sleep, we have brought her here, she is not afeared of your ghosts, and so therefore you can give her a good bed, I suppose.' 'To be sure I can,' answered Bertha, which was the woman's name: 'to be sure I can make a bed fit for the emperor, when the linen is aired: walk in, madam; you look very weak.' Indeed the want of rest the preceding night had so much added to her former feeble state, that it was with difficulty they conveyed her into the kitchen. Bertha warmed a little wine, toasted a bit of bread, and leaving Jaqueline to attend the lady, she made a fire in a handsome bed-room that was in that wing, took some fine linen out of a chest and brought it down to air. 'Dear, my lady,' cried she, 'make yourself easy, I'll take care of you, and if you ar'nt afeared, you will have rooms for a princess.' Pierre and Jaqueline being about to return to their daily labour, found their kindness amply rewarded by the generosity of the stranger, who gave them money enough, they said, to serve them for six months. With a thousand blessings they retired, promising however to call daily on the lady whilst she staid at the castle, though their hearts misgave them that they should never see her more, from their apprehensions of the ghosts that inhabited the rooms above stairs. When the apartment was arranged, the lady was assisted by Bertha and laid comfortably to rest; she gave her some money to procure food and necessaries, and desired her servant might have a bed also.
This the good woman promised, and, wishing her a good sleep, returned to the kitchen. 'God bless the poor lady,' said she, 'why she is as weak as a child; sure you must have come a great way from home.' 'Yes,' answered Albert, the servant's name, 'we have indeed, and my poor lady is worn down by sorrow and fatigue; I fear she must rest some time before she can pursue her journey.' 'Well,' said Bertha, 'she may stay as long as she likes here, no body will disturb her in the day time, I am sure.' 'And what will disturb her at night?' asked Albert. 'O, my good friend,' answered she, 'nobody will sleep in the rooms up stairs; the gentlefolks who were in it last could not rest, such strange noises, and groans, and screams, and such like terrible things are heard; then at t'other end of the house the rooms are never opened; they say bloody work has been carried on there.' 'How comes it, then,' said Albert, 'that you and your husband have courage to live here?' 'Dear me,' replied she, 'why the ghosts never come down stairs, and I take care never to go up o'nights; so that if madam stays here I fear she must sleep by day, or else have a ground room, for they never comes down; they were some of your high gentry, I warrant, who never went into kitchens.' Albert smiled at the idea, but, resuming his discourse, asked the woman to whom the castle belonged? 'To a great Baron,' said she, 'but I forget his name.' 'And how long have you lived here?' 'Many a long year, friend; we have a small matter allowed us to live upon, a good garden that gives us plenty of vegetables, for my husband, you must know, is a bit of a gardener, and works in it when he is able.' 'And where is he now?' said Albert. 'Gone to the village six leagues off to get a little meat, bread and wine.' 'What! does he walk?' 'Lord help him, poor soul, he walk! no, bless your heart, he rides upon our faithful little ass, and takes care never to overload her, as we don't want much meat, thank God. But where will you like to sleep?' added she; 'will you go up stairs, or shall I bring some bedding in the next room?' Albert hesitated, but, ashamed to have less courage than his mistress, asked if there was any room near the lady's? 'Aye, sure,' answered Bertha, 'close to her there is one as good as hers.' 'Then I will sleep there,' said he. His good hostess now nimbly as she could, bestirred herself to put his room in order, and was very careful not to disturb the lady. Albert was soon accommodated and retired to rest.
In the evening the lady came down into the kitchen, much refreshed, and expressed her thanks to the good woman for her kindness. 'Heavens bless your sweet face,' cries Bertha. 'I am glad to my heart you be so well. Ah! as I live, here's my Joseph and the ass.' She ran out into the court to acquaint her good man with what had befallen her in his absence. 'As sure as you be alive, Joseph, she is some great lady under trouble, poor soul, for she does sigh so piteously but she has given me plenty of money to get things for her, so you know it's nothing to us, if she likes to stay here, so much the better.' 'I hope,' said the old man, 'she is no bad body.' No that she an't, I'll swear,' cries Bertha; 'she looks as mild as the flowers in May.' They had now unloaded their faithful ass, and entered the kitchen with their provender. Joseph was confounded at the appearance of the lady; he made his humble bow, but was very silent. Bertha prepared some eggs and fruit for her supper; she ate but little, and that little was to oblige the old couple; she then asked for a candle, and said she would retire to her room. Joseph and Bertha looked at each other with terror, both were silent; at length Joseph, with much hesitation of voice and manner, said, 'I fear, madam, you will not be quiet there, it will be better, to my thinking, if a fire was made in one of the parlours and the bedding brought down' . 'There is no occasion for fire,' answered the lady, but merely to air the room; however I am not in any apprehension of sleeping in the room above, at least I will try it this night.' It was with great reluctance the honest couple permitted her to retire; Bertha had not even the courage to accompany her, but Albert and Joseph offering to go, she ventured up to make the bed, and her work finished, flew down like one escaped from great danger.
The men having withdrawn, the lady seated herself at the dressing table, and having opened her portmantua to take out some linen for the ensuing day, she burst into tears on viewing the small quantity of necessaries she possessed; she cast a retrospection on her past calamities, they made her shudder; she looked forward to the future, all was dark and gloomy; she wrung her hands, 'What will become of me, unhappy as I am, where can I fly? who will receive a poor unfortunate, without family or friends? The little money I have will be soon exhausted, and what is to be the fate of poor Albert, who has left all to follow me!' Overcome with sorrow, she wept aloud. When, turning her eyes to the window, she saw a light glide by from the opposite wing, which her room fronted, and which Bertha had informed her was particularly haunted. At first she thought it was imagination; she arose and placed her candle in the chimney; curiosity suspended sorrow - she returned and seated herself at the window, and very soon after she saw a faint glimmering light pass a second time; exceedingly surprised, but not terrified, she continued in her situation: she saw nothing further. She at length determined to go to rest, but with an intention to visit every part of the house the following day. She got into bed, but could not sleep. About twelve o'clock she heard plainly a clanking of chains, which was followed by two or three heavy groans; she started up and listened, it was presently repeated, and seemed to die away by gentle degrees; soon after she heard a violent noise, like two or three doors clapping to with great force. Though unaccustomed to fear she could not help trembling. She felt some inclination to call Joseph, she then recollected Albert was in the next room; she knocked at the wainscot and called Albert! No answer was made. She got out of bed, and throwing on a loose gown, took her candle, and, opening the door of the next apartment, went up to the bed; she saw he was buried under the clothes. 'Albert,' said she, 'do not be afraid, 'tis your mistress with a light;' he then ventured to raise himself and though but little inclined to mirth, she could not refrain from smiling at the fright he was in; the drops of perspiration run down his face, his eyes were starting, and he was incapable of speaking for some time. 'Pray, Albert,' said his lady, 'have you heard any particular noise?' 'Noise,' repeated he. 'O Lord! all the ghosts have been here together to frighten me.' 'Here - where,' asked she, 'in this room' 'I believe so,' he replied; 'in this or the next I am sure they were; there was a score or two in chains, then there was groans and cries: but pray, madam, leave the candle a minute at the door, I will throw on my clothes and get down into kitchen and never come up stairs again.' 'Well, but, Albert,' she, 'I must stay in my room, have you more cause for fear than I have?' 'No, madam, thank God, I never did harm to man, woman, child.' 'Then take courage, Albert, I will light your candle, and, I shall be in the next apartment, and will leave my door open, you may either call to me or go down stairs, if you are a second time alarmed.' It was with reluctance he obeyed, and repeatedly desired doors might remain open.
The lady retired to her room, for some time hesitating whether should dress herself or go into bed, she at length threw herself down in her night gown, but could not sleep. Strange and various were her conjectures respecting the lights she had seen, and the accountable noises she had heard; she was not surprised that the weak minds of the old people should be terrified, or that Albert, who was likewise far advanced in years, above sixty, should shrink from alarms which had given her a momentary terror; but as she did not suffer her mind to dwell on the causes being supernatural, she conceived there must be some mystery which, on the following day, if her health permitted, she resolved, if possible,