German Stories/The Spectre Bride

by Friedrich August Schulze

For other English-language translations of this work, see Die Todtenbraut.

THE SPECTRE BRIDE.

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CHAPTER I.

Through the whole summer, there had been delightful weather, and the Baths of W—— had been more frequented this year than at any former period;—but, though the rooms and public gardens were always crowded by guests, it seemed by no means to follow that a social and convivial spirit should prevail among them. The nobility flocked together quite apart; the military had their own separate club; and as for the citizens, they made criticisms harshly enough on the conduct of both. Even the balls that were frequently given failed to produce unanimity; nor could it be otherwise, for the master of ceremonies always appeared at them with his star and ribbon, attended by a train of lacqueys in red coats with gold lace. This, joined to the stiff, formal manners of himself and all his family, constantly reminded the commoners, that they must not, on any occasion, step beyond their prescribed rules and limitations. Consequently, those public assemblies became every day less and less attended, and private family circles were made up to pass away the evenings.

One of these minor clubs used to meet twice or thrice in the week, at a large room in one of the hotels, which they knew would, at such times, be unoccupied. Here they supped, and entertained themselves with conversation merely, without thinking of cards, having the advantage too of a large beautiful garden behind the house for their promenade. The members of this society had all been acquainted with each other before now,—only one individual had introduced himself who was a stranger to them, and to every one else at W——. He was styled Marquis, which title seemed, in his case, not a little extraordinary, as, according to the list of arrivals, he was neither of French nor Italian extraction, but had a name that might perchance be Norwegian, Islandic, or Russian,—a string of consonant that no reader could even attempt to pronounce. Altogether, his manner and appearance were strange and mysterious; his pale visage, tall meagre frame, and stern black eyes, were so little adapted to inspire confidence, that he would certainly have been shunned by all the world, if he had not possessed a fund of entertaining anecdotes, which were gladly drawn upon to dispel ennui. It was universally allowed, however, that his stories required rather more credulity than his listeners were always willing to afford.

Our party had, on one occasion, supped together as usual, and this time rose from the table in very bad humour. The fatigues of a dancing assembly, which had lasted very late the preceding night, still weighed on their nerves; and though the moon shone invitingly, not one among them showed any inclination to walk. They seemed too tired even for conversation; no wonder, therefore, if the Marquis, who was absent, should be wished for now, more than he had ever been. “Where in the world can he have staid so long?” said the Countess, impatiently. “Doubtless once more at the pharo table, where he drives all the bankers to despair;” said Florentine. “Merely on his account two of these gentlemen set out suddenly from Wiesbaden, and will not return hither in a hurry.”—“Their presence may well be dispensed with,” said another of the party. “By us, no doubt,” replied Florentine; “but not by our master of ceremonies, Mons. le proprieteur, who has forbidden gaming, indeed, only that it may be carried on with greater perseverance.”—“The Marquis, however, should avoid such conduct,” said a certain chevalier in a mysterious tone. These gamesters are revengeful, and generally are well-connected in the world. If that be true, which is now whispered in various quarters, that the Marquis is involved in dangerous political schemes”——“But, after all,” said the Countess interrupting him; “what injury has he committed against the pharo bankers?”—“Nothing more, indeed,” answered the chevalier, “but that he stakes on cards which never once fail to win. And it is strange enough that he seems not to take advantage of this to benefit his own fortune, for he always confines himself to the lowest possible risk. But, of course, the other players do not neglect to follow his lead—they stake high—win invariably—and the bank is ruined even at a single game.”

The Countess was about to answer, when the Marquis’s entrance put an end to the discussion. “So you are come at last?” said the chevalier. “We have this evening longed exceedingly for your entertaining conversation,” added the Countess; “and this time, more than ever, you have chosen to absent yourself so late, that it seemed you had forgotten us altogether.”—“I had, indeed, some particular business in view,” said the Marquis, “in which I have succeeded to my entire satisfaction. To-morrow, probably not a single pharo bank will exist at Wisbaden. I have gone from house to house, and the result is, that we have not post-horses enough to carry away the outrageous bankers.”—“Cannot you assist us to learn this wonderful art of yours?” said the Countess. “Not easily, Madam,” he replied. “A lucky hand, doubtless, is required, and I can give no other explanation.”—“But, in truth,” said the chevalier, “your hand is so lucky, that, in all my life, I have never heard of any one who could compare with it.”—“At your time of life,” answered the Marquis, “this is no great argument—you have yet much to learn for the first time in the world.” And, with these words, he looked at the young man so steadfastly, that the latter said—“Are you inclined, perhaps, to cast my nativity?”—“Only not at present, Mons. le Chevalier,” interposed the Countess, “for who knows whether your horoscope might lead to any diverting adventures, such as the Marquis, some days ago, promised us?”—“Diverting, did I say?” said the latter. Surely, in that respect, you are mistaken.”—“At least you promised us some very extraordinary incidents, and such are absolutely requisite, in order to rouse our party from the lethargy in which we have been lost for several hours.”—“I shall not refuse,” replied the Marquis; “yet I should like to know, in the first place, if any one here has yet heard the story of the Spectre Bride?” Of course, all answered in the negative, and expressed the utmost impatience for its commencement.

“I had already made many appointments,” said the Marquis, “to visit my friend the Count Globoda, at his castle in the country. On our travels we had met together in almost every district in Europe; in youth, and in middle age, we had been cordial friends; and now, when years began to steal on us, we both wished to meet once more, and talk over our past adventures. Besides, I had an additional motive for visiting my friend’s house, as I have been always an admirer of fine scenery, and he described his estate to me as one of the most romantic in the world. The castle, too, was wonderfully ancient, yet had been so well built and preserved, that it was still habitable, and kept up in all its ancient magnificence. The Count used to live here with his family almost the whole year, spending only a short winter in the capital. I knew this; and being certain of finding him at home, I came quite unexpectedly one night, just about this season, and was delighted to behold, by moonlight, the fine varied country, and flourishing woods, by which the noble rocky old fortress was environed.

“The kindness with which I was received, did not prevent me from remarking an expression of reserved grief and anxiety which lay on the countenances of the Count and his lady, from a share of which, too, their beautiful daughter Libussa had not escaped. I understood, after some time, that they had never been able to forget the twin sister of this your lady, whose earthly remains had been deposited about a year preceding in the castle chapel. Libussa and her sister Hildegarde had been so exactly like one another, that they were not to be distinguished, except by a small red mark on the neck of the latter, whose apartments, with their furniture, were preserved just as she had left them, and were occasionally visited by her friends in their hours devoted to melancholy recollection. Libussa and she had only one heart, and one mind. Their parents, therefore, could not persuade themselves that the separation here could be long, and were harassed by apprehensions, that their beloved and beautiful Libussa would also be taken from them.

“I did, of course, what I was able, to divert their thoughts, by relating stories from my own past life, and tried to lead their attention from such mournful reflections; nor was I disappointed in my endeavours. Sometimes we used to make excursions in the fine summer weather through the country; and often explored the oldest apartments of the castle, many of which had been long untenanted, admiring the rude but warlike manners of the Count’s ancestors, of whom there was also a noble range of portraits in the picture gallery.

“One evening, after the Count had for a long time spoken with me confidentially of his plans for the future, among other things, of his wish to see Libussa fortunately married, as, although only in her sixteenth year, she had already attracted many suitors, and rejected every one, the gardener rushed breathless into our room, with the intelligence, that a ghost had been seen below, which must certainly be that of the old castle chaplain, who, according to tradition, had appeared, for the first time, as a revenant, about an hundred years ago. Several other servants followed this man, and, with pale ghastly visages, all confirmed what he had said. ‘You will be terrified, ere long, at your own shadows,’ said the Count, and sent them away with the order, that, whatever they might choose to say to each other, they would at least spare him the trouble of listening to such absurdity for the future. ‘It is awful,’ said he, turning to me, ‘to reflect, what absurd lengths the superstition of these poor people carries them; and how impossible it proves for any one to eradicate this folly. For about a century, indeed, the story has been current here, of an old priest foosooth, who is said to walk about the castle, and even to read prayers in the chapel, and so forth. This fable, since I have been proprietor here, has been kept pretty well in the back ground; but, as I now perceive, it is impracticable to get the better of it altogether.’

“At this moment a new visitor was announced—the Italian Duke de Marino. ‘The Duke de Marino?’ repeated the Count in a tone of perplexity, and declared that he could not recollect ever to have heard such a name before. ‘I have been a good deal acquainted with that family,’ said I, ‘and a short time ago was present at the betrothing of the younger duke in Venice.’ The entrance of our visitor, which now followed, would have, therefore, been very agreeable to me, had I not perceived that our mutual recognition was, on his part, attended with great embarrassment and agitation. ‘Well,’ said he, recovering his composure after the first salutation, ‘now that I find you, my Lord Marquis, I need not be surprised at what occurred to me a little while ago. I supposed that my name was perfectly unknown in this country, and yet when I drew near the castle, a voice called out three times, ‘Welcome—welcome Duca de Marino!’ It was a strange hollow tone, certainly, and yet, Marquis, I am indebted to you for that reception.’

“I assured him, that till his name was announced from the corridor, I was perfectly unaware of his approach to the castle; nor could any of my servants have addressed him, as the valet who attended me in Italy had been long since dismissed. ‘Besides,’ added I, ‘it would have been exceedingly difficult to have recognised any equipage, however well known, in the gloom of such a night as this.’—‘Very true,’ answered the Duke, ‘and in that case I am perfectly at a loss.’ He looked much confounded, and the Count, determined not to listen to aught that was in any degree marvellous, assured him, with great politeness, that the voice, whose soever it might be, only expressed very truly the sentiments of the family towards their distinguished guest.

“Before a single word had been said as to the purpose of this unexpected visit, Marino begged that I would allow him the favour of a private conversation, and then entrusted me with the secret, that he had come thither on account of the beautiful Libussa. If he were so fortunate as to obtain her affections, he would immediately request her hand in marriage from the Count. ‘Good Heaven,’ said I, ‘have you then had the misfortune to lose your bride whom I saw at Venice—the Countess Apollonia?’—‘Of this I shall speak at another time,’ was his answer. ‘From the deep sigh that accompanied these words, I concluded, that the young bride had, by infidelity or some other fearful offence, been separated from the Duke, and that I must not venture to revive painful emotion by farther questioning. As he begged, meanwhile, that I would use my influence with the Count in his favour, I was obliged, however, to remind him how strange and hazardous a marriage might be considered, which was sought after on no other ground but that of the wish to efface painful impressions of an earlier and unfortunate connection. But he answered me, that I did him real injustice by the light in which I had now placed his conduct,—that he cherished the utmost respect as well as admiration towards Libussa,—and would consider himself the happiest of men if she should not reject his addresses.

“The enthusiam, indeed, with which he spoke of her, quieted my apprehensions, and I promised that I would prepare the Count for an interview on the subject, and would acquaint him fully with the Duke’s fortune, family, and character. At the same time, I declared that I should not vote for a hasty marriage, as I by no means wished to load my own shoulders with the responsibility of having brought about an irrevocable transaction, which might or might not prove fortunate. The Duke was content with what I had said. At the same time he exacted from me a promise, which appeared to me then perfectly innocent, that I would not mention the circumstance of his former connection with Apollonia, as he would otherwise be exposed to the necessity of very tedious and disagreeable explanations.

“The Duke seemed to succeed in his purposes with wonderful rapidity. He had a fine manly figure, and eyes so sparkling and expressive, that they made their way at once to Libussa’s heart. His agreeable conversation was very welcome to the old Countess, and, by his knowledge of rural economy, he promised to be a most useful assistant to our worthy host in the management of his estate. As to the Duke’s disinclination ever to revisit his own country, that was a point ascertained and adjusted at the very outset. Marino did fail zealously to make to make use of the advantages he had gained; and one afternoon I was exceedingly surprised to hear that Libussa and he were immediately to be betrothed. I imagined this would scarcely have been spoken of for a long time to come. After dinner, the discourse naturally revived what I had mentioned once before of my having been present at the betrothing of a certain Duke de Marino in Italy, and the old Countess inquired whether the hero of that day were not a near relation of their friend.’ ‘Yes—a pretty near relation,’ answered I, not forgetting my promise of secrecy to the Duke, who now threw across the table a very embarrassed look at me. ‘But now, my dear Marino,’ said I, wishing to change the subject, ‘tell us, once for all, I beseech you, how were you first induced to come to this remote castle? Did some friend inform you of the Countess Libussa’s extraordinary beauty, or had you, perhaps, seen her portrait? For yesterday, if I remember right, you said that you had intended to make a tour of a year long, going from one place to another, when, all at once, in Paris your intentions were changed, and you came straight hither, no doubt, solely on her account.

“‘In Paris—yes,’ answered the Duke, ‘you have remembered correctly. I had gone to look at the picture gallery of the Louvre, but no sooner had I entered the room, than my attention was attracted from the lifeless beauties on the walls to a young lady, whose unequalled charms were heightened, in my estimation, by a certain cast of pensive melancholy on her features. With trembling timidity I ventured to approach her, and remained always near at hand, yet without venturing to address to her even a single word. When she left the gallery, I followed, and took her servant aside to inquire her name. This he frankly gave me; and when I expressed an earnest wish to pay my respects to her father, he told me that a meeting could hardly take place in Paris, as the family were just preparing to take their departure from France.

“‘Yet at one time or another I may be more fortunate,’ said I, and looked round for the lady; but, meanwhile, under the belief, perhaps, that her servant was always following, she had walked on, and was now out of sight. In trying to find her I lost the servant, and thus ended my first adventure. ‘And who was the lady?’ inquired Libussa. ‘Who?—Can you ask?’ said the Duke in a tone of the greatest surprise. I told you the story in jest, indeed, as if it were quite new—but is it possible that you did not observe me that day in the gallery?’—‘I, indeed?’ exclaimed Libussa. ‘My daughter?’ said the Countess, ‘it is incredible.’—‘Nay, indeed,’ resumed the Duke. ‘The same servant whom, to my great satisfaction, you left behind you in Paris, and whom I hailed one night as if he had been a guardian spirit, told me all that I wished to know, so that, after a short visit to my native country, I came hither.’—‘What strange story is this?’ said the Count to his daughter, who remained speechless with wonder. ‘Libussa,’ added he, turning to me, ‘has never yet been out of her native country—‘and, for my own part, I have not visited Paris for sixteen years.’ The Duke now looked as much perplexed as they did, and the conversation would have died away altogether, if I had not started a new subject, which I was obliged to keep up alone.

“Afterwards, when we rose from table, the Count drew Marino into a window recess, and though I was at a considerable distance from them, and seemed inattentive, I could yet hear all that they said. ‘My Lord Duke,’ said Globoda, very gravely, ‘what in all the world can have led you to that invention of the scene in the picture gallery, which, as far as I can understand it, will serve no purpose whatever? If you wished only to conceal the cause of your visit here, you might say so at once, and there an end. Or even if you disliked this method, you might have evaded the question in a hundred ways, and it was quite needless to outrage probability with such violence.’—‘My Lord Count,’ answered the Duke, much offended, ‘I was silent at table, because I believed you had private reasons for concealing the circumstance of your daughter’s residence in Paris. I was silent out of mere delicacy. But the situation in which I am now placed, forces me to maintain firmly what I then asserted, and unless you will allow the subject to drop, I must assert before every one, that Paris is the place where I had the happiness of seeing, for the first time, your daughter, the Countess Libussa.’—‘But what if I should bring before you all my people,’ said the Count, ‘all my servants and vassals, to prove, as witnesses, that Libussa has never been out of her native land?’—‘In despite of all this,’ replied the Duke, ‘I should still believe rather the evidence of my own senses, which bear testimony that, in my estimation at least, is not less important.’—‘What you say is very mysterious,’ said the Count, in a more moderate tone; ‘your grave manner convinces me at all events that you have yourself been under some delusion—and that you have unquestionably taken some other person for my daughter. Forgive me, therefore, for the irritation of temper into which I was unfortunately betrayed.’—‘Some other person!’ cried the Duke: ‘it would then follow that I have not only mistaken another for your daughter, but that her servant was also different from what I supposed him to be; yet he described to me all that I find in this castle and its environs, precisely as they now exist around me!’—‘My dear Marino,’ answered the Count, ‘it follows only that this servant must have been an impostor, who was well acquainted with our neighbourhood, and who persuaded you that some other lady that you met at Paris was my daughter.’—‘I am afraid, my Lord Count,’ said Marino, ‘to contradict you in direct terms; but absolutely the features I then beheld were those of Libussa, nor, since that meeting in the gallery have they been even for a moment absent from my remembrance.’

“Globoda shook his head significantly, but the Duke resumed; ‘Still another proof,—yet forgive me if I now deem it necessary to mention a circumstance which would otherwise, certainly, never have escaped my lips. When I stood behind the lady at the Louvre, it happened that her handkerchief had been drawn a little aside, and on her neck, that was otherwise white as alabaster, I observed an extraordinary red mark.’ ‘What in God’s name means this?’ cried the Count; ‘you seem determined that I should be forced into the belief of things utterly incomprensible.’ But only let one question be answered, ‘Can this mark be found on Libussa’s neck?’ ‘No,’ replied the Count, staring in the utmost astonishment at his intended son-in-law. ‘Is it possible?’ said Marino, in a voice faltering with affright. ‘I have told you the truth,’ said the Count; ‘but it is no less certain that Libussa’s twin sister, Hildegarde, who resembled her in every feature, had the mark which you describe, and carried it with her to the grave more than a year ago.’—‘Yet it is only a few months,’ answered Marino, ‘since I saw that lady in Paris.’ At this moment the old Countess and Libussa drew near, anxious to know what could be the purport of this long conversation, but the Count’s manner of receiving them was so stern, that they durst not venture any questions. He retreated with Marino farther into the dark window recess, and I could not distinguish another word of their discourse.

CHAPTER II.

“No one knew what to conclude from the extraordinary orders issued by Globoda, at a late hour of that same evening. He directed the sacristan to attend him, in order that the coffin of the deceased Countess Hildegarde should be opened in his presence. Before this was done, however, he repeated to me summarily the strange story which the Duke had told him, and placed it at my choice and that of the young nobleman to be present at the investigation. The latter excused himself, saying, that he could not help shuddering at the mere thoughts of such a scene. He had always a great horror of the dead, and especially in the night could not overcome this weakness. The Count in reply, only begged of him that he would preserve a strict silence as to the adventure in the picture gallery; especially that he should not run the risk of shocking Libussa’s feelings by any detail of minute circumstances attending it, though it was to be expected that she would question him what could have been the subject of the prolonged discourse at the window.

“The sacristan came meanwhile with a lantern, and I determined to attend the Count. On our way to the chapel, the latter said to me, ‘It is scarcely within the limits of possibility (for probability is now out of the question) that any deception should have been practised as to my daughter’s death. The circumstances as to that event are all known to me; and you may readily imagine, Marquis, that our parental love did not permit her funeral obsequies to be performed too early. But suppose, for a moment, that this had been possible—that the fabulous legend of the robber were revived, and that, on her coffin being opened, she had awoke and come forth—it is not surely to be thought, that our beloved daughter, instead of flying for protection into our arms, would have gone hence into a distant country. Even had she been forced to go hither, at all events she would have written letters, or found her way home ere now. At present, however, my own eyes shall convince me, whether this coffin yet holds her sacred remains. I shall have proof,’ he added, in a tone so loud and agitated, that the sacristan looked round with affright.

“Being thus put on his guard, the Count resumed, almost in a whisper. ‘Yet how could I allow myself to believe, that of our dear Hildegarde’s beautiful features even a trace can yet be remaining,—that the worm would spare his destined prey, however lovely?—Let us return, Marquis; for although the coffin were opened, how should I be certain that the skeleton found there was not that of a stranger? It is in vain to proceed.’ In truth, he was resolved to give up his design, even when we had come to the church door; but I suggested, after he had gone so far, he should now certainly carry through the examination. If the story of the robber had been realized, it would, at least, be possible to ascertain whether any of the ornaments or jewels were removed, which had been laid with her in the coffin. Besides, there were instances where a body remained long in the grave without being destroyed.

“These remarks had their intended effect, and we followed the sacristan, who, by his paleness and trembling, betrayed a very decided aversion to his present employment. I know not, if any one in this party has ever stood at midnight before the grated door of a burial vault, beholding the piles of leaden shrines, in which are deposited the mouldering remains of a distinguished train of ancestors. But it is certain that, at such a moment, even the rattling of the keys in their locks makes a deep and mysterious impression;—that when the door is forced open, one feels at the grating of the rusty hinges as if he were committing a fearful crime, and is glad to linger on the threshold, before he enters into the dark abode of the dead. The Count experienced all these emotions as much as any one could do. This, I perceived by the deep sigh—almost a groan—which he heaved as we stood there. He controlled his agitation, however, by a great effort; did not allow himself to look at the other coffins, but went directly to that of his daughter, of which he lifted up the cover with his own hands. ‘Did I not say so?’ I exclaimed, as on the first instant we perceived that the body had so precisely the features of Libussa, that I was obliged to withhold my astonished friend from imprinting the kiss of an affectionate parent on her forehead. ‘Nay,—touch her not—disturb not the repose of death, said I,’ and endeavoured as quickly as possible to withdraw him from the frightful vault into the free air of the living world.

“We found the two ladies and the Duke in a state of painful anxiety. They had both urged on him questions as to the long conversation which he had held with the Count, nor were by any means satisfied with his answer, that he had promised not to speak on the subject. Now, they applied to us, but of course with as little success. On the following morning, however, their curiosity was in some measure gratified by the sacristan, who was sent for privately, and who, at least, told all that he knew. By this means their anxiety was only rendered the more vehement, to discover what could have given rise to that strange violation of the sepulchral sanctuary.

“For my own part, I reflected for the rest of the night on that inexplicable apparition which Marino had doubtless encountered in Paris. Ideas suggested themselves, which I would willingly have communicated to the Count, if I had not been so well aware that he was an absolute infidel as to the possible intercourse subsisting between the spiritual and corporeal world—so that it was needless to dispute with him on that point. Under such circumstances, it proved very agreeable to me, that the whole affair, though certainly not forgotten, was very seldom made the topic of conversation.

“Ere long, however, I had other reasons for being extremely anxious and perplexed. The Duke constantly avoided speaking with me in private of the young lady to whom he had formerly been betrothed. From this circumstance, and the embarrasment betrayed by him whenever I spoke of her seeming amiable temper and extraordinary beauty, I could not help supposing that Marino had, in consequence of his meeting with the pretended Libussa, become unfaithful, and that he had basely deserted the Countess Apollonia without any fault on her part to warrant such conduct. With such impressions on my mind, it was impossible that I could expect happiness for Libussa in her approaching marriage, and I resolved to take the very first opportunity of tearing off his mask, so that he might repent of his cruelty, and return ere it was too late to the forsaken bride.

“Sooner than I could have anticipated, I was enabled to fulfil this plan. We were seated one evening at table after supper, and the conversation happened to turn on the question, whether injustice and wickedness are always punished in the world. I remarked that I had known, within my own experience, very striking examples of this, so that the old Countess and Libussa begged earnestly that I would make them acquainted with one at least of the instances to which I had alluded ‘If I am to do so,’ said I, ‘you must permit me to choose a story in which the characters and incidents, as I think, concern you very nearly’—‘Concern us? How is that possible?’ said the Countess, while I cast a significant glance at the Duke, who had been for some time mistrustful of my interference, and now looked at me with the pale ghastly visage of one whose own conscience reproaches him. ‘Such, at least, is my opinion,’ I resumed; ‘but ere commencing, I must request the Count’s indulgence if the supernatural should again be interwoven with my narrative.’ ‘You need have no hesitation on that score,’ said he with a smile; ‘and as to my wonder how you should have chanced to encounter spectral and supernatural adventures in abundance, while not one ever fell in my way, I shall for the present say nothing.’ It did not escape me here that the Duke gave him an approving nod, of which I took no notice, but answered the Count, ‘It is perhaps not every one who has eyes to see what passes before him!’—‘That proposition is self-evident,—not every one certainly,’ answered he. ‘And yet,’ said I in a whisper, ‘that body which had so long remained unchanged in the grave was by no means an ordinary spectacle.’ He seemed perplexed; but I added, ‘and yet this, doubtless, admitted of explanation on natural principles. It would be absurd to refuse you the benefit of that argument.’—‘But we are wandering from the subject,’ said the Countess in a dissatisfied tone; and without farther delay I began my story. ‘The scene of the adventure I mean to describe was Venice.’ ‘Then,’ interposed the Duke mistrustfully, ‘I probably should know somewhat of the matter.’ Perhaps,’ answered I; ‘and yet, the circumstances were, for certain reasons, kept as private as possible. Besides, it happened about a year ago, when you had already set out on your travels.’

“Now for my story.—The son of a very rich nobleman, whom I shall now designate only by his Christian name Felippo, had, during his residence at Leghorn, which town he had visited on account of some inheritance that devolved on him, paid his addresses to a beautiful young girl—obtained the consent of her relations—and, being for the present under the necessity of revisiting Venice, he promised that he would, in a very short time, come again to Leghorn, in order to celebrate a marriage with his beloved Clara. Their attachment seemed mutual, and their parting was even frightfully solemn. After they had exhausted the power of words in reciprocal protestations and vows, Felippo invoked the avenging powers of darkness to bring destruction on his own head if he should be unfaithful, and wished that his intended bride should not even find rest in the grave if he deserted her, but follow him still to claim his love, and extort it from him in another world. When these words were uttered, Clara’s parents were seated at table with the lovers;—they recollected their own early life, and did not attempt to stop these romantic effusions, which at last were carried so far, that the young people both wounded themselves in the left arm, and mingled their blood in a glass of white champaigne. ‘Inseparable as these red drops have now become, shall our souls and our fates be for ever!’ cried Felippo. He drank half the wine and gave the rest to Clara, who pledged him without hesitation.

“When I had arrived at this part of my story, the Duke became remarkably restless, from time to time casting on me most threatening looks; so that I could not help concluding, he had, in his own life, been the hero of a scene resembling that which I had described. However, it is most certain that I had merely repeated the circumstances of Clara and Felippo’s separation, from a letter that I had read from the girl’s mother at Leghorn, of which I shall say more afterwards.

“Recollecting these vehement protestations of the most ardent and unchangeable passion, (I continued,) who could have thought it possible that Felippo would conduct himself in the manner that he did soon afterwards? On his return to Venice, a young beauty had just made her appearance there, who had hitherto been educated at a distant convent, but now suddenly emerged like an angel from the clouds, and excited the admiration of the whole city. Felippo’s parents, who had heard of Clara, but looked on his adventure with her as only one of those love affairs which may be made up one day, and forgotten on the next, introduced their son to this young stranger. Camilla, for this was her name, was distinguished not only for her beauty but for her wealth and high birth. Representations were made to Felippo, what influence he might gain in the state by means of an alliance with her; the licentious gaiety of the carnival, which now drew on, favoured his addresses, and, in a short time, the recollection of his engagement at Leghorn was almost banished from his mind. His letters to Clara became always more and more cold and laboured, till her complaints of this change induced him to give up the correspondence altogether, and to make preparations as soon as possible for his marriage with the rich and very beautiful Camilla. The trembling hand, and traces of many tears which now appeared in Clara’s letters, had no effect whatever on his volatile heart. Even the threat that she would soon fall a victim to her grief, and, according to contract, that her avenging spirit would not cease to follow him, made no impression on Felippo, who now rejected every idea but that of the happiness which he would enjoy with his beloved and enchanting Camilla.

“This young lady’s father, with whom I was so well acquainted, that I lived as familiarly in his house as if it had been my own, had invited me already, by anticipation, to the wedding. Though an extraordinary pressure of business had this year detained him in town, so that he could not enjoy so much of the country life as usual, yet we made excursions several times in the week to his fine villa on the banks of the Brenta, where the marriage festival of his daughter was to be celebrated with all due magnificence. A particular circumstance made this be postponed, however, for a considerable time. As the bride’s parents had always lived very happily in the married state, they wished that the same clergyman, by whose good offices they were united, should also pronounce the nuptial benediction over their daughter. But the clergyman, who, though now far advanced in years, had shown hitherto no decline of his faculties or strength, was now seized with a slow lingering fever, which did not allow him to leave his bed. At length, however, he began to get better, and a day was appointed for the betrothing. Yet, as if some supernatural influence were exerted to prevent this, the clergyman, on the morning agreed on, was again attacked with such nervous weakness, that it was impossible for him to quit his own house; he therefore sent a message, to say that they should choose another priest for the ceremony. The parents, however, insisted obstinately on their proposal that they would have no other clergyman, and, doubtless, would have been spared much grief afterwards if they had never departed from this resolution. The banquet and other festivities had meanwhile been arranged so far, that they could not be interrupted, and fell to be looked on as a confirmation of the lovers being solemnly betrothed. Already, at an early hour in the morning, the gondoliers, in their gayest apparel, were in waiting, and a brilliant party, with bands of music, all rejoicing in confident expectations, set out on their voyage to the bride’s country house. At the dinner banquet, which was protracted till late in the evening, rings were, as usual, interchanged between the lovers; but no sooner had that ceremony taken place, than a most horrible piercing shriek was heard by the whole party with astonishment—by the bridegroom with a cold shuddering through every limb. Every one started up, and ran to the windows, for the voice seemed to come from without; but, though the twilight still rendered objects visible, it was impossible to discover any cause for this extraordinary alarm.

“‘Halt there!’ cried the Duke, interrupting me, with a kind of wild laugh, and the expression of an evil conscience, more and more obvious in his features; ‘the loud cry at the window is known to me as well as to you—it is borrowed from the Memoirs of Clairon, the French actress, who was, in this manner, persecuted by one of her deceased lovers. After the cry, recollect there was always a clapping of hands. My Lord Marquis, you will not forget this in your ingenious romance.’—‘And for what reason,’ said I, ‘should you conclude that this incident could not happen in the life of any one else but Clairon? Your disbelief of my story seems the more extraordinary, as you allude to a well-authenticated fact in her life, which should rather support than invalidate the tenor of my narrative.’ He said no more, and I proceeded.

“Soon after this unaccountable disturbance, I happened to request of the bride, who sat opposite to me, that I might be allowed to look again at her marriage-ring, which was of very beautiful workmanship; she nodded assent, but, to her great consternation, it was no longer on her finger. Search was diligently made—all rose to give their assistance for that purpose, but in vain; the ring was inretrievably gone! The hour, meanwhile, drew near, at which the evening amusements were to commence. The masked ball was to be preceded by a very brilliant display of fireworks on the river. The party arrayed themselves, in the first place, in their fancy dresses, and entered their gondolas. But the silence that prevailed among them all was, on such an occasion, most extraordinary; they could not possibly recover their spirits. The fireworks were admirable, yet, notwithstanding their success, only a feeble ‘bravo’ was heard now and then among the spectators.

“The ball, too, was one of the most brilliant that I have ever witnessed. The dresses were magnificent, and so loaded with diamonds, that the light of the countless wax candles was reflected through the room a thousand fold. The bride, however, excelled every one in this display, and her father delighted himself with the conviction, that no one could compete with his beloved and only daughter. As if to be more thoroughly convinced on this point, he went through the room looking at the ornaments worn by the other masks, till, all at once, he was struck with the utmost astonishment, on discovering that jewels of the very identical fashion and lustre were worn by two ladies, his daughter and a stranger, at the same time! He confessed to me afterwards, that he was weak enough to feel his pride hurt at this occurrence. His only consolation was, to reflect that, however rich these jewels were, they would be surpassed out of all measure by a wreath of diamonds and rubies, which was to be worn by Camilla at the supper-table.

CHAPTER III.

“When the supper-party had at length assembled, and the old gentleman made his remarks as before, the strange lady, to his utter consternation, made her appearance with a wreath precisely like that of his daughter’s. His curiosity now got the better almost of his politeness, and as she still wore her mask, he could not help addressing himself to her with the words, ‘Fair lady, might I venture so great a liberty as to ask your name?’ The incognita, however, shook her head with a mournful abstracted air, and did not answer him one word. At the same time, the house-steward came and wished to know whether the party had been increased in number, as the covers appointed for the dinner-table were now found insufficient. His master answered in the negative, and, in a tone of much irritation, insisting that the servants must have made some blunder. The steward, on the contrary, maintamed that he was perfectly correct. Another cover was laid accordingly, and, on counting the guests, it was found that there was one more than the number that had been invited. As he had a little while before, in consequence of some careless expressions, rendered himself obnoxious to interferences of the police-officers, he thought this addition to his party must have been caused by them. Being perfectly satisfied that nothing would at present take place in his house on which the police could make any remarks, he determined, in his own mind, to avoid any disturbance of the present festivity. It would be better, he thought, to represent to the government afterwards the insult they had inflicted on him; therefore, while most of his guests had thrown off their masks, he deferred his intended proposal, that they should all do so till the close of the entertainment.

“Universal admiration was excited by the extraordinary luxury displayed at this final banquet. In the variety and excellence of his wines, our host surpassed all that had been hitherto known at Venice, and yet he was not satisfied. He lamented, especially, that a misfortune had happened to his red champaigne, so that he could not produce a single glass of that liquor. At this time the party seemed well disposed to make up, as fast as possible, for that want of joviality and high spirits which they had betrayed through the preceding entertainments. Only in my neighbourhood—I mean where I sat at table—it fell out very differently. We had only one unanimous feeling—that of curiosity, which completely triumphed over every other. I was placed near the lady who wore jewels exactly resembling those of the bride, and observed that, besides never touching food or wine, she did not vouchsafe to return a single word when spoken to by the other guests, but, meanwhile, kept her looks constantly fixed on Felippo and his bride, who sat together.

“Her presence and strange conduct could not possibly remain unobserved, and the remarks that were, by degrees, spread about from one guest to another, once more damped the spirit of conviviality which, for a short time, had been revived. There arose a whispering all round the table, and the prevailing opinion was, that an unfortunate attachment to the bridegroom must be the cause of the icognita’s eccentric manners. However this might be, those who were nearest her at the supper-table left their places on the first opportunity offered for a change, and sought elsewhere for a more agreeable situation. Afterwards, however, many of the party assembled round her, for the sole purpose of discovering who she really was, expecting that, after all, she would unmask, and prove to be a well-known friend—but in vain!

“At last, when white champaigne was handed round, the bridegroom also drew near, taking the chair next but one to the silent lady; and now, indeed, she seemed to be more animated;—at least she turned round towards her new neighbour when he addressed her, which she had never done to any one else, and even offered her glass, as if she wished him to drink out of it. It was visible, however, that by her attentions Felippo had been excessively agitated. He held up the glass in his left hand trembling like an aspen leaf, pointed to it and said, ‘How comes it that the wine is red? I thought we had no red champaigne!’—‘Red,’ said the bride’s father, who had drawn near, with his curiosity stretched to the utmost; ‘What can you mean?’—‘Look only at the lady’s glass, answered Felippo. ‘Well,—it is filled with white wine, like all the rest,’ said the old gentleman, and he called the bystanders to witness, who, with one voice, declared the wine to be white.

“Felippo would not drink it however, and when the silent lady turned round on him a second time, he trembled even more than before, insomuch that he quitted his place at table, took his host aside, and when they had conversed for some time privately, the latter, having taken his resolution, addressed himself in a loud voice to the company: ‘For reasons,’ said he, ‘which are afterwards to be explained, I must request, as a particular favour, that all my worthy friends now present, will, for a moment, take off their masks.’ As in these words he only expressed a general wish, his request was complied with in an instant,—every countenance was uncovered, that of the silent lady excepted, on whom the looks of the whole party were turned with an expression of disappointment and suspicion. ‘You are the only mask left among us,’ said her host after a long pause; ‘dare I not hope that you will indulge me so far?’ She persisted, however, in the same coldnes of manner, and remained incognita. This vexed the old gentleman so much the more, as he discovered, among the rest, without exception, all the friends that he had invited; so that this lady was, without any doubt, the individual who had been added unexpectedly to the number. At the same time he did not venture to force a removal of her disguise, as the extraordinary value of her jewels took away all his suspicions that a spy of the police had intruded himself, and he would not run the risk of offending a person who was evidently of high rank. She might, perhaps, be some acquaintance who had arrived suddenly at Venice—heard of his brilliant entertainment, and, as a harmless jest, resolved to make one at the masquerade without being discovered.

“Meanwhile, it was thought right, at all events, to make some inquiries among the servants; but, notwithstanding the great number of strange lacqueys and female attendants that were at the villa, none could be found who would acknowledge this lady for their mistress, nor could any one of his own household recollect when or how she arrived; and their ignorance was the more unaccountable, as the lady must have retired to her toilet in order to put on the beautiful wreath with which she appeared at the supper-table.

“The mysterious whispering which had for some time supplied the place of all lively conversation, now became more remarkable, when the lady suddenly rose from her place, waved her hand, and nodded to the bridegroom, then retreated towards the door. The bride, however, would not suffer him to follow,—for she had long observed the attention with which the incognita had regarded him. Nor had it escaped Camilla’s notice, that he had been frightfully agitated when he was offered the glass of wine, and she began to fear that some mad attachment to Felippo had been the cause of this extraordinary scene. In spite of all her objections, however, she could not prevent her father from following the unknown,—and when she had got beyond the door, he redoubled his pace in order to keep up with her. But, at that moment, the same horrible shriek which had been heard during the dinner banquet was repeated with an effect tenfold more frightful amid the stillness of the night, and when our host had got beyond the outer gateway, not a trace was to be found of the mysterious visitor. The people in attendance there, knew nothing of her, and though the banks of the river were crowded with gondoliers, not one could acknowledge even to have seen her. These events had such an effect on the whole company, that only one desire now seemed to prevail among them, that of returning to their own homes as fast as possible,—and the old gentleman was forced to order the gondolas to be in readiness at a much earlier hour than he had intended. They departed, accordingly, in a mood very different from that in which they had arrived in the morning.

“On the following morning I found Felippo and his bride again in their usual spirits. He now began to think as she did, that the incognita was some unfortunate person ‘crazed with hopeless love,’ and as to the frightful cry that had twice alarmed the party, it might have been only an absurd trick of some intoxicated gondolier. It was not so easy to account for the lady’s arrival and departure without being observed; but this, too, might be explained by the bustle that prevailed, and inattention of the porters. As to the disappearance of the wedding-ring, it could only be supposed that some one among the servants had slight-of-hand and dishonesty enough to conjure it into his own pocket, from whence, of course, it would not be recovered. In short, they seemed resolved to overlook all difficulties and objections that might have been made to these explanations, and were only distressed that the priest, who should have come to pronounce a blessing on their contract, was now declared to be at the point of death; and, on account of the old friendship subsisting between him and my friend’s family, they could not properly think of the final ceremonies being performed within the very week after his decease. On the day of the clergyman’s funeral, however, a fearful check was given to Felippo’s levity and high spirits. A letter arrived from Clara’s mother, informing him that her unhappy daughter had, in her grief and disappointment, died for the sake of her faithless lover; moreover, that she had declared in her last moments, that she would not rest in her grave till she had compelled him to fulfil his promises.

“This alone made such an impression on Felippo, that the wretched mother’s added maledictions were quite superfluous. He found also, that the mysterious shriek, which had been heard when the rings were exchanged, had been uttered precisely at the hour and minute of the poor girl’s death. He was forced also to believe, however unwillingly, that the unknown lady had been his forsaken Clara’s ghost, and this thought deprived him at times of all self-possession. Henceforward, he always carried the letter about with him, and sometimes drew it unconsciously from his pocket, and stared at its agonizing pages. Even Camilla’s presence could not always prevent this,—and as she of course ascribed his agitation to the paper which he thus impolitely and silently perused, she availed herself of an opportunity when he had let it drop on the floor, and seemed quite lost in thought, to examine, without ceremony, what had caused him such distress. Felippo did not awake from his reverie, till she had perused the letter, and was folding it up with her countenance deadly pale, so that she must have fully understood her own painful situation. He then threw himself at her feet in a mood of the sincerest anguish and repentance—conjuring her to tell him what he now ought to do. ‘Only let your affection for me be more constant than it was for this poor unfortunate,’ said Camilla; and he vowed this from his inmost Heart. But his disquietude constantly increased, and when the day of their marriage at last arrived, became almost quite overpowering. When, according to the old fashion of the Venetians, he went in the twilight before daybreak to the residence of his bride, he could not help believing, all the way, that Clara’s ghost was walking by his side. Indeed no loving couple were ever accompanied to the altar by such fearful omens as those which now took place. At the request of Camilla’s parents, I was there in attendance as a witness, and have never since forgotten the horrors of that morning.

“We were advancing in profound silence towards the church della Salute, but, already in the streets, Felippo whispered to me several times, that I should keep away that strange woman, as he feared that she had some design against his bride. ‘What strange woman?’ said I in astonishment. ‘Not so loud—for God’s sake be cautious,’ answered he; ‘you see, no doubt, how she is always endeavouring to force herself betwixt me and Camilla.’—‘Mere phantasies, my good friend,’ said I; ‘there is no one here but our own party.’—‘God grant that my eyes had deceived me!’ he replied; ‘only dont let her go with us into the church!’ added he, when we arrived at the door. ‘Certainly not,’ said I, and, to the great astonishment of the bride’s parents, I made gestures as if I were ordering some one away. In the church we found Felippo’s father, on whom his son looked as if he were taking leave of him for ever. Camilla sobbed aloud, and when the bridegroom called out,—‘So, then, this strange woman has come in with us after all;’—it was thought doubtful whether, under such circumstances, the marriage could be performed. Camilla, however, said in her changeless affection, ‘Nay, nay—since he is in this unhappy state, he has the more need of my care and constant presence.’

“Now they drew near to the altar, where a gust of wind suddenly extinguished the candles. The priest was angry that the sacristan had not closed the windows; but Felippo exclaimed, ‘the windows indeed! Do you not see who stands here, and who just now carefully and designedly extinguished the lights?’ Every one looked confounded, but Felippo went on hastily, breaking away from his bride. ‘Do you not see, too, who is just forcing me away from Camilla?’—At these words, the bride sank fainting into her mother’s arms, and the clergyman declared that, under such impressions as these, it was absolutely impossible for him to proceed with the ceremony. The relations on both sides looked on Felippo’s situation as an attack of sudden madness, but it was not long before they changed this opinion, for he now fainted as Camilla had done,—convulsions followed—the blood forsook his countenance—and, in a few moments, their concern for him was at an end. Notwithstanding every effort made to assist him, he expired. Now they were unanimous in believing that he had been poisoned, but as to the person who had been guilty of that crime, no conjecture could be formed, and afterwards, when surgeons examined the body, they could not find the slightest confirmation of such suspicions.

“The relations, who, like myself, were informed by Camilla of the circumstances which had disturbed Felippo’s peace of mind, resolved to keep the matter as private as possible. However, the mysterious lady who had appeared at the festival was still spoken of, and her visit could not satisfactorily be explained; it was also very wonderful that the ring which had been so often sought for in vain was now found among Camilla’s other ornaments. So my long narrative ended.

“‘That is a marvellous legend, in good earnest,’ said the Count. The Countess heaved a long sigh, and Libussa said, ‘To say the truth, I should rather not have listened to it—I felt many times a cold shuddering in every limb.’ ‘No doubt,’ answered I—‘every new betrothed bride or lover must feel in this manner, who hears my legend, as the Count is pleased to term it;’ and with these words I looked at Marino, who had frequently started up from his chair, and evidently could not get the better of his apprehensions that I was meditating formidable opposition to his present plans. When we retired to rest that evening, he whispered to me, ‘I have a few words to say in private,’ and I brought him into my own chamber. ‘I perceive your kind intentions,’ said he,—‘this lying story that you have made up.’—‘Halt,’ cried I, greatly enraged—‘you have heard that I myself was a witness. How dare you accuse a man of honour of premeditated falsehood?’—‘Of that question afterwards,’ said he scornfully; ‘but for the present let me observe, that wheresoever you have got the anecdote of the wine mixed with blood, I know from whose real life that story was first derived.’—‘It was taken from the life of Felippo’, said I; ‘of this you may be assured. But that a similar circumstance may have happened elsewhere, I shall not dispute with you;—this is very possible, and credible, and most love adventures resemble one another more or less.’—‘Be that as it may,’ said Marino, ‘I now demand of you, that, from this day forward, you shall make no farther allusions to my past life. Under this condition alone shall I forgive you for your former ingenious devices.’ ‘Forgiveness!’ cried I, ‘conditions, forsooth, and both from you!—this is rather too much. On the contrary, I take the liberty of informing you, that the Count shall, to-morrow morning, be made fully acquainted with your former engagements, and of your expressions to me this night.’—‘My lord Marquis,’ replied he, ‘if you ventured this.’—‘Ha—ha!—I shall venture it however,’ answered I; ‘it is a duty that I owe to an old friend. The liar who has thought proper to accuse me of a falsehood shall no longer be permitted to wear his mask in this house.’ Contrary to my own wishes, anger had carried me so far, that it was impossible to avoid a challenge. The Duke determined instantly on this method of concluding the matter, and, at parting, we agreed to meet next morning with pistols in a neighbouring wood.

“At daybreak, accordingly, we made our appearance there, each attended by a servant. As Marino observed that I had not prepared my attendant with directions what should be done in case of my death, he undertook this duty himself, and gave orders for the disposal of my body, as if the worst had already happened. At the same time, he had the insolence to remind me, that he was young—that his hand, in several former encounters, had proved so steady, that he never failed to hit the mark as he had intended. On these occasions he had not wished to inflict a mortal wound; but now the case was very different. It was necessary, for his own safety, that I should be cleared out of his way; however, if I would still give my word of honour not to mention his former life at Venice, he would look upon the dispute as at an end, and return amicably to the castle.

“Of course I refused his proposal. ‘Then make your peace with Heaven!’ said he; and we prepared to fire. ‘You shall have the first chance—it is your right, as I am challenger,’ said he. I gave up my right, however, but he would not accept my offer. I fired, and shot the pistol out of his hand. ‘This seemed to irritate him exceedingly—it was brought to him by the servant. He examined th lock, took a steady aim; but his rage became ungovernable when, having fired, he found that I was uninjured. He insisted that he ought to have shot me through the heart, and yet was obliged to allow that there had not been the slightest movement on my part, to which he could ascribe his failure. At his desire the contest was renewed, with precisely the same results, only that, as I took aim again at his pistol, which he held in his left hand, the ball did not pass without grazing and contusion. After he had missed for the second time, I declared that I would by no means proceed any farther,—that is to say, I would not again fire at him; but as he had perhaps failed from too great agitation, he might, for the third time, take aim at me if he were so disposed. But before he could answer this question, the Count and Libussa, whose suspicions had been roused, made their appearance close to us. The former complained heavily of our conduct; he insisted on an explanation, and in Marino’s presence, I disclosed all that he had so much wished me to conceal. His visible embarrassment was imputed, by them also, to an evil conscience, and, for some time, every one seemed perplexed and discouraged.

“But it was not long before Marino contrived to profit so far by Libussa’s unabated attachment, that the Count became once more influenced in his favour. In the evening he said to me, ‘You are perfectly in the right—I should now play the part of a strict judge, and order the Duke to leave my house. But how should we console his forsaken bride, if she is never to see him again. Besides, he is the first and only individual in whose favour my daughter has evinced any prepossession; let us leave them, therefore, to take their own way. The Countess is of this opinion, and confesses that she could not help feeling some regret, if this handsome and agreeable Duke, to whose society we have been so long accustomed, should be turned out of doors, as I know you would advise. How many instances of inconstancy happen in the world, which, perhaps, might be forgiven, if we knew the particular circumstances by which they were caused.’—‘Nay,’ said I, ‘but it unluckily happens that the Duke seems to offer no excuse whatever for his conduct;’ but I desisted from these suggestions, as I perceived that the Count was determined, at all hazards, to proceed with this alliance, from which I should have so gladly dissuaded him.

“After this rencontre, the betrothing was appointed without any new interruption; but at the festival, though there was no want of luxury and magnificence, yet the guests were far from being very cheerful or convivial. Even the ball in the evening did not seem to rouse their spirits; only Marino danced incessantly, and he alone seemed extravagant in his mirth. ‘By good luck,’ said he, as he passed me during a quadrille, and laughed aloud; ‘by good luck, no ghost has come to interrupt our festival, as in your Venetian story!’—‘Nay, nay,’ said I, ‘don’t rejoice too soon my Lord Duke; misfortune comes on with cautious, noiseless steps. Often we know nothing of our danger, till it is already close upon us.’ Contrary to my expectations, he did not venture to answer one word; and it seemed to me a proof that my suggestions had made a deep impression, as he began to dance more furiously than ever. In vain the old Countess begged that he would have some regard for his health; only Libussa’s earnest entreaties prevailed on him at last to sit down, when he was quite breathless and exhausted. Not long afterwards, I saw the bride glide gently out of the room, and, as I thought, tears were visibly glistening in her eyes. It was certainly Libussa; I could not be mistaken, for I stood as near her when she passed, as I now am to you, my Lady Countess. It struck me as remarkable, therefore, that she should return in a very few moments, with an expression of the utmost cheerfulness on her features. I followed her, and, with great surprise, observed, that on coming up to the bridegroom, she immediately led him out among the dancers, and instead of dissuading him as before, seemed to enter into their amusements with as much animation as he did. I observed, too, that after one waltz, the Duke went to bid his father-in-law and the Countess good night. They shook hands, and he retired with Libussa by a private door leading to their bed-room.

“While I was still perplexing myself, and considering in vain what could have produced the sudden change from sadness to gaiety in the bride’s appearance, my attention was attracted by a whispering conversation that was carried on at the principal entrance, between the Count and the house steward. That the subject of their discourse must be somewhat of importance, was proved by the angry looks with which the former received the gardener, who now came in, and who seemed to be referred to by the steward as a witness of some extraordinary and unexpected event. I hastened up to them, resolved to know what was the cause of all this, and heard that the organ had been played, no one knew by whom, in the chapel, of which the windows also had been illuminated all the night till twelve o’clock, which was now just past. The Count was in the utmost degree indignant at this nursery fable, as he termed it, and inquired, if the facts were so, why he had not been summoned long before as a witness? The gardener declared that he had been afraid to mention it, and had contented himself with watching till the light disappeared. ‘Besides,’ added he, ‘if I dare speak the truth, the old chaplain has been visible again, and the cottagers on the wood have seen a great fire all evening on the hill top, and horrible figures dancing round it.’

“‘Bravo!’ cried the Count knitting his brows, ‘these old fooleries are come once more all together on the carpet. I hope the spectre bride also, as she is called, will not fail to make her entrée!’ The house steward here winked to the gardener, in order that he might not provoke his master any farther; but I interposed. ‘At least, one may hear quietly what the good people suppose that they have seen. Friend,’ added I to the gardener, ‘what then is the story of the spectre bride?’ The man shrugged his shoulders as if he wished to speak, but dared not. ‘Did I not tell you,’ said the Count, ‘that we might hear about this also? In what form then has she thought proper to come among us now?’ ‘If I may be allowed to speak,’ answered the gardener, ‘the spectre bride passed by me only about half an hour ago in the garden. She had the figure and dress of the late Countess Hildegarde, and went, as I thought, into the castle.’—‘Mark you, fellow,’ said his master sternly; ‘have some discretion for the future in your phantoms, and leave my dear sainted daughter to rest in her tomb. For the rest, you may talk as it pleases you.’ He waved his hand, and the two servants retired. ‘Well, my dear Marquis,’ said he, ‘are you inclined to carry your usual faith so far as to believe also in this apparition of my Hildegarde?’—‘At least,’ answered I, ‘it is not by the gardener alone that she has been seen. Think also of the scene in the picture gallery at Paris.’—‘There you are in the right,’ replied he; ‘that was another admirable invention, of which, it must be owned, I do not yet well understand either the foundation or object. I can assure you, however, that I was much more inclined, at that time, to break off all connection with the Duke, because he had told us such a downright falsehood, than on account of his inconstancy which we afterwards discovered.’—‘On that point,’ said I, ‘it seems impossible for us to agree; for, if you find my credulity unaccountable, your doubts appear to me no less so.’

“Meanwhile, the party began to retire for the night, till, by degrees, no one remained in the room but myself, with our host and hostess. What was our astonishment, therefore, when we saw Libussa in ball costume, enter, not from the bedroom, but from the principal door, and look round her, astonished to find the scene so deserted. ‘What can be the meaning of this?’ said her mother; while the Count was so overcome with astonishment that he could not utter a word. ‘Where is Marino?’ said the bride. ‘This question to us, dear child?’ said the Countess; ‘Did we not see you retire with him nearly an hour ago?’—‘Impossible,’ cried she; ‘you are altogether mistaken.’—‘Nay—nay—dearest Libussa,’ answered her mother; ‘just after that waltz, when you danced with so much spirit, you certainly went with him to your own apartments.’—‘I have not danced this evening more than once,’ said Libussa. ‘Child—child,’—said her father sternly; ‘to what purpose is this pretended forgetfulness?’—‘I have not forgotten,’ said Libussa; ‘I can tell you all that has passed this night.’—‘Where, then, have you staid away for this last hour?’—‘In the rooms of my dear sister Hildegarde,’ answered she; and I observed that the Count became somewhat pale at these words, and he looked at me doubtfully. He was silent, however, and the Countess, fearful that her beloved daughter’s senses were wandering, said in a mournful tone, ‘Dearest child—on a day like this, how could such melancholy thoughts come into your mind?’—’For this,’ answered she, ‘I cannot assign any proper cause—I only know that my heart became very much oppressed, and it seemed to me all of a sudden, that I had never till then felt so heavily the loss of my beloved Hildegarde. A strange delusion rose in my mind, and I could not help believing, that if I went to her room I should find her sitting, as in old times, with her guitar. I said nothing of this to any one, but glided out of the ball-room unobserved, and went up stairs.’—‘Did you find her, then?’—‘Alas, no—but, when once in her apartments, I could not force myself again to leave them. I was wearied, sat down on a chair by the window—and knew not how the time passed, till, at last, I started up as if from sleep, and hastened hither.’—‘How long, then, is it since you left the ball-room?’ inquired her mother. ‘At a quarter before twelve—the clock then struck as I entered my sister’s apartments.’—‘Good Heaven, how can we explain this? cried her mother; ‘what she has told us is so well connected, and yet, I know also that the clock struck the last quarter to twelve just as I spoke to her in this room, and advised her not to dance so violently.’—‘And where, think you, is Marino?’ said her father. ‘How can I tell? I had expected to find him here,’—‘God have mercy,’ said her mother; ‘she is indeed bewildered and insane, but where can the Duke be?’—‘What means all this, dearest mother?’ said Libussa, now alarmed in her turn, while the Count snatched up a light, and beckoned me to follow him. He led the way directly to the apartment that had been assigned to the newly married couple, and there a horrible sight awaited us. We found the Duke alone,—lying on the floor, his frame already rigid in death, and his visage frightfully distorted. You may imagine, though I cannot describe, the grief and distraction of Libussa, when intelligence was brought to her of this event, and the physicians declared that any attempt to restore animation must be in vain. Indeed, the whole family were thrown into such despair, that my presence could no longer be of any service; it was impossible to console them; and I was not sorry, when letters arrived, containing information that my presence was particularly required at my own residence. Before setting out, however, I did not neglect to make all possible inquiries into the real history of the spectre bride. It must be confessed, however, that my evidence, depending on mere oral tradition, is not very full nor satisfactory. She is said to have been a young lady of rank in the fifteenth century, and to have been a native of the district in which stands the castle of my friend Count Globoda. It is alleged that she had been guilty of such cruel infidelity towards a young man, with whom she was once in love, that he died of grief. Afterwards, on her marriage night, his ghost appeared, claimed the lady, and her immediate death ensued; but the story runs on, not very consistently, that, since then, she has never rested in the grave, but has wandered through this world, assuming many different forms and aspects, in order to seduce lovers into a breach of their solemn vows and engagements. As it is impossible for her to wear the features of any living being, she invests herself in the frames of the dead, nor can she ever be released from her task, which forms the punishment of her own crimes, till she has found some youth whose fidelity resists all such endeavours. As to the servant who attended her at Paris, that circumstance is inexplicable, unless it is supposed that the devil assists in lengthening the term of her sufferings, which is the more likely, as it seems that she has never yet made an attempt on any one who has not readily been misled. With regard to the old chaplain, I understood that he had been involved in the story, inasmuch as he had betrothed this formidable lady to her second lover, for whom the former had been so basely deserted. As to the Duke’s name being called aloud, the midnight illumination of the church and the rest, no one could give me any satisfactory intelligence. Nor did the people venture to say by what means the fiery dance on the mountain had been caused, or what conclusions were to be drawn from it. However, you will perceive that this legend of the bridal spectre coincides admirably with both the stories which I have narrated; the beautiful Camilla may have had a near relation whose form was assumed and raised from the grave by the revenante, by whom, and not by the living heiress, Felippo may at first have been seduced. At all events, if such explanation will not suffice, I am unable to offer any better key. Of the same spectre bride, there is another story, which I learned a few weeks ago, but I reserve it for another opportunity, as I have sufficiently monopolized this evening’s conversation.”

Just as he had thus concluded, and the party, though by no means inclined to believe all he had said, thanked him for the entertainment he had afforded, another member of the club suddenly entered the room, and whispered a few words to the Marquis, whose perfect composure contrasted very strangely with the fear and anxiety betrayed in the looks of the new-comer. “Make haste, I beseech you,” cried the latter, seeming out of all patience at his indifference; “otherwise within a few hours, perhaps minutes, you will miserably repent your delay.”—“I thank you for your kind interest in my concerns,” answered the other; but seemed as little inclined to move as before, though the whole party prepared to separate for the night. “Now then—mark my words—you are a lost man,” said his friend as an officer entered, attended by several followers, and inquired for the foreign Marquis, who immediately came forward and answered to his name. “You are my prisoner,” said the officer; and, without a moment’s hesitation, the Marquis went with him, not however without politely wishing the company good-night, and begging that they would be under no anxiety on his account.”—“No anxiety, forsooth!” said his friend, after the prisoner was removed; “it has been proved that he is connected with the most dangerous political associations, and his death may be looked upon as already doomed. Out of mere compassion I wished to apprise him of his danger, and, from his present conduct, must conclude that he is absolutely a madman.”

The party continued for some time to indulge themselves in conjectures. But all of a sudden, the officer re-appeared, and inquired for his prisoner. “What mummery is this?” said one of the party, “did you not just now take him with you?”—“True, but he escaped, and we saw him return hither.”—“No one has entered this room; of that you may be assured.”—“Then he has vanished,” said the officer laughing; “but we shall soon bring him to light again.” The house was searched accordingly, from the garret to the cellar, but in vain; and next day the soldiers were obliged to take their departure, having been baffled completely in their enterprise.