the glistening mistletoe berries,
and tall plants were growing in the garden walks. All this forlornness
shed a charm across the picture that wrought on the spectator's mind
with an influence like that of some enchanting poem, filling his
soul with dreamy fancies. A poet must have lingered there in deep and
melancholy musings, marveling at the harmony of this wilderness, where
decay had a certain grace of its own.

In a moment a few gleams of sunlight struggled through a rift in the
clouds, and a shower of colored light fell over the wild garden. The
brown tiles of the roof glowed in the light, the mosses took bright
hues, strange shadows played over the grass beneath the trees; the dead
autumn tints grew vivid, bright unexpected contrasts were evoked by the
light, every leaf stood out sharply in the clear, thin air. Then all
at once the sunlight died away, and the landscape that seemed to have
spoken grew silent and gloomy again, or rather, it took gray soft tones
like the tenderest hues of autumn dusk.

"It is the palace of the Sleeping Beauty," the Councillor said to
himself (he had already begun to look at the place from the point of
view of an owner of property). "Whom can the place belong to, I wonder.
He must be a great fool not to live on such a charming little estate!"

Just at that moment, a woman sprang out from under a walnut tree on
the right-hand side of the gateway, and passed before the Councillor as
noiselessly and swiftly as the shadow of a cloud. This apparition struck
him dumb with amazement.

"Hallo, d'Albon, what is the matter?" asked the Colonel.

"I am rubbing my eyes to find out whether I am awake or asleep,"
answered the magistrate, whose countenance was pressed against the
grating in the hope of catching a second glimpse of the ghost.

"In all probability she is under that fig-tree," he went on, indicating,
for Philip's benefit, some branches that over-topped the wall on the
left-hand side of the gateway.

"She? Who?"

"Eh! how should I know?" answered M. d'Albon. "A strange-looking woman
sprang up there under my very eyes just now," he added, in a low voice;
"she looked to me more like a ghost than a living being. She was so
slender, light and shadowy that she might be transparent. Her face was
as white as milk, her hair, her eyes, and her dress were black. She gave
me a glance as she flitted by. I am not easily frightened, but that cold
stony stare of hers froze the blood in my vei