THE PHANTOM COACH: Collected Ghost Stories (44 page)

And his hands, in truth, were always ice-like, even though the hearth was heaped with blazing logs.

‘Not today,
petite
,’ he would reply. ‘It is too bleak for me—and besides, you see, I am writing.’

It was his invariable reply. He was always writing—or if not writing, reading; or brooding listlessly over the fire. And so he grew paler every day.

‘But the writing can wait, Monsieur Maurice,’ I urged one morning, ‘and you can’t always be reading the same old books over and over again!’

‘Some books never grow old, little Gretchen,’ he replied ‘This, for instance, is quite new; and yet it was written by one Horatius Flaccus somewhere about eighteen hundred years ago.’

‘But the sun is really shining this morning, Monsieur Maurice!’

‘
Comment!
’ he said, smiling. ‘Do you think to persuade me that yonder is the sun—the great, golden, glorious, bountiful sun? No, no, my child! Where I come from, we have the only true sun, and believe in no other!’

‘But you come from France, don’t you, Monsieur Maurice?’ I asked quickly.

‘From the south of France,
petite
—from the France of palms, and orange-groves, and olives; where the myrtle flowers at Christmas, and the roses bloom all the year round!’

‘But that must be where Paradise was, Monsieur Maurice!’ I exclaimed.

‘Ay! it was Paradise once—for me,’ he said, with a sigh.

Thus, after a moment’s pause, he went on:

‘The house in which I was born stands on a low cliff above the sea. It is an old, old house, with all kinds of quaint little turrets, and gable ends, and picturesque nooks and corners about it—such as one sees in most French châteaux of that period; and it lies back somewhat, with a great rambling garden stretching out between it and the edge of the cliff. Three
berceaux
of orange trees lead straight away from the paved terrace on which the salon windows open, to another terrace overhanging the beach and the sea. The cliff is overgrown from top to bottom with shrubs and wild flowers, and a flight of steps cut in the living rock leads down to a little cove and a strip of yellow sand a hundred feet below. Ah,
petite
, I fancy I can see myself scrambling up and down those steps—a child younger than yourself; watching the sun go down into that purple sea; counting the sails in the offing at early morn; and building castles with that yellow sand, just as you build castles out yonder with the snow!’

I clasped my hands and listened breathlessly.

‘Oh, Monsieur Maurice,’ I said, ‘I did not think there was such a beautiful place in the world! It sounds like a fairy tale.’

He smiled, sighed, and—being seated at his desk with the pen in his hand—took up a blank sheet of paper, and began sketching the château and the cliff.

‘Tell me more about it, Monsieur Maurice,’ I pleaded coaxingly.

‘What more can I tell you, little one? See—this window in the turret to the left was my bedroom window, and here, just below, was my study, where as a boy I prepared my lessons for my tutor. That large Gothic window under the gable was the window of the library.’

‘And is it all just like that still?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he said dreamily. ‘I suppose so.’

He was now putting in the rocks, and the rough steps leading down to the beach.

‘Had you any little brothers and sisters, Monsieur Maurice?’ I asked next; for my interest and curiosity were unbounded.

He shook his head.

‘None,’ he said, ‘none whatever. I was an only child; and I am the last of my name.’

I longed to question him further, but did not dare to do so.

‘You will go back there some day, Monsieur Maurice,’ I said hesitatingly, ‘when—when——’

‘When I am free, little Gretchen? Ah! who can tell? Besides, the old place is no longer mine. They have taken it from me, and given it to a stranger.’

‘Taken it from you, Monsieur Maurice!’ I exclaimed, indignantly.

‘Ah! but—who knows? We see strange changes. Where a king reigns today, an emperor, or a mob, may rule tomorrow.’

He spoke more to himself than to me, but I had some dim understanding, nevertheless, of what he meant.

He had by this time drawn the cliff, and the strip of sand, and the waste of sea beyond; and now he was blotting in some boats and figures—figures of men wading through the surf and dragging the boats in shore; and other figures making for the steps. Last of all, close under the cliff, in advance of all the rest, he drew a tiny man standing alone—a tiny man scarce an eighth of an inch in height, struck out with three or four touches of the pen, and yet so full of character that one knew at a glance he was the leader of the others. I saw the outstretched arm in act of command—I recognised the well-known cocked hat—the general outline of a figure already familiar to me in a hundred prints, and I exclaimed, almost involuntarily:

‘Bonaparte!’

Monsieur Maurice started; shot a quick, half apprehensive glance at me; crumpled the drawing up in his hand, and flung it into the fire.

‘Oh, Monsieur Maurice!’ I cried, ‘what have you done?’

‘It was a mere scrawl,’ he said impatiently.

‘No, no—it was beautiful. I would have given anything for it!’

Monsieur Maurice laughed, and patted me on the cheek.

‘Nonsense,
petite
, nonsense!’ he said. ‘It was only fit for the fire. I will make you a better drawing, if you remind me of it, tomorrow.’

When I told this to my father—and I used to prattle to him a good deal about Monsieur Maurice at supper, in those days—he tugged at his mustache, and shook his head, and looked very grave indeed.

‘The south of France!’ he muttered, ‘the south of France!
Sacré coeur d’une bombe!
Why, the usurper, when he came from Elba, landed on that coast somewhere near Cannes!’

‘And went to Monsieur Maurice’s house, father!’ I cried, ‘and that is why the King of France has taken Monsieur Maurice’s house away from him, and given it to a stranger! I am sure that’s it! I see it all now!’

But my father only shook his head again, and looked still more grave.

‘No, no, no,’ he said, ‘neither all—nor half—nor a quarter! There’s more behind. I don’t understand it—I don’t understand it. Thunder and Mars! Why don’t we hand him over to the French Government? That’s what puzzles me.’

Chapter VI

An Unpleasant Task

The severity of the winter had, I think, in some degree abated, and the snowdrops were already above ground, when again a mounted orderly rode in from Cologne, bringing another official letter for the Governor of Brühl.

Now my father’s duties as Governor of Brühl were very light—so light that he had not found it necessary to set apart any special room, or bureau, for the transaction of such business as might be connected therewith. When, therefore, letters had to be written or accounts made up, he wrote those letters and made up those accounts at a certain large writing-table, fitted with drawers, pigeon-holes, and shelf for account books, that stood in a corner of our sitting-room. Here also, if any persons had to be received, he received them. To this day, whenever I go back in imagination to those bygone times, I seem to see my father sitting at that writing-table nibbling the end of his pen, and one of the sergeants off guard perched on the edge of a chair close against the door, with his hat on his knees, waiting for orders.

There being, as I have said, no especial room set apart for business purposes, the orderly was shown straight to our own room, and there delivered his despatch. It was about a quarter past one. We had dined, and my father had just brought out his pipe. The door leading into our little dining-room was, indeed, standing wide open, and the dishes were still upon the table.

My father took the despatch, turned it over, broke the seals one by one (there were five of them, as before) and read it slowly through. As he read, a dark cloud seemed to settle on his brow.

Then he looked up, frowning—seemed about to speak—checked himself—and read the despatch over again.

‘From whose hands did you receive this?’ he said abruptly.

‘From General Berndorf, Excellency,’ stammered the orderly, carrying his hand to his cap.

‘Is his Excellency the Baron von Bulow at Cologne?’

‘I have not heard so, Excellency.’

‘Then this despatch came direct from Berlin, and has been forwarded from Cologne?’

‘Yes, Excellency.’

‘How did it come from Berlin? By mail, or by special messenger?’

‘By special messenger, Excellency.’

Now General Berndorf was the officer in command of the garrison at Cologne, and the Baron von Bulow, as I well knew, was His Majesty’s Minister of War at Berlin.

Having received these answers, my father stood silent, as if revolving some difficult matter in his thoughts. Then, his mind being made up, he turned again to the orderly and said:

‘Dine—feed your horse—and come back in an hour for the answer.’

Thankful to be dismissed, the man saluted and vanished. My father had a rapid, stern way of speaking to subordinates, that had in general the effect of making them glad to get out of his presence as quickly as possible.

Then he read the despatch for the third time; turned to his writing-table; dropped into his chair; and prepared to write.

But the task, apparently, was not easy. Watching him from the fireside corner where I was sitting on a low stool with an open story-book upon my lap, I saw him begin and tear up three separate attempts. The fourth, however, seemed to be more successful. Once written, he read it over, copied it carefully, called to me for a light, sealed his letter, and addressed it to ‘His Excellency the Baron von Bulow’.

This done, he enclosed it under cover to ‘General Berndorf, Cologne’; and had just sealed the outer cover when the orderly came back. My father gave it to him with scarcely a word, and two minutes after we heard him clattering out of the courtyard at a hand-gallop.

Then my father came back to his chair by the fireside, lit his pipe, and sat thinking silently. I looked up in his face, but felt, somehow, that I must not speak to him; for the cloud was still there, and his thoughts were far away. Presently his pipe went out; but he held it still, unconscious and absorbed. In all the months we had been living at Brühl I had never seen him look so troubled.

So he sat, and so he looked for a long time—for perhaps the greater part of an hour—during which I could think of nothing but the despatch, and Monsieur Maurice, and the Minister of War; for that it all had to do with Monsieur Maurice I never doubted for an instant.

By just such another despatch, sealed and sent in precisely the same way, and from the same person, his coming hither had been heralded. How, then, should not this one concern him? And in what way would he be affected by it? Seeing that dark look in my father’s face, I knew not what to think or what to fear.

At length, after what had seemed to me an interval of interminable silence, the time-piece in the corner struck half-past three—the hour at which Monsieur Maurice was accustomed to give me the daily French lesson; so I got up quietly and stole towards the door, knowing that I was expected upstairs.

‘Where are you going, Gretchen?’ said my father, sharply.

It was the first time he had opened his lips since the orderly had clattered out of the courtyard.

‘I am going up to Monsieur Maurice,’ I replied.