Old Gervais by Mary Louisa Molesworth

“Old Gervais” was first published in Studies and Stories (1893). It has since been reprinted in several mixed-author anthologies including Gaslit Nightmares: Volume II (1991), 12 Victorian Ghost Stories (1997), and The Wimbourne Book of Victorian Ghost Stories: Volume 15 (2019).

Neither dark nor scary, “Old Gervais” is a ghost story, but certainly not a work of horror fiction.

About Mary Louisa Molesworth

Mary Louisa Molesworth, née Stewart was born in the Dutch city of Rotterdam on 29 May 1839. She was educated in Great Britain and Switzerland, spending much of her childhood in Manchester. In 1861, she married Major R. Molesworth. The couple separated in 1879.

Molesworth is mostly remembered for her children’s stories, which were often published under the name Mrs. Molesworth. She has been referred to as “the Jane Austin of the Nursery”, with many considering The Carved Lions (1895), a fantasy novel for children, to be her best work.

In 1869, she published Lover and Husband, her first novel aimed at adult readers, using the pseudonym Ennis Graham. Perhaps inspired by her own unstable relationship, as with later novels, Lover and Husband featured women trapped in unhappy marriages.

Like many authors of the Victorian era, Molesworth also wrote supernatural fiction, most of which is collected in her anthologies Four Ghost Stories (1888) and Uncanny Tales (1896).

Old Gervais

By Mary Louisa Molesworth

(Online Text )

Penforres Hall, Carmichael, N. B. ,

Jan. 17th, 188—.

. . . And now, as to your questions about that long-ago story. What put it into your head, I wonder? You have been talking “ghosts” like everybody else nowadays, no doubt, and you want to have something to tell that you had at “first hand.” Ah well, I will try to recall my small experience of the kind as accurately as my old brain is capable of doing at so long a distance. Though, after all, that is scarcely a correct way of putting it. For, like all elderly people, I find it true, strikingly true, that the longer ago the better, as far as memory is concerned. I can recollect events, places—nay, words and looks and tones, material impressions of the most trivial, such as scents and tastes, of forty or fifty years ago, far more vividly, more minutely, than things of a year or even a month past. It is strange, but I like it. There is something consolatory and suggestive about it. It seems to show that we are still all there, or all here, rather; that there is a something—an innermost “I”—which goes on, faithful and permanent, however rusty and dull the machinery may grow with the wear and tear of time and age.

But you won’t thank me for reflections of this kind. You want my little personal experience of the “more things,” and you shall have it.

You know, of course, that by birth—by descent, that is to say—I am a little, a quarter or half a quarter, French, And by affection I have always felt myself much more than that. It is often so; there is a sort of loyalty in us to the weaker side of things. Just because there is really so much less French than English in me, because I have spent nearly all my threescore and —! years in Great Britain, I feel bound to stand up for the Gallic part of me, and to feel quite huffed and offended if France or “Frenchness” is decried. It is silly, I dare say; but somehow I cannot help it. We don’t know, we can’t say in what proportions our ancestors are developed in us. It is possible that I am really, paradoxical as it may sound, more French than English, after all.

You know all about me, but if you want to tell my bit of a ghost-story to others, you will understand that I am not actuated by egotism in explaining things. It was through my being a little French that I came to pay long visits to old friends of my mother’s in Normandy. They were not relations, but connections by marriage, and bound by the closest ties of association and long affection to our cousins. And the wife of the head of the family, dear Madame de Viremont, was my own godmother. She had visited us in England and Scotland—she loved both, and she was cosmopolitan enough to think it only natural that even as a young girl I should be allowed to cross the channel to stay with her for weeks, nay, months at a time, in her old château of Viremont-les-bocages.

Not that I travelled over there alone—ah no, indeed! Girls, even of the unmistakably upper classes, do travel alone now, I am assured, still I can’t say that it has ever come within my own knowledge that a young lady should journey by herself to Normandy, though I believe such things are done. But it was very different in my young days. My father himself took me to Paris—I am speaking just now of the first time I went, with which indeed only, I am at present concerned—and after a few days of sightseeing there, Madame de Viremont’s own maid came to escort me to my destination—the château.

We travelled by diligence, of course—the journey that five or six hours would now see accomplished took us the best part of two days. At Caen, my godmother met us, and I spent a night in her “hotel” there—the town residence of the family—dear old house that it was! Many a happy day have I spent there since. And then, at Caen, I was introduced for the first time to my godmother’s granddaughters, her son’s children, Albertine and Virginie. Albertine was older than I, Virginie two years younger. We were dreadfully shy of each other, though Albertine was too well bred to show it, and talked formalities in a way that I am sure made her grandmother smile. Virginie, dear soul, did not speak at all, which you must remember is not bad manners in a French girl before she is out, and I, as far as I recollect, spoke nonsense in very bad French, and blushed at the thought of it afterwards. It was stupid of me, for I really could speak the language very decently.

But that all came right. I think we took to each other in spite of our shyness and awkwardness, at once. It must have been so, for we have remained friends ever since, staunch friends, though Albertine’s life has been spent among the great ones of the earth (she is a great-grandmother now) and I only see my Virginie once a year, or once in two or three years, for a few hours, at the convent of which she has long, long been the head; and I am an old-fashioned, narrow-minded perhaps, Scotch maiden lady of a very certain age, who finds it not always easy to manage the journey to France even to see her dear old friends.

How delightful, how unspeakably exciting and interesting and fascinating that first real glimpse into the home life of another nation was! The queernesses, the extraordinary differences, the indescribable mingling of primitiveness with ultra refinement, of stateliness and dignity of bearing and customs with odd unsophisticatedness such as I had imagined mediaeval at least—all added to the charm.

How well I remember my first morning’s waking in my bedroom at the château! There was no carpet on the floor; no looking-glass, except a very black and unflattering one which might have belonged to Noah’s wife, over the chimney-piece; no attempt at a dressing-table; a ewer and basin in the tiny cabinet-de-toilette which would have delighted my little sister for her dolls. Yet the cup in which old Désirée brought me my morning chocolate was of almost priceless china, and the chocolate itself such as I do not think I ever have tasted elsewhere, so rich and fragrant and steaming hot—the roll which accompanied it, though sour, lying on a little fringed doyley marked with the Viremont crest in embroidery which must have cost somebody’s eyes something.

It seemed to me like awaking in a fairytale in a white cat’s château. And the charm lasted till I had come to feel so entirely at home with my dear, courteous, kindly hosts, that I forgot to ask myself if I were enjoying myself or no. Nay, longer than till then, did it last—indeed, I have never lost the feeling of it—at any moment I can hear the tapping of my godmother’s stoutly shod feet as she trotted about early in the morning, superintending her men and maidens, and giving orders for the day; I can scent the perfume of Monsieur’s pet roses; I can hear the sudden wind, for we were not far from the sea, howling and crying through the trees as I lay in my alcove bed at night.

It was not a great house, though called a château. It was one of the still numerous moderate-sized old country houses which escaped the destruction of that terrible time now nearly a century past. The De Viremonts were of excellent descent, but they had never been extremely wealthy, nor very prominent. They were pious, home-loving, cultivated folk—better read than most of their class in the provinces, partly perhaps thanks to their English connections which had widened their ideas, partly because they came of a scholarly and thoughtful race. The house was little changed from what it must have been for a century or more.

The grounds, so Madame de Viremont told me, were less well tended than in her husband’s childhood, for it was increasingly difficult to get good gardeners, and she herself had no special gift in that line, such as her mother-in-law had been famed for. And though Monsieur loved his roses, his interest in horticulture began and ended with them. I don’t think he minded how untidy and wilderness-like the grounds were, provided the little bit near the house was pretty decent. For there, round the “lawn” which he and Madame fondly imagined was worthy of the name, bloomed his beloved flowers.

If it had been my own home, the wildness of the unkempt grounds would have worried me sadly. I have always been old-maidish about neatness and tidiness, I think. But as it was not my home, and I therefore felt no uncomfortable responsibility, I think I rather liked it. It was wonderfully picturesque—here and there almost mysterious. One terrace I know, up and down which Virginie and I were specially fond of pacing, always reminded me of the garden in George Sand’s Château de Pictordu, if only there had been a broken statute at one end!

The time passed quickly, even during the first two or three weeks, when my only companions were “Marraine,” as Madame made me call her, and her husband. I was not at all dull or bored, though my kind friends would scarcely believe it, and constantly tried to cheer my supposed loneliness by telling me how pleasant it would be when les petites—Albertine and Virginie—joined us, as they were to do before long. I didn’t feel very eager about their coming. I could not forget my shyness; though, of course, I did not like to say so. I only repeated to my godmother that I could not feel dull when she and Monsieur de Viremont were doing so much to amuse me.

And for another reason I was glad to be alone with my old friends at first. I was very anxious to improve my French, and I worked hard at it under Monsieur’s directions. He used to read aloud to us in the evenings; he read splendidly, and besides the exercises and dictations he gave me, he used to make me read aloud too. I hated it at first, but gradually I improved very much, and then I liked it.

So passed three or four weeks; then at last one morning came a letter announcing the grand-daughters’ arrival on the following day. I could not but try to be pleased, for it was pretty to see how delighted everyone at the château was, to hear the news.

“They must be nice girls,” I thought, “otherwise all the servants and people about would not like them so much,” and I made myself take an interest in going round with my godmother superintending the little preparations she was making for the girls.

They were to have separate rooms. Albertine’s was beside mine, Virginie’s on the floor above. There was a good deal of excitement about Virginie’s room, for a special reason. Her grandmother was arranging a surprise for her, in the shape of a little oratory. It was a tiny closet—a dark closet it had been, used originally for hanging up dresses, in one corner of her room, and here on her last visit, the girl had placed her prie-Dieu, and hung up her crucifix. Madame de Viremont had noticed this, and just lately she had had the door taken away, and the little recess freshly painted, and a small window knocked out, and all made as pretty as possible for the sacred purpose.

I felt quite interested in it. It was a queer little recess—almost like a turret—and Madame showed me that it ran up the whole height of the house from the cellars where it began, as an out-jut, with an arched window to give light to one end of the large “cave” at that side, which would otherwise have been quite dark.

“The great cellar used to be a perfect rat-warren,” she told me, “till light and air were thus thrown into it. What that odd out-jut was originally, no one knows. There goes a story that a secret winding-staircase, very, very narrow, of course, once ran up it to the roof. There were some doubts, I know, as to the solidity of the masonry—it has sunk a little at one side, you can see it in the cellar. But I expect it has all ‘settled,’ as they call it, long ago. Old Gervais, whom we employed to knock out the new window in Virginie’s little oratory, had no doubt about it, and he is a clever mason.”

“Old Gervais,” I repeated; “who is he, Marraine? I don’t think I have seen him, have I?”

For she had spoken of him as if I must have known whom she meant.

“Have you not?” she said. “He is a dear old man—one of our great resources. He is so honest and intelligent. But no I dare say you have not seen him. He does not live in our village, but at Plaudry, a mere hamlet about three miles off. And he goes about a good deal; the neighbouring families know his value, and he is always in request for some repairs or other work. He is devout, too,” my godmother added; “a simple, sincere, and yet intelligent Christian. And that is very rare nowadays: the moment one finds a thoughtful or intelligent mind among our poor, it seems to become the prey of all the sad and hopeless teaching so much in the air.”

And Madame de Viremont sighed. But in a moment or two she spoke again in her usual cheerful tone.

“It was quite a pleasure to see Gervais’ interest in this little place,” she said—we were standing in the oratory at the time. “He has the greatest admiration for our Virginie, too,” she added, “as indeed everyone has who knows the child.”

“She does look very sweet,” I said, and truly. But as I had scarcely heard Virginie open her lips, I could not personally express admiration of anything but her looks! In those days too, the reputation of unusual “goodness”—as applied to Virginie de Viremont, I see now that the word “sanctity” would scarcely be too strong to use—in one so young, younger than myself, rather alarmed than attracted me.

But her grandmother seemed quite pleased. “You will find the looks a true index,” she said.

I was examining the oratory—and wondering if there was any little thing I could do to help to complete it. Suddenly I exclaimed to my godmother—

“Marraine, the floor does sink decidedly at one side—just move across slowly, and you will feel it.”

“I know,” she replied composedly, “that is the side of the settling I told you of It is the same in the two intermediate stories—one of them is my own cabinet-de-toilette. If Virginie does not observe it at once, we shall have Albertine discovering it someday, and teasing the poor child by saying she has weighed down the flooring by kneeling too much—it is just where she will kneel.”

“Is Albertine a tease?” I asked; and in my heart I was not sorry to hear it.

“Ah, yes indeed,” said Madame. “She is full of spirits. But Virginie, too, has plenty of fun in her.”

My misgivings soon dispersed.

The two girls had not been forty-eight hours at Viremont before we were the best of friends, Virginie and I especially. For though Albertine was charming, and truly high-principled and reliable, there was not about her the quite indescribable fascination which her sister has always possessed for me. I have never known anyone like Virginie, and I am quite sure I never shall. Her character was the most childlike one in certain ways that you could imagine—absolutely single-minded, unselfish, and sunny—and yet joined to this a strength of principle like a rock, a resolution, determination, and courage, once she was convinced that a thing was right, such as would have made a martyr of her without a moment’s flinching. I have often tried to describe her to you; and the anecdote of her childhood, which at last I am approaching—she was barely out of childhood—shows what she was even then.

Those were very happy days. Everything united to make them so. The weather was lovely, we were all well, even Monsieur’s gout and Madame’s occasional rheumatism having for the time taken to themselves wings and fled, while we girls were as brilliantly healthful and full of life as only young things can be. What fun we had! Games of hide-and-seek in the so-called garden—much of it better described as a wilderness, as I have said—races on the terrace; explorations now and then, on the one or two partially rainy days, of Madame’s stores—from her own treasures of ancient brocades and scraps of precious lace and tapestry, to the “rubbish,” much of it really rubbish, though some of it quaint and interesting, hoarded for a century or two in the great “grenier” which extended over a large part of the house under the rafters. I have by me now, in this very room where I write, some precious odds and ends which we extracted from the collection, and which my godmother told me I might take home with me to Scotland, if I thought it worth the trouble.

One day we had been running about the grounds till, breathless and tired, we were glad to sit down on the seat at the far end of the terrace. And, while there, we heard someone calling us.

“Albertine, Virginie, Jeannette,” said the voice.

“It is grandpapa,” said Virginie, starting up, and running in the direction indicated, Albertine and I following her more leisurely.

“Where have you been, my children? “said the old gentleman, as we got up to him. “I have been seeking you—what are your plans for the afternoon? Your grandmother is going to pay some calls, and proposes that one of you should go with her, while I invite the other two to join me in a good walk—a long walk, I warn you—to Plaudry. What do you say to that?”

The two girls looked at me. As the stranger, they seemed to think it right that I should speak first.

“I should like the walk best,” I said with a smile. “I have not been to Plaudry, and they say it is so pretty. And—perhaps Marraine would prefer one of you two to pay calls—I have already visited most of your neighbours with her before you came, and everyone was asking when you were coming.”

“Albertine, then,” said her grandfather. “Yes, that will be best. And you two little ones shall come with me.”

The arrangement seemed to please all concerned, especially when Monsieur went on to say that the object of his expedition was to see Gervais the mason.

“Oh,” said Virginie, “I am so glad. I want to thank him for all the interest he took in my dear little oratory. Grandmamma told me about it.”

Her eyes sparkled. I think I have omitted to say that Madame de Viremont had been well rewarded for her trouble by Virginie’s delight in the little surprise prepared for her.

“I want him to see to the arch of the window in the ‘cave,’” said Monsieur. “Some stones are loosened, one or two actually dropped out. Perhaps his knocking out of your little window, Virginie, has had to do with it. In any case, it must be looked to, without delay. Come round that way, and you shall see what I mean.”

He led us to the far side of the house. The window in question had been made in the out-jut I have described; but as it was below the level of the ground, a space had been cleared out in front of it, making a sort of tiny yard, and two or three steps led down to this little spot. It seemed to have been used as a receptacle for odds and ends—flower-pots, a watering-can, etc. , were lying about. Monsieur went down the steps to show us the crumbling masonry. He must have had good eyes to see it, I thought, for only by pushing aside with his stick the thickly growing ivy, could he show us the loosened and falling stones. But then in a moment he explained.

“I saw it from the inside. I was showing the men where to place some wine I have just had sent in, in the wood. And the proper cellar is over-full—yes, it must certainly be seen to. Inside it looks very shaky.”

So we three walked to Plaudry that afternoon. It was a lovely walk, for Monsieur knew the shortest way, partly through the woods, by which we avoided the long, hot stretch of high-road. And when we reached our destination—a hamlet of only half a dozen cottages at most—by good luck Gervais was at home, though looking half ashamed to be caught idle, in spite of his evident pleasure at the visit.

He had not been very well lately, his good wife explained, and she had insisted on his taking a little rest. And though I had never seen him before, it seemed to me I could have discerned a worn look—the look of pain patiently borne—in the old man’s quiet, gentle face and eyes.

“Gervais not well!” said Monsieur. “Why, that is something new. What’s been the matter, my friend?”

Oh, it was nothing—nothing at all. The old wife frightened herself for nothing, he said. A little rheumatism, no doubt— a pain near the heart. But it was better, it would pass. What was it Monsieur wanted? He would be quite ready to see to it by tomorrow. Then Monsieur explained, and I could see that at once the old mason’s interest was specially aroused. “Ah yes, certainly,” he interjected. It must be seen to—he had had some misgivings, but had wished to avoid further expense. But all should be put right. And he was so glad that Mademoiselle was pleased with the little oratory, his whole face lighting up as he said it. Tomorrow by sunrise, or at least as soon as possible after, he would be at the château.

Then we turned to go home again, though not till Madame Gervais had fetched us a cup of milk, to refresh us after our walk; for they were well to do, in their way, and had a cow of their own, though the bare, dark kitchen, which in England would scarcely seem better than a stable, gave little evidence of any such prosperity. I said some words to that effect to my companions, and then I was sorry I had done so.

“Why, did you not see the armoire?” said Virginie. “It is quite a beauty.”

“And the bed and bedding would put many such commodities in an English cottage to shame, I fancy,” added Monsieur, which I could not but allow was probably true.

Gervais kept his word. He was at his post in the “cave” long before any of us were awake, and Virginie’s morning devotions must have been disturbed by the knocking and hammering far below.

He was at it all day. Monsieur went down to speak to him once or twice, but Gervais had his peculiarities. He would not give an opinion as to the amount of repair necessary till he was sure. And that afternoon we all went for a long drive—to dine with friends, and return in the evening. When we came home, there was a message left for Monsieur by the old mason to the effect that he would come again “tomorrow,” and would then be able to explain all. Monsieur must not mind if he did not come early, as he would have to get something made at the forge—something iron, said the young footman who gave the message. “Ah, just so,” said Monsieur. “He has found it more serious than he expected, I fancy; but it will be all right, now it is in his hands.”

So the next morning there was no early knocking or tapping to be heard in the old cellar. Nor did Gervais return later, as he had promised.

“He must have been detained at the forge,” said Monsieur. “No doubt he will come tomorrow.

Tomorrow came, but with it no Gervais. And Monsieur de Viremont, who was old and sometimes a little irascible, began to feel annoyed. He went down to the cellar, to inspect the work. “It is right enough,” he said, when he came up stairs to the room where we four ladies were sitting—there had been a change in the weather, and it was a stormily rainy day—“I see he has got out the loose stones, and made it all solid enough, but it looks unsightly and unfinished. It wants pointing, and—”

“What was it Alphonse said about an iron band or something?” said Madame. “Perhaps Gervais is getting one made, and it has taken longer than he expected.”

“It is not necessary,” said the old gentleman. “Gervais is overcautious. No—a girder would be nonsense; but I do not like to see work left so untidy; and it is not his usual way.”

So little indeed was it the old mason’s way, that when another day passed, and there was no news of Gervais, Monsieur determined to send in the morning to hunt him up.

“I would have walked over this afternoon myself,” he said, “if the weather had been less terrible.”

For it really was terrible—one of those sudden storms to which, near the sea, we are always liable, even in summer— raging wind, fierce beating, dashing rain, that take away for the time all sensation of June or July.

But whatever the weather was, orders were given that night that one of the outdoor men was to go over to Plaudry first thing the next morning.

Monsieur had a bad night, a touch of gout, and he could not get to sleep till very late, or rather early. So Madame told us when we met at table for the eleven o’clock big breakfast.

“He only awoke an hour ago, and I wanted him to stay in bed all day,” she said. “But he would not consent to do so. Ah! there he comes,” as our host at that moment entered the room with apologies for his tardiness.

The wind had gone down, though in the night it had been fiercer than ever; but it was still raining pitilessly.

“I do hope the storm is over,” said Virginie. “Last night, when I was saying my prayers, it almost frightened me. I really thought I felt the walls rocking.”

“Nonsense, child!” said her grandfather, sharply. Incipient gout is not a sweetener of the temper. But Virginia’s remark had reminded him of something.

“Has Jean Pierre come back from Plaudry?” he asked the servant behind his chair; “and what message did he bring?”

Alphonse started. He had been entrusted with a message, though not the one expected, but had forgotten to give it.

“He did not go, Monsieur,” he said; hastily adding, before there was time for his master to begin to storm. “There was no need. Old Gervais was here this morning—very early, before it was light almost; so Nicolas”—Nicolas was the bailiff—“said no one need go.”

“Oh—ah, well,” said Monsieur, mollified. “Then tell Gervais I want to speak to him before he leaves.”

Then Alphonse looked slightly uneasy.

“He is gone already, unfortunately—before Monsieur’s bell rang. He must have had but little to do—by eight o’clock, or before, he was gone.”

Monsieur de Viremont looked annoyed.

“Very strange,” he said, “when he left word he would explain all to me. Did you see him? did he say nothing?”

No, Alphonse had not seen him—he had only heard him knocking. But he would inquire more particularly if there was no message.

He came back in a few moments, looking perplexed. No one, it appeared, had really seen the mason; no one, at least, except a little lad, Denis by name—who worked in the garden—“the little fellow who sings in the choir,” said Alphonse. He—Denis—had seen Gervais’ face from the garden, at the window. And he had called out, “Good morning,” but Gervais did not answer.

“And the work is completed? Has he perhaps left his tools? if so, he may be coming back again,” asked Monsieur.

Alphonse could not say. Impatient, the old gentleman rose from the table, and went off to make direct inquiry.

“Very odd, very odd indeed,” he said when he returned and sat down again. “To all appearance, the work is exactly as it was when he left it three days ago. Not tidied up or finished. And yet the cook and all heard him knocking for two hours certainly, and the child, Denis, saw him.”

“I dare say he will be returning,” said Madame, soothingly. “Let us wait till this evening.”

So they did; but no Gervais came back, and the rain went on falling, chill, drearily monotonous.

Just before dinner Monsieur summoned the bailiff. “Someone must go first thing tomorrow,” he began at once, when Nicolas appeared, “and tell Gervais sharply that I won’t be played the fool with. What has come over the old fellow?”

“No, Monsieur, certainly not. Monsieur’s orders must be treated with respect,” replied Nicolas, ignoring for the moment his master’s last few words. “But” and then we noticed that he was looking pale, “Someone has just called in from Plaudry—a neighbour—he thought we should like to know. Gervais is dead—he died last night. He has been ill these three days—badly ill; the heart, they say. And the weather has stopped people coming along the roads as much as usual, else we should have heard. Poor old Gervais—peace to his soul.” And Nicolas crossed himself.

“Dead!” Monsieur repeated.

“Dead!” we all echoed.

It seemed incredible. Monsieur, I know, wished he had not spoken so sharply.

“Virginie, Jeannette,” whispered Albertine. “It must have been his ghost!”

But she would not have dared to say so to her grandfather. “It is sad, very sad,” said Monsieur and Madame. Then a few directions were given to the bailiff, to offer any help she might be in want of, to the poor widow, and Nicolas was dismissed.

“It just shows what imagination will do,” said Monsieur; “all these silly servants believing they heard him, when it was impossible.”

“Yes,” whispered Albertine again, “and Denis Blanc, who saw him. And Denis, who is so truthful; a little saint indeed! You know, Virginia, the boy with the lovely voice.”

Virginie bent her head in assent, but said nothing. And the subject was not referred to again that evening.

But—

The storm was over, next day was cloudless, seeming as if such things as wind and rain and weather fury had never visited this innocent-looking world before. Again we went off to a neighbouring château, returning late and tired, and we all slept soundly. Again an exquisite day. Monsieur was reading aloud to us in the salon that evening; it was nearly bedtime, when a sort of skirmish and rush—hushed, yet excited voices, weeping even, were heard outside.

Monsieur stopped. “What is it? “he said Then rising, he went to the door.

A small crowd of servants was gathered there, arguing, vociferating, yet with a curious hush over it all.

“What is it?” repeated the master sternly.

Then it broke out. They could stand it no longer; something must be done; though Monsieur had forbidden them to talk nonsense—it was not nonsense, only too true.

“What?” thundered the old gentleman.

About Gervais. He was there again—at the present moment. He had been there the night before, but no one had dared to tell. He had returned, no notice having been taken of his first warning. And he would return. There now, if everyone would be perfectly still, even here, his knockings could be heard.”

The speaker was the cook. And truly, as an uncanny silence momentarily replaced the muffled hubbub, far-off yet distinct taps, coming from below, were to be heard. “Some trick,” said Monsieur. “Let us go down, all of us together, and get to the bottom of this affair.”

He led the way; we women, and after us the crowd of terrified servants, following. Monsieur paused at the kitchen door.

“It is dark in the ‘cave,’” he said.

“No, no,” cried the cook. “There is a beautiful moon. Not a light, pray Monsieur; he might not like it.”

All was silent.

We reached the cellar, and entered it a little way. Quite a distance off, so it seemed, was the arched window, the moonlight gleaming through it eerily, the straggling ivy outside taking strange black shapes; but no one to be seen, nothing to be heard. Ah, what was that? The knocking again, unmistakable, distinct, real. And why did one side of the window grow dark, as if suddenly thrown into shadow? Was there something intercepting the moonlight? It seemed misty, or was it partly that we scarcely dared look? Then, to our surprise, the grandfather’s voice sounded out clearly.

“Virginie, my child,” he said, “you are the youngest, the most guileless, perhaps the one who has least cause for fear. Would you dread to step forward and—speak? If so be it is a message from the poor fellow, let him tell it. Show every one that those who believe in the good God need not be afraid.”

Like a white angel, Virginie, in her light summer dress, glided forward, silent. She walked straight on; then, rather to our surprise, she crossed the floor, and stood almost out of sight in the dark corner, at the further side of the window. Then she spoke—

“Gervais, my poor Gervais,” she said. “Is it you? I think I see you, but I cannot be sure. What is troubling you, my friend? What is keeping you from your rest?”

Then all was silent again. I should have said that as Virginie went forward, the knocking ceased—so silent that we could almost hear our hearts beat. And then—Virginie was speaking again, and not repeating her questions! When we realised this, it did seem awful. She was carrying on a conversation. She had been answered.

What she said I cannot recall. Her voice was lower now; it sounded almost dreamy. And in a moment or two she came back to us, straight to her grandfather.

“I will tell you all,” she said. “Come upstairs—all will be quiet now,” she added, in a tone almost of command, to the awestruck servants. And upstairs she told.

“I do not know if he spoke,” she said, in answer to Albertine’s eager inquiries. “I cannot tell. I know what he wanted, that is enough. No; I did not exactly see him; but—he was there.”

And this was the message, simple enough. The wall was not safe, though he had done what could be done to the stonework. Iron girders must be fixed, and that without delay. He had felt too ill to go to the forge that night as he had intended, and the unfinished work, the possible danger, was sorely on his mind.

“He thanked me,” said Virginie, simply. “He feared that grandfather would think all the solid work was done, and that the wall only needed finishing for appearance.”

As, indeed, Monsieur de Viremont had thought.

Afterwards the old woman told us a little more. Gervais had been alternately delirious and unconscious these two or three days. He had talked about the work at Viremont, but she thought it raving, till just at the last he tried to whisper something, and she saw he was clear-headed again, about letting Monsieur know. She had meant to do so when her own first pressure of grief and trouble was over. She never knew that the warning had been forestalled.

That is all. And it was long ago, and there are thrillingly sensational ghost-stories to be had by the score nowadays. It seems nothing. But I have always thought it touching and impressive, knowing it to be true.

If I have wearied you by my old woman’s garrulity, forgive it.

It has been a pleasure to me to recall those days.

Your ever affectionate,

Janet Marie Bethune.

Mary Louisa Molesworth (1839 – 1921)