 Section 1 of Library of World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Patty Cunningham. Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 4 by Julian Hawthorne, Editor, Section 1. The Necklace by Guy de Moposson. She was one of those pretty and charming girls who are sometimes, as if by mistake of destiny, born in a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no means of being known, understood, loved, wedded by any rich and distinguished man, and she let herself be married to a little clerk at the Ministry of Public Instruction. She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was as unhappy as though she had really fallen from her proper station. Since with women there is neither caste nor rank, and beauty, grace, and charm act instead of family and birth, natural fineness, instinct for what is elegant, suppleness of wit, are their soul hierarchy, and make from women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies. She suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born for all the delicacies and all the luxuries. She suffered from the poverty of her dwelling, from the wretched look of the walls, from the worn-out chairs, from the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the little Briton peasant, who did her humble housework, aroused in her regrets which were despairing and distracted dreams. She thought of the silent antechambers hung with oriental tapestry, lit by tall bronze candelabra, and of the two great footmen in knee-breaches who sleep in the big arm-chairs, made drowsy by the heavy warmth of the hot-air stove. She thought of the long salons fatted up with ancient silk, of the delicate furniture carrying priceless curiosities, and of the coquettish-perfumed boudoirs made for talks at five o'clock with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy, and whose attention they all desire. When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered with a tablecloth three days old, opposite her husband, who uncovered the soup-terrain and declared with an enchanted air, Ah! the good po-a-fui! I don't know anything better than that! She thought of dainty dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestry which peopled the walls with ancient personages, and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest. And she thought of delicious dishes served on marvellous plates, and of the whispered gallantries which you listen to with a sphinx-like smile while you are eating the pink flesh of a trout or the wings of a quail. She had no dresses, no jewels, nothing, and she loved nothing but that. She felt made for that. She would so have liked to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be sought after. She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and whom she did not like to go to see any more because she suffered so much when she came back. But one evening her husband returned home with a triumphant air, and holding a large envelope in his hand. There, said he, here is something for you. She tore the paper sharply and drew out a printed card which bore these words. The Minister of Public Instruction and Madame Georges Repenot request the honour of Vichyre and Madame Lucel's company at the Palace of the Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th. Instead of being delighted as her husband hoped, she threw the invitation on the table with disdain, murmuring, what do you want me to do with that? But, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go out, and this is such a fine opportunity. I had awful trouble to get it, everyone wants to go. It is very select, and they are not giving many invitations to clerks. The whole official world will be there. She looked at him with an irritated eye, and she said impatiently, and what do you want me to put on my back? He had not thought of that, he stammered. Why, the dress you go to the theatre in, it looks very well to me. He stopped distracted, seeing that his wife was crying. Two great tears descended slowly from the corners of her eyes toward the corners of her mouth. He stuttered, what's the matter? What's the matter? But by a violent effort she had conquered her grief, and she replied with a calm voice while she wiped her wet cheeks. Nothing. Only I have no dress, and therefore I can't go to this ball. Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I. He was in despair, he resumed. Come, let us see, Matilde, how much would it cost a suitable dress which you could use on other occasions, something very simple. She reflected several seconds making her calculations, and wondering also what some she could ask without drawing on herself an immediate refusal and a frightened exclamation from the economical clerk. Finally she replied hesitatingly, I don't know exactly, but I think I could manage it with four hundred francs. He had grown a little pale, because he was laying aside just that amount to buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nandere, with several friends who went to shoot larks down there of a Sunday. But he said, All right, I will give you four hundred francs, and try to have a pretty dress. The day of the ball drew near, and Madame Locelle seemed sad, uneasy, anxious. Her dress was ready, however. Her husband said to her one evening, What is the matter? Come, you've been so queer these last three days. And she answered, It annoys me not to have a single jewel. Not a single stone. Nothing to put on. I shall look like distress. I should almost rather not go at all. He resumed, You might wear natural flowers. It's very stylish at this time of the year. For ten francs you can get two or three magnificent roses. She was not convinced. No, there's nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other women who are rich. But her husband cried, How stupid you are! Go look up your friend, Madame Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You're quite thick enough with her to do that. She uttered a cry of joy. It's true, I never thought of it. The next day she went to her friend, and told of her distress. Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a glass door, took out a large jewel box, brought it back, opened it, and said to Madame Locelle, Choose, my dear. She saw first of all some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian cross, gold and precious stones of admirable workmanship. She tried on the honour months before the glass, hesitated, could not make up her mind apart with them, to give them back. She kept asking, Haven't you any more? Why yes, look, I don't know what you like. All of a sudden she discovered in a black satin box a superb necklace of diamonds, and her heart began to beat with an immoderate desire. Her hands trembled as she took it. She fastened it at her throat outside her high-necked dress, and remained lost in ecstasy at the sight of herself. Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anguish, Can you lend me that, only that? Why yes, certainly. She sprang upon the necklace of her friend, kissed her passionately, then fled with her treasure. The day of the ball arrived. Madame Leusel made a great success. She was prettier than them all, elegant, gracious, smiling, and crazy with joy. All the men looked at her, asked her name, endeavored to be introduced. All the attachés of the cabinet wanted to waltz with her. She was remarked by the minister himself. She danced with intoxication, with passion, made drunk by pleasure, forgetting all in the triumph of her beauty, in the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness composed of all this homage, of all this admiration, of all these awakened desires, and of that sense of complete victory which is so sweet to a woman's heart. She went away about four o'clock in the morning. Her husband had been sleeping since midnight in a little deserted anti-room, with three other gentlemen whose wives were having a very good time. He threw over her shoulders the wraps which he had brought, modest wraps of common life, whose poverty contrasted with the elegance of the ball-dress. She felt this and wanted to escape so as not to be remarked by the other women who were enveloping themselves in costly furs. Leusel held her back. Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside. I will go and call a cab. But she did not listen to him, and rapidly descended the stairs. When they were in the street they did not find a carriage, and they began to look for one, shouting after the cabman whom they saw passing by at a distance. They went down toward the sin and despair shivering with cold. At last they found on the quay one of those ancient noctambulant coupes which, exactly as if they were ashamed to show misery during the day, are never seen round Paris until after nightfall. It took them to their door in the rude des martyrs, and once more, sadly, they climbed up homeward. All was ended for her. And as to him he reflected that he must be at the ministry at ten o'clock. She removed the wraps which covered her shoulders before the glass, so as once more to see herself in all her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She had no longer the necklace around her neck. Her husband, already half undressed, demanded, What is the matter with you? She turned madly toward him. I have, I have, I've lost Madame Forstier's necklace. He stood up distracted. What? How? Impossible! And they looked in the folds of her dress, in the folds of her cloak, in her pockets, everywhere. They did not find it. He asked, You're sure you had it on when you left the ball? Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the palace. But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it fall. It must be in the cab. Yes, probably. Did you take his number? No. And you? Didn't you notice it? No. They looked thunderstruck at one another. At last Loiselle put on his clothes. I shall go back on foot, said he, over the whole route which we have taken to see if I can't find it. And he went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her ball-dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, without fire, without a thought. Her husband came back about seven o'clock. He had found nothing. He went to police headquarters, to the newspaper offices, to offer a reward. He went to the cab companies, everywhere, in fact, wither he was urged by the least suspicion of hope. She waited all day in the same condition of mad fear before this terrible calamity. Loiselle returned at night with a hollow, pale face. He had discovered nothing. You must write to your friend, said he, that you have broken the clasp of her necklace and that you are having it mended. That will give us time to turn round. She wrote at his dictation. At the end of a week they had lost all hope. And Loiselle, who had aged five years, declared, we must consider how to replace that ornament. The next day they took the box which had contained it, and they went to the jeweler whose name was found within. He consulted his books. It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace. I must simply have furnished the case. Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like the other, consulting their memories. Sick, both of them, with chagrin and with anguish. They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds which seemed to them exactly like the one they looked for. It was worth forty thousand francs. They could have it for thirty-six. So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet, and they made a bargain that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs in case they found the other one before the end of February. Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father had left him. He would borrow the rest. He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers, and all the race of lenders. He compromised all the rest of his life, risked his signature without even knowing if he could meet it, and frightened by the pains yet to come, by the black misery which was about to fall upon him, by the prospect of all the physical privations and of all the moral tortures which he was about to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, putting down upon the merchant's counter thirty-six thousand francs. When Madame Loisel took back the necklace, Madame Forestier said to her with a chilly manner, you should have returned it sooner, I might have needed it. She did not open the case as her friend had so much feared. If she had detected the substitution, what would she have thought? What would she have said? Would she not have taken Madame Loisel for a thief? Madame Loisel now knew the horrible existence of the needy. She took her part moreover, all on a sudden, with heroism. That dreadful debt must be paid. She would pay it. They dismissed their servant. They changed their lodgings. They rented a garret under the roof. She came to know what heavy housework meant and the odious cares of the kitchen. She washed the dishes using her rosy nails on the greasy pots and pans. She washed the dirty linen, the shirts, and the dish-cloths which she dried upon a line. She carried the slops down to the street every morning and carried up the water stopping for breath at every landing. And, dressed like a woman of the people, she went to the fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, her basket on her arm, bargaining, insulted, defending her miserable money, soup by soup. Each month they had to meet some notes, renew others, obtain more time. Her husband worked in the evening making a fair copy of some tradesman's accounts and late at night he often copied manuscript for five sews a page. And this life lasted ten years. At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything with the rates of usury and the accumulations of the compound interest. Madame Loiselle looked old now. She had become the woman of impoverished households, strong and hard and rough, with browsy hair, skirts askew, and red hands. She talked loud while washing the floor with great swishes of water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat down near the window and she thought of that gay evening of long ago, of that ball where she had been so beautiful and so fetid. What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows, who knows, how life is strange and changeful, how little a thing is needed for us to be lost or to be saved. But one Sunday, having gone to take a walk on the Chandelise to refresh herself from the labours of the week, she suddenly perceived a woman who was leading a child. It was Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still charming. Madame Loiselle felt moved. Was she going to speak to her? Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, she was going to tell her all about it. Why not? She went up. Good day, Jean! The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by this plain good wife, did not recognize her at all and stammered. But, Madame, I do not know. You must have mistaken. No, I am Mathilde Loiselle. Her friend uttered a cry. Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed! Yes, I have had days hard enough since I have seen you, days wretched enough. And that because of you. Of me? How so? Do you remember that diamond necklace which you let me to wear at the ministerial ball? Yes, well, well I lost it. What do you mean? You brought it back. I brought you back another just like it. And for this we have been ten years paying. You can understand that it was not easy for us, us who had nothing. At last it has ended, and I am very glad. Madame Forestier had stopped. You say that you brought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine? Yes, you never noticed it then? They were very like, and she smiled with a joy which was proud and naive at once. Madame Forestier strongly moved, took her two hands. Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paced. It was worth at most five hundred francs. End of Section 1 Recording by Paddy Cunningham Section 2 of Library of World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories Volume 4 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Gesina Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories Volume 4 by Julian Hawthorne, Editor Section 2 The Man with the Pale Eyes by Guy de Maupasson Monsieur Pierre R. Génor de Varnier, the examining magistrate, was the exact opposite of a practical joker. He was dignity, stateness, correctness, personified. As a sedate man, he was quite incapable of being guilty, even in his dreams, of anything resembling a practical joke, however remotely. I know nobody to whom he could be compared, unless it be the present president of the French Republic. I think it is useless to carry the analogy any further, and having said thus much, it will be easily understood that a cold shiver passed through me when Monsieur Pierre R. Génor de Varnier did me the honour of sending a lady to await on me. At about eight o'clock, one morning last winter, as he was leaving the house to go to the Palais de Justice, his footman handed him a card on which was printed. Dr. James Ferdinand, member of the Academy of Medicine, Port au Prince, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. At the bottom of the card there was written in pencil from Lady Frugère. Monsieur de Varnier knew the lady very well, who was a very agreeable creole from Haiti, and whom he had met in many drawing-rooms, and, on the other hand, though the doctor's name did not awaken any recollections in him, his quality and titles alone required that he should grant him an interview, however short it might be. Therefore, although he was in a hurry to get out, Monsieur de Varnier told the footman to show in his early visitor, but to tell him beforehand that his master was much pressed for time, as he had to go to the law courts. When the doctor came in, in spite of his usual impertability, he could not restrain a movement of surprise, for the doctor presented that strange anomaly of being a negro of the purest blackest type, with the eyes of a white man, of a man from the north, pale, cold, clear blue eyes, and his surprise increased when, after a few words of excuse for his untimely visit, he added, with an enigmatical smile. My eyes surprise you, do they not? I was sure that they would, and to tell you the truth, I came here in order that you might look at them well and never forget them. His smile, and his words even more than his smile, seemed to be those of a madman. He spoke very softly with that childish, lisping voice, which is peculiar to negroes, and his mysterious, almost menacing words, consequently sounded all the more as if they were uttered at random, by a man bereft of his reason. But his looks, the looks of those pale, cold, clear blue eyes, were certainly not those of a madman. They clearly expressed menace, yes menace, as well as irony, and above all, lackable ferocity, and their glance was like a flash of lightning which one could never forget. I have seen, M. Devanya used to say when speaking about it, the looks of many murderers, but in none of them have I ever observed such a depth of crime and of impudent security in crime. And this impression was so strong that M. Devanya thought that he was the sport of some hallucination, especially as when he spoke about his eyes the doctor continued with a smile and in his most childish accents. Of course, M. you cannot understand what I am saying to you and I must beg your pardon for it. Tomorrow you will receive a letter which will explain it all to you, but first of all it was necessary that I should let you have a good, a careful look at my eyes, which are myself, my only and true self, as you will see. With these words and with a polite bow the doctor went out, leaving M. Devanya extremely surprised and a prey to this doubt, as he said to himself, is he merely a madman? The fierce expression and the criminal depths of his looks are perhaps caused merely by the extraordinary contrast between his fierce looks and his pale eyes. And absorbed in these thoughts M. Devanya unfortunately allowed several minutes to elapse and then he thought to himself suddenly, No, I am not the sport of any hallucination and this is no case of an optical phenomenon. This man is evidently some terrible criminal and I have altogether failed in my duty in not arresting him myself at once illegally even at the risk of my life. The judge ran downstairs in pursuit of the doctor but it was too late, he had disappeared. In the afternoon he called M. Frugère to ask her whether she could tell him anything about the matter. She, however, did not know the negro doctor in the least and was even able to assure him that he was a fictitious personage for, as she was well acquainted with the upper classes in Haiti, she knew that the Academy of Medicine at Port-au-Prince had no doctor of that name among its members. As M. Devanya persisted and gave descriptions of the doctor, especially mentioning his extraordinary eyes, M. Frugère began to laugh and said, You have certainly had to do with a hoaxer, my dear monsieur. The eyes which you have described are certainly those of a white man and the individual must have been painted. On thinking it over, M. Devanya remembered that the doctor had nothing of the negro about him but his black skin, his woolly hair and beard and his way of speaking, which was easily imitated but nothing of the negro, not even the characteristic undulating walk. Perhaps after all he was only a practical joker and during the whole day M. Devanya took refuge in that view which rather wounded his dignity as a man of consequence but which appeased his scruples as a magistrate. The next day he received the promised letter which was written as well as addressed in letters cut out of the newspapers. It was as follows. Monsieur. Dr. James Ferdinand does not exist but the man whose eyes you saw does and you will certainly recognize his eyes. This man has committed two crimes for which he does not feel any remorse but as he is a psychologist he is afraid of some day yielding to the irresistible temptation of confessing his crimes. You know better than anyone and that is your most powerful aid with what imperious force, criminals especially intellectual ones feel this temptation. That great poet, Edgar Poe has written masterpieces on this subject which express the truth exactly but he has omitted to mention the last phenomenon which I will tell you. Yes, I as a criminal feel a terrible wish for somebody to know of my crimes and when this requirement is satisfied my secret has been revealed to a confidant I shall be tranquil for the future and be freed from this demon of perversity which only tempts us once. Well, now that is accomplished. You shall have my secret from the day that you recognize me by my eyes you will try and find out what I am guilty of and how I was guilty and you will discover it being a master of your profession which by the by has procured you the honor of having been chosen by me to bear the weight of this secret which now is shared by us and by us too alone. I say, advisedly, by us too alone you could not, as a matter of fact prove the reality of this secret to anyone unless I were to confess it and I defy you to obtain my public confession as I have confested to you and without danger to myself. Three months later M. Devanya met M. X at an evening party and at first sight and without the slightest hesitation in him there is very pale, very cold and very clear blue eyes eyes which it was impossible to forget. The man himself remained perfectly impassive so that M. Devanya was forced to say to himself probably I am the sport of an hallucination at this moment or else there are two pairs of eyes that are perfectly similar in the world and what eyes can it be possible? The magistrate instituted inquiries into his life and he discovered this which removed all his doubts. Five years previously M. X had been a very poor but very brilliant medical student who although he never took his doctor's degree had already made himself remarkable by his microbiological researches. A young and very rich widow had fallen in love with him and married him. She had one child by her first marriage and in the space of six months first the child and then the mother died of typhoid fever and thus M. X had inherited a large fortune in due form and without any possible dispute. Everybody said that he had attended to the two patients with the utmost devotion. Now with these two deaths there are two crimes mentioned in his letter but then M. X must have poisoned his two victims with the microbes of typhoid fever which he had skillfully cultivated in them so as to make the disease incurable even by the most devoted care and attention. Why not? Do you believe it? I asked M. Devanya. Absolutely, he replied and the most terrible thing about it is that the villain is right when he defies me to force him to confess his crime publicly for I see no means of obtaining a confession, none whatever. For a moment I thought of magnetism but who could magnetize that man with those pale, cold, bright eyes? With such eyes he would force the magnetizer to denounce himself as the culprit. And then he said with a deep sigh Ah, formerly there was something good about justice and when he saw my inquiring looks he added in a firm and perfectly convinced voice. Formerly justice had torture at its command. Upon my word I replied with all the north's unconscious and simple egotism it is quite certain that without the torture this strange tale will have no conclusion and that is very unfortunate as far as regards the story I intended to make out of it. End of Section 2 Section 3 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories Volume 4 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, auto-volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Lucy Perry Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories Volume 4 by Julian Hawthorne, editor Section 3 An Uncomfortable Bed by Guidi Mopasson One autumn I went to stay for the hunting season with some friends in a chateau in Piccadilly. My friends were fond of practical joking as all my friends are. I did not care to know any other sort of people. When I arrived they gave me a princely reception which at once aroused distrust in my breast. We had some capital shooting. They embraced me, they cajoled me as if they expected to have great fun at my expense. I said to myself, Look out, old ferret. They have something in preparation for you. During the dinner the mirth was excessive. Far too great, in fact. I thought, Here are people who take a double share of amusement and apparently without reason. They must be looking out in their own minds for some good bit of fun. Assuredly I am to be the victim of the joke. Attention! During the entire evening everyone laughed in an exaggerated fashion. I smelled a practical joke in the air as a dog smells game. But what was it? I was watchful, restless. I did not let a word or a meaning or a gesture escape me. Everyone seemed to me an object of suspicion and I even looked distrustfully at the faces of the servants. The hour rang for going to bed and the whole household came to escort me to my room. Why? They called to me. Good night. I entered the apartment, shut the door and remained standing without moving a single step, holding the wax candle in my hand. I heard laughter and whispering in the corridor. Without doubt they were spying on me. I cast a glance around the walls, the furniture, the ceiling, the hangings, the floor. I saw nothing to justify suspicion. I heard persons moving about outside my door. I had no doubt they were looking through the keyhole. An idea came into my head. My candle may suddenly go out and leave me in darkness. Then I went across to the mantelpiece, and lighted all the wax candles that were on it. After that I cast another glance around me without discovering anything. I advanced with short steps, carefully examining the apartment. Nothing. I inspected every article one after the other. Still nothing. I went over to the window. The shutters, large wooden shutters, were open. I shut them with great care and then drew the curtains, enormous velvet curtains, and I placed a chair in front of them to have nothing to fear from without. Then I cautiously sat down. The armchair was solid. I did not venture to get into the bed. However time was flying and I ended by coming to the conclusion that I was ridiculous. If they were spying on me, as I supposed, they must, while waiting for the success of the joke they had been preparing for me, have been laughing enormously at my terror. So I made up my mind to go to bed. But the bed was particularly suspicious looking. I pulled at the curtains. They seemed to be secure. All the same there was danger. I was going to perhaps receive a cold shower-bath from overhead. Or perhaps, the moment I stretched myself out, to find myself sinking under the floor with my mattress. I searched in my memory for all the practical jokes of which I ever had experience. And I did not want to be caught. Ah, certainly not, certainly not. Then I suddenly bethought myself of a precaution which I considered one of extreme efficacy. I caught hold of the side of the mattress gingerly and very slowly drew it toward me. It came away, followed by the sheet and the rest of the bedclothes. I dragged all these objects into the very middle of the room, facing the entrance door. I made my bed over again as best I could some distance from the suspected bedstead and the corner which had filled me with such anxiety. Then I extinguished all the candles and, groping my way, I slipped under the bedclothes. For at least another hour I remained awake, starting at the slightest sound. Everything seemed quiet in the shadow. I fell asleep. I must have been in a deep sleep for a long time. But all of a sudden I was awakened with a start by the fall of a heavy body tumbling right on top of my own body and, at the same time, I received on my face, on my neck and on my chest a burning liquid which made me utter a howl of pain and a dreadful noise as if a sideboard laden with plates and dishes had fallen down, penetrated my ears. I felt myself suffocating under the weight that was crushing me and preventing me from moving. I stretched out my hand to find out what was the nature of this object. I felt a face, a nose, and whiskers. Then with all my strength I launched out a blow over this face. But I immediately received a hail of cuffings which made me jump straight out of the soap-sheets and rushed my night-shirt into the corridor, the door of which I found open. Oh, stupor! it was broad daylight. The noise brought my friends hurrying into the apartment and we found sprawling over my improvised bed the dismayed valet, who, while bringing me my morning cup of tea, had tripped over the obstacle in the middle of the floor and fallen on his stomach, spilling, in spite of himself, my breakfast over my face. The precautions I had taken in closing the shutters and going to sleep in the middle of the room had only brought about the interlude I had been striving to avoid. Ah, how they all laughed that day! End of Section 3 Recording by Lucy Perry in Bath on April 16, 2009 Section 4 of Library of World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 4 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Alan Winteroud Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 4 by Julian Hawthorne Editor Section 4, Ghosts by Guy de Maupassant Just at the time when the Concordat was in its most flourishing condition, a young man belonging to a wealthy and highly respected middle-class family went to the office of the head of police at P and begged for his help and advice, which was immediately promised him. My father threatened to disinherit me, the young man, then began. Although I have never offended against the laws of the state of morality or of his paternal authority, merely because I do not share his blind reverence for the Catholic Church and her ministers. On that account, he looks upon me not merely as Latitudinarian, but as a perfect atheist and a faithful old man servant of ours who is much attached to me and who accidentally saw my father's will told me in confidence that he had left all his property to the Jesuits. I think this is highly suspicious and I fear that the priests have been maligning me to my father until less than a year ago we used to live very quietly and happily together but ever since he has had so much to do with the clergy, our domestic peace and happiness are at an end. What you have told me, the official replied, is as likely as it is regrettable but I fail to see how I can interfere in the matter. Father is in full possession of all his mental faculties and can dispose of all his property exactly as he pleases. I also think that your protest is premature. You must wait until his will can legally take effect and then you can invoke the aid of justice. I am sorry to say that I can do nothing for you. I think you will be able to, the young man replied, for I believe that a very clever piece of deceit is being carried on here. How? Please explain yourself more clearly. When I remonstrated with him yesterday evening he referred to my dead mother and at last assured me in a voice of the deepest conviction that she had frequently appeared to him and had threatened him with all the torments of the damned if he did not disinherit his son who had fallen away from God and leave all his property to the church. Now I do not believe in ghosts. Neither do I, the police director replied, but I cannot well do anything on this dangerous ground if I had nothing but superstitions to go upon. You know how the church rules all our affairs since the Concordate with Rome and if I investigate this matter and obtain no results I am risking my post. It would be very different if you could adduce any proofs for your suspicions. I do not deny that I should like to see the clerical party which will, I fear, be the ruin of Austria receive a staggering blow. Try therefore to get to the bottom of this business and then we will talk it over again. About a month passed without the young Latitudinarian being heard of but then he suddenly came one evening evidently in a great state of excitement and told him that he was in a position to expose the priestly deceit which he had mentioned if the authorities would assist him. The police director asked for further information. I have obtained a number of important clues, the young man said. In the first place, my father confessed to me that my mother did not appear to him in our house but in the churchyard where she is buried. My mother was consumptive for many years and a few weeks before her death she went to the village of Es where she died and was buried. In addition to this, I found out from our footmen that my father has already left the house twice late at night in company of ex the Jesuit priest and that on both occasions he did not return till morning. Each time he was remarkably uneasy and low-spirited after his return and had three masses said from my dead mother. He also told me just now that he has to leave home this evening on business but immediately he told me that our footmen saw the Jesuit go out of the house. We may therefore assume that he intends this evening to consult the spirit of my dead mother again and this will be an excellent opportunity for getting on the track of the matter if you do not object to opposing the most powerful force in the empire for the sake of such an insignificant individual as myself. Every citizen has an equal right to the protection of the state, the police director applied and I think that I have shown often enough that I am not wanting encouraged to perform my duty no matter how serious the consequences may be but only very young men act without any prospects of success as they are carried away by their feelings. When you came to me the first time I was obliged to refuse your request for assistance but today your shares of risen in value it is now eight o'clock and I shall expect you in two hours time here in my office. At present all you have to do is hold your tongue everything else is my affair. As soon as it was dark four men got into a closed carriage in the yard of the police office and were driven in the direction of the village of S. Their carriage however did not enter the village but stopped at the edge of a small wood in the immediate neighborhood. Here they all four alighted they were the police director accompanied by the young Latitudinarian a police sergeant and an ordinary policeman who was however dressed in plain clothes. The first thing for us to do is examine the locality carefully the police director said it is eleven o'clock and the exercises of ghosts will not arrive before midnight so we have time to look round us and to take our measure. The four men went to the churchyard which lay at the end of the village near the little wood. Everything was still as death and not a soul was to be seen. The sexton was evidently sitting in the public house for they found the door of his cottage locked as well as the door of the little chapel that stood in the middle of the churchyard. Where is your mother's grave? the police director asked but as there were only a few stars visible it was not easy to find it but at last they managed it and the police director looked about in the neighborhood of it. The position is not a very favorable one for us he said at last there is nothing here not even a shrub behind which we could hide. But just then the policemen said that he had tried to get into the sexton's hut through the door or the window and that at last he had succeeded in doing so by breaking open a square in the window which had been mended with paper and that he had opened it and obtained possession of the key which he had brought to the police director. His plans were very quickly settled he had the chapel opened and went in with the young Latitudinarian then he told the police sergeant who locked the door behind him and to put the key back where he had found it and to shut the window of the sexton's cottage carefully. Lastly, he made arrangements as to what they were to do in case anything unforeseen should occur whereupon the sergeant and the constable left the churchyard laid down in a ditch at some distance from the gate but opposite to it almost as soon as the clock struck half past eleven they heard steps near the chapel whereupon the police director and the young Latitudinarian went to the window in order to watch the beginning of the exorcism and as the chapel was in total darkness they thought that they should be able to see without being seen but matters turned out differently from what they expected suddenly the key turned into luck and they barely had time to conceal themselves behind the altar before two men came in one of whom was carrying a dark lantern one was the young man's father an elderly man of the middle class who seemed very unhappy and depressed the other the Jesuit father Kay a tall thin big boned man with a thin billious face in which two large gray eyes shown restlessly under their bushy black eyebrows he lit the tapers which were standing on the altar and then began to say a requiem mass while the old man knelt on the altar steps and served him when it was over the Jesuit took the book of the gospels and the holy water sprinkler and went slowly out of the chapel while the old man followed him with a holy water basin in one hand and a taper in the other then the police director left his hiding place and stooping down so as not to be seen he crept to the chapel window where he cowered down carefully and the young man followed his example they were now looking straight on his mother's grave the Jesuit followed by the superstitious old man walked three times around the grave then he remained standing before it and by the light of the taper he read a few passages from the gospel then he dipped the holy water sprinkler three times into the holy water basin and sprinkled the grave three times then both returned to the chapel knelt down outside it with their faces toward the grave and began to pray aloud until it last the Jesuit sprang up in a species of wild ecstasy and cried out three times in a shrill voice ex-sur-je, ex-sur-je, ex-sur-je scarcely had the last word of the exorcism died away when thick blue smoke rose out of the grave which rapidly grew into a cloud and began to assume the outlines of a human body until it last a tall white figure stood behind the grave and beckoned with its hand who art thou? the Jesuit asked solemnly while the old man began to cry when I was alive I was called Ana Maria B the ghost replied in a hollow voice will you answer all my questions? the priest continued as far as I can have you not yet been delivered from purgatory by our prayers and all the masses for your soul which we have said for you? not yet but soon, soon I shall be when? as soon as that blasphemer my son has been punished has that not already happened? has not your husband disinherited his lost son and made the church his heir in his place? that is not enough what must he do besides? he must deposit his will with the judicial authorities his last will and testament and drive the reprobate out of his house consider well what you are saying must this really be? it must or otherwise I shall have to languish in purgatory much longer the sepulchral voice replied with a deep sigh but the next moment it yelled out in terror oh good lord and the ghost began to run away as fast as it could a shrill whistle was heard and the police director laid his hand on the shoulder of the exerciser accompanied with the remark you are in custody meanwhile, the police sergeant and the policeman who had come into the churchyard had caught the ghost and dragged it forward it was the sexton who had put on a flowing white dress and who wore a wax mask which wore a striking resemblance to his mother as the son declared when the case was heard it was proved that the mask had been very skillfully made from a portrait of the deceased woman the government gave orders that the matter should be investigated as secretly as possible and left the punishment of Father Kay to the spiritual authorities which was a matter of course at a time when priests were outside the jurisdiction of the civil authorities and it is needless to say that he was very comfortable during his imprisonment in a monastery in a part of the country which abounded with game and trout the only valuable result of the amusing ghost story was that it brought about a reconciliation between father and son and the former as a matter of fact felt such deep respect for priests and their ghosts in consequence of the apparition that a short time after his wife had left purgatory for the last time in order to talk with him he turned protestant End of section 4 Recording by Alan Winteroud boomcoach.blogspot.com Section 5 of Library of World's Best Mystery and Detect Your Stories, Volume 4 This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Alan Winteroud Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detect Your Stories, Volume 4 by Julian Hawthorne Editor Section 5 Fear by Guy de Mopisson We went up on deck after dinner before us the Mediterranean lay without a ripple and shimmered in the moonlight The great ship glided on casting upward to the star studded sky a long serpent of black smoke Behind us the dazzling white water stirred by the rapid progress of the heavy bark and beaten by the propeller foamed, seemed to writhe, gave off so much brilliancy that one could have called it boiling moonlight There were six or eight of us silent with admiration and gazing toward far away Africa wither we were going The commandant, who was smoking a cigar with us brusquely resumed the conversation begun at dinner Yes, I was afraid then My ship remained for six hours on that rock beaten by the wind and with a great hole in the side Luckily we were picked up toward evening by an English coler which sighted us Then a tall man of sunburned face engraved a meaner one of those men who have evidently traveled unknown and far away lands whose calm eyes seem to preserve in its depths something of the foreign scenes it has observed A man that you are sure is impregnated with courage spoke for the first time You say, commandant, that you were afraid I beg to disagree with you You are in error as to the meaning of the word and the nature of the sensation that you experienced An energetic man is never afraid in a presence of urgent danger He is excited, aroused, full of anxiety but fear is something quite different The commandant laughed and answered Bah, I assure you that I was afraid Then the man of the tanned countenance addressed us deliberately as follows Permit me to explain Fear and the boldest men may feel fear is something horrible an atrocious sensation a sort of decomposition of the soul a terrible spasm of brain and heart the very memory of which brings a shudder of anguish but when one is brave, he feels it neither under fire nor in the presence of sure death nor in the face of any well-known danger It springs up under certain abnormal conditions under certain mysterious influences in the presence of vague peril Real fear is a sort of reminiscence of fantastic terror of the past A man who believes in ghosts and imagines he sees a specter in the darkness must feel terror in all its horror As for me, I was overwhelmed with fear in broad daylight about ten years ago and again one December night last winter Nevertheless, I have gone through many dangers many adventures which seem to promise death I have often been in battle I have been left for dead by thieves In America, I was condemned as an insurgent to be hanged and off the coast of China have been thrown into the sea from the deck of a ship Each time I thought I was lost I at once decided upon my course of action without regret or weakness That is not fear I have felt it in Africa and yet it is a child of the North The sunlight banishes it like the mist Consider this fact gentlemen Among the Orientals life has no value Resignation is natural The nights are clear and empty The somber spirit of unrest which haunts the brain in cooler lands In the Orient, panic is known but not fear Well then, here is the incident that befell me in Africa I was crossing the Great Sands to the south of Onargla It is one of the most curious districts in the world You have seen the solid, continuous sand of the endless ocean strands Well imagine the ocean itself turned to sand in the midst of a storm Imagine a silent tempest with motionless billows of yellow dust They are high as mountains these uneven, varied surges rising exactly like unchained billows but still larger and stratified like watered silk On this wild, silent and motionless sea the consuming rays of the tropical sun are poured piteously and directly You have to climb these streaks of red hot ash descend again on the other side climb again, climb, climb without halt without repose, without shade The horses cough, sink to their knees and slide down the sides of these remarkable hills We were a couple of friends followed by eight spahes and four camels with their drivers We were no longer talking overcome by heat, fatigue and a thirst such as had produced this burning desert Suddenly one of our men uttered a cry We all halted, surprised by the unsolved phenomenon known only to travelers in these trackless wastes Somewhere near us, in an indeterminable direction a drum was rolling the mysterious drum of the sands It was beating distinctly now with greater resonance and again feebler ceasing then resuming its uncanny roll The Arabs, terrified, stared at one another and one said in his language Death is upon us As he spoke, my companion, my friend almost my brother, dropped from his horse falling face downward on the sand overcome by a sunstroke And for two hours while I tried in vain to save him this weird drum filled my ears with its monotonous, intermittent and incomprehensible tone and I felt a hold of my bones fear real fear, hideous fear in the presence of this beloved corpse in this hole scorched by the sun surrounded by four mountains of sand and 200 leagues from any French settlement while Echo assailed our ears with his furious drumbeat On that day I realized what fear was but since then I have had another and still more vivid experience The commandant interrupted the speaker I beg your pardon, but what was the drum? The traveler replied I cannot say, no one knows Our officers are often surprised by this singular noise and attribute it generally to the Echo produced by a hail of grains of sand blown by the winds against the dry and brittle leaves of weeds for it has always been noticed that the phenomenon occurs in proximity to little plants burned by the sun and hard as parchment This sound seems to have been magnified multiplied and swelled beyond measure in its progress through the valleys of sand and the drum therefore might be considered a sort of sound mirage nothing more but I did not know that until later I shall proceed to my second instance It was last winter in a forest of the northeast of France The sky was so overcast that night came two hours earlier than usual My guide was a peasant who walked beside me along the narrow road under the vault of fir trees through which the wind and its fury howled Between the treetops I saw the fleeting clouds which seemed to hasten as if to escape some object of terror Sometimes, in a fierce gust of wind the whole forest bowed in the same direction with a groan of pain and a chill late hold of me despite my rapid pace and heavy clothing We were to sup and sleep at an old gamekeeper's house not much farther on I had come out for hunting My guide sometimes raised his eyes and murmured ugly weather Then he told me about the people among whom we were to spend the night The father had killed a poacher two years before and since then had been gloomy and behaved as though haunted by a memory His two sons were married and lived with him The darkness was profound I could see nothing before me nor around me and the mass of overhanging interlaced trees rubbed together filling the night with an incessant whispering Finally, I saw a light and soon my companion was knocking upon a door Sharp woman's voice has answered us Then a man's voice, a choking voice asked Who goes there? My guide gave his name We entered and beheld a memorable picture An old man with white hair, wild eyes and a loaded gun in his hands stood waiting for us in the middle of the kitchen while two stalwart youths armed with axes guarded the door In the somber corners I distinguished two women kneeling with faces to the wall Matters were explained and the old man stood his gun against the wall at the same time ordering that a room be prepared for me Then as the women did not stir Look you, monsieur, said he Two years ago this night I killed a man and last year he came back to haunt me I expect him again tonight Then he added in a tone that made me smile and so we are somewhat excited I reassured him as best I could happy to have arrived on that particular evening and to witness this superstitious terror I told stories and almost succeeded in calming the whole household Near the fireplace slept an old dog Mustached and almost blind with his head between his paws Such a dog as reminds you of people you have known Outside the raging storm was beating against the little house and suddenly through a small pane of glass a sort of peep window placed near the door I saw in a brilliant flash of lightning a whole mass of trees thrashed by the wind In spite of my efforts I realized that terror was laying hold of these people and each time that I ceased to speak all ears listened for distant sounds Anointed these foolish fears I was about to retire to my bed when the old gamekeeper suddenly leapt from his chair seized his gun and stammered wildly There he is, there he is, I hear him The two women again sank upon their knees in the corner and hid their faces while the sons took up the axes I was going to try to pacify them once more when the sleeping dog awakened suddenly and raising his head and stretching his neck looked at the fire with his dim eyes and uttered one of those mournful howls which make travelers shudder in the darkness and solitude of the country All eyes were focused upon him now as he rose upon his front feet as though haunted by a vision and began to howl at something invisible unknown and doubtless horrible for he was bristling all over The gamekeeper with livid face cried He sensed him, he sensed him He was there when I killed him The two women terrified began to wail in concert with the dog In spite of myself cold chills ran down my spine This vision of the animal at such a time and place in the midst of these startled people was something frightful to witness Then for an hour the dog howled without stirring He howled as though in the anguish of a nightmare and fear, horrible fear came over me Fear of what? How can I say? It was fear and that is all I know We remained motionless and pale expecting something awful to happen Our ears were strained and our hearts beat loudly while the slightest noise startled us Then the beast began to walk around the room sniffing at the walls and growling constantly His maneuvers were driving us mad Then the countrymen who brought me his hither in a paroxysm of rage seized the dog and carrying him to a door which opened into a small court thrust him forth The noise was suppressed and we were left plunged in a silence still more terrible Then suddenly we all started Someone was gliding along the outside wall toward the forest Then he seemed to be feeling of the door Then for two minutes nothing was heard and we almost lost our minds Then he returned still feeling along the wall and scratched lightly upon the door as a child might do with his fingernails Suddenly a face appeared behind the glass of the peep window a white face with eyes shining like those of the cat tribe A sound was heard an indistinct plaintive murmur Then there was a formidable burst of noise in the kitchen The old gamekeeper had fired and the two sons at once rushed forward and barricaded the window with a great table reinforcing it with the buffet I swear to you that at the shock of the gun's discharge which I did not expect such an anguished latehold of my heart my soul and my very body that I felt myself about to fall about to die from fear We remained there until dawn, unable to move In short, seized by an indescribable numbness of the brain No one dared to remove the barricade until a thin ray of sunlight appeared through a crack in the back room At the base of the wall and under the window we found the old dog lying dead his skull shattered by a ball He had escaped from the little court by digging a hole under a fence The dark, visage man became silent Then he added and yet on that night I incurred no danger but I should rather again pass through all the hours in which I have confronted the most terrible perils than the one minute when that gun was discharged at the bearded head in the window End of Section 5 Recording by Alan Winterout BoomCoach.blogspot.com Section 6 of Library of World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories Volume 4 This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Linda McDaniel Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories Volume 4 by Julian Hawthorne Editor Section 6 The Confession by Guy de Maupassant Marguerite de Terelle was dying Although but 56 she seemed like 75 at least She panted paler than the sheets shaken by dreadful shiverings Her face convulsed, her eyes haggard as if she had seen some horrible thing Her eldest sister, Suzanne, six years older sobbed on her knees beside the bed A little table drawn close to the couch of the dying woman and covered with a napkin bore two lighted candles the priest being momentarily expected to give extreme unction and the communion which should be the last The apartment had that sinister aspect that air of hopeless farewells which belongs to the chambers of the dying Medicine bottles stood about on the furniture linen lay in the corners pushed aside by foot or broom The disordered chairs themselves seemed affrighted as if they had run in all the senses of the word Death, the formidable, was there hidden waiting The story of the two sisters was very touching It was quoted far and wide it had made many eyes to weep Suzanne, the elder, had once been madly in love with a young man who had also been in love with her They were engaged and were only waiting the day fixed for the contract when Henry de Lampierre suddenly died The despair of the young girl was dreadful and she vowed that she would never marry She kept her word She put on widows' weeds which she never took off Then her sister, her little sister Marguerite who was only twelve years old came one morning to throw herself into the arms of the elder and said, Big sister, I do not want thee to be unhappy I do not want thee to cry all thy life I will never leave thee, never, never I, I too shall never marry I shall stay with thee always, always, always Suzanne, touched by the devotion of the child, kissed her but did not believe Yet the little one also kept her word and despite the entreaties of her parents despite the supplications of the elder she never married She was pretty, very pretty She refused many a young man who seemed to love her truly and she never left her sister more They lived together all the days of their life without ever being separated a single time They went side by side inseparably united but Marguerite seemed always sad, oppressed more melancholy than the elder as though perhaps her sublime sacrifice had broken her spirit She aged more quickly had white hair from the age of thirty and often suffering seemed afflicted by some secret gnawing trouble Now she was to be the first to die Since yesterday she was no longer able to speak she had only said at the first glimmers of day dawn Go fetch Monsieur Le Corré The moment has come and she had remained since then upon her back shaken with spasms her lips agitated as though dreadful words were mounting from her heart without power of issue her look mad with fear, terrible to see Her sister, torn by sorrow, wept wildly Her forehead resting on the edge of the bed and kept repeating Marguer, my poor Marguer, my little one She had always called her little one just as the younger had always called her big sister Steps were heard on the stairs the door opened a choir boy appeared followed by an old priest in a surplus As soon as she perceived him the dying woman with one shutter sat up, opened her lips stammered two or three words and began to scratch the sheets with her nails as if she had wished to make a whole The abbey, Simon, approached took her hand, kissed her brow and with a soft voice God pardon thee, my child have courage the moment is now come speak Then Marguerite, shivering from head to foot shaking her whole couch with nervous moments stammered sit down, big sister listen The priest bent down towards Suzanne who was still flung upon the bed's foot He raised her, placed her in an armchair and taking a hand of each of the sisters in one of his own, he pronounced Lord, my God, endure them with strength cast thy mercy upon them And Marguerite began to speak the words issued from her throat one by one, rocus with sharp pauses as though very feeble pardon, pardon, big sister oh forgive if thou knewest how I have had fear of this moment all my life Suzanne stammered through her tears forgive thee what, little one thou hast given all to me sacrificed everything thou art an angel but Marguerite interrupted her hush, hush, let me speak do not stop me it is dreadful let me tell all to the very end without flinching listen thou rememberest Henry Suzanne trembled and looked at her sister the younger continued thou must hear all to understand I was twelve years old only twelve years old thou rememberest well is it not so and I was spoiled I did everything that I liked thou rememberest surely how they spoiled me listen, the first time that he came he had varnished boots he got down from his horse at the great steps and he begged pardon for his costume but he came to bring some news to Papa thou rememberest is it not so don't speak, listen when I saw him I was completely carried away I found him so very beautiful and I remained standing in a corner of the salon all the time that he was talking children are strange and terrible oh yes I have dreamed of all that he came back again several times I looked at him with all my eyes with all my soul I was large of my age and very much more knowing than anyone thought he came back often I thought only of him I said very low Henry, Henry de Lampierre then they said that he was going to marry thee it was a sorrow, oh big sister a sorrow, a sorrow I cried for three nights without sleeping he came back every day in the afternoon after his lunch thou rememberest is it not so say nothing, listen thou madeest him cakes which he liked with meal with butter and milk oh I know well how I could make them yet if it were needed he ate them at one mouthful and then he drank a glass of wine and then he said it is delicious thou rememberest how he would say that I was jealous, jealous the moment of thy marriage approached there were only two weeks more I became crazy I said to myself he shall not marry Suzanne no I will not have it it is I whom he will marry when I am grown up I shall never find anyone whom I love so much but one night ten days before the contract thou tookest a walk with him in front of the chateau by moonlight and there under the fur under the great fur he kissed thee kissed holding thee in his two arms so long thou rememberest is it not so it was probably the first time, yes thou was so pale when thou earnest back to the salon I had seen you too I was there in the shrubbery I was angry if I could I should have killed you both I said to myself he shall not marry Suzanne never he shall marry no one I should be too unhappy and all of a sudden I began to hate him dreadfully then does thou know what I did? listen I had seen the gardener making little balls to kill strange dogs he pounded up a bottle with a stone and put the powdered glass in a little ball of meat I took a little medicine bottle that mama had I broke it small with a hammer and I hid the glass in my pocket it was a shining powder the next day as soon as you had made the little cakes I split them with a knife and I put in the glass he ate three of them I too, I ate one I threw the other six into the pond the two swans died three days after does thou remember? oh say nothing listen listen I alone did not die but I have always been sick listen he died thou knowest well listen that that is nothing it is afterwards later always the worst listen my life all my life what torture I said to myself I will never leave my sister the hour of death I will tell her all there and ever since I have always thought of that moment when I should tell the all now it is come it is terrible oh big sister I have always thought morning and evening by night and by day sometime I must tell her that I waited what agony it is done say nothing now I am afraid I am afraid if I am going to see him again soon when I am dead see him again think of it the first before thou I shall not dare I must I am going to die I want you to forgive me I want it I cannot go off to meet him without that oh tell her to forgive me monsieur le coure tell her I implore you to do it I cannot die without that she was silent and remained panting always scratching the sheet with her withered nails Suzanne had hidden her face in her hands and did not move she was thinking of him whom she might have loved so long what a good life they should have had together she saw him once again in that vanished by gone time and that old past which was put out forever the beloved dead how they tear your hearts oh that kiss his only kiss she had hidden it in her soul and after it nothing nothing more her whole life long all of a sudden the priest stood straight and with a strong vibrant voice he cried mademoiselle Suzanne your sister is dying then Suzanne opening her hands showed her face soaked with tears and throwing herself upon her sister she kissed her with all her might stammering I forgive thee I forgive thee little one 5. section 7 Part I of THE HORLA or Modern Ghosts by Henri-René-Albert Guidemopissant May 8th What a lovely day! I have spent all the morning lying in the grass in front of my house under the enormous plantain-tree 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 expressions, 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 sen which flows by the side of my garden, on the other side of the road, almost through my ground, the great and wide sen which goes to Rouen and Arva, and which is covered with boats passing to and fro. To 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 stronger 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, and which scarcely puffed while emitting its thick smoke, passed my gate. After two English schooners, whose red flag fluttered toward 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. Once do these mysterious influences come which change our happiness into discouragement and our self-confidence into diffidence. One might almost say that the air, the invisible air, is full of unknown 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 it, 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 upon 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 16. 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 presentiment which is, no doubt, an attack of some illness which is still unknown, which germinates in the flesh and in the blood. May 18. 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 strung, but no alarming symptoms. I must have a course of shower baths and a bromide of potassium. May 25. 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, impeded 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 light-hearted 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 bed-clothes, 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 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 on 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 on to 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 efforts 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 until 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 Rumeir. 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 La Bouille, 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 know. I started off to the right and got back into the avenue which had led me into the middle of the forest. One third. 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 2. I have come back, quite cured, and have had a most delightful trip into the bargain. I have been to Montse-Michel, which I had not seen before. What a sight when one arrives as I did at Avrange 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 extraordinarily 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 seem 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 chimeras, 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 the steel keros. 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 Monet, declare 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 bleeding 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 asked the monk. "'I scarcely know,' he replied, and I continued. "'If there are other beings besides ourselves on this earth, how comes it 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 men down, 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.' I was silent before this simple reasoning. That 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 THIRD 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 all well, but I am very frightened of having another attack myself.' JULY FOURTH 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 FIFTH 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. Enter 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 in 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 soundambulist. 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 us ourselves and more than it does ourselves. Oh! 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 6 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! Am I going mad? Who will save me? July 10. I have just been through some surprising ordeals. Decidedly I am mad. And yet... On July 6, 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 result. And on July 8 I left out the water and the milk, and nothing was touched. Lastly on July 9 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-led 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 12. 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 sunambulist, 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 Francais. A play by Alexandre 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. Fet 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 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's, Madame Sablé, whose husband is colonel of the 76 chasseurs at Limoges. There were two young women there, one of whom had married a medical man, Dr. Perron, who devotes himself a great deal to nervous diseases and the extraordinary manifestations to which, at this moment, experiments and 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 Nassi, 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 of 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 in 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, thence 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. Paras 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 Sabley'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? Then she replied, I see my cousin. What is he doing? He is twisting his mustache. And now he is 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 this portrait? He is standing up with his hat in his hand. So she saw on that card, on that piece of white paste-board, as if she had seen 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 to-morrow morning. 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 doubt, 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 Sabley 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 favour of you. What is it, cousin? I do not like to tell you, and yet I must. I am in 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. Parrault, 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. Has he 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 to me. Then pray, you did not mention it to me yesterday. I received his letter this morning. Can you show it to me? No. No. No. It contains private matters, things too personal to ourselves. I burnt it. So your husband runs into debt? He 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, my 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 know 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. Pauhon 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 were 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 magnetic 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 pocket-book, 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. End of Section 7. Section 1 of the Horla, or Modern Ghosts. Recording by Roger Maline.