She was crazy for music, and to such lengths did she go in her madness that she even invited as her guests celebrated composers and singers.  The duke was old-fashioned and hated those crazy people who lived only to hum and strum.  He would have none of them, and quarrels with his duchess were of daily occurrence.  Indeed, sirs, so bad did it become that he swore that he would leave the house if Messire Gluck, or Messire Piccini, or any of the other strolling vagabonds—­so the duke called them—­entered his chateau.  And he kept his word, did the duke.  The Chevalier Gluck, a fine, shapely man, was invited down by the duchess and amused her and her guests by playing his wonderful tunes on the beautiful harpsichord in the great salon.

The duke would have none of this nonsense and went to Paris, where he amused himself gambling and throwing gold into his mistresses’ laps.  The duchess kept right on, and then the gossips of the neighbourhood began to wag their busy tongues.  The lady of the chateau was getting very fine pleasure from the company of the handsome Austrian chevalier.  It was whispered that the Queen Marie Antoinette had looked with favourable eyes upon the composer, and, furthermore, had lent him certain moneys to further his schemes for reforming the stage.

Reform, forsooth! all he cared for was the company of the duchess, and he vowed that he could make better music at the chateau than up in noisy Paris.  On a fine afternoon it is said that it was no uncommon sight to see the chevalier, all togged up in his bravest court costume, sword and all, sitting at his harpsichord, playing ravishing music.  This was out in the pretty little park back of the chateau, and the duchess would sit at Gluck’s side and pour out champagne for him.  All this may have been idle talk, but at last the duke got wind of the rumours, and one night he surprised the pair playing a duo at the harpsichord, and stabbed them both dead.

Since then the chateau was burned down, but the place has been haunted.  I, myself, good gentlemen, have heard ghostly music, and I swear to you—­

“Oh, my God, listen, listen!”

“What pagan nonsense!” blurted out Michael.

I cautioned silence, and we all listened.  The old man had slid off his chair, and his face was chalky white.  Michael’s ugly mouth was half opened in his black beard, and I confess that I felt rather chilly.

Music, faint, tinkling, we certainly heard.  It came with the wind in little sobs, and then silence settled upon us.

“It’s the Chevalier Gluck, and he is playing to his duchess out in the fields.  See, I will open the door and show you,” whispered the fat landlord.

He went slowly to the door, and we followed him breathlessly.  The door was pushed open, and we peered out.  The wind was still high, and the moon rode among rolling boulders of yellow, fleecy clouds.

“There, there, over yonder, look; Mother of Christ, look at the ghost!” the old man pointed a shaking hand.