I listened attentively for a repetition of the
noise; and now all my wild fancies were
forgotten in this new feeling of curiosity. I
had never been in that room, for the door had
always been kept locked, and the key was in
the possession of the porter below; but I
recollected, now, having frequently heard
noise in the night, which I had attributed to
the wind out of doors, but which, I seemed
now to remember, had come from the empty
garret. I had once heard from the Concierge
(though I had taken it for an idle story), that
Danton- memorable among the tyrants of
the Revolution- had lived in a room in that
house. And now I thought I remembered
that it was in a house in that quarter where
he had spent the night (it was the night of
the terrible butcheries at the prisons of La
Force and the Conciergerie) in conversation
with Camilla Desmoulins, until, seeing the
first glimmering of the dawn across the
house-tops, he told Camille that a terrible
blow had been struck at Royalism, even while
they had been sitting there. It seemed to
me remarkable that I had not thought of
this before. I remembered now distinctly
the words "across the house-tops," in the
account that I had read; and a superstitious
conviction forced itself upon me, that it was
in that very room that Danton (affecting, as
was common with the revolutionary leaders,
an appearance of poverty) had dwelt.

My fancy had wandered away among the
scenes of that terrible Revolution, when I
was roused again by a second noise. But
this time it was the sound of a light footstep
walking in the room. I listened, arid waited,
with my eye fixed upon the door, and now for
the first time I remarked a faint light shining
through the keyhole. The footstep ceased for
a moment; and then I saw by the long light
in the crevice, that the door, which I had
alway's supposed to be locked, was ajar. I
had not heard any movement of the handle of
the lock, but I felt convinced that it had only
just been opened; for it was impossible, otherwise,
that I should not have observed it. The
door trembled for a moment, as if an undecided
hand were upon the lock, and then,
opening wide, I saw, to my surprise, the
figure of a man standing in the doorway.

He held in one hand a thin candle, with a
shade, which threw that part of the room in
which I sat into darkness; but I could
see him distinctly, as he stood there a moment,
apparently hesitating whether to go
on or turn back. His face was deadly pale,
and his eyes, in the light that struck upward,
through the aperture in the shade,
were fixed and sunken. His dress was that
which was worn by the old revolutionary
leaders; but he bore no resemblance to the
portraits of Danton. I recognised him at a
glance. The prominent forehead, the short
pointed nose, the scornful curl of the upper
lip, the powdered hair, the frilled shirt, tiie
broad sash, and even the nosegay in his hand
- all, except the general faded look of his
attire, identified him at once with the ideal
indelibly fixed in my mind, by portrait and
tradition, of the great fanatical Jacobin, Maximilian
Robespierre. The door closed sharply
behind him, as if by the current of air, for
his light was extinguished at the same
moment. I heard his footstep across my
room; the door closed behind him as he went
out upon the landing. I listened, but could
hear no footstep descending the stairs. I
walked to the door, and looked down into
the darkness of the great staircase, and
listened, but the house was quite still.

Was I to believe my senses? Here I sat,
exactly as I had sat ten minutes before. My
stove was cold: my room was dark: I was
alone: my book was open before me. I saw
the light still in the daguerreotyper's window,
on the roof, and at other places, far off. I
walked over, and tried the door of the room,
but it was fast locked again. Everything was
in its usual state. In a few minutes from
the time when I first fancied that I heard the
noise, the door had been unfastened, this
strange apparition had passed through my
room, the door was re-fastened, and no trace
of what had happened remained. I was not
dreaming? No. But how often, in sleep,
had I questioned myself of the reality of my
dream, and invariably ended by convincing
myself that I was awake- sometimes even
remembering that I had so deceived myself
before; but always, at last, conquering my
own objection, and coming to the conclusion
that this time, at least, I stood amid the real
life of the daylight world. But I rubbed
my eyelids, rose again, and walked to and
fro, and convinced myself that I was really
awake.

What could I think, but that my reason
was becoming weakened? The life I had led
for some time had been wild and reckless.
I had become so accustomed to excitement,
that it was almost necessary to my existence;
so that when I applied myself to a steadier
life, I experienced something of the depression
of the drunkard in the first days of his
reformation. The mood in which this vision
had found me was favourable to such hallucinations.
My mind had been unsettled.
My fancies would not let me apply myself to
my task. Whimsical, and filled with vague
apprehensions, I knew that my mental state
exactly coincided with the descriptions of
those who have been visited by similar
apparitions.

Smoking would, I thought, soothe me. I
lighted some wood in my stove with a fusee,
and taking down my pipe from the wall, filled
it, and sat there smoking hour after hour.
The great transparent bowl glowed in the
darkness at every puff, so deeply, that I could
watch the wreaths of smoke by the light that
it gave. I strove to fix my mind upon cheerful
images- thinking of an English home,
where the fatted calf was ever ready to be