A FRENCH HISTORICAL GHOST STORY.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1525, 2 April 1886, Page 3

A FRENCH HISTORICAL GHOST STORY.

Once upon a time—that is, towards the close of the last century —the forest of Senart did not possess a better reputation than the forest of Bondy has enjoyed in our days. One fine night in the summer of 1799 the diligence from Paris to Melun had just entered the alley which traverses the entire length of the forest—centennial oaks whose thick branches shroud the road in darkness. The rotunds and coupe of the old-fashioned vehicle were full; in&ide were two travellers, and on a provincial tenor made the woods echo U his song. In such a situation (says the Leeds i Mercury) no one seemed to run the least risk, and the diligence proceeded gently at a walking pace. On arriving near Corbeil the driver shook up his horses and made the stones of the sleepy town rattle. At the relay office the guard got down and invited the not unwilling passengers to partake of refreshment. The latter, nothing loth to accede to the proposal, descended from their perch, looked at one another, yawned, and counted their numbers. 41 Hullo!" cried the conductor, "What has become of my two inside passengers ?" " Don't torment yourself, governor," said the tenor, " they will turn up, your traveller«, and the wolf will not hare devoured them." " Parbleu /" rejoined a notary on his way to Melun; " why just before entering the forest I leaned over to offer them a pinch of snuff at the window." The conductor searched in vain. No trace of the travellers was to be found. The diligence had to start again without picking up the missing pair. A few days after this surprising incident the police went to inform M. Mehul, Profepsor at the Conservatoire, of the disanpearance of his old friend Monsieur X. Nothing had been seen of him since the evening on which he had stepped into th e diligence for Melun in the Cour des Messageries. The news caused profound grief to the celebrated musician. All the researches he made to discover his friend remained fruitless. So strange an occurrence could not but greatly disturb the composer, who spoke and thought of it incessantly—so much so, that he lost appetite and sleep. One night, when tossing on his bed, the clock of St Roach haviig just struck two, the moon, shinirg through the half opened shutters, threw its rays on the figjure of a queer little hunchback holding in his crooked hands a roll of cord. Mehul rubbed his eyes and raised himself on his pilllf w, endeavouring to convince himself that he was not the victim of nightmare. The hunch-back was still there close to the bed, and the terrified musician was about to inquire the reason of this singular apparition when suddenly his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, his hair stood on end, and a shudder passed through his frame. Behind the little figure with the crooked hands he descried the white, shsdowy outline of his missing friend, whose faint glance Beemed directed towards him. The next ipstant a passing cloud hid the moon from sight, and the vision vanished. On waking in the morning, when trying to collect his thoughts, the suspicion that it must have been a dream forced itself upon his mind. And yet how vividiv he recalled the whole scene. " I could have sworn." he said, "that I caw my poor friend looking at me srdly, and making signs to me. But what could the little hunchback have to do there ?" Gradually, however, the remembrance of the phantom, which he did not dare to relate to his wife, disappeared from Mehul's mind, and if he sometimes thought of his lost friend, he forgot to associate him with his vision.

Five years elapsed. Imperial Cjesar had ascended the throne of the Kins?s of France, and all the world wa% abroad to gaZe at tb« rejoicings that marked the close of one of the troubled stages of the national annals. Mdhul and his wife, followed by their children, stood admiring, like good citizens, the illuminations in the Champs Elysees. All of a sudden, he felt some one tugging at the skirts of his coat. Turning sharply round, the composer seized the hand of the pickpocket, whose crooked fingers and misshapen form recalled a familiar appearance. While holding the man in his grasp the recollection of the phantom flashed

across his mipd. Bat in presence of the Commissaire de Police Mehul shrank from giving vent to his suspicions. How was it possible to accuse a man of murder on the evidence ot a dream? Nevertheless, it was only with an effort that the musician refrained from telling his strange story. All night, while lying on his bed, with half open shutters, the moon shone forth as five years before, and the clock of St Boach gave forth the hour of two. Just »t that instant a white shadow emerged from the luminous rays at the window, and a sepulchral voice murmured, " Avenge me, my friend; avenge me." This time the composer of " l'lrats " no longer hesitated. "Yes, dear friend, I will avenge thee." Forthwith he repaired to the police-station of the Champs Elysees and related what he had seen. If it had been anyone less important than the maitre de chappelle of the Emperor, the Commissary would have dismissed the bearer of so strange a message as a lunatic ; but the official listened gravely to his story. A keen examining magistrate was employed to ferret out the secret of the hunchback. It transpired that during the Eeign of Terror the man belonged to an association known as '• Tape-dur" (strike hard). After the collapse of the Committee of Public Safety portions of this band betook themselves to the highway for a living, which our friend the hunchback preferred to following his trade of a taylor. Through the indiscretion of a servant he had heard that MeW's friend was going to Melun to pay into the hands of a notary the price of a countrv house he had bought, in which he hoped to spend the remainder of his days. Taking advantage of his lonely situation, the bandit strangled the other occupant of the diligence, and disappeared with his body, which he buried in the forest. A less sentimental jury than is to be met with now-a-days condemned the murderer to the scaffold.

Such was the story related the other day in a Parisian boudoir by the grandson of a Marshal of France, who had heard it from M6hul himself. The imprimatur of " Mary Summer " is given to this legend.