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Updated: June 18, 2025
She can go as far afield as to the ascetic ecstasies and agonies of medieval religion, in The Hermit and the Wild Woman; or as to the horrible revenge of Duke Ercole of Vicenza, in The Duchess at Prayer; or as to the murder and witchcraft of seventeenth-century Brittany, in Kerfol. Kerfol, Afterward, and The Lady's Maid's Bell are as good ghost stories as any written in many years.
I know most trees by name, but I haven't to this day been able to decide what those trees were. They had the tall curve of elms, the tenuity of poplars, the ashen colour of olives under a rainy sky; and they stretched ahead of me for half a mile or more without a break in their arch. If ever I saw an avenue that unmistakably led to something, it was the avenue at Kerfol.
Lanrivain had said; and I was overcome by the almost blasphemous frivolity of suggesting to any living being that Kerfol was the place for him. "Is it possible that any one could NOT see ?" I wondered. I did not finish the thought: what I meant was undefinable. I stood up and wandered toward the gate.
Lanrivain had said; and I was overcome by the almost blasphemous frivolity of suggesting to any living being that Kerfol was the place for him. "Is it possible that any one could not See ?" I wondered. I did not finish the thought: what I meant was undefinable. I stood up and wandered toward the gate.
If we'd remembered, we never should have sent you today but then, after all, one doesn't half believe that sort of thing, does one?" "What sort of thing?" I asked, involuntarily sinking my voice to the level of hers. Inwardly I was thinking: "I KNEW there was something..." Madame de Lanrivain cleared her throat and produced a reassuring smile. "Didn't Herve tell you the story of Kerfol?
It was a winter evening when he rode up to Kerfol and, walking into the hall, found her sitting by the hearth, her chin on her hand, looking into the fire. He carried a velvet box in his hand and, setting it down, lifted the lid and let out a little golden-brown dog. Anne de Cornault exclaimed with pleasure as the little creature bounded toward her.
It was a winter evening when he rode up to Kerfol and, walking into the hall, found her sitting listlessly by the fire, her chin on her hand, looking into the fire. He carried a velvet box in his hand and, setting it down on the hearth, lifted the lid and let out a little golden-brown dog. Anne de Cornault exclaimed with pleasure as the little creature bounded toward her.
An ancestor of his was mixed up in it. You know every Breton house has its ghost-story; and some of them are rather unpleasant." "Yes but those dogs?" I insisted. "Well, those dogs are the ghosts of Kerfol. At least, the peasants say there's one day in the year when a lot of dogs appear there; and that day the keeper and his daughter go off to Morlaix and get drunk.
The very year after the little brown dog was brought to Kerfol, Yves de Cornault, one winter night, was found dead at the head of a narrow flight of stairs leading down from his wife's rooms to a door opening on the court.
She dropped her voice a little. "I've always wondered " I looked at her with surprise: I had supposed the place to be familiar to her. "Have you never been to Kerfol?" I asked. "Oh, yes: often. But never on that day." "What day?" "I'd quite forgotten and so had Herve, I'm sure.
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