“Excuse me,” said the Marquis—a slight blush streaking his sullen visage. “There are some circumstances connected with our family history which I do not like to relate. That was a rude period. A time of great crimes among great men: for you know high blood, when it runs wrong, will not run tamely like blood of the _canaille_—poor lady!—But I have a little family pride, that—excuse me—we will change the subject if you please.”— My uncle’s curiosity was piqued. The pompous and magnificent introduction had led him to expect something wonderful in the story to which it served as a kind of avenue. He had no idea of being cheated out of it by a sudden fit of unreasonable squeamishness. Besides, being a traveller, in quest of information, considered it his duty to inquire into every thing. The Marquis, however, evaded every question. “Well,” said my uncle, a little petulantly, “whatever you may think of it, I saw that lady last night.” The Marquis stepped back and gazed at him with surprise. “She paid me a visit in my bed-chamber.” The Marquis pulled out his snuff-box with a shrug and a smile; taking it no doubt for an awkward piece of English pleasantry, which politeness required him to be charmed with. My uncle went on gravely, however, and related the whole circumstance. The Marquis heard him through with profound attention, holding his snuff-box unopened in his hand. When the story was finished he tapped on the lid of his box deliberately; took a long sonorous pinch of snuff— “Bah!” said the Marquis, and walked toward the other end of the gallery.— Here the narrator paused. The company waited for some time for him to resume his narrative; but he continued silent. “Well,” said the inquisitive gentleman, “and what did your uncle say then?” “Nothing,” replied the other. “And what did the Marquis say farther?” “Nothing.” “And is that all?” “That is all,” said the narrator, filling a glass of wine. “I surmise,” said the shrewd old gentleman with the waggish nose—“I surmise it was the old housekeeper walking her rounds to see that all was right.” “Bah!” said the narrator, “my uncle was too much accustomed to strange sights not to know a ghost from a housekeeper!” There was a murmur round the table half of merriment, half of disappointment. I was inclined to think the old gentleman had really an afterpart of his story in reserve; but he sipped his wine and said nothing more; and there was an odd expression about his dilapidated countenance that left me in doubt whether he were in drollery or earnest.