My room opened on the court of honor, which was immense and surrounded
by magnificent buildings, whose delicate proportions were defined in
pale blue against the dark sky, by the light of the first flashes.
But the wind arose and drove me from the casement from which it seemed
desirous of tearing away the curtains. I closed everything and before
again retiring, as I wished to brave the ghosts and satisfy Zéphyrine by
accomplishing conscientiously what I presumed to be the rites of
invocation, I brushed the table and removed the remains of my repast. I
placed the three carafes around the basket. I had not disturbed the
salt; and wishing to establish a complete victory over myself, by
provoking my imagination to its extreme limit, I arranged three chairs
around the table and placed three candlesticks upon it, one before each
easy chair.
After this, I extinguished all the lights and fell asleep quietly,
without failing to compare myself to sire Enguerrand, whose story my
mother had often sung to me in the form of a plaintive melody,
recounting thus his adventures in the terrible castle of Ardennes.
You can very well believe that my first sleep must have been profound,
for I remember nothing more of the storm, and it was not that which
awoke me; it was a clinking of glasses on the table, that I at first
heard intermingled with my dreams—and that I ended by hearing in
reality. I opened my eyes, and—believe me who will, but I was witness of
such surprising things, that after twenty years the slightest detail is
as clear in my memory as on the first day.
There was some light in the room although I could see no candle burning.
It was a species of very vague green flame, which seemed to proceed from
the fire-place. By the means of this faint illumination I could see, not
very distinctly, but beyond any doubt, three persons, or rather three
forms seated on the chairs that I had placed around the table, one at
the right, the other at the left, the third between the two first,
opposite the first-place, with its back to my bed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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