Two days later, in the evening, Chaudval had arrived at his destination and taken possession of his old and deserted lighthouse situated on our western coast: a flame long unused, on a ruined building, which ministerial compassion had brought back to life for him.

The light itself could hardly be of any use whatever: it was a work of supererogation, a sinecure, a dwelling with a flame on top of it, with which everybody, save for the solitary exception of Chaudval, could dispense.

So the worthy tragedian, having brought thither his bed, some food, and a great mirror in which to study his facial effects, immediately shut himself up in it, away from the threat of any human suspicion.

Around him moaned the ocean, wherein the ancient abyss of the heavens bathed all its starry clarity. He watched the tides flinging themselves against his tower before the gusts of wind, rather as the Stylite could contemplate the sands swirling against his column before the breath of the desert wind.

With every moment that passed, the dreamer forgot his conflagration.—He climbed up and down the stone staircase.

On the evening of the third day, Lepeinteur was seated in his room, sixty feet above the waves, reading once again a Paris newspaper which recounted the story of the great catastrophe of the night before. ‘An unknown malefactor had flung a few matches into the petroleum vaults. A phenomenal conflagration, which had kept up the firemen and residents of the neighbouring districts all through the night, had manifested itself in the Temple quarter.’

Close on one hundred victims had perished. Hapless families had been plunged into the direst necessity.

The whole of the square was in mourning, and still smoking.

Nothing was known of the identify of the criminal who had committed this crime; and still less could be imagined as to his motive.

As he read, Chaudval leapt for joy, and rubbed his hands excitedly, exclaiming:

‘What a success! What a marvellous criminal I am! Shall I ever be haunted enough? What ghosts I shall see! I knew well that I should become a Man! Ah, the method was a hard one, I’ll admit—but it had to be done! It had to be done!’

And looking again at the Paris paper, Chaudval saw mention of a benefit performance to be given on behalf of the sufferers.

‘Ah!’ he murmured, ‘I ought to have lent the assistance of my talent for the benefit of my victims! That would have been my farewell performance! I would have declaimed Orestes. I’d have been very convincing.…

Thereupon, Chaudval began life in his lighthouse.

And the evenings fell, came one upon the other; and the nights.

One thing happened which stupefied the artist. Something atrocious!

Contrary to all his hopes and anticipations, his conscience gave no murmur of remorse. Not one ghost showed itself! He experienced nothing—absolutely nothing!

He could not believe the silence. He could not get over it.

And from time to time he looked in the mirror, but his head had not altered its complacent aspect! In a fury, he rushed to his lantern, and falsified its lights in a glowing hope of sinking some far-off vessel, so as to help, to quicken, to stimulate this mutinous remorse, to awaken the ghost!