“I went up stairs into the enormous banquetting hall, where in the olden time, had often been heard sounds of uproarious conviviality, the coarse jest, and loud song, and shone beauty’s gentle presence; but it was now silent and deserted; cobwebs wandered unmolested on its walls; and the rich crimson drapery of the window curtains was thick with dust,—the result of years of neglect. No one was here either; and I began to conclude that I had in truth come to the abode of death, when suddenly recollecting the day of the month, I remembered that it was the annual holiday, on which servants had permission to visit the village for the day. This explained their absence; but where was Lelia, my father, and step-mother? Had they deserted the house; or were they all dead? I began to feel infected with superstitious gloom. I went up the grand staircase, and sought the different bed chambers of the family. They were tenantless. In Lelia’s, several articles of wearing apparel lay scattered about, and a miniature of our mother—an exquisite painting set in gold, and adorned with pearls and emeralds—was lying on her toilet table, entangled with other trinkets, as if thrown down in haste; but the presiding nymph of the boudoir was not there.
“As I stood in the centre of the room staring around me, and wondering what had become of them all;—as I stood thus, a wild shriek of fear, revenge, agony, despair,—it sounded like a compendium of all these emotions—burst startlingly upon my ears. Amazed, I listened intently. I heard no more: all was still, save the flapping of the venetian blinds, as they swung to and fro in the wind, and the mournful cooing of the doves. A curse seemed to have come and laid its blight and ban upon this unhappy domicile. The living appeared to have deserted it;—perhaps celestials, mayhap demons, had substituted themselves in their place. I determined to ascertain what that strange sound meant, and directed my steps to the quarter whence I thought it proceeded.
“I had forgotten to look in my step-mother’s drawing room. It was on the same floor with Lelia’s room. The scream seemed to have come from there. Thither I went. As I neared the door, I heard a low hissing laugh. The house must be haunted. Surely devils were here. Three steps brought me full before the open door, and, oh, great God! I saw a sight that froze my heart with horror!”
Monsieur de Serval here started to his feet, as if he still beheld what he described. He stared wildly before him a moment; then recovering himself sat down, and continued:
“Yes, there, in the middle of the room, stood the accursed priest, Father Ignatius; his arms folded, and sinister features expanded into a demoniacal smile. Yes, he who hastened my mother’s death, was there; and he now contemplated with the eyes of cold contempt, the death agonies of two other unhappy beings.”
“Who were they?” I suddenly demanded, breaking in upon the thread of the narrative.
“My miserable father and his wife. She lay stretched upon the floor, the red life-blood gushing in torrents from a deep wound in her neck; and she shook her clenched fists in impotent revenge at her husband and murderer. Her face, hands, and hair were smeared with blood, and with the energy of death and despair, she muttered curses on his head.
“And he, unhappy being, I could not help feeling some pity for him;—he was my father. In him life seemed quite extinct. He had fallen on a sofa, and lay to all appearance dead: his gray hair fallen back from his death-pale countenance, and his arms hanging listlessly down from his side; marks of blood were also on his person.
“Horror-struck I gazed. This was my welcome home. Then animated by a strange desire to add a third to this goblin group, and kill that vile priest, I strode up to him, and seized him by the arms.
“‘Vile, degraded wretch,’ I cried, ‘and is it you who has done this? Have you added downright murder to the indirect means you used to accomplish my mother’s death? Say, say!’ I gasped, ‘is it your deed?’