The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories

The now aged couple in their hot youth had been on the losing side in the Paris Commune of 1871. They had been saved from imprisonment, possibly worse, by Julian Treville’s grandmother, a lawless, high-minded Scotchwoman who called herself a Liberal. She had brought them to England, and for fifty odd years they had lived in a cottage a quarter of a mile from The Folly. There was small reason, as Treville could have argued with perfect truth, to be afraid of this old pair. But Laura did feel afraid, and so it had been arranged between the lovers that only to-morrow, after she had spent at The Folly a solitary night and day, would he, at the close of a day’s hunting, share “Mrs Darcy’s” simple dinner . . .

The motor stopped, and the man and woman, who had been clasped in each other’s arms, drew quickly apart.

“We have to get out here,” muttered Treville, “for there is no carriage-way down to The Folly. I’ll carry your bag.”

Keeping up the sorry comedy she paid off and dismissed the chauffeur.

In the now fading daylight Laura saw that to her left the ground sloped steeply down to the shores of a lake whose now grey waters narrowed to a point beyond which there stood a low, pillared building. It was more like an eighteenth-century orangery than a house meant for human habitation. Eerily beautiful, and yet exceedingly desolate, to Laura The Folly appeared unreal – a fairy dwelling in that Kingdom of Romance whither her feet had never strayed, rather than a place where men and women had joyed and sorrowed, lived and died.

“If only I could feel that you will never regret that you came here,” Treville whispered.

She answered quickly, “I shall always be glad, not sorry, Julian.”

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Then he said: “Old Célestine will have it that The Folly is haunted by La Belle Julie. You’re not afraid of ghosts, my dearest?”

Laura smiled a little wanly in the twilight. “Far more afraid of flesh and blood than ghosts,” she murmured. “Where do Célestine and her husband live, Julian?”

“We can’t see their cottage from here; but it’s quite close by.” His voice sank: “I’ve told them that you’re not afraid of being in the house alone at night.”

They went down a winding footpath, she clinging to him for very joy in his nearness, till they reached the stone-paved space which lay between the shore of the lake and the low grey building. And then, suddenly, while they were walking towards the high front door, Laura gave a stifled cry, for a gnome-like figure had sprung, as if from nowhere, across their path.

“Here’s old Jacques,” exclaimed Treville vexedly. “He always shows an excess of zeal!”

The little Frenchman was gesticulating and talking eagerly, explaining that fires had been burning all day in the three rooms which were to be occupied by the visitor. He further told, at unnerving length, that Célestine would be at The Folly herself very shortly to install “Madame.”

When the old chap had shuffled off, Julian Treville put a key in the lock of the heavy old door; taking Laura’s slight figure up into his strong arms, he lifted her over the threshold straight into an enchanting living-room where nothing had been altered for over a hundred years.

She gave a cry of delight. “What a delicious place, Julian! I never thought it would be like this—”

A log fire threw up high flames in the deep fire-place, and a lighted lamp stood on a round, gilt-rimmed, marble table close to a low and roomy, if rather stiff, square arm-chair. The few pieces of fine Empire furniture were covered with faded yellow satin which had been brought from Paris when Napoleon was ironing out the frontiers of Europe, for the Treville of that day had furnished The Folly to please the Frenchwoman he loved. The walls of the room were hung with turquoise silk. There was a carved-wood gilt mirror over the mantelpiece, and on the right-hand wall there hung an oval pastel of La Belle Julie.

Hand in hand they stood, looking up at the lovely smiling face.

“According to tradition,” said Treville, “that picture was the only thing the poor soul brought with her when she left France. The powdered hair proves it must have been done when Julie was in her teens, before the Revolution. My great-great-grandfather fell in love with her when she must have been well over thirty—”

Then, dropping the mask he had worn since they had left the motor, “Laura!” he exclaimed; “Beloved! At last – at last!”

For him, and for her, too, the world sank away, though, even so, that which is now called her subconscious self was listening, full of shrinking fear, for the sound of a key in the lock . . .

He said at last in a low, shaken voice, “And now I suppose that I must leave you? . . .”

Her lips formed the words telling him that he had been overscrupulous in his care for her, that they might as well brave the curious eyes of old Célestine tonight as tomorrow. And then, before she could utter them, there came the sound of steps on the stone path outside.