shook his body as he read the lines his hand had written:
"Monsieur, I am here. I, Armand Champoy. I have come to speak to you tonight through my sole medium, your pen and hand. Does Monsieur remember me? My astral self gazes complacently down upon you. Perhaps, if Monsieur can not recall my name, he can bring to mind an incident of twelve months ago when he so calmly compelled me to dispose of my material self to favor his fortunes? Ah, Monsieur does, I perceive by his agitation! My widow suffers from the cold, Monsieur; my children starve, and I am helpless here. But you, ah, Monsieur, you cower about your lire in company of that simple-minded son of yours. Ah, Monsieur, you live life. But then, I have nought to complain about; I am free and can taste no ills: it is because of my mortal widow and my suffering children, Monsieur, that I complain.
"I can not help them, Monsieur. But—I can avenge the wrongs you have done them. The wrongs, Monsieur, that you have done for gold. I can avenge innumerable sins committed for the sake of your fortunes. Does it seem foolish to you, Monsieur, that I should be writing this? That I, an astral, should threaten vengeance? But it should not, for those black blots, those books on sorcery on your shelves have taught you overmuch. Yet you may wonder how I can avenge the wrongs you have done, Monsieur, and I shall tell you."
The hand started to move again and the count followed his pen with his eyes.
"It is simple, Monsieur, so simple. A rare experiment, Monsieur. Simply this: For a twelvemonth I have been gathering knowledge upon varied subjects, and my field is unbounded. Your son, Monsieur, has been a resident of this gloomy castle since he can remember, and his brain is crude and his soul is unrefined. But I, Monsieur, I am strong; my mind excels in all, Monsieur, but I have no body, and also, Monsieur, I seek revenge. My abode is here, here by your side, Monsieur. My solution is this. Day by day, night by night, I will cast my superior power against your son's feeble will. I will drive out his astral body, his soul, Monsieur, and I will enter and possess his body. Then, Monsieur, I will kill you, brutally, unhesitatingly, as you deserve."
The writing ceased, and the count could move his hand at his will. He stared at the mute evidence of the astral. Suddenly he rose, and with an angry snarl he east the parchment from him into the hungry flames in the grate. He rubbed his hands across his eyes, futilely endeavoring to blot out the words that danced maliciously before him. He clasped his fists and glared angrily into the fire. Slowly he turned, walked toward the main corridor of the castle, and was swallowed up in the thick darkness.
It was two weeks later. The young Count de Cheveaux had acted strangely that day. His father had noticed this, and it impressed him. He pondered long upon it as he sat alone in his chamber. The more he tried not to think of the parchment which he had so vehemently thrown from him two weeks ago, the more he thought of it and associated it with his son's strange behavior. The astral of that Champoy was getting in its fine work, mused de Cheveaux. He could see no way to stop it; for once in his life the Count de Cheveaux was helpless. The thought unnerved him.
One day, some time later, the elder count observed his son watching him covertly through half-closed eyes. He thought at once of Armand Champoy. His son was twirling a heavy walking stick and he had been staring at his parent out of the corners of his eyes. The elder count frowned heavily at his son, but the latter seemed not to notice. However, he removed his gaze and placidly continued to twirl his cane. The incident bothered the count not a little, and soon he went to his library to consult his store of books on the black arts.
The winter slipped by and spring came. The village of Cheveaux was busy as a hive of bees. From the
