The Third Macabre Megapack: 25 Classic Tales of Horror

By Gertrude Atherton and Lafcadio Hearn

The Third Macabre Megapack continues the great series with another volume of rare tales of horror and the macabre. Included this time are:

THE WALTZ, by Morris W. GowenTHREE AT TABLE, by W.W. JacobsVERA, by Villiers de L’Isle-AdamA LOST DAY, by Edgar FawcettMETZENGERSTEIN, by Edgar Allan PoeA TRAGEDY OF HIGH EXPLOSIVES, by Brainard Gardner SmithTHE LEGEND OF TCHI-NIU, by Lafcadio HearnTHE OUTGOING OF THE TIDE, by John BuchanA STRANGE REUNION, by T. G. AtkinsonA WORK OF ACCUSATION, by Harry HowTHE NIGHT WIRE, by H. F. ArnoldTHE ELIXIR OF LIFE, by Honoré de BalzacTHE MIRROR, by Catulle MendèsTHE WOMAN AND THE CAT, by Marcel PrevostA LEMON-TREE, by OuidaTWILIGHT ZONE, by Mary KeeganUNHALLOWED HOLIDAY, by O. M. CabralTHE ETERNITY OF FORMS, by Jack LondonWOLVERDEN TOWER, by Grant AllenTHE MAGIC PHIAL, by J. Y. AkermanTHE HAUNTED MILL, by Jerome K. JeromeTHE GROVE OF ASHTAROTH, by John BuchanTHE WELL, by W. W. JacobsTHE OBLONG BOX, by Edgar Allan PoeDEATH AND THE WOMAN, by Gertrude Atherton

If you enjoy this ebook, check out the other volumes in the series, covering not only fantasy and horror, but mystery, science fiction, western, and classic authors. Search your favorite ebook store for "Wildside Press Megapack" to see the complete list.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Apr 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781479408580

Book preview

COPYRIGHT INFO

The Third Macabre Megapack is copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC. Cover art copyright © 2014 by Innovari / Fotolia. All rights reserved.

* * * *

The Waltz, by Morris W. Gowen, originally appeared in All-Story, September 1913.

Three at Table, by W.W. Jacobs, is taken from the collection The Lady of the Barge (1911).

Vera, by Villiers de L’Isle-Adam, is taken from Cruel Tales (1901)

A Lost Day, by Edgar Fawcett, is taken from Eleven Possible Cases (1891).

Metzengerstein, by Edgar Allan Poe, was originally published in the Saturday Courier magazine in 1832.

A Tragedy of High Explosives, by Brainard Gardner Smith, is taken from Eleven Possible Cases (1891).

The Legend of Tchi-Niu, by Lafcadio Hearn, is taken from Some Chinese Ghosts (1887).

The Outgoing of the Tide, by John Buchan, originally appeared in Atlantic Monthly, Vol. LXXXIX (1902).

A Strange Reunion, by T. G. Atkinson, originally appeared in The Strand, April 1893.

A Work of Accusation, by Harry How, originally appeared in The Strand, June 1893.

The Night Wire, by H.F. Arnold, originally appeared in Weird Tales, September 1926.

The Elixir of Life, by Honoré de Balzac is dated October, 1930 (Paris).

The Mirror, by Catulle Mendès, and The Woman and the Cat, by Marcel Prevost, are taken from International Short Stories: French (1910).

A Lemon Tree, by Ouida, is taken from A Rainy June and Other Stories (1905).

Twilight Zone, by Mary Keegan, originally appeared in All-Story Weekly, August 19, 1916.

Unhallowed Holiday, by O. M. Cabral, originally appeared in Weird Tales, September-October 1941.

The Eternity of Forms, by Jack London, is taken from his collection The Turtles of Tasman (1916).

Wolverden Tower, by Grant Allen, is taken from Twelve Tales: Select Stories (1900).

The Magic Phial, by J.Y. Ayerman, is taken from Tales of Other Days (1830).

The Haunted Mill, by Jerome K. Jerome, is taken from the collection Told After Supper (1891).

The Grove of Ashtaroth, by John Buchan, is taken from the collection The Moon Endureth: Tales and Fancies (1912).

The Well, by W.W. Jacobs, originally appeared in 1902.

"Death and the Woman, by Gertrude Atherton, originally appeared in Vanity Fair (1892).

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

Over the last year, our Megapack series of ebook anthologies has proved to be one of our most popular endeavors. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, Who’s the editor?

The Megapacks (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt, Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, A.E. Warren, and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!).

A NOTE FOR KINDLE READERS

The Kindle versions of our Megapacks employ active tables of contents for easy navigation…please look for one before writing reviews on Amazon that complain about the lack! (They are sometimes at the ends of ebooks, depending on your reader.)

RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the Megapack series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

TYPOS

Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [e-mail] or use the message boards above.

—John Betancourt

Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

www.wildsidepress.com

THE MEGAPACK SERIES

The Adventure Megapack

The Baseball Megapack

The Boys’ Adventure Megapack

The Buffalo Bill Megapack

The Christmas Megapack

The Second Christmas Megapack

The Classic American Short Story Megapack

The Classic Humor Megapack

The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack

The Cowboy Megapack

The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective Megapack

The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack

The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack

The Detective Megapack

The Father Brown Megapack

The Ghost Story Megapack

The Second Ghost Story Megapack

The Third Ghost Story Megapack

The Horror Megapack

The Macabre Megapack

The Second Macabre Megapack

The Martian Megapack

The Military Megapack

The Mummy Megapack

The First Mystery Megapack

The Penny Parker Megapack

The Pulp Fiction Megapack

The Rover Boys Megapack

The Science Fiction Megapack

The Second Science Fiction Megapack

The Third Science Fiction Megapack

The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack

The Fifth Science Fiction Megapack

The Sixth Science Fiction Megapack

The Penny Parker Megapack

The Pinocchio Megapack

The Steampunk Megapack

The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet Megapack

The Tom Swift Megapack

The Vampire Megapack

The Victorian Mystery Megapack

The Werewolf Megapack

The Western Megapack

The Second Western Megapack

The Wizard of Oz Megapack

AUTHOR MEGAPACKS

The Edward Bellamy Megapack

The E.F. Benson Megapack

The Second E.F. Benson Megapack

The B.M. Bower Megapack

The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack

The Wilkie Collins Megapack

The Philip K. Dick Megapack

The Jacques Futrelle Megapack

The Randall Garrett Megapack

The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

The G.A. Henty Megapack

The M.R. James Megapack

The Andre Norton Megapack

The H. Beam Piper Megapack

The Rafael Sabatini Megapack

THE WALTZ, by Morris W. Gowen

Toward the end of May, high up in an attic room of a tumble-down house in Paris, a young man stood at the open window. He held a violin and a bow. The last colors of a glorious sunset were fading away into night over the skyline of chimneys and black roofs.

The room was littered by what was left of the musician’s worldly goodsv—very few, for that day a sale had taken place of his poor effects to satisfy the landlord’s demand for rent. All that remained were a few sheets of manuscript-music, a bed, a chair, and some cooking utensils.

It was the end of hope, ambition, of all—complete failure having met the composer’s efforts.

His face showed plainly his suffering for the past month or so. Thin, so as to be only skin and bone, it was of a terrible paleness.

Only his eyes had fire in them. They were awful to see.

His left hand grasped the neck of the violin tightly, and his eyes wandered about the bare room.

Then, as the sky darkened, the first breath of summer crept in at the window. A warm south breeze so soft as to be barely felt, but bringing with it the first tidings of brighter days to those who had felt the long winter’s cold. It was the forewarner of gladness and sunshine.

Unheedingly, the young man lifted the violin to his chin, and his right hand crossed the bow over the strings. He hesitated a minute; then cast a look at the sky, and with a bold sweep of the bow began to play.

It was a waltz, throbbing with passion, full and harmonious. The sad notes of the bass strings in a minor key followed each other to the time, crying sadly like the lament of a lost soul far away.

Ever changing in melody, the waltz carried in it the first four thrilling notes. They crossed, repeated; retreated, and returned.

The first breath of summer caught these notes, carried them out of the attic window over the smoky roofs of Paris, held them, played with them, sent them to the wondering ears of other poor people who lived in attics and in lodgings near by. Women stopped sewing. Children ceased playing. Men dropped their forks and, leaving their evening’s meal, crept on tiptoe to the open windows and listened.

Suddenly the music grew louder, more intense, and the time quickened to madness. Then four long-drawn notes, the same as at the beginning, rang out, and—silence fell.

As the last note was sounded the composer fell dead from the intense effort and the past months of starvation.

The little summer breeze carried with it his grand composition and his soul.

* * * *

A man sat in an office before a richly carved desk. He was a plain-looking business man, fat, in a white waistcoat. Before him on the desk lay much money.

His fat hands, sparkling with valuable rings, gathered up the crisp notes and slipped them into rubber bands, assembling them into packets of ten-thousands. He then got up and carried these packets to a large safe set into the wall of the office, placed them in a drawer, and locked the safe, sighing when he had done, like a person does after lifting a heavy weight.

He then switched on the light and threw open the big office window, looking out onto a busy square filled by hurrying people and vehicles.

He stood at the window some minutes, following with his cunning small eyes the figure of a smart little woman whose figure interested him. As he tried to keep her in sight while she crossed the square the summer breeze crept into the office, touching his cheek with its warm caress.

It held music in its impalpable vapor—that heartrending waltz with its deep chords and simple harmony leading up to the fantastic finale, infernal in its throbbing recklessness and the four simple notes of its sudden ending.

The banker drew his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, his hand trembling. A chill passed over him.

He hastily closed the window and then sank into a chair. He felt unnerved and weak. His eyes wandered about the office in a troubled way. He grasped the arms of the chair tightly as his gaze became fixed in the direction of the locked safe.

As he did so, the music again caught his ear, holding him breathless in his eagerness not to miss a single note.

The music had full possession of him. It held him in its cruelly irresistible power while, standing before the safe, he saw a poorly clad figure holding a violin to its chin, its pale face looking upward, its right arm swinging the bow.

The figure was no ghost in the banker’s eyes. To him it lived. He could see the bow swing back and forth, and his left foot beat time almost imperceptibly.

He saw the aristocratic profile of the player, as clearly cut as a cameo. The neck and profile brought a vague, far-off memory to the banker.

He was young again. Very young, at his father’s country-place. In his mind he saw the old trees, the lawns, and moonlight nights of June. He saw Lucille, the farmer’s daughter, as she crept in her pretty, bare, white feet over the moonlit grass to meet him under the shadow of the oaks.

He remembered his father’s anger, the hurried departure, the long sea voyage to foreign lands. The return, and the news of Lucille’s trouble and death.

As the music got hold of his heart, these visions became so clear that while the violin sighed, he lived again all that summer of love and passion.

He rose to his feet, trembling; for in that white neck and pure profile he recognized his own flesh and blood.

The waltz was drawing near the end.

As the last four notes filled the office with their magic harmony, the banker held his arms out toward the figure and cried, his voice full of longing:

Speak! Speak! My son!

But it was too late.

As the last note left the ghostly violin, the figure of the player vanished.

THREE AT TABLE, by W.W. Jacobs

The talk in the coffee-room had been of ghosts and apparitions, and nearly everybody present had contributed his mite to the stock of information upon a hazy and somewhat thread-bare subject. Opinions ranged from rank incredulity to childlike faith, one believer going so far as to denounce unbelief as impious, with a reference to the Witch of Endor, which was somewhat marred by being complicated in an inexplicable fashion with the story of Jonah.

Talking of Jonah, he said solemnly, with a happy disregard of the fact that he had declined to answer several eager questions put to him on the subject, look at the strange tales sailors tell us.

I wouldn’t advise you to believe all those, said a bluff, clean-shaven man, who had been listening without speaking much. You see when a sailor gets ashore he’s expected to have something to tell, and his friends would be rather disappointed if he had not.

It’s a well-known fact, interrupted the first speaker firmly, that sailors are very prone to see visions.

They are, said the other dryly, they generally see them in pairs, and the shock to the nervous system frequently causes headache next morning.

You never saw anything yourself? suggested an unbeliever.

Man and boy, said the other, I’ve been at sea thirty years, and the only unpleasant incident of that kind occurred in a quiet English countryside.

And that? said another man.

I was a young man at the time, said the narrator, drawing at his pipe and glancing good-humouredly at the company. "I, had just come back from China, and my own people being away I went down into the country to invite myself to stay with an uncle. When I got down to the place I found it closed and the family in the South of France; but as they were due back in a couple of days I decided to put up at the Royal George, a very decent inn, and await their return.

"The first day I passed well enough; but in the evening the dulness of the rambling old place, in which I was the only visitor, began to weigh upon my spirits, and the next morning after a late breakfast I set out with the intention of having a brisk day’s walk.

"I started off in excellent spirits, for the day was bright and frosty, with a powdering of snow on the iron-bound roads and nipped hedges, and the country had to me all the charm of novelty. It was certainly flat, but there was plenty of timber, and the villages through which I passed were old and picturesque.

"I lunched luxuriously on bread and cheese and beer in the bar of a small inn, and resolved to go a little further before turning back. When at length I found I had gone far enough, I turned up a lane at right angles to the road I was passing, and resolved to find my way back by another route. It is a long lane that has no turning, but this had several, each of which had turnings of its own, which generally led, as I found by trying two or three of them, into the open marshes. Then, tired of lanes, I resolved to rely upon the small compass which hung from my watch chain and go across country home.

"I had got well into the marshes when a white fog, which had been for some time hovering round the edge of the ditches, began gradually to spread. There was no escaping it, but by aid of my compass I was saved from making a circular tour and fell instead into frozen ditches or stumbled over roots in the grass. I kept my course, however, until at four o’clock, when night was coming rapidly up to lend a hand to the fog, I was fain to confess myself lost.

"The compass was now no good to me, and I wandered about miserably, occasionally giving a shout on the chance of being heard by some passing shepherd or farmhand. At length by great good luck I found my feet on a rough road driven through the marshes, and by walking slowly and tapping with my stick managed to keep to it. I had followed it for some distance when I heard footsteps approaching me.

"We stopped as we met, and the new arrival, a sturdy-looking countryman, hearing of my plight, walked back with me for nearly a mile, and putting me on to a road gave me minute instructions how to reach a village some three miles distant.

"I was so tired that three miles sounded like ten, and besides that, a little way off from the road I saw dimly a lighted window. I pointed it out, but my companion shuddered and looked round him uneasily.

"‘You won’t get no good there,’ he said, hastily.

"‘Why not?’ I asked.

"‘There’s a something there, sir,’ he replied, ‘what ’tis I dunno, but the little ’un belonging to a gamekeeper as used to live in these parts see it, and it was never much good afterward. Some say as it’s a poor mad thing, others says as it’s a kind of animal; but whatever it is, it ain’t good to see.’

"‘Well, I’ll keep on, then,’ I said. ‘Goodnight.’

"He went back whistling cheerily until his footsteps died away in the distance, and I followed the road he had indicated until it divided into three, any one of which to a stranger might be said to lead straight on. I was now cold and tired, and having half made up my mind walked slowly back toward the house.

"At first all I could see of it was the little patch of light at the window. I made for that until it disappeared suddenly, and I found myself walking into a tall hedge. I felt my way round this until I came to a small gate, and opening it cautiously, walked, not without some little nervousness, up a long path which led to the door. There was no light and no sound from within. Half repenting of my temerity I shortened my stick and knocked lightly upon the door.

"I waited a couple of minutes and then knocked again, and my stick was still beating the door when it opened suddenly and a tall bony old woman, holding a candle, confronted me.

"‘What do you want?’ she demanded gruffly.

"‘I’ve lost my way,’ I said, civilly; ‘I want to get to Ashville.’

"‘Don’t know it,’ said the old woman.

"She was about to close the door when a man emerged from a room at the side of the hall and came toward us. An old man of great height and breadth of shoulder.

"‘Ashville is fifteen miles distant,’ he said slowly.

"‘If you will direct me to the nearest village, I shall be grateful,’ I remarked.

"He made no reply, but exchanged a quick, furtive glance with the woman. She made a gesture of dissent.

"‘The nearest place is three miles off,’ he said, turning to me and apparently trying to soften a naturally harsh voice; ‘if you will give me the pleasure of your company, I will make you as comfortable as I can.’

"I hesitated. They were certainly a queer-looking couple, and the gloomy hall with the shadows thrown by the candle looked hardly more inviting than the darkness outside.

"‘You are very kind,’ I murmured, irresolutely, ‘but—’

"‘Come in,’ he said quickly; ‘shut the door, Anne.’

"Almost before I knew it I was standing inside and the old woman, muttering to herself, had closed the door behind me. With a queer sensation of being trapped I followed my host into the room, and taking the proffered chair warmed my frozen fingers at the fire.

"‘Dinner will soon be ready,’ said the old man, regarding me closely. ‘If you will excuse me.’

"I bowed and he left the room. A minute afterward I heard voices; his and the old woman’s, and, I fancied, a third. Before I had finished my inspection of the room he returned, and regarded me with the same strange look I had noticed before.

"‘There will be three of us at dinner,’ he said, at length. ‘We two and my son.’

"I bowed again, and secretly hoped that that look didn’t run in the family.

"‘I suppose you don’t mind dining in the dark,’ he said, abruptly.

"‘Not at all,’ I replied, hiding my surprise as well as I could, ‘but really I’m afraid I’m intruding. If you’ll allow me—’

"He waved his huge gaunt hands. ‘We’re not going to lose you now we’ve got you,’ he said, with a dry laugh. ‘It’s seldom we have company, and now we’ve got you we’ll keep you. My son’s eyes are bad, and he can’t stand the light. Ah, here is Anne.’

"As he spoke the old woman entered, and, eyeing me stealthily, began to lay the cloth, while my host, taking a chair the other side of the hearth, sat looking silently into the fire. The table set, the old woman brought in a pair of fowls ready carved in a dish, and placing three chairs, left the room. The old man hesitated a moment, and then, rising from his chair, placed a large screen in front of the fire and slowly extinguished the candles.

"‘Blind man’s holiday,’ he said, with clumsy jocosity, and groping his way to the door opened it. Somebody came back into the room with him, and in a slow, uncertain fashion took a seat at the table, and the strangest voice I have ever heard broke a silence which was fast becoming oppressive.

"‘A cold night,’ it said slowly.

"I replied in the affirmative, and light or no light, fell to with an appetite which had only been sharpened by the snack in the middle of the day. It was somewhat difficult eating in the dark, and it was evident from the behaviour of my invisible companions that they were as unused to dining under such circumstances as I was. We ate in silence until the old woman blundered into the room with some sweets and put them with a crash upon the table.

"‘Are you a stranger about here?’ inquired the curious voice again.

"I replied in the affirmative, and murmured something about my luck in stumbling upon such a good dinner.

"‘Stumbling is a very good word for it,’ said the voice grimly. ‘You have forgotten the port, father.’

‘So I have,’ said the old man, rising. ‘It’s a bottle of the Celebrated" today; I will get it myself.’

"He felt his way to the door, and closing it behind him, left me alone with my unseen neighbour. There was something so strange about the whole business that I must confess to more than a slight feeling of uneasiness.

"My host seemed to be absent a long time. I heard the man opposite lay down his fork and spoon, and half fancied I could see a pair of wild eyes shining through the gloom like a cat’s.

"With a growing sense of uneasiness I pushed my chair back. It caught the hearthrug, and in my efforts to disentangle it the screen fell over with a crash and in the flickering light of the fire I saw the face of the creature opposite. With a sharp catch of my breath I left my chair and stood with clenched fists beside it. Man or beast, which was it? The flame leaped up and then went out, and in the mere red glow of the fire it looked more devilish than before.

"For a few moments we regarded each other in silence; then the door opened and the old man returned. He stood aghast as he saw the warm firelight, and then approaching the table mechanically put down a couple of bottles.

"‘I beg your pardon,’ said I, reassured by his presence, ‘but I have accidentally overturned the screen. Allow me to replace it.’

"‘No,’ said the old man, gently, ‘let it be. We have had enough of the dark. I’ll give you a light.’

"He struck a match and slowly lit the candles. Then—I saw that the man opposite had but the remnant of a face, a gaunt wolfish face in which one unquenched eye, the sole remaining feature, still glittered. I was greatly moved, some suspicion of the truth occurring to me.

"‘My son was injured some years ago in a burning house,’ said the old man. ‘Since then we have lived a very retired life. When you came to the door we—’ his voice trembled, ‘that is—my son—’

‘I thought, said the son simply, ‘that it would be better for me not to come to the dinner-table. But it happens to be my birthday, and my father would not hear of my dining alone, so we hit upon this foolish plan of dining in the dark. I’m sorry I startled you.’

"‘I am sorry,’ said I, as I reached across the table and gripped his hand, ‘that I am such a fool; but it was only in the dark that you startled me.’

"From a faint tinge in the old man’s cheek and a certain pleasant softening of the poor solitary eye in front of me I secretly congratulated myself upon this last remark.

"‘We never see a friend,’ said the old man, apologetically, ‘and the temptation to have company was too much for us. Besides, I don’t know what else you could have done.’

"‘Nothing else half so good, I’m sure,’ said I.

"‘Come,’ said my host, with almost a sprightly air. ‘Now we know each other, draw our chairs to the fire and let’s keep this birthday in a proper fashion.’

"He drew a small table to the fire for the glasses and produced a box of cigars, and placing a chair for the old servant, sternly bade her to sit down and drink. If the talk was not sparkling, it did not lack for vivacity, and we were soon as merry a party as I have ever seen. The night wore on so rapidly that we could hardly believe our ears when in a lull in the conversation a clock in the hall struck twelve.

"‘A last toast before we retire,’ said my host, pitching the end of his cigar into the fire and turning to the small table.

"We had drunk several before this, but there was something impressive in the old man’s manner as he rose and took up his glass. His tall figure seemed to get taller, and his voice rang as he gazed proudly at his disfigured son.

‘The health of the children my boy saved!’ he said, and drained his glass at a draught.

VERA, by Villiers de L’Isle-Adam

Translated from the French by Hamish Miles

The form of the body is more essential to him than its substance.

—La Physiologie Moderne

Love, said Solomon, is stronger than Death. And truly, its mysterious power knows no bounds.

Not many years since, an autumn evening was falling over Paris. Towards the gloomy Faubourg Saint-Germain carriages were driving, with lamps already lit, returning belatedly from the afternoon drive in the Bois. Before the gateway of a vast seigniorial mansion, set about with immemorial gardens, one of them drew up. The arch was surmounted by a stone escutcheon with the arms of the ancient family of the Counts d’Athol, to wit: on a field azure, a mullet argent, with the motto Pallida Victrix under the coronet with its upturned ermine of the princely cap. The heavy folding doors swung apart, and there descended a man between thirty and thirty-five, in mourning clothes, his face of deathly pallor. On the steps silent attendants raised aloft their torches, but with no eye for them he mounted the flight and went within. It was the Count d’Athol.

With unsteady tread he ascended the white staircases leading to the room where, that very morning, he had laid within a coffin, velvet-lined and covered with violets, amid billowing cambric, the lady of his delight, his bride of the gathering paleness, Vera, his despair.

At the top the quiet door swung across the carpet. He lifted the hangings.

All the objects in the room were just where the Countess had left them the evening before. Death, in his suddenness, had hurled the bolt. Last night his loved one had swooned in such penetrating joys, had surrendered in embraces so perfect, that her heart, weary with ecstasy, had given way. Suddenly her lips had been covered with a flood of mortal scarlet, and she had barely had time to give her husband one kiss of farewell, smiling, with not one word; and then her long lashes, like veils of mourning, had fallen over the lovely light of her eyes.

This day without a name had passed.

Towards noon the Count d’Athol, after the dread ceremonies of the family vault, had dismissed the bleak escort at the cemetery. Shutting himself up within the four marble walls, alone with her whom he had buried, he had closed behind him the iron door of the mausoleum. Incense was burning on a tripod before the coffin, bestarred by a shining crown of lamps over the pillow of this young woman, who was now no more.

Standing there lost in his thoughts, with his only sentiment a hopeless longing, he had stayed all day long in the tomb. At six o’clock, when dusk fell, he had come out from the sacred enclosure. Closing the sepulchre, he had torn the silver key from the lock, and, stretching up on the topmost step of the threshold, he had cast it softly into the interior of the tomb. Through the trefoil over the doorway, he thrust it on to the pavement inside. Why had he done this? Doubtless from some mysterious resolve to return no more.

And now he was viewing again the widowed chamber.

The window, under the great drapings of mauve cashmere with their broideries of gold, stood open; one last ray of evening lit up the great portrait of the departed one in its frame of old wood. Looking around him, the Count saw the robe lying where, the evening before, it had been flung upon the chair; on the mantel lay the jewels, the necklace of pearls, the half-closed fan, the heavy flasks of perfume which She no longer inhaled. On the ebony bed with its twisted pillars, still unmade, beside the pillow where the mask of the divine, the adored head, was still visible amidst the lace, his eye fell on the handkerchief stained with drops of blood, whereon for an instant the wings of her youthful spirit had quivered; on the open piano, upholding a melody forever unfinished; on the Indian flowers which she had gathered with her own hands in the conservatory, and which now were dying in vases of old Saxony ware; and there at the foot of the bed, on the tiny slippers of oriental velvet, on which glittered a laughing device of her name, stitched with pearls: Qui verra Vera l’aimera. And only yesterday morning the bare feet of the loved one were still playing there, kissed at every step by the swan’s-down! And there, there in the shadow, was the clock whose spring he had snapped, so that never again should it tell other hours.

Thus had she vanished…! But whither…? And living now? To what end…? It was impossible, it was absurd!

And the Count plunged into the darkness of unknown thoughts.

He thought of all the past existence. Six months had gone by since this marriage. Was it not abroad, at an embassy ball, that he had set eyes upon her for the first time? Yes. That moment rose up again before his eyes, in all its distinctness. She appeared to him there, radiant. That night their glances had met, and inwardly they had recognized their affinity, their obligation to a lasting love.

Deceitful talk, observant smiles, insinuations, all the difficulties thrust up by the world to delay the inevitable happiness of those who belong to each other—everything had vanished before the calm certitude which, at that very moment, they had exchanged. Weary of the insipid pomposities of her circle, Vera had come to meet him with the first hindrance that showed itself, and so straightened out in queenly fashion those dreary preliminaries which squander the precious days of life.

But ah! at their first words the empty comments of outsiders seemed no more than a flight of night-birds passing back into their darkness. What smiles they exchanged! What ineffable embraces were theirs!

And yet their nature was strange, strange in the extreme! They were two beings gifted with marvelous senses, but exclusively terrestrial. Sensations were prolonged within them with disturbing intensity, and in experiencing them they lost consciousness of themselves. On the other hand, certain ideas, those of the soul for instance, of the infinite, of God Himself, were as if veiled from their understanding. The faith of great numbers of living persons in supernatural things was for them only a matter for vague astonishment; a sealed book wherewith they had no concern, being qualified neither to justify nor to condemn. And so, recognizing fully that the world was something foreign to themselves, they had isolated themselves immediately upon their union in this ancient sombre mansion, where the noises of the outside world were deadened by the dense foliage of the gardens.

There the two lovers plunged into the ocean of those enjoyments, languorous and perverse, in which the spirit is merged with the mysteries of the flesh. They exhausted the violence of desires, the tremors, the distraught longings of their tenderness. They became each the very heart-beat of the other. In them the spirit flowed so completely into the body that their forms seemed to them to be instruments of comprehension, and that the blazing links of their kisses chained them together in a fusion of the ideal. A long-drawn rapture! And suddenly—the spell was broken! The terrible accident sundered them. Their arms had been entwined. What shadow had seized from his arms his dead beloved? Dead? No: is the soul of the violoncello snatched away in the cry of its breaking string?

The hours passed.

Through the casement he watched the night advancing in the heavens: and Night became personal to him—seeming like a queen walking into exile, with melancholy on her brow, while Venus, the diamond clasp of her mourning gown, gleamed there above the