nobility was as ancient as that of the Vauxmesnils,
hardly any visitors crossed the threshold.

I was fond of sitting with my volume or my
sketch-book, on the summit of the ruined keep,
which commanded a splendid view. The elevation
was considerable; the air, even in sultry
weather, was generally, at that height, refreshed
by a breeze; and it was pleasant to look down
over the broad country, the distant mountains,
and the wide river specked with barge and
steam-boat. I was there, one day, with my
drawing apparatus before me, and little Henri
by my side, and the marquis was walking slowly
to and fro on the terrace beneath—a favourite
promenade of his—conning some speech which
he intended to "fulminate" in the senate.
The day was a peculiarly fine and bright one,
with a brisk breeze stirring, and through the
clear air the mountains looked nearer than usual,
and showed new tints and fantastic forms of
precipice and glen. I worked vigorously at my
sketch, and the child looked on with his great
solemn eyes. He was in an inquisitive mood
that day.

"Mr. Kirby," said the little fellow, "whom
do those meadows belong to? There where the
cows are grazing, below the vineyards?" .

I told him to his papa, but was rather
surprised when he rejoined:

"But the country yonder, across the river,
towards those hills you are drawing, does not
belong to papa, does it?"

I answered in the negative.

"And yet it did."

"How do you know that, Henri?" I asked.
I was surprised at the boy's knowledge. My
own had been gained from the accidental study
of an old map of the estate, in which the
confiscated possessions of the family had been
carefully scored off with red ink. I was aware that
the lands remaining to the marquis were but a
fourth of the great property owned by his
forefathers, but I had been careful not to arouse
feelings of discontent in the child's innocent
mind by any hints on the subject.

"Old Pierre, the gardener, told me," said the
boy, looking forth into the distance. "Those
were the revolutionists that took the lands away;
the same who burnt the gallery and the chapel
here, and made the castle so ruinous. Why did
they do so, monsieur? Were they not very
wicked men?"

It was an awkward question. How was I
to explain to this child that feudal tyranny and
court vice had brought about a dire retribution?
How was I to tell him that there were
faults—black and bitter faults—on both sides,
and that the guiltless had suffered for the
guilty?

But before I could frame a discreet
answer, an eldritch laugh, harsh as the cry of
the screech-owl, broke upon our ears, and made
us both start. I looked hastily round, and so
did Henri, for the sound seemed to proceed
from among the ruins. To my surprise I
caught sight of what seemed to be a human
form; but so small and fantastically arrayed as
to resemble a huge ape rather than a woman.
Yet a woman it was, dwarfish, bowed, and
draped in a short red cape, blotched by stains
of rough weather, and over which her long grey
hair hung in tangled masses. A woman with a
face hideous and wrinkled enough to have looked
upon the wickedness and woe of a hundred
years, but with bright malignant eyes in whose
sparkle there was none of the bleared dimness
peculiar to extreme age.

"I know her. I have seen her before—the
Cape Rouge!" cried the child. Meanwhile, the
old hag mopped and mowed, and shook her
skinny finger at us, and mumbled out a cackling
laugh.

"She is crazed, of course, poor creature,"
said I. Though I spoke in English, and to
myself, the old woman guessed my meaning, for
her moans instantly changed into a shrill laugh.

"Ah! ah! Mon beau monsieur, you think so
too, do you?" were the words that reached me.
"Wait and see; wait and see. And you, pretty
child, does the curse weigh on you, my——?"

Here the lunatic, or whatever she was, ceased
abruptly, and vanished so noiselessly and quickly
among the ruins, that it almost seemed as if she
had melted into air.

Next moment the stately step of the
marquis was heard ascending the stone steps.
I have no doubt the old crone's ears had
caught the sound some seconds before I did,
and that the approach of the lord of the castle
had cut short her warning or her malediction.

"The owls are noisy to-day," said the
marquis, taking snuff from his precious little bijou of
a box.

The owls! Doubtless M. de Vauxmesnil had
heard that strange cry without distinguishing
that it came from human lips, nor did either the
little boy or myself breathe a word regarding the
weird figure in the stained red mantle.

I took an early opportunity of asking Pierre,
the old gardener, the meaning of the apparition.
The old man seemed rather disturbed by my
question, for he leant heavily on his spade,
and devoutly crossed himself, as he said, "Holy
St. Catherine! Has she been here again. That
bodes bad luck."

"But who is she?" I asked, a little
impatiently.

"Not know the Cape Rouge! Ah, pardon!
I forgot monsieur's quality of foreigner. Well,
sir, they call her Red Cape because of the mantle
she wears, but her true name is the Mère
Chardon—Marie Chardon—and she lives in a
little hut among the stones by the river, all alone.
As for her age, who can tell it? I have heard
my father say that when he was young the Cape
Rouge always looked as old, and as wrinkled,
and as grey as to-day. But, one thing is sure,
her presence bodes no good."

With some difficulty I elicited from the
gardener that this old crone was believed to
have been an eye-witness of the Revolution,
and a sharer in its wild frenzy. She was
reported to have joined in the dance of the
Carmagnole around the scaffold at Lyons, when the