The particulars of this remarkable interview were
given to me by Frederick that very night. I may as
well mention that the story, in a great degree, confirmed
the truth of the common rumor about town. It

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is astonishing how such things leak out, or by what happy
instincts the great multitude conceive the particular
causes of trouble, in the affairs of their neighbors.
There were, it is true, many conflicting conjectures,
in regard to the circumstances of terror which
had dissolved the assembly at the masquerade. But
that which gained most currency, insisted that the
Egyptian was the husband; and this led to a farther
charitable suspicion that he had been unfairly dealt
with—a suspicion which had no other foundation in
the public mind than a very general knowledge of
the brutal tyranny which he had exercised over his
wife, and which was commonly thought to have been
quite sufficient to justify almost any mode of redress,
or escape, which long suffering and resentment might
think proper to adopt. There were a few even less
charitable, who fancied that the husband's failings
were of the most harmless character, and hurt nobody
but himself; that the wife was evidently a Tartar,
and had, no doubt, got rid of her allegiance,
rather than of her tyrant. A few of the would-be-philosophical
scouted the idea of spectres in all
periods, ancient and modern; but even these were
found quite busy in giving circulation to the story.
But these need not divert us from our narrative.

“And what think you of all this, Frederick—does
it stagger you?” was my involuntary question as he
finished giving me the preceding details. I confess,
they had greatly staggered me.

“To speak plainly, William, I regard it as an ingenious,
but monstrous jugglery.”

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“Indeed! did you tell her that?”

“Oh, no! I knew better. That would have been
the very way to defeat my own object, perhaps, of
finding out the clue to the mystery.”

“But, if it be a piece of jugglery, Frederick, how
do you account for the ghost's possession of Marie's
secret?”

“That gives me as little trouble as any of the rest.
Indeed, it is in that part of the story that I fancy
the clues are to be found by which the imposture is to
be detected. We shall see—as there is a living God,
William, and as I am a living man, I shall penetrate
the mystery.”

“But how?”

“Oh! I see not yet the way, nor can I tell you,
just now, what are the steps I propose to take. I
must think, think strenuously, wrestle with thought
as with an angel—wrestle alone, without food, and in
the depths of night and solitude. I shall need your
help, William, as I warned you; and shall, probably,
have to call in other agents.”

“Does Marie know your objects—your suspicions?”

“No! they occurred to me during the recital of
her narrative; but I felt that every step must be
taken with great caution; since, if there is jugglery,
the best method for its detection is, to be careful to
give it no alarm. A part of my suspicion is, that
every movement of Marie de Berniere is watched, and
that every word she utters, reaches other ears than
those for which she designs them.”

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For a long time that night, until the short hours,
we conferred together. Our conversation was of a
character at once deeply interesting and solemn. It
canvassed very equally the separate provinces of the
human and spiritual world—their certain relations,
hopes, and dependencies—their possible communion;
and much of our conversation became practical in
connection with the case immediately before us. But
as much of this discussion was necessarily renewed
between Frederick and Marie de Berniere, I forbear,
in this place, to bring it forward, and will not anticipate
any of the schemes or philosophies of my companion.
We separated for the night, at length. He
refused to sup with me; denied himself everything
but cold water, and, taking the bath in his chamber,
retired, as he had declared his purpose to do, within
himself, and upon thought and prayer wholly. In
the morning I found him wearing an appearance of
greater cheerfulness, and speaking in tones of more
than usual elasticity. I remarked on it.

“It is because I have work before me, and have
already conceived the plan of operations, that I am
so much livelier than usual. One dies more easily in
action than he possibly can in repose. Effort of any
kind, to a soul-seeking performance, is a sort of joy.”

He gave me only a few minutes.

“I shall be busy all the morning,” said he, “and,
in the evening, I must see Marie.”

I strolled about town, listless but anxious, and saw
nothing of Frederick till next day. In the mean time
he had again seen his betrothed, as he had promised.

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He found her alone, as sad, probably, as before, but
something calmer, and in better strength for the interview.

“Marie,” said Frederick, “I have brought you a
letter from my sister. Read it; it will, perhaps, speak
to your heart quite as emphatically as myself.”

“Ah! can you think so, Frederick?” was the reproachful
answer, as she received the letter. She
opened it with a deep sigh and began reading. Frederick
sat beside her; as she read, his eyes alternately
gazing upon her and upon the vacant walls of the
apartment. The letter was, in reality, his own. He
had his motive for making a statement aloud which
was at variance with the fact. It ran thus:—

“Start not, dear Marie; nor, if possible, exhibit the
least surprise or emotion as you discover the writing to
be mine, or note the character of its contents. At all
events, make no remark on what you read, and let
your answer be in writing also, and addressed to Madame
de Chateauneuve, though really intended for
myself. There are reasons, believe me, for all these
precautions. In brief, dear Marie, I have come to the
conclusion, after deep study and long reflection, that
you are the victim of a cunning and monstrous imposition,
to combat which, successfully, requires the utmost
vigilance, and a distrust even of the walls of your
chamber. So well am I persuaded of this, that I feel
it unwise to whisper to you here the several processes
of reasoning by which I have reached these suspicions,
or to urge my inquiries farther towards a discovery of
the truths. My purpose, therefore, is to entreat that,

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if you really love me, if you really desire my happiness,
as well as your own, and, if you would really revolt
at the idea of being deluded by a most audacious piece
of jugglery, you will contrive to give me a meeting at
my sister's to-morrow morning at 11 o'clock; when I
will unfold to you the whole progress of my conjectures.
In consenting to this arrangement, I must
warn you to suffer no person to know your intentions,
not even your servants. Do not order your carriage,
but wait for that of Madame de Chateauneuve, who
will call for you, a little before this hour. Let me
implore you, dear Marie, to accede to this application.
Your health will now admit—nay, require some such
exercise; exertion, and the fresh pure air of these
pleasant days will exhilarate and strengthen you.
Supposing even that the decree which you have heard
is really the voice of an almighty Providence, His benevolence
will not be offended, nor His sense of authority
outraged, if you resort to all reasonable and proper
means to be assured of its divine origin. Scripture
itself counsels us that the world shall be full of false
prophets and false signs in these latter days—and there
are spirits of evil as well as of good—perhaps a far
greater number, who are still permitted, for purposes
of mischief, to hover around the habitations of earth.
You owe it to me, dear Marie, no less than to yourself—
to my future and my heart as well as your own—
not to yield to a decree which threatens the wreck of
both, until it has been narrowly searched by every
probe and principle which human reason has ever invented
or conceived for the detection of error, and

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the discovery of truth. As this revelation appears
to be so entirely miraculous—so far beyond all the
ordinary events of life—it requires that it should be
scrutinized in proportion to its eccentricity, and in
just degree with the vital interests which depend upon
its execution. Yield to this entreaty, dear Marie, even
though you should persist, finally, in the cruel resolution
to hearken to no other from the lips of one whose
every prayer will still eternally be yours.

The quick, intelligent mind of Marie de Berniere
readily understood the necessity of caution, if she
regarded the desires or the objects of her lover; and
the first sentences of the letter schooled her sufficiently
to the effort at self-possession, which it was,
nevertheless, very difficult to make. Her emotions of
surprise were apparent upon her cheeks, in their
varying hues, and the restless and sudden vivacity of
her eyes. But his will prevailed. She drew the
writing-materials to her side, and penned a single
sentence, addressed to Madame de Chateauneuve,
which Frederick conveyed, without reading, to his
pocket. She suffered him, at the same time, without
seeming to note the action, to gather up and conceal
the billet which he had brought. The scene was further
enlivened by a dialogue, which we do not think
it necessary to repeat, in which the lovers found but
little difficulty in discoursing of their affections, and
discussing their denial—as if it were now a thing
unavoidable—without suffering their conversation to

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exhibit any doubts of the supernatural origin of that
decree which had been pronounced against their union.
It was long before they separated; and Frederick
fancied that he had gained something towards his
object, when he left Marie in much better spirits than
before, and with something like a hope glistening in
her eyes, which her lips as mournfully persisted in
denying to his ears.

That afternoon Frederick came to me.

“Your services, William, are about to begin. To-night
you must look for me in a disguise. I have
prepared another for you. I have also found you
other lodgings. Inform your landlady that you will
be absent for a week or ten days from the city, and
burden yourself with none of your traps. Leave
everything as it is. I will find for you a wardrobe,
with everything necessary, where we go.”

Sure enough, when the night had fairly set in, I
was waited upon by a middle-aged gentleman of the
old school, in costume and manner. This was Brandon.
His disguise was admirable. I complimented
him upon his skill in masquerading.

“So much,” said he, “for the habits of us wandering
youth in New Orleans. But we have had recent
proof that there is one person who is a better masquer
than myself.”

He was followed by a porter bearing a trunk,
which contained a sufficient wardrobe for us both, but
adapted to our new change of habit. I at once proceeded
to make my toilet, with my friend's assistance,
and with old-fashioned coat and pantaloons, a massive

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wig, broad-brimmed chapeau, and all the usual et
cetera—to say nothing of a great gold-headed cane—
I found myself, after the labor of half an hour,
translated from a state of full-blooded dandyism and
youth into a state of full-bottomed seniority, with the
bulk and general appearance of a senator from one of
the country parishes. Brandon was at great pains
with me, and we set forth, the porter carrying the
trunk. We proceeded to an obscure hotel in C—
street, where our employee was rewarded and dismissed.
The trunk was put into the bar-room, while
we went into supper, of which I was the only consumer.
Brandon ate nothing. He disappeared while
I was smoking a cigar in the bar-room, and was gone
for half an hour. He brought with him, on his return,
another porter, to whom the trunk was given in
charge. Our score settled, we left the hotel, and in
a little space of time we reached the very street and
neighborhood in which stood the antique habitation
of the De Bernieres. At the door of an old dwellinghouse,
on the opposite side of the way, we stopped and
hammered. We were admitted by an elderly lady,
who looked quite as much the German as the French
woman. She evidently expected us. Our trunk was
dispatched to a chamber, and the porter dismissed.
A few words with the old lady, and her two venerable
lodgers retired to their apartment. This looked over
upon the street. Brandon soon drew me to the window,
which was small, and furnished with heavy blinds.

“Look,” said he, as he threw open the shutter;
“there is the dwelling of Madame de Berniere

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obliquely opposite, and at a reasonable distance. You
are now established, my dear William, in the honorable
capacity of a spy. Here, for a few days, if you
really desire to serve me, you will maintain a patient
watch, which must be unwearying. I shall sometimes
relieve you. But it is highly important to see what
persons enter that dwelling; and, not less so, perhaps,
to see by what persons her servants are approached.
This you can only do by day; for the night I have
made other provision. A few days will probably suffice.
In particular, keep an eye upon the old mulatto
fellow, Andres. I have made the discovery that he is
hostile to me, and is really reluctant that I should
visit the house of his mistress; particularly since
the affair of the masquerade. This is one strong argument
against the ghost of the colonel, since it is
scarcely to be thought that the supernatural world
would find it necessary to make an alliance with the
African. Enough! I will leave you now, but will
return again by midnight. Adios!