THE PHANTOM COACH: Collected Ghost Stories (46 page)

Sad and monotonous now to the last degree, his life dragged heavily on. He wrote no more. He read, or seemed to read, nearly the whole day through; but I often observed that his eye ceased travelling along the lines, and that sometimes, for an hour and more together, he never turned a page.

‘My little Gretchen,’ he said to me one day, ‘you are too much in these close rooms with me, and too little in the open air and sunshine.’

‘I had rather be here, Monsieur Maurice,’ I replied.

‘But it is not good for you. You are losing all your roses.’

‘I don’t think it is good for me to be out when you are always indoors,’ I said, simply. ‘I don’t care to run about, and—and I don’t enjoy it.’

He looked at me—opened his lips as if about to speak—then checked himself; walked to the window; and looked out silently.

The next morning, as soon as I made my appearance, he said:

‘The French lesson can wait awhile,
petite
. Shall we go out for a walk instead?’

I clapped my hands for joy.

‘Oh, Monsieur Maurice!’ I cried, ‘are you in earnest?’

For in truth it seemed almost too good to be true. But Monsieur Maurice was in earnest, and we went—closely followed by the sentry.

It was a beautiful sunny April day. We went down the terraces and slopes; and in and out of the flower-beds, now gaudy with spring flowers; and on to the great central point whence the avenue diverged. Here we rested on a bench under a lime-tree, not far from the huge stone basin where the fountain played every Sunday throughout the summer, and the sleepy water-lilies rocked to and fro in the sunshine.

All was very quiet. A gardener went by now and then, with his wheelbarrow, or a gamekeeper followed by his dogs; a blackbird whistled low in the bushes; a cow-bell tinkled in the far distance; the wood-pigeons murmured softly in the plantations. Other passers-by, other sounds there were none—save when a noisy party of flaxen-haired, bare-footed children came whooping and racing along, but turned suddenly shy and silent at sight of Monsieur Maurice sitting under the lime-tree.

The sentry, meanwhile, took up his position against the pedestal of a mutilated statue close by, and leaned upon his musket.

Monsieur Maurice was at first very silent. Once or twice he closed his eyes, as if listening to the gentle sounds upon the air—once or twice he cast an uneasy glance in the direction of the sentry; but for a long time he scarcely moved or spoke.

At length, as if following up a train of previous thought, he said suddenly:

‘There is no liberty. There are comparative degrees of captivity and comparative degrees of slavery; but of liberty, our social system knows nothing but the name. That sentry, if you asked him, would tell you that he is free. He pities me, perhaps, for being a prisoner. Yet he is even less free than myself. He is the slave of discipline. He must walk, hold up his head, wear his hair, dress, eat, and sleep according to the will of his superiors. If he disobeys, he is flogged. If he runs away, he is shot. At the present moment, he dares not lose sight of me for his life. I have done him no wrong; yet if I try to escape, it is his duty to shoot me. What is there in my captivity to equal the slavery of his condition? I cannot, it is true, go where I please; but, at least, I am not obliged to walk up and down a certain corridor, or in front of a certain sentry-box, for so many hours a day; and no power on earth could compel me to kill an innocent man who had never harmed me in his life.’

In an instant I had the whole scene before my eyes—Monsieur Maurice flying—pursued—shot down—brought back to die!

‘But—but you won’t try to run away, Monsieur Maurice!’ I cried, terrified at the picture my own fancy had drawn.

He darted a scrutinising glance at me, and said, after a moment’s hesitation:

‘If I intended to do so,
petite
, I should hardly tell Colonel Bernhard’s little daughter beforehand. Besides, why should I care now for liberty? What should I do with it? Have I not lost all that made it worth possessing—the hero I worshipped, the cause I honoured, the home I loved, the woman I adored? What better place for me than a prison—unless the grave?’

He roused himself. He had been thinking aloud, unconscious of my presence; but seeing my startled eyes fixed full upon his face, he smiled, and said with a sudden change of voice and manner:

‘Go pluck me that namesake of yours over yonder—the big white Marguerite on the edge of the grass plat. Thanks,
petite
. Now I’ll be sworn you guess what I am going to do with it? No? Well, I am going to question these little sibylline leaves, and make the Marguerite tell me whether I am destined to a prison all the days of my life. What! you never heard of the old flower
sortilege
? Why, Gretchen, I thought every little German maiden learned it in the cradle with her mother tongue!’

‘But how can the Marguerite answer you, Monsieur Maurice?’ I exclaimed.

‘You shall see—but I must tell you first that the flower is not used to pronounce upon such serious matters. She is the oracle of the village lads and lasses—not of grave prisoners like myself.’

And with this, half sadly, half playfully, he began stripping the leaves off one by one, and repeating over and over again:

‘Tell me, sweet Marguerite, shall I be free? Soon . . . in time . . . perhaps . . . never! Soon . . . in time . . . perhaps . . . never! Soon . . . in time . . . perhaps——’

It was the last leaf.

‘Pshaw!’ he said, tossing away the stalk with an impatient laugh. ‘You could have given me as good an answer as that, little Gretchen. Let us go in.’

Chapter VIII

The Attempted Escape

It was about a week after this when I was startled out of my deepest midnight sleep by a rush of many feet, and a fierce and sudden knocking at my father’s bedroom door—the door opposite my own.

I sat up, trembling. A bright blaze gleamed along the threshold, and high above the clamour of tongues outside, I recognised my father’s voice, quick, sharp, imperative. Then a door was opened and banged. Then came the rush of feet again—then silence.

It was a strange, wild hubbub; and it had all come, and gone, and was over in less than a minute. But what was it?

Seeing that fiery line along the threshold, I had thought for a moment that the château was on fire; but the light vanished with those who brought it, and all was darkness again.

‘Bertha!’ I cried tremulously. ‘Bertha!’

Now Bertha was my Rhenish handmaiden, and she slept in a closet opening off my room. But Bertha was as deaf to my voice as one of the Seven Sleepers.

Suddenly a shrill trumpet-call rang out in the courtyard.

I sprang out of bed, flew to Bertha, and shook her with all my strength till she woke.

‘Bertha! Bertha!’ I cried. ‘Wake up—strike a light—dress me quickly! I must know what is the matter!’

In vain Bertha yawns, rubs her eyes, protests that I have had a bad dream, and that nothing is the matter. Get up she must; dress herself and me in the twinkling of an eye; and go upon whatsoever dance I choose to lead her.

My father is gone, and his door stands wide open. We turn to the stairs, and a cold wind rushes up in our faces. We go down, and find the side-door which leads to the courtyard unfastened and ajar. There is not a soul in the courtyard. There is not the faintest glimmer of light from the guard-house windows. The sentry who walks perpetually to and fro in front of the gate is not at his post; and the gate is wide open!

Even Bertha sees that by this time something strange is afoot, and stares at me with a face of foolish wonder.

‘
Ach, Herr Gott!
’ she cries, clapping her hands together, ‘what’s that?’

It is very faint, very distant; but quite audible in the dead silence of the night. In an instant I know what it is that has happened!

‘It is the report of a musket!’ I exclaim, seizing her by the hand, and dragging her across the courtyard. ‘Quick! quick! Oh, Monsieur Maurice! Monsieur Maurice!’

The night is very dark. There is no moon, and the stars, glimmering through a veil of haze, give little light. But we run as recklessly as if it were bright day, past the barracks, past the parade-ground, and round to the great gates on the garden side of the château. These, however, are closed, and the sentry, standing watchful and motionless, with his musket made ready, refuses to let us through.

In vain I remind him that I am privileged, and that none of these gates are ever closed against me. The man is inexorable.

‘No, Fräulein Gretchen,’ he says, ‘I dare not. This is not a fit hour for you to be out. Pray go home.’

‘But Gaspar, good Gaspar,’ I plead, clinging to the gate with both hands, ‘tell me if he has escaped! Hark; oh, hark! there it is again!’

And another, and another shot rings through the still night-air.

The sentry almost stamps with impatience.

‘Go home, dear little Fräulein! Go home at once,’ he says. ‘There is danger abroad tonight. I cannot leave my post, or I would take you home myself—— Holy Saint Christopher! they are coming this way! Go—go—what would his Excellency the Governor say, if he found you here?’

I see quick gleams of wandering lights among the trees—I hear a distant shout! Then, seized by a sudden panic, I turn and fly, with Bertha at my heels—fly back the way I came, never pausing till I find myself once more at the courtyard gate. Here—breathless, trembling, panting—I stop to listen and look back. All is silent—as silent as before.

‘But,
liebe
Gretchen,’ says Bertha, as breathless as myself, ‘what is to do tonight?’

There is a coming murmur on the air. There is a red glow reflected on the barrack windows—they are coming! I turn suddenly cold and giddy.

‘Hush, Bertha!’ I whisper, ‘we must not stay here. Papa will be angry! Let us go up to the corridor window.’

So we go back into the house, upstairs the way we came, and station ourselves at the corridor window, which looks into the courtyard.

Slowly the glow broadens; slowly the sound resolves itself into an irregular tramp of many feet and a murmur of many voices.

Then suddenly the courtyard is filled with soldiers and lighted torches, and—and I clasp my hands over my eyes in an agony of terror, lest the picture I drew a few days since should be coming true.

‘What do you see, Bertha?’ I falter. ‘Do you—do you see Monsieur Maurice?’

‘No, but I see Gottlieb Kolb, and Corporal Fritz, and—yes—here is Monsieur Maurice between two soldiers, and his Excellency the Colonel walking beside them!’

I looked up, and my heart gave a leap of gladness. He was not dead—he was not even wounded! He had been pursued and captured; but at least he was safe!

They stopped just under the corridor window. The torchlight fell full upon their faces. Monsieur Maurice looked pale and composed; perhaps just a shade haughtier than usual. My father had his drawn sword in his hand.

‘Corporal Fritz,’ he said, turning to a soldier near him, ‘conduct the prisoner to his room, and post two sentries at his door, and one under his windows.’ Then turning to Monsieur Maurice, ‘I thank God, Sir,’ he said gravely, ‘that you have not paid for your imprudence with your life. I have the honour to wish you goodnight.’

Monsieur Maurice ceremoniously took off his hat.

‘Goodnight, Colonel Bernhard,’ he said. ‘I beg you, however, to remember that I had withdrawn my parole.’

‘I remember it, Monsieur Maurice,’ replied my father, drawing himself up, and returning the salutation.