e people can be credited, the
popular superstition went so far as to fasten to the walls of the house
at Pleinmont things of which the traces are still visible--rats without
feet, bats without wings, and bodies of other dead animals. Here, too,
were seen toads crushed between the pages of a Bible, bunches of yellow
lupins, and other strange offerings, placed there by imprudent
passers-by at night, who, having fancied that they had seen something,
hoped by these small sacrifices to obtain pardon, and to appease the
ill-humours of were-wolves and evil spirits. In all times, believers of
this kind have flourished; some even in very high places. Caesar
consulted Saganius, and Napoleon Mademoiselle Lenormand. There are a
kind of consciences so tender, that they must seek indulgences even from
Beelzebub. "May God do, and Satan not undo," was one of the prayers of
Charles the Fifth. They come to persuade themselves that they may commit
sins even against the Evil One; and one of their cherished objects was,
to be irreproachable even in the eyes of Satan. We find here an
explanation of those adorations sometimes paid to infernal spirits. It
is only one more species of fanaticism. Sins against the devil certainly
exist in certain morbid imaginations. The fancy that they have violated
the laws of the lower regions torments certain eccentric casuists; they
are haunted with scruples even about offending the demons. A belief in
the efficacy of devotions to the spirits of the Brocken or Armuyr, a
notion of having committed sins against hell, visionary penances for
imaginary crimes, avowals of the truth to the spirit of falsehood,
self-accusation before the origin of all evil, and confessions in an
inverted sense--are all realities, or things at least which have
existed. The annals of criminal procedure against witchcraft and magic
prove this in every page. Human folly unhappily extends even thus far:
when terror seizes upon a man he does not stop easily. He dreams of
imaginary faults, imaginary purifications, and clears out his conscience
with the old witches' broom.

Be this as it may, if the house at Pleinmont had its secrets, it kept
them to itself; except by some rare chance, no one went there to see. It
was left entirely alone. Few people, indeed, like to run the risk of an
encounter with the other world.

Owing to the terror which it inspired, and which kept at a distance all
who could observe or bear testimony on the subject,