“It has seen service in mortal quarrels,” said the Count, jocosely, “you will use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. Tomorrow, let me hear that there is not one ghost remaining in the château.”
Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. “You shall be obeyed, my Lord,” said he; “I will engage, that no spectre shall disturb the peace of the château after this night.”
They now returned to the supper-room, where the Count’s guests awaited to accompany him and Ludovico to the door of the north apartments, and Dorothée, being summoned for the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, who then led the way, followed by most of the inhabitants of the château. Having reached the back staircase, several of the servants shrunk back, and refused to go further, but the rest followed him to the top of the staircase, where a broad landing-place allowed them to flock round him, while he applied the key to the door, during which they watched him with as much eager curiosity as if he had been performing some magical rite.
Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothée, who had lingered far behind, was called forward, under whose hand the door opened slowly, and, her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, she uttered a sudden shriek, and retreated. At this signal of alarm, the greater part of the crowd hurried down the stairs, and the Count, Henri and Ludovico were left alone to pursue the enquiry, who instantly rushed into the apartment, Ludovico with a drawn sword, which he had just time to draw from the scabbard, the Count with the lamp in his hand, and Henri carrying a basket, containing provisions for the courageous adventurer.
Having looked hastily round the first room, where nothing appeared to justify alarm, they passed on to the second; and, here too all being quiet, they proceeded to a third with a more tempered step. The Count had now leisure to smile at the discomposure, into which he had been surprised, and to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass the night.
“There are several chambers beyond these, your Excellenza,” said Ludovico, pointing to a door, “and in one of them is a bed, they say. I will pass the night there, and when I am weary of watching, I can lie down.”
“Good;” said the Count; “let us go on. You see these rooms show nothing, but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been so much engaged since I came to the château, that I have not looked into them till now. Remember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, tomorrow, to throw open these windows. The damask hangings are dropping to pieces, I will have them taken down, and this antique furniture removed.”
“Dear sir!” said Henri, “here is an arm-chair so massy with gilding, that it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, more then anything else.”
“Yes,” said the Count, stopping a moment to survey it, “there is a history belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it.—Let us pass on. This suite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; it is many years since I was in them. But where is the bedroom you speak of, Ludovico?—these are only ante-chambers to the great drawing-room. I remember them in their splendour!”
“The bed, my Lord,” replied Ludovico, “they told me, was in a room that opens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite.”