The Count rallied his guests on
their precipitate retreat, and on the superstitious inclination which
had occasioned it, and this led to the question, whether the spirit,
after it has quitted the body, is ever permitted to revisit the earth;
and if it is, whether it was possible for spirits to become visible to
the sense. The Baron was of opinion, that the first was probable, and
the last was possible, and he endeavoured to justify this opinion by
respectable authorities, both ancient and modern, which he quoted. The
Count, however, was decidedly against him, and a long conversation
ensued, in which the usual arguments on these subjects were on both
sides brought forward with skill, and discussed with candour, but
without converting either party to the opinion of his opponent. The
effect of their conversation on their auditors was various. Though the
Count had much the superiority of the Baron in point of argument, he
had considerably fewer adherents; for that love, so natural to the
human mind, of whatever is able to distend its faculties with wonder
and astonishment, attached the majority of the company to the side of
the Baron; and, though many of the Count’s propositions were
unanswerable, his opponents were inclined to believe this the
consequence of their own want of knowledge on so abstracted a subject,
rather than that arguments did not exist which were forcible enough to
conquer his. Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father’s
glance called a blush upon her countenance, and she then endeavoured to
forget the superstitious tales she had been told in her convent. Meanwhile, Emily had been listening with deep attention to the
discussion of what was to her a very interesting question, and,
remembering the appearance she had witnessed in the apartment of the
late Marchioness, she was frequently chilled with awe. Several times
she was on the point of mentioning what she had seen, but the fear of
giving pain to the Count, and the dread of his ridicule, restrained
her; and, awaiting in anxious expectation the event of Ludovico’s
intrepidity, she determined that her future silence should depend upon
it. When the party had separated for the night, and the Count retired to
his dressing-room, the remembrance of the desolate scenes he had lately
witnessed in his own mansion deeply affected him, but at length he was
aroused from his reverie and his silence. “What music is that I hear?”
said he suddenly to his valet, “Who plays at this late hour?”

The man made no reply, and the Count continued to listen, and then
added, “That is no common musician; he touches the instrument with a
delicate hand; who is it, Pierre?”

“My lord!” said the man, hesitatingly. “Who plays that instrument?” repeated the Count. “Does not your lordship know, then?” said the valet. “What mean you?” said the Count, somewhat sternly. “Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing,” rejoined the man
submissively—“Only—that music—goes about the house at midnight often,
and I thought your lordship might have heard it before.”

“Music goes about the house at midnight! Poor fellow!—does nobody dance
to the music, too?”

“It is not in the château, I believe, my Lord; the sounds come from the
woods, they say, though they seem so near;—but then a spirit can do
anything!”

“Ah, poor fellow!” said the Count, “I perceive you are as silly as the
rest of them; tomorrow you will be convinced of your ridiculous error. But hark!—what voice is that?”

“O my Lord! that is the voice we often hear with the music.”

“Often!” said the Count, “How often, pray? It is a very fine one.”

“Why, my Lord, I myself have not heard it more than two or three times,
but there are those who have lived here longer, that have heard it
often enough.”

“What a swell was that!” exclaimed the Count, as he still listened,
“And now, what a dying cadence! This is surely something more than
mortal!”

“That is what they say, my Lord,” said the valet; “they say it is
nothing mortal, that utters it; and if I might say my thoughts—”

“Peace!” said the Count, and he listened till the strain died away. “This is strange!” said he, as he turned from the window, “Close the
casements, Pierre.”

Pierre obeyed, and the Count soon after dismissed him, but did not so
soon lose the remembrance of the music, which long vibrated in his
fancy in tones of melting sweetness, while surprise and perplexity
engaged his thoughts. Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber, heard, now and then, the
faint echo of a closing door, as the family retired to rest, and then
the hall clock, at a great distance, strike twelve. “It is midnight,”
said he, and he looked suspiciously round the spacious chamber. The
fire on the hearth was now nearly expiring, for his attention having
been engaged by the book before him, he had forgotten everything
besides; but he soon added fresh wood, not because he was cold, though
the night was stormy, but because he was cheerless; and, having again
trimmed his lamp, he poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair nearer
to the crackling blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind, that howled
mournfully at the casements, endeavoured to abstract his mind from the
melancholy that was stealing upon him, and again took up his book. It
had been lent to him by Dorothée, who had formerly picked it up in an
obscure corner of the Marquis’s library, and who, having opened it and
perceived some of the marvels it related, had carefully preserved it
for her own entertainment, its condition giving her some excuse for
detaining it from its proper station. The damp corner into which it had
fallen had caused the cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the leaves
to be so discoloured with spots, that it was not without difficulty the
letters could be traced. The fictions of the Provençal writers, whether
drawn from the Arabian legends, brought by the Saracens into Spain, or
recounting the chivalric exploits performed by the crusaders, whom the
Troubadors accompanied to the east, were generally splendid and always
marvellous, both in scenery and incident; and it is not wonderful, that
Dorothée and Ludovico should be fascinated by inventions, which had
captivated the careless imagination in every rank of society, in a
former age. Some of the tales, however, in the book now before
Ludovico, were of simple structure, and exhibited nothing of the
magnificent machinery and heroic manners, which usually characterised
the fables of the twelfth century, and of this description was the one
he now happened to open, which, in its original style, was of great
length, but which may be thus shortly related. The reader will perceive
that it is strongly tinctured with the superstition of the times. THE PROVENÇAL TALE


“There lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble Baron, famous for
his magnificence and courtly hospitalities.