Witchery

At home, a boy was sent for Doctor. And I asked Old Ilmar to come to my room, where I went, after we placed Clem on the sofa, where the young man was more or less comfy till the Doctor's visit. Clem suffered so much that he was given a topfull tot of cognac, then, one more.

After the unlucky trip like that, my wish to wash y face and body and to get properly shaven before the morning meal was elementary, and the luck of the situation and my current life of a traveller was that I could afford all this and appreciate. The tomcat came along with Old Ilmar. Sleek and yellow all over, with the fluffy tail, the very walking embodiment and symbol of life in this countryside, Lionheart came in and headed for the windowsill.

The tomcat's look suggested that mice-catching could be but a hobby of a cat. Slyness and ambitions, naughtiness and wisdom. It looked like every cat like him was absolutely right in that, but I wanted more, and I was about to know the cat better as soon as I had more time for a ticklish work like making contact with a cat. Those who believed that every cat was a supernatural entity always sounded convincing to me.

While shaving my jaws, Old Ilmar began talking, "The life of our present day masters looks unnatural… In old times, if a lord went on a journey, he would take his servant along. Whether abroad, or to Mitava or to St Petersburg. His servant will shave him and wash and care about his clothes. And now..." He heaved a sigh.

The oldest of the household servants, Ilmar Klahv was permitted to rant whenever he wanted. Seeing the old barber's hand was strong, with him smelling only tobacco and coffee grounds, I had nothing against talking with him. "Do you want to say that you don't mind sharing my follies, my friend?" I said, "Or the follies of your young masters?.. Heh-heh."

"Why follies, sir?" the old man sounded surprised, "You, sir, are a dignified gentleman. Your parents' joy."

"What if anybody of your young masters falls in love? What do you think a loyal servant's duty, in that event?"

"Do you, sir, want to say that anybody of Mr Lisnyaks in love?"

"No. Just suppose."

"Well if they are in love… Get wedded then, I would say."

"Well said. What if someone's having a love affair… with a damsel?"

"Then... to my humble thinking... the damsel is not good for wedding therefore she's not for our good home."

"So severe. All right. Have you ever heard of one gentleman... Aboleo?"

"Mr Aboleo… We in the scullery happened to hear of the gentleman."

"Can you tell me your view of him?"

"People say all sorts of rumours. Never know what they say."

"Have you ever seen his Factory?"

"No, sir, never had a chance. The Factory is a suspicious business… to my humble thinking."

"Why suspicious?"

"They work, but what they make -- unknown."

"Why unknown? Chocolate."

"Chocolate! If this were so!"

"Why not?"

"Because… They make humans."

"Is it you supposition?"

"No, Timothy the coachman told about this. They make humans and send them abroad. That's why the foreign armys are so big, at present. Why our government doesn't watch over it?"

"Artificial humans for foreign armies? You talk nonsense, my dear. Could humans be made at a factory?"

"Why not, sir? A gumptious man can make much. The bicycles, autocars. And I tell the story as I heard it."

"Anything more about that gumptious Aboleo?"

"Well… all sorts of rumours."

I looked at the old man attentively. He seemed to be truly confused by my questioning. "Well old fellow?" I said, "Tell about!"

"I'd rather not... No, sir. Next time… maybe."

"Anything evil?"

"God forbid! No, sir."

"Well…"

"Next time,sir."

Quirky old servant. In the meantime, Clem's dislocation was set, and ice was applied to reduce swelling and pain. The Doctor said it should be applied for ten minutes, no longer, at a time, three times a day. The injury was immobilized, and the doctor told to keep the feet elevated in relation to the rest of Clem's body. Then Doctor Talvik began checking Clem over, palpating, taking the young man's pulse, examining the young man's eyes. Finally, Doctor Talvik said, "Nothing, it's mere nothing. You'll get better soon and then quite all right." Prescribing castor oil, honey with lemon, and a glass of hot milk for goodnight, the Doctor adjourned to the drawing-room for a cup of coffee.

After coffee, he stayed longer for playing chess with Georges Simenon the teacher. Doctor Talvik had not changed from the time when I saw, which was ever so many years ago, unless he was wearing eyeglasses never before, and today he had pince-nez on his thick short nose. The tough shorter with a greyish imperial beard, he was always known as a cheerful guy, and today, at the coffee, he didn't miss a chance to show his cheerfulness by telling new jocks, for everyone's enjoyment.

In my retelling, the jock was a dialogue of two friends --

--You look upset. Anything's wrong?

--Have you heard the news? Our old fellow Barnaby died.

--What? Poor Barnaby. How did he die?

--Why, he came home, that day, as usual, had a drink of whiskey, lay down on the sofa, lit a cigarette…

--Burnt?

--No, he had time to open the window and jump out…

--Smashed himself up?

--No. Before jumping out, he called the fire-brigade. They had time to stretch the tarpaulin. But he badly rebounded from the tarpaulin and flew into his window.

--Burnt?

--No, he caught on the window-frame and fell down again.

--Smashed himself up?!

--No, for there were the fire-brigade with the tarpaulin. He bounced off to the carriage-way, where a big van went. The van was covered with tarpaulin all over. He bounced off the van, and into his window again…

--But how did he die?!

--They shot him. Well you know how it was with Barnaby. He always annoyed everyone around.

All men laughed; me too. A brilliant joke like this, nicely told, often made me list a stranger as my friend, which I mutely did to Doctor Talvik there, at the table. By the day, his every patient and friend knew of the current period in his life, when he got prepared for his retirement. New doctor had arrived, and at present the old doctor introduced the young colleague in the course of their visits to good homes of the civil parish. We at the Lisnyaks had a chance to see the young doctor too, at the table. Raymundus Fridland. Namesake of the old doctor. "One Raymundus will be replaced by another for keeping vigil about our parishioners' health." Everyone loved this joke. So, two doctors, instead of one, checked over Clem, today. Hopeful for the youth.

At the coffee, which we had in the drawing-room, with the rounds of sandwiches and toasts, at the table-talk, by the way, I remarked to Mr Simenon that Po's French left much to be desired.

Taking no offence, the teacher agreed with the obvious, which manner took my fancy. Taking the next round of toast, the teacher straightened his spectacles, which made his aging face slightly sleepy, and said, "You know, Mr Graf, I was going to talk with Mme Lisnyak about this. Alas, the boy's French is not all right. Maybe, it's my fault. Maybe, it's a peculiarity of the boy's mind, for he's good at all the rest subjects…"

"Unluckily, Mme Lisnyak's currently away," I said, between two spoonfuls of rowan berry jelly, "Please, feel free talking with me and I'll tell Kasimir-Theodor about your view."

"In a few words, I can recommend a good tutor in French," he said, sipping his coffee with milk and whipping his sandy-coloured moustaches with a napkin in his big hand.

"Interesting."

He went on, "There is one Mlle Delamarche..." he paused to make a sip, and I perked up hearing the name. On my left, Doctor Talvik's hand with the spoonful of sweet honeysuckle jam froze in the air for a moment or it only seemed to me. Next, George Simenon said, "…She's the best tutor in French I ever saw in my life."

"One moment..." I felt more concerned than it should be expected, "Tell me, Mr Simenon, how long the mentioned person has been worked as a teacher."

"How long..." Mr Simenon thought a little before replying, "The point is that she's a teacher and she never was anything other since the time when she left Dunville, Belgium. My compatriot, she worked as a French teacher in England, Germany and in Nyomanland."

"I see... That's all right. Pray proceed..." I said, having my sandwich and rowan berry jelly.

"I saw Mlle Delamarche recently, at Mme Borsky's, again, after years of parting, and you know, she… meaning Mlle Delamarche and not Mme Borsky… always looked fine, much younger her age, but at present, she seemed to look yet better and… younger. However, it's not the point, of course not. Merely, she's a good teacher at hand. If you ask me about a good tutor for Po, I'd recommend Mlle Delamarche. If by chance she's able to accept your request. Well you know how it is with some excellent specialists." He smiled. And I liked his manner of smiling.

This piece of information was not for Clem; the news could be as surprising for him as it was for me; I was not about to let hi know who in fact was his "mysterious lady" Mlle Delamarche. A French teacher and tutor from Belgium, nothing more. I was not about to tell about Mr Simenon's recommendation to Kasimir-Theodor: why to let the adventuress in our home? Afterwards, when recalling the informal coffee party and the conversation, I saw the only suspicious thing: known as talkative, Doctor Talvik never interjected, asking or remarking about the teacher, who either lived in his parish or happened to visit families of his patients and who was famous as the best --no, he kept silence having his coffee and sandwiches with sweet honeysuckle jam.

"Doctor…" I said, "Rumour has it, you are about to get married."

"Maybe," he smiled.

"Who's the happiest of women? In case if it's not a secret."

"You know, gentlemen…" his smoky pince-nez gleamed as he looked round us, "…I always loved to read the authors who described the pictures of old and somewhat neglected manor-houses, lit by the last oblique red rays of evening sunshine, with a damsel standing at the rail of a garden in each of the estates."

"Turgenev?" I said.

"That's it, Turgenev, Chekhov, and so on. Silent, motionless and melancholic, the damsel is looking straight before her, at some boundless distance. It's the best, the most harmless sort of females, I would say. They stand to themselves at the rail and watch the distance, doing no nasty tricks or troubles to anybody. I like this sort of females. I used to want any of them to come off the rail, some day, and go to me in order to calm down my restless tired mind. The sweet damsels could be found at a rail of the countryside gardens alone, and they never come to our noisy towns. It's nice to live with them. If you by chance hurt their feelings, at the worst, they shook their head sadly and conceal their grief. A town's female is their opposite. Eyes of a townswoman are shifty, evil, envious, searching, always beside you… A townswoman is never wearing a soft downy shawl which is always on shoulders of the sweet damsel at the rail. A townswoman wants a most unbelievable hat with plume, ribbons and pins that seem to pierce her brains. You just try to hurt her feelings! She'll begin hissing, stinging and doing a thousand of nasty tricks to you, and all this will be performed with a charming fashionable gloss… Oh how sweet and beautiful are damsels at the rail!" he paused before finishing, "My bride is a cross between these two sorts."

I enjoyed, listening to the monologue of the cheerful elderly joker. Doctor Fridland said, "Intriguing, but... Who's she?"

"All in good time," Doctor said, casting his eyes down and in some extraordinary way turning into a mere old man.

I felt like doing three things:

having a chance to examine his three glittering fingerings --heavy, of solid gold, one on his right hand and two on his left hand,

trying the Masonic handshake with him, and finally,

seeing what could come of this last.

But nothing of the kind was possible as everyone's sober at table.

Vexed by his illness, drunk in virtue of his overdoing with cognac, exited by the pain and strong alcohol, Clem suffered thinking of his own physical helplessness. When I came to his bed, there was Old Ilmar by his pillow. The servant said that there was one mean to cure his young master.

He told about one old woman who lived at one farm not far away and who knew some herbs and could help in cases like Clem's. Hearing that, Clem said to me that he knew what the servant talked about and that he agreed to send for the woman. "She looks all right, only, she knows all about herbs, that's why she is reckoned a witch."

"Is it safe to take remedies from her?" I asked.

Clem agreed with Old Ilmar who said that everyone in the parish believed that it's all right to take the folk remedies from the old woman. Although simple people native to the parish and from other parts of the country named her the Witch, but they used her service with no fear. We sent for the old woman.

By the time when our errand-boy had been back, Clem's suffering became so hard that my cousin risked to become a cognac addict. The errand-boy said that Mara the Witch refused going to us, but she sent her remedy and instruction. Taking the bottle from the guy's hands, Old Ilmar said that he knew that Mara would not want to go to us, because in the past, the old woman happened to refuse going to the Lesyinesmagi Estate without saying why. "Some say that a reason is our house's location," Old Ilmar said, sighing.

So, evil was not something about the Factory but also something about the Manor. Hopefully, the dark liquid in the bottle was for external use alone and not for in-taking. Clem, Old Ilmar and I studied the instruction handwritten on a piece of paper --

Infusion: wormwood, root of white bryony, sunflower oil, root of boneset, flowers of wolf's bane, pods of common beans, leaves of cowberry. For compresses, 2 times a day. Cowberries tea by night.

It all sounded sane and acceptable; the servants were told to begin applying compresses with the remedy from the local herbalist on Clem's feet. Getting ahead in my narration, I can say that the compresses helped and Clem could be on his feet and able to walk on the day when he wanted this activity as never before.

By night, again, my intention to watch the show of Clem's "apollos" slipped my memory.

The moon rose, the full moon looking big and bright, perhaps like that in the poem by Paul Verlaine, La Lune Blanche. "The white moon shines in the woods; from each bough comes a voice under the leafy branch… Oh, beloved. The pond reflects, deep mirror, the silhouette of the black willow where the wind cries… Let's dream, now is the hour" –but I was alone when awakening, getting out of the bed and quickly crossing over to the window. Looking out of my window I could see the Italian Outhouse. –"A vast and tender appeasing seems to descend from the firmament that the star makes iridescent... It's the exquisite hour." I found the clock. Soon after midnight. The faded picture of Cleopatra on the wall faded away into achromatic obscurity. A moment more, and I saw a reason of my sudden awakening. The dark-green moreen curtain didn't close the window completely, and one of windows of the Outhouse lit up.

A ghost-like figure in a white shroud with a lantern in hand went three times the Outhouse through, visible in every window, gliding by the windows slowly, with no pause, looking exactly as it was described.

No doubt, it was someone's trick, whose machinery could impress and deceive only local simpletons. No doubt, the phenomenon and machinery were quite terrestrial. But it's obscure how it worked; it remained obscure, for the time being. What exactly was the optical illusion? What was the stuff made of? Lost in thought, I could not sleep. Cleopatra with an asp on her breast, dimly seen in the faded tapestry, alone witnessed my insomnia.

All the rest grim and faded ancient images on the walls shared her indifference. The dry plant in the red glass vase reached one of the three branches to the moonlit window. The "phantom" seen outside the window didn't frighten me, but it spoilt my night. No use to toss and turn abed. After a little wile of an uneasy slumber, at dawn, I got up and went out to the flower garden.

The household slept with the exception of this writer and someone more, who carelessly revealed themselves looking like two hardly visible and unknown "early birds" in black whose activity let hear them flying away from the opposite side of the Outhouse, showing a clean pair of heels as this writer was about to go round the ancient building. A moment more and a dying sound of horseshoes was heard somewhere at a distance. I put two and two together and said, "And so, gentlemen, the White Ghost is your doing. Enough you fooled everyone here. No more your prankish acts." With that, I turned to go to the Lake side for swimming, but I glanced at a tree and saw Lionheart.

The tomcat was sitting on a bough and making me eyes. So, the pet knew much or rather all about the night tricksters, but he kept silence. It was not time for a talk; moreover, it might be time when Lionheart was on the way home after his own night activity; I greeted him by making him eyes and went to the Lake side.

The household was awakening behind my back, most likely, but nobody was about on the familiar spot of my bathing. Having a dip, I came to the sunshine and began taking the sun stand-up. My eye searched for him around, and he came.

Mon colonel undressed, but he never went to water. To watch him undressing I lay down on my coverlet, on my back, realizing that I looked like waiting for his approach. Then he knelt at my head, with the obvious intention to become my Valentine, and I saw his manhood in the dark hair halloo above my face.

Seeing his butt, the hairy monster, getting closer, I turned my head away and the butt set against my cheek. "Not sure it's clean today."

"Sure," he said, but not insisting upon anything, and his hands began caressing my hairy breast and nipples. Then he said, "Good boy!" apparently, seeing my own manhood animated, promisingly and quickly coming to senses, after the cold bathing, in reply to his hot presence. He said, "We should go to a shade, right now, no?"

He was hanging over me no longer, and I got up. There was much shady nearby, and I went there, while he cared about the piles of our clothes, telling his dog to be sitting and waiting.

In the shady place, I was on the grass, face to face with the man who was more hairy than me and as hot and sophisticated as me, merely, elder, that's why I was so submissive, when he told me to turn. I said, "Don't forget to spit your member all over."

"I have some lubricant about -- by a mere chance."

We were careless about a possibility to be caught bang to rights. What's more about our intimacy of the morning? Before possessing my body, he took care about my member getting it in fighting trim by his hand, and he told me to wonk while he did the lovemaking to me. Needless to say that we ended up simultaneously, thanks to his care... well you know how it is, dear Diary. Our moans seemed to frighten all little bids around.

In the end, pressing on my rear tightly, he said in my ear, "You are going to dress now, and I'm going to swim. We are parting."

"Jawohl werde ich das tun. Je t'adore."

This morning, I had only breeches, boots and white shirt on. On my way home, my every step exited carnally, causing desire to myself. Pausing, at any moment, I could prolong the sense. Desirous and desideratum, at my age, as before... Not amiss. Middle-aged, I have a well-groomed air, and my friends would say that I look youngish, and yet... well you know, dear Diary. We, forty-year-olds are like perennial flowers; we as though have got a taste to Life but just, again, like our first time. Not forty: double twenty! If someone believes that lovemaking enervates a warrior, then I agree, but it relaxes tension as well. A whirlwind romance was impossible between the ex military man and me, but we could say to each other: I'd like to bunk up with you. What's more? Seeing the manservant, I said, "Ilmar! Cheese, bred, butter and hum more than usual for me. Coffee and all the trimmings as usual. Be quick!"

Bathing in a lake at dawn, lovemaking en plein air, and finally, the substantial meal. The succession of events was delightful, making the morning fine.

At table, Kasimir-Theodor said, "Nice to know that Clem is with you, now, when he's unwell."

The age discrepancy of the brothers was only a year, but his work made Kasimir-Theodor look much older, his face darker and his auburn hair as though was sunshine-faded. I said, "Don't worry about him."

The more I watched the young man, the more I suspected that there should be one more reason of his zeal about his everyday work out of the Manor, the kind of hard work that could not be called most fascinating. It might be damsel or a married woman. A reason of his gallantry might be more than one too. An infatuation or financial consideration, or tender passion, or carnal desire, or all together. If so, why did he keep the love affair secret? What if his objet was a daughter of a farmer? Or a wife of a farmer? If by chance she's a married lady, it's a reason for keeping the passion secret too. However that may be, the household didn't know of anything of the kind that I suspected. The young man enjoyed going to work, and he enjoyed coming back home, which habit or state of mind was one of two or three conditions of human happiness, as many would say. But he should care about his younger brother's education in terms of management of the Estate, in my view, in order to prepare Clem for taking the elder brother's place, just in case, if need be, if by chance the elder brother fell ill, like any human. Nothing of the kind. Kasimir-Theodor never took Clem along to show the works, which suggested that he preferred being alone when he was out on business, and made me think of a possibility that he had a love affair. So natural for him in the prime of life, after all. If I were Clem, I'd felt like discovering his brother's secret life, fist of all, suspecting it a while ago. However, perhaps, Clem was about to understand it, or he could began suspecting it, but his mother's disappearance distracted his mind.

The succession of the morning was delightful, but the lack of sleep was sensible to me, therefore, from the dinning-room, I went to my room and slept three hours at least.

It's no good playing at sleep; we must take it seriously. Knowing of it by my own cost. So many mystique pathways have come, so many times taking wing --in order to be smashed against reality, alas, and yet I used to take wing, lightly, free of the burden of my body, free of the gravity -- I used to take wing. Never forget to take sleep seriously – remarking it, if by chance, my young relatives read my notes. Whatever you prefer -- labyrinths, whimsically meandering and twisting with the torchlight of sense with obscurity lurking behind any turn, with a chance to come to the silver light whose point is mentioned in the pictures over the caves --or mountains: those mountains given by beds of might, silently hymning heavens --ether is given to you by your sleep, in corpore, along with various nuances and effervescent goodness of details. It's no good playing at your sleep; you have to take it seriously. Tired by the negative of the first part of a dull November day, you can fling yourself on your bed, feeling heavier than a rock layer, and fall asleep like falling through the ground, and electric arcs waltzing between your eyeballs and narrowed eyelids with cascade of cold sparkles, and your dear dead come to talk with you about pathways of afterlife, and then a lovely house appears by a fast stream which sings a silver song, sending curly steams of sputter, till the dull November day again opens its dun waters, where you seem to have no chance to swim out, coming to the surface only before your next falling asleep.

The latest succession of misfortunes in Clem's life never made him change his mind, and when lying up, that day, he looked and sounded determined about our visiting Brumburg. "I'll be all right for the outing --if not all right, then I'll be willing myself to go with you, anyway!"

Both of us knew we should go to Brumburg whether Clem got better or not. And I was about to close the "case of the phantom in the Italian Outhouse" that day.

It looked like I had found an answer to my questions about the trick. Now, all I wanted was checking up my guesswork and subsequently robbing the household of the mystery of the night visits.

At midnight, making a proper array out of two white sheets, simply covering myself from top to toe and fastening the sheets, I slipped outdoors and through the garden, towards the Outhouse.

Luckily, none of the servants ever dared going out after midnight, because all the simple people of the manor house feared shades of a night around, with a reason some old legends and fibs heard from childhood, therefore, I could move freely, doing whatever I wanted, in any disguise. In the meantime, the Show had begun but not mine. Luckily again, those who began their Show usually arrived on the site opposite my approach, with the Outhouse between us. The door was opened as it was usual in summers and when the weather permitted. I stole in, and tiptoed to the dark end of the corridor. A moment more and I saw and heard all I wanted for supporting my guesswork. "All right, sirs actors," I thought to myself, "You must be frightened… or taken unaware, at least." In the end of the corridor there was a sold chair; trying the chair's steadiness if not endurance, I got on the chair and loosened one of my sheets to the floor. Then I got the jar, which I had about, to my mouth and utter a horrifying wail. From two of the ten rooms jumped out two white "ghosts." Imagine their fear or surprise when they saw a white ghost looking much like they! But the third white ghost was much taller than they, seeming positively enormous in the dusk of the corridor. Standing still, I uttered hollow moans.

"Who are you?" a young male voice said in a constrained tone.

"Say prayers for me, oh mortals!" I said in the jar, which was draperied, along with a half of my face and hand, "I am the suicide! The very sinner Giancarlo of Cremona!"

The two unfortunate "ghosts" were so quick taking to their heels from me that in the doorway they nearly lost their white covers. My bizarre outfit prevented me from any quick chase.

Presently, outside, from a distance, a fading sound of horseshoes was heard. Horseriders. More than one, less than three. Two. The two "ghosts" would come never again, even though they were awfully ashamed sooner than scared, it went without saying. Turning to go home, I felt both amused and a little bit sad; thoughts crowded in my mind, drifting from one subject to another, confusing my guesswork with my intuition, my confidence with doubt, metaphysic with epigram, swaying like the steam above the tripod of Cagliostro, making finally the familiar image of my fairest baby. Julian.

In the morning, at table, I told my cousins about my night adventure and unveiled the mystery of the White Ghost.

Two tricksters were wearing similar, in white, and each of them had a dark lantern about. One of them began walking along the first room, reached the wall, knocked on the wall with his hand, hid his lantern and jumped out to the corridor, entered the third room and pressed his ear against the wall, waiting for the signal. Hearing the knock, in the second room, the Second "ghost" opened his lantern and began walking by the window towards the wall between the third room, where he knocked and hid his lantern. Hearing the signal, the First "ghost" opened his lantern and began his walk in the third room -- and so on. It was repeated in every room, up to the end of the Outhouse, where the "ghosts" began the trick anew, moving in opposite direction. The machinery was perfectly arranged, and from outside, the dupery could hardly be understood, all the more that the show was seen by the mystique-minded servants and lords.

My cousins looked stunned, listening to me; then Kasimir-Theodor expressed the general rupture, calling me their "good genius."

With no false modesty, I said, "Merely, I took a detached view."

Hippolite said, "But why Lionheart kept silence about the trick? Why didn't he warn me?" he looked round us all, placing reliance upon my reply though, "Oscar! Could Lionheart be with the tricksters in that?"

"Good question," I said, "I suppose, Lionheart kept silence, because… You, dear, enjoyed believing in the mystery, like anyone at your home. And Lionheart didn't want to disappoint you by unveiling the mystery."

"Maybe," Hippolite looked impressed, avidly looking at my face and catching my words as augurs's.

Kasimir-Theodor said, "Oscar, you are the ace of aces, but you never said who it was! Names of the tricksters?"

"Obvious," I said, "it was two strangers. Males. Young. Courageous free livers. Mystifiers. Not someone of this household, since they ran away horseback. As I think, it's your neighbours. Nearest neighbours."

"No..." Kasimir-Theodor gaped, "The von Hahn-Hahn twins?"

"Why not?" I shrugged.

Clem said, "I suspected them, however, as anyone else in close vicinity, but... I didn't suppose in earnest that it was the twins. I often saw them, from time to time, yet often enough, and nothing in their look suggested any thoughts of trickery… to us…to our home…no, nothing."

Coming to himself, Kasimir-Theodor said, "I'm going to them for explanation."

"Do it, dear!" I said, "Honesty is the best policy, after all."

Later in the day, at dinnertime, we, Clem, Hippolite and I, had a chance to see confirmation of my supposition in the form of the visit of the von Hahn-Hahn twins, who came along with Kasimir-Theodor in order to beg pardon of everyone in the household for their trick.

Eustace and Norbert. Two thin youngish men with wavy blond hair, perfectly cut, they had similar hairstyle, but their elegant clothes were different colours, and it was not so difficult to distinguish them for their new friend like me, which was nice of them. "Brilliant mystification. My congratulations, gentlemen!" I said holding out my hands to them.

"We had a jolly good time when making it. Thank you, Oscar!" One of them replied for both of them as we pressed hands, "I am Eustace... This is my brother Bert. Ten minutes younger."

The three of us grinned at each other. Bert said, "Your trick, Oscar, was brilliant too."

I said, "Actually, I hesitated, unsure about two tricks: to steal your horses or to appear as the Third Ghost to you."

"To steal our horses!" Eustace said, "Dear me... To go home, on foot!" he looked at his brother, "It would be..."

"...too much," his brother said.

Our persiflage continued at table. So often, people having the same inclinations or sexual orientation feel a mutual antipathy and show ill-will to each other -- have you noticed, dear Diary? About the twins I could not know anything for certain. It was a most enjoyable dinner party. The young men proved to be rather nice. If by chance they were as naughty in their bedroom as they were in the mystifications, and their relationship was thoroughly incestueux, as it happened between twins, if my look and manners caught their fancy, then they were quite the thing, truly charming.

By the time, the news of the mystery unveiled had spread all over the household, and later, I was told that all servants sighed with relief: really, one local depressing mystery less, and the household had returned the old convenience to use the Italian Outhouse on purpose to dry fruits or doing some other works, as it was in the past.