The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories
out that he cannot breathe, and must go up into the fresh air again.
The guides insist that monsieur must be mistaken, and no one is ever
taken ill there. I insist, on the other hand, that monsieur’s wishes
must be complied with, and we must reaccompany him to the top, which
we do. I would rather not go back again then, and make the dark
pilgrimage alone with the children, but E-- begs we will, and the
girls look disappointed; so we retrace our steps, leaving him in the
park.
I confess that as I go down the second time I feel a little nervous,
and my limbs shake. I don’t like this going down, down, down into the
shades of eternal night, with no companions but two little children.
But at last we stand on level ground again. There is no light anywhere
except from the guides’ lamps, the foremost one (who is always
spokesman) waves his above his head, and introduces _la grande salle_.
I look up and around me, but all is black as pitch. I feel that I am
standing on broken flints and a great deal of mud; and as the guide’s
lamp throws its faint gleam here and there, I see that the cavern we
stand in is very vast and damp, and uncommonly like a huge cellar; but
I can’t say I see anything more. In another minute the guide has
turned, and leads us through a passage cut in the rock. We are not
going up or downstairs now, but picking our way over slippery stones
and between places sometimes so narrow and sometimes so low, that our
shoulders get various bumps and bruises, and the guide’s warning of
“_Garde tête!_” sounds continuously. Every now and then we come upon
a larger excavation, which is called a _salle_, and given some name
consequent on the likeness assumed by the stalactites contained in it.
Thus one is called _salle de Brahma_, because it contains a large
stalactite, somewhat resembling the idol of that name. Another _salle
du sacrifice_, because its principal attraction is a large flat stone,
at the foot of which is another, shaped sausage-wise, and entitled
_tombeau de la victime_. We pace after the guides through these
cavernous passages for what appears to me miles, my mind meanwhile
being divided between fear that I should leave my boots behind me in
the slushy clay, or that either of my children should tumble down or
knock her head. Every cavern is like the other, and I look in vain for
stalactites which shall remind me of “houris grouped about the
sultan,” or “frozen tears.” The guides occasionally produce a fine
effect by burning a little red fire, or letting-off a rocket, or
climbing singly up the more perilous places, that we may watch the
gradual ascent of their flickering lamps, and judge of the height of
the larger _salles_. But I suppose the enthusiastic scribblers in the
visitors’ book would consider me the possessor of a very darkened
intellect if they heard me affirm that I have seen better effects on
the stage, and climbed greater heights with much more convenience.
Perhaps I have not a sufficiently appreciative soul for grottoes; but
the greater part of the grotto of Rochefort comes up exactly to my
idea of a mine, and nothing more.
The “glittering” stalactites are nowhere. The cave is lined with
stalactites, but (with the exception of a few white ones) they are all
of a uniform pale-brown colour, and have no idea of glittering or
being prismatic. The greatest wonder of the grotto is its vastness,
which may be estimated from the fact that we are two hours going over
it, and then have not traversed the whole on account of fresh works
being carried on in parts. We penetrate to its very depths to see the
river and the waterfall, but the mud is so excessive that we are
compelled to stop, and let the guide descend with his lamp and flash
it over the water, which is really very pretty, and, strange to
relate, contains good trout.
Then we plough our way upwards again; up fungus-covered ladders, and
wet, slippery stairs, upon which it is most difficult to keep a
footing, until we arrive at decidedly the finest sight there--the
_salle du sabbat_. Here the guides send up a spirit-balloon, to show
us the height and extent of the vast cavern, and we are rather
awe-struck, particularly as, in order that we may see the full effect,
the other guide plants us on three chairs and takes away both the
lamps, leaving us seated in the darkness, on the edge of a precipice.
The blackness is so thick about us that we can almost _feel_ it; and
the silence is that of death. My youngest girl slips her little hand
in mine, and whispers, “Mamma, supposing he weren’t to come back
again!” and I can’t say the prospect pleases. However, the balloon
reaches the top of the cavern, and is hauled back again; and the guide
_does_ come back; and, whilst he is assisting his fellow to pack it
away, I sing a verse of “God save the Queen,” for the children to hear
the echo, which is stupendous.
Then we see the prettiest thing, perhaps, we have seen yet. At the top
of the _salle du sabbat_ there is a kind of breakage in the side, and
a large cluster of stalactites. One guide climbs up to this place and
holds his lamp behind the group, whilst the other calls out “_la femme
qui repose_;” when lo! before us there appears almost an exact
representation of a woman, reclining with crossed legs, and a child on
her bosom. It is so good an imitation, that it might be a figure
carved in stone and placed there, and I think the sight gave us more
pleasure than anything in the grotto. We have come upon several groups
of stalactites already, to which the guides have given names, such as
_l’ange de la résurrection_, _l’oreille de l’éléphant_, and _le
lion Belge_; but though they have, of course, borne some resemblance
to the figures mentioned, the likeness is only admitted for want of a
better. This likeness, however, is excellent, could hardly be more
like; and we are proportionately pleased. With the _salle du sabbat_
and the balloon the exhibition is ended; and we are thankful to emerge
into the fresh air again, and to leave slippery staircases and the
smell of fungi behind us.
We feel very heated when we stand on the breezy hill again, for the
grotto, contrary to our expectation, has proved exceedingly warm, and
the exercise has made us feel more so; and daylight looks so strange
that we can scarcely persuade ourselves we have not been passing the
night down below. We have picked up several little loose bits of stone
and stalactite during our progress, and when we reach home, we spread
them out before us on the table, and try to remember where they came
from. Here is a bit of marble, veined black-and-white; and here is
white stone, glistening and silvery. Here is the stalactite, a
veritable piece of “frozen tears” and _couchant houris_.
Well, we have been a little disappointed with the grottoes of
Rochefort, perhaps; we have not found the crystallisations quite so
purple-and-amber as we anticipated, or the foundations quite so clean;
but, after all, it is what we must expect in this life. If the grotto
is not so brilliant as we expected, it is at least a very wonderful
and uncommon sight; and so in this life, if we can but forget the
purple-and-gold, we may extract a great deal of amusement from very
small things, if we choose to try. With which bit of philosophy I
conclude.
A MIDSUMMER’S NIGHTMARE;
OR,
THE AMATEUR DETECTIVE.
I am an author. I am something worse than that--I am a Press writer.
I am worse than that still--I am a Press writer with a large wife and
a small family. And I am an Amateur Detective! I don’t mean, of
course, that I reckon the last item as part of my profession, but my
friends always come to me if they are in any difficulty, and set me to
do all kinds of queer jobs, from restoring and reconciling a truant
husband to his wife, to making the round of the “Homes for Lost Dogs”
in order to find Lady Softsawder’s pet poodle. Even Jones couldn’t
complete his great work, “The Cyclopædia of the Brain,” without
asking my assistance (for a consideration, of course) with his fifth
section, “The Origin of Dreams.” Jones is full of fire and
imagination, but he does not care for plodding, and he knew me of old
for a good steady compiler. I agreed with alacrity. “The Origin of
Dreams” would fill those hungry little mouths of mine for three months
at the very least. But how to do it whilst they gaped around me!--how
to cover the one table in my solitary sitting-room with valuable works
of reference at the risk of their being touched by greasy
fingers!--how to wade through volume after volume, placing a mental
mark there and a material one here, whilst my offspring either
surreptitiously removed the one or irretrievably obliterated
remembrance of the other, by attracting my attention to the manner in
which they attempted to scalp each other’s heads or gouge out each
other’s eyes! I tried it for a week in vain.
My Press work I had been accustomed to do at office, but this, which
was to be based upon the contents of certain ponderous black-lettered
tomes which Jones had been collecting for ages past, must be carried
on at home, and the noisy, wearisome day gave me no time for
reflection, and left me without energy to labour at night. I was about
to resign the task in despair--to tell Jones to give it to some more
capable or more fortunate labourer in the wide field of
speculation--when Fate came to my rescue in the person of the Hon.
Captain Rivers, Lord Seaborne’s son.
“My dad’s in an awful way about his ward, young Cockleboat,” he
remarked to me, in his friendly manner, “and he wants your assistance,
Trueman, if you’ll give it him.”
“Why, what’s the matter, Captain Rivers?”
“Haven’t you heard? Cockleboat’s made a fool of himself. He fell in
love with a nursemaid, or a barmaid, or some such sort of person--he,
with his twenty thousand a-year in prospect; and when the governor
remonstrated with him--told him ’twas nonsense and couldn’t be, and
all that sort of thing, he actually ran away!”
“Left Lord Seaborne’s house?”
“Of course, and without a word of explanation. Now, dad doesn’t want
to make the affair public, you know, unless it becomes necessary, so
he hasn’t said a word to the police; but he wants you to find out
where Cockleboat is--you’re so clever at that sort of thing--and just
bring him home again.”
“An easy task, certainly. And you don’t even know which way the lad
has gone?”
“Well, we think we’ve traced him to Norwich, and dad thought if you
wouldn’t mind going up there for a bit, and keeping your eyes open; of
course we should make it worth your while, you know, you might hear
something of the young scamp for us.”
“What on earth can be his motive for leaving home?”
“Well, perhaps the lady lives up that way, or Julian may have got it
into his head that he’ll work to support her. He is but twenty last
birthday, and will not be of age, by his father’s will, for the next
five years--very lucky for him, as it’s turned out, that he will not
be.”
“True. I think I remember seeing the lad at Lady Godiva’s last season.
Didn’t he act there in some private theatricals or charades?”
“I believe he did. Now, Trueman, what’s your decision? Will you go to
Norwich for us or not?”
“I will start to-morrow if your father wishes it.”
The offer had come most opportunely; even as Captain Rivers was
speaking it had flashed through my mind that here was the very
opportunity that I desired to carry out my project of writing the
fifth section of Jones’ Cyclopædia;--a remote lodging in one of the
back streets of the quiet old city of Norwich, whence I could carry on
my inquiries all day, and where I might sit up and write out my notes
all night. And Lord Seaborne’s generosity in such cases was too well
known to permit of any doubt on the subject whether I should not (by