CHAPTER I.

(A CABLEGRAM.)

SEDAN, PROVINCE D’ARDENNES, FRANCE.

“_To Lord Gilhooley,_ “_Albemarle Hotel,_ “_New York. U. S. A._

“The hermit of the Maison Maugis, Monzon, committed suicide to-day.

+Albert.+”

Apropos of the above, about ten days later I received a letter from which the following is an extract:

“He was found lying, entirely stripped, upon the floor. He had strangled himself with a cord, having previously broken up every article of furniture, gathered and burned in the huge fireplace every object of wearing apparel, all papers and everything movable, until the house was made absolutely bare. His death created a profound sensation, as it was rumored that he had in his possession some very old and curious manuscripts relating to the time of Charlemagne. An elaborate search of the premises failed to disclose anything, except some burned fragments of parchment in the ashes of the fireplace. He had jealously guarded his discovery during his life and was supposed to be somewhat demented, which may account for the lamentable destruction of these precious records. Now you are freed from your oath, give the world what you have.”

The past then came back to me, as plainly as if it had only occurred yesterday.

I could see in my mind that merry breakfast party, three months agone, in the great dining hall of the Château Baudelot at Haraucourt, in the valley of the Emmene, Ardennes, France. I could remember, as if it happened only this morning, when Albert said:

“It is very strange how things happen in this world. Life presents some threads so fearfully tangled that it often seems as if matters were hopeless; when lo, some little eddy in the tide of fortune swirls the knotted kinks apart and all is well once more.”

“Very good, Albert,” said I, “and this is apropos of what?”

“Oh, nothing,” answered he, “only the thought just came into my mind.”

“Perhaps,” said his sister Mathilde, “his omelette is not agreeing with him.”

“No,” exclaimed Louise, “that is not it—he is going to take cousin Frederick to Mouzon to-day, and it is there that some episode is to occur to put some new wrinkles in his existence.”

Said with smiles and laughter, these words were pathetic.

I shall never forget that day in Mouzon.

I recall how, just two hours later, we crossed the bridge over the river Meuse, and rolled through the old gateway into the ancient city, and how, shortly after, we were chatting with Professor Victor d’Alembert, the head schoolmaster.

“I have brought my cousin to see the city,” said Albert.

“Ah! Mouzon is a quaint place,” responded the professor, his face lighting up with interest. “It is a small city, but a very old one, and so very romantic. Come with me. I will show it to you.”

Then he took us up and down crooked streets, lined with mediæval buildings, heavily walled, with projecting stories, possessing all the quaintness of former ages, and it was while passing through a narrow street to a square in the heart of the city, where the houses seemed the oldest, the oddest and the grayest, that he pointed to a heavy oaken door set in a wall of unusual thickness.

“Look!” he said.

“At what?” inquired Albert.

“That is said to have been the home of Maugis, the famous warrior sorcerer.”

“Very interesting,” exclaimed I, “cannot we see the interior?”

“No, no!” replied the professor somewhat emphatically, “that would never do, its occupant resents intrusion bitterly.”

I can remember now, how a strange and unaccountable desire possessed me to see behind that door, but it was almost forgotten, when, a few minutes later, we were seated in the dim interior of the ancient cathedral with its lofty gothic arches floating over us in the obscurity, while the schoolmaster eloquently unrolled a story of vicissitude and romance rarely equaled, for he was a master of his subject.

Said he: “Begun by barbarians, built, beset, beleaguered, burned, built, beset, burned, and rebuilt, again and again; such is the alliterative history of this old city of Mouzon; the theater of wars barbarous, of wars religious, of wars civil, and wars international; besides of plague, pest, and famine.

“Mouzon has a history commencing far back into the shadows of the past and terminating the day before the battle of Sedan, when Colonel de Contrenson, at the head of the Fifth Regiment of French Cuirassiers, charged the entire German army on these heights nearby; charged time and again in the very teeth of their cannon, in the vain attempt to stop their resistless onward course to Sedan, five miles away, and only desisted when the gallant Fifth were literally reduced to a few shreds of shattered humanity; but that was only thirty years ago.”

“Oh! rare, old Mouzon!” exclaimed he, “do you not claim the highest regard of the lover of romance? the home of Maugis, the great warrior sorcerer, and the scene of the rebellious warfares of those gallant sons d’Aymon, those immortal knights Renaud, Alard, Guichard and Richard, and of their redoubtable enemy, the princely Roland, all of them men whose names are now a byword in history!”

“Mouzon,” continued the professor, apostrophizing, “the resort for centuries of the high and mighty of the earth, your ancient streets have witnessed the pageants of popes and kings, cardinals and princes, have echoed with merry shout at carnival time, with solemn chant of cowled monk, with cry of battle and shriek of the dying. They have resounded with the tread of the barbarian, have known plague and famine, and have often been illumined by the ruddy glare of fire. All this, as time passed, has been added to the panorama of which you have been the stage. A city situated in a battlefield, or in a spot that has been a battlefield of Europe, through all the centuries from the time of the Romans to the battle of Sedan.”

I can now remember, as we sat there, listening, that the voice of the professor grew dramatic and echoed in the vast interior of the cathedral with a solemn effect.

“Mouzon,” continued he, “the historic, the romantic has no mention in guide books, it has no visitors or tourists, because it is out of the traveled route. Even children in the streets gaze with curiosity on the stranger. It has neither gained nor lost in population, as the centuries rolled on and the events of history have thundered over it, even from the time when this magnificent cathedral was commenced, which, though often ruined in the wars, is, as now restored, one of the finest specimens of Norman architecture in the world.

“Mouzon was a fortress in 247 B.C., then on the borders of France, and was the scene of many a battle of the Visigoths and other barbarians with the French kings. In 486 A.D. the great King Clovis wrested it from the Visigoths and gave it, and the beautiful surrounding country, which included the historic battlefield of Sedan, into the possession of the good monk, St. Remy, who built and maintained a great abbey here. For centuries thereafter it was controlled by the Catholic Church and became a great ecclesiastical center. Prior to this time the Romans had penetrated throughout this region, bringing their rare civilization, building magnificent roads, fortresses and temples, remains of which exist to-day.

“This beautiful province in northern France has been the theater of the most tremendous events in the history of France and the history of Europe.

“Ah! Those were terrible centuries, when the good monks lived with the prayer book in one hand and the sword in the other.

“Then there were the great lords, or seigneurs, who divided the country around among themselves and were always quarreling and fighting. It was hereabouts that Charlemagne waged war against the great sorcerer, Maugis, and his brave companions, about whom so much has come down to us in romance and song. Nearby is the plain of Marcel, where three young noblemen, brothers, and their retainers, fought a fratricidal duel with each other to the death, until the ground was red with blood, so that to this day no living thing will grow upon it, and even now, at midnight, by putting the ear to the ground, the peasantry believe that the sounds of battle, the crash of arms, and the shrieks of the wounded and dying may be heard.

“It was in the immense forests, part of which now remain, that Charlemagne had his hunting lodge, for he was a lover of the chase. It was nearby that Maugis, the oldest son of Aymon, built the Château de Montfort, and in it, with his doughty brothers, stubbornly resisted the king, until finally driven out by treachery. The fortress was then razed to the ground, so that not a trace of it remains to-day.

“Thus the history of Mouzon has been that of war and vicissitude. It was held by the Spanish in the middle ages for a long time, and specimens of their peculiar architecture may yet be seen in these ancient streets.

“In 1672 the great abbey was pillaged by the iconoclasts and its vast store of precious manuscripts was destroyed and scattered. I am still unearthing them from all sorts of queer hiding places.”

The voice of the schoolmaster now ceased. Its echoes died away in the dim interior. Albert and he arose to visit the organ loft, but I remained seated, musing. The western sun shone softly through the lofty, stained glass windows, shooting subdued colored pencils of light across the worn pavement that finally rested upon and glorified the recumbent figure of a warrior on a tomb near at hand, and then falling at my feet, illumined a half-effaced epitaph:

“_Fortiter et recta haec olim_——”

The organ commenced a solemn chant and the vast interior, with an indescribably beautiful effect, palpitated with soft harmony. As I sat there, looking upward into the dim obscurity of the beautifully arched roof, the ghosts of centuries seemed to float before me and a feeling of awe possessed all my being.

Below my feet rested the ashes of generations of warriors and of saintly men of peace who had stood before that altar and administered the beautiful offices of the church. That floor had been trodden by kings and princes and potentates of high degree, and more than all, by an immeasurable mass of common humanity, that through the centuries had prayed, wept and rejoiced within those silent walls.

[Illustration: INTERIOR CATHEDRAL, MOUZON.]

Ah! if they could only speak!

My reverie was interrupted by the return of my companions; then the professor bade us adieu.

Albert and I once more were out into the sunlight, when the thought of that mysterious door in that narrow street came back to me with sudden force.

“Albert,” said I, “I have an irresistible desire to see the interior of that queer old house, the professor told us was the home of Maugis, the sorcerer.”

“I wouldn’t do it,” replied he.

“Why not?”

“Because the professor told me, while we were visiting the organ, that the occupant of that house was a strange-acting old man, who becomes very violent when intruded upon. Some regard him as partly insane, and though he is said to be a very learned man, no one knows anything of his early history, except that he has occupied the house for many years. Tradition has it that the house was the home of Maugis, and it is believed to be haunted. It certainly is the most ancient house in Mouzon and has a remarkable fireplace, with a huge carved mantelpiece.”

“Will you come with me, Albert?” I insisted.

“Certainly,” replied he; “if you care to risk it.”

We rapped a long time upon the heavy oak door with no result, and were about to give up in despair when we heard a creaking of bolts and chains, and it swung partly open on its rusty hinges. A shock head of iron-gray hair and two wild gray eyes appeared in the opening.

“Monsieur!” said Albert, “this gentleman, who is my guest, is a foreigner and is much interested in antiquarian research. I have ventured to intrude upon you in the hopes that you would permit us to see the interior of this ancient house.”

No answer.

“Our object in coming here is not mere curiosity,” continued Albert; “we shall feel much concerned to know that we disturb you, or that you consider our visit an intrusion.”

Albert was certainly a born diplomatist.

“Did that sneaking schoolmaster send you here?” asked the old man.

“On the contrary, we came here without his knowledge and I may say against his advice.”

A bony, inkstained hand unfastened a chain; the door creaked open.

“Come in,” he said.

We were ushered into a small apartment, with a low, heavy-beamed ceiling, black with age. One side of the room was entirely taken up with an enormous fireplace of a size sufficient to roast an ox. Huge grotesque figures carved from stone, one on either side, supported a high mantel, and a great, cast-iron plate, bearing an almost obliterated coat-of-arms, formed its back. The uneven stone floor, worn into hollows by the feet of generations, was cluttered up by a bench and other _débris_, and a huge table, on which bundles of papers were piled in the utmost confusion; a small dust-begrimed window half-lighted the gloom.

The old man said not a word, while Albert and I examined the fireplace; but he regarded us with a keenness that we could almost feel.

“This small house,” said Albert to me, “was evidently the porter’s lodge or guard room of the great citadel, which centuries ago occupied this site. It has but two rooms, you will observe, this one and the one above.”

“You are right,” interrupted the old man; then going to the door he opened it wide and commanded, “now go!”

We silently bowed, and were about to pass out when he laid his hand on my arm and said:

“You will remain!”

There was an earnest look in his eyes, and I hesitated a moment; but an imperious gesture sent Albert without; the door closed, and I was alone with the hermit, half-madman, for such he seemed to be.

“What are you?” he demanded, turning to me.

“An Irishman.”

“When do you leave the country?”

“Next week.”

“Would you do a service for a man whose days on earth are numbered?” asked the old man in a tone almost of entreaty.

“Surely, if I can,” I answered; “in what way could I serve you?”

“In a thousand ways,” he almost shouted, jumping to his feet, his tall form erect, and his eyes gleaming.

“Listen,” continued he, “for thirty years I have not known a moment’s peace. Though this place is haunted, I cannot, dare not leave—I had so much to do. I had so much to do,” he moaned, passing his bony hand over his forehead, and after a few moments’ pause, he continued:

“It was thirty odd years ago the curse fell upon me. I was a schoolmaster at Pau, in southern France, and I was a passionate antiquarian. One day I read a paper before the Société d’Ethnographie of Nancy, of which I was then a member, on an ancient document I had unearthed, concerning the warrior sorcerer Maugis. This manuscript I had discovered in the ruins of an old castle. It was a short document, but to decipher its cryptogramic characters cost me infinite labor. It merely told the hiding place, in the north of France, of sundry writings concerning the history of Maugis and the four sons of the Duc d’Aymon, historic characters of the reign of Charlemagne. What think you was my reception from them? They laughed me to scorn, those savants. They said Maugis was apochryphal, was a myth. Then in the intensity of my mortification and rage I defied them to their teeth and told them I would find the papers; but France never should see them, I would burn them first.

“They only laughed the more, and when I cursed them they expelled me in disgrace. That did not end my persecution,” explained the old man excitedly. “Very soon afterward they took from me my position. I was said to be insane, and I left the south broken-hearted and came here; that was many years ago. Aided by the directions given me in the ancient writing, I found a vast number of documents of the greatest historical value. Their hiding place was right here in this ancient home of Maugis. I found them stored in a recess back of yonder iron plate of the fireplace. Since then I have read what I could and I have deciphered what I could, for many were written in mysterious and magical characters, and burned them.”

“You burned them?”

“Yes, I burned them, every one.”

“Man, you are surely mad!”

“No! no!” cried he, “I am not mad, I only have my revenge, but then”—and here his voice sank to a whisper—“_it_ told me to do it.”

“Who?”

“The vision—the vision that visits this room every night—I but do its bidding,” he replied, shuddering.

I then saw that I was dealing with a paranoiac, yet I could not resist the impression that there was a certain reason in his madness.

“Have you many of those papers left?” I asked.

“They are nearly finished, and when they are done I must die.”

“Listen!” he continued, his voice sinking to a whisper. “Every night a ghostly company sits about that table, and what they say I know not; but most awful! a decapitated head stands on its dripping neck on the corner of that mantel up there and presides. It is the head of Lothaire. Its dreadful eyes search my very soul. Its very bidding I feel I must obey. It hurries me on to read! burn! read! burn! and yet I now know very well that every paper I give to the flames in that fireplace is a step toward death. _It_ commands, I obey, and after all it is better so; I am content.

“Worse than all,” continued he after a moment’s pause, “that society at Nancy learned in some way that I was right. They searched France for me, and they finally found me here. They have written me time and time again, but I took no notice. Then they put spies upon me—they have even tried to poison me, and failing in that they have tried to steal in upon me. That schoolmaster is one of them. So far they have failed, but they are now waiting for my death, thinking then to gain the precious writings.

“_It_ told me that a stranger would come from a far-off land, and that I should give the result of my labor to him.

“You are the man,” he exclaimed, “I will trust you!

“Listen! while I have read and deciphered and destroyed, I have written. See,” said he, producing a roll of closely written manuscript, “this is a synopsis of it all, it is a history of the life of Maugis, the sorcerer, who was not in league with the devil, as supposed, but acted under the commands of God.

“This must never be shown to France,” cried the old man earnestly. “Will you accept the trust and take oath to do my behest regarding it?”

“I will, providing I can,” I replied.

“Then swear it!” with a sudden force that startled me, thrusting an ancient breviary in my face for me to kiss. “Repeat after me! swear,” he shouted.

“+OATH.+

“I, Frederick, Lord Gilhooley, do now swear, on my hope of eternal salvation that I accept the manuscript, notes of Maugis, from Charles Voudran as a solemn trust. I will never show it in France. I will keep its contents from the world until the knowledge of the death of Voudran releases me from this, my oath; that I will then publish it with a dedication as follows: ‘To the fools who compose the Société d’Ethnographie of Nancy!’ So help me, God, and all the saints.”

Almost bewildered by the strange scene and surroundings, I mechanically repeated the oath after him, and when I had finished the strange being looked fixedly at the corner of the mantel, where he had said the horrid head appeared, and said:

“Does it please you, master?”

My eyes followed his, but I saw nothing.

Placing both his hands to his head, Voudran staggered to a chair, saying to me:

“It is well! you may go, farewell!”

Hiding the precious roll under my cloak I hurried out into the pure air and rejoined Albert, who was sauntering leisurely down the street, enjoying a cigarette.

We directed our steps onward across the small square in front of the cathedral; passed down the ancient main street and stood upon the old bridge. It was sunset; a parting ray of sunshine escaping through the clouds shot across the top of the hills over field and valley and tenderly caressed the dingy front of the grand old church towering far above its surroundings, glorifying it for a moment and then fading, leaving it and the hoary-roofed houses nestling at its feet, as if for protection, almost ghostlike in the coming twilight.

I leaned over the parapet of the bridge and looking down listened to the gurgling of the river through its ancient arches. The charm of the hour was upon me and it seemed to me as if I could hear voices calling to me out of the past. I stood there, dreaming and musing upon the strange events of the day, until aroused by my companion, who put his hand on my shoulder and said:

“Come! we must go!”

The twilight had fallen into dusk and as I looked backward, while turning away, at rare old Mouzon, poor old Mouzon—grand old Mouzon—it stood out to my view with its great old cathedral looming up more ghostlike than ever.

So, gentle reader, poor Charles Voudran is dead, and here I present you, according to my promise, the story of Maugis, the warrior sorcerer, and the four knightly sons of Aymon, and I pray that it may please you well.

In presenting the exciting episodes of this story which poor Voudran, through me, now presents to your favor, it is perhaps proper for me to call your attention to the curious revelations it makes of the civilization of those ancient times, where a strange mixture of religious fervor, high chivalry, magnanimity, and keen sense of honor, are intermingled with superstition, barbaric splendor, cruelty, treachery, and disregard of life, altogether affording a remarkable insight into the human nature and the manners and customs of the eighth century.

This story deals of a period when Christianity had become widespread throughout the then civilized world, and the prevailing conception of God was that of an austere and awful nemesis, a deity enraged against humanity. The element of mercy seemed to be entirely left out of God’s dealings with mankind. The most trivial offense met an eternity of torture in hell, the violation of an oath was eternal damnation, and only the most ascetic means could in any event secure salvation. To retire from the world into monasteries or solitudes was thought to be the most successful atonement possible.

It is history how the shadow of this awful fear hung over the world like a pall for centuries, and how in the middle ages man became fairly mad with fright.

In relation to this story, I have made the attempt to preserve the style of the unfortunate scholar who intrusted it to me, preserving its simplicity, which is that as a minstrel of old going about singing of the deeds of men.

I have carefully omitted, in the interest of the reader, the learned disquisitions of poor Voudran on psychic phenomena as related to the history of Maugis, which would attract those only who are studying the subject, and which, doubtless, involved on the part of the unfortunate scholar a vast amount of labor. Perhaps the result of his labors is best summed up in his own words in the concluding sentences of his manuscript now before me:

“This concludes the story of Maugis which I have laboriously gleaned from ancient documents found in his house; I trust I have proved from the study of the ancient Sanskrit writings among these papers that the manifestations of Maugis were due to nothing more or less than a knowledge of psychic phenomena that would be remarkable even in this enlightened age, and the fear and consternation their exercise must have produced in the age of superstition of the time of Charlemagne can hardly be conceived.

“The secret of the whole matter I have unearthed. It seems that the Duke d’Aymon, the father of Maugis, did heroic service in the holy wars. He happened one time to make a prisoner of a very venerable man who was held in captivity by the Saracens. The Duke d’Aymon, attracted by his profound learning and great gentleness of demeanor, treated him with the utmost consideration. His new-found friend was none other than a renowned Hindu, a man who was not only a pundit and Mahatma, but was also a Bodhisatva.

“This noted scholar was named Sahadeva Vyasa Pandu, who afterward returned to France with the Duke d’Aymon and remained with him until his death. It was under his tuition that Maugis, the eldest son of the Duke d’Aymon, became accomplished in occult things and learned to develop and control psychic forces; who became the possessor of the wonderful powers of telepathy and hypnosis, and it was due to this occult knowledge that Maugis was enabled to accomplish the marvelous things which in that age must have appeared truly awful.”

These final words of the manuscript of poor Voudran are almost pathetic:

“I know not while I write this by whom it may be read, and I care not so long as it is kept from that Society of Fools at Nancy, who scorned me, who ostracised me, and who wrecked my life. I know only that my eyes will be closed and my lips will be dumb when this protest goes out to the great and unfeeling and cruel world.”