Once upon a time, sirs, when the great and good Louis, sixteenth of his name, was King of France, this domain was the property of the Duke of Langlois. The duke was proud and rich, and prouder and haughtier was his duchess, who was born Berri. Ah! they were mighty folk then, before the Revolution came with its sharp axes to clip off their heads. This inn was the stable of the château, which stood off yonder in the woods. Alas! nothing remains of it to-day but a few blackened foundations, for it was burned to the earth by the red devils in '93. But at the time I speak of, the château was a big, rich palace, full of gay folk; all the nobility came there, and the duchess ruled the land.
She was crazy for music, and to such lengths did she go in her madness that she even invited as her guests celebrated composers and singers. The duke was old-fashioned and hated those crazy people who lived only to hum and strum. He would have none of them, and quarrels with his duchess were of daily occurrence. Indeed, sirs, so bad did it become that he swore that he would leave the house if Messire Gluck, or Messire Piccini, or any of the other strolling vagabonds—so the duke called them—entered his château. And he kept his word, did the duke. The Chevalier Gluck, a fine, shapely man, was invited down by the duchess and amused her and her guests by playing his wonderful tunes on the beautiful harpsichord in the great salon.
The duke would have none of this nonsense and went to Paris, where he amused himself gambling and throwing gold into his mistresses' laps. The duchess kept right on, and then the gossips of the neighbourhood began to wag their busy tongues. The lady of the château was getting very fine pleasure from the company of the handsome Austrian chevalier. It was whispered that the Queen Marie Antoinette had looked with favourable eyes upon the composer, and, furthermore, had lent him certain moneys to further his schemes for reforming the stage.
Reform, forsooth! all he cared for was the company of the duchess, and he vowed that he could make better music at the château than up in noisy Paris. On a fine afternoon it is said that it was no uncommon sight to see the chevalier, all togged up in his bravest court costume, sword and all, sitting at his harpsichord, playing ravishing music. This was out in the pretty little park back of the château, and the duchess would sit at Gluck's side and pour out champagne for him. All this may have been idle talk, but at last the duke got wind of the rumours, and one night he surprised the pair playing a duo at the harpsichord, and stabbed them both dead.
Since then the château was burned down, but the place has been haunted. I, myself, good gentlemen, have heard ghostly music, and I swear to you—
"Oh, my God, listen, listen!"
"What pagan nonsense!" blurted out Michael.
I cautioned silence, and we all listened. The old man had slid off his chair, and his face was chalky white. Michael's ugly mouth was half opened in his black beard, and I confess that I felt rather chilly.
Music, faint, tinkling, we certainly heard. It came with the wind in little sobs, and then silence settled upon us.