Grand preparations
were made for the immediate arrest of the Baron and his ruffians, with
an order to raze his castle to the ground, which would most assuredly
have been carried into effect, had not the sudden death of the Baron
rendered such measures unnecessary. "The Baron's death was mysterious. Some say he made away with himself,
rather than fall into the hands of justice. Others assert that he was
struck by lightning as a punishment for his many crimes. Others, that he
was killed in a fray. But the story most current is, that a man
introduced himself into the Baron's household as servant, whose bride
the Baron had dishonoured, and avenged himself by putting an end to the
Baron's life by poison. "However this was, testimony goes much to prove that the Baron was found
dead in his bed. How long he took dying is uncertain, but tradition
tells that his last moments were horrible. He refused to see a father
confessor, and died in his sins. "He was succeeded by his son, a peaceful and studious youth, much
beloved by the people, who did not seem to inherit a drop of the old
Baron's blood. In some of his later descendants, however, the spirit of
the old Baron seemed to reign again. When the death of the Baron was
made known, great rejoicings manifested themselves in the neighbourhood. Everyone wanted to know the particulars of the Baron's mysterious end. Strange stories were set afloat, many of which are believed to this day. But one thing universally believed is, that, as a punishment for his
sins, the Baron's spirit is condemned to inhabit the form of a flea of
uncommon size, which sucks the blood of all strangers who sleep in that
bed. His power, however, is confined to that chamber. Other rooms are
left unmolested. The marks left on the body by the bite of this fell
insect are extremely large, being about the size of a wen, and the pain
endures for a considerable time. I can speak from experience, for I have
been bitten myself. The flea may be seen by anyone who chooses to sleep
in that room. One night spent in that chamber will be enough to convince
any unbeliever of the truth of my assertion. "Many and futile have been the attempts to catch this obnoxious insect. It eludes all chase. It was not for many years after the Baron's death,
and until many of the occupants of that chamber had been repeatedly
bitten, and all attempts to capture the offensive creature had been
abandoned in despair, that the belief that the Baron's spirit inhabited
its fell body grew firmly rooted in the minds of the surrounding gentry. "If, after what I have related to you, sir, you feel inclined to change
your room, I shall have much pleasure in making you up a bed in another
chamber, although it is against the Baron's orders; for, knowing what a
wretched night you _must_ spend within that haunted chamber, I feel a
compassion for you, sir, and all strangers that the Baron cruelly hands
over to the spirit of his wicked ancestor." "On the contrary, Mrs. Wharton," I said, "I have the greatest curiosity
to encounter this wonderful flea. Your conversation has been most
interesting, and as it is now past ten o'clock, I don't care how soon I
make his aristocratic acquaintance." "Do as you please, sir," said Mrs. Wharton, "but if you should feel
uncomfortable in the night, you've but to knock at my door, the next
room to yours, and I will gladly make you up a bed in No. 12." "No, thank you, Mrs. Wharton; I am much obliged to you all the same. I
have no doubt that the Baron and I will be capital friends." "Well, sir, I wish you a pleasant night of it, I am sure," said the
housekeeper, as she handed me a candle. "Good-night, sir." "Good-night, Mrs. Wharton." I walked up stairs to the haunted chamber. Having reached the landing, I
entered my room and locked myself in for the night. In spite of my
forced levity, I must admit that I felt a certain feeling of awe come
over me upon entering the chamber once occupied by the author of so many
crimes. I could not but think that Mrs. Wharton herself thoroughly
believed in what seemed to me a popular superstition, but the more I
reflected on what she had told me of the Baron's crimes, the less
ludicrous did the idea of the Baron's metempsychosis appear to me. What, after all, was there ridiculous in a flea more than in any other
hideous creature? The feeling of the ludicrous in my mind was supplanted
by one of horror. "There are more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamed of in our philosophy," I muttered. I could not make up my mind
to go to rest immediately. In fact, I did not feel in the least sleepy. I busied myself in examining the room minutely to see if there were any
trap-door or sliding panel; and, tapping all the walls, expected every
moment to touch some spring and for some panel to fly back, discovering
a secret staircase. I examined the bed and under the bed, but could
discover nothing. The Baron's portrait hung over the mantelpiece. I
lifted up the picture to see if there was any hole in the wall
underneath, but there was nothing but good solid panel; nor could I in
any part of the room discover anything suspicious. I partially undressed
and seated myself in a large arm-chair in front of the Baron's portrait. I was extremely interested in the perusal of his features, and had no
difficulty in believing all the atrocities attributed to the original. The more I gazed at it, the more it fascinated me. I could not take my
eyes from it. Somehow or other the features seemed familiar to me; I
fancied I had seen them somewhere. I tried to collect my thoughts. Where
had I seen them before? Suddenly I recollected a horrible criminal, who had murdered a whole
family and committed other heinous atrocities, and had been executed a
year or two before. I had to plead for him at the trial, but the
evidence was so strong against him, that no earthly power could save him
from the gibbet. The likeness between this wretch and the portrait
before me was very remarkable. This, then, was the incarnation of deep
crime. These are the features that mark a life given up to every sort of
cruelty, licentiousness, and depravity. The physiognomy was peculiar,
and never to be forgotten when once seen. The head was round as a
bullet, the hair red, short and bristly, the moustache and peaked beard
of the same hue; the eyes greenish, and obliquely set in the head, like
those of a cat, with an expression of the most indescribable ferocity
and malice. The eyebrows red and tufted, running up also in an oblique
direction, one of them being considerably higher than the other. Between
the brows was a deep line.