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  THE ROOM IN THE DRAGON VOLANT

  By J. Sheridan LeFanu

  _Other books by J. Sheridan LeFanu_

  The Cock and Anchor Torlogh O'Brien The Home by the Churchyard Uncle Silas Checkmate Carmilla The Wyvern Mystery Guy Deverell Ghost Stories and Tales of Mystery The Chronicles of Golden Friars In a Glass Darkly The Purcell Papers The Watcher and Other Weird Stories A Chronicle of Golden Friars and Other Stories Madam Crowl's Ghost and Other Tales of Mystery Green Tea and Other Stones Sheridan LeFanu: The Diabolic Genius Best Ghost Stories of J.S. LeFanu The Best Horror Stories The Vampire Lovers and Other Stories Ghost Stories and Mysteries The Hours After Midnight J.S. LeFanu: Ghost Stories and Mysteries Ghost and Horror Stones Green Tea and Other Ghost Stories Carmilla and Other Classic Tales of Mystery

  The Room in the Dragon Volant

  _Prologue_

  _The curious case which I am about to place before you, is referredto, very pointedly, and more than once, in the extraordinary Essay uponthe Drug of the Dark and the Middle Ages, from the pen of DoctorHesselius_.

  _This Essay he entitles_ Mortis Imago, _and he, therein, discusses the_Vinum letiferum, _the_ Beatifica, _the_ Somnus Angelorum, _the_ HypnusSagarum, _the_ Aqua Thessalliae, _and about twenty other infusions anddistillations, well known to the sages of eight hundred years ago, andtwo of which are still, he alleges, known to the fraternity of thieves,and, among them, as police-office inquiries sometimes disclose to thisday, in practical use_.

  _The Essay,_ Mortis Imago, _will occupy, as nearly as I can atpresent calculate, two volumes, the ninth and tenth, of the collectedpapers of Dr. Martin Hesselius_.

  _This Essay, I may remark in conclusion, is very curiously enriched bycitations, in great abundance, from medieval verse and prose romance,some of the most valuable of which, strange to say, are Egyptian_.

  _I have selected this particular statement from among many casesequally striking, but hardly, I think, so effective as mere narratives;in this irregular form of publication, it is simply as a story that Ipresent it_.

  Chapter I

  ON THE ROAD

  In the eventful year, 1815, I was exactly three-and-twenty, and had justsucceeded to a very large sum in consols and other securities. The firstfall of Napoleon had thrown the continent open to English excursionists,anxious, let us suppose, to improve their minds by foreign travel; andI--the slight check of the "hundred days" removed, by the genius ofWellington, on the field of Waterloo--was now added to the philosophicthrong.

  I was posting up to Paris from Brussels, following, I presume, the routethat the allied army had pursued but a few weeks before--more carriagesthan you could believe were pursuing the same line. You could not lookback or forward, without seeing into far perspective the clouds of dustwhich marked the line of the long series of vehicles. We wereperpetually passing relays of return-horses, on their way, jaded anddusty, to the inns from which they had been taken. They were arduoustimes for those patient public servants. The whole world seemed postingup to Paris.

  I ought to have noted it more particularly, but my head was so full ofParis and the future that I passed the intervening scenery with littlepatience and less attention; I think, however, that it was about fourmiles to the frontier side of a rather picturesque little town, the nameof which, as of many more important places through which I posted in myhurried journey, I forget, and about two hours before sunset, that wecame up with a carriage in distress.

  It was not quite an upset. But the two leaders were lying flat. Thebooted postilions had got down, and two servants who seemed very muchat sea in such matters, were by way of assisting them. A pretty littlebonnet and head were popped out of the window of the carriage indistress. Its _tournure_, and that of the shoulders that alsoappeared for a moment, was captivating: I resolved to play the part ofa good Samaritan; stopped my chaise, jumped out, and with my servant lenta very willing hand in the emergency. Alas! the lady with the prettybonnet wore a very thick black veil. I could see nothing but the patternof the Brussels lace as she drew back.

  A lean old gentleman, almost at the same time, stuck his head out of thewindow. An invalid he seemed, for although the day was hot he wore ablack muffler which came up to his ears and nose, quite covering thelower part of his face, an arrangement which he disturbed by pulling itdown for a moment, and poured forth a torrent of French thanks, as heuncovered his black wig, and gesticulated with grateful animation.

  One of my very few accomplishments, besides boxing, which was cultivatedby all Englishmen at that time, was French; and I replied, I hope andbelieve grammatically. Many bows being exchanged, the old gentleman'shead went in again, and the demure, pretty little bonnet once moreappeared.

  The lady must have heard me speak to my servant, for she framed herlittle speech in such pretty, broken English, and in a voice so sweet,that I more than ever cursed the black veil that baulked my romanticcuriosity.

  The arms that were emblazoned on the panel were peculiar; I rememberespecially one device--it was the figure of a stork, painted in carmine,upon what the heralds call a "field or." The bird was standing upon oneleg, and in the other claw held a stone. This is, I believe, the emblemof vigilance. Its oddity struck me, and remained impressed upon mymemory. There were supporters besides, but I forget what they were. Thecourtly manners of these people, the style of their servants, theelegance of their traveling carriage, and the supporters to their arms,satisfied me that they were noble.

  The lady, you may be sure, was not the less interesting on that account.What a fascination a title exercises upon the imagination! I do not meanon that of snobs or moral flunkies. Superiority of rank is a powerfuland genuine influence in love. The idea of superior refinement isassociated with it. The careless notice of the squire tells more uponthe heart of the pretty milk-maid than years of honest Dobbin's manlydevotion, and so on and up. It is an unjust world!

  But in this case there was something more. I was conscious of beinggood-looking. I really believe I was; and there could be no mistakeabout my being nearly six feet high. Why need this lady have thanked me?Had not her husband, for such I assumed him to be, thanked me quiteenough and for both? I was instinctively aware that the lady was lookingon me with no unwilling eyes; and, through her veil, I felt the power ofher gaze.

  She was now rolling away, with a train of dust behind her wheels in thegolden sunlight, and a wise young gentleman followed her with ardenteyes and sighed profoundly as the distance increased.

  I told the postilions on no account to pass the carriage, but to keep itsteadily in view, and to pull up at whatever posting-house it shouldstop at. We were soon in the little town, and the carriage we followeddrew up at the Belle Etoile, a comfortable old inn. They got out of thecarriage and entered the house.

  At a leisurely pace we followed. I got down, and mounted the stepslistlessly, like a man quite apathetic and careless.

  Audacious as I was, I did not care to inquire in what room I should findthem. I peeped into the apartment to my right, and then into that on myleft. _My_ people were not there. I ascended the stairs. Adrawing-room door stood open. I entered with the most innocent air inthe world. It was a spacious room, and, beside myself, contained but oneliving figure--a very pretty and lady-like one. There was the verybonnet with which I had fallen in love. The lady stood with her backtoward me. I could not tell whether the envious veil was raised; she wasreading a letter.

  I stood for a minute in fixed attention, gazing upon her, in vague hopethat she might turn about and give me an opportunity of seeing herfeatures. She did not; but with a step or two she placed herself beforea little cabr
iole-table, which stood against the wall, from which rosea tall mirror in a tarnished frame.

  I might, indeed, have mistaken it for a picture; for it now reflected ahalf-length portrait of a singularly beautiful woman.

  She was looking down upon a letter which she held in her slenderfingers, and in which she seemed absorbed.

  The face was oval, melancholy, sweet. It had in it, nevertheless, afaint and undefinably sensual quality also. Nothing could exceed thedelicacy of its features, or the brilliancy of its tints. The eyes,indeed, were lowered, so that I could not see their color; nothing buttheir long lashes and delicate eyebrows. She continued reading. She musthave been deeply interested; I never saw a living form so motionless--Igazed on a tinted statue.

  Being at that time blessed with long and keen vision, I saw thisbeautiful face with perfect distinctness. I saw even the blue veins thattraced their wanderings on the whiteness of her full throat.

  I ought to have retreated as noiselessly as I came in, before mypresence was detected. But I was too much interested to move from thespot, for a few moments longer; and while they were passing, she raisedher eyes. Those eyes were large, and of that hue which modern poets term"violet."

  These splendid melancholy eyes were turned upon me from the glass, witha haughty stare, and hastily the lady lowered her black veil, and turnedabout.

  I fancied that she hoped I had not seen her. I was watching every lookand movement, the minutest, with an attention as intense as if an ordealinvolving my life depended on them.