man's name was Franz Bickert, an old painter who had finished his career alone, in a little gothic manor house in ruins, which was pointed out to me on the summit of a neighboring hill. The pastor took me to visit this little castle, which the worthy Bickert had given to the village to become, after his death, an open asylum to several poor and infirm inhabitants. The walls on the ground floor were covered with fresco paintings, reproducing in various ways a demon watching a young girl asleep. We found in the corner of a chest covered with mould, several sheets of paper which appeared to have been taken from a manuscript and scattered by chance. I picked them up mechanically; they contained short notes, phrases without beginning or end, out of which I succeeded in decyphering the end of Maria's story.
On a certain night, old baron H was going to his chamber leaning on the arm of his old friend Franz Bickert. Near the middle of the gallery, they perceived a white figure carrying a night lamp, which appeared to come out of Maria's apartment. The baron frightened, exclaimed:—"That is the major! Franz, that is the Danish major!"
The figure had vanished, no sound had been heard. The baron uneasily entered his daughter's room; she was beautifully and calmly reposing like an angel from heaven; a sweet smile was upon her lips. Hippolyt had returned from the wars. The marriage was to take place on the morrow, and near the beautiful girl who slept, the wedding garments already prepared were lying upon the sofa.
On the morrow the bride and bridegroom went to the church; but at the moment of kneeling at the foot of the altar, Maria fell—She was dead!—The magnetizer had devoured her soul.
All those who had loved her soon followed her into the tomb.
Nothing was known of what became of doctor Alban.
