Tales of terror
Marguerite, and quite ignored the other ladies. This would probably
have led to a speedy open rupture, as some or other of the jealous
men would have been sure to have insulted him, and in that age insult
was quickly followed by blows and bloodshed. But somehow or other it
began to be whispered that the proud and uninvited guest was none
other than the king’s brother, who for certain family reasons had long
lived abroad, but his wealth, power, and possible succession to the
throne had caused him to be a very-much-talked-of personage in Germany,
although no one seemed to know anything about him. But there had been
stories of his handsome appearance and his eccentricity. As may be
supposed the mere suggestion that the unbidden guest was the mysterious
brother of the king at once silenced criticism, and there was a general
desire to pay him homage and treat him with respect.
All these flattering attentions he acknowledged with lofty dignity,
and it was obvious that he was bent on winning the good opinion of the
host’s fair daughter, and equally obvious that she was fascinated by
his brilliancy and wit; and when he casually remarked, with a sigh,
that in another half-hour he must tear himself from her, and leave
the fair scene to ride forth again on his journey, she flew to her
father and begged of him to press the count to prolong his stay for
a few days. Not wishing to deny his daughter anything, the baron
approached the count, who, however, did not seem disposed to yield,
until beautiful Marguerite herself added her persuasions to those of
her father, and then, with a gracious bow, the count expressed his
intention of accepting the invitation.
The festivities were prolonged far into the night. Outside the elements
waged war, for a terrific gale swept through the forest, bringing with
it the heaviest fall of snow that had been experienced for many years.
But the storm did not interfere with the comfort of the revellers, who
began to disperse to their respective rooms as the castle bell tolled
the hour of five.
The day had far advanced when the guests reassembled for the morning
meal. Then experiences were exchanged, and strange stories told. One
averred that he had been the victim of remarkable phenomena in his
room, another that he had heard the flapping of wings at his window,
and when, out of a kindly feeling, he arose and opened the window,
thinking that some poor storm-beaten bird was in distress, he was
greeted with eldritch laughter and shrill screams that pealed through
the forest. Others, again, said that they had heard heavenly music;
but several, who occupied apartments near those in which the count had
been placed, affirmed that they were startled by awful and unearthly
sounds proceeding from his room, and yet they were unable to define
those sounds. The more level-headed guests smiled as they heard these
fantastic stories, and were disposed to attribute them to the figments
of wine-heated brains. The mysterious count was almost the last to
put in an appearance at the breakfast table, and when he gathered the
subject of the conversation a dark smile of unutterable meaning played
round his saturnine features, which then relapsed into an expression
of the deepest melancholy. He addressed his conversation principally
to Marguerite, and talked enthusiastically of the different climes he
had visited, of the sunny regions of Italy, where the very air breathes
the fragrance of flowers, and the summer breeze sighs over a land of
sweets. When he spoke to her of those delicious countries where the
smile of the day sinks into the softer beauty of the night, and the
loveliness of heaven is never for an instant obscured, he drew sighs
of regret from the bosom of his fair auditor, and for the first time
in her life she longed to leave her home and wander in the lands of
delight of which the count drew such graphic pictures.
It soon became evident that the count was bent upon making an
impression upon the heart of Marguerite, and when a week had elapsed he
still lingered at the castle, although most of the guests had departed,
but he begged his host’s permission to be allowed to prolong his stay,
as he had never before experienced so much happiness. As the baron had
now quite come to believe he was entertaining the king’s brother, and
the probable future king, he was nothing loth that the stranger should
stay, and he even began to think that he could now reconcile himself
to the loss of his daughter, so long as there was a prospect of her
becoming a queen. For that high honour he was prepared to sacrifice
even his own feelings.
Days rolled on, and every moment increased the fervour of the
inexpressible sentiments with which the stranger had inspired
Marguerite. He never discoursed of love, but he looked it in his
language, in his manner, in the insinuating tones of his voice, and in
the slumbering softness of his smile; and when he found that he had
succeeded in impressing her, a sneer of the most diabolical meaning
spoke for an instant, and died again on his dark-featured countenance.
When he met her in the company of her father he was at once respectful
and submissive, and it was only when alone with her, in her rambles
through the forest with her favourite hounds, that he assumed the guise
of the more impassioned admirer.
As he was sitting one evening with the baron in a wainscoted apartment
of the library, the conversation happened to turn upon supernatural
agency. The stranger remained reserved and mysterious during the
discussion, but when the baron in a sneering manner denied the
existence of spirits, and satirically invoked their appearance, if
there was any truth in the many stories he had heard, the count’s eyes
seemed to glow with unearthly lustre, and his form to dilate to more
than its natural dimensions. When the conversation had ceased, to
the astonishment of everyone a chorus of celestial harmony was heard
pealing through the dark forest glade. The stranger was disturbed and
gloomy; he looked at his noble host with compassion, and something
like a tear swam in his dark eyes. After the lapse of a few seconds
the music died gently in the distance, and all was hushed as before.
The baron soon after quitted the apartment, and was followed almost
immediately by the stranger. He had not long been absent from the room
when harrowing groans were heard, as if some person was suffering the
agonies of an unusually painful death, and when the attendants and
others rushed out to ascertain the cause the baron was discovered
stretched dead in the corridor. His countenance was convulsed with
pain, and the grip of a human hand was clearly visible on his blackened
throat. The alarm was instantly given, the castle searched in every
direction, and, to the alarm and consternation of everyone, it was
found that the count had disappeared. Guests and servants alike mounted
their horses and scoured the forest in every direction, but not a trace
of the stranger could be discovered, and it was noted that the many
paths diverging from the castle were covered with the unsullied and
untrodden snow. There was no sign of either man or horse having passed.
How, then, had the count gone away? The mystery was profound, and a
strange fear fell upon the assembly.
In due course the body of the baron was committed to the earth with
all the pomp and ceremony befitting the burial of a person of his high
rank, and then those who had remained behind to pay their last respects
to the dead host dispersed to their homes, and the remembrance of the
dreadful transaction was recalled but as a thing that should be spoken
of with bated breath. Men shuddered as they referred to it, and women
became hysterical. What was the awful mystery? Would it ever be cleared
up? Who was the strange count, and how had he disappeared? He had gone
as he came; no one knew how.
After the disappearance of the stranger who had fascinated her and
won her love, the spirits of the gentle Marguerite declined. The loss
of her lover and the awfully mysterious death of her father threw the
girl into a profound melancholy, and she refused to be comforted. She
would walk early and late in the walks that he had once frequented so
that she might recall his last words, dwell on his honeyed smile, and
wander to the spot where she had once discoursed with him of love. She
avoided all society, and when alone in the solitude of her chamber she
gave vent to her affliction in tears, and the love that the pride of
maiden modesty concealed in public burst forth in the hours of privacy.
So beauteous, yet so resigned, was the fair mourner that she seemed
already an angel freed from the trammels of the world and prepared to
take her flight to heaven.
The winter slowly passed. It lingered unusually long that year, but at
length the snow melted under the warm rays of the spring sunshine, and
in a little while thereafter summer burst in all its glory, and the
great forest was resonant with a thousand glad voices of revivified
nature. Marguerite had had a seat erected in a spot commanding a
magnificent view which had more than once called forth the admiration
of the count, although he had only seen it under its winter aspects.
Here one summer day she sat wrapped in thought, when she was suddenly
startled by someone approaching. She turned round quickly, and to her
infinite surprise beheld the count, looking even handsomer and more
fascinating than when she last beheld him. He stepped gaily to her
side, and commenced an animated conversation.
‘You left me,’ exclaimed the delighted girl, ‘and I thought all
happiness was fled from me for ever; but you return, and shall we not
be happy?’
‘Happy,’ replied the stranger with a scornful burst of derision, ‘can
I ever be happy again? Can the--but excuse the agitation, my love,
and impute it to the pleasure I experience at our meeting. Oh! I have
many things to tell you; aye! and many kind words to receive. Is it
not so, sweet one? Come, tell me truly, have you been happy during my
absence? No! I see in that sunken eye, in that pallid cheek, that the
poor wanderer has at least gained some slight interest in the heart of
his beloved. I have roamed to other climes, I have seen other nations,
I have met with other women, beautiful and accomplished, but I have
met with but one angel, and she is here before me. Accept this simple
offering of my affection, dearest,’ continued the stranger, plucking a
heath-rose from its stem; ‘it is beautiful as yourself, and sweet as is
the love I bear thee.’
‘It is sweet, indeed,’ replied Marguerite, ‘but its sweetness must
wither ere night closes around. It is beautiful, but its beauty is
shortlived, as the love evinced by man. Let not this, then, be the type
of your attachment. Bring me the delicate evergreen, the sweet flower
that blossoms throughout the year, and I will say, as I wreathe it in
my hair, “The violets have bloomed and died, the roses have flourished
and decayed, but the evergreen is still young, and so is the love of my
wanderer.” Ah, don’t think me immodest if I confess my love for you.
You taught me love, why then should I conceal my feelings? You will
not--cannot desert me again. I live but in you; you are my hope, my
thoughts, my existence itself, and if I lose you I lose my all. I was
but a solitary wild flower in the wilderness of nature, and can you now
break the fond heart you first taught to glow with passion?’
‘Speak not thus,’ returned the stranger, suddenly changing his manner;
‘it rends my very soul to hear you. Leave me, forget me, avoid me for
ever, or your eternal ruin must ensue. I am a thing abandoned of God
and man, and did you but see the seared heart that scarcely beats
within this moving mass of deformity you would flee me as you would an