“A joke without consequences was all very well; but if M. d’Ionis inquires into the matter and summons me to declare upon my honor....”
“True! ’Tis only another worthless idea! Let us attempt no more to-day.” “La nuit porte conseil.” “To-morrow, perhaps, I shall at last be able to propose something practicable. It is getting late, and I hear the abbé Lamyre who is looking for us.”
The abbé Lamyre was a charming little man. Although fifty years old, he was still fresh and good-looking. He was kind, frivolous, witty, entertaining, full of fun, and in fact, held philosophical opinions, always agreeing with those whom he conversed with, for the question with him was not to persuade, but to please. He threw his arms around my neck, and heaped praises upon me which I esteemed at their proper value, as coming from one whom I knew lavished them upon everyone, but for which I was more thankful than usual, on account of the pleasure they seemed to afford Madame d’Ionis.
He praised my great talents as a lawyer and poet and forced me to recite some verses, which appeared to be relished more than they deserved. Madame d’Ionis, after having complimented me with an air of emotion and sincerity, left us together to attend to the cares of her household.
The abbé talked of a thousand things that did not interest me. I would have liked to be alone to indulge in a revery, to recall each word, each gesture of Madame d’Ionis; but the abbé attached himself to me, and told me numerous ingenious stories that I consigned to the devil. At last, the conversation assumed a lively interest for me, when it turned upon the burning ground of my relations with Madame d’Ionis.
“I know what brings you here,” said he, “she has already spoken to me about it. Without knowing the day of your visit, she was expecting you. Your father does not wish her to ruin herself, and, parbleu, he is very right. But he will not convince her, and you must either quarrel with her, or let her have her own way. If she believed in the green ladies, à la bonne heure, you might make them speak in her interest, but unfortunately she has no more faith in them than you or I!”
“Madame d’Ionis pretends however that you do believe in them, Monsieur l’abbé.”
“I? She told you that? Yes, yes, I know she treats her little friend as if he were a great coward! Sing the duo with her, I am not afraid of the green ladies, I do not believe in them; but there is certainly one thing that alarms me, it is having seen them.”
“How then do you reconcile such contradictory assertions?”
“Nothing more simple, either there are ghosts or there are none. I myself have seen them, and I have paid the penalty for knowing that they exist. Only I do not consider them malicious, I am not afraid of their injuring me, I was not born a coward, but I mistrust my brain which is composed of saltpetre. I know that shadows have no more power over bodies than bodies have over shadows, since I have held the sleeve of one of these young ladies without discovering any kind of arm. From that moment, which I shall never forget; and which has changed all my ideas about the things of this world and of the next, I have sworn to myself that never again would I put human weakness to such a test. I am not at all desirous of losing my reason. So much the worse for me if I have not sufficient moral strength to coolly and philosophically contemplate what passes my understanding; but why should I deceive myself? I began by trifling with myself, and laughingly summoned the ghost. The ghost appeared.—Bonjour! Once is enough for me, you won’t catch me in it another time.”