"But, my good man, I don't see what connection all this has with the terror inspired by that spot?"

"Oh! yes, monsieur! Oh, yes! It's all connected, and that's what I'm coming to. One fine morning, we heard say in the village that Andre's wife had took another child to nurse, with hers. It was a little girl.

No one in this region had ever seen her parents, but Andre, he said that they was folks as lived some distance off and wasn't rich; but still we took notice that Andre's wife was better dressed and had lots of fine things to wear, and that Andre had a better time than ever. As he was in a lucky streak, he sold his White House six months after to a stranger who was travelling through here. The deeds was pa.s.sed at the notary's at Saint-Amand. The man's name, they say, was Gervais, and that's all anybody knows about him; for the most surprising thing is that this gentleman sent for furniture and everything he needed to run the house, but he didn't never live in it. He went right off again, and he ain't been seen again since; and that's what makes folks think that the devil had got possession of the cursed house, and the poor man that bought it found it out and swore he wouldn't never come back to it. Still, n.o.body didn't notice nothing, only folks thought it was a strange thing that the owner of the house shouldn't come to live in it. Time pa.s.sed, and the little girl Andre and his wife had took in was still with 'em. After two years they said as how her parents was dead and that they'd adopted the child; but, my word! that good deed didn't bring 'em luck. Their own child died, and about a year after, Andre, who had a way of drinking a little too much, fell into a hole on his way home from the fetes at Saint-Gall, and he wa'n't alive when they took him out. So then there wa'n't n.o.body left at the farm but Andre's widow and little Isaure--that's the name of the little girl they adopted. That was when folks began to notice strange goings on in the White House. In the first place there wa'n't n.o.body in the house, and yet there used to be lights going to and fro sometimes at night; then someone heard stamping in the garden--like horses' feet!--You may be quite certain that that gave folks a bad fright. If it had been the owner of the house come back, somebody'd have seen him; he wouldn't have kept out of sight and never come except at night. All these doings began to make people talk, to give 'em strange ideas; and then that house, with all the doors and windows shut and locked all the time, and yet noises and lights inside--you see that wa'n't clear at all!"

"And Andre's widow, who lived very near the White House, must have been more frightened than the others, I suppose?"

"Not a bit of it, monsieur; and that's another thing that wa'n't clear either; when anyone spoke to the widow Sarpiotte about them noises and lights, she'd just answer that we was all idiots, and that it wa'n't none of our business anyway."

"It would seem that the widow Sarpiotte was strong-minded."

"My word, monsieur, I don't know whether it was her mind, but it didn't prevent her going to join her husband--twelve years afterward, to be sure!"

"Ah! so the farmer's wife is dead too?"

"Yes, monsieur; she died nigh onto three years ago, and left her farm and cows and goats, everything she had, in fact, to little Isaure, who was fifteen years old then."

"And did this girl continue to live near the White House?"

"Bless my soul! yes, monsieur! And not a bit more scared than if she was in the middle of the village; and yet we noticed that the noises and lights came much oftener in the abandoned house after Andre's widow's death. Before that, we often went six months without hearing a sound; but now there ain't hardly ever two months goes by without someone being in that house at night, for sure. And it wa'n't long ago that Jacques, who went by the house before sunset and saw that all the shutters was shut, went by again the next day just as it was light, and saw two shutters open on the first floor! They didn't come open of themselves, you know. The next night they was shut again. And that little girl, who ain't eighteen years old yet, if I'm right, lives all alone close by a fearful place like that! a place we men don't dare to pa.s.s after dark!--Oh! that's mighty queer, I tell you!--So the old men of the neighborhood, and I'm one of 'em, we put this and that together, and we come to this conclusion: that little girl ain't no common girl!"

"What's that? do you think that she's a boy?" asked Alfred with a laugh.

"Nay, nay, monsieur; that ain't it at all. But you see I took notice that it was just about the time she come to Andre's that these strange things that have been happening begun. The sale of the White House to a man as we never see again; the house always locked up, but with lights in it sometimes--and then a sort of black ghost that's been seen prowling round the farm!"

"Ah! there's a ghost, is there?" asked Edouard.

"A ghost!" echoed Robineau, who during the old man's narrative had gradually moved his bench so far that he was now in the centre of the circle formed by the audience.

"Yes, messieurs, yes, there's a ghost--or an imp--that shows himself in the valley now and then."

"Have you seen it, excellent old man?"

"No, monsieur, oh, no! but Claude's seen it."

"I ain't seen it myself," said Claude, "but my oldest son Pierre, he's seen it."

"It wasn't me," said Pierre, "it was Joseph."

"I didn't just exactly see it myself," said Joseph, "but I was along with Nicolas, and he said he thought he saw something."

"Oh! according to that," exclaimed Alfred, "the existence of the ghost is abundantly proved.--But let us return to little Isaure, who is neither a boy nor a girl, you say, which would give her more or less resemblance to an imp."

"Well, monsieur, to go back to her, we folks think that, if she ain't afraid of the devil, it must be because she's in league with him; and we say--but we don't say it out loud--that the girl may be bewitched, or at any rate have some sly tricks we don't know about, for snapping her fingers at evil spirits. For just see! take the family that took her in--they all died----"

"Yes, in the s.p.a.ce of fifteen years."

"But does this girl live absolutely alone now?"

"Yes, messieurs, all alone and close by the White House, where folks like us wouldn't like to live in a crowd!--It's a very strange thing.

And then, you see, this young Isaure, she ain't like the other girls here in our mountains; and yet, as she was brought up here, there ain't no reason why she should know more'n we do; for Andre and his wife wa'n't no scholars, although they was well off."

"What do you say? that this girl is better educated than the people of these mountains?"

"I should say so! she knows lots of things! In the first place she knows how to read printed books, and they say as how she reads 'em right off, too! And yet Andre Sarpiotte wasn't very smart at that! How is it that she knows more'n her master?"

"That happens every day, my good man; but what else?"

"Why, she sings lots of songs that we don't know and that don't belong to this part of the country.--I ask you who can have taught her them?

And then, when she talks to you, she smiles and curtsies just like a fine city young lady!"

"And you don't tell it all, father," said Claudine, who thus far had maintained a respectful silence and allowed the old man to talk; "Isaure knows a lot too about planting trees and raising flowers and sowing grain; she knows an amazing deal about that! You ought to see the garden at her farm-house; everything grows there, and it's wonderful to look at! And she has medicines for doctoring animals."

"She has medicines for animals?" exclaimed Robineau with a stupefied air.

"Yes, monsieur; it ain't long ago that she cured her cow that looked like she was going to die, with some herb or other she give her to eat; and Jeannette's goat, as had a swelling under her stomach--why, Isaure went an' cured her too, with some drug or other she made her take."

"What's that? she cured Jeannette's she-goat?" cried the shepherd.

"Well! I tell you, all my goats could just die before I'd let little Isaure touch 'em.--Seems to me, messieurs, we've told you things enough to prove that the girl has dealings with Satan."

"If she cures cows and goats," muttered Robineau, "she must certainly know a lot."

"In fact, messieurs, for a girl brought up among these mountains--why, she ain't our sort, not a bit; she talks to us sometimes in words we can't understand; in short, she has a kind of a silver-gilt, honey-sweet language that ain't like what our goatherds use."

"Parbleu! I am very curious to see this girl," said Alfred.

"So am I," said Edouard.

"Faith," added Robineau, "I give you my word that she doesn't tempt me in the least!"

"But let us come to the most interesting point," said Alfred; "what sort of looking girl is this Isaure? You have not described her. Is there anything devilish in her face, her features?"

"Well! messieurs, as for that," said the shepherd, "I can't deny that she ain't bad-looking--there's even some folks hereabout who say she's pretty."

"Oh! yes, father," said Claude's three sons, "she's very pretty, Isaure is, and her smile is very sweet!"

"Hold your tongue, little ones!" said Claudine; "you don't know what you're talking about! I tell you that there's something wicked in her blue eyes--something that covers up treachery; and her soft voice is just a cheat to trap people. Besides, as if a little witch like her could be pretty!"

"No," said Robineau, "I agree with the Auvergnate; a witch is always frightful."

"Pretty or not," said the shepherd, "this much is certain, that everybody in this neighborhood keeps out of her way instead of seeking her. When they see her in one direction they go in the other. When she takes her goats to the mountain, they hurry down into the valley; and bless me! they're quite right, for she's capable of throwing a spell on you, of bringing you bad luck!"

"Yes, yes," said Claudine; "and if Bastien's sheep is dead, I know well enough it's because Isaure patted her the other day."

"Oh, mother!" interposed one of the young Auvergnats, "Bastien's sheep fell fifty feet."

"That may be," rejoined Claudine, "but what made her fall? because Isaure had touched her; do you suppose she'd have lost her footing if it hadn't been for that?"

"True," said the old man.