ain moneys to
further his schemes for reforming the stage.

Reform, forsooth! all he cared for was the company of the duchess, and
he vowed that he could make better music at the chateau than up in noisy
Paris. On a fine afternoon it is said that it was no uncommon sight to
see the chevalier, all togged up in his bravest court costume, sword and
all, sitting at his harpsichord, playing ravishing music. This was out
in the pretty little park back of the chateau, and the duchess would sit
at Gluck's side and pour out champagne for him. All this may have been
idle talk, but at last the duke got wind of the rumours, and one night
he surprised the pair playing a duo at the harpsichord, and stabbed them
both dead.

Since then the chateau was burned down, but the place has been haunted.
I, myself, good gentlemen, have heard ghostly music, and I swear to
you--

"Oh, my God, listen, listen!"

"What pagan nonsense!" blurted out Michael.

I cautioned silence, and we all listened. The old man had slid off his
chair, and his face was chalky white. Michael's ugly mouth was half
opened in his black beard, and I confess that I felt rather chilly.

Music, faint, tinkling, we certainly heard. It came with the wind in
little sobs, and then silence settled upon us.

"It's the Chevalier Gluck, and he is playing to his duchess out in the
fields. See, I will open the door and show you," whispered the fat
landlord.

He went slowly to the door, and we followed him breathlessly. The door
was pushed open, and we peered out. The wind was still high, and the
moon rode among rolling boulders of yellow, fleecy clouds.

"There, there, over yonder, look; Mother of Christ, look at the ghost!"
the old man pointed a shaking hand.

Just then the moonlight was blackened by a big cloud, and we heard the
tinkling music of a harpsichord again, but could see naught. The sounds
were plainer now, and presently resolved into the rhythmic accents of a
gavotte. But it seemed far away and very plaintive!

"Hark," said Michael, in a hoarse voice. "That's the gavotte from
Pagliacci. Listen! Don't you remember it?"

"Pshaw!" I said roughly, for my nerves were all astir. "It's the Alceste
music of Gluck."

"Look, look, gentlemen!" called our host, and as the moon glowed again
in the blue we saw at the edge of the forest a white figure, saw it, I
swear, although it vanished at once and the music ceased. I started to
follow, but Michael and the old man sei