The Deserted House | Page 4

smokes so heavily sometimes, even in
summer when there are no fires used that my brother has often
quarreled with the old steward about it, fearing danger. But the old man
excuses himself by saying that he was cooking his food. Heaven knows
what the queer creature may eat, for often, when the pipe is smoking
heavily, a strange and queer smell can be smelled all over the house."
The glass doors of the shop creaked in opening. The pastry cook
hurried into the front room, and when he had nodded to the figure now
entering he threw a meaning glance at me. I understood him perfectly.
Who else could this strange guest be, but the steward who had charge
of the mysterious house! Imagine a thin little man with a face the color
of a mummy, with a sharp nose tight-set lips, green cat's eyes, and a
crazy smile; his hair dressed in the old-fashioned style with a high
toupet and a bag at the back, and heavily powdered. He wore a faded
old brown coat which was carefully brushed, gray stockings, and broad,
flat-toed shoes with buckles. And imagine further, that in spite of his
meagerness this little person is robustly built, with huge fists and long,
strong fingers, and that he walks to the shop counter with a strong, firm
step, smiling his imbecile smile, and whining out: "A couple of candied
oranges--a couple of macaroons--a couple of sugared chestnuts--"
Picture all this to yourself and judge whether I had not sufficient cause
to imagine a mystery here.
The pastry cook gathered up the wares the old man had demanded.
"Weigh it out, weigh it out, honored neighbor," moaned the strange
man, as he drew out a little leathern bag and sought in it for his money.
I noticed that he paid for his purchase in worn old coins, some of which
were no longer in use. He seemed very unhappy and murmured:
"Sweet--sweet--it must all be sweet! Well, let it be! The devil has pure
honey for his bride--pure honey!"
The pastry cook smiled at me and then spoke to the old man. "You do
not seem to be quite well. Yes, yes, old age, old age! It takes the
strength from our limbs." The old man's expression did not change, but

his voice went up: "Old age?--Old age?--Lose strength?--Grow
weak?--Oho!" And with this he clapped his hands together until the
joints cracked, and sprang high up into the air until the entire shop
trembled and the glass vessels on the walls and counters rattled and
shook. But in the same moment a hideous screaming was heard; the old
man had stepped on his black dog, which, creeping in behind him, had
laid itself at his feet on the floor. "Devilish beast--dog of hell!" groaned
the old man in his former miserable tone, opening his bag and giving
the dog a large macaroon. The dog, which had burst out into a cry of
distress that was truly human, was quiet at once, sat down on its
haunches, and gnawed at the macaroon like a squirrel. When it had
finished its tidbit, the old man had also finished the packing up and
putting away of his purchases. "Good night, honored neighbor," he
spoke, taking the hand of the pastry cook and pressing it until the latter
cried aloud in pain. "The weak old man wishes you a good night, most
honorable Sir Neighbor," he repeated, and then walked from the shop,
followed closely by his black dog. The old man did not seem to have
noticed me at all. I was quite dumfoundered in my astonishment.
"There, you see," began the pastry cook. "This is the way he acts when
he comes in here, two or three times a month, it is. But I can get
nothing out of him except the fact that he was a former valet of Count
S., that he is now in charge of this house here, and that every day--for
many years now--he expects the arrival of his master's family. My
brother spoke to him one day about the strange noises at night; but he
answered calmly, 'Yes, people say the ghosts walk about in the house.'
But do not believe it, for it is not true." The hour was now come when
fashion demanded that the elegant world of the city should assemble in
this attractive shop. The doors opened incessantly, the place was
thronged, and I could ask no further questions.
This much I knew, that Count P.'s information about the ownership and
the use of the house were not correct; also that the old steward, in spite
of his denial, was not living alone there, and that some mystery was
hidden behind its discolored walls. How could I combine