The habitans held this spot to be haunted by the wailing spirit of a
woman in a gray robe, who had been poisoned by a jealous lover. La
Corriveau gave him sweatmeats of the manna of St. Nicholas, which
the woman ate from his hand, and fell dead at his feet in this
trysting-place, where they met for the last time. The man fled to
the forest, haunted by a remorseful conscience, and died a
retributive death: he fell sick, and was devoured by wolves. La
Corriveau alone of mortals held the terrible secret.
La Corriveau gave a low laugh as she saw the pale outline of the
woman resolve itself into the gray stone. "The dead come not
again!" muttered she, "and if they do she will soon have a companion
to share her midnight walks round the Chateau!" La Corriveau had no
conscience; she knew not remorse, and would probably have felt no
great fear had that pale spirit really appeared at that moment, to
tax her with wicked complicity in her murder.
The clock of the Chateau struck twelve. Its reverberations sounded
far into the night as La Corriveau emerged stealthily out of the
forest, crouching on the shady side of the high garden hedges, until
she reached the old watch-tower, which stood like a dead sentinel at
his post on the flank of the Chateau.
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