 The Ghost Extinguisher by Gillette Burgess. My attention was first called to the possibility of manufacturing a practicable ghost extinguisher by a real estate agent in San Francisco. There's one thing, he said, that affects city property here in a curious way. You know, we have a good many murders, and as a consequence certain houses attain a very sensational and undesirable reputation. These houses it is almost impossible to let. You can scarcely get a decent family to occupy them rent-free. Then we have a great many places said to be haunted. These were dead timber on my hands until I happen to notice that the Japanese have no objections to spooks. Now whenever I have such a building to rent I let it to the Japs at a nominal figure, and after they've taken the curse off I raise the rent, the Japs move out, the place is renovated, and in the market again. The subject interested me for I am not only a scientist but a speculative philosopher as well. The investigation of those phenomena that lie upon the threshold of the great unknown has always been my favorite field of research. I believed even then that the oriental mind working along different lines than those which we pursue has attained knowledge that we know little of. Thinking therefore that these Japs might have some secret inherited from their misty past, I examined into the matter. I shall not trouble you with a narration of the incidents which led up to my acquaintance with Hoku Yamanachi. Suffice it to say that I found in him a friend who was willing to share with me his whole lore of quasi-science. I call it this advisedly, for science, as we occidentals use the term, has to do only with the laws of matter and sensation. Our scientific man, in fact, recognized the existence of nothing else. The Buddhistic philosophy, however, goes further. According to its theories the soul is seven-fold, consisting of different shells or envelopes, something like an onion, which are shed as life passes from the material to the spiritual state. The first or lowest of these is the corporeal body which, after death, decays and perishes. Next comes the vital principle which departing from the body dissipates itself like an odor and is lost. Less gross than this is the astral body which, although immaterial, yet lies near to the consistency of matter. This astral shape, released from the body at death, remains for a while in its earthly environment, still preserving more or less definitely the imprint of the form which it inhabited. It is this relic of a past material personality, this outworn shell that appears when galvanized into an appearance of life, partly materialized as a ghost. It is not the soul that remains, for the soul which is immortal is composed of the four higher spiritual essences that surround the ego and are carried on into the next life. These astral bodies therefore fail to terrify the Buddhists, who know them only as shadows with no real volition. The Japs, in point of fact, have learned how to exterminate them. There is a certain powder-hoku-informed meat which, when burnt in their presence, transforms them from the rarefied or semi-spiritual condition to the state of matter. The ghost, so to speak, is precipitated into and becomes a material shape which can easily be disposed of. In this state it is confined and allowed to disintegrate slowly where it can cause no further annoyance. This long-winded explanation piqued my curiosity which was not to be satisfied until I had seen the Japanese method applied. It was not long before I had an opportunity. A particularly revolting murder had been committed in San Francisco. My friend Hoku Yamanochi applied for the house, and after the police had finished their examination he was permitted to occupy it for a half a year at the ridiculous price of three dollars a month. He invited me to share his quarters, which were large and luxuriously furnished. For a week nothing abnormal occurred. Then one night I was awakened by terrifying groans followed by a blood-curdling shriek which seemed to emerge from a large closet in my room, the scene of the late atrocity. I confessed that I had all the covers pulled over my head and was shivering with horror when my Japanese friend entered wearing a pair of flowered silk pajamas. Hearing his voice I peeped forth to see him smiling reassuringly. You some kind of very foolish fellow, he said. I show you how to fix him. He took from his pocket three conical red pastils, placed them upon a saucer, and lighted them. Then holding the fuming dish in one outstretched hand he walked to the closed door and opened it. The shrieks burst out afresh, and as I recalled the appalling details of the scene which had occurred in this very room only five weeks ago I shuddered at his temerity. But he was quite calm. Soon I saw the wraith-like form of the recent victim dart from the closet. She crawled under my bed and ran about the room endeavoring to escape, what was pursued by Hoku who waved his smoking plate with indefatigable patience and dexterity. At last he had her cornered and the specter was caught behind a curtain of odorous fumes. Slowly the figure grew more distinct, assuming the consistency of a heavy vapor, shrinking somewhat in the operation. Hoku now hurriedly turned to me. You holly up! Bring me one pair bellows pretty quick, he commanded. I ran into his room and brought the bellows from his fireplace. These he pressed flat, and then carefully inserting one toe of the ghost into the nozzle and opening the handles steadily he sucked in a portion of the unfortunate woman's anatomy, and dexterity squirted the vapor into a large jar which had been placed in the room for the purpose. Two more operations were necessary to withdraw the phantom completely from the corner and empty it into the jar. At last the transfer was affected and the receptacles securely stoppered and sealed. In Fomo your time, Hoku explained to me, old priests sucked ghost with mouth and spit him inside a vase with aculasi. Modern time method more better for stomach and epiglottis. How long will this ghost keep, I inquired. Oh, about four or five hundred years maybe, was his reply. Ghost now changed from split to matter and come under legality of matter as usual science. What are you going to do with her, I asked. Send him to Buddhist temple in Japan. Old priest used him for high ceremony, was the answer. My next desire was to obtain some of Hoku Yamanochi's ghost powder and analyze it. For a while it defied my attempts, but after many months of patient research I discovered that it could be produced in all its essential qualities by means of a fusion of formaldehyde and hypofinal tribrompro pionic acid in an electrified vacuum. With this product I began a series of interesting experiments. As it became necessary for me to discover the habitat of ghosts in considerable numbers, I joined the American Society for Psychical Research, thus securing desirable information in regard to haunted houses. These I visited persistently, until my powder was perfected and had been proved efficacious for the capture of any ordinary housebroken phantom. For a while I contented myself with the mere sterilization of these specters, but as I became sure of success I began to attempt the transfer of ghosts to receptacles wherein they could be transported and studied at my leisure, classified and preserved for future reference. Hoku's bellows I soon discarded in favor of a large bicycle pump and eventually I had constructed one of my own of a pattern which enabled me to inhale an entire ghost at a single stroke. With this powerful instrument I was able to compress even an adult life-sized ghost into a two-quart bottle, in the neck of which a sensitive valve, patented, prevented the specter from emerging during process. My invention was not yet, however, quite satisfactory. While I had no trouble in securing ghosts of recent creation, spirits, that is, who were yet of almost the consistency of matter, on several of my trips abroad in search of material I found in old manor houses or ruined castles many specters so ancient that they had become highly rarefied and tenuous, being at times scarcely visible to the naked eye. Such elusive spirits are able to pass through walls and elude pursuit with ease. It became necessary for me to obtain some instrument by which their capture could be conveniently affected. The ordinary fire extinguisher of commerce gave me the hint as to how the problem could be solved. One of these portable hand instruments I filled with the proper chemicals. When inverted the ingredients were co-mingled in vacuo and a vast volume of gas was liberated. This was collected in the reservoir provided with a rubber tube having a nozzle at the end. The whole apparatus being strapped upon my back. I was enabled to direct a stream of powerful precipitating gas in any desired direction, the flow being under control through the agency of a small stopcock. By means of this ghost extinguisher I was enabled to pursue my experiments as far as I desired. So far my investigations had been purely scientific, but before long the commercial value of my discovery began to interest me. The ruinous effects of spectral visitations upon real estate induced me to realize some pecuniary reward from my ghost extinguisher, and I began to advertise my business. By degrees I became known as the expert in my original line and my professional services were sought with as much confidence as those of a veterinary surgeon. I manufactured the garish ghost extinguisher in several sizes and put it on the market following this venture with the introduction of my justly celebrated garish ghost grenades. These hand implements were made to be kept in racks conveniently distributed in country houses for causes of sudden emergency. A single grenade hurled at any spectral form would in breaking liberate enough formaldebrom to coagulate the most perverse spirit, and the resulting vapor could easily be removed from the room by a housemaid with a common broom. This branch of my business, however, never proved profitable. For the appearance of ghosts, especially in the United States, is seldom anticipated. Had it been possible for me to invent a preventative as well as a remedy I might now be a millionaire, but there are limits even to modern science. Having exhausted the field at home I visited England in the hope of securing customers among the country families there. To my surprise I discovered that the possession of a family specter was considered as a permanent improvement to the property, and my offers of service in ridding houses of ghostly tenants awakened the liveliest resentment. As a layer of ghosts I was much lower in the social scale than a layer of carpets. Disappointed and discouraged I returned home to make a further study of the opportunities of my invention. I had it seemed exhausted the possibilities of the use of unwelcome phantoms. Could I not, I thought, derive a revenue from the traffic in desirable specters? I decided to renew my investigations. The nebulous spirits preserved in my laboratory, which I had graded and classified were, you will remember, in a state of suspended animation. They were virtually embalmed apparitions. Their inevitable decay delayed rather than prevented. The assorted ghosts that I had now preserved in hermetically sealed tins were thus in a state of unstable equilibrium. The tins once opened and the vapor allowed to dissipate. The original astral body would in time be reconstructed and the warmed-over specter would continue its previous career. But this process, when naturally performed, took years. The interval was quite too long for the phantom to be handled in any commercial way. My problem was therefore to produce from my tinned essence of ghost a specter that was capable of immediately going into business and that could haunt a house while you wait. It was not until radium was discovered that I approached the solution of my great problem, and even then months of indefatigable labor were necessary before the process was perfected. It has now been well demonstrated that the emanations of radiant energy sent forth by this surprising element defy our former scientific conceptions of the Constitution of Matter. It was for me to prove that the vibratory activity of radium, whose amplitudes and intensity are undoubtedly four-dimensional, affects a sort of allotropic modification in the particles of that imponderable ether which seems to lie halfway between matter and pure spirit. This is as far as I need to go in my explanation for a full discussion involves the use of quaternions and the method of least squares. It will be sufficient for the layman to know that my preserved phantoms rendered radioactive wood upon contact with the air resumed their spectral shape. The possible extension of my business was now enormous, limited only by the difficulty in collecting the necessary stock. It was by this time almost as difficult to get ghosts as it was to get radium. Finding that a part of my stock had spoiled I was now possessed of only a few dozen cans of apparitions, many of these being of inferior quality. I immediately set about replenishing my raw material. It was not enough for me to pick up a ghost here and there as one might get old mahogany. I determined to procure my phantoms in wholesale lots. Accident favored my design. In an old volume of Blackwood's magazine I happened one day to come across an interesting article upon the Battle of Waterloo. It mentioned incidentally a legend to the effect that every year upon the anniversary of the celebrated victory spectral squadrons had been seen by the peasants charging battalions of ghostly grenadiers. Here was my opportunity. I made elaborate preparations for the capture of this job lot of phantoms upon the next anniversary of the fight. Hard by the fatal ditch which engulfed Napoleon's cavalry I stationed a corps of able assistants provided with rapid fire extinguishers ready to enfelod the famous sunken road. I stationed myself with a number four model magazine hose with a four-inch nozzle directly in the path which I knew would be taken by the advancing squadron. It was a fine clear night, lighted at first by a slice of new moon but later dark, except for the pale illumination of the stars. I have seen many ghosts in my time, ghosts in Garden and Garrett, at noon, at dusk, at dawn, phantoms fancy full, inspectors sad and spectacular. But never have I seen such an impressive sight as this nocturnal charge of queer Assir galloping in goblin glory to their time-honored doom. From afar the French reserves presented the appearance of a nebulous mass, like a low-flying cloud or fog bank, faintly luminous, shot with fluorescent gleams. As the squadron drew nearer in its desperate charge the separate forms of the troopers shaped themselves and the galloping guardsmen grew ghastly with supernatural splendor. Although I knew them to be immaterial and without mass or weight I was terrified at their approach, fearing to be swept under the hooves of the nightmares they rode. Like one in a dream I started to run but in another instant they were upon me and I turned on my stream of formaldebraum. Then I was overwhelmed in a cloudburst of wild war-like wraiths. The column swept past me over the bank, plunging to its historic fate. The cut was piled full of frenzied, scrambling specters as rank after rank swept down into the horrid gut. At last the ditch swarmed full of writhing forms and the carnage was dire. My assistance with the extinguishers stood firm and although almost unnerved by the sight they summoned their carriage and directed simultaneous streams of formaldebraum into the struggling mass of phantoms. As soon as my mind returned I busied myself with the huge tanks I had prepared for use as receivers. These were fitted with a mechanism similar to that employed in portable forges by which the heavy vapor was sucked off. Luckily the night was calm and I was enabled to fill a dozen cylinders with the precipitated ghosts. The segregation of individual forms was of course impossible so that men and horses were mingled in a horrible mixture of fricasseed spirits. I intended subsequently to empty the soup into a large reservoir and allow the separate specters to reform according to the laws of spiritual cohesion. Circumstances however prevented my ever-accomplishing this result. I returned home to find awaiting me an order so large and important that I had no time in which to operate upon my cylinders of cavalry. My patron was the proprietor of a new sanatorium for nervous invalids located near some medicinal springs in the Catskills. His building was unfortunately located, having been built upon the site of a once famous summer hotel which, while filled with guests, had burnt to the ground, scores of lives having been lost. Just before the patients were to be installed in the new structure it was found that the place was haunted by the victims of the conflagration to a degree that rendered it inconvenient as a health resort. My professional services were requested, therefore, to render the building a fitting abode for convalescence. I wrote to the proprietor, fixing my charge at $5,000, as my usual rate was $100 per ghost and over a hundred lives were lost at the fire I considered this price reasonable and my offer was accepted. The sanatorium job was finished in a week. I secured 102 superior spectral specimens and upon my return to the laboratory put them up in heavy embossed tins with attractive labels in colors. My delight at the outcome of this business was, however, soon transformed to anger and indignation. The proprietor of the health resort, having found that the specters from his place had been sold, claimed a rebate upon the contract price equal to the value of the modified ghost transferred to my possession. This, of course, I could not allow. I wrote, demanding immediate payment according to our agreement, and this was preemptorily refused. The manager's letter was insulting in the extreme. The spied Piper of Hamlin was not worse treated than I felt myself to be, so, like the Piper, I determined to have my revenge. I got out the twelve tanks of Waterloo ghost hash from the storerooms and treated them with radium for two days. These I shipped to the Catskills, billed as hydrogen gas. Then, accompanied by two trustworthy assistants, I went to the sanatorium and preferred my demand for payment in person. I was ejected with contumely. Before my hasty exit, however, I had the satisfaction of noticing that the building was filled with patience. Languid ladies were seated in wicker chairs upon the piazzas, and frail anemic girls filled the corridors. It was a hospital of nervous wrecks whom the slightest disturbance would throw into a panic. I suppressed all my finer feelings of mercy and kindness and smiled grimly as I walked back to the village. That night was black and lowering, fitting weather for the pandemonium I was about to turn loose. At ten o'clock I loaded the wagon with the tanks of compressed cohorts and muffled in heavy overcoats we drove to the sanatorium. All was silent as we approached. All was dark. The wagon concealed in a grove of pines we took out the tanks one by one and placed them beneath the ground floor windows. The sashes were easily forced open and raised enough to enable us to insert the rubber tubes connected to the iron reservoirs. At midnight everything was ready. I gave the word and my assistants ran from tank to tank opening the stopcocks. With a hiss as of escaping steam the huge vessels emptied themselves, vomiting forth clouds of vapor which upon contact with the air coagulated into strange shapes as the white of an egg does when dropped into boiling water. The rooms became instantly filled with dismembered shades of men and horses seeking wildly to unite themselves with their proper parts. Legs ran down the corridors seeking their respective trunks. Arms writhed wildly reaching for missing bodies, heads rolled hither and yawn in search of native necks. Horses' tails and hooves whisked and harried in quest of equine ownership until reorganized the spectral steeds galloped about to find their riders. Had it been possible I would have stopped this riot of wraiths long ere this, for it was more awful than I had anticipated, but it was already too late. Cowering in the garden I began to hear the screams of awakened and distracted patients. In another moment the front door of the hotel was burst open and a mob of hysterical women and expensive nightgowns rushed out upon the lawn and huddled in shrieking groups. I fled into the night. I fled but Napoleon's men fled with me, compelled by, I know not what, fatal astral attraction, perhaps the subtle affinity of the creature for the Creator, the spectral shells moved by some mysterious mechanics of spiritual being pursued me with a fatuous fury. I sought refuge first in my laboratory, but even as I approached a lurid glare foretold me of its destruction. As I drew nearer the whole ghost factory was seen to be in flames. Every moment crackling reports were heard as the overheated tins of phantasmogoria exploded and threw their supernatural contents upon the night. These liberated ghosts joined the army of Napoleon's outraged warriors and turned upon me. There was not enough formaldebrom in all the world to quench their fierce energy. There was no place in all the world safe for me from their visitation. No ghost extinguisher was powerful enough to lay the host of spirits that haunted me henceforth, and I had neither time nor money left with which to construct new, gattling, quick-firing tanks. It is little comfort to me to know that one hundred nervous invalids were completely restored to health by means of the terrific shock which I administered. THE HORLA BY GI DIMOUPASSANT May 8. What a lovely day! I have spent all the morning lying in the grass in front of my house under the enormous plantain tree which covers it and shades and shelters the whole of it. I like this part of the country, and I am fond of living here because I am attached to it by deep roots, profound and delicate roots which attach a man to the soil on which his ancestors were born and died, which attach him to what people think and what they eat, to the usages as well as to the food, local expression, the peculiar language of the peasants, to the smell of the soil, of the villages, and of the atmosphere itself. I love my house in which I grew up. From my windows I can see the Sain which flows by the side of my garden. On the other side of the road, almost through my grounds, the great and wide Sain which goes to Rouen and Havre and which is covered with boats passing to and fro. On the left, down yonder lies Rouen, that large town with its blue roofs under its pointed Gothic towers. They are innumerable, delicate or broad, dominated by the spire of the cathedral and full of bells which sound through the blue air on fine mornings, sending their sweet and distant iron clang to me, their metallic sound which the breeze wafts in my direction, now stronger and now weaker, according as the wind is strong or lighter. What a delicious morning it was. About eleven o'clock a long line of boats drawn by a steam tug as big as a fly in which scarcely puffed while emitting its thick smoke past my gate. After two English schooners whose red flag fluttered towards the sky, there came a magnificent Brazilian three-master. It was perfectly white and wonderfully clean and shining. I saluted it. I hardly know why, except that the sight of the vessel gave me great pleasure. May 12. I have had a slight feverish attack for the last few days and I feel ill, or rather I feel low-spirited. Whence do these mysterious influences come which change our happiness into discouragement and our self-confidence into dividends? One might almost say that the air, the invisible air, is full of unknowable forces whose mysterious presence we have to endure. I wake up in the best spirits with an inclination to sing in my throat. Why? I go down by the side of the water and suddenly after walking a short distance I return home wretched as if some misfortune were awaiting me there. Why? Is it a cold shiver which passing over my skin has upset my nerves and given me low spirits? Is it the form of the clouds or the color of the sky or the color of the surrounding objects which is so changeable, which have troubled my thoughts as they passed before my eyes? Who can tell? Everything that surrounds us, everything that we see without looking at, everything that we touch without knowing it, everything that we handle without feeling it, all that we meet without clearly distinguishing it has a rapid, surprising and inexplicable effect upon us and our organs, and through them on our ideas and on our heart itself. How profound that mystery of the invisible is. We cannot fathom it with our miserable senses, with our eyes which are unable to perceive what is either too small or too great, too near to or too far from us, neither the inhabitants of a star nor of a drop of water, with our ears that deceive us, for they transmit to us the vibrations of the air in sonorous notes. They are fairies who work the miracle of changing that movement into noise and by that metamorphosis give birth to music, which makes the mute agitation of nature musical, with our sense of smell which is smaller than that of a dog, with our sense of taste which can scarcely distinguish the age of a wine. Oh, if we only had other organs which would work other miracles in our favor, what a number of fresh things we might discover around us. May 16th. I am ill, decidedly. I was so well last month. I am feverish, horribly feverish, or rather I am in a state of feverish innervation which makes my mind suffer as much as my body. I have, without ceasing that horrible sensation of some danger threatening me, that apprehension of some coming misfortune or of approaching death, that pre-sentiment which is no doubt an attack of some illness which is still unknown, which germinates in the flesh and in the blood. May 18th. I have just come from consulting my medical man, for I could no longer get any sleep. He found that my pulse was high, my eyes dilated, my nerves highly strong, but no alarming symptoms. I must have a course of shower baths, and of bromide of potassium. May 25th. No change. My state is really very peculiar. As the evening comes on, an incomprehensible feeling of disquietude seizes me, just as if night concealed some terrible menace toward me. I dine quickly and then try to read, but I do not understand the words and can scarcely distinguish the letters. Then I walk up and down my drawing-room, oppressed by a feeling of confused and irresistible fear, the fear of sleep and fear of my bed. About ten o'clock I go up to my room. As soon as I have got in, I double-lock and bolt it. I am frightened. Of what? Up till the present time I have been frightened of nothing. I open my cupboards and look under my bed. I listen. I listen. To what? How strange it is that a simple feeling of discomfort in peed or heightened circulation, perhaps the irritation of a nervous thread, a slight congestion, a small disturbance in the imperfect and delicate functions of our living machinery, can turn the most lighthearted of men into a melancholy one, and make a coward of the bravest. Then I go to bed, and I wait for sleep as a man might wait for the executioner. I wait for its coming with dread, and my heart beats and my legs tremble, while my whole body shivers beneath the warmth of the bedclothes, until the moment when I suddenly fall asleep, as one would throw oneself into a pool of stagnant water in order to drown oneself. I do not feel it coming over me as I used to do formally. This perfidious sleep which is close to me and watching me which is going to seize me by the head to close my eyes and annihilate me. I sleep, a long time, two or three hours perhaps, then a dream. No, a nightmare lays hold of me. I feel that I am in bed and asleep. I feel it, and I know it. And I feel also that somebody is coming close to me, is looking at me, touching me, is getting onto my bed, is kneeling on my chest, is taking my neck between his hands and squeezing it, squeezing it with all his might in order to strangle me. I struggle, bound by that terrible powerlessness which paralyzes us in our dreams. I try to cry out, but I cannot. I want to move, I cannot. I try with the most violent effort and out of breath to turn over and throw off this being which is crushing and suffocating me. I cannot. And then suddenly I wake up, shaken and bathed in perspiration. I light a candle and find that I am alone, and after that crisis which occurs every night I at length fall asleep and slumber tranquilly till morning. June 2. My state has grown worse. What is the matter with me? The bromide does me no good and the shower baths have no effect whatever. Sometimes in order to tire myself out, though I am fatigued enough already, I go for a walk in the forest of Rumari. I used to think at first that the fresh light and soft air impregnated with the odor of herbs and leaves would instill new blood into my veins and impart fresh energy to my heart. I turned into a broad ride in the wood and then I turned toward Labuya through a narrow path between two rows of exceedingly tall trees which placed a thick, green, almost black roof between the sky and me. A sudden shiver ran through me, not a cold shiver, but a shiver of agony. And so I hastened my steps, uneasy at being alone in the wood, frightened stupidly and without reason at the profound solitude. Suddenly it seemed to me as if I were being followed, that somebody was walking at my heels close, quite close to me, near enough to touch me. I turned round suddenly, but I was alone. I saw nothing behind me except the straight, broad ride, empty and bordered by high trees, horribly empty. On the other side it also extended until it was lost in the distance and looked just the same. Terrible. I closed my eyes. Why? And then I began to turn round on one heel very quickly, just like a top. I nearly fell down and opened my eyes. The trees were dancing round me and the earth heaved. I was obliged to sit down. Then, ah, I no longer remembered how I had come. What a strange idea! What a strange, strange idea! I did not the least no. I started off to the right and got back into the avenue which had led me into the middle of the forest. June 3rd. I have had a terrible night. I shall go away for a few weeks, for no doubt a journey will set me up again. July 2nd. I have come back quite cured and have had a most delightful trip into the bargain. I have been to Mont-Saint-Michel, which I had not seen before. What a sight! When one arrives as I did at Auvent, toward the end of the day. The town stands on a hill and I was taken into the public garden at the extremity of the town. I uttered a cry of astonishment. An extraordinary large bay lay extended before me as far as my eyes could reach between two hills which were lost to sight in the mist, and in the middle of this immense yellow bay under a clear golden sky a peculiar hill rose up, somber, and pointed in the midst of the sand. The sun had just disappeared and under the still flaming sky the outline of that fantastic rock stood out, which bears on its summit a fantastic monument. At daybreak I went to it. The tide was low as it had been the night before, and I saw that wonderful abbey rise up before me as I approached it. After several hours walking I reached the enormous mass of rocks which supports the little town, dominated by the great church. Having climbed the steep and narrow street I entered the most wonderful gothic building that has ever been built to God on earth, as large as a town full of low rooms which seemed buried beneath vaulted roofs and lofty galleries supported by delicate columns. I entered this gigantic granite jewel which is as light as a bit of lace covered with towers, with slender belfries to which spiral staircases ascend, and which raise their strange heads that bristle with chimera, with devils, with fantastic animals, with monstrous flowers, and which are joined together by finely carved arches to the blue sky by day and to the black sky by night. When I had reached the summit I said to the monk who accompanied me, Father, how happy you must be here! And he replied, It is very windy, monsieur. And so we began to talk while watching the rising tide which ran over the sand and covered it with a steel carasse. And then the monk told me stories, all the old stories belonging to the place, legends, nothing but legends. One of them struck me forcibly. The country people, those belonging to the mornay, declared that at night one can hear talking going on in the sand, and then that one hears two goats bleat, one with a strong, the other with a weak voice. Incredulous people declare that it is nothing but the cry of the seabirds which occasionally resembles bleatings and occasionally human lamentations. But belated fishermen swear that they have met an old shepherd whose head which is covered by his cloak they can never see, wandering on the downs between two tides round the little town placed so far out of the world, and who is guiding and walking before them a he-goat with a man's face, and a she-goat with a woman's face, and both of them with white hair, and talking incessantly, quarreling in a strange language, and then suddenly ceasing to talk in order to bleat with all their might. Do you believe it, I ask the monk? I scarcely know, he replied, and I continued, if there are other beings besides ourselves on this earth, how come it is that we have not known it for so long a time, or why have you not seen them? How is it that I have not seen them? He replied, do we see the hundred-thousandth part of what exists? Look here, there is the wind which is the strongest force in nature, which knocks down men and blows down buildings, uproots trees, raises the sea into mountains of water, destroys cliffs and casts great ships into the breakers, the wind which kills, which whistles, which sighs, which roars. Have you ever seen it, and can you see it? It exists for all that, however. I was silent before this simple reasoning. The man was a philosopher, or perhaps a fool, I could not say which exactly, so I held my tongue. What he had said had often been in my own thoughts. July 3. I have slept badly. Certainly there is some feverish influence here, for my coachman is suffering in the same way as I am. When I went back home yesterday, I noticed his singular paleness, and I asked him, what is the matter with you, Jean? The matter is that I never get any rest, and my nights devour my days, since your departure, Monsieur, there has been a spell over me. However, the other servants are well, but I am very frightened of having another attack myself. July 4. I am decidedly taken again, for my old nightmares have returned. Last night I felt somebody leaning on me who was sucking my life from between my lips, with his mouth. Yes, he was sucking it out of my neck like a leech would have done. Then he got up satiated, and I woke up, so beaten, crushed, and annihilated that I could not move. If this continues for a few days, I shall certainly go away again. July 5. Have I lost my reason? What has happened? What I saw last night is so strange that my head wanders when I think of it. As I do now, every evening I had locked my door, and then, being thirsty, I drank half a glass of water, and I accidentally noticed that the water bottle was full up to the cut glass stopper. Then I went to bed, and fell into one of my terrible sleeps, from which I was aroused in about two hours by a still more terrible shock. Picture to yourself a sleeping man who is being murdered, and who wakes up with a knife in his chest, and who is rattling in his throat, covered with blood, and who can no longer breathe, and is going to die, and does not understand anything at all about it. There it is. Having recovered my senses, I was thirsty again, so I lit a candle, and went to the table on which my water bottle was. I lifted it up, and tilted it over my glass, but nothing came out. It was empty. It was completely empty. At first I could not understand it at all, and then suddenly I was seized by such a terrible feeling that I had to sit down, or rather I fell into a chair. Then I sprang up with a bound to look about me, and then I sat down again, overcome by astonishment and fear in front of the transparent crystal bottle. I looked at it with fixed eyes, trying to conjecture, and my hands trembled. Somebody had drunk the water. But who? I? I, without any doubt. It could surely only be I. In that case I was a somnambulist. I lived without knowing it, that double mysterious life which makes us doubt whether there are not two beings in us, or whether a strange, unknowable and invisible being does not at such moments when our soul is in a state of torpor animate our captive body which obeys this other being as it does ourselves, and more than it does ourselves. Ah! Who will understand my horrible agony? Who will understand the emotion of a man who is sound in mind, wide awake, full of sound sense, and who looks in horror at the remains of a little water that has disappeared while he was asleep through the glass of a water bottle? And I remained there until it was daylight without venturing to go to bed again. July 6th. I am going mad. Again, all the contents of my water bottle have been drunk during the night, or rather I have drunk it. But is it I? Is it I? Who could it be? Who? Oh, God! I am going mad. Who will save me? July 10th. I have just been through some surprising ordeals. Decidedly, I am mad, and yet. On July 6th, before going to bed, I put some wine, milk, water, bread, and strawberries on my table. Somebody drank—I drank—all the water and a little of the milk, but neither the wine, bread, nor the strawberries were touched. On the 7th of July I renewed the same experiment with the same results. And on July 8th I left out the water and the milk, and nothing was touched. Lastly, on July 9th I put only water and milk on my table, taking care to wrap up the bottles in white muslin and to tie down the stoppers. Then I rubbed my lips, my beard, and my hands with pencil lead, and went to bed. Irresistible sleep seized me, which was soon followed by a terrible awakening. I had not moved, and my sheets were not marked. I rushed to the table. The muslin round the bottles remained intact. I undid the string, trembling with fear. All the water had been drunk, and so had the milk. Ah! Great God! I must start for Paris immediately. July 12th, Paris. I must have lost my head during the last few days. I must be the plaything of my innervated imagination, unless I am really a somnambulist, or that I have been brought under the power of one of those influences which have been proved to exist, but which have hitherto been inexplicable, which are called suggestions. In any case, my mental state bordered on madness, and twenty-four hours of Paris sufficed to restore me to my equilibrium. Yesterday, after doing some business and paying some visits which instilled fresh and invigorating mental air into me, I wound up my evening at the Théâtre Français. A play by Alexander Dumas, the younger, was being acted, and his active and powerful mind completed my cure. Certainly solitude is dangerous for active minds. We require men who can think and can talk around us. When we are alone for a long time, we people space with phantoms. I returned along the boulevards to my hotel in excellent spirits. Amid the jostling of the crowd, I thought not without irony of my terrors and surmises of the previous week, because I believed—yes—I believed that an invisible being lived beneath my roof. How weak our head is, and how quickly it is terrified and goes astray as soon as we are struck by a small incomprehensible fact. Instead of concluding with these simple words, I do not understand because the cause escapes me. We immediately imagine terrible mysteries and supernatural powers. July 14. Fate of the Republic. I walked through the streets, and the crackers and flags amused me like a child. Still, it is very foolish to be merry on a fixed date by a government decree. The populace is an imbecile flock of sheep. Now steadily patient, and now in ferocious revolt. Say to it, amuse yourself, and it amuses itself. Say to it, go and fight with your neighbor, and it goes and fights. Say to it, vote for the emperor, and it votes for the emperor. And then say to it, vote for the republic, and it votes for the republic. Those who direct it are also stupid, but instead of obeying men, they obey principles, which can only be stupid, sterile, and false, for the very reason that they are principles. That is to say, ideas which are considered as certain and unchangeable in this world where one is certain of nothing, since light is an illusion and noise is an illusion. July 16. I saw some things yesterday that troubled me very much. I was dining at my cousin Madame Sabal, whose husband is Colonel of the 76 Chasseur at Limoge. There were two young women there, one of whom had married a medical man, Dr. Paran, who devotes himself a great deal to nervous diseases and the extraordinary manifestations to which at this moment experiments in hypnotism and suggestion give rise. He related to us at some length the enormous results obtained by English scientists and the doctors of the medical school at Nance, and the facts which he adduced appeared to me so strange that I declared that I was altogether incredulous. We are, he declared, on the point of discovering one of the most important secrets of nature. I mean to say one of its most important secrets on this earth, for there are certainly some which are a different kind of importance up in the stars yonder. Ever since man has thought, since he has been able to express and write down his thoughts, he has felt himself close to a mystery which is impenetrable to his course and imperfect senses, and he endeavors to supplement the want of power of his organs by the efforts of his intellect. As long as that intellect still remained in its elementary stage, this intercourse with invisible spirits assumed forms which were commonplace, though terrifying. Then sprang the popular belief in the supernatural, the legends of wandering spirits, of fairies, of gnomes, ghosts. I might even say the legend of God. For our conceptions of the workman creator from whatever religion they may have come down to us are certainly the most mediocre, the stupidest, and the most unacceptable inventions that ever sprang from the frightened brain of any human creatures. Nothing is truer than what Voltaire says. God made man in his own image, but man has certainly paid him back again. But for rather more than a century, men seem to have had a pre-sentiment of something new. Mesmer and some others have put us on an unexpected track, and especially within the last two or three years we have arrived at really surprising results. My cousin, who is also very incredulous, smiled, and Dr. Peron said to her, Would you like me to try and send you to sleep, Madame? Yes, certainly. She sat down in an easy chair, and he began to look at her fixedly so as to fascinate her. I suddenly felt myself somewhat uncomfortable with a beating heart and a choking feeling in my throat. I saw that Madame Sabal's eyes were growing heavy, her mouth twitched and her bosom heaved, and at the end of ten minutes she was asleep. Stand behind her, the doctor said to me, and so I took a seat behind her. He put a visiting card into her hands and said to her, This is a looking-glass. What do you see in it? And she replied, I see my cousin. What is he doing? He is twisting his moustache? And now he's taking a photograph out of his pocket. Whose photograph is it his own? That was true, and that photograph had been given me that same evening at the hotel. What is his attitude in the portrait? He is standing up with his hat in his hand. So she saw on that card, on that piece of white pasteboard, as if she had been looking at it in a looking-glass. The young women were frightened and exclaimed, That is quite enough, quite quite enough. But the doctor said to her authoritatively, You will get up at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, and then you will go and call on your cousin at his hotel and ask him to lend you five thousand francs, which your husband demands of you, and which he will ask for when he sets out on his coming journey. Then he woke her up. On returning to my hotel, I thought over this curious seance, and I was assailed by doubts, not as to my cousin's absolute and undoubted good faith, for I had known her as well as if she had been my own sister ever since she was a child. But as to a possible trick on the doctor's part, had not he perhaps kept a glass hidden in his hand which he showed to the young woman in her sleep at the same time as he did the card? Professional conjurers do things which are just as singular. So I went home and to bed, and this morning at about half past eight I was awakened by my footman who said to me, Madame Sabal has asked to see you immediately, Monsieur, so I dressed hastily and went to her. She sat down in some agitation with her eyes on the floor, and without raising her veil she said to me, my dear cousin, I am going to ask a great favor of you. What is it, cousin? I do not like to tell you, and yet I must. I am an absolute want of five thousand francs. What, you? Yes, I, or rather my husband, who has asked me to procure them for him. I was so stupefied that I stammered out my answers. I asked myself whether she had not really been making fun of me with Dr. Parall, if it were not merely a very well-acted farce which had been got up beforehand. On looking at her attentively, however, my doubts disappeared. She was trembling with grief, so painful was this step to her, and I was sure that her throat was full of sobs. I knew that she was very rich, and so I continued, what, has not your husband five thousand francs at his disposal? Come, think! Are you sure that he commissioned you to ask me for them? She hesitated for a few seconds as if she were making a great effort to search her memory, and then she replied, Yes, yes, I am quite sure of it. He has written to you? She hesitated again and reflected, and I guessed the torture of her thoughts. She did not know. She only knew that she was to borrow five thousand francs of me for her husband, so she told a lie. Yes, he has written me. When, pray, you did not mention it to me yesterday. I received his letter this morning. Can you show it to me? No, no, it contained private matters, things too personal to ourselves. I burnt it. So your husband runs into debt. She hesitated again and then murmured, I do not know. Thereupon I said bluntly, I have not five thousand francs at my disposal at this moment, dear cousin. She uttered a kind of cry as if she were in pain and said, Oh, oh, I beseech you, I beseech you to get them for me. She got excited and clasped her hands as if she were praying to me. I heard her voice change its tone. She wept and stammered, harassed and dominated by the irresistible order that she had received. Oh, oh, I beg you to, if you knew what I am suffering, I want them to-day. I had pity on her. You shall have them by and by. I swear to you. Oh, thank you, thank you, how kind you are. I continued. Do you remember what took place at your house last night? Yes. Do you remember that Dr. Perron sent you to sleep? Yes. Oh, very well then. He ordered you to come to me this morning to borrow five thousand francs and at this moment you are obeying that suggestion. She considered for a few moments and then replied, But, as it is my husband who wants them, for a whole hour I tried to convince her, but could not succeed. And when she had gone I went to the doctor. He was just going out and he listened to me with a smile and said, Do you believe now? Yes, I cannot help it. Let us go to your cousins. She was already dozing on a couch, overcome with fatigue. The doctor felt her pulse, looked at her for some time with one hand raised toward her eyes, which she closed by degrees under the irresistible power of this influence. And when she was asleep, he said, Your husband does not require the five thousand francs any longer. You must therefore forget that you asked your cousin to lend them to you. And if he speaks to you about it, you will not understand him. Then he woke her up and I took out a pocketbook and said, Here is what you asked me for this morning, my dear cousin. But she was so surprised that I did not venture to persist. Nevertheless, I tried to recall the circumstance to her, but she denied it vigorously, thought that I was making fun of her, and in the end very nearly lost her temper. There, I have just come back and I have not been able to eat any lunch, for this experiment has all together upset me. July 19. Many people to whom I have told the adventure have laughed at me. I no longer know what to think. The wise man says, Perhaps. July 21. I dined at Bujival, and then I spent the evening at a boatman's ball. Decidedly, everything depends on place and surroundings. It would be the height of folly to believe in the supernatural on the Île de la Grenouillère. But on top of Monsem-Michel, and in India, we are terribly under the influence of our surroundings. I shall return home next week. July 30. I came back to my house yesterday. Everything is going on well. August 2. Nothing fresh. It is splendid weather, and I spend my days in watching the same flow past. August 4. Quarrels among my servants. They declare that the glasses are broken in the cupboards at night. The footman accuses the cook, who accuses the needle woman, who accuses the other two. Who is the culprit? A clever person to be able to tell. August 6. This time I am not mad. I have seen, I have seen, I have seen. I can doubt no longer. I have seen it. I was walking at two o'clock among my rose-trees in the full sunlight, in the walk bordered by autumn roses which are beginning to fall. As I stopped to look at a géant de bataille, which had three splendid blooms, I distinctly saw the stalk of one of the roses bend, close to me, as if an invisible hand had bent it, and then break as if that hand had picked it. Then the flower raised itself following the curve which a hand would have described in carrying it toward a mouth, and it remained suspended in the transparent air, all alone and motionless, a terrible red spot three yards from my eyes. In desperation I rushed it to take it. I found nothing. It had disappeared. Then I was seized with furious rage against myself, for it is not allowable for a reasonable and serious man to have such hallucinations. But was it a hallucination? I turned round to look for the stalk, and I found it immediately under the bush, freshly broken between two other roses which remained on the branch. And I returned home then with a much disturbed mind, for I am certain now, as certain as I am of the alteration of day and night, that there exists close to me an invisible being that lives on milk and on water, which can touch objects, take them and change their places, which is consequently endowed with a material nature, although it is impossible to our senses and which lives, as I do, under my roof. August 7. I slept tranquilly. He drank the water out of my decanter, but did not disturb my sleep. I asked myself whether I am mad. As I was walking just now in the sun by the riverside, doubts as to my own sanity arose in me, not vague doubts such as I have had hitherto, but precise and absolute doubts. I have seen mad people, and I have known some who have been quite intelligent, lucid, even clear-sighted in every concern of life except on one point. They spoke clearly, readily, profoundly on everything, when suddenly their thoughts struck upon the breakers of their madness and broke to pieces there, and were dispersed and foundered in that furious and terrible sea full of bounding waves, fogs and squalls which is called madness. I certainly should think that I was mad, absolutely mad, if I were not conscious, did not perfectly know my state, if I did fathom it by analyzing it with the most complete lucidity. I should, in fact, be a reasonable man who was laboring under a hallucination. Some unknown disturbance must have been excited in my brain. One of those disturbances which physiologists of the present day tried to note and to fix precisely, and that disturbance must have caused a profound gulf in my mind and in the order and logic of my ideas. Similar phenomena occur in the dreams which lead us through the most unlikely phantasmagoria without causing us any surprise, because our verifying apparatus and our sense of control has gone to sleep, while our imaginative faculty wakes and works. Is it not possible that one of the imperceptible keys of the cerebral fingerboard has been paralyzed in me? Some men lose the recollection of proper names, or of verbs, or of numbers, or merely of dates in consequence of an accident. The localization of all the particles of thought has been proved nowadays. What then would there be surprising in the fact that my faculty of controlling the unreality of certain hallucinations should be destroyed for the time being? I thought of all this as I walked by the side of the water. The sun was shining brightly on the river and made earth delightful while it filled my looks with love for life, for the swallows whose agility is always delightful in my eyes, for the plants by the riverside whose rustling is a pleasure to my ears. By degrees, however, an inexplicable feeling of discomfort seized me. It seemed to me as if some unknown force were numbing and stopping me, were preventing me from going farther and were calling me back. I felt that painful wish to return which oppresses you when you have left a beloved invalid at home and when you are seized by a pre-sentiment that he is worse. I therefore returned in spite of myself feeling certain that I should find some bad news awaiting me, a letter or a telegram. There was nothing, however, and I was more surprised and uneasy than if I had had another fantastic vision. August 8. I spent a terrible evening yesterday. He does not show himself anymore, but I feel that he is near me, watching me, looking at me, penetrating me, dominating me, and more redoubtable when he hides himself thus than if he were to manifest his constant and invisible presence by supernatural phenomenon. However, I slept. August 9. Nothing, but I am afraid. August 10. Nothing. What will happen tomorrow? August 11. Still nothing. I cannot stop at home with this fear hanging over me and these thoughts in my mind. I shall go away. August 12. Ten o'clock at night. All day long I've been trying to get away and have not been able. I wish to accomplish this simple and easy act of liberty. Go out, get in my carriage in order to go to Rouen, and I have not been able to do it. What is the reason? August 13. When one is attacked by certain maladies all the springs of our physical being appear to be broken. All our energies destroyed, all our muscles relaxed, our bones to have become as soft as our flesh and our blood as liquid as water. I am experiencing that in my moral being in a strange and distressing manner. I have no longer any strength, any courage, any self-control nor even any power to set my own will in motion. I have no power left to will anything, but someone does it for me and I obey. August 14. I am lost. Somebody possesses my soul and governs it. Somebody orders all my acts, all my movements, all my thoughts. I am no longer anything in myself, nothing except an enslaved and terrified spectator of all the things which I do. I wish to go out. I cannot. He does not wish to, and so I remain trembling and distracted in the armchair in which he keeps me sitting. I merely wish to get up and to rouse myself so as to think that I am still master of myself. I cannot. I am riveted to my chair, and my chair adheres to the ground in such a manner that no force could move us. Then suddenly I must, I must go to the bottom of my garden and pick some strawberries and eat them. And I go there. I pick the strawberries and I eat them. Oh, my God, my God, is there a God? If there be one, deliver me, save me, succour me, pardon, pity, mercy, save me. Oh, what sufferings, what torture, what horror! August 15th. Certainly, this is the way in which my poor cousin was possessed and swayed when she came to borrow 5,000 francs of me. She was under the power of a strange will which had entered into her, like another soul, like another parasitic and ruling soul. Is the world coming to an end? But who is he, this invisible being that rules me, this unknowable being, this rover of a supernatural race? Invisible beings exist then. How is it then that since the beginning of the world they have never manifested themselves in such a manner precisely as they do to me? I have never read anything which resembles what goes on in my house. Oh, if I could only leave it, if I could only go away and flee so as to never return, I should be saved. But I cannot. August 16th. I managed to escape today for two hours, like a prisoner who finds the door of his dungeon accidentally open. I suddenly felt that I was free and that I was far away, and so I gave orders to put the horses in as quickly as possible. And I drove to Rouen. Oh, how delightful to be able to say to a man who obeyed you, Go to Rouen! I made him pull up before the library, and I begged them to lend me Dr. Herman Herstrass's treaties on the unknown inhabitants of the ancient and modern world. Then, as I was getting into my carriage, I intended to say to the railway station, but instead of this, I shouted. I did not say, but I shouted in such a loud voice that all the passers-by turned round, home! And I fell back into the cushion of my carriage, overcome by mental agony. He had found me out and regained possession of me. August 17th. Oh, what a night! What a night! And yet it seems to me that I ought to rejoice. I read until one o'clock in the morning. Herstrass's, Doctor of Philosophy and Theogony wrote the history and the manifestation of all those invisible beings which hover around man, or of whom he dreams. He describes their origin, their domains, their power, but none of them resembles the one which haunts me. One might say that man, ever since he has thought, has had a foreboding of and feared a new being stronger than himself, his successor in this world, and that feeling him nearer and not being able to foretell the nature of that master he has in his terror created the whole race of hidden beings of vague phantoms born of fear. Having therefore read until one o'clock in the morning, I went and sat down at the open window in order to cool my forehead and my thoughts in the calm night air. It was very pleasant and warm. How I should have enjoyed such a night formerly. There was no moon, but the stars darted out their rays in the dark heavens. Who inhabits those worlds? What forms? What living beings? What animals are there yonder? What do those who are thinkers in those distant worlds know more than we do? What can they do more than we can? What do they see which we do not know? Will not one of them some day or other traversing space appear on our earth to conquer it, just as the Norsemen formerly crossed the sea in order to subjugate nations more feeble than themselves? We are so weak, so unarmed, so ignorant, so small. We who live on this particle of mud which turns round in a drop of water. I fell asleep, dreaming thus in the cool night air, and then, having slept for about three quarters of an hour, I opened my eyes without moving, awakened by I know not what confused and strange sensation. At first I saw nothing, and then suddenly it appeared to me as if a page of a book which had remained open on my table turned over of its own accord. Not a breath of air had come in at my window, and I was surprised and waited. In about four minutes I saw—I saw—yes, I saw it with my own eyes. Another page lifted itself up and fall down on the others as if a finger had turned it over. My armchair was empty, appeared empty, but I knew that he was there. He was sitting in my place, and that he was reading. With a furious bound, the bound of an enraged wild beast that wishes to disemball its tamer, I crossed my room to seize him, to strangle him, to kill him. But before I could reach it my chair fell over as if somebody had run away from me. My table rocked, my lamp fell, and went out, and my window closed as if some thief had been surprised and had fled into the night shutting it behind him. So he had run away. He had been afraid. He afraid of me. So, so, tomorrow, or later, some day or other, I should be able to hold him in my clutches and crush him against the ground. Do not dogs occasionally bite and strangle their masters? August 18. I have been thinking the whole day long. Oh, yes, I will obey him, follow his impulses, fulfill all his wishes, show myself humble, submissive, a coward. He is the stronger, but an hour will come. August 19. I know. I know. I know it all. I have just read the following in their review de Monts scientifique. A curious piece of news comes to us from Rio de Janeiro. Madness. An epidemic of madness which may be compared to that contagious madness which attacked the peoples of Europe in the Middle Ages is at this moment raging in the province of Sao Paulo. The frightened inhabitants are leaving their houses, deserting their villages, abandoning their land, saying that they are pursued, possessed, governed like human cattle by invisible though tangible beings, a species of vampire which feed on their life while they are asleep, and who, besides, drink water and milk without appearing to touch any other nourishment. Professor Dom Pedro Enrique, accompanied by several medical savants, has gone to the province of Sao Paulo in order to study the origin and the manifestations of this surprising madness on the spot, and to propose such measures to the emperor as may appear to him to be most fitted to restore the mad population to reason. Ah, ah, I remember now that fine Brazilian three master which passed in front of my windows as it was going up the Sain on the 8th of last May. I thought it looked so pretty, so white and bright. That being was on board of her, coming from there, where its race sprang from, and it saw me, it saw my house, which was also white, and it sprang from the ship onto the land. Ah, good heavens! Now I know. I can divine. The reign of man is over, and he has come, he whom disquieted priests exercised, whom sorcerers evoked on dark nights without yet seeing him appear, to whom the pre-sentiments of the transient masters of the world lent all the monstrous or graceful forms of gnomes, spirits, genie, fairies, and familiar spirits. After the coarse conceptions of primitive fear, more clear-sighted men foresaw it more clearly. Mesmer divined him, and ten years ago physicians accurately discovered the nature of his power even before he exercised it himself. They played with that weapon of their new Lord, the sway of a mysterious will over the human soul which had become enslaved. They called it magnetism, hypnotism, suggestion. What do I know? I have seen them amusing themselves like impudent children with this horrible power. Woe to us! Woe to man! He has come. The—the—what does he call himself? The—I fancy that he is shouting out his name to me, and I do not hear him. The—yes, he is shouting it out. I am listening. I cannot repeat it. Horla. I have heard the horla. It is he, the horla. He has come. Ah, the vulture has eaten the pigeon. The wolf has eaten the lamb. The lion has devoured the buffalo with sharp horns. Man has killed the lion with an arrow, with a sword, with gunpowder. But the horla will make of man what we have made of the horse and of the ox, his chattel, his slave, and his food, by the mere power of his will. Woe to us! But nevertheless the animal sometimes revolts and kills the man who has subjugated it. I should also like. I shall be able to, but I must know him, touch him, see him. Learned men say that beast's eyes as they differ from ours do not distinguish like ours do, and my eye cannot distinguish this newcomer who is oppressing me. Why? Oh, now I remember the words of the monk at Molse Michel. Can we see the hundred-thousandth part of what exists? Look here. There is the wind, which is the strongest force in nature, which knocks down men and blows down buildings, uproots trees, raises the sea into mountains of water, destroys cliffs, and casts great ships onto the breakers. The wind which kills, which whistles, which sighs, which roars. Have you ever seen it? And can you see it? It exists for all that, however. And I went on thinking. My eyes are so weak, so imperfect that they do not even distinguish hard bodies if they are as transparent as glass. If a glass without tinfoil behind it were to bar my way, I should run into it just as a bird which has flown into a room breaks its head against the window panes. A thousand things moreover deceive him and lead him astray. How should it then be surprising that he cannot perceive a fresh body which is traversed by the light? A new being? Why not? It was assuredly bound to come. Why should we be the last? We do not distinguish it like all the other created before us. The reason is that its nature is more perfect, its body finer and more finished than ours. That ours is so weak, so awkwardly conceived, encumbered with organs that are always tired, always on the strain like locks that are too complicated. Which lives like a plant and like a beast nourishing itself with difficulty on air, herbs, and flesh? An animal machine which is prey to maladies, to malformations, to decay, broken-winded, badly regulated, simple, and eccentric, ingeniously badly made. A course and a delicate work, the outline of a being which might become intelligent and grand. We are only a few, so few in this world, from the oyster up to man. Why should there not be one more when once that period is accomplished which separates the successive apparitions from all the different species? Why not one more? Why not also other trees with immense splendid flowers perfuming whole regions? Why not other elements besides fire, air, earth, and water? There are four, only four, those nursing fathers of various beings. What a pity! Why are they not forty, four hundred, four thousand? How poor everything is, how mean and wretched, grudgingly, given, dryly invented, clumsily made. Ah, the elephant and the hippopotamus, what grace, and the camel, what elegance. But the butterfly, you will say, a flying flower. I dream of one that should be as large as a hundred worlds, with wings whose shape, beauty, colors, and motion I cannot even express. But I see it. It flutters from star to star, refreshing them and perfuming them with the light and the harmonious breath of its flight. And the people up there look at it as it passes in an ecstasy of delight. What is the matter with me? It is he, the horla, who haunts me, and who makes me think of these foolish things. He is within me. He is becoming my soul. I shall kill him. August 19th. I shall kill him. I have seen him. Yesterday I sat down at my table and pretended to write very assiduously. I knew quite well that he would come prowling round me, quite close to me, so close that I might perhaps be able to touch him, to seize him. And then, then I should have the strength of desperation, I should have my hands, my knees, my chest, my forehead, my teeth to strangle him, to crush him, to bite him, to tear him to pieces. And I watched for him with all my over-excited organs. I had lighted my two lamps and the eight wax candles on my mantelpiece, as if by this light I could have discovered him. My bed, my old oak bed with its columns was opposite to me. On my right was the fireplace. On my left the door, which was carefully closed after I had left it open for some time in order to attract him. Behind me was a very high wardrobe with a looking-glass in it, which served to make me my toilette every day, and in which I was in the habit of looking at myself from head to foot every time I passed it. So I pretended to be writing in order to deceive him, for he was also watching me. And suddenly I felt, I was certain that he was reading over my shoulder, that he was there, almost touching my ear. I got up so quickly with my hands extended that I almost fell. Eh? Well, it was as bright as mid-day, but I did not see myself in the glass. It was empty, clear, profound, full of light, but my figure was not reflected in it. And I, I was opposite to it. I saw the large clear glass from top to bottom, and I looked at it with unsteady eyes, and I did not dare to advance. I did not venture to make a movement, nevertheless feeling perfectly that he was there, but that he would escape me again. He, whose imperceptible body had absorbed my reflection, how frightened I was. And then suddenly I began to see myself through a mist in the depths of the looking-glass, in a mist as if it were through a sheet of water. And it seemed to me as if this water were flowing slowly from left to right and making my figure clearer every moment. It was like the end of an eclipse, whatever it was that hid me did not appear to possess any clearly defined outlines but a sort of opaque transparency which gradually grew clearer. At last I was able to distinguish myself completely as I do every day when I look at myself. I had seen it, and the horror of it remained with me and makes me shudder even now. August 20th. How could I kill it as I could not get hold of it? Poison? But it would see me mix it with the water and then would our poison have any effect on its impalpable body? No. No. No doubt about the matter. Then—then— August 21st. I sent for a blacksmith from Rouen and ordered iron shutters of him for my room, such as some private hotels in Paris have on the ground floor for fear of thieves, and he is going to make me a similar door as well. I have made myself out as a coward, but I do not care about that. September 10th. Rouen Hotel Continental. It is done. It is done. But—is he dead? My mind is thoroughly upset by what I have seen. Well then, yesterday the locksmith having put on the iron shutters and door I left everything open until midnight, although it was getting cold. Suddenly I felt that he was there, and joy, mad joy took possession of me. I got up softly, and I walked to the right and left for some time so that he might not guess anything. Then I took off my boots and put on my slippers carelessly. Then I fastened the iron shutters, and going back to the door quickly I double-locked it with a padlock, putting the key into my pocket. Suddenly I noticed that he was moving restlessly round me, that in his turn he was frightened and was ordering me to let him out. I nearly yielded, though I did not yet. But, putting my back to the door, I half opened it, just enough to allow me to go out backward, and as I am very tall my head touched the lintel. I was sure that he had not been able to escape, and I shut him up quite alone, quite alone. What happiness! I had him fast. Then I ran downstairs in the drawing-room which was under my bedroom. I took the two lamps, and I poured all the oil onto the carpet, the furniture, everywhere. Then I set fire to it and made my escape, after having carefully double-locked the door. I went and hid myself at the bottom of the garden in a clump of laurel bushes. How long it was! How long it was! Everything was dark, silent, motionless, not a breath of air and not a star, but heavy banks of clouds which one could not see, but which weighed, oh, so heavily on my soul. I looked at my house and waited. How long it was! I already began to think that the fire had gone out of its own accord, or that he had extinguished it when one of the lower windows gave way under the violence of the flames, and a long, soft caressing sheet of red flame mounted up the white wall and kissed it as high as the roof. The light fell onto the trees, the branches and the leaves, and a shiver of fear pervaded them also. The birds awoke, a dog began to howl, and it seemed to me as if the day were breaking. Almost immediately two other windows flew into fragments, and I saw that the whole of the lower part of my house was nothing but a terrible furnace. But a cry, a horrible, shrill, heart- rending cry, a woman's cry, sounded through the night, and two garret windows were opened. I had forgotten the servants. I saw the terror-struck faces and their frantically waving arms. Then overwhelmed with horror, I set off to run to the village, shouting, Help! Help! Fire! Fire! I met some people who were already coming onto the scene, and I went back with them to sea. By this time the house was nothing but a horrible and magnificent funeral pile, a monstrous funeral pile which lit up the whole country, a funeral pile where men were burning and where he was burning also. He, he, my prisoner, that new being, the new master, the horla. Suddenly the whole roof fell in between the walls and a volcano of flames darted up to the sky. Through all the windows which opened onto that furnace I saw the flames darting, and I thought that he was there, in that kiln. Dead. Dead? Perhaps. His body? Was not his body, which was transparent, indestructible by such means as would kill ours? If he was not dead, perhaps time alone has power over that invisible and redoubtable being. Why this transparent, unrecognizable body, this body belonging to a spirit if it also had to fear ills, infirmities, and premature destruction? Premature destruction? All human terror springs from that. After man, the horla, after him who can die every day, at any hour, at any moment, by any accident, he came who was only to die at his own proper hour and minute, because he had touched the limits of existence. No. No. Without any doubt, he is not dead. Then, then, I suppose I must kill myself. The Horla by Guy Dimoupasson. Old Mr. Wiley by Fanny Grey-Laspina. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Old Mr. Wiley by Fanny Grey-Laspina. He just lies here, tossing and moaning until he's so weak that he sinks into a kind of coma, said the boy's father huskily. There doesn't seem to be anything particular the matter with him now, but weakness. Only, he choked, that he doesn't care much about getting well. Ms. Beaver kept her eyes on that thin little body outlined by the fine linen sheet. She caught her breath and bit her lower lip to check its trembling. So pitiful that small scion of a long line of highly placed aristocratic and wealthy forebears, that her cool, capable hand went out involuntarily to soothe the fevered childish brow. She wanted suddenly to gather the little body into her warm arms against her kind breast. Her emotion she realized was far from professional. Frank Wiley IV had somehow laid a finger on her heartstrings. If you can rouse him from his lethargy and help him to find some interest in living, Frank Wiley III said thickly, you won't find me unappreciative, Ms. Beaver. The nurse contemplated that small apathetic patient in silence. Dr. Paris had warned her that unless the boy's interest could somehow be stimulated, the little fellow would die from sheer lack of incentive to live. Her emotion moistened her eyes and constricted her throat muscles. She had to clear her throat before she could speak. I can only promise to do my very best for this dear little boy, which she said hurriedly. No human being can do more than his best. Dr. Paris tells me you have been uniformly successful with the cases he's put you on. I hope, the young father entreated, that you'll follow your usual precedent. The doctor is too kind, murmured Ms. Beaver, with slightly lifted brows. I fear he gives me more credit than I deserve. There, I hope you're wrong. He calls you an intuitive psychic. It is upon your intuitions that I'm banking now. My affection hampers me from fathoming Frank's innermost thoughts. If I were really sure what he needed most, I'd get it for him if it were a spotted giraffe, declared his father passionately. But I'm unable to go deeply enough into his real thoughts. If his own father cannot think of something he would care for enough to make him want to live, how can an outsider find out what he might be wanting? argued the nurse. A touch of resentment in her voice. Would not his own mother know what would make him want to take hold of life? There was an awkward pause. His mother began Frank Wiley the Third, and was interrupted by a light tap on the door panel at which he went silent, turning away as if relieved to escape any explanation. The door swung open, permitting the entrance of a young and very pretty woman, one who knew exactly what a charming picture she made in jade negligee over peach pajamas. About her exceedingly well-shaped head, ash-blonde hair lay in close artificial waves. She was such a distinctively blonde type that Miss Beaver could not control her slightly startled downward glance at the dark child tossing on the bed. Her upward look of bewilderment was met by Frank Wiley's faint smile. He takes after the founder of our family, said he in a low almost confidential voice. His great-grandfather was said to have had Indian blood in his veins as well as a touch of old spain. The boy doesn't look like his mother or me. He's a real throwback. The pretty woman had come across the room, pettishly lifting her silk-clad shoulders. Through the straps of embroidered sandals, red-tipped toes wriggled. At the tumbled bed and its small restless occupants she threw what appeared to Miss Beaver a distasteful glance, ignoring the nurse entirely, although she had not met her previously and must have known that the strange young woman was the new night nurse. To come to bed, Frank, she urged crossly, placing a proprietary hand on her husband's coat sleeve. It won't do any good to moon around in here and it might disturb Francis. Miss Beaver stood by her patient's bed, her clear gray eyes full upon young Mrs. Wiley. The nurse experienced a kind of disgust together with one of those uncomfortable intuitions upon the reliability of which Dr. Paris was always depending. She knew all at once that Mrs. Wiley was the strange type of modern woman which makes a cult of personal beauty, taking wifehood lightly and submitting to maternity as infrequently as possible. I suppose you're right, Flurry. The father conceded with a last solicitous look at the exhausted child. Miss Beaver? The nurse nodded her lips a tight red line. It would be better for the patient if the room were quiet and darkened, she said with indecision. When the door had closed behind the pair, Miss Beaver busied herself, making the child more comfortable for the night. She smoothed out the cool linen sheets, drawing them taut under the wasted little body. She bathed the hot face with water and alcohol. To all her ministrations, the child submitted in a kind of lethargy, speaking no word, making no sign that he had noticed a different attendant. When she had quite finished, he breathed a long sigh of relaxation. His quivering, weak little body went suddenly limp, and Miss Beaver had a good scare as she bent over him, trying to bring back that weary and reluctant spirit to its exhausted mortal domicile. It was by then nearly half past seven. The child lay supine. Heavy-litted eyes half opened upon this tormentress who had somehow succeeded in calling him back into the dimly lighted room from the shadows of Lethe's alluring banks. Miss Beaver, kneeling beside young Frank's bed, talked tenderly to him in a soft monotone. She made all manner of gratuitous promises, if only Frank would try like a good boy to get well. She told him firmly that he could if he wanted to. She made her suggestions with gently persuasive voice, coloring all she said with the warmth of a heart peculiarly open to the unknown needs of the listless child. To those unknown needs she opened wide her spirit, crying within for enlightenment and help. While she was thus occupied she became aware of that sensation of being watched that is so startling when one considers oneself alone. Without rising she turned her face quickly from the pillow of young Frank and looked across the bed. A member of the household about whom Dr. Paris had neglected to tell her was standing there, one finger on his lips which, though firm, wore a reassuring smile that immediately conveyed his warm friendliness. He was a well preserved elderly gentleman of aristocratic mean, clad in a bright blue garment of odd cut, his neck wound about with spotlessly white linen in lieu of a starched collar. His high nose, raised cheekbones flashing black eyes and olive skin contrasted in lively fashion with a heavy mane of white hair. His eyes as well as his lips conveyed a kindness which Miss Beaver's answering smile reciprocated. Tapping his lips again with admonitory forefinger the old gentleman now produced with a broad smile something from beneath his right arm. Leaning down he set this carefully beside the listless child. As he put it down it gave a whining little cry. Young Frank's eyes widened incredulously. Miss Beaver kept him under intent regard as he turned his dark head on the pillow to see what it was that was sitting on the bed. Oh! he cried in a kind of rapture and put one thin white hand outside the covers to touch the small creature that now stood wagging a brief tail in friendly fashion. Is it mine? The child looked up at the old gentleman who once more with serious mane and a significant movement of his head toward the door gestured for silence. The boy's eyes blinked once or twice. Then with a weak but ecstatic smile he laid a pale hand upon the furry coat of the little dog that began to bounce about licking the hand that caressed it. Miss Beaver told herself that the old gentleman had found a way to lay hold on young Frank's reluctant spirit. She watched color creep into the boy's face as he cuddled the little dog blissfully, and she drew a deep breath of heartfelt relief when the heavy eyelids drooped and the boy slipped off into a natural sleep. Nothing like the heavy coma from which she had struggled so hard to bring him back earlier that night. She looked up thankfully to meet the understanding gaze of the old gentleman who with that gesture of admonishment bent over and picked up the dog, tucked it under his blue sleeved arm, and went across the room to the door. He did not speak, but Miss Beaver received the vivid impression that his visit would be repeated the following night. It was as if her sensitive intuitions could receive and register a wordless message from that other sympathetic soul. The following morning found the lad refreshed and improved. His first waking thought was for the dog, and in reply to his cautiously whispered inquiry, Miss Beaver whispered back that his grandfather, the strong family resemblance made her sure it had been the boy's wise grandfather who had found a means of rousing the child from an all but fatal lethargy, had taken it with him, but would bring it again that night. Miss Beaver wondered at herself for promising this, but felt somehow sure that old Mr. Wiley would bring the pot without fail. She believed that she had read indomitable determination in those piercing black eyes. She knew inwardly that he would not rest until he had found that thing which would give young Frank renewed interest in living. Although the child appeared, if anything, a trifle less apathetic the following day, and Miss Beaver felt that each succeeding visit of old Mr. Wiley with the Fox Terrier would give the lad another push towards convalescence. Yet the nurse did not feel inclined to mention openly that secret visit in the dead of night. The old gentleman's finger tapping his gravely smiling lips was one thing that restrained her. The other was the irritation betrayed ingenuously enough by the boy's mother during her early morning visit to the sick room. Young Mrs. Wiley looked especially pretty in pleated jade sports skirt, a white pull-over sweater, a jade beret on her fair hair. Under one arm she carried a small white pomeranian about whose neck flared a matching wide jade satin bow. Well, how is Francis this morning? She inquired briskly with the determined manner of one dutifully performing an unpleasant task. He looks better, doesn't he? Miss Beaver knew whom this inquiry was addressed knotted shortly. The boy did not look at his pretty young mother after his first indifferent glance as she entered the room. He lay in silence with closed eyes and compressed lips, a most unchild-like expression on his thin, boyish face. Look, Francis! See how sweet Kiki looks with this big green bow! Mrs. Wiley dropped the pomeranian on the bed. The dog snarled and snapped viciously. Frank thrust out one hand and gave the animal a petish push. Bestowing a hard, cold glare on her son, Mrs. Wiley snatched up the growling dog in high indignation. There! I ask you, nurse, if that child isn't just unnatural! I thought boys liked dogs. Francis is queer. I believe he actually hates Kiki. She lifted the dog against her face, permitting it to lull its pink tongue against her carefully-rooged cheek. Puecious! Was it mother's own puecious little Kiki Francis? She addressed her son sharply. You'll have to get over your nasty ugliness to poor little Kiki. It's a shame the way you hate dogs. But I don't hate dogs, cried the boy vehemently, his voice breaking with indignant resentment. It's just Kiki. I'd love to have a little dog of my very own, mother, if you'd only let me have a little dog of my very own. The faint voice died away in a sick well. The boy's eyelids closed tightly against cushing tears. Mrs. Wiley gave a short exclamation of impatience. Francis has the idea that a dirty mongrel would be nicer than a beautiful pedigree dog like Kiki, she cried disgustedly. But why not try letting him have a dog of his own? asked Miss Beaver ill advisedly, her interest getting the better of her. Perhaps it would give him interest enough. Nonsense! snapped Mrs. Wiley sharply. I won't have streak muts wandering around the house to irritate poor little Kiki. Nasty, smelly, common mongrels with fleas! Indeed not! I'm surprised at you, nurse, for making the suggestion. With that, young Mrs. Wiley removed her vivid presence from the room, leaving Miss Beaver shrugging her shoulders and raising her eyebrows, and the little boy crying softly, the sheik pulled over his dark head. What's all this, Frankie? asked the father's voice. She won't let me have a dog of my own sobbed the boy coming out from under the concealing sheik lips-equiver eyes humid. Miss Beaver's lips compressed. He called his mother she as if she were an outsider. Frank Wiley, the third, stood for a moment looking at his son, then he let himself gently down on the edge of the bed, laying one big palm on the little chap's forehead. He did not speak, just sat and stroked the fevered brow with tenderness. On his face a dark look brooded. His eyes were absent, unhappy. Daddy, why couldn't I have just a little puppy of my own? The father replied with obvious effort. You know, Frankie, we have one small dog already, he said, with forced lateness. Oh, Kiki! Couldn't you manage to make friends with Kiki? She doesn't really want Kiki to like me, Daddy. Wise beyond his years, marvelled Miss Beaver. Kiki really doesn't like little boys. Oh, my God, Frankie, don't go crying again. Don't you see that Daddy can't quarrel with mother over a dog? Try to get well, old man, and we'll see what we can do. How about a pony, son? Little boy disappeared under the sheik, refusing to reply. Miss Beaver could not bear his convulsive, hardly controlled sobs and turned an accusing face upon Frank Wiley, the third. Is it possible, she asked, icely, that Frank's mother would actually refuse him so small a thing as a puppy if it meant the merest chance of him getting better? The face turned to hers was gloomy, the voice impatient. Oh, good God! Was ever a man in such a damnable situation? My dear Miss Beaver, ask the doctor to tell you how much influence I have in this household before you blame me for not taking a firm stand with a woman as nervous and temperamental as Mrs. Wiley. I give my life willingly to bring my boy back to health, but, unhappily, I'm not like the founders of our family. Someday I'll show you our family album. You'll find it easy to trace the strong resemblance Franky has to his forebears. It's the damnably high spirit he gets from them that is so stubbornly killing him now. He rose, wheeled about, and went to the door, paused, still with that brooding dark look on his face he turned to her again. If my death would make it any easier for Frank I wouldn't hesitate a moment. I'm a failure. It wouldn't matter. But I feel that by living and watching over him I'm standing between my boy's development as an individual and the subtlest, softest peril that could possibly threaten him. I would rather he died if he cannot bring about what he wills for his own development. As for me, I—I am a dead man, walking futilely among the living. With that he swung out of the room. Miss Beaver knelt by the boy's bed murmuring persuasively to him as she strove to make him check his hysterical sobs. Franky, you really must stop crying. You're too big a chap to cry, and it only makes you worse. If you're a good boy today and eat your food I'll let your grandfather bring the little dog tonight, she promised rashly. The sheep turned down and Frank's reddened face peered at her plaintively. That was my great-grandfather, he assured her gravely. Well, great or great-great, it's all the same, she conceited good humoredly. Do you really think he'll bring spot tonight? Of course he will, but you must eat your meals, take a long nap, and stop crying. Oh, I promise the boy cried eagerly. The day Miss Beaver was told later was uneventful. She had remained with the day nurse until Dr. Paris had made his visit. The doctor had been much pleased to find his small patient in good spirits and congratulated himself upon having put Miss Beaver on the case. If our young friend continues to improve like this, Miss Beaver, he joked, will have him playing football within a month. He lowered his voice for her ear only. Has anything particular come under your notice that might account for this agreeable change? Miss Beaver's forehead wrinkled slightly. She regarded the doctor from narrowed, thoughtful eyes. Tell me, Dr. Paris, if it isn't asking too much, why Mr. Wiley is a man afraid of his wife? The doctor could not repress an involuntary chuckle. Come now, nurse, don't you think you're asking rather a good deal? No, I don't, retorted Miss Beaver shortly. Nor do you think so, either. What I'm trying to get at is why Mr. Wiley lets Mrs. Wiley prevent him from giving Frank a puppy that he wants. The doctor regarded her thoughtfully. So it's a pop the boy wants. Ha! Hmm! he uttered. I'm asking you, she repeated impatiently. Oh! a—well—Mrs. Wiley, you have undoubtedly discerned, is one of those self-centered egotists who simply cannot permit people to live any way but her way. She won't have another dog in the house because it might interfere with the comfort of that silly damn—excuse me—pom of hers. If Frank were a bit older and could feign a penchant for the pom, and his mother got the idea that the animal's affection might be alienated from her, she would at once get the child another dog, just to keep him away from Kiki. All of which sounds subtle, but isn't very helpful, decided Miss Beaver with unflattering directness. I have told Mr. Wiley that I thought a dog might interest his son, and Mr. Wiley replies that his wife won't let him get one. There's something more behind this, and it's obvious you don't want to tell me. Oh! hang it, nurse, you always managed to get your own way with me, don't you? I'll probably have to marry you one of these days so I can keep the upper hand, he grinned. Well, then, Wiley is a weak sister and oughtn't to be. He's completely under his chorus girl's wife's thumb. He lost a good bid in Wall Street, and what's left is in her name, so he's got to watch his step until he's recouped his losses. If he were like his father or his grandfather, but he isn't, snapped the doctor vexedly. Now, this boy here, he's a throwback young Frank is. He's the spittin' image of the founder of the family, and unwilling to wager he's got the grit and determination that once endowed old Frank Wiley the first. I've observed, murmured Miss Beaver, that you and his father call the boy Frank while his mother refers to him as Francis. It's her highfalutin' way of puttin' on the dog nurse, Dr. Parris grinned wickedly. His name on the birth certificate is Frank, but she'd make a girlish Francis out of him if she had her own way. For some reason she isn't getting it. Her husband sticks to the old family name of Frank and the boy won't answer to Francis. She has a healthy respect for the first old Frank Wiley. If you were to see the family album, nurse, you'd be quick to catch the look in the old boy's eyes. Nobody ever put anything over on that lad, believe me. I've no doubt of that thought Miss Beaver to herself the indomitable countenance of her midnight visitor clear before her mind's eye. It was astonishing that strong family resemblance. Allowed, she snapped, family album indeed. What I'm after is to get permission for this child to have a pet. I'm positive it would make all the difference in the world to him. You won't get permission, nurse. Mrs. Frank won't have any other pets around to bother Precious Kiki, he said grimly. Not if it's a matter of life or death, she persisted. She would laugh at your putting it just that way, growled the doctor, and absent expression stealing over his kindly face. Well, we'll see what we'll see, observed Miss Beaver cryptically, her mouth an ominous tight red line. The doctor suddenly spoke close to her ear, an odd note in his voice. I'm going to prescribe something very unusual, nurse. Tomorrow night a covered basket will be delivered here for you. Take it into the boy's room and open it if he awakens during the night. Understand? I can't say I do, Dr. Paris. You will, he promised. I'll take that basket and its contents when I come around for my morning call, unless, he told her grimly, I can see no way to make the prescription stick. It was with the utmost anxiety that Miss Beaver awaited the coming that night of old Mr. Wiley. The day nurse had told her that Frank had eaten a good lunch and what for him was a hearty supper. He had agreed to sleep if he were awakened the moment spot arrived, and Miss Beaver had accepted his whispered offer. To her relief he fell asleep immediately, natural color on his thin cheeks. Mr. Wiley's light tap came on the door panel. She met his grave smile with a soft exclamation of welcome. The small dog was tucked under one arm and he paused to warn her with that admonitory touch of one finger to his lips that the secret of his visits must be preserved. She nodded comprehension, leaned over the sleeping boy and whispered softly in his ear. He stirred, opened drowsy eyes, then he pulled himself up on his pillow reaching thin hands out to the spotted dog which nipped playfully at him. Isn't he wonderful? When may I have him all the time? When you're well and don't need a night nurse, promised Miss Beaver rashly and was rewarded by a broad smile from the courtly old gentleman, who tipped back his white-meined head and laughed silently but wholeheartedly. I'll get well at once, nurse. Don't you think I might be well enough tomorrow or the day after? Not, he added politely making Miss Beaver's heartache with his childish apology. Not that I want you to leave, you know. That will be for the doctor to decide, Frank, but the more you eat and sleep and grow happy in your heart, the faster you'll get well, advised Miss Beaver earnestly. For a long happy hour, young Frank fraternized with the Fox Terrier while the old gentleman sat silently observing him, a grimly humorous smile hovering about his firm lips. Then the boy's eyes began to cloud sleepily, and much to Miss Beaver's surprise and pleasure, Frank relinquished his canine playmate and fell asleep, a blissful smile curving his childish mouth as he breathed with soft regularity. Then old Mr. Wiley picked up the puppy, tucked it under one blue-clad arm and again admonishing Miss Beaver with a finger a-thwart his lips, tiptoed from the room, closing the door behind very gently. The nurse thought with a sigh of relief that the old gentleman had looked both pleased and gratified. She herself could hardly wait for morning and for the day to pass, and was both pleased and encouraged herself when she went on duty the next night. Frank had asked to sit up for supper, and when Miss Beaver entered the room he manfully refused the day nurse's assistance back to bed. The day nurse's uplifted brows portrayed her astonishment at the sudden turn for the better the young patient had taken. I'm almost well piped up Frank Wiley IV the moment the door closed behind the day nurse. Tomorrow the doctor says I can sit out in the garden, in the sun. Couldn't I have spot then? You just leave that to me, said Miss Beaver, determinedly. I may have much to say about your keeping spot, Frank. In her heart she was in reality panic-stricken, for she knew that pretty Mrs. Wiley would indifferently laugh off the idea that ownership of a dog could mean returned health to her little son. Upon Frank Wiley III Miss Beaver felt no reliance could be placed. He was an exorious weakling. Her unfounded hope rested on old Mr. Wiley alone. Old Mr. Wiley, whose firm mouth and implacable dark eyes made her feel that he and he alone held the key to the situation. That he had realized young Frank's need and had filled it, albeit in secret, gave her to believe that he would also furnish such good reason for yielding to young Frank's boyish yearning as would make Mrs. Frank retire in disorder from any contest of clashing wills. But when the old gentleman stepped into the room that night he did not carry the little dog under his arm. What he had was something bulkier. He stopped beside the basket which had been sent to Miss Beaver and which she had not yet opened. He leaned down and released the lid. A little fox terrier jumped out and stood. One small paw upheld its head cocked to one side. Miss Beaver drew in a quick gasping breath of admiring amazement at what she realized was the doctor's unusual prescription. If only old Mr. Wiley could stand by to uphold it she felt that the boy could recover. She drew his attention with a gesture. See how nicely our patience coming along, Mr. Wiley? She whispered. Oh, please, won't you make them let him keep the little dog Paris sent him? You can, I know you can. Old Mr. Wiley leaned over the bed, apparently taking pleased note of the faint color on the boy's cheeks. He smiled with obvious satisfaction. He lifted his head, met Miss Beaver's pleading eyes, and nodded emphatically. Then he slackened his hold on whatever he had tucked under one arm and deposited it at the foot of the bed, meeting Miss Beaver's questioning eyes with a significant narrowing of his own. She looked at the thing, then up at him puzzled. What he had brought in was one of those huge plush-covered atrocities with tall ivory letters on the front that proclaimed it to be a family album. She surmised that this must be the album which the doctor had said she should look over to note how closely the small boy in the bed resembled his ancestors. With a light gesture, old Mr. Wiley relegated the album to the background, his glance seeing the fox terrier that still hesitated in the middle of the room. Miss Beaver understood. She gently wakened the small patient who sat up rubbing sleepy eyes expectantly. The doll sensing a playmate bounded upon the bed and began lapping at Frank's eager fingers with small whimperings. He loves me, don't you spot! Look, nurse! He has black spots over his eyes, bigger than I remember them. And he seems littler tonight, doesn't he? But he knows me. Gee, I wish I could keep him all the time. Old Mr. Wiley sat silently in a comfortable chair at the shadowy back of the room as he had done on his previous visits, but his severe old features softened as he watched the happy child in the antics of the little dog. When at last Frank's eyes grew humid and heavy with sleep and he began to slip down on his pillow, he clung to his canine playmate, refusing to relinquish the puppy which had cuddled cosily against him. Old Mr. Wiley's heavy brows lifted into a straight line over his high nose. A grimly ironical smile drew up the corners of his mouth. He made a gesture of resignation. His humorlessly twinkling eyes met the consternation in Miss Beaver's, but he appeared pleased and unmoved at the prospect of the dog's remaining with the boy. He rose from his comfortable chair, drew a deep breath, again touched the admonitory finger to his lips and withdrew, still smiling. The door closed quietly behind his stately blue-clad figure. Miss Beaver told herself agitatedly that he had no business to throw the onus of the whole situation onto her shoulders. But even while she resented this high-handed behavior, she was inwardly aware with one of her strong intuitions that Old Mr. Wiley knew indubitably what he was about, and that the psychological moment he would justify her in permitting the dog to remain with young Frank. She was in no hurry the following morning to turn over her patient to the day nurse and lingered on in the hope that Dr. Parris would appear early enough to get the dog away as he had half hinted. That he would do his best to make the prescription stick she saw immediately after he took a single look at young Frank who sat up nimbly, his color normal for the first time in weeks. The suppressed excitement in the atmosphere Dr. Parris could hardly be expected to understand until the boy drew back the covers to show the inquisitive black nose and beady eyes hidden beneath. Gee, Dr. Parris, isn't he just the cutest dog you ever saw? chuckled young Frank. Ah! gosh! here she comes! The cover was whipped over the dog, whose wimpers subsided with uncommonly good sense. Perhaps young Mrs. Wiley might not have felt the puppy's presence, but Kiki's sharp nose was not so easily put upon. Kiki, with a shrill bark scrambled from her arms and leapt upon the bed, where he began scratching furiously at the cover which Frank was holding desperately but vainly against this unexpected onslaught. What on earth began his mother, her eyes going from Kiki to Ms. Beaver's hired expression. Oh! a nasty little dog right in Francis's bed! Francis, push it out! It's probably full of fleas! How did that nasty little mongrel get in here? This pup isn't a mongrel, Mrs. Wiley snapped the doctor. We can see with half an eye it's a pedigreed animal. She disregarded him. Frank, come here! Nurse, you should have known better than to allow that horrid little mutt! Frank, Wiley the third, almost ran into the room, obviously distressed over something quite different from his wife's troubles. Somebody has meddled with one of our family portraits, he cried, with obvious agitation. It's been damaged! Oh! bother the family portrait shrilled his wife, highly exasperated. Look at the nasty common dog this nurse has let Francis have right in his bed! I never heard of such nerve! Call Mason! Have him put this dog out immediately! I'll take the dog if it's to be put out, growled Dr. Paris. I know a good dog when I see one he muttered resentfully. Let me see that dog, exclaimed Frank Wiley the third in a strange grave voice. He pushed the frantically excited Kiki from the bed to the floor. He drew back the covers from the little dog huddled apprehensively against young Frank's thin body. Oh! good Lord! It's incredible! It just isn't possible! Isn't it, snapped his wife, looking with this tastefully wrinkled nose at her husband's chalky face, wide, staring eyes? Well, here it is, and out it goes! Ring for Mason, Frank, at once! I want this dirty little mongrel out! Without paying the slightest attention, her husband turned to Miss Beaver. As he did so, his staring eyes fell upon the ornate plush album on the foot of the bed. How did that get here, he demanded. Old Mr. Wiley brought it last night, admitted Miss Beaver, who was feeling a trifle indignant at the old gentleman's defection. Old Mr. Wiley echoed Dr. Paris stupidly. For him, Miss Beaver thought, Old Mr. Wiley? Frank Wiley the third, his voice shaky, almost shouted at her. Do you mean to stand there and tell me that Old Mr. Wiley was here and brought that album? I may as well tell you now as ever, snapped Miss Beaver and deliberately turned her back on Mrs. Frank, addressing herself pointedly to Dr. Paris and the boy's father. The old gentleman has been in here every night to see Frank since I've been on duty, and he brought his little dog, and in my opinion his little dog should get the credit of any improvement in the patient's condition. Frank Wiley the third picked up the bulky volume and began turning the thick cardboard pages. His hands trembled, his face was queerly pasty. Turn the pages yourself, nurse, will you? See if you can find Old Mr. Wiley's picture. Miss Beaver flipped the cardboard pages one after another until a familiar face looked quizzically at her from a faded old daguerreotype. She put her finger triumphantly on it. Here he is. This is Old Mr. Wiley. Mrs. Frank tiptoed nearer, took a single look, and then with a shrill scream fainted into Dr. Paris's convenient arms. He muttered under his breath. Superstitious damsel, this! Of Miss Beaver he asked dryly as he deposited his fair burden distastefully in the big chair where the old gentleman had been sitting on his nightly visits. My dear Miss Beaver, are you very certain Old Mr. Wiley has been dropping in of nights? Of course I am, declared Miss Beaver indignantly. Is it so astonishing that I recognize a face I've been seeing now for three consecutive nights? This is unbelievable, Frank Wiley the third gasped. Said the doctor gravely, I ask you to be so very certain, nurse, because the original of that picture has been dead for over fifteen years. As those astonishing words fell on Miss Beaver's ears, she turned from the doctor in sheer resentment. I don't care for practical jokes, she said, with dignity to the boys' apparently stupefied father. And I must say I resent being made sport of. I tell you plainly that Old Mr. Wiley, the man in the picture, and she tapped her finger impressively on the album page, has spent a couple of hours with Frankie and me every night since I've been on duty here. And that's that. Then that settled, exclaimed the boys' father in a loud and determined voice. The dog stays. As if miraculously restored, Mrs. Frank sprang to her feet. Is that so? Well, my dear husband, I'm afraid you're sadly mistaken. The dog goes. She gave her husband glare for glare, the rouge standing in two round spots on her white face. His look was one of active dislike. We'll see about that, Flurry. All of you, come out into the hall. I want you to see something. Then let anyone say Frank can't keep that dog. He beckoned imperatively, and they followed down the great staircase into the great hall below where he stopped under a guilt- framed oil portrait, life-size, his finger pointing significantly. Miss Beaver deciphered the small label at the front of the massive frame. The painting was a portrait of Frank Wiley I, the founder of the Wiley family. Her eyes rose higher to really look at the picture for the first time since she had been in the house. It was the living likeness of old Mr. Wiley, and it almost seemed to her that as she stared, one of the eyelids quivered slightly as if in recognition of her belated admiration for his diplomatic procedure. Beside him on the painted table, one of his fine hands lay negligently, or rather seemed to be lying higher than the table proper, resting on, was it just bare canvas? Look for yourself, Flurry. Where is the fox terrier that was painted sitting on the table under grandfather's hand? Young Mrs. Wiley stared paledly at the likeness of the founder of the Wiley clan. White paint she conjectured, then peering closer at the canvas. Somebody scraped the paint off where the dog used to be. Life in Grimm, his own man now, her husband, faced her. Does my boy keep that dog? Behind them sounded a low exclamation. At the head of the staircase stood young Frank, the puppy tucked securely under one arm. Nobody's going to take away my little dog that great grandfather Wiley brought me, cried the lads stoutly, black eyes flashing, thin face determined and unyielding. Don't let that dog come near me, screamed Mrs. Frank, and went into a genuine attack of hysteria. He isn't real. Dr. Paris exchanged a look with Miss Beaver, whose face was pale but contented. I always knew you were a psychic, he whispered, browsed, drawn into a puzzled scowl. That's how the old gentleman God rest his wistful soul could get through. I wondered that he never spoke a single word. Now that it's over, I think I'm going to faint, decided Miss Beaver shakily. Nonsense snapped the doctor with scant courtesy. But she is well scared, thank God. I hardly think she will interfere much in future with young Frank, and by the looks of him the boy's father has had his backbone stiffened considerably. That painted dog, whispered Miss Beaver's tremulous lips. Eh? Yes, ah yes, the dog, murmured the doctor too casually. You, you, you dared? uttered Miss Beaver incoherently under her breath. Not altogether, he protested against her ear. He pointed upward. Miss Beaver's eyes followed that gesture and met the inventory inscrutable but very gratified-pictured eyes of old Mr. Wiley. End of Old Mr. Wiley by Fanny Gray-Laspina