AT 10 o'clock in the morning of Tuesday, May 19, 1964, the ghost of Jeanne de Balzac, late wife of Claude d'Urfé, girded such powers as she possessed after long absence and accosted me in the château. Ever so gently, unhurried, she led me to the scullery of Bastie d'Urfé, where her tombstone, displaced from the grave it once marked, lay propped against the wall. Cleverly, she dispersed any surprise I may have had about the propriety of finding her memorial strayed to this unlikely place, and prompted me to read and record the last tribute to her excellence. Most extraordinary of all, she linked our communication to an aroma of morel, the wild mushroom so prized by gourmets.

This imaginative sally occurred on the day of St. Yves, patron saint of lawyers, almost 422 years after Jeanne's death in or about the 15th century château in the Auvergne region of France. While she managed this spiritual engagement within its walls, Spring danced a bourrée outside around other relics of the d'Urfé. Great lindens and massively ancient chestnuts rustled a leafy commotion, attesting to the accurate horticultural reporting of Michelin's "Green Guide" to the Auvergne.

Jeanne had chosen the right moment for our encounter. Had it been afternoon or evening I would not have been there. And she had me alone that morning, suitably receptive, more idler than tourist. Unexpectedly, the chill wafted in, not unpleasant after the sun-smitten field outside. Then she said, impossibly but convincingly, "Read me and remember, read me, write me...." This resembled in no way a voice, it defied all reason; the spirit was and remains