The Haunted Hotel HTML version
It was only the twentieth of September, when Agnes and the children reached Paris. Mrs.
Norbury and her brother Francis had then already started on their journey to Italy--at least
three weeks before the date at which the new hotel was to open for the reception of
The person answerable for this premature departure was Francis Westwick.
Like his younger brother Henry, he had increased his pecuniary resources by his own
enterprise and ingenuity; with this difference, that his speculations were connected with
the Arts. He had made money, in the first instance, by a weekly newspaper; and he had
then invested his profits in a London theatre. This latter enterprise, admirably conducted,
had been rewarded by the public with steady and liberal encouragement. Pondering over
a new form of theatrical attraction for the coming winter season, Francis had determined
to revive the languid public taste for the ballet by means of an entertainment of his own
invention, combining dramatic interest with dancing. He was now, accordingly, in search
of the best dancer (possessed of the indispensable personal attractions) who was to be
found in the theatres of the Continent. Hearing from his foreign correspondents of two
women who had made successful first appearances, one at Milan and one at Florence, he
had arranged to visit those cities, and to judge of the merits of the dancers for himself,
before he joined the bride and bridegroom. His widowed sister, having friends at
Florence whom she was anxious to see, readily accompanied him. The Montbarrys
remained at Paris, until it was time to present themselves at the family meeting in Venice.
Henry found them still in the French capital, when he arrived from London on his way to
the opening of the new hotel.
Against Lady Montbarry's advice, he took the opportunity of renewing his addresses to
Agnes. He could hardly have chosen a more unpropitious time for pleading his cause
with her. The gaieties of Paris (quite incomprehensibly to herself as well as to everyone
about her) had a depressing effect on her spirits. She had no illness to complain of; she
shared willingly in the ever-varying succession of amusements offered to strangers by the
ingenuity of the liveliest people in the world--but nothing roused her: she remained
persistently dull and weary through it all. In this frame of mind and body, she was in no
humour to receive Henry's ill-timed addresses with favour, or even with patience: she
plainly and positively refused to listen to him. 'Why do you remind me of what I have
suffered?' she asked petulantly. 'Don't you see that it has left its mark on me for life?'
'I thought I knew something of women by this time,' Henry said, appealing privately to
Lady Montbarry for consolation. 'But Agnes completely puzzles me. It is a year since
Montbarry's death; and she remains as devoted to his memory as if he had died faithful to
her-- she still feels the loss of him, as none of us feel it!'
'She is the truest woman that ever breathed the breath of life,' Lady Montbarry answered.
'Remember that, and you will understand her. Can such a woman as Agnes give her love