Ghost Stories of an Antiquary | Page 5

unimaginative habits of mind.
He absolutely refused to be alone for the rest of that evening, and he
told me afterwards that for many nights he had not dared to put out his
light before going to sleep. However, the main traits of the figure I can
at least indicate.
At first you saw only a mass of coarse, matted black hair; presently it

was seen that this covered a body of fearful thinness, almost a skeleton,
but with the muscles standing out like wires. The hands were of a
dusky pallor, covered, like the body, with long, coarse hairs, and
hideously taloned. The eyes, touched in with a burning yellow, had
intensely black pupils, and were fixed upon the throned King with a
look of beast-like hate. Imagine one of the awful bird-catching spiders
of South America translated into human form, and endowed with
intelligence just less than human, and you will have some faint
conception of the terror inspired by the appalling effigy. One remark is
universally made by those to whom I have shown the picture: 'It was
drawn from the life.'
As soon as the first shock of his irresistible fright had subsided,
Dennistoun stole a look at his hosts. The sacristan's hands were pressed
upon his eyes; his daughter, looking up at the cross on the wall, was
telling her beads feverishly.
At last the question was asked: 'Is this book for sale?'
There was the same hesitation, the same plunge of determination that
he had noticed before, and then came the welcome answer: 'If monsieur
pleases.'
'How much do you ask for it?'
'I will take two hundred and fifty francs.'
This was confounding. Even a collector's conscience is sometimes
stirred, and Dennistoun's conscience was tenderer than a collector's.
'My good man!' he said again and again, 'your book is worth far more
than two hundred and fifty francs. I assure you--far more.'
But the answer did not vary: 'I will take two hundred and fifty
francs--not more.'
There was really no possibility of refusing such a chance. The money
was paid, the receipt signed, a glass of wine drunk over the transaction,

and then the sacristan seemed to become a new man. He stood upright,
he ceased to throw those suspicious glances behind him, he actually
laughed or tried to laugh. Dennistoun rose to go.
'I shall have the honour of accompanying monsieur to his hotel?' said
the sacristan.
'Oh, no, thanks! it isn't a hundred yards. I know the way perfectly, and
there is a moon.'
The offer was pressed three or four times and refused as often.
'Then, monsieur will summon me if--if he finds occasion; he will keep
the middle of the road, the sides are so rough.'
'Certainly, certainly,' said Dennistoun, who was impatient to examine
his prize by himself; and he stepped out into the passage with his book
under his arm.
Here he was met by the daughter; she, it appeared, was anxious to do a
little business on her own account; perhaps, like Gehazi, to 'take
somewhat' from the foreigner whom her father had spared.
'A silver crucifix and chain for the neck; monsieur would perhaps be
good enough to accept it?'
Well, really, Dennistoun hadn't much use for these things. What did
mademoiselle want for it?
'Nothing--nothing in the world. Monsieur is more than welcome to it.'
The tone in which this and much more was said was unmistakably
genuine, so that Dennistoun was reduced to profuse thanks, and
submitted to have the chain put round his neck. It really seemed as if he
had rendered the father and daughter some service which they hardly
knew how to repay. As he set off with his book they stood at the door
looking after him, and they were still looking when he waved them a
last good night from the steps of the Chapeau Rouge.

Dinner was over, and Dennistoun was in his bedroom, shut up alone
with his acquisition. The landlady had manifested a particular interest
in him since he had told her that he had paid a visit to the sacristan and
bought an old book from him. He thought, too, that he had heard a
hurried dialogue between her and the said sacristan in the passage
outside the salle à manger; some words to the effect that 'Pierre and
Bertrand would be sleeping in the house' had closed the conversation.
All this time a growing feeling of discomfort had been creeping over
him--nervous reaction, perhaps, after the delight of his discovery.
Whatever it was, it resulted in a conviction that there was someone
behind him, and that he was far more comfortable with his back to the
wall. All this, of course, weighed light in the balance as against the
obvious value of the collection he