A sort of park, I might say, stretching clear to the
little station of Auvergne, Chatel-Guyon, nestling in a gorge at the
foot of the high mountain, from which flowed the sparkling, bubbling
springs, hot from the furnace of an ancient volcano. Beyond us there,
the domes, small extinct craters--of which Chatel-Guyon is the starting
point--raised their serrated heads above the long chain; while beyond
the domes came two distinct regions, one of them, needle-like peaks, the
other of bold, precipitous mountains. It was very warm that evening, and I contented myself with pacing to and
fro under the rustling trees, gazing at the mountains and listening to
the strains of the band, pouring from the Casino, situated on a knoll
that overlooked the grounds. Presently, I perceived the father and daughter coming toward me with
slow steps. I bowed to them in that pleasant Continental fashion with
which one always salutes his hotel companions. The gentleman halted at
once. “Pardon me, sir,” said he, “but may I ask if you can direct us to a
short walk, easy and pretty, if possible?”

“Certainly,” I answered, and offered to lead them myself to the valley
through which the swift river flows--a deep, narrow cleft between two
great declivities, rocky and wooded. They accepted, and as we walked, we naturally discussed the virtue of
the mineral waters. They had, as I had surmised, come there on his
daughter’s account. “She has a strange malady,” said he, “the seat of which her physicians
cannot determine. She suffers from the most inexplicable nervous
symptoms. Sometimes they declare her ill of a heart disease; sometimes
of a liver complaint; again of a spinal trouble. At present they
attribute it to the stomach--that great motor and regulator of the
body--this Protean disease of a thousand forms, a thousand modes of
attack. It is why we are here. I, myself, think it is her nerves. In any
case it is sad.”

This reminded me of his own jerking hand. “It may be hereditary,” said I, “your own nerves are a little disturbed,
are they not?”

“Mine?” he answered, tranquilly. “Not at all, I have always possessed
the calmest nerves.” Then, suddenly, as if bethinking himself:

“For this,” touching his hand, “is not nerves, but the result of a
shock, a terrible shock that I suffered once. Fancy it, sir, this child
of mine has been buried alive!”

I could find nothing to say, I was dumb with surprise. “Yes,” he continued, “buried alive; but hear the story, it is not long. For some time past Juliette had seemed affected with a disordered action
of the heart. We were finally certain that the trouble was organic and
feared the worst. One day it came, she was brought in lifeless--dead. She had fallen dead while walking in the garden. Physicians came in
haste, but nothing could be done. She was gone. For two days and nights
I watched beside her myself, and with my own hands placed her in her
coffin, which I followed to the cemetery and saw placed in the family
vault. This was in the country, in the province of Lorraine. “It had been my wish, too, that she should be buried in her jewels,
bracelets, necklace and rings, all presents that I had given her, and in
her first ball dress. You can imagine, sir, the state of my heart in
returning home. She was all that I had left, my wife had been dead for
many years. I returned, in truth, half mad, shut myself alone in my room
and fell into my chair dazed, unable to move, merely a miserable,
breathing wreck. “Soon my old valet, Prosper, who had helped me place Juliette in her
coffin and lay her away for her last sleep, came in noiselessly to see
if he could not induce me to eat. I shook my head, answering nothing. He
persisted:

“‘Monsieur is wrong; this will make him ill. Will monsieur allow me,
then, to put him to bed?’

“‘No, no,’ I answered. ‘Let me alone.’

“He yielded and withdrew. “How many hours passed I do not know. What a night! What a night! It was
very cold; my fire of logs had long since burned out in the great
fireplace; and the wind, a wintry blast, charged with an icy frost,
howled and screamed about the house and strained at my windows with a
curiously sinister sound. “Long hours, I say, rolled by. I sat still where I had fallen,
prostrated, overwhelmed; my eyes wide open, but my body strengthless,
dead; my soul drowned in despair. Suddenly the great bell gave a loud
peal. “I gave such a leap that my chair cracked under me. The slow, solemn
sound rang through the empty house. I looked at the clock. “It was two in the morning. Who could be coming at such an hour? “Twice again the bell pulled sharply. The servants would never answer,
perhaps never hear it. I took up a candle and made my way to the door. I
was about to demand:

“‘Who is there?’ but, ashamed of the weakness, nerved myself and drew
back the bolts. My heart throbbed, my pulse beat, I threw back the panel
brusquely and there, in the darkness, saw a shape like a phantom,
dressed in white. “I recoiled, speechless with anguish, stammering:

“‘Who--who are you?’

“A voice answered:

“‘It is I, father.’

“It was my child, Juliette. “Truly, I thought myself mad. I shuddered, shrinking backward before the
specter as it advanced, gesticulating with my hand to ward off the
apparition. It is that gesture which has never left me. “Again the phantom spoke:

“‘Father, father! See, I am not dead. Someone came to rob me of my
jewels--they cut off my finger--the--the flowing blood revived me.’

“And I saw then that she was covered with blood. I fell to my knees
panting, sobbing, laughing, all in one. As soon as I regained my senses,
but still so bewildered I scarcely comprehended the happiness that had
come to me, I took her in my arms, carried her to her room, and rang
frantically for Prosper to rekindle the fire, bring a warm drink for
her, and go for the doctor. “He came running, entered, gazed a moment at my daughter in the
chair--gave a gasp of fright and horror and fell back--dead. “It was he who had opened the vault, who had wounded and robbed my
child, and then abandoned her; for he could not efface all trace of his
deed; and he had not even taken the trouble to return the coffin to its
niche; sure, besides, of not being suspected by me, who trusted him so
fully. We are truly very unfortunate people, monsieur.”

He was silent. Meanwhile the night had come on, enveloping in the gloom the still and
solitary little valley; a sort of mysterious dread seemed to fall upon
me in presence of these strange beings--this corpse come to life, and
this father with his painful gestures. “Let us return,” said I, “the night has grown chill.”

And still in silence, we retraced our steps back to the hotel, and I
shortly afterward returned to the city. I lost all further knowledge of
the two peculiar visitors to my favorite summer resort. SANDY’S GHOST. “‘Commerdations fer the night, stranger? Waal, yes; I reckon we can fix
a place fer you. Hev a cheer an’ set you down.”

“Thank you.