Monsieur Le Goff caught the sleeve of my coat. Denise shrieked "Willy!" and seized the part of my garments nearest to her, which happened to be the seat of my pants. Between their pull and a desperate windmilling of my own arms, I barely avoided a thirty-foot fall to the grass-grown courtyard below. The errant stone hit with a crash.
"Ah, quel malheur!" cried the keeper. "But by the grace of the good God, Monsieur, you are still with us. I must have that stone cemented back into place. You know how it is. With an old ruin like this, it crumbles faster than one can repair it. Are you all right now?"
We continued our tour. At the end, I pressed upon Monsieur Le Goff a whole fistful that crummy paper the French then used for money. I figured it was the least I could do. On the way home, Denise said:
"I warned you about making fun of the sinister old coot. I am not altogether joking."
Back at the chateau, Denise took a nap while I prowled the grounds with my camera, taking advantage of one of our few periods of bright sunshine. I came upon the Comte, in old pants and rolled-up shirt sleeves, working on the flower gardens with trowel, watering pot, and insecticide spray. We passed the time of day, and I told of my visit to the Chateau Morzon.
"Have you a family ghost?" I asked, "as the keeper at Morzon said they have there, if one believes the stories?"
"No; not family, anyway. Why do you ask?"
I told about the knocks during the previous night. The Comte gave the ghost of a smile.
"There is no old tradition of a specter here," he said. "But then, this house is not really old. It is not medieval or even Renaissance. It is Napoleonic, as you have doubtless inferred. It was built around 1805, to replace the original castle, destroyed in the Revolution of 1789.
"On the other hand, I will confess that, since the last war, there have been certain—ah—psychic manifestations. My wife tells me that you know something of these matters."
"I have had some strange experiences, yes."
"Then, are you and the charming Madame Newbury free tonight?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Comte."
"Bien, would you do us the honor of attending our little séance? Perhaps you can explain certain things. We begin at twenty-one hours."
"Thank you; we shall be enchanted. But how do you proceed? With a planchette, or tipping a table, or trance mediumship?"
"Angèle is our psychic. She does automatic writing."
"Oh? That will be very interesting. Tell me, does she have an understanding with that man—Monsieur—ah—Burgdorf?"
"Yes, one might say so. Their formal engagement will be announced when Max has his French citizenship."
"He intends to become French?"
"If he wishes to attach himself to my family, he must. You see, Monsieur—how shall I explain? Madame Newbury and you, have you children?"
"Three. They are in America, with my parents."
"Ah, how fortunate you are! Thérése and I, although we have been married for twelve years, have none. It is not for lack of desire, but the physicians tell us we never shall. I have no close relatives—or rather, those I had were killed in the war. So, when I die, the title will become extinct, unless I make provision for passing it on."
"Can you do that legally?"
"Yes, if one is willing to go through enough administrative routine. Of course," he smiled, "I realize that you Americans are all staunch republicans, to whom any titles are medieval nonsense. But still, a title is a nice thing to have. Aside from its sentimental appeal, it lends a certain solidarity to the family. It is even good for business.
"So, I have determined to bequeath this title to Angèle's husband, when she has one, to be passed on to their heirs. But naturally, the husband must be French. Then Max, wishing to marry Angèle, must become French."
The séance assembled at nine. We—the Comte and Comtesse, Angèle, Max Burgdorf, Denise and I, and a younger man whom we had not met before—sat in a circle around a big table. The lights were turned down. Angèle held a pencil and a pad on a clip board.
The young man was introduced as Frédéric Dion, a family friend from Vannes. He was a blond youth of about Angèle's age, who watched Angèle with an intentness that did not seem to me called for.
After a while, Angèle leaned forward and began to write. She stared straight ahead without looking at the paper. When she stopped, the Comte got up and peered over her shoulder.
"The Old French again?" murmured the Comtesse.
"No; this time it is Breton. Do you read it, Frédéric?"
Dion shook his head. "They had not yet introduced classes in Breton when I attended school."
The Comtesse said: "Jean-Pierre would know. I will go for him."
While she was out, the Comte said to me: "Monsieur Tanguy is a fanatical Breton nationalist. He does not altogether approve of us, because our family in this area goes back only to the fifteenth century. Therefore we are, in his view, foreigners."
The Comtesse returned with the manager. Tanguy looked at Angèle's scribble, shook his head, and frowned. "This is a more archaic dialect than I am accustomed to. But let me see—I think it says: 'Restore my house, if you know what is good for you. Restore my house. Restore my house.' Then it trails off into an illegible scrawl."
"My faith!" said the Comte. "Does he expect me to tear down this baraque and rebuild the original castle?"
"Even if we could afford it," added the Comtesse, "we do not have any accurate plan. There is nothing in existence to tell how it looked, save that engraving by Fragonard."
"Has this—ah—personality a name?" I asked.
"Sometimes he calls himself Ogmas; sometimes, Blaise," said the Comte.
"Could they be two separate entities?"
He shrugged. "Who knows? But he insists that both names belong to the same being."
"Perhaps one is a given name and the other a surname," said Dion.
"But," I said, "what species does this entity belong to? Is it the ghost of a mortal man, or is it some pagan godlet, left over from the Age of Bronze?"
"We have asked him," said the Comtesse, "but he gives only ambiguities or nonsense in response. Such inquiries seem to enrage him."
The Comte added: "The curé insists that it is a demon from Hell, and that we are in danger of damnation for having to do with it." He smiled indulgently. "The good Father Pare" is, I fear, a little behind the times. He has never reconciled himself to the changes that are taking place in the Church."
We waited a while, but Angèle produced no more spirit writing.
That night, however, there were more ghostly footsteps in the halls and knockings on doors. In the morning, four of the Comte's paying guests left ahead of schedule. They had been kept awake all night, they said, and at their age they needed their sleep. Although they did not admit to being frightened, I have no doubt that they were.
The Carrieres looked worried. The Comte said to me: "We are, as you would say, skating on the thin ice, financially speaking. A bad season could ruin us."
We spent most of that day in Auray, taking pictures of old houses and streets. We saw the monument to the Comte de Chambord, the royalist pretender of the 1870s, and the house where Benjamin Franklin stayed in 1778. In the evening, we had another séance. The same group sat around the table.
When Angèle began to write, she first produced a medieval Breton scrawl that not even Jean-Pierre Tanguy could read. Then the writing broke into clear French. "Vengeance!" it said. "Vengeance! Vengeance!"
"Vengeance on whom?" asked the Comte to the empty air.
"On him who destroyed my house," said Angèle's writing.