The Palace Hotel, appealing for encouragement mainly to Englishand American travellers, celebrated the opening of its doors,as a matter of course, by the giving of a grand banquet,and the delivery of a long succession of speeches.

Delayed on his journey, Henry Westwick only reached Venicein time to join the guests over their coffee and cigars.Observing the splendour of the reception rooms, and takingnote especially of the artful mixture of comfort and luxury inthe bedchambers, he began to share the old nurse's view of the future,and to contemplate seriously the coming dividend of ten per cent.The hotel was beginning well, at all events. So much interestin the enterprise had been aroused, at home and abroad,by profuse advertising, that the whole accommodation of the buildinghad been secured by travellers of all nations for the opening night.Henry only obtained one of the small rooms on the upper floor,by a lucky accident--the absence of the gentleman who had writtento engage it. He was quite satisfied, and was on his way to bed,when another accident altered his prospects for the night, and moved himinto another and a better room.

Ascending on his way to the higher regions as far as the first floorof the hotel, Henry's attention was attracted by an angry voice protesting,in a strong New England accent, against one of the greatesthardships that can be inflicted on a citizen of the United States--the hardship of sending him to bed without gas in his room.

The Americans are not only the most hospitable people to be foundon the face of the earth--they are (under certain conditions)the most patient and good-tempered people as well. But they are human;and the limit of American endurance is found in the obsolete institutionof a bedroom candle. The American traveller, in the present case,declined to believe that his bedroom was in a complete finished statewithout a gas-burner. The manager pointed to the fine antique decorations(renewed and regilt) on the walls and the ceiling, and explainedthat the emanations of burning gas-light would certainly spoilthem in the course of a few months. To this the traveller repliedthat it was possible, but that he did not understand decorations.A bedroom with gas in it was what he was used to, was what he wanted,and was what he was determined to have. The compliant managervolunteered to ask some other gentleman, housed on the inferiorupper storey (which was lit throughout with gas), to change rooms.Hearing this, and being quite willing to exchange a small bedchamberfor a large one, Henry volunteered to be the other gentleman.The excellent American shook hands with him on the spot. 'You area cultured person, sir,' he said; 'and you will no doubt understandthe decorations.'

Henry looked at the number of the room on the door as he opened it.The number was Fourteen.

Tired and sleepy, he naturally anticipated a good night's rest.In the thoroughly healthy state of his nervous system, he sleptas well in a bed abroad as in a bed at home. Without the slightestassignable reason, however, his just expectations were disappointed.The luxurious bed, the well-ventilated room, the delicious tranquillityof Venice by night, all were in favour of his sleeping well.He never slept at all. An indescribable sense of depression anddiscomfort kept him waking through darkness and daylight alike.He went down to the coffee-room as soon as the hotel was astir,and ordered some breakfast. Another unaccountable changein himself appeared with the appearance of the meal. He wasabsolutely without appetite. An excellent omelette, and cutletscooked to perfection, he sent away untasted--he, whose appetitenever failed him, whose digestion was still equal to any demandson it!

The day was bright and fine. He sent for a gondola, and was rowedto the Lido.

Out on the airy Lagoon, he felt like a new man. He had not leftthe hotel ten minutes before he was fast asleep in the gondola.Waking, on reaching the landing-place, he crossed the Lido,and enjoyed a morning's swim in the Adriatic. There was only a poorrestaurant on the island, in those days; but his appetite was now readyfor anything; he ate whatever was offered to him, like a famished man.He could hardly believe, when he reflected on it, that he had sentaway untasted his excellent breakfast at the hotel.

Returning to Venice, he spent the rest of the day in the picture-galleriesand the churches. Towards six o'clock his gondola took him back,with another fine appetite, to meet some travelling acquaintanceswith whom he had engaged to dine at the table d'hote.

The dinner was deservedly rewarded with the highest approval by everyguest in the hotel but one. To Henry's astonishment, the appetitewith which he had entered the house mysteriously and completely lefthim when he sat down to table. He could drink some wine, but he couldliterally eat nothing. 'What in the world is the matter with you?'his travelling acquaintances asked. He could honestly answer,'I know no more than you do.'

When night came, he gave his comfortable and beautiful bedroomanother trial. The result of the second experiment was a repetitionof the result of the first. Again he felt the all-pervading senseof depression and discomfort. Again he passed a sleepless night.And once more, when he tried to eat his breakfast, his appetitecompletely failed him!

This personal experience of the new hotel was too extraordinaryto be passed over in silence. Henry mentioned it to his friendsin the public room, in the hearing of the manager. The manager,naturally zealous in defence of the hotel, was a little hurt at theimplied reflection cast on Number Fourteen. He invited the travellerspresent to judge for themselves whether Mr. Westwick's bedroomwas to blame for Mr. Westwick's sleepless nights; and he especiallyappealed to a grey-headed gentleman, a guest at the breakfast-tableof an English traveller, to take the lead in the investigation.'This is Doctor Bruno, our first physician in Venice,' he explained.'I appeal to him to say if there are any unhealthy influences inMr. Westwick's room.'

Introduced to Number Fourteen, the doctor looked round him with a certainappearance of interest which was noticed by everyone present. 'The lasttime I was in this room,' he said, 'was on a melancholy occasion.It was before the palace was changed into an hotel. I was inprofessional attendance on an English nobleman who died here.'One of the persons present inquired the name of the nobleman.Doctor Bruno answered (without the slightest suspicion that he wasspeaking before a brother of the dead man), 'Lord Montbarry.'

Henry quietly left the room, without saying a word to anybody.

He was not, in any sense of the term, a superstitious man. But he felt,nevertheless, an insurmountable reluctance to remaining in the hotel.He decided on leaving Venice. To ask for another room would be,as he could plainly see, an offence in the eyes of the manager.To remove to another hotel, would be to openly abandon anestablishment in the success of which he had a pecuniary interest.Leaving a note for Arthur Barville, on his arrival in Venice,in which he merely mentioned that he had gone to look at theItalian lakes, and that a line addressed to his hotel at Milanwould bring him back again, he took the afternoon train to Padua--and dined with his usual appetite, and slept as well as everthat night.

The next day, a gentleman and his wife (perfect strangersto the Montbarry family), returning to England by way of Venice,arrived at the hotel and occupied Number Fourteen.

Still mindful of the slur that had been cast on one of hisbest bedchambers, the manager took occasion to ask the travellersthe next morning how they liked their room. They left him to judgefor himself how well they were satisfied, by remaining a day longerin Venice than they had originally planned to do, solely forthe purpose of enjoying the excellent accommodation offered to themby the new hotel. 'We have met with nothing like it in Italy,'they said; 'you may rely on our recommending you to all our friends.'

On the day when Number Fourteen was again vacant, an English ladytravelling alone with her maid arrived at the hotel, saw the room,and at once engaged it.

The lady was Mrs. Norbury. She had left Francis Westwick at Milan,occupied in negotiating for the appearance at his theatre ofthe new dancer at the Scala. Not having heard to the contrary,Mrs. Norbury supposed that Arthur Barville and his wife had alreadyarrived at Venice. She was more interested in meeting the youngmarried couple than in awaiting the result of the hard bargainingwhich delayed the engagement of the new dancer; and she volunteeredto make her brother's apologies, if his theatrical business causedhim to be late in keeping his appointment at the honeymoon festival.

Mrs. Norbury's experience of Number Fourteen differed entirelyfrom her brother Henry's experience of the room.

Failing asleep as readily as usual, her repose was disturbedby a succession of frightful dreams; the central figure in everyone of them being the figure of her dead brother, the firstLord Montbarry. She saw him starving in a loathsome prison;she saw him pursued by assassins, and dying under their knives;she saw him drowning in immeasurable depths of dark water; she saw himin a bed on fire, burning to death in the flames; she saw him temptedby a shadowy creature to drink, and dying of the poisonous draught.The reiterated horror of these dreams had such an effect on her that sherose with the dawn of day, afraid to trust herself again in bed.In the old times, she had been noted in the family as the onemember of it who lived on affectionate terms with Montbarry.His other sister and his brothers were constantly quarrelling with him.Even his mother owned that her eldest son was of all her childrenthe child whom she least liked. Sensible and resolute womanas she was, Mrs. Norbury shuddered with terror as she sat atthe window of her room, watching the sunrise, and thinking ofher dreams.

She made the first excuse that occurred to her, when her maidcame in at the usual hour, and noticed how ill she looked.The woman was of so superstitious a temperament that it would havebeen in the last degree indiscreet to trust her with the truth.Mrs. Norbury merely remarked that she had not found the bedquite to her liking, on account of the large size of it.She was accustomed at home, as her maid knew, to sleep in a small bed.Informed of this objection later in the day, the manager regrettedthat he could only offer to the lady the choice of one other bedchamber,numbered Thirty-eight, and situated immediately over the bedchamberwhich she desired to leave. Mrs. Norbury accepted the proposed changeof quarters. She was now about to pass her second night in the roomoccupied in the old days of the palace by Baron Rivar.

Once more, she fell asleep as usual. And, once more, the frightfuldreams of the first night terrified her, following each otherin the same succession. This time her nerves, already shaken,were not equal to the renewed torture of terror inflicted on them.She threw on her dressing-gown, and rushed out of her roomin the middle of the night. The porter, alarmed by the bangingof the door, met her hurrying headlong down the stairs, in searchof the first human being she could find to keep her company.Considerably surprised at this last new manifestation of the famous'English eccentricity,' the man looked at the hotel register,and led the lady upstairs again to the room occupied by her maid.The maid was not asleep, and, more wonderful still, was noteven undressed. She received her mistress quietly. When theywere alone, and when Mrs. Norbury had, as a matter of necessity,taken her attendant into her confidence, the woman made a verystrange reply.

'I have been asking about the hotel, at the servants'supper to-night,' she said. 'The valet of one of the gentlemenstaying here has heard that the late Lord Montbarry was the lastperson who lived in the palace, before it was made into an hotel.The room he died in, ma'am, was the room you slept in last night.Your room tonight is the room just above it. I said nothing for fearof frightening you. For my own part, I have passed the night asyou see, keeping my light on, and reading my Bible. In my opinion,no member of your family can hope to be happy or comfortable inthis house.'

'What do you mean?'

'Please to let me explain myself, ma'am. When Mr. HenryWestwick was here (I have this from the valet, too) he occupiedthe room his brother died in (without knowing it), like you.For two nights he never closed his eyes. Without any reason for it(the valet heard him tell the gentlemen in the coffee-room)he could not sleep; he felt so low and so wretched in himself.And what is more, when daytime came, he couldn't even eat while he wasunder this roof You may laugh at me, ma'am--but even a servantmay draw her own conclusions. It's my conclusion that somethinghappened to my lord, which we none of us know about, when he diedin this house. His ghost walks in torment until he can tell it--and the living persons related to him are the persons who feelhe is near them. Those persons may yet see him in the time to come.Don't, pray don't stay any longer in this dreadful place! I wouldn'tstay another night here myself--no, not for anything that could beoffered me!'

Mrs. Norbury at once set her servant's mind at ease on this last point.

'I don't think about it as you do,' she said gravely.'But I should like to speak to my brother of what has happened.We will go back to Milan.'

Some hours necessarily elapsed before they could leave the hotel,by the first train in the forenoon.

In that interval, Mrs. Norbury's maid found an opportunity ofconfidentially informing the valet of what had passed between hermistress and herself. The valet had other friends to whom he relatedthe circumstances in his turn. In due course of time, the narrative,passing from mouth to mouth, reached the ears of the manager.He instantly saw that the credit of the hotel was in danger,unless something was done to retrieve the character of the roomnumbered Fourteen. English travellers, well acquainted with the peerageof their native country, informed him that Henry Westwick andMrs. Norbury were by no means the only members of the Montbarry family.Curiosity might bring more of them to the hotel, after hearingwhat had happened. The manager's ingenuity easily hit on the obviousmeans of misleading them, in this case. The numbers of all the roomswere enamelled in blue, on white china plates, screwed to the doors.He ordered a new plate to be prepared, bearing the number, '13 A';and he kept the room empty, after its tenant for the time being hadgone away, until the plate was ready. He then re-numbered the room;placing the removed Number Fourteen on the door of his own room(on the second floor), which, not being to let, had not previously beennumbered at all. By this device, Number Fourteen disappeared at onceand for ever from the books of the hotel, as the number of a bedroomto let.

Having warned the servants to beware of gossiping with travellers,on the subject of the changed numbers, under penalty of being dismissed,the manager composed his mind with the reflection that he had done hisduty to his employers. 'Now,' he thought to himself, with an excusablesense of triumph, 'let the whole family come here if they like!The hotel is a match for them.'