? Oh, I know. May I go up, Marianne?”

  “And God go with you,” smiled the girl.

  When I knocked at the door of the broad room above little Max Fortin opened it. Dust covered his spectacles and nose; his hat, with the tiny velvet ribbons fluttering, was all awry.

  “Come in, Monsieur Darrel,” he said; “the mayor and I are packing up the effects of the Purple Emperor and of the poor Red Admiral.”

  “The collections?” I asked, entering the room. “You must be very careful in packing those butterfly cases; the slightest jar might break wings and antennas, you know.”

  Le Bihan shook hands with me and pointed to the great pile of boxes.

  “They’re all cork lined,” he said, “but Fortin and I are putting felt around each box. The Entomological Society of Paris pays the freight.”

  The combined collection of the Red Admiral and the Purple Emperor made a magnificent display.

  I lifted and inspected case after case set with gorgeous butterflies and moths, each specimen carefully labelled with the name in Latin. There were cases filled with crimson tiger moths all aflame with color; cases devoted to the common yellow butterflies; symphonies in orange and pale yellow; cases of soft gray and dun-colored sphinx moths; and cases of grayish nettle-bed butterflies of the numerous family of Vanessa.

  All alone in a great case by itself was pinned the purple emperor, the Apatura Iris, that fatal specimen that had given the Purple Emperor his name and quietus.

  I remembered the butterfly, and stood looking at it with bent eyebrows.

  Le Bihan glanced up from the floor where he was nailing down the lid of a box full of cases.

  “It is settled, then,” said he, “that madame, your wife, gives the Purple Emperor’s entire Collection to the city of Paris?”

  I nodded.

  “Without accepting anything for it?”

  “It is a gift,” I said.

  “Including the purple emperor there in the case? That butterfly is worth a great deal of money,” persisted Le Bihan.

  “You don’t suppose that we would wish to sell that specimen, do you?” I answered a trifle sharply.

  “If I were you I should destroy it,” said the mayor in his high-pitched voice.

  “That would be nonsense,” said I, “like your burying the brass cylinder and scroll yesterday.”

  “It was not nonsense,” said Le Bihan doggedly, “and I should prefer not to discuss the subject of the scroll.”

  I looked at Max Portin, who immediately avoided my eyes.

  “You are a pair of superstitious old women,” said I, digging my hands into my pockets; “you swallow every nursery tale that is invented.”

  “What of it?” said Le Bihan sulkily; “there’s more truth than lies in most of ’em.”

  “Oh!” I sneered, “does the Mayor of St. Gildas and St. Julien believe in the loup-garou?”

  “No, not in the loup-garou.”

  “In what, then—Jeanne-la-Flamme?”

  “That,” said Le Bihan with conviction, “is history.”

  “The devil it is!” said I; “and perhaps, Monsieur the mayor, your faith in giants is unimpaired?”

  “There were giants—everybody knows it,” growled Max Fortin.

  “And you a chemist!” I observed scornfully.

  “Listen, Monsieur Darrel,” squeaked Le Bihan; “you know yourself that the Purple Emperor was a scientific man. Now suppose I should tell you that he always refused to include in his collection a Death’s Messenger?”

  “A what?” I exclaimed.

  “You know what I mean—that moth that flies by night; some call it the Death’s Head, but in St. Gildas we call it ‘Death’s Messenger.’”

  “Oh!” said I, “you mean that big sphinx moth that is commonly known as the ‘death’s-head moth.’ Why the mischief should the people here call it death’s messenger?”

  “For hundreds of years it has been known as death’s messenger in St. Gildas,” said Max Fortin. “Even Froissart speaks of it in his commentaries on Jacques Sorgue’s Chronicles. The book is in your library.”

  “Sorgue? And who was Jacques Sorgue? I never read his book.”

  “Jacques Sorgue was the son of some unfrocked priest—I forget. It was during the crusades.”

  “Good Heavens!” I burst out, “I’ve been hearing of nothing but crusades and priests and death and sorcery ever since I kicked that skull into the gravel pit, and I am tired of it, I tell you frankly. One would think we lived in the dark ages. Do you know what year of our Lord it is, Le Bihan?”

  “Eighteen hundred and ninety-six,” replied the mayor.

  “And yet you two hulking men are afraid of a death’s-head moth.”

  “I don’t care to have one fly into the window,” said Max Fortin; “it means evil to the house and the people in it.”

  “God alone knows why he marked one of his creatures with a yellow death’s head on the back,” observed Le Bihan piously, “but I take it that he meant it as a warning; and I propose to profit by it,” he added triumphantly.

  “See here, Le Bihan,” I said; “by a stretch of imagination one can make out a skull on the thorax of a certain big sphinx moth. What of it?”

  “It is a bad thing to touch,” said the mayor wagging his head.

  “It squeaks when handled,” added Max Fortin.

  “Some creatures squeak all the time,” I observed, looking hard at Le Bihan.

  “Pigs,” added the mayor.

  “Yes, and asses,” I replied. “Listen, Le Bihan: do you mean to tell me that you saw that skull roll uphill yesterday?”

  The mayor shut his mouth tightly and picked up his hammer.

  “Don’t be obstinate,” I said; “I asked you a question.”

  “And I refuse to answer,” snapped Le Bihan. “Fortin saw what I saw; let him talk about it.”

  I looked searchingly at the little chemist.

  “I don’t say that I saw it actually roll up out of the pit, all by itself,” said Fortin with a shiver, “but—but then, how did it come up out of the pit, if it didn’t roll up all by itself?”

  “It didn’t come up at all; that was a yellow cobblestone that you mistook for the skull again,” I replied. “You were nervous, Max.”

  “A—a very curious cobblestone, Monsieur Darrel,” said Fortin.

  “I also was a victim to the same hallucination,” I continued, “and I regret to say that I took the trouble to roll two innocent cobblestones into the gravel pit, imagining each time that it was the skull I was rolling.”

  “It was,” observed Le Bihan with a morose shrug.

  “It just shows,” said I, ignoring the mayor’s remark, “how easy it is to fix up a train of coincidences so that the result seems to savor of the supernatural. Now, last night my wife imagined that she saw a priest in a mask peer in at her window—”


  Fortin and Le Bihan scrambled hastily from their knees, dropping hammer and nails.

  “W-h-a-t—what’s that?” demanded the mayor.

  I repeated what I had said. Max Fortin turned livid.

  “My God!” muttered Le Bihan, “the Black Priest is in St. Gildas!”

  “D-don’t you—you know the old prophecy?” stammered Fortin; “Froissart quotes it from Jacques Sorgue:

  “‘When the Black Priest rises from the dead,

  St. Gildas folk shall shriek in bed;

  When the Black Priest rises from his grave,

  May the good God St. Gildas save!’”

  “Aristide Le Bihan,” I said angrily, “and you, Max Fortin, I’ve got enough of this nonsense! Some foolish lout from Bannalec has been in St. Gildas playing tricks to frighten old fools like you. If you have nothing better to talk about than nursery legends I’ll wait until you come to your senses. Good-morning.” And I walked out, more disturbed than I cared to acknowledge to myself.

  The day had become misty and overcast. Heavy, wet clouds hung in the east. I heard the surf thundering against the cliffs, and the gray gulls squealed as they tossed and turned high in the sky. The tide was creeping across the river sands, higher, higher, and I saw the seaweed floating on the beach, and the lancons springing from the foam, silvery threadlike flashes in the gloom. Curlew were flying up the river in twos and threes; the timid sea swallows skimmed across the moors toward some quiet, lonely pool, safe from the coming tempest. In every hedge field birds were gathering, huddling together, twittering restlessly.

  When I reached the cliffs I sat down, resting my chin on my clenched hands. Already a vast curtain of rain, sweeping across the ocean miles away, hid the island of Groix. To the east, behind the white semaphore on the hills, black clouds crowded up over the horizon. After a little the thunder boomed, dull, distant, and slender skeins of lightning unraveled across the crest of the coming storm. Under the cliff at my feet the surf rushed foaming over the shore, and the lancons jumped and skipped and quivered until they seemed to be but the reflections of the meshed lightning.

  I turned to the east. It was raining over Groix, it was raining at Sainte Barbe, it was raining now at the semaphore. High in the storm whirl a few gulls pitched; a nearer cloud trailed veils of rain in its wake; the sky was spattered with lightning; the thunder boomed.