His dream, which was near being realized, was to leave this marvelous part of the country and go and bury himself in Sologne, in the wilderness where he had been born.
The reason he had not done so was because Madame Gerard, to whom he had paid silent court for the past ten years, but to whom he had not spoken of his plans until two months ago, had no wish whatever to leave Touraine.
With the savings that his industrious habits had brought him, he had already purchased a little property which was waiting for them down there. He had always believed that the gendarme would not live very long, as he was too frequent a visitor at the wine shop, and he had also believed that his widow would not mourn very long for him, because he used to beat her as if she were made of plaster. But he, Druine, was kind and good and patient. She would be happy with him. She knew it.
When Christine and Jacques arrived at his house, he was sitting at the table before his porringer, in a very thoughtful frame of mind. He got up and left his portion of bacon.
With his horselike hair, his ivory skin, his thickset limbs, and his shoulders — bent from incessant toil — he might have been taken for a brutish creature, if it were not for his eyes, eyes of Marie blue which shone with a look of kindness and frankness. At forty, he still had the angelic look of a boy chorister in the chancel.
Yet, he was neither timid nor clumsy. He at once brought forward two chairs and inquired if they had seen Sangor, and if they knew whether Sangor had carried out the orders of the marquis.
“We have seen him,” replied Christine, “but we have not yet spoken with him. What did the marquis want him to do?”
“The marquis went off very hurriedly,” stated Druine, shaking his head, “and he did not have time to tell you that you could remain at the castle as long as you liked — sleep there and be served there the same as if he were at home. Sangor and I are at your service.”
“We had intended to return this same day,” interrupted Jacques.
“But we will avail ourselves of the marquis’s kindness,” finished Christine.
“If you absolutely wish to stay some days at Coulteray, Christine,” said the doctor, “let us go to the inn. It will be gayer down there than alone here in this empty castle.”
“I have not come here to be gay,” said Christine, sadly. Then, taking Jacques’s hand, as though to ask pardon for this somewhat sharp reply, she added: “I have come to mourn a friend.”
“Mademoiselle, the marchioness was very fond of you,” said Druine with a sigh.
“Tell us about her,” said Christine in a low voice: “you must tell us all. We are prepared to hear all. She mentioned you in all her letters to me. She trusted you implicitly. This affair is so extraordinary. But we were wrong not to have believed her. That wretch deceived every one.”
“I know nothing about it,” declared Druine.
Christine looked at him in amazement.
“You know, mademoiselle,” Druine tranquilly continued, “I have never given much attention to the stories in this part of the country. I am from Sologne. Down there we are hard headed. My mother was a servant to the priest. I served at mass when I was seven years old. I only believe in the catechism. This story of the vampire is a fairy tale. See here! There is a woman here who is not wicked, only a bit of a gossip; you saw her roughly chased away this afternoon by the marquis — it’s Madame Gerard. Well, perhaps Madame Gerard told this story too often to Madame, the Marchioness, whose brain, between ourselves, was none too strong.
“I, myself, never contradicted her, no matter what she said. I was the only one who was ready to listen to her when she came, on the quiet, moaning and whining in the chapel or at the sacristy. I said to her: ‘Yes, Madame, the Marchioness. Yes, Madame, the Marchioness.’ But I pitied her.
“A vampire! You have never seen a vampire, have you? I’ve been sexton of this cemetery for the past fifteen years. Well, vampire or not, I’ve never seen a dead person come out of their hole, once they have been put in. You will have to wait until the Judgment Day for that.”
“What this man says is good common sense!” said Jacques.
Christine turned to him sharply.
“But all the same,” she said, “we have proof of the marquis’s infamy. The proof of his crime. Everything is there and you know it, Jacques. Your attitude pains me more than I can say.”
“What proof?” demanded Druine.
“Well, the hole, the hole in the wall of his room. Did she never speak to you of it?”
“Yes; yes. She spoke to me of it. That hole doesn’t date from yesterday. I have seen it.”
“Neither does Georges-Marie-Vincent date from yesterday, if one believes the legend,” retorted Christine.
“Come, come! Have you gone mad, too, Christine?” cried Jacques.
“And that pistol that you sent us,” demanded Christine of Druine. “Do you know what it is? Can you explain it?”
“Christine, Christine,” begged Jacques, “be quiet; I beg of you to be quiet. First of all, we are not sure of everything. And then, at this moment you forget” — he had taken her hands and was pressing them strongly, but she did not defend herself from him— “you forget that we have something else to do without occupying ourselves with the dead.”
She made no reply, but began to cry.
Either because of duties which required his attention, or from discretion, Druine went out at this moment, without saying a word. And Jacques, at once, began to try to calm Christine who was becoming more and more nervous.
“My darling,” he said, “I agree with all you say. The marquis is a monster, and the marchioness a martyr. You know that as long as there was any hope of saving her, I was the first to want you to act, but now I implore you to let us turn from all this which you don’t know very much about. Forget this tragedy of Coulteray as we must forget the one at Corbillieres. There was a time when you would not have needed so much persuasion. Let us once more think only of Gabriel.”
She suddenly dried her tears.
“You wish that?” she inquired. “Then, it shall be as you wish, but,” she continued in a dull voice, “perhaps it will be terrible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, now, you ask too much of me.”
“But I am not asking you to return at this moment to Paris.”
“Then we can wait here.”
He could not restrain a movement of impatience. She was certainly making sport of him. But he did not have time to show his bad humor. An odd noise came to them from the outside — like some one running and being pursued, accompanied by piercing little cries like those of a bird chased by a hunter. Druine, like a man gone crazy, was dodging from tomb to tomb after a form which ran away whining, finally disappearing behind the chapel.
CHAPTER XL
THE NEW VAMPIRE
THEY JOINED THE sexton just as he was shaking his fists at a little grimacing creature, who very nimbly leaped over the wall in one bound and then did a curious pirouette.
“It’s Shing-shing,” said Christine.
“Yes, Shing-shing,” agreed Druine, wiping his forehead; “he doesn’t give me a minute’s peace. I caught him listening behind the door. Sangor sends him to me. I wanted to give him a good beating for all the trouble he has caused me since they came here. It’s all because of that little imp that the marchioness took ill.”
“I’d like to say a word to you about Sangor, Druine,” said Christine, giving the sexton a significant look.
“I shouldn’t doubt it,” replied Druine; “follow me; we can talk better in the vestry room.”
When they were there with the door closed, Christine spoke. She did not take her eyes off Druine, who seemed to be quite busy arranging some priestly garments of the fifteenth century in an old wardrobe which filled the entire end of the room.
“Druine, the marchioness had some beautiful jewels, which, I know, she disposed of before her death.”
“Here they are,” said Druine, without the sli
ghtest sign of embarrassment.
And from out the wardrobe he took an old carved walnut coffer, which was locked. He opened it and drew out some wonderful broodies of various designs, of chased gold and enamel, Italian work of the sixteenth century, which would have added lustre to any collection. But these were nothing beside a diadem of gold filigree, which was enriched by jeweled plaques of queer design and fastened with two diamonds, as large as small nuts.
“These are family jewels, which were her own property,” remarked Christine; “she often showed them to me. She had a right to give them to whom she pleased, so you may reply to me without embarrassment, Druine. The marchioness gave her pearl necklace to Sangor, just as she gave you these marvelous jewels.”
“She did give them to me,” declared Druine, “and here is the paper which proves it,” saying which he handed her a document which he drew out of the coffer.
Christine read: “I give these jewels” — a list of the jewels followed— “to Jean Joseph Druine, guardian of the chapel of Coulteray, who is charged with the responsibility of watching over the repose of my soul.”
“That’s all right,” said the young girl, folding the paper and returning it to Druine; “and now, Druine, tell us, in what way did the marchioness expect you to watch over the repose of her soul?”
Druine replaced the jewels and the paper in the coffer, placed the coffer in the wardrobe, locked this latter, then said:
“That is my business.”
“It is also mine,” declared Christine; “it is also mine, Druine, and that is why I have come here. I know what the marchioness desired. I know the arrangements which she made with Sangor. She wrote me some days before she died that she had not only made an agreement with Sangor, but with you. Speak then, Druine; you must.”
“What is it that you wish me to tell you?”
“I want to know if the last wishes of the marchioness have been carried out.”
“The last wishes of the marchioness, mademoiselle, were that I should give this diadem to Sangor when she was dead.”
“And when he had cut off her head,” exclaimed Christine.
“As for the brooches,” continued the sexton, without movement, “they are all for me.”
“Keep them all, Druine, but let no one touch the poor remains of my friend. She has been tortured enough in life, and should be allowed to rest free from molestation.”
“I will not keep them all, mademoiselle. I shall give them to Sangor, so that he may go away quickly, so that we may never see him again. I know him well enough. He will be quite satisfied. And my poor mistress shall sleep in peace, her person intact, as an honest Christian should, in the quiet of her grave, on the honor of Druine.”
“You are a good man, my friend.”
“Yes, mademoiselle. But you gave me quite a fright. For a moment I believed that you had come, you also, to kill this new vampire.”
“Let us go and pray for her, Druine.”
CHAPTER XLI
GLIDING LIKE A GHOST
CHRISTINE WISHED TO pass the night at the château, so the first floor of the north wing was put at the disposal of the young people — two bedrooms, separated by a drawing room, which had in days gone by been the private apartment of Catherine de Medici, and which Louis-Jean-Marie-Chrysostome, finding the taste of those days particularly doleful had redecorated and reserved for his most distinguished guests.
We cannot say whether the rococo furnishings of these rooms, which in days gone by had had a character of their own — before they had been disguised in their present manner — presented to the eye a more cheerful, or, as they were beginning to say, “comfortable aspect,” but we may be allowed to say that, for the guests of our day, nothing is more annoying than all these floral decorations, these palm branches, and these plaster wall pieces, which crumble and fall off in the dust; than all these wreaths stuck up on the walls of the room — nothing seems to be in such bad taste, so ridiculous, as this gilded tinsel, which looks like the stuff used at a carnival the day after it has been soaked by a rainstorm.
“Oh, for the four whitewashed walls of a room at the inn,” sighed Jacques.
The very thought that they would have to dine in these rooms caused the doctor to make such a wry face that Christine took pity on him.
“Let us go and have our meals at the inn,” she said, “if it would give you such great pleasure. Rest assured that I don’t find it any more amusing than you to stay here. But I shall not leave Coulteray before Sangor, and you know why. With these Hindus you may expect anything the moment superstition enters into the matter.”
“I have confidence in the virtue of the marchioness’s jewels,” remarked Jacques with a smile.
“May the marchioness forgive us!”
On going down they were agreeably surprised to find Sangor and Shing-shing in the courtyard. They were climbing into a carry-all and carrying their meagre luggage.
Sangor saluted them with dignity, and Shing-shing, who was hanging from a wheel like a little monkey, whined out a farewell as they got under way. Then they disappeared.
Druine was keeping a watchful eye on them. “That’s over,” he said; “there was not the slightest difficulty. He had brought a sword. He made me a present of it. I gave him all the jewels. Pleasant journey to them.”
Christine sighed and repeated:
“May the marchioness forgive us!”
They were standing opposite the garage and Christine suddenly caught sight of the last car that was left there. She had at some time seen it in Paris at the Coulteray mansion. It was the machine which was frequently used for the marchioness, when she was taken out to drive in the Bois or in the suburbs. She went over and looked at it closely.
It was a strong limousine with a solid body, and the interior was well upholstered. Christine examined the door and the windows. Jacques understood her motive, and he also examined it carefully. Near the chauffeur’s seat they found a little button which, when pressed, would cause the shutters to close automatically, and the machine was instantly transformed into a hermetically closed cage.
Druine watched them examine the car.
“Was it this machine that she arrived in when she came from Paris?” asked Jacques.
“Yes,” replied Druine; “poor woman!”
“What a martyr!” sighed Christine.
“The Heavenly Father has had pity on her,” replied Druine, nodding his head; “now she’s quite tranquil.”
When Jacques and Christine reached the Fairy Grotto Inn they were surprised at the general air of cheerfulness which reigned there. They did not know the customs of the country, or understood that there is nothing which gives such an appetite, or a thirst, as a funeral. By a natural inclination of the mind, the living compare themselves with the dead, whom they have just taken to their last resting place, and, inwardly congratulating themselves that they are still able to enjoy the good things of life, hasten to enjoy them all the more, since the example so recently before their own tearful eyes has made them unconsciously measure the shortness of life.
A feast had been going on since the funeral ceremony. Some had risen from the table to have a game of billiards, returning in a short time to continue their meals, which seemed to have no end. The servants, doubled for the occasion, were on edge. Madame Gerard was serving as an extra hand. Some jokes were passed on what had occurred that day, when the gesture of the marquis had made her run away. “That would teach her not to carry stories about the vampire,” some one remarked.
They wanted to make her drink.
“Let us drink to the vampire’s health, Mother Gerard. Drink, if you don’t want her to come and pull you by the feet.”
But she made no reply. Her face was stubborn, her teeth clenched, and there was an angry look in her eye.
“Don’t tease her any more,” some one said at last; “she’s beginning to show the evil eye.”
And as they believed in the evil eye at Coulteray, they left her alone and b
egan to sing old folk songs.
“They’ll keep this up until to-morrow,” said Jacques to Christine, when they had finished dining in a corner of the arbor. “You were right in accepting the marquis’s hospitality. Here we should not have closed our eyes.”
They returned to the château, kissed, and wished each other good night. Jacques went to bed and fell asleep at once.
But Christine did not go to bed. She sank into an armchair. She was very thoughtful.
The window was still open. A moonlit landscape stretched before her with a great sweep. It was very beautiful. The structure of the château threw its jagged shadow on the deserted earth in silence — there was no disturbing sound.
Beyond that ran, like a long black chasm, the lines of staves which separated the court of honor from the bailiwick; the bailiwick itself spread out like a broad white table with the cemetery — crosses all turned up or bent over, some stones moss grown, while others reflected the moonlight like glass on the other side of the little stone wall; while the elegant chapel of fourteenth century architecture, in which slept forever the remains of Annie Elizabeth, threw its silhouette over all.
How long did Christine remain there dreaming? Dreaming of what?
Suddenly she started. Down in the valley the old Roman Church of Coulteray rang out the twelve strokes of midnight.
Christine got up, closed the window, for she was cold, and began to undress.
She returned to the window to pull the curtain, but she uttered a stifled exclamation, and clung to the wall to prevent herself from falling.
She had seen, distinctly seen, down there between the tombs in the cemetery, a white form, absolutely white, which glided, moving here and there, with the swiftness of a ghost.
This wavering, indistinct form, which seemed to cross the moonrays like a crystal, made the round of the chapel, and disappeared in the direction of Druine’s abode.
Christine tried to call out, but she could not. No sound came from her throat. Terror, dominating her senses and her organs, rooted her to the spot and crushed her against the corner of the wall and the window. And then suddenly she slipped, her limbs sank from under her, her head struck the floor brusquely. The physical pain gave her back the strength which she needed to cry out. She called for Jacques desperately, dismally, dully, in a voice that sounded like the rattle of a drowning woman.
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