“Christian,” he said, holding him back, “if you have any friendship for me, any deference for my rank, you will let me go first. M. Goefle believes that we shall find here decisive proofs of your rights, and you cannot testify in your own cause. Besides, beware! These proofs may be of a character to make you shrink back with horror.”
“I will support the sight of them,” replied Christian, made desperate by this thought, which was already his own. “I wish to know the truth, even if it should crush me. Go first, Osmund, it is your right; but I follow you; it is my duty.”
“No!” cried M. Goefle, who, together with the danneman and the lieutenant, had rapidly ascended the staircase behind the major, and who threw himself resolutely before the door. “You shall not pass, Christian! You shall not enter without my permission. You are violent, but I am obstinate. Will you lay your hand upon me?”
Christian drew back, vanquished. The major entered with M. Goefle; the lieutenant and the danneman remained on the threshold, between them and Christian.
The major took a few steps into this mysterious chamber, which was scarcely lighted at all by the glimmering of the candle brought by M. Goefle. It was a large room, finished with heavy wood-work, like the bear-room, but entirely empty, dilapidated, and a hundred times more lugubrious than that apartment. Suddenly the major drew back and lowered his voice, so as not to be heard by Christian, who was standing so near the entrance.
“Look!” he said to M. Goefle; “look there, on the floor!”
“It is true, then,” replied M. Goefle, in the same tone; “this, indeed, is horrible! Go on, major! courage! We must know all.”
They approached a human form, which was lying at the end of the room, the body bent forward and apparently kneeling, the head leaning against the wainscot, as far as they could judge; for it was almost entirely concealed by the black and dusty veil with which the whole form was enveloped.
“It is she! it is the phantom I beheld!” said M. Goefle, recognizing under this veil the gray robe, with its soiled and trailing ribbons. “It is the Baroness Hilda, dead, or a prisoner.”
“It is a living person,” said the major, as he raised the veil with a hand trembling with emotion; “but it is not the Baroness Hilda. This is a woman whom I know. Come here, Joë Bœtsoi! Come in, Christian. There is nothing here that you need fear to behold. It is only poor Karine, swooning or asleep.”