The Deserted House | Page 2

you can easily
imagine that such a street would be the center of the city's life and
gayety.
I had wandered through the avenue several times, when one day my
attention was caught by a house which contrasted strangely with the
others surrounding it. Picture to yourselves a low building but four
windows broad, crowded in between two tall, handsome structures. Its
one upper story was little higher than the tops of the ground-floor
windows of its neighbors, its roof was dilapidated, its windows patched
with paper, its discolored walls spoke of years of neglect. You can
imagine how strange such a house must have looked in this street of
wealth and fashion. Looking at it more attentively I perceived that the
windows of the upper story were tightly closed and curtained, and that
a wall had been built to hide the windows of the ground floor. The
entrance gate, a little to one side, served also as a doorway for the
building, but I could find no sign of latch, lock, or even a bell on this
gate. I was convinced that the house must be unoccupied, for at
whatever hour of the day I happened to be passing I had never seen the
faintest signs of life about it. An unoccupied house in this avenue was
indeed an odd sight. But I explained the phenomenon to myself by
saying that the owner was doubtless absent upon a long journey, or
living upon his country estates, and that he perhaps did not wish to sell

or rent the property, preferring to keep it for his own use in the
eventuality of a visit to the city.
You all, the good comrades of my youth, know that I have been prone
to consider myself a sort of clairvoyant, claiming to have glimpses of a
strange world of wonders, a world which you, with your hard common
sense, would attempt to deny or laugh away. I confess that I have often
lost myself in mysteries which after all turned out to be no mysteries at
all. And it looked at first as if this was to happen to me in the matter of
the deserted house, that strange house which drew my steps and my
thoughts to itself with a power that surprised me. But the point of my
story will prove to you that I am right in asserting that I know more
than you do. Listen now to what I am about to tell you.
One day, at the hour in which the fashionable world is accustomed to
promenade up and down the avenue, I stood as usual before the
deserted house, lost in thought. Suddenly I felt, without looking up, that
some one had stopped beside me, fixing his eyes on me. It was Count
P., whom I had found much in sympathy with many of my imaginings,
and I knew that he also must have been deeply interested in the mystery
of this house. It surprised me not a little, therefore, that he should smile
ironically when I spoke of the strange impression that this deserted
dwelling, here in the gay heart of the town, had made upon me. But I
soon discovered the reason for his irony. Count P. had gone much
farther than myself in his imaginings concerning the house. He had
constructed for himself a complete history of the old building, a story
weird enough to have been born in the fancy of a true poet. It would
give me great pleasure to relate this story to you, but the events which
happened to me in this connection are so interesting that I feel I must
proceed with the narration of them at once.
When the count had completed his story to his own satisfaction,
imagine his feelings on learning one day that the old house contained
nothing more mysterious than a cake bakery belonging to the pastry
cook whose handsome shop adjoined the old structure. The windows of
the ground floor were walled up to give protection to the ovens, and the
heavy curtains of the upper story were to keep the sunlight from the

wares laid out there. When the count informed me of this I felt as if a
bucket of cold water had been suddenly thrown over me. The demon
who is the enemy of all poets caught the dreamer by the nose and
tweaked him painfully.
And yet, in spite of this prosaic explanation, I could not resist stopping
before the deserted house whenever I passed it, and gentle tremors
rippled through my veins as vague visions arose of what might be
hidden there. I could not believe in this story of the cake and candy
factory. Through some strange freak of the imagination I felt as a child
feels when