The Mysterious Maniac

Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe;
She is not mad, who kneels to thee,
For what I am, full well I know,
And what I was, and what should be;
I'll rave no more in proud despair--
My language shall be calm tho' sad;
But yet I'll truly, firmly swear,
I am not mad! no, no, not mad!

M. G. Lewis

It was at the close of a beautiful day in early spring that Traverse
Rocke, accompanying the old doctor and the old sister, reached the
grove on the borders of the beautiful lake upon the banks of which was
situated the "Calm Retreat."

A large, low, white building surrounded with piazzas and shaded by
fragrant and flowering southern trees, it looked like the luxurious
country seat of some wealthy merchant or planter rather than a prison
for the insane.

Doctor St. Jean conducted his young assistant into a broad and cool
hall on each side of which doors opened into spacious rooms, occupied
by the proprietor and his household. The cells of the patients, as it
appeared were up-stairs. The country doctor and the matron who had been
in charge during the absence of the proprietor and his sister now came
forward to welcome the party and report the state of the institution
and its inmates.

All were as usual, the country doctor said, except "Mademoiselle."

"And what of her--how is Mademoiselle----?"