'There are more things in heaven and earth,
Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy!'" The faces of the four Englishmen instantly assumed that peculiarly
stolid expression always called forth by the mention of Shakespeare. "But Spiritualism----" started the Host. Again the little French Judge broke in:

"I who you speak, I myself know of an experience, of the most
remarkable, to this day unexplained save by Spiritualism, Occultism,
what you will! You shall hear! The case is one I conducted
professionally some two years ago, though, of course, the events which I
now tell in their proper sequence, came out only in the trial. I string
them together for you, yes?" The Bore, who fiercely resented any stories except his own, gave vent to
a discontented grunt; the other three prepared to listen carefully. From
the drawing-room, whither the ladies had retired after dinner, sounded
the far-away strains of a piano. The little French Judge held out his
glass for a crème de menthe; his eyes were sparkling with suppressed
excitement; he gazed deep into the shining green liquid as if seeing
therein a moving panorama of pictures, then he began:

On a dusky autumn evening, a young man, tall, olive-skinned, tramps
along the road leading from Paris to Longchamps. He is walking with a
quick, even swing. Now and again a hidden anxiety darkens his face. Suddenly he branches off to the left; the path here is steep and muddy. He stops in front of a blurred circle of yellow light; by this can one
faintly perceive the outlines of a building. Above the narrow doorway
hangs a creaking sign which announces to all it may concern that this is
the "Loup Noir," much sought after for its nearness to the racecourse
and for its excellent _ménage_. "_Voilà!_" mutters our friend. On entering, he is met by the burly innkeeper, a shrewd enough fellow,
who has seen something of life before settling down in Longchamps. The
young man glances past him as if seeking some other face, then
recollecting himself demands shelter for the night. "I greatly fear----" began the innkeeper, then pauses, struck by an
idea. "Holà, Gaston! Have monsieur and madame from number fourteen yet
departed?" "Yes, monsieur; already early this morning; you were at the market, so
Mademoiselle settled the bill." "Mademoiselle Jehane?" the stranger looks up sharply. "My niece, monsieur; you have perhaps heard of her, for I see by your
easel you are an artist. She is supposed to be of a rare beauty; I think
it myself." Jean Potin keeps up a running flow of talk as he conducts
his visitor down the long bare passages, past blistered yellow doors. "It is a double room I must give you, vacated, as you heard, but this
very morning. They were going to stay longer, Monsieur and Madame
Guillaumet, but of a sudden she changed her mind. Oh, she was of a
temper!" Potin raises expressive eyes heavenwards. "It is ever so when
May weds with December." "He was much older than his wife, then?" queries the artist, politely
feigning an interest he is far from feeling. "_Mais non, parbleu!_ It was she who was the older--by some fifteen
years; and not a beauty. But rich--he knew what he was about, giving his
smooth cheek for her smooth louis!" Left alone, Lou Arnaud proceeds to unpack his knapsack; he lingers over
it as long as possible; the task awaiting him below is no pleasant one. Finally he descends. The small smoky _salle à manger_ is full of people. There is much talk and laughter going on; the clatter of knives and
forks. At the desk near the door, a young girl is busy with the
accounts. Her very pale gold hair, parted and drawn loosely back over
the ears, casts a faint shadow on her pure, white skin. Arnaud, as he
chooses a seat, looks at her critically. "Bah, she is insignificant!" he thinks. "What can have possessed
Claude?" Suddenly she raises her eyes. They meet his in a long, steady gaze. Then
once again the lids are lowered. The artist sets down his glass with a hand that shakes. He is not
imaginative, as a rule, but when one sees the soul of a mocking devil
look out, dark and compelling, from the face of a Madonna, one is
disconcerted. He wonders no more what had possessed Claude. On his way to the door a
few moments later, he pauses at her desk. "Monsieur wishes to order breakfast for to-morrow morning?" "Monsieur wishes to speak with you." She smiles demurely. Many have wished to speak with her. Arnaud divines
her thoughts. "My name is Lou Arnaud!" he adds meaningly. "Ah!" she ponders on this for an instant; then: "It is a warm night; if
you will seat yourself at one of the little tables in the courtyard at
the back of the house, I will try to join you, when these pigs have
finished feeding." She indicates with contempt the noisily eating crowd. They sit long at that table, for the man has much to tell of his young
brother Claude; of the ruin she has made of his life; of the little
green devils that lurk in a glass of absinthe, and clutch their victim,
and drag him down deeper, ever deeper, into the great, green abyss. But she only laughs, this Jehane of the wanton eyes. "But what do you want from me? I have no need of this Claude. He
wearies me--now!" Arnaud springs to his feet, catching her roughly by the wrist. He loves
his young brother much. His voice is raised, attracting the notice of
two or three groups who take coffee at the iron tables. "You had need of him once. You never left him in peace till you had
sucked him of all that makes life good. If I could----"

Jean Potin appears in the doorway. "Jehane, what are you doing out here? You know I do not permit it that
you speak with the visitors. Pardon her, monsieur, she is but a child." "A child?" The artist's brow is black as thunder. "She has wrecked a
life, this child you speak of!" He strides past the amazed innkeeper, up the narrow flight of stairs,
and down the passage to his room. Sitting on the edge of the huge curtained four-poster bed, he ponders on
the events of the evening. But his thoughts are not all of Claude. That girl--that girl with her
pale face and her pale hair, and eyes the grey of a storm cloud before
it breaks, she haunts him! Her soft murmuring voice has stolen into his
brain; he hears it in the drip, drip of the rain on the sill outside. Soon heavy feet are heard trooping up the stairs; doors are heard to
bang; cheery voices wish each other good-night. Then gradually the
sounds die away. They keep early hours at the "Loup Noir"; it is not yet
ten o'clock. Still Arnaud remains sitting on the edge of the bed; the dark plush
canopy overhead repels him, he does not feel inclined for sleep. Jehane! what a picture she would make! He _must_ paint her! Obsessed by this idea, he unpacks a roll of canvas, spreads it on the
tripod easel, and prepares crayons and charcoal; he will start the
picture as soon as it is day. He will paint her as Circe, mocking at her
grovelling herd of swine! He creeps into bed and falls asleep.