In a few moments he re-ascended, and as he
seemed to have left his lantern below, his
figure was merely a black shadow, which
I still traced in the gloom advancing to the
same closet; he entered it; there was a pause ;
and he re-appeared dragging something along,
which he took to the steps. I plainly heard
that at every one of them — and I counted six
— a heavy dull sound was returned as his
burthen descended, and it struck against
them.

Nothing more occurred; but I confess to
having been so uncomfortably nervous — not
to say, terrified — that, though after looking
long into the darkness to see the glimmer of
the lantern again, I ended by being convinced
that I had imagined the whole scene, I had
still not the courage necessary to get up and
grope towards the bell: excusing my not
trying to do so, by reflecting that I had
previously found it useless. At last I went
to sleep, and in the morning, impressed with
the idea that I had passed the night with the
large window open, I advanced to close it,
when I found to my surprise that it was
shut, and the rusty bolt well fastened inside,
as it had been during the three rainy days
before; the curtain, faithfully placed by
Mademoiselle Léonie, had not been disturbed
since it was drawn by my own hand early in
the evening; and as for the great closet —
when I opened it, the hinges creaked as usual,
and there was emptiness, but no outlet.

When the cross chambermaid brought my
coffee, I ventured to remark that I had been
disturbed by new arrivals in the night.

"Impossible," was her sharp reply, " no
one arrived last night, and if they had, there
is no room for them."

"Unless they have a fancy to sleep in the
old fount in the garden," said I; " for, if I
was not dreaming, I saw a traveller dragging
his own portmanteau down those steps in
search of such a lodging."

Catherine, as I said this, looked at me with
an uneasy expression of countenance, but
said nothing. I asked her why she did not
come when I rang my bell.

"Because, after eleven o'clock," said she
pertly, "it is time for every one to be asleep,
and we are too tired to attend to bells. It is
quite enough that Madame has seen it, without
us poor servants being scared."

"Seen it!" I inquired with interest, " what
do you mean, Catherine?"

But already the cross chambermaid was
gone, and did not deign an explanation of her
mysterious words.

The next morning was fine. Determined
not to lose the opportunity of seeing
something of the pretty country, I went out early
to keep an appointment I had made with my
slight acquaintance, Madame Gournay, whose
grandchild was at nurse at Bois Guillaume
about half a league from the town, and whom
I had promised to accompany in her first
walk over the charming hill and pretty fields
which led to the cottage of the peasant who
supplied her place to her daughter's infant.
Like many French mothers, Madame Gournay
the younger — as well as her husband, the
organist of the cathedral — preferred the
absence of a troublesome baby to its
presence in their confined apartment in the
town.

"It is better for the child's health,"
remarked the grandmother, " to be amongst the
flowers and fields at Bois Guillaume than in
the smoky streets of Rouen."

The beautiful, neat embowered spot we
soon reached was so singularly clean and well
built for a foreign village that it made me
appreciate my companion's prudence, and
when I saw the pretty tidy nurse whom we
found playing with the baby, as it lay in its
cot, I could not but acknowledge that it was
likely to be better taken care of with Gustaire
Braye than by its rather coquettish mamma
at home.

Gustaire had a little son of her own who
was also in the cottage, but in an outer
chamber. An old woman was knitting beside
him as the child scrambled backwards and
forwards in a long crib, placed against the
wall, in the midst of which it was fastened by
the waist to a moveable board, which slid
along as his struggles impelled it. No harm
could happen to the child in its oddly
contrived prison, but the position looked
uncomfortable, and I could not help contrasting the
two boys as I observed the superior care
bestowed on the nursling.

The son of Gustaire Braye was a strange
infant: it had a pair of rolling startling eyes,
which were continually but without meaning
fixed on the cot of its foster brother, seen
through an open door; it had a large head,
was very pale, and every now and then a
shudder seemed to pass over it, which was
succeeded by a restless movement in its railway.
The old woman, from time to time,
looked up from her knitting, and gave a
glance towards her charge, but did not speak
to it, nor did it utter any cry or attempt any
sound like words; while the other child was
laughing, crowing, and delighting the
company in the cottage.

The visit paid, on our return towards Rouen
I congratulated Madame Gournay on having
found so respectable a nurse.

"Yes," said she, "we consider ourselves
lucky, and so is poor Gustaire, and very
grateful too to M. le Curé for recommending
her; it is not every one would like to have
to do with her, after all that has happened;
but as I said to my daughter, the poor young
woman was not to blame, though her evidence
did cause the death of her father. But I
forget," she continued, smiling, " you know
nothing of the story."

I begged she would indulge my curiosity
by relating to me the reason why so neat and
pleasant looking a young woman as Gustaire
should be avoided.