I was beginning to wonder if it would be possible for me to fulfil my contract should the lady of the house consent to share her roof with me, when I heard a child’s clear, joyous laugh. It was a sound of heavenly music to me just then, and effectually dispersed the gruesome mist which was fast enveloping my reason. The desolation of the place, and the ghastly images which threatened nightmare, could only be accidental, I wisely concluded, if such laughter—fresh, untroubled, and sweet—might be heard unrebuked. When the old woman reappeared, alarm was already soothed, and I was back in the grip of fascinating excitement.
‘Mademoiselle gives me permission to dispose of the lower appartement, which we never occupy now,’ she said, with a smile so human and inviting that I could have embraced her on the spot.
We walked toward the house, which, though gloomy enough, showed nothing to match the mystery of the dark garden. Three broad discoloured steps led to the hall of the lower story, which was offered for my occupation, and inside the large stone hall I noted a little carriage and two wooden horses worked by springs.
‘The sound of Gabrielle’s carriage will not, I hope, disturb Madame? She generally plays here, as there is not space enough upstairs.’
I expressed myself delighted to be in close neighbourhood with the child’s playground.
‘These used to be poor Madame’s rooms,’ she added, with a big sigh, as she opened the door of a fine, chill salon.
‘The mother of Mademoiselle,’ I conjectured.
‘Oh, no; Mademoiselle’s mother always preferred the rooms upstairs—those which Mademoiselle now lives in. These were her sister’s—young Madame, Gabrielle’s mother.’
‘She is dead?’
‘Alas! yes. It is unlucky to be too much loved—unlucky for loved one and for lovers. Dr. Vermont has never been here since his wife’s death—has never even seen little Gabrielle since she was born, and Mademoiselle has never once smiled.’