dispirited. A vague sense of some grievous but
impending misfortune hung heavily upon him. Night brought no
mitigation of his fears. Spectres, skeletons, and demon-painters
haunted his slumbers. He awoke in greater torment than ever. The
duplicate portrait was brought to his remembrance with a vividness, an
intensity so appalling, that he almost expected to behold the skeleton
wearer at his bedside.

Involved in a labyrinth of inextricable surmises, and not knowing what
course to pursue, he arose early, and walked forth without aim or
design towards the church of Notre Dame.

The red sun was just bursting through a thick atmosphere of mist,
illuminating its two dark western towers, which looked even more
gloomy under a bright and glowing sky, like melancholy in immediate
contrast with hilarity and joy.

He passed the Morgue, or dead-house, where bodies found in the Seine
are exposed, in order that they may be owned or recognised. Impelled
by curiosity, he entered. One space alone was occupied. He could not
surely be deceived when he saw the body of the unfortunate painter!
Those features were too well remembered to be mistaken. Here was new
ground for conjecture, fresh wonder and perplexity. He left this
melancholy exhibition and entered the cathedral. Mass was celebrating
at one of the altars. De Vessey joined in adoration, strolling away
afterwards towards the vaults: one of them was open. From some vague,
unaccountable impulse, he thus accosted the sexton:--

"Whose grave is this, friend?"

"A maid's--mayhap."

"Her name?"

"The only remaining descendant of the Barons Montargis."

"I have some knowledge of that noble gentlewoman; she was just about
to be married. What might be the nature of her malady?"

"Why, verily there be as many guesses as opinions. The doctors were
all at fault, and, 'tis said, even now in great dispute. The king's
physician tried hard to save her. Old Frere Jeronymo, the confessor,
will have it she was possessed; but all his fumigations, exorcisms,
paters, and holy water could not cast out the foul fiend. She died
raving mad!"

"A miserable portion for one so young and high-born. Was there no
visible cause?"

"Cause!--Ay, marry; if common gossip be not an arrant jade. Her
portrait had been taken by that same limner who, they say, has been
taught in the devil's school, and can despatch a likeness with the
twirl of his brush."

"And what of that?" cried De Vessey, in an agony of