The Room in the Dragon VolantLe Fanu, Joseph Sheridan
History
The Room in the Dragon Volant
Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan
British -- France -- Paris -- Fiction; France -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction; Horror tales
"The very thing. We shall see more next time. Forward, Monsieur; let us
march." And, much to my relief, the gallant Colonel turned on his heel
and marched through the trees, with his back toward the château,
striding over the grass, as I quickly saw, to the park wall, which they
crossed not far from the gables of the Dragon Volant.
I found the Countess trembling in no affected, but a very real terror.
She would not hear of my accompanying her toward the château. But I told
her that I would prevent the return of the mad Colonel; and upon that
point, at least, that she need fear nothing. She quickly recovered,
again bade me a fond and lingering good-night, and left me, gazing after
her, with the key in my hand, and such a phantasmagoria floating in my
brain as amounted very nearly to madness.
There was I, ready to brave all dangers, all right and reason, plunge
into murder itself, on the first summons, and entangle myself in
consequences inextricable and horrible (what cared I?) for a woman of
whom I knew nothing, but that she was beautiful and reckless!
I have often thanked heaven for its mercy in conducting me through the
labyrinths in which I had all but lost myself.
Chapter XX
A HIGH-CAULD-CAP
I was now upon the road, within two or three hundred yards of the Dragon
Volant. I had undertaken an adventure with a vengeance! And by way of
prelude, there not improbably awaited me, at my inn, another encounter,
perhaps, this time, not so lucky, with the grotesque sabreur.
I was glad I had my pistols. I certainly was bound by no law to allow a
ruffian to cut me down, unresisting.
Stooping boughs from the old park, gigantic poplars on the other side,
and the moonlight over all, made the narrow road to the inn-door
picturesque.
I could not think very clearly just now; events were succeeding one
another so rapidly, and I, involved in the action of a drama so
extravagant and guilty, hardly knew myself or believed my own story, as
I slowly paced towards the still open door of the Flying Dragon. No sign
of the Colonel, visible or audible, was there. In the hall I inquired.
No gentleman had arrived at the inn for the last half hour. I looked
into the public room. It was deserted. The clock struck twelve, and I
heard the servant barring the great door. I took my candle. The lights
in this rural hostelry were by this time out, and the house had the air
of one that had settled to slumber for many hours. The cold moonlight
streamed in at the window on the landing as I ascended the broad
staircase; and I paused for a moment to look over the wooded grounds to
the turreted château, to me, so full of interest. I bethought me,
however, that prying eyes might read a meaning in this midnight gazing,
and possibly the Count himself might, in his jealous mood, surmise a
signal in this unwonted light in the stair-window of the Dragon Volant.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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