“Monsieur, tell me them.”
“I desire no better, and intend no less.
You know the legend of this house and garden?”
“I know it. Yes. They say that hundreds
of years ago a nun was buried here alive at the foot
of this very tree, beneath the ground which now bears
us.”
“And that in former days a nun’s ghost
used to come and go here.”
“Monsieur, what if it comes and goes here still?”
“Something comes and goes here: there is
a shape frequenting this house by night, different
to any forms that show themselves by day. I have
indisputably seen a something, more than once; and
to me its conventual weeds were a strange sight, saying
more than they can do to any other living being.
A nun!”
“Monsieur, I, too, have seen it.”
“I anticipated that. Whether this nun be
flesh and blood, or something that remains when blood
is dried, and flesh is wasted, her business is as
much with you as with me, probably. Well, I mean
to make it out; it has baffled me so far, but I mean
to follow up the mystery. I mean—”
Instead of telling what he meant, he raised his head
suddenly; I made the same movement in the same instant;
we both looked to one point— the high tree
shadowing the great berceau, and resting some of its
boughs on the roof of the first classe. There
had been a strange and inexplicable sound from that
quarter, as if the arms of that tree had swayed of
their own motion, and its weight of foliage had rushed
and crushed against the massive trunk. Yes; there
scarce stirred a breeze, and that heavy tree was convulsed,
whilst the feathery shrubs stood still. For some
minutes amongst the wood and leafage a rending and
heaving went on. Dark as it was, it seemed to
me that something more solid than either night-shadow,
or branch-shadow, blackened out of the boles.
At last the struggle ceased. What birth succeeded
this travail? What Dryad was born of these throes?
We watched fixedly. A sudden bell rang in the
house—the prayer-bell. Instantly into
our alley there came, out of the berceau, an apparition,
all black and white. With a sort of angry rush-close,
close past our faces—swept swiftly the very
NUN herself! Never had I seen her so clearly.
She looked tall of stature, and fierce of gesture.
As she went, the wind rose sobbing; the rain poured
wild and cold; the whole night seemed to feel her.
THE FIRST LETTER.
Where, it becomes time to inquire, was Paulina Mary?
How fared my intercourse with the sumptuous Hotel
Crecy? That intercourse had, for an interval,
been suspended by absence; M. and Miss de Bassompierre
had been travelling, dividing some weeks between the
provinces and capital of France. Chance apprised
me of their return very shortly after it took place.
