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The twelve best short stories
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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74669 ***</div>
<figure class="figcenter illowe60" id="cover">
<img class="w100" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover" title="bookc">
</figure>
<div class="chapter">
<div class="tnote">
<p class="center p2 big2">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p>
<p>In the plain text version text in <em>italics</em> is enclosed by underscores
(_italics_) and <span class="smcap">Small Capitals</span> are represented in upper case as in
SMALL CAPS.</p>
<p>A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated
variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used
has been kept.</p>
<p>Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.</p>
<p>The original cover art has been modified by the Transcriber and is
granted to the public domain.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p class="center"><span class="smcap big1">Gowanscs Cosmopolitan Library. No. 5</span></p>
<p class="center p2 big1">French Section</p>
<p class="half-title p6b">THE TWELVE BEST SHORT STORIES<br>
IN THE FRENCH LANGUAGE</p>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h1>
THE TWELVE BEST<br>
SHORT STORIES<br>
IN THE<br>
FRENCH LANGUAGE</h1>
<br>
<br>
<p class="center">SELECTED BY<br>
<span class="big3">AUGUSTE DORCHAIN</span></p>
<br>
<br>
<p class="center big1">GOWANS & GRAY, <span class="smcap">Ltd.</span><br>
<small><span class="smcap">5 Robert Street, Adelphi, London, W.C.</span><br>
<span class="smcap">58 Cadogan Street, Glasgow</span><br>
1915</small></p>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p class="center p6 p6b">
<i>First Edition, Demy 8vo, June, 1915.</i><br>
<em>Second Edition, Small Fcap. 8vo, September, 1915.</em><br>
</p>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span></p>
<p class="p4 center big3">PREFACE</p>
</div>
<p>French literature is perhaps more abundant than any
other in those short works of imagination that are called
in France <em>contes</em> or <em>nouvelles</em>, in order to contrast them
with those extended narratives for which the name of
<em>romans</em> is reserved. As far back as the Middle Ages,
during the period of the interminable <em>chansons de geste</em>,
then of the romances of chivalry, not less diffuse, which
succeeded them, the French took pleasure in telling
short stories, of which some, such as <em>Aucassin and
Nicolette</em>, still retain, for those whom their antiquated
language does not repel, much interest and charm. In
like manner, when the Renaissance ends, in the period
of the ample burlesque epic of Rabelais, the Queen of
Navarre, in the tales of her <em>Heptameron</em>, vies with the
<em>novellieri</em> of Italy. In the following century, during
which Spanish influence prevailed, we hardly find any
more short stories appearing in separate form, but
novelists, in the manner of Cervantes in his <em>Don Quixote</em>,
interpolate some here and there in the plot of their
main works of fiction, as halts and resting-places for
the mind of the reader: like D’Urfé in his <em>Astrea</em>, or
Madame De La Fayette in <em>Zaïde</em>; like, again, Le Sage
in his <em>Gil Blas</em> at the beginning of the eighteenth
century. Later on, the eighteenth century will come
to restore the <em>genre</em> to its sway, and Voltaire will be a
master in it; nevertheless he will hardly cultivate it
without making it serve philosophical purposes. Along
with him, more than one minor story-teller of merit,
such as the Chevalier De Boufflers, could be named, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>
not without regret that their wit and elegance should be
employed in the service of a somewhat libertine morality.</p>
<p>From the rapid sketch which precedes, the reasons,
whether of substance or of form, which prevent us from
including in our selection any of the short stories which
were written before the nineteenth century, will easily be
deduced. Besides, it is only then that the <em>genre</em> flourishes
in all directions, and that the writers who cultivate it
produce the most numerous, finished and varied <em>nouvelles</em>
and <em>contes</em>. The names of the twelve authors selected
were obviously all imposed upon us; but our embarrassment
commenced when it was necessary to choose one
single tale from their works. It is certain, for instance,
that we might have preferred, in the case of Alphonse
Daudet, a page in which his trembling sensibility was expressed,
and not one of those into which he has rather put
his witty Provençal gaiety; and some people may regret
that Guy de Maupassant is represented here by a sentimental
tale rather than one of those stories into which
he has poured his bitter realism and his black pessimism.
To those who might be inclined to reproach us, we would
answer that we have been guided, not only by the wish
to present always the most characteristic work of each
author, but by that of giving to our selection the greatest
variety of tone among the narratives thus placed in
juxtaposition, and also by the desire never to lose sight
of any moral proprieties. We have only imposed upon
ourselves one absolute rule: only to offer here perfect,
indisputable masterpieces. We hope that no one will
question our success in this.</p>
<p>
A. D.<br>
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span></p>
<p class="center p4 big3">CONTENTS</p>
</div>
<table class="autotable">
<tr>
<td class="tdl"> </td>
<td class="tdr"><small>PAGE</small></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Adventures of the Last of the Abencerrages</span> (1806) <em>Viscount Chateaubriand</em></td>
<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em; "><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Prisoners of the Caucasus</span> (1815) <em>Count Xavier de Maistre</em></td>
<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em; "><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">El Verdugo</span> (1830) <em>Honoré de Balzac</em></td>
<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em; "><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Laurette, or, The Red Seal</span> (1836) <em>Count Alfred de Vigny</em></td>
<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em; "><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Venus of Ille</span> (1837) <em>Prosper Mérimée</em></td>
<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em; "><a href="#Page_134">134</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Story of a White Blackbird</span> (1842) <em>Alfred de Musset</em></td>
<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em; "><a href="#Page_168">168</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a><span class="smcap">Vanina Vanini</span> (1855) “<em>Stendhal</em>”</td>
<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em; "><a href="#Page_198">198</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Child with the Bread Shoes</span> (1863) <em>Théophile Gautier</em></td>
<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em; "><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Reverend Father Gaucher’s Elixir</span> (1869) <em>Alphonse Daudet</em></td>
<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em; "><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Legend of Saint Julian Hospitator</span> (1877) <em>Gustave Flaubert</em></td>
<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em; "><a href="#Page_248">248</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Gate-Keeper</span> (1883) <em>François Coppée</em></td>
<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em; "><a href="#Page_279">279</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Mademoiselle Perle</span> (1886) <em>Guy de Maupassant</em></td>
<td class="tdr" style="padding-right: 1em; "><a href="#Page_288">288</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p>
<p class="p4 center p2b big2"><em>PUBLISHERS’ NOTE</em></p>
</div>
<p><em>The third, fifth to seventh, and ninth to twelfth inclusive,
of these stories have been translated by Mr. William Metcalfe;
the second and fourth by Miss Measham; the eighth by
Miss Lyons; while for the first an anonymous translation
has been used, which was originally published in 1826, but
has been considerably revised for this volume by Mr.
Adam L. Gowans.</em></p>
<p><em>It should be remembered that M. Dorchain’s selection was
restricted by the plan of the series to the works of authors no
longer living and to stories not exceeding 15,000 words in
length. It should also be borne in mind that the notes in
the present volume are, without exception, those of the original
authors, the translators having done nothing more than translate
carefully without omission or addition.</em></p>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span></p>
<p class="center p4 big3">THE TWELVE BEST SHORT STORIES
IN THE FRENCH LANGUAGE</p>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak p2b">THE ADVENTURES OF THE LAST OF
THE ABENCERRAGES<br>
<small>VISCOUNT CHATEAUBRIAND</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="center"><em>ADVERTISEMENT</em></p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><em>The Adventures of the last of the Abencerrages</em> were written
nearly twenty years ago; the portrait which I have sketched of
the Spaniards explains sufficiently why this story could not be
printed under the Imperial government. The resistance of the
Spaniards to Buonaparte, of a defenceless nation to the conqueror,
who had vanquished the best soldiers of Europe, excited
at that time the enthusiasm of every heart susceptible of being
affected by great devotedness and noble sacrifices. The ruins of
Saragossa were still smoking, and the censorship would not have
suffered the publication of eulogiums, in which it would have
discovered, rightly enough, a concealed interest for the victims.
Pictures of the ancient manners of Europe, recollections of the
glory of former times, and those of the court of one of our most
distinguished monarchs, would not have been more agreeable
to the censorship, which besides began to repent having so often
allowed me to speak of the ancient monarchy, and of the
religion of our fathers: these departed subjects, which I was
incessantly recalling, excited too powerfully the thoughts of the
living.</p>
<p>It is a frequent practice, in pictures, to place some unseemly
personage for the purpose of bringing out more the beauty of
others: in this story, my idea has been to paint three men of
equally elevated character, but not out of the usual course
of nature, and retaining, along with the passions, the manners
and even the prejudices of their country. The character of
the female is also drawn in the same proportions. The world of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span>
imagination, when we transport ourselves thither, should at least
make us amends for the world of reality.</p>
<p>It will readily be seen that this story is the composition of a
man who has felt the pangs of exile, and whose heart is entirely
wrapt up in his country.</p>
<p>The views, so to speak, which I have given of Granada, of the
Alhambra, and of the ruined mosque transformed into a church,
were taken upon the spot. The latter is nothing else than the
cathedral of Cordova. These descriptions are therefore a kind
of addition to the following passage of the <em>Itinerary</em>. “From
Cadiz, I repaired to Cordova; I admired the mosque which is
now the cathedral of that city. I traversed the ancient Betica,
described by the poets as the abode of happiness. I ascended as
far as Andujar, and retraced my steps in order to see Granada.
The Alhambra appeared to me well worthy of being looked at,
even after the temples of Greece. The valley of Granada is
delightful, and reminds one very much of that of Sparta; that
the Moors should have regretted such a country may be easily
conceived.”—(<em>Itinerary</em>, part <span class="allsmcap">VII.</span> and last).</p>
<p>There are frequent allusions in this story to the history of the
Zegris and the Abencerrages; this history is so well known, that
I have thought it superfluous to give any sketch of it in this
advertisement. Besides, the story itself contains sufficient
details to make the text easily understood.</p>
</div>
<p>When Boabdil, the last king of Granada, was compelled
to abandon the kingdom of his forefathers, he halted
on the top of Mount Padul. That elevated spot commanded
a view of the sea, on which the unfortunate
monarch was about to embark for Africa; from it also
could be discovered Granada, the Vega, and the Xenil,
on the banks of which were erected the tents of Ferdinand
and Isabella. At the sight of this beautiful country, and
of the cypresses which still marked here and there the
tombs of the Mussulmans, Boabdil began to shed tears.
The sultana Ayxa, his mother, who accompanied him in
his exile, along with the grandees who formerly composed
his court, said to him: “Weep now like a woman, for the
loss of a kingdom, which thou hast been unable to defend
like a man.” They descended from the mountain, and
Granada disappeared from their eyes for ever.</p>
<p>The Moors of Spain, who shared the fate of their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>
sovereign, dispersed themselves throughout Africa; the
tribes of the Zegris and the Gomeres settled in the
kingdom of Fez, which was their aboriginal country;
the Vanegas and the Alabeses took up their abode upon
the coast, from Oran to Algiers; finally the Abencerrages
established themselves in the environs of Tunis; they
formed, within sight of the ruins of Carthage, a colony,
which, even in our own times, is distinguished from the
Moors of Africa, by its elegant manners, and the mildness
of its laws.</p>
<p>These families carried into their new country the
remembrance of their old one. The <em>Paradise of Granada</em>
lived constantly in their memory, the mothers repeated
its name to their children at the breast. They lulled
them to sleep with the romances of the Zegris and the
Abencerrages. Prayers were repeated in the mosque
every five days, with the face turned towards Granada;
and Allah was implored to restore to his chosen people
that land of delights. In vain did the country of the
Lotos-eaters present to the exiles its fruits, its waters, its
verdure, and its glorious sun; far from the <em>Vermilion
Towers</em>,<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> there were neither pleasant fruits, limpid springs,
fresh verdure, nor sun worthy to be looked at. If any one
shewed the plains of Bagrada to an exile, the latter only
shook his head, and exclaimed with a sigh: “Granada!”</p>
<p>The Abencerrages, particularly, preserved the most
tender and faithful remembrance of their country. They
had quitted, with the most poignant anguish, the theatre
of their glory, and the banks which they had made so
often ring with the war-cry of “Honour and love.”
Being no longer able to lift the lance in the deserts, or to
wear the helmet in a colony of farmers, they had devoted
themselves to the study of simples, a profession in equal
estimation among the Arabs with that of arms. Thus
did that race of warriors, which formerly inflicted wounds,
now make its occupation that of healing them. In this
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>particular, it retained something of its original genius, for
the knights themselves frequently dressed the wounds of
the enemies they had overthrown.</p>
<p>The cottage of that family, which formerly possessed
palaces, was not placed in the hamlet of the other exiles,
at the foot of Mount Mamelife; it was built amidst the
very ruins of Carthage, on the sea-shore, in the place
where St. Louis expired on the ashes, and where a Mahometan
hermitage is now to be seen. Along the walls of
the cottage were hung bucklers made of lions’ skins,
bearing, impressed upon a field of azure, two figures of
savages breaking down a town with a club; round the
device was this motto: “It is but little!” the coat of
arms and device of the Abencerrages. Lances adorned
with white and blue pennons, burnouses, and cassocks of
slashed satin, were ranged by the side of the bucklers,
and figured in the midst of scimitars and poniards.
Here and there also were suspended gauntlets, bits
ornamented with precious stones, large silver stirrups,
long swords, whose sheaths had been embroidered by the
hands of princesses, and golden spurs, with which the
Iseults, the Guineveres and Orianas were wont of old to
invest gallant knights.</p>
<p>Beneath these trophies of glory, were placed upon
tables the trophies of a life of peace. These were plants
culled on the summits of Mount Atlas, and in the desert
of Sahara; many of them had even been brought from
the plain of Granada. Some were intended to relieve
the ailments of the body; others were supposed to
mitigate the severity of mental suffering. The Abencerrages
regarded as most valuable those which were useful
in calming vain regrets, in dissipating foolish illusions,
and the ever-reviving, ever-deceived, hopes of happiness.
Unfortunately these simples possessed qualities of an
opposite nature, and the sweet odour of a flower of their
own country frequently acted as a sort of poison to the
illustrious exiles.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span></p>
<p>Twenty-four years had passed away since the taking
of Granada. In that short space of time, fourteen Abencerrages
had perished, by the effects of a new climate,
the accidents of a wandering life, and principally through
grief, which imperceptibly undermines the strength of
man. One single descendant was the sole hope of that
illustrious family. Aben-Hamet bore the name of that
Abencerrage, who was accused by the Zegris of having
seduced the sultana Alfayma. In him were united the
beauty, the valour, the courtesy and the generosity of
his ancestors, with that mild lustre and slight tinge of
melancholy which adversity, nobly supported, inspires.
He was only twenty-two years of age when he lost his
father; he then determined to make a pilgrimage to the
land of his ancestors, in order to gratify the secret longing
of his heart, and to execute a plan which he carefully
concealed from his mother.</p>
<p>He embarked at the port of Tunis; a favourable wind
carried him to Carthagena, where he landed, and immediately
proceeded on the road to Granada. He gave
himself out for an Arabian physician, who had come to
collect plants amid the rocks of the Sierra Nevada. A
quiet mule bore him slowly along in the country where
formerly the Abencerrages were carried with the swiftness
of the wind on warlike coursers; a guide walked
before, leading two other mules ornamented with bells
and parti-coloured woollen tufts. Aben-Hamet crossed
the large heaths and woods of palm-trees of the kingdom
of Murcia; from the great age of these trees, he conjectured
that they must have been planted by his
ancestors, and his heart was pierced by regret. There
rose a tower in which the sentinel, in former times, kept
watch, during the wars of the Moors and Christians;
here appeared a ruined building whose architecture proved
its Moorish origin; a fresh subject of grief to Aben-Hamet!
He dismounted from his mule, and, on pretence
of seeking for plants, hid himself for a few moments, in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>
the ruins, in order to give free vent to his tears. He
then proceeded on his road, in a state of reverie, which
was encouraged by the noise of the mule-bells, and the
monotonous song of his guide. The latter only interrupted
his long-winded ditty, in order to quicken the
pace of his mules by giving them the names of <em>beautiful</em>
and <em>brave</em>, or to scold them by the epithets of <em>lazy</em> and
<em>obstinate</em>.</p>
<p>Flocks of sheep, directed by a shepherd like an army,
in sere and barren plains, and occasionally a solitary
traveller, far from diffusing an appearance of life upon
the road, only served, in a manner, to make it more
gloomy and desert. These travellers all wore a sword
attached to the waist; they were wrapped up in a
mantle, and a large slouched hat half covered their faces.
As they passed, they saluted Aben-Hamet, who could
only make out, in their noble salutation, the names of
God, of Señor and of Knight. At the close of day, the
Abencerrage took his place in the midst of strangers at
the inn, without being troubled by their indiscreet
curiosity. No one spoke to him, no one questioned him;
his turban, his robe, and his arms, excited no surprise.
As it had been the will of Allah, that the Moors of
Spain should lose their beautiful country, Aben-Hamet
could not help entertaining a feeling of esteem for its
grave conquerors.</p>
<p>Emotions still more vivid awaited the Abencerrage at
the end of his journey. Granada is built at the foot of
the Sierra Nevada, on two high hills, separated by a
deep valley. The houses, built on the declivities in the
hollow of the valley, give this city the shape and appearance
of a grenado half open, from which resemblance it
derives its name. Two rivers, the Xenil and the Darro,
the sands of the first of which contain gold, and the
other silver, wash the feet of the hills, form a junction,
and afterwards take a serpentine course in the midst of
a charming valley, called the Vega. This plain, which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>
is overlooked by Granada, is covered with vines, with
pomegranate, fig, mulberry and orange-trees; it is
surrounded by mountains of singularly beautiful form
and colour. An enchanting sky, a pure and delicious
air, affect the soul with a secret languor, from which
even the passing traveller finds it difficult to preserve
himself. Every one feels that, in this country, the
tender passions would have very soon stifled the heroic
ones, if true love did not always feel the wish to have
glory as its companion.</p>
<p>As soon as Aben-Hamet discovered the tops of the first
buildings of Granada, his heart beat so violently, that he
was obliged to stop his mule. Crossing his arms over
his breast, and fixing his eyes on the holy city, he
remained speechless and immovable. The guide halted
in his turn; and, as elevated sentiments are easily understood
by a Spaniard, he appeared affected, and conjectured
that the Moor’s feelings were excited by the sight of his
former country. The Abencerrage at last broke silence.</p>
<p>“Guide!” said he, “be happy! hide not the truth
from me, for the waves were calm, and the moon entered
into her crescent, on the day of thy nativity. What are
these towers which shine like stars over a green forest?”</p>
<p>“That is the Alhambra,” answered the guide.</p>
<p>“And the other castle upon the opposite hill?” said
Aben-Hamet.</p>
<p>“It is the Generalife,” replied the Spaniard. “In that
castle there is a garden planted with myrtles, where it is
said the Abencerrage was surprised with the sultana
Alfayma; farther off, you see the Albaycin, and nearer
to us the Vermilion Towers.”</p>
<p>Every word which the guide uttered pierced the heart
of Aben-Hamet. How cruel it is to be obliged to have
recourse to strangers for information respecting the
monuments of our ancestors, and to have the history of
our family and friends related to us by indifferent
persons! The guide, putting an end to the reflections of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>
Aben-Hamet, exclaimed: “Let us proceed, Sir Moor; it
is the will of God! Do not be downcast. Is not
Francis I., even now, a prisoner in our Madrid? It is the
will of God!” He took off his hat, crossed himself with
great fervour, and drove on his mules. The Abencerrage,
spurring on his, exclaimed in his turn: “It
was thus written;” <a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> and they descended towards
Granada.</p>
<p>They passed close to the great ash-tree, memorable as
the scene of the battle between Musa and the grand-master
of Calatrava, in the time of the last king of
Granada. They made the circuit of the Alameda walk,
and entered the city by the gate of Elvira. They
reascended the Rambla, and arrived shortly after at a
square, surrounded on all sides by buildings of Moorish
architecture. A khan was opened in this square for the
Moors of Africa, whom the trade in silks of the Vega
attracted in crowds to Granada. Thither the guide
conducted Aben-Hamet.</p>
<p>The Abencerrage was too agitated to enjoy much rest
in his new habitation; the idea of his country tormented
him. Unable any longer to master the feelings which
preyed upon his heart, he stole out, in the middle of the
night, to wander about the streets of Granada. He
attempted to recognize, with his eyes or with his hands,
some of the monuments which the elders of his tribe had
so frequently described to him. Perhaps the lofty edifice,
whose walls he could only half distinguish through the
darkness, was formerly the residence of the Abencerrages;
perhaps it was in this solitary square that those
splendid carousals were given, which raised the glory of
Granada to the skies. There it was that the troops of
horsemen, superbly dressed in brocade, marched in procession;
there advanced the galleys loaded with arms
and with flowers, the dragons darting out fire, and carrying
illustrious warriors concealed in their sides; ingenious
inventions of pleasure and gallantry.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span></p>
<p>But alas! in place of the sound of <em>anafins</em>, of the noise
of trumpets, and of songs of love, the deepest silence
reigned around Aben-Hamet. This mute city had changed
its inhabitants, and the victors reposed on the couches
of the vanquished. “They sleep then, these proud
Spaniards,” exclaimed the young Moor with indignation,
“under the roofs from which they have banished my
ancestors! And I, an Abencerrage, I wake, unknown,
solitary and forsaken, at the gate of my fathers’ palace.”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet then reflected upon the destinies of man,
on the vicissitudes of fortune, on the fall of empires,
lastly on Granada itself surprised by its enemies in the
midst of pleasures, and exchanging all at once its garlands
of flowers for chains; he pictured to himself its citizens
forsaking their homes in gala dresses, like guests, who, in
the disorder of their attire, are suddenly driven from the
chambers of festivity by a conflagration.</p>
<p>All these images, all these ideas, crowded on one
another in the soul of Aben-Hamet; full of grief and
anguish, his thoughts were principally turned to the
execution of the project which had brought him to
Granada. Day surprised him in his reverie; the Abencerrage
had lost his way: he found himself far from the
khan, in a remote suburb of the city. All was yet asleep:
no noise disturbed the silence of the streets; the doors
and windows of the houses were still shut; the clarion of
the cock alone proclaimed, in the habitation of the poor,
the return of labour and of hardship.</p>
<p>After wandering about for a long time, without being
able to find his way, Aben-Hamet heard a door open.
He saw a young female come out, dressed nearly like
the Gothic queens which we see sculptured on the monuments
of our ancient abbeys; her black corset trimmed
with jet tightened her elegant waist. Her short petticoat,
narrow and without folds, discovered a beautiful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>
leg and charming foot; a mantilla, also black, was thrown
over her head; with her left hand she held this mantilla
crossed and drawn up close like a stomacher under her
chin, in such a manner that nothing was seen of her face
but her large eyes and rosy mouth. A duenna walked
by her side; a page preceded her, carrying a prayer-book;
two footmen in livery followed at some distance
the beautiful unknown; she was repairing to morning
prayers, which were announced by the ringing of a bell
in a neighbouring monastery.</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet fancied he saw the angel Israfel, or the
youngest of the houris. The Spanish maiden, not less
surprised, looked at the Abencerrage, whose turban, robe
and arms set off to still greater advantage his noble
countenance. Recovering from her first astonishment,
she beckoned to the stranger to approach, with the grace
and freedom peculiar to the women of that country.
“Sir Moor,” said she to him, “you appear to have
recently arrived at Granada; have you lost your way?”</p>
<p>“Sultana of flowers,” replied Aben-Hamet, “delight of
men’s eyes, Christian slave more beautiful than the
virgins of Georgia, thou hast rightly guessed! I am a
stranger in this city: having lost myself amidst its
palaces, I was unable to find my way back to the khan
of the Moors. May Mahomet touch thy heart, and
reward thee for thy hospitality!”</p>
<p>“The Moors are renowned for their gallantry,” replied
the lady with the sweetest smile; “but I am neither
sultana of flowers, nor a slave, nor desirous of being
recommended to Mahomet. Follow me, Sir knight, I
will lead you back to the khan of the Moors.”</p>
<p>She walked lightly before the Abencerrage, led him to
the door of the khan, to which she pointed with her
hand, then passed on to the back of a palace, and
disappeared.</p>
<p>To what then is the repose of life attached? His
country no longer occupies solely and exclusively the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>
mind of Aben-Hamet; Granada is no longer in his eyes
deserted, forsaken, widowed and solitary; she is dearer
than ever to his heart, but it is a new glamour which
embellishes her ruins; with the recollection of his
ancestors is now mingled another charm. Aben-Hamet
has discovered the burial-place where the ashes of the
Abencerrages repose; but while he prays, throws himself
on the ground, and sheds a flood of filial tears, he
fancies that the young Spanish maiden has sometimes
passed over these tombs, and he no longer considers his
ancestors as so unfortunate.</p>
<p>In vain does he wish to occupy himself with nothing
but his pilgrimage to the land of his fathers; in vain
does he scour the hills of the Darro and the Xenil to
gather plants from them at the morning-dawn; the young
Christian lady is the flower which he is now in search of.
What fruitless efforts he has already made to discover
the palace of his enchantress! How many times has he
attempted to retrace the ground over which his divine
guide conducted him! How many times has he fancied
that he has recognized the same bell, and the same cock-crow,
which he had heard near the house of the Spanish
lady! Deceived by similar sounds, he runs immediately
to the side from which they proceed; but the magic palace
nowhere presents itself to his eyes! Frequently also the
uniformity of the female dress at Granada gave him a
moment of hope: at a distance every Christian female
resembled the mistress of his heart; when close to him,
not one possessed her beauty or her grace. Finally,
Aben-Hamet had made the round of the churches, in
order to discover the stranger; he had even penetrated
to the tomb of Ferdinand and Isabella, but this was the
greatest sacrifice which he had yet made to love.</p>
<p>One day he was herborizing in the valley of the Darro.
The flowery declivity of the southern hill supported the
walls of the Alhambra, and the gardens of the Generalife;
the northern hill was adorned with the Albaycin, with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>
smiling orchards, and with grottoes, inhabited by a
numerous population. At the western extremity of the
valley, were descried the spires of Granada, which rose
in groups from the midst of holm-oaks and cypresses.
At the other extremity, towards the east, the eye rested
upon points of rocks, convents and hermitages, some of
the ruins of the ancient Illiberia, and in the distance the
heights of the Sierra Nevada. The waters of the Darro
rolled along in the middle of the vale, and presented on
the margin of its course newly erected mills, noisy waterfalls,
the broken arches of a Roman aqueduct, and the
remains of a bridge of the time of the Moors.</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet was neither miserable enough, nor happy
enough, to enjoy properly the charms of solitude; he
roamed over these beautiful banks with absence and
indifference. In the course of his random walk, he struck
into an alley of trees which wound round the declivity
of the hill of the Albaycin. A country-house, surrounded
by a grove of orange-trees, soon presented itself to his
view; as he approached the grove, he heard the sounds
of a voice and a guitar. Between the voice, the features
and looks of a woman there are relations which never
deceive a man whom love possesses. “It is my houri!”
said Aben-Hamet, and he listened with a beating heart;
at the name of the Abencerrages several times repeated,
his heart beat still quicker. The fair unknown was singing
a Spanish romance retracing the history of the Abencerrages
and the Zegris. Aben-Hamet was no longer
able to resist his emotion; he darted through a hedge of
myrtle, and found himself in the midst of a party of
young ladies, who were alarmed at his appearance, and,
with loud screams, fled in all directions. The Spanish
lady who had been singing, and who still held the guitar,
exclaimed: “It is the Moorish gentleman!” and called
back her companions. “Favourite of the genii,” said
the Abencerrage, “I sought thee as an Arab searches for
a spring at the heat of noon. I heard the sound of thy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>
guitar; thou wert singing the heroes of my country. I
discovered thee by the beauty of thy accents, and I
come to lay at thy feet the heart of Aben-Hamet.”</p>
<p>“And it was with thoughts of you,” replied Donna
Blanca, “that I was repeating the romance of the Abencerrages:
ever since I saw you, I have fancied that these
Moorish knights resembled you.”</p>
<p>The colour mounted slightly to Blanca’s forehead as
she pronounced these words. Aben-Hamet felt as if he
could have thrown himself at the feet of the young
Christian, and declared to her that he was himself the
last Abencerrage; but a remnant of prudence restrained
him: he was afraid lest his name, too celebrated at
Granada, should give uneasiness to the governor. The
war with the Moriscoes was scarcely terminated, and the
presence of an Abencerrage at that moment might give
the Spaniards just cause of apprehension. It was not
that Aben-Hamet was alarmed at the prospect of danger;
but he trembled at the idea of being obliged to remove
himself for ever from the daughter of Don Rodrigo.</p>
<p>Donna Blanca was descended from a family which
derived its origin from the Cid de Bivar, and from
Ximena, the daughter of Count Gormez de Gormas.
The posterity of the conqueror of Valencia the Beautiful,
owing to the ingratitude of the court of Castille, was
reduced to a state of extreme poverty; it was even
believed, for several centuries, to be extinct, such was
the obscurity into which it had fallen. But, about the
time of the conquest of Granada, a last descendant of
the race of the Bivars, the grandfather of Blanca, made
himself distinguished, less by his pedigree than by his
signal valour. After the expulsion of the infidels, Ferdinand
rewarded this descendant of the Cid with the
estates of several Moorish families, and created him Duke
of Santa Fé. The newly created Duke fixed his residence
at Granada, and died while still young, leaving an
only son already married, Don Rodrigo, father of Blanca.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span></p>
<p>Donna Teresa de Xeres, the wife of Don Rodrigo, gave
birth to a son, who received, at his birth, the name of
Rodrigo, like all his ancestors, but was called Don
Carlos, to distinguish him from his father. The great
events of which Don Carlos was a witness from his
earliest years, the dangers to which he was exposed while
yet in his nonage, contributed to render still more grave
and severe a character naturally disposed to austerity.
Don Carlos was scarcely fourteen years of age, when he
followed Cortez to Mexico: he supported all the dangers,
and was a witness of all the horrors, of that astonishing
adventure; and he was present at the overthrow of the
last king of a world until then unknown. Three years
after that catastrophe, Don Carlos had returned to
Europe, and was present at the battle of Pavia, as if he
had come to witness kingly honour and valour sinking
under the strokes of fortune. The aspect of a new world,
long voyages on seas which had never before been
navigated, and the spectacle of the revolutions and
vicissitudes of fate, had made a deep impression on the
religious and melancholy imagination of Don Carlos.
He entered into the knightly order of Calatrava; and,
renouncing marriage in spite of Don Rodrigo’s prayers,
destined his whole fortune to his sister.</p>
<p>Blanca de Bivar, the only sister of Don Carlos, and
much younger than he, was the idol of her father. She
had lost her mother, and had just entered into her
eighteenth year, when Aben-Hamet made his appearance
at Granada. Everything about this enchanting woman
was fascination itself; her voice was ravishing and her
dancing lighter than the zephyr. Sometimes she delighted
in directing a chariot, like Armida; at other times
she flew upon the back of the swiftest barb of Andalusia,
like those charming fairies who appeared to Tristan and
to Galaor in the forests. Athens would have taken her
for Aspasia, and Paris for Diana of Poitiers, who was
then beginning to shine at the court. But, with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>
charms of a Frenchwoman, she had all the passions of
a Spaniard, and her natural coquetry in no degree
diminished the fixity, the constancy, the strength and
elevation of the feelings of her heart.</p>
<p>At the noise of the screams, which the young ladies
sent forth, when Aben-Hamet rushed into the midst
of the grove, Don Rodrigo came running up. “My
father,” said Blanca, “this is the Moorish gentleman of
whom I spoke to you. He heard me singing, and
recognized me; he entered the garden to thank me for
having put him in his right road.”</p>
<p>The Duke of Santa Fé received the Abencerrage with
the grave and yet unaffected politeness of the Spaniards.
One remarks in this nation none of those servile airs,
none of those circumlocutory phrases, which reveal the
abjectness of ideas, and the degradation of the soul.
The language of the first nobleman and of the peasant
is the same, the salutation the same, the compliments,
habits and customs are the same. In proportion as the
confidence and generosity of this people to strangers is
unbounded, in the same proportion is its vengeance
terrible when betrayed. Of heroic courage, of patience
inexhaustible, incapable of yielding to bad fortune, it
must either vanquish or be crushed. It has little of
what is called wit, but exalted passions are with it a
substitute for that light which is derived from the refinement
and abundance of ideas. A Spaniard, who passes
the day without speaking, who has seen nothing, and
cares not for seeing anything, who has read nothing,
studied nothing, compared nothing, will yet discover, in
the greatness of his resolutions, the necessary resources
at the moment of adversity.</p>
<p>It was Don Rodrigo’s birthday, and Blanca was giving
her father a <em>tertulia</em>, or little entertainment, in this
delightful solitude. The Duke invited Aben-Hamet to
seat himself amidst the young ladies, who were amused
at the turban and robe of the stranger. Some velvet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>
cushions were brought, and Aben-Hamet reclined himself
on these cushions in the Moorish fashion. He was questioned
respecting his country, and his adventures; he
replied to these enquiries with spirit and vivacity. He
spoke the purest Castilian; one could have taken him
for a Spaniard, if he had not almost constantly said <em>thou</em>
instead of <em>you</em>. This word had something so sweet about
it in his mouth, that Blanca could not help feeling a
secret annoyance when he addressed it to one of her
companions.</p>
<p>A numerous retinue of servants appeared, and were
the bearers of chocolate, of fruit cakes, and little sweet
cakes from Malaga, white as snow, porous and light as
sponges. After the <em>refresco</em>, Blanca was entreated to
execute one of those national dances, in which she
excelled the most accomplished Gitanas. She was
obliged to accede to the wishes of her friends. Aben-Hamet
was silent, but his supplicating looks spoke as
eloquently as his mouth would have done. Blanca chose
a <em>zambra</em>, an expressive dance which the Spaniards have
borrowed from the Moors.</p>
<p>One of the young ladies began to play upon the guitar
the air of this foreign dance. The daughter of Don
Rodrigo took off her veil, and fastened a pair of ebony
castanets round her white hands. Her black hair falls
in ringlets on her alabaster neck; her mouth and her
eyes smile in concert; her colour is animated by the
action of her heart. All at once she makes the noisy
ebony re-echo, beats time three times, commences the
song of the <em>zambra</em>, and, mingling her voice with the
sounds of the guitar, darts off like lightning.</p>
<p>What variety in her steps! What elegance in her
attitudes! Now she raises her arms with vivacity, then
she lets them fall with languor. Sometimes she springs
forward as if intoxicated with pleasure, and then retires
as if overwhelmed with sorrow. She turns her head,
seems to call to her some invisible person, modestly holds<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>
out her rosy cheek to receive the kiss of a newly married
husband, flies back ashamed, returns delighted and
consoled, marches with a noble and almost warlike step,
afterwards skims afresh the verdant mead. The harmony
between her dancing, her singing, and the music of the
guitar was perfect. The voice of Blanca, slightly husky,
had that species of accent which stirs the passions to the
very bottom of the soul. The Spanish music, composed
of sighs, of lively movements, of melancholy repetitions,
of airs suddenly stopped, presents a singular mixture of
gaiety and melancholy. This music and this dancing
settled the destiny of the last Abencerrage irrecoverably;
they would have been sufficient to trouble a heart less
susceptible than his.</p>
<p>In the evening they returned to Granada by the valley
of the Darro. Don Rodrigo was so delighted with the
noble and polished manners of Aben-Hamet, that he
would not let him depart without receiving his promise
to come frequently and amuse Blanca with the wonderful
stories of the East. The Moor, at the height of his
wishes, accepted the invitation of the Duke of Santa Fé;
and, beginning with the following day, he was regular
in his visits to the palace where she breathed whom he
loved more than the light of day.</p>
<p>Blanca found her heart very soon engaged in a deep
passion, from the very impossibility she had fancied that
ever she should feel that passion. That any one should
love an infidel, a Moor, an unknown stranger, appeared
to her so extraordinary, that she took no precaution
against the malady which began to insinuate itself into
her veins. But no sooner did she become sensible of its
inroads, than she accepted this malady like a true
Spaniard. The dangers and troubles, which she foresaw,
neither made her draw back when on the brink of the
precipice, nor deliberate long with her heart. She said to
herself: “Let Aben-Hamet become a Christian, let him love
me, and I will follow him to the extremity of the earth.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p>
<p>On his part, the Abencerrage also felt the full power
of an irresistible passion: he no longer lived but for
Blanca; he no longer occupied himself with the plans
which had brought him to Granada. It was easy for
him to obtain the information which he came expressly in
pursuit of: but every other interest, except that of his
love, had vanished from his eyes. He even dreaded the
knowledge which might produce a change in his mode of
existence. He asked for nothing; he wished not to
know anything. He said to himself: “Let Blanca
become a Mahometan, let her love me, and I will serve
her to my last sigh.”</p>
<p>Thus determined in their resolutions, Aben-Hamet
and Blanca only waited for a favourable moment to
discover their mutual sentiments to each other. It was
then the best time of the year. “You have not yet seen
the Alhambra,” said the daughter of the Duke of Santa
Fé to the Abencerrage. “If I can guess, by some words
which have dropped from you, your family is originally
from Granada. You will perhaps be pleased to visit the
palace of your ancient kings? I will myself, this evening,
be your guide thither.”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet swore, by the prophet, that no excursion
could ever be more agreeable to him.</p>
<p>When the hour appointed for this pilgrimage to the
Alhambra arrived, the daughter of Don Rodrigo mounted
a white hackney, accustomed to climb the rocks like a
deer. Aben-Hamet accompanied the brilliant Spaniard
on an Andalusian horse, equipped in the Turkish manner.
In the rapid course of the young Moor, his purple robe
swelled out behind him, his crooked sabre echoed on
the elevated saddle, and the wind shook the plume with
which his turban was surmounted. The common people,
charmed by his graceful carriage, said as they saw him
pass: “It is an infidel prince whom Donna Blanca is
going to convert.”</p>
<p>They first went up a long street which still bore the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>
name of an illustrious Moorish family. This street
bordered on the exterior inclosure of the Alhambra.
They then crossed a wood of young elm-trees, arrived
at a fountain, and shortly found themselves in front of
the interior inclosure of the palace of Boabdil. In a
wall flanked with towers and surmounted by battlements,
was a gate called the Gate of Judgement. They passed
through this first gate, and proceeded along a narrow
road which led them in a serpentine course between high
walls and half-ruined hovels. This road brought them
to the square of the Algibes, close to which Charles V.
was then erecting a palace. From thence, turning northward,
they halted in a deserted court, at the foot of an
unornamented wall, out of repair from the effects of time.
Aben-Hamet, springing lightly to the ground, presented
his hand to Blanca, and assisted her in alighting from
her mule. The servants knocked at a deserted door, the
threshold of which was concealed by the grass; the
door opened, and all at once disclosed to view the secret
recesses of the Alhambra.</p>
<p>All the charms of, and regrets for, his country, mingled
with the glamour of love, seized the heart of Aben-Hamet.
Silent and immovable, his wondering looks
dived into this habitation of the genii. He fancied
himself transported to the entrance of one of those
palaces the account of which one reads in the Arabian
tales. Light galleries, canals of white marble bordered
with lemon and orange-trees in full bloom, fountains,
and solitary courts, presented themselves in all directions
to the eyes of Aben-Hamet; and through the lengthened
vaults of the porticoes he perceived other labyrinths and
fresh enchantments. The azure of the most beautiful
sky appeared between the columns, which supported a
chain of Gothic arches. The walls were covered with
arabesques, which seemed to the eye like imitations of
those stuffs of the East, which, in the ennui of the harem,
are embroidered by the caprice of a female slave. An<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>
air of voluptuousness, of religion, and of war, seemed to
breathe in this magic edifice; it was a species of lovers’
cloister, a mysterious retreat, where the Moorish
sovereigns tasted all the pleasures, and forgot all the
duties of life.</p>
<p>After some minutes of surprise and silence, the two
lovers entered into this residence of fallen greatness and
past felicities. They first made the round of the hall of
Mexuar, in the midst of the perfume of flowers and the
freshness of waters. They then penetrated into the
Court of Lions. The agitation of Aben-Hamet increased
at every step. “Didst thou not fill my soul with delight,”
said he to Blanca, “with what pain should I find
myself obliged to ask of thee, a Spaniard, the history
of this palace! Ah! these places are made to serve
as a retreat for happiness, and I!...”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet perceived the name of Boabdil enchased
in the mosaics: “ O my king!” exclaimed he, “what is
become of thee? where shall I find thee in thy deserted
Alhambra?” And tears of fidelity, of loyalty, and of
honour suffused the eyes of the young Moor. “Your
old masters,” said Blanca, “or rather the kings of your
fathers, were ungrateful.”—” What matter!” returned
the Abencerrage, “they were unfortunate!”</p>
<p>As he pronounced these words, Blanca conducted him
into an apartment which seemed to be the very sanctuary
of the temple of love. The elegance of this asylum
could not be surpassed; the entire ceiling, painted blue
and gold, and composed of arabesques of filagree work,
allowed the light to appear as if through a tissue of
flowers. A fountain spouted in the midst of the building,
the waters of which, falling again in a shower of dew,
were received in an alabaster shell. “Aben-Hamet,”
said the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé “look well
at this fountain; it received the disfigured heads of the
Abencerrages. You can still see, on the marble, the
stain of the blood of the unhappy men who were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>
sacrificed to Boabdil’s suspicions. It is thus that, in
your country, men who seduce credulous women are
treated.”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet had ceased to listen to Blanca; he had
prostrated himself, and kissed respectfully the mark of
the blood of his ancestors. Then rising he exclaimed:
“O Blanca! I swear, by the blood of these knights, to
love thee with the constancy, the fidelity and the ardour
of an Abencerrage!”</p>
<p>“You love me then?” returned Blanca, clasping her
beautiful hands, and raising her eyes to heaven; “but
do you forget that you are an infidel, a Moor, an enemy,
and that I am a Christian and a Spaniard?”</p>
<p>“O holy prophet!” said Aben-Hamet, “be thou
witness of my oaths!...” Blanca interrupted him.
“And what reliance think you can I place on the oaths
of a persecutor of my God? Do you know whether I
love you? Who has given you the assurance to use such
language to me?”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet in consternation replied: “True, lady, I
am only thy slave; thou hast not chosen me to be thy
knight.”</p>
<p>“Moor,” said Blanca, “lay artifice aside. Thou hast
seen, by my looks, that I loved thee; my passion for
thee exceeds all bounds: be a Christian, and nothing
shall prevent me from being thine. But, if the daughter
of the Duke of Santa Fé venture to speak to thee thus
frankly, thou mayest judge, from that very circumstance,
that she will know how to conquer herself, and that no
enemy of the Christians shall ever possess any claim on
her.”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet, in a transport of passion, seized the hands
of Blanca, and placed them first on his turban, and then
on his heart: “Allah is powerful,” he cried, “and Aben-Hamet
is happy! O Mahomet, let this Christian acknowledge
thy law, and nothing can....”—” Thou art a
blasphemer,” said Blanca, “let us depart hence.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p>
<p>Leaning on the arm of the Moor, she proceeded to the
fountain of the Twelve Lions, which gives its name to
one of the courts of the Alhambra. “Stranger,” said the
artless Spanish maiden, “when I look at thy robe, thy
turban, and thy arms, and think of our loves, I fancy I
see the shade of the handsome Abencerrage walking in
this forsaken retreat with the unfortunate Alfayma.
Explain to me the Arabic inscription which is engraved
on the marble of this fountain.”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet read these words:</p>
<p><em>The beautiful princess who walks, covered with pearls, in
her garden, adds to the beauty of it so prodigiously....</em><a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a>
The rest of the inscription was effaced.</p>
<p>“It is for thee that this inscription was made,” said
Aben-Hamet. “Beloved Sultana, these palaces have
never been so beautiful in their youth, as they now are
in their ruins. Listen to the murmur of the fountains,
the waters of which have been turned from their course
by the moss: look at the gardens, which we see through
these half-ruined arcades; contemplate the star of day,
which is setting beyond all these porticoes; how sweet
it is to wander with thee in these abodes! Thy words
embalm these retreats like the roses of Hymen. With
what delight do I discover, in thy speech, some of the
accents of the language of my fathers! The mere rustling
of thy dress on these marbles makes me thrill. The air
is only perfumed because it has touched thy tresses.
Beautiful art thou as the genius of my country in the
midst of these ruins! But can Aben-Hamet hope to fix
thy heart? What is he, when compared to thee! He
has roamed over the mountains with his father; he
knows the plants of the desert.... Alas! there is not
one of them that can heal the wound which thou hast
given him!... He carries arms, but he is not a knight.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p>
<p>“I said to myself formerly: ‛The water of the sea, which
sleeps under shelter in the hollow of the rock, is tranquil
and silent, while quite near the open sea is noisy and
agitated: Aben-Hamet! such will be thy life, silent,
peaceful and unheard of, in an unknown corner of the
earth, while the court of the Sultan is overturned by
storms!’ I said so to myself, young Christian, and thou
hast proved to me that the tempest may also disturb the
drop of water in the hollow of the rock.”</p>
<p>Blanca listened with delight to a language which was
so new to her, and the oriental turn of which seemed so
much in harmony with this fairy abode, which she
rambled over with her lover. Love penetrated her heart
in all directions: she felt her knees sink under her, and
was obliged to lean more heavily on the arm of her
companion. Aben-Hamet supported the sweet burden,
and repeated as he walked along: “Ah! why am I not
an illustrious Abencerrage!”</p>
<p>“Thou wouldst please me less,” said Blanca, “for I
should be more unhappy; remain in obscurity and live
for me. A brave knight often forgets love for glory.”</p>
<p>“Thou wouldst not have that danger to apprehend,”
replied Aben-Hamet with quickness.</p>
<p>“And how wouldst thou love me then, if thou wert an
Abencerrage?” demanded the descendant of Ximena.</p>
<p>“I would love thee more than glory, and less than
honour!” was the answer of the Moor.</p>
<p>The sun had sunk beneath the horizon during the
promenade of the two lovers; they had traversed the
whole of the Alhambra. What recollections were presented
by it to the mind of Aben-Hamet! Here the
Sultana received, by means of air-holes, the smoke of the
perfumes which were burnt under her; there, in that
secluded retreat, she adorned herself with the glorious
attire of the East. And it was Blanca, it was a beloved
woman, who related all these details to the handsome
youth whom she idolized.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span></p>
<p>The rising moon diffused her doubtful light in the
forsaken sanctuaries and in the deserted courts of the
Alhambra; her silver rays outlined, upon the green turf
of the gardens, and upon the walls of the apartments,
the lace-work of an aerial architecture, the arches of the
cloisters, the flitting shadows of the spouting waters, and
those of the shrubs agitated by the zephyr. The nightingale
sang in a cypress which pierced the domes of a
ruined mosque, and the echoes repeated her plaintive
strains. By the light of the moon, Aben-Hamet wrote
the name of Blanca on the marble of the Hall of the Two
Sisters; he traced it in Arabic characters, in order that
the traveller might find an additional mystery for the
exercise of his conjectures in this palace of mysteries.</p>
<p>“Moor,” said Blanca, “these amusements are cruel;
let us quit this spot. The destiny of my life is fixed for
ever. Bear well in mind those words: ‛Mussulman, I
am thy mistress without hope; Christian, I am thy
fortunate wife.’”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet answered: “Christian, I am thy despairing
slave; Mussulman, I am thy proud husband.”</p>
<p>And these noble lovers departed from this dangerous
palace.</p>
<p>The passion of Blanca increased every day, and that of
Aben-Hamet became equally violent. He was so transported
at the idea of being loved for his own sake, and
of owing the sentiments which he had inspired to no
foreign cause, that he did not disclose the secret of his
birth to the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé: he
pictured to himself a delicate pleasure in giving her the
information that he bore an illustrious name, on the very
day when she consented to give him her hand. But he
was suddenly recalled to Tunis. His mother had been
attacked by an incurable disease, and wished to embrace
and bless her son before her death. Aben-Hamet presented
himself at the palace of Blanca. “Sultana,” said
he to her, “my mother is at the point of death. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>
has sent for me to close her eyes. Wilt thou continue to
love me?”</p>
<p>“Thou leavest me then,” replied Blanca, turning pale;
“shall I never see thee more?”</p>
<p>“Come with me,” said Aben-Hamet; “I wish to exact
an oath of thee, and to give thee one in return, which
death alone can break. Follow me.”</p>
<p>They go out; they reach a cemetery which was
formerly that of the Moors. Here and there were still
to be seen little funeral columns round which the sculptor
had formerly figured a turban; but which the Christians
had subsequently replaced by a cross. Aben-Hamet led
Blanca to the foot of these columns.</p>
<p>“Blanca,” said he, “this is the place where my
ancestors repose; I swear by their ashes to love thee
until the day when the angel of judgement shall summon
me to the tribunal of Allah. I promise thee never to
engage my heart to another woman, and to take thee for
my wife, as soon as thou shalt know the divine light of
the prophet. Every year, at this period, I will return to
Granada, to see if thou hast kept thy faith to me, and if
thou wilt renounce thy errors.”</p>
<p>“And I,” said Blanca, in tears, “will expect thee
every year; I will preserve, until my latest sigh, the
faith which I have sworn to thee; and I will receive
thee for my husband, when the God of the Christians,
more powerful than thy mistress, shall have melted thy
infidel heart.”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet departs, the winds carry him to the
African shores. His mother had just expired. He weeps
for her; he embraces her coffin. The months roll by;
sometimes wandering amid the ruins of Carthage, sometimes
seated on the tomb of St. Louis, the banished
Abencerrage longs for the day which is to carry him back
to Granada. That day at last arrives: Aben-Hamet
embarks, and the vessel directs her course to Malaga.
With what transport, with what joy mixed with apprehension,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>
did he descry the first promontories of Spain!
Is Blanca awaiting him on these shores? Does she still
remember the poor Arab, who has never ceased to
adore her under the palm-tree of the desert?</p>
<p>The daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé was not unfaithful
to her vows. She had requested her father to
convey her to Malaga. From the mountain-tops which
bordered the uninhabited coast, she followed with her
eyes the distant vessels and the flying sails. During the
tempest, she contemplated with alarm the sea, as it was
raised into fury by the winds. Then it was that she
loved to lose herself in the clouds, to expose herself in
dangerous passages, to feel herself washed by the same
waves, or carried along by the same hurricane which
threatened the days of Aben-Hamet. As she saw the
plaintive seamew skim the waves with her large crooked
wings, and fly towards the shores of Africa, she charged
her with all the love-messages and extravagant wishes
which proceed from a heart devoured by passion.</p>
<p>One day, while wandering on the beach, she discovered
a long vessel, whose elevated prow, bent mast, and
triangular sail announced the elegant genius of the Moors.
Blanca ran to the port, into which she soon saw the
Barbary vessel enter, making the sea foam under her
rapid course. A Moor, most superbly dressed, was
standing on the prow. Behind him, two black slaves
held by the bridle an Arabian horse, whose smoking
nostrils and dishevelled mane indicated both his natural
ardour, and the terror with which the noise of the waves
affected him. The bark arrives, lowers her sails, touches
the pier, and lays to her side; the Moor springs upon the
shore, which re-echoes with the sound of his arms. The
slaves disembark the leopard-spotted courser, which
neighs and leaps with joy at once more finding himself
on land. Other slaves lower, with great care, a basket in
which lay a gazelle amid palm-tree leaves; her delicate
limbs were fastened and doubled under her, for fear of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>
their being broken by the movement of the vessel; she
wore a collar of aloe berries, and upon the gold plate,
which served to connect the two ends of the collar, were
engraved in Arabic a name and a talisman.</p>
<p>Blanca recognized Aben-Hamet; fearful of betraying
herself in the presence of the crowd, she retired, and sent
Dorothea, one of her attendants, to inform the Abencerrage,
that she was waiting for him at the palace of
the Moors. Aben-Hamet was at that moment presenting
to the governor his firman, written in blue characters on
beautiful vellum, and rolled up in a silk case. Dorothea
approached, and conducted the happy Abencerrage to the
feet of Blanca. What transports, when they found that
both had remained faithful! What happiness in seeing
each other after having been so long separated! How
many fresh vows of eternal affection!</p>
<p>The two black slaves bring the Numidian courser,
which, in place of a saddle, had only a lion’s skin thrown
over his back and fastened by a purple belt. Afterwards
the gazelle was introduced. “Sultana,” said Aben-Hamet,
“this is a deer of my country, almost as light-footed
as thyself.” Blanca, with her own hands, untied
the beautiful animal, which seemed to thank her, by
looks of the sweetest expression. During the absence of
the Abencerrage, the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé
had been studying Arabic; she read, with tearful eyes,
her own name engraved on the gazelle’s collar. The
animal, on being restored to her liberty, could scarcely
stand upon her feet, from their having been so long tied
up; she laid herself down upon the ground, and leaned
her head against the knees of her mistress. Blanca gave
her some fresh dates, and caressed this doe of the desert,
whose fine coat retained the perfume of the aloe wood and
of the rose of Tunis.</p>
<p>The Abencerrage, the Duke of Santa Fé and his
daughter departed together for Granada. The days of
the happy lovers passed like those of the preceding year:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>
the same walks, the same regret at the sight of his
country, the same love, or rather love always increasing,
and always mutual; but also the same attachment in the
two lovers to the religion of their fathers. “Become a
Christian,” said Blanca;—“Become a Mussulman,” said
Aben-Hamet, and they separated once more, without
giving way to the passion which attracted them to each
other.</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet reappeared the third year, like those birds
of passage, which love brings back to our climates in the
spring. This time he found not Blanca on the shore;
but a letter from that adored woman informed the
faithful Arab of the departure of the Duke for Madrid,
and the arrival of Don Carlos at Granada. The latter
was accompanied by a French prisoner, friend of Blanca’s
brother. The Moor’s heart sunk within him at the
perusal of this letter. He set out from Malaga for
Granada with the most melancholy forebodings; the
mountains appeared to him frightfully solitary: and he
several times turned round to look at the sea which he
had just crossed.</p>
<p>Blanca, during her father’s absence, had been unable to
quit a brother whom she loved, a brother who intended
to divest himself of all his property in her favour, and
whom she saw again after seven years’ absence. Don
Carlos possessed all the courage and all the pride of his
nation: terrible as the conquerors of the New World, in
whose ranks he had first carried arms; religious like the
Spanish knights who conquered the Moors, he cherished
in his heart that hatred of the infidels which he inherited
from the blood of the Cid.</p>
<p>Thomas de Lautrec, of the illustrious house of Foix,
in which beauty in the females and bravery in the males
were regarded as hereditary qualities, was the younger
brother of the Countess de Foix, and of the brave and
unfortunate Odet de Foix, Lord of Lautrec. At the age
of eighteen, Thomas had been knighted by Bayard, in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>
that retreat which cost the life of the knight without
fear and without reproach. Some time after, Thomas
was pierced with wounds and made prisoner at Pavia,
while defending the chivalrous monarch, who then lost
all, except his honour.</p>
<p>Don Carlos de Bivar, who was a witness of the
gallantry of Lautrec, had caused care to be taken of
the wounds of the young Frenchman, and there was
speedily formed between them one of those heroic friendships,
of which esteem and virtue are the foundations.
Francis I. had returned to France, but Charles V. detained
the other prisoners. Lautrec had had the honour to
share his sovereign’s captivity, and to lie at his feet in
prison. Having remained in Spain, after the departure
of his king, he had been handed over on his parole to
Don Carlos, who had just brought him to Granada.</p>
<p>When Aben-Hamet presented himself at the palace of
Don Rodrigo, and the door of the apartment in which
was the Duke of Santa Fé’s daughter was opened, he
experienced torments hitherto unknown to him. At the
feet of Donna Blanca was seated a young man, who was
looking at her in silence with a species of transport.
This young man wore breeches made of buffalo’s skin,
and a doublet of the same colour, fastened by a belt
from which was suspended a sword with fleurs-de-lis.
A silk mantle was thrown over his shoulders, and his
head was covered with a narrow-brimmed hat, surmounted
with feathers. A lace ruff, falling back on
his bosom, allowed his neck to be seen. A pair of
moustaches, black as ebony, gave a masculine and warlike
air to a countenance naturally mild. To his large
boots, which fell down and doubled over his feet, were
attached golden spurs, the marks of knightly quality.</p>
<p>At some distance, another knight was standing, leaning
on the iron cross of his long sword; he was dressed like
his companion, but seemed rather older. His austere
look, though at the same time ardent and passionate,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span>
inspired respect and awe. The red cross of Calatrava
was embroidered on his doublet with this device: <em>For it
and for my king</em>.</p>
<p>When Blanca perceived Aben-Hamet, she uttered an
involuntary cry. “Knights,” said she immediately,
“this is the infidel of whom I have said so much to
you; take care he does not bear away the victory.
The Abencerrages were just like him, and they were
surpassed by none in loyalty, courage and gallantry.”</p>
<p>Don Carlos advanced to meet Aben-Hamet. “Señor
Moor,” said he, “my father and sister have informed
me of your name. They believe you are of a noble and
brave race: you are yourself distinguished for your
courtesy. My master Charles V. must soon commence
war against Tunis, and we shall, I hope, meet each
other in the field of honour.”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet placed his hand upon his bosom, seated
himself upon the ground without answering, and remained
with his eyes fixed upon Blanca and upon
Lautrec. The latter was admiring, with the curiosity
peculiar to his countrymen, the handsome countenance
of the Moor, his noble dress and his brilliant armour.
Blanca displayed not the slightest embarrassment: her
soul was completely exhibited in her eyes; the ingenuous
Spaniard made no attempt to conceal the secret of her
heart. After a silence of a few moments, Aben-Hamet
rose, made his bow to the daughter of Don Rodrigo,
and retired. Astonished at the behaviour of the Moor,
and at the looks of Blanca, Lautrec left the apartment,
with a suspicion which was speedily changed into
certainty.</p>
<p>Don Carlos remained alone with his sister. “Blanca,”
said he, “explain yourself. Whence this trouble which
the sight of this stranger has occasioned you?”</p>
<p>“Brother,” answered Blanca, “I love Aben-Hamet,
and, if he will become a Christian, my hand is his.”</p>
<p>“What!” exclaimed Don Carlos, “you love Aben-Hamet!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>
the daughter of the Bivars love a Moor, an infidel,
an enemy, whom we have driven from these palaces!”</p>
<p>“Don Carlos,” replied Blanca, “I love Aben-Hamet;
Aben-Hamet loves me; for three years he has renounced
me, sooner than renounce the religion of his forefathers.
He possesses nobility, honour and knighthood: to my
last breath I will adore him.”</p>
<p>Don Carlos was capable of estimating, in its fullest
extent, the generous resolution of Aben-Hamet, although
he lamented the infatuation of that infidel. “Unfortunate
Blanca,” said he, “whither will this passion lead
thee? I had hoped that my friend Lautrec would
become my brother.”</p>
<p>“Thou deceivedst thyself,” said Blanca, “I cannot
love that stranger. As to my feelings for Aben-Hamet,
I am accountable to no one. Keep thy knightly vows,
as I shall keep my vows of love. For thy comfort, be
assured of this, that Blanca will never become the wife
of an infidel.”</p>
<p>“Our family will then disappear from the earth!”
said Don Carlos.</p>
<p>“It is thy business to revive it,” said Blanca. “Besides,
of what consequence are sons whom thou wilt
never see, and who will degenerate from thy virtues?
Don Carlos, I feel that we are the last of our race;
we are too much out of the common order to expect
that our blood should flourish after us. The Cid was
our ancestor: he will be our posterity;” so saying she
quitted the apartment.</p>
<p>Don Carlos flew to the Abencerrage. “Moor,” said
he, “renounce my sister, or meet me in single combat.”</p>
<p>“Art thou entrusted by thy sister,” said Aben-Hamet,
“to reclaim the vows which she has made to me?”</p>
<p>“No,” replied Don Carlos, “she loves thee more than
ever.”</p>
<p>“Ah! worthy brother of Blanca!” exclaimed Aben-Hamet,
interrupting him, “I must derive all my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span>
happiness from thy noble blood! O fortunate Aben-Hamet!
O happy day! I believed that Blanca was unfaithful
for this French knight ...”</p>
<p>“That is thy misfortune!” angrily exclaimed Don
Carlos in his turn, “Lautrec is my friend; but for thee,
he would be my brother. You must give me satisfaction
for the tears which you make my family shed.”</p>
<p>“I am contented to do so,” answered Aben-Hamet,
“but although I am sprung from a family, which has
probably combated thine, I am not a knight. I see
no one here to confer upon me that order, which will
allow thee to measure thy strength with mine, without
degrading thy rank.”</p>
<p>Struck with the Moor’s observation, Don Carlos looked
at him with a mixture of admiration and rage. Then
all at once, “I myself will dub thee knight! thou art
worthy of it.”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet bent his knee to Don Carlos. The latter
gave him the accolade, by striking him three times
on the shoulder with the flat side of his sword; afterwards,
he girded on him the same sword which the
Abencerrage, perhaps, was about to plunge into his
bosom. Such was ancient honour.</p>
<p>Both of them immediately sprang upon their coursers,
got beyond the walls of Granada, and flew to the
Fountain of the Pine. The duels between the Moors
and Christians had for a long time given celebrity to
this spring. It was there that Malek Alabes had fought
with Ponce de Leon, and the Grand Master of Calatrava
had killed the brave Abayados. The fragments of the
armour of this Moorish knight were still seen suspended
from the branches of the pine, and on the bark of the
tree some letters of a funeral inscription were still legible.
Don Carlos pointed out with his hand, to the Abencerrage,
the tomb of Abayados. “Imitate,” said he to
him, “that brave infidel, and receive baptism and death
from my hand.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span></p>
<p>“Death perhaps,” answered Aben-Hamet, “but Allah
and the Prophet for ever!”</p>
<p>They immediately proceeded to take their ground,
and rushed against each other with fury. They were
only provided with swords: Aben-Hamet was much less
skilful than Don Carlos in combat, but the excellence of
his arms, which had been tempered at Damascus, and the
fleetness of his Arabian steed, gave him an advantage
over his enemy. He gave the reins to his courser in
the Moorish manner, and with his large sharp stirrup
cut the right leg of Don Carlos’s horse under the knee.
The wounded animal fell to the ground, and Don Carlos,
dismounted by this fortunate blow, marched against Aben-Hamet,
bearing his sword aloft. Aben-Hamet sprang to
the ground, and met Don Carlos with intrepidity; he
warded off the first blows of the Spaniard, who broke
his sword against the Damascus blade; twice disappointed
by fortune, Don Carlos shed tears of rage, and called
out to his enemy: “Strike, Moor, strike; Don Carlos,
although disarmed, defies thee, thee and all thy infidel
race.”</p>
<p>“Thou mightest have slain me,” replied the Abencerrage,
“but I never thought of giving thee the
slightest wound. I only wished to prove to thee that
I was worthy of being thy brother, and to prevent thee
from despising me.”</p>
<p>At that instant, they perceived a cloud of dust: it
was Lautrec and Blanca, who were spurring on two
mares of Fez, fleeter than the wind. On arriving at the
Fountain of the Pine, they saw the combat suspended.</p>
<p>“I am vanquished,” said Don Carlos, “this knight
has given me my life. Lautrec, you will perhaps be
more fortunate than I?”</p>
<p>“My wounds,” replied Lautrec, in a noble and dignified
tone of voice, “allow me to decline the combat with this
courteous knight. I have no wish,” added he, with a
blush, “to learn the subject of your quarrel, or to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>
penetrate a secret which would probably be a deathblow
to myself; my absence will speedily cause peace
to be restored between you, at least unless it be Blanca’s
orders that I should remain at her feet.”</p>
<p>“Sir knight,” said Blanca, “you must remain with my
brother: you must look upon me as your sister. The
hearts of all present are suffering deeply; you will learn
from us to bear the ills of life.”</p>
<p>Blanca wished to constrain the three knights to shake
each other’s hands; all three refused to do so. “I hate
Aben-Hamet,” exclaimed Don Carlos. “I envy him,”
said Lautrec. “And I,” said the Abencerrage, “I
esteem Don Carlos, and I pity Lautrec; but I can love
neither of them.”</p>
<p>“Let us continue to see each other,” said Blanca,
“and sooner or later friendship will follow esteem. Let
the fatal event which has brought us here be for ever
unknown at Granada.”</p>
<p>From that moment Aben-Hamet became a thousand
times dearer to the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé:
love delights in valour. Nothing was now wanting to
the Abencerrage, since he had shown himself brave, and
Don Carlos owed his life to him. Aben-Hamet, by the
advice of Blanca, abstained from appearing at the palace
for several days, to allow the wrath of Don Carlos time
to cool. A mixture of mild and bitter feelings filled
the soul of the Abencerrage; if, on the one hand, the
certainty of being loved with so much fidelity and
ardour was to him an inexhaustible source of delight;
on the other, the certainty of never being happy without
renouncing the religion of his fathers weighed
heavily on the courage of Aben-Hamet. Years had
already elapsed without bringing any relief to his
sufferings: should he see the rest of his life pass away
in the same manner?</p>
<p>He was plunged into an abyss of the most serious and
tender reflections, when one evening he heard the bell<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>
ringing for that Christian prayer which announces the
close of the day. It struck him that he would enter
into the temple of the God of Blanca, and ask further
counsel of the Master of Nature.</p>
<p>He set out; he arrived at the door of an ancient
mosque, which had been converted into a church by the
faithful. With a heart pierced by sorrow and feelings
of devotion, he penetrated into the temple which was
formerly that of his God and of his country. Prayers
were just ended: there was no longer any one in the
church. A holy obscurity prevailed amid the multitude
of columns, which resembled the trunks of trees of
a regularly planted forest. The light architecture of
the Arabs was here married to the Gothic architecture,
and, without losing anything of its elegance, it had
assumed a gravity better adapted to meditation. A few
lamps scarcely gave light to the hollows of the vaults;
but, by the brightness of several lighted tapers, the altar
of the sanctuary was still conspicuous: it glittered with
gold and precious stones. The Spaniards glory in
stripping themselves of their riches, in order to decorate
with them the objects of their worship; and the image
of the living God, placed in the midst of lace veils,
of crowns of pearls, and bunches of rubies, receives the
adoration of a half-naked people.</p>
<p>Not a seat was to be seen in the whole extent of this
vast area: a marble pavement, which covered coffins,
served the great as well as the little, to prostrate
themselves before the Lord. Aben-Hamet walked slowly
up the deserted naves, which re-echoed with the solitary
noise of his footsteps. His mind was divided between the
recollections which this ancient edifice of the Moorish
religion recalled to his memory, and the feelings to
which the religion of the Christians gave birth in his
heart. He distinguished at the foot of a column a
motionless figure, which he at first mistook for a statue
on a tomb. On approaching it, he distinguished a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span>
young knight on his knees, with his forehead reverently
bent, and his arms crossed upon his bosom. This
knight made not the slightest movement at the noise
of Aben-Hamet’s steps; no mental wandering, no external
sign of life disturbed his deep prayer; his sword
was laid on the ground before him, and his plumed hat
was placed by his side on the marble: he had the appearance
of being fixed in that attitude from the effect of
some enchantment. Aben-Hamet recognized Lautrec.
“Ah!” said the Abencerrage to himself, “this young
and handsome Frenchman is asking some signal favour
of heaven; this warrior, so celebrated for his courage,
is here laying his heart bare to the Sovereign of Heaven,
as the humblest and the most obscure of men! Let
me also pray to the God of knights and of glory.”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet was about to prostrate himself upon
the marble, when he perceived, by the glimmering of
a lamp, some Arabic characters and a verse of the
Koran, which appeared upon a half-ruined tablet. His
heart again felt the pangs of remorse; and he made haste
to quit a building in which he had entertained the idea
of becoming a traitor to his religion and his country.</p>
<p>The cemetery which surrounded this ancient mosque
was a species of garden, planted with orange, cypress and
palm-trees, and watered by two fountains; a cloister
went all round it. Aben-Hamet, in passing under one
of the porticoes, perceived a female about to enter the
church. Although she was wrapped up in a veil, the
Abencerrage recognized the daughter of the Duke of
Santa Fé; he stopped her, and said to her: “Dost
thou come to seek Lautrec in this temple?”</p>
<p>“Dismiss this vulgar jealousy,” replied Blanca, “if I
no longer loved thee, I would tell thee so: I would scorn
to deceive thee. I come here to pray for thee. Thou
alone art now the object of my wishes. I forget my
own soul for thine. Thou shouldst not have intoxicated
me with the poison of thy love, or thou shouldst<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>
have consented to serve the God whom I serve. Thou
disturbest my whole family; my brother hates thee, my
father is overwhelmed with vexation, because I refuse to
marry. Dost thou not see how much my health suffers?
Behold this enchanted asylum of death: here I shall
soon be laid, if thou dost not hasten to receive my
vows at the foot of the Christian altar. The struggles
which I endure are gradually undermining my existence;
the passion, with which thou hast inspired me, will not
always support this feeble frame. Remember, oh Moor,
to speak to thee in thy own language, that the flame
which lights the torch is also the fire which consumes it.”</p>
<p>Blanca entered the church, and left Aben-Hamet
confounded with her last words.</p>
<div class="chapter">
<p>The struggle is ended; the Abencerrage is vanquished;
he is about to renounce the errors of his faith; he has
struggled long enough; the dread of seeing Blanca
perish triumphs over every other feeling in the breast
of Aben-Hamet. “After all,” said he to himself, “perhaps
the God of the Christians is the true God? This
God is always the deity of noble souls, since he is the
God of Blanca, of Don Carlos, and of Lautrec.”</p>
</div>
<p>Full of this idea, Aben-Hamet waited with impatience
for the following day, to inform Blanca of his resolution,
and to convert a life of sorrow and of tears into one of
joy and happiness; he was unable, however, to repair to
the palace of the Duke of Santa Fé until the evening.
He learned that Blanca was gone with her brother to
the Generalife, where Lautrec was giving an entertainment.
Agitated by fresh suspicions, Aben-Hamet flies
upon the traces of Blanca. Lautrec blushed at seeing
the Abencerrage appear so suddenly; as to Don Carlos,
he received the Moor with cool politeness, through which
esteem was perceptible.</p>
<p>Lautrec had caused a collation to be served up of the
finest fruits of Spain and of Africa, in one of the apartments
of the Generalife, styled the <em>Hall of the Knights</em>.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>
All round this hall were suspended the portraits of
the princes and knights, who had conquered the Moors,—of
Pelayo, the Cid, Gonzalvo de Cordova; and the
sword of the last king of Granada was hung under
these portraits. Aben-Hamet did not allow the internal
pain which he felt to appear, and only said, like the
lion, on looking at these portraits, “We know not
how to paint.”</p>
<p>The generous Lautrec, who saw the eyes of the
Abencerrage turned involuntarily towards the sword of
Boabdil, said to him, “Knight of the Moors, had I
anticipated the honour of your presence at this fête,
I would not have received you here. One loses a sword
every day, and I have seen the bravest of monarchs
deliver up his to his fortunate enemy.”</p>
<p>“Ah!” exclaimed the Moor, hiding his face with a
corner of his robe, “one might lose it like Francis I.,
but like Boabdil!...”</p>
<p>Night came on, lights were brought, and the conversation
took another turn. Don Carlos was requested
to relate the discovery of Mexico. He spoke of
that unknown world with the pompous eloquence
which is natural to the Spanish nation. He related
the misfortunes of Montezuma, the manners
of the Americans, the prodigies of Spanish valour,
and even the cruelties of his countrymen, which did
not, in his eyes, seem to deserve either praise or
blame.</p>
<p>These narratives delighted Aben-Hamet, whose passion
for marvellous tales betrayed his Arabian blood. When
it came to his turn, he gave a picture of the Ottoman
empire, newly established on the ruins of Constantinople,
bestowing a tribute of passing regret to the first empire
of Mahomet; the happy days when the Commander of
the Faithful saw shining around him Zobeide, Flower
of Beauty, Jalib al Koolloob, Fetnah and the generous
Ganem, Love’s Slave. As to Lautrec, he painted the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>
gallant court of Francis I., the arts reviving from the
midst of barbarism, the honour, the loyalty, the chivalry
of the olden time, joined to the politeness of civilized
ages, the Gothic turrets ornamented with the Grecian
orders, and the French ladies setting off their rich
dresses with Athenian elegance.</p>
<p>After this conversation, Lautrec, wishing to amuse
the divinity of the entertainment, took his guitar, and
sang this romance<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> which he had composed to one of
the mountain airs of his country:</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>Oft to my birthplace mem’ry’s glance<br>
Will turn, and my rapt soul entrance!<br>
Sister, how sweet the minutes rolled<br>
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">In France!</span><br>
My country! thee more dear I hold<br>
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Than gold.</span><br>
<br>
Rememb’rest thou how to her breast<br>
Our mother both her children prest,<br>
And how her bright white looks would glister?<br>
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">How blest!</span><br>
While we with lips of love, sweet sister!<br>
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Kiss’d her.</span><br>
<br>
Rememb’rest thou that castle dear,<br>
By which the swift stream flowed; and near,<br>
That Moorish tow’r, with age so worn,<br>
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">From where</span><br>
The trumpet sounded when the morn<br>
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Was born?</span><br>
<br>
Rememb’rest thou that tranquil lake<br>
Which the swift swallow skimmed to slake<br>
His thirst; where zephyr the sweet rose<br>
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Would shake;</span><br>
And Sol’s last rays at evening’s close<br>
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Repose?</span><br>
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>
<br>
Oh! who my Helen back will yield,<br>
My native hill, my oak-crowned field?<br>
Their mem’ry keeps my heart-wounds old<br>
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Unhealed;</span><br>
My country! thee more dear I’ll hold<br>
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Than gold.</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p>As he finished the last couplet, Lautrec, with his
glove, brushed away the tear which the recollection of
the gentle land of France extorted from him. The regret
of the handsome prisoner was warmly participated by
Aben-Hamet, who deplored as well as Lautrec the loss
of his country. When requested to take the guitar in
his turn, he excused himself, by saying that he only
knew one romance, which would not be at all agreeable
to Christian ears.</p>
<p>” If it is a song of the infidels smarting under our
victories,” said Don Carlos scornfully, “you may sing
it; tears are allowed to the vanquished.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Blanca, “and that is the reason why our
ancestors, while they were under the Moorish yoke, have
left us so many <em>complaints</em>.”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet then sang this ballad, which he
had learned from a poet of the tribe of the Abencerrages.<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>As Royal John<br>
Rode out one day,<br>
Granada’s town<br>
Before him lay,<br>
With sudden start,<br>
“Fair town,” said he,<br>
“My hand and heart<br>
I give to thee.<br>
<br>
“Thee will I wive,<br>
And to thee will<br>
Cordova give,<br>
And proud Seville.<br>
Robes rich and fair,<br>
And jewels fine,<br>
Shall all declare<br>
My love is thine.”<br>
<br>
Granada cried,<br>
“Great Leon’s king!<br>
I’m the Moor’s bride,<br>
I wear his ring.<br>
So keep thy own;<br>
The gems I wear<br>
Are a gorgeous zone<br>
And children dear.”<br>
<br>
Thou promis’d’st thus,<br>
But kept’st not well,<br>
O woe for us!<br>
Granada fell.<br>
A Christian base,<br>
Abencerrage,<br>
Rules thy birthplace;<br>
’Twas in Fate’s page.<br>
<br>
To that tomb ne’er,<br>
The pool so near,<br>
Shall camel bear<br>
Medina’s seer.<br>
A Christian base,<br>
Abencerrage,<br>
Rules thy birthplace;<br>
’Twas in Fate’s page.<br>
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>
<br>
Alhambra’s tow’rs!<br>
Palace of God!<br>
Town of fair flow’rs<br>
And fountains broad!<br>
A Christian base,<br>
Abencerrage,<br>
Rules thy birthplace;<br>
’Twas in Fate’s page.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>The plaintive artlessness of this lament affected even
the proud Don Carlos, notwithstanding the imprecations it
pronounced against the Christians. He would have wished
to be excused from singing himself, but, out of courtesy
to Lautrec, he felt obliged to yield to his entreaties.
Aben-Hamet handed the guitar to Blanca’s brother, who
celebrated the exploits of the Cid, his illustrious ancestor.<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>Bright in his mail, with love and valour fired,<br>
The Cid, about to part for Afric’s war,<br>
Stretched at Ximena’s feet, as love inspired,<br>
Thus sung his parting to the sweet guitar:<br>
<br>
“My love hath said: Go forth and meet the Moor,<br>
Return victorious from the well-fought field;<br>
Yes! I shall then believe thou canst adore,<br>
If, at my wish, thy love to honour yield!<br>
<br>
“Then give to me my helmet and my spear!<br>
In bloody fight the Cid his love shall prove,<br>
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>Amidst the din of war the Moor shall hear<br>
His battle-cry, ‛My honour and my love!’<br>
<br>
“O gallant Moor, vaunt not thy tuneful strain,<br>
My song shall be a nobler theme than thine,<br>
Ere long it will become the folly of Spain,<br>
As one where love with honour doth combine.<br>
<br>
“Oft in my native valleys shall be heard<br>
In the old Christians’ mouth Rodrigo’s name,<br>
Who nobly to inglorious life preferred<br>
His God, his king, his honour, and his flame.”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>Don Carlos appeared so proud in singing these words,
in a masculine and sonorous voice, that he might have
been taken for the Cid himself. Lautrec shared the
warlike enthusiasm of his friend; but the Abencerrage
had turned pale at the name of the Cid.</p>
<p>“This knight,” said he, “whom the Christians denominate
the Flower of Battles, bears with us the name
of the Cruel. Had his generosity but equalled his
valour!...”</p>
<p>“His generosity,” said Don Carlos, interrupting Aben-Hamet,
warmly, “was even greater than his courage,
and none but a Moor would calumniate the hero to
whom my family owes its birth.”</p>
<p>“What sayest thou?” exclaimed Aben-Hamet, springing
up from the seat on which he lay half reclined:
“dost thou reckon the Cid among thy ancestors?”</p>
<p>“His blood flows in my veins,” replied Don Carlos,
“and I recognize my possession of that noble blood by
the hatred with which my heart burns against the foes
of my God.”</p>
<p>“It follows then,” said Aben-Hamet, looking at Blanca,
“that you belong to the family of the Bivars who, after
the conquest of Granada, invaded the possessions of the
unfortunate Abencerrages, and put to death an ancient
knight of that name, who attempted to defend the tomb
of his forefathers.”</p>
<p>“Moor!” exclaimed Don Carlos, inflamed with rage,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span>
“know that I do not suffer myself to be interrogated.
If I now possess the spoils of the Abencerrages, my
ancestors acquired them at the price of their blood,
and to their sword only do they owe them.”</p>
<p>“Only one word more,” said Aben-Hamet, with constantly
increasing emotion; “we knew not in our exile
that the Bivars had the title of Santa Fé, and it was
this which was the cause of my error.”</p>
<p>“It was on the same Bivar,” answered Don Carlos,
“who conquered the Abencerrages, that this title was
conferred by Ferdinand the Catholic.”</p>
<p>The head of Aben-Hamet declined upon his bosom;
he remained standing in the midst of Don Carlos, Lautrec
and Blanca, who looked at him with astonishment. Two
floods of tears gushed from his eyes upon the poniard
which was fastened to his girdle. “Pardon me,” he
said, “men ought not, I know, to shed tears; from this
time mine will no longer flow externally, although I
have many more to shed: listen to me.</p>
<p>“Blanca! my love for thee equals the ardour of the
burning winds of Arabia. I was conquered: I could no
longer live without thee. Yesterday the sight of this
French knight at his prayers, and thy words in the
cemetery of the temple, had made me resolve to know
thy God, and to pledge thee my faith.”</p>
<p>A movement of joy from Blanca, and of surprise from
Don Carlos, interrupted Aben-Hamet; Lautrec covered
his face with both hands. The Moor divined his
thoughts, and shaking his head with an agonizing smile
said, “Knight, lose not all hope; as to thee, Blanca, weep
for ever over the last of the Abencerrages.”</p>
<p>Blanca, Don Carlos and Lautrec all three lifted up
their hands to heaven, and exclaimed, “The last of the
Abencerrages!”</p>
<p>There was a moment of silence; fear, hope, hatred,
love, astonishment and jealousy agitated their different
hearts: Blanca shortly fell upon her knees: “Gracious<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>
God!” she said, “thou hast justified my choice; I could
only love the descendant of heroes!”</p>
<p>“Sister!” said the irritated Don Carlos, “you forget
that you are here in the presence of Lautrec.”</p>
<p>“Don Carlos,” said Aben-Hamet, “suspend thy wrath:
it is my business to restore thee to repose.” Then,
addressing himself to Blanca, who had again taken her
seat:</p>
<p>“Houri of heaven, Genie of love and of beauty, Aben-Hamet
will be thy slave to his latest breath; but hear
the full extent of his misfortune. The old man who was
immolated by thy ancestor, while defending his home,
was the father of my father; learn also a secret which I
concealed from thee, or rather which thou madest me
forget. When I came for the first time to visit this
sorrowful country, my first object was to find out some
descendant of the Bivars whom I might call to account
for the blood which his fathers had shed.”</p>
<p>“Well then,” said Blanca, in a voice of grief, but sustained
by the accent of a great soul, “what is thy
resolution?”</p>
<p>“The only one which is worthy of thee,” answered
Aben-Hamet: “to restore thee thy vows, to satisfy by
my eternal absence, and by my death, what we both of
us owe to the enmity of our Gods, of our countries, and
of our families. Should my image ever be blotted out
from thy heart; if time, which destroys everything,
should erase from thy memory the recollection of Abencerrage
... this French knight ... Thou owest this sacrifice
to thy brother.”</p>
<p>Lautrec started up impetuously, and threw himself
into the arms of the Moor. “Aben-Hamet,” he cried,
“think not to outdo me in generosity; I am a Frenchman;
I was knighted by Bayard; I have shed my blood
for my king; I will be like my sponsor and my prince,
without fear and without reproach. Shouldst thou remain
with us, I will entreat Don Carlos to bestow upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>
thee the hand of his sister; if thou quittest Granada,
never shall thy mistress be troubled with a whisper of
my love. Thou shalt not carry with thee into thy exile
the fatal idea that Lautrec was insensible to thy virtues,
and sought to take advantage of thy misfortune.”</p>
<p>And the young knight pressed the Moor to his bosom
with the warmth and vivacity of a Frenchman.</p>
<p>“Knights,” said Don Carlos in his turn, “I expected
nothing less from the illustrious races to which ye belong.
Aben-Hamet, by what mark can I recognize you for the
last Abencerrage?”</p>
<p>“By my conduct,” replied Aben-Hamet.</p>
<p>“I admire it,” said the Spaniard; “but, before I
explain myself, shew me some proof of your birth.”</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet took from his bosom the hereditary ring
of the Abencerrages, which he wore suspended from a
golden chain.</p>
<p>At sight of this, Don Carlos stretched out his hand
to the unfortunate Aben-Hamet. “Sir knight,” said he,
“I regard you as a man of honour, and the real descendant
of kings. You honour me by your plans connected
with my family; I accept the combat which you came
privately to seek. If I am conquered, all my property,
which formerly belonged to your family, shall be faithfully
restored to you. If you have renounced your
intention to fight, accept in turn the offer which I make
to you: become a Christian, and receive the hand of my
sister, which Lautrec has solicited for you.”</p>
<p>The temptation was great; but it was not beyond the
strength of Aben-Hamet. If all-powerful love pleaded
strongly in the heart of the Abencerrage; on the other
hand, he could not think but with terror of uniting the
blood of the persecutors with that of the persecuted.
He fancied he saw the shade of his ancestor rising from
the tomb, and reproaching him with this sacrilegious
alliance. With a heart torn by grief, Aben-Hamet
exclaimed: “Ah! why do I here meet with souls so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>
sublime, characters so generous, to make me feel more
bitterly the value of what I lose! Let Blanca pronounce;
let <em>her</em> say what I must do, in order to render myself
more worthy of her love!”</p>
<p>“Return to the desert!” was the exclamation of
Blanca, who immediately sunk to the earth in a swoon.</p>
<p>Aben-Hamet prostrated himself, adored Blanca even
more than Heaven, and departed without uttering a
word. The same night he set out for Malaga, and took
his passage on board a vessel which was to touch at Oran.
Near that city he found the caravan encamped which
leaves Morocco every three years, crosses Africa, repairs
to Egypt, and rejoins the caravan of Mecca in Yemen.
Aben-Hamet joined it as one of the pilgrims.</p>
<p>Blanca’s life was at first considered to be in danger,
but she recovered. Faithful to the promise which he
had given to the Abencerrage, Lautrec departed, and
never did a word of his love or his sorrow trouble the
melancholy of the daughter of the Duke of Santa Fé.
Every year Blanca made a journey to Malaga, to wander
on the mountains, at the period when her lover was
accustomed to return from Africa; she seated herself
upon the rocks, contemplated the sea, and the vessels
in the distance, and afterwards returned to Granada:
she passed the rest of her life amid the ruins of the
Alhambra. She complained not; she wept not; she
never spoke of Aben-Hamet; a stranger to her would
have thought her happy. She was the only survivor of
her family. Her father died of grief, and Don Carlos
was killed in a duel, in which Lautrec acted as his
second. What was the fate of Aben-Hamet no one
ever knew.</p>
<p>In leaving Tunis, by the gate which leads to the ruins
of Carthage, the traveller finds a cemetery; under a palm-tree,
in a corner of this cemetery, a tomb was pointed
out to me, which was called <em>the tomb of the last of the
Abencerrages</em>. There is nothing remarkable about it;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>
the sepulchral stone is perfectly smooth; only, after a
Moorish fashion, a slight hole has been excavated in
the middle of it by the chisel. The rain-water which
collects in the bottom of this funeral cup, serves, in a
burning climate, to quench the thirst of the birds of
the air.</p>
<div class="chapter">
<div class="footnotes">
<p class="center p4 big2">FOOTNOTES:</p>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> Published posthumously. “Stendhal” died in 1842.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> The towers of a palace at Granada.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> An expression which the Mussulmans have constantly in their
mouths, and apply to almost every event in their lives.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> This inscription, as well as several others, is still existing. It
is needless to say that I wrote this description of the Alhambra
on the spot.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> The public is already acquainted with this romance. I composed
the words for an air of the mountains of Auvergne,
remarkable for its sweetness and simplicity.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> In crossing the mountainous country between Algeciras and
Cadiz, I halted at a <em>venta</em> situated in the midst of a wood. I
found there only a little boy of fourteen or fifteen, and a little
girl of nearly the same age, brother and sister, who were sitting
by the fireside and twisting mats. They sang a romance, the
words of which I did not understand, but the air was simple
and naïve. The weather was dreadfully stormy, and I remained
two hours at the <em>venta</em>. My juvenile hosts repeated
so frequently the couplets of their romance, that it was easy
for me to get the air by heart. To this air I composed the
romance of the Abencerrage. Perhaps Aben-Hamet was
mentioned in the romance of my two little Spaniards. I may
add that the dialogue of Granada and the king of Leon is
imitated from a Spanish romance.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> All the world knows the air of the <em>Follies of Spain</em>. This
air had no words, at least none which expressed its grave,
religious and chivalrous character. This character I have endeavoured
to give in the romance of the Cid. This romance,
having got into the hands of the public without my consent,
some celebrated masters did me the honour to set it to music.
But, as I had expressly composed it for the air of the <em>Follies
of Spain</em>, one of the couplets becomes complete nonsense, unless,
reference is had to my original intention.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>My song shall be a nobler theme than thine,
Ere long it will become <em>the folly of Spain</em>, etc.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>In short, these three romances have little other merit than
their adaptation to three old airs of undoubted nationality:
besides this, they bring on the <em>dénouement</em> of the story.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak p2b">THE PRISONERS OF THE CAUCASUS<br>
<small>COUNT XAVIER DE MAISTRE</small></h2>
</div>
<p>The Caucasian mountains have long been enclosed by the
Russian empire without belonging to it. Their fierce
inhabitants, cut off by language and by difference of
interests, form a large number of petty tribes which
have little political intercourse one with another, but
which are all animated by the same love of independence
and of plunder.</p>
<p>One of the most numerous and most formidable is
that of the Tchetchens, who inhabit the great and the
little Kabarda, provinces whose lofty valleys extend as
far as the summits of the Caucasus. The men of this
tribe are handsome, brave, and intelligent, but they are
robbers and cruel, and in a continual state of war with
the troops of “the line.”<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></p>
<p>In the midst of these dangerous hordes, and in the
very centre of this immense chain of mountains, Russia
has established a line of communication with her possessions
in Asia. Redoubts, placed at intervals, protect the
road as far as Georgia, but no traveller would dare to
venture alone across the space separating them. Twice
a week a convoy of infantry, with cannon and a considerable
party of Cossacks, escorts travellers and government
dispatches. One of these redoubts, situated at the
outlet of the mountains, has become a village with a fair-sized<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>
population. Its position has caused it to receive
the name of Vladikavkaz:<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> it is used as the residence
of the commandant of the troops who perform the
troublesome duty which has just been mentioned.</p>
<p>Major Kaskambo, of the Vologda regiment, a Russian
nobleman, belonging to a family of Greek origin, was to
go and take up the command of the station at Lars, in
the gorges of the Caucasus. Impatient to reach his post,
and brave to rashness, he had the imprudence to undertake
this journey with the escort of some fifty Cossacks
whom he commanded, and the still greater imprudence
to talk of his plan and boast about it before it was
carried out.</p>
<p>The Tchetchens who live near the frontiers, and are
called “peaceful Tchetchens,” are subject to Russia, and
have in consequence free access to Mozdok; but most
of them keep up friendly relations with the mountaineers
and are very often partners in their robberies. These
last, apprised of Kaskambo’s journey and of the very
day of his departure, proceeded in great numbers to the
road by which he was to travel, and prepared an ambush
for him. About twenty versts from Mozdok, at the turn
of a little hill covered with brushwood, he was attacked
by seven hundred mounted men. Retreat was impossible:
the Cossacks dismounted and sustained the attack
with great firmness, hoping to be relieved by the troops
of a redoubt which was not far distant.</p>
<p>The inhabitants of the Caucasus, although individually
very brave, are incapable of a concerted attack, and consequently
are not very dangerous to a troop that presents
a firm front; but they are well armed and take excellent
aim. Their large numbers, on this occasion, made the
fight too unequal. After a fairly long fusillade, more
than half of the Cossacks were killed or disabled; the
rest had made for themselves, with their dead horses, a
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>circular rampart, from behind which they fired their last
cartridges. The Tchetchens, who are always accompanied
in their expeditions by Russian deserters, whom
they use if need arises as interpreters, made them shout
to the Cossacks: “Surrender the major to us, or you will
be killed to the last man.” Kaskambo, foreseeing the
certain loss of his men, resolved to surrender himself to
save the lives of those who were left: he entrusted his
sword to the Cossacks and advanced alone towards the
Tchetchens, who ceased firing immediately, their aim
being only to take him alive in order to obtain a ransom.
He had scarcely given himself up to his enemies, when
he saw appearing in the distance the relief that was
being sent to him: it was too late: the brigands rapidly
withdrew.</p>
<p>His “denshchik” <a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> had stayed behind with the mule
that carried the major’s baggage. Hidden in a ravine,
he was awaiting the issue of the fight, when the Cossacks
found him and told him of his master’s misfortune. The
worthy servant at once determined to share his fate,
and set out in the direction whither the Tchetchens
had retreated, leading his mule with him, and following
the track of the horses. When he began to lose it in the
darkness, he met a straggler of the enemy, who conducted
him to the Tchetchens’ rendezvous.</p>
<p>One can imagine the feelings of the prisoner when he
saw his denshchik come of his own accord to share his
bad fortune. The Tchetchens at once divided amongst
themselves the booty thus brought to them. They left
to the major only a guitar which was with his baggage,
and which they restored to him in mockery. Ivan (this
was the denshchik’s name)<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> seized upon it and refused
to throw it away, as his master advised him. “Why
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>should we lose heart?” he said, “‘the God of the Russians
is great’;<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> it is to the interest of the brigands to preserve
you. They will do you no harm.”</p>
<p>After a halt of some hours the horde were going to
continue their march, when one of their men, who had
just joined them, announced that the Russians were still
advancing, and that probably the troops from the other
redoubts would unite to pursue them. The chiefs held
a council; it was a question of concealing their retreat,
not only in order to keep their prisoner, but also to
turn the enemy aside from their villages, and thus avoid
reprisals. The horde dispersed by various roads. Ten
men on foot were told off to conduct the prisoners,
while about a hundred horsemen remained together,
and marched in a different direction from that which
Kaskambo was to take. They took away from the latter
his nail-studded boots, which might have left a recognizable
track on the ground, and forced him, as well as
Ivan, to walk barefoot for a part of the morning.</p>
<p>Coming near a stream, the little escort followed its
course, on the grass, for a distance of half a verst, and
climbed down the banks where they were steepest,
among thorny bushes, being careful to avoid leaving
any trace of their passage. The major was so weary,
that, to bring him down to the stream, they had to
hold him up with belts. His feet were bleeding; they
decided to give him back his boots so that he might be
able to finish what remained of the journey.</p>
<p>When they reached the first village, Kaskambo, still
more ill with vexation than with fatigue, seemed to his
guards so weak and exhausted, that they feared for his
life, and treated him more humanely. They allowed
him a short rest, and gave him a horse for the march;
but to turn aside the Russians from the search they
might prosecute, and to make it impossible for the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span>prisoner himself to apprise his friends of the place
where he was hidden, they carried him from village to
village, and from one valley to another, taking the precaution
of blindfolding him several times. They thus
passed a large river, which he supposed to be the Sudja.
They took great care of him during these journeys,
allowing him sufficient food and such rest as he needed.
But, when they had reached the distant village where
he was to be kept definitely, the Tchetchens suddenly
changed their conduct towards him, and subjected him
to all kinds of ill treatment. They fettered his hands
and feet, and put round his neck a chain, to the end of
which a log of oak was fastened. The denshchik was
less harshly treated, his fetters were lighter, and permitted
of his rendering some services to his master.</p>
<p>Situated thus, at every fresh outrage he endured, a
man who spoke Russian would come to see him and
advise him to write to his friends to obtain his ransom,
which had been fixed at ten thousand roubles. The
unhappy prisoner was unable to pay such a large sum,
and had no hope except in the protection of the government,
which had redeemed, some years before, a colonel
who had fallen like himself into the hands of the
brigands. The interpreter promised to provide him
with paper and to see that his letter reached its destination;
but after obtaining his consent he did not reappear
for several days, and during this time the major was made
to suffer increased miseries. They deprived him of food,
they took away from him the mat on which he had lain,
and the pad of a Cossack saddle which had served him
for a pillow; and, when at last the mediator returned,
he announced, in confidence, that if the sum demanded
was refused at the line, or if payment of it was delayed,
the Tchetchens had decided to make away with him, in
order to spare themselves the expense and anxiety which
he caused them. The object of their cruel behaviour
was to compel him to write more urgently. At last he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span>
was supplied with paper and a reed cut in the Tartar
fashion; they took off the chains which bound his hands
and neck, so that he might write freely; and when the
letter was written it was translated to the chiefs, who
undertook to see that it reached the commandant of the
line.</p>
<p>From that time, he was treated less harshly, and was
burdened with but a single chain, which bound his right
hand and foot.</p>
<p>His host, or rather his gaoler, was an old man of sixty,
of enormous stature, and with a savage appearance which
his character did not belie. Two of his sons had been
killed in an encounter with the Russians, which was the
reason of his having been chosen, out of all the inhabitants
of the village, to be the prisoner’s keeper.</p>
<p>The family of this man, whose name was Ibrahim,
consisted of the widow of one of his sons, aged thirty-five,
and a young child of seven or eight, called Mamet.
The mother was as ill-natured as the old keeper, and
more capricious. Kaskambo had much to suffer, but
the caresses and friendship of little Mamet were in the
time that followed a diversion, and even a real consolation
in his misfortunes. This child conceived for him so
great an affection, that the threats and ill treatment of
his grandfather could not prevent him from coming
and playing with the prisoner whenever he found an
opportunity. He had given to the latter the name of
“Kunakh,” which in the language of that country
means a guest or a friend. He secretly shared with
him what fruit he could obtain, and, during the forced
abstinence which the major had been compelled to
endure, little Mamet, touched with pity, skilfully took
advantage of his relations’ momentary absence to bring
him bread or potatoes cooked in the ashes.</p>
<p>Some months had elapsed since the sending of the
letter, without any noteworthy event. During this
interval, Ivan had been able to win the good will of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>
the woman and the old man, or at least had succeeded
in making himself necessary to them. He was versed
in all the arts that can be employed in a commanding
officer’s mess. He made “kisliya shchi” <a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> to perfection,
prepared pickled cucumbers, and had accustomed his
hosts to the little comforts which he had introduced into
their housekeeping.</p>
<p>To win greater confidence, he had placed himself with
them on the footing of a buffoon, every day inventing
some new jest to amuse them; Ibrahim especially loved
to see him dance the Cossack dance. When any one of
the villagers came to visit them, Ivan’s fetters were
removed, and he was made to dance; which he always
did with a good grace, each time adding some new
absurd gambol. By behaving thus continually he had
obtained for himself the freedom of the village, through
which he was generally followed by a crowd of children
attracted by his buffooneries; and, as he understood the
Tartar language, he had soon learnt that of the country,
which is a closely related dialect.</p>
<p>The major himself was often forced to sing Russian
songs with his denshchik, and to play his guitar to amuse
this fierce company. At first they had taken off the
chains which fettered his right hand when this service
was exacted from him; but, the woman having noticed
that he would sometimes play, in spite of his fetters,
for his own amusement, this favour was no longer
allowed him, and the unfortunate musician more than
once repented that he had let his talent become known.
He did not know then that his guitar would one day
assist him to regain his liberty.</p>
<p>To attain that longed-for liberty, the two prisoners
formed a thousand plans, all very difficult to execute.
At the time of their arrival in the village, the inhabitants
used to send each night, by turns, a different man
to augment the guard. Imperceptibly this precaution
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>was relaxed. Often the sentinel did not come: the
woman and the child slept in a neighbouring room, and
old Ibrahim remained alone with them; but he kept
the key of the chains carefully on his person, and woke
up at the least sound. From day to day, the prisoner
was treated more harshly. As the answer to his letters
never came, the Tchetchens often visited his prison to
insult him and threaten him with the most cruel treatment.
They deprived him of his meals, and he had
one day the vexation of seeing little Mamet pitilessly
beaten for having brought him a few medlars.</p>
<p>One very remarkable circumstance in the painful position
in which Kaskambo was placed, was the confidence
which his persecutors had in him, and the respect with
which he had inspired them. Whilst these barbarians
subjected him to continual outrages, they would often
come to consult him and to make him arbiter in their
transactions and in their contests with one another.
Amongst other disputes of which he was made the
judge the following deserves mention on account of its
peculiarity.</p>
<p>One of these men had entrusted a Russian note for
five roubles to his friend, who was leaving for a neighbouring
valley, asking him to deliver it to a certain
person. The messenger lost his horse, which died on
the way, and came to the conclusion that he had a right
to keep the five roubles to repay him for the loss he
had sustained. This reasoning, worthy of the Caucasus,
was not at all relished by the owner of the money. On
the traveller’s return, there was a great commotion in
the village. These two men had gathered around them
all their relations and friends, and the quarrel might
have led to bloodshed if the old men of the band, after
having vainly tried to pacify them, had not induced
them to submit their case to the decision of the prisoner.
The whole population of the village tumultuously took
their way to him, the sooner to learn the issue of this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>
farcical trial. Kaskambo was brought out of his prison
and led on to the platform which constituted the roof
of the house.</p>
<p>The greater number of the dwellings in the Caucasian
valleys are partly hollowed out of the earth, and only
rise three or four feet above the ground; the roof is
horizontal, and is formed of a layer of beaten clay.
The inhabitants, especially the women, come to rest on
these terraces after sunset, and often pass the night
there in the fine season.</p>
<p>When Kaskambo appeared on the roof there was a
profound silence. It must doubtless have been extraordinary,
to see, at this strange tribunal, furious litigants,
armed with pistols and daggers, submitting their
cause to a judge in chains, half dead with hunger and
distress, who nevertheless passed judgement in the last
resort, and whose decisions were always respected.</p>
<p>Despairing of making the accused listen to reason, the
major made him come forward, and, in order to put the
laughers at least on the side of justice, questioned him
as follows. “If, instead of giving you five roubles to
take to his creditor, your friend had only asked you to
give him his greeting, your horse would be dead all the
same, would it not?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps,” answered the defendant.</p>
<p>“And in that case,” continued the judge, “what would
you have done with the greeting? Would you not have
been obliged to keep it as payment and to be content
with it? My sentence is, therefore, that you return the
note, and that your friend gives you his greeting.”</p>
<p>When this decision was translated to the spectators,
shouts of laughter proclaimed far and wide the wisdom
of the new Solomon. The condemned man himself,
after arguing for some time, was obliged to yield, and
said, as he looked at the note: “I knew beforehand
that I should lose if that dog of a Christian interfered.”
This singular confidence shows the idea entertained by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>
these people of European superiority, and the innate
feeling for justice that exists among the fiercest of men.</p>
<p>Kaskambo had written three letters since his detention
without receiving any answer: a year had passed.
The wretched prisoner, without linen, and in want of
all the comforts of life, found his health declining, and
gave way to despair. Ivan himself had been ill for some
time. The severe Ibrahim, to the major’s great surprise,
had however freed the young man from his fetters during
his sickness, and still left him at liberty. The major
questioning him one day on this matter: “Master,” Ivan
said to him, “I have been wanting for a long time to
consult you about a plan which has come into my head.
I think that I should do well to turn Mahometan.”</p>
<p>“You are certainly going mad!”</p>
<p>“No, I am not mad: this is the only way in which
I can be useful to you. The priest has told me that if I
were circumcised they could no longer keep me in chains;
then I could do you service, procure you at least good
food and linen, and at last, who knows? when I am
free ... the God of the Russians is great! We shall
see....”</p>
<p>“But God Himself will desert you, poor wretch, if
you betray Him.”</p>
<p>Kaskambo, even while scolding his servant, could
hardly refrain from laughing at his whimsical plan,
but, when he went so far as to forbid it formally:
“Master,” Ivan answered, “I can no longer obey you,
and it would be useless for me to try to hide it from
you; it is already done: I have been a Mahometan since
the day when you thought I was ill and they took off
my chains. I am called Hussein now. What is the
harm? Can I not be a Christian again when I wish
and when you are free! See, already! I no longer have
chains, I can break yours on the first favourable opportunity,
and I have a strong hope that it will present
itself.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span></p>
<p>As a matter of fact, they kept their word to him: he
was no longer fettered, and from that time enjoyed
greater freedom; but this very freedom was nearly fatal
to him. The chief authors of the expedition against
Kaskambo soon began to fear that the new Mussulman
might desert. His long stay in their midst and his
knowledge of their language put him in a position to
know them all by name, and to give a description of
them to the line if he returned there; which would
have exposed them personally to the vengeance of the
Russians; they highly disapproved of the priest’s misplaced
zeal. On the other hand, the good Mussulmans,
who had favoured him from the time of his conversion,
noticed that, when he was saying his prayer on the roof
of the house, according to custom, and as the mullah
had expressly enjoined him, that he might gain the
public good-will, he often, through habit and inadvertently,
mixed up signs of the cross with the prostrations
he made towards Mecca, to which it sometimes happened
that he turned his back; this made them doubt the
reality of his conversion.</p>
<p>A few months after his pretended apostasy he noticed
a great change in his intercourse with the inhabitants,
and could not mistake the manifest signs of their ill
will. He was vainly seeking to discover its cause, when
the young men with whom he chiefly associated came to
propose that he should accompany them in an expedition
which they intended to undertake. Their plan was to
cross the Terek, to attack some merchants who would
be going to Mozdok; Ivan agreed to their proposal
without hesitation. He had long been desiring to
procure himself arms; they promised him a share of
the spoils. He thought that when they saw him return
to his master’s side the people who suspected him of
wishing to desert would no longer have the same reasons
for distrusting him. However, the major having strongly
opposed the plan, he seemed to be thinking of it no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>
longer, when one morning Kaskambo, on awaking, saw
the mat on which Ivan slept rolled up against the wall;
he had gone during the night. His companions were to
pass the Terek on the following night, and attack the
merchants, of whose progress they knew from their spies.</p>
<p>The trustfulness of the Tchetchens ought to have
aroused some suspicion in Ivan’s mind: it was not natural
that men so wily and suspicious should admit a Russian,
their prisoner, into an expedition directed against his
compatriots. In fact it transpired from what followed
that they had only asked him to accompany them with
the intention of assassinating him. As his character of
a new convert compelled them to use some caution, they
had planned to keep him in sight during the march, and
afterwards to rid themselves of him at the instant of
attack, letting it be believed that he had been killed in
the fight. Only a few members of the expedition were
in the secret; but the event upset their calculations.
At the moment when the band had laid their ambush to
attack the merchants, they were themselves surprised by
a regiment of Cossacks, who charged them so vigorously
that they had great difficulty in recrossing the river.
Their great peril made them forget the plot against
Ivan, who followed them in their retreat.</p>
<p>As their disordered troop crossed the Terek, the
waters of which are very rapid, a young Tchetchen’s
horse broke down in the middle of the river and was
immediately carried away by the waves. Ivan, who was
following him, urged his horse into the current, at the
risk of being carried off himself, and, seizing the young
man just when he was disappearing beneath the water,
succeeded in bringing him to the opposite shore. The
Cossacks, who, favoured by the dawning day, recognized
him by his uniform and “furazhka,”<a id="FNanchor_14" href="#Footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> aimed at him,
shouting: “Deserter! catch the deserter!” His clothes
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>were riddled with bullets. At last, after fighting desperately
and firing all his cartridges, he returned to the
village with the glory of having saved the life of one
of his companions, and been of service to the whole
troop.</p>
<p>If his conduct on this occasion did not win over to
him the minds of all, it gained him at least one friend;
the young man whom he had saved adopted him for
his “kunakh” (a sacred title which the Caucasian
mountaineers never violate), and swore to defend him
against every one. But this intimacy was not sufficient
to shelter him from the hatred of the principal inhabitants.
The courage which he had just shown, and his
attachment to his master, increased the fears with which
he had inspired them. They could no longer regard
him as a buffoon incapable of any enterprise, as they
had done until then; and, when they considered the
abortive expedition in which he had taken part, they
wondered how Russian troops had happened to be at
the right moment in a spot so far from their usual
haunts, and suspected that he had had the means of
warning them. Although this conjecture was without
any real foundation, they watched him more closely.
Old Ibrahim himself, fearing some plot for the escape
of his prisoners, no longer allowed them to engage in
continued conversation, and the honest denshchik was
threatened, sometimes even beaten, when he tried to
talk to his master.</p>
<p>In this situation, the two prisoners contrived a means
of conversing without arousing their keeper’s suspicions.
As they were in the habit of singing Russian songs
together, the major would take his guitar when he had
anything important to communicate to Ivan in Ibrahim’s
presence, and sing while he questioned him: the latter
answered in the same manner, and his master accompanied
him with his guitar. As this arrangement was
by no means a novelty, nobody ever noticed a trick<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>
which besides they took the precaution to practise only
on rare occasions.</p>
<p>More than three months had passed since the unfortunate
expedition which has been mentioned, when
Ivan fancied that he noticed an unusual disturbance in
the village. Some mules loaded with powder had
arrived in the plain. The men were cleaning their
arms and preparing their cartridges. He soon learnt
that a great expedition was on foot. The whole nation
was to unite to attack a neighbouring tribe who had
put themselves under the protection of the Russians,
and had allowed them to build a redoubt on their
territory. It was a question of nothing less than
exterminating the whole tribe, as well as the Russian
battalion which was protecting the building of the fort.</p>
<p>A few days later, Ivan, leaving the hut one morning,
found the village deserted. All the men able to bear
arms had gone during the night. In the visit which
he made to the village to seek news, he obtained fresh
proofs of the evil intentions they had against him. The
old men avoided talking to him. A little boy told him
openly that his father wanted to kill him. Finally,
when he was returning very thoughtfully to his master,
he saw on the roof of a house a young woman who
raised her veil, and, with an appearance of the greatest
terror, made signs to him to escape, pointing out the
road to Russia; it was the sister of the Tchetchen whom
he had saved at the crossing of the Terek.</p>
<p>When he re-entered the house, he found the old man
engaged in inspecting Kaskambo’s fetters. A newcomer
was seated in the room: it was a man whom an intermittent
fever had prevented from accompanying his
comrades and who had been sent to Ibrahim to augment
the prisoners’ guard till the inhabitants returned. Ivan
noticed this precaution without evincing the least surprise.
The absence of the men of the village presented
a favourable opportunity for the execution of his plans;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span>
but the more active vigilance of their keeper, and above
all the presence of the fever patient, made success very
uncertain. However, his death would be inevitable if he
awaited the return of the inhabitants; he foresaw that
their expedition would be unsuccessful and that their
rage would not spare him. No resource remained for
him except either to desert his master or to deliver him
immediately. The faithful servant would have died a
thousand deaths rather than choose the former alternative.</p>
<p>Kaskambo, who was beginning to lose all hope, had
fallen for some time into a kind of stupor, and maintained
a profound silence. Ivan, more calm and cheerful than
usual, surpassed himself in preparing the meal, and while
he did it he sang Russian songs, which he interspersed
with words of encouragement to his master.</p>
<p>“The time has come,” he said, adding to each sentence
the meaningless refrain of a popular Russian song, “hey
lully, hey lully, the time has come to end our misery
or to perish. To-morrow, hey lully, we shall be on the
way to a town, a pretty town, hey lully, which I will
not name. Courage, master! don’t let yourself lose
heart. The God of the Russians is great.”</p>
<p>Kaskambo, indifferent alike to life and death, not
knowing his denshchik’s plan, contented himself with
answering: “Do what you like, and be silent.” Towards
evening the fever patient, whom they had entertained
bountifully in order to detain him, and who, besides the
good meal he had made, had amused himself for the rest
of the day with eating “shashlyk,”<a id="FNanchor_15" href="#Footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> was seized with
such a violent fit of fever, that he left the company and
withdrew to his own home. They let him go without
much difficulty, Ivan having entirely reassured the old
man by his gaiety. The more to remove any kind of
suspicion, he retired early to the back of the room and
lay down on a bench against the wall, until Ibrahim
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>should fall asleep; but the latter had resolved to stay
awake all night. Instead of lying down on the mat by
the fire, as he generally did, he sat down on a log
opposite his prisoner, and sent away his daughter-in-law,
who withdrew to the next room, where her child was,
and shut the door after her.</p>
<p>From the dark corner where he had settled himself,
Ivan looked attentively at the scene before him. In the
light of the fire which flared up from time to time, an
axe glittered in a recess of the wall. The old man,
overcome by drowsiness, let his head fall at times on
his breast. Ivan saw that the time had come, and
stood up. The suspicious gaoler noticed it immediately.
“What are you doing there?” he asked sharply. Ivan,
instead of replying, drew near the fire, yawning like a
man waking from a deep sleep. Ibrahim, who himself
felt his eyelids growing heavy, ordered Kaskambo to
play the guitar to keep him awake. The latter refused,
but Ivan handed him the instrument, at the same time
making the sign arranged. “Play, master,” he said, “I
have something to say to you.” Kaskambo tuned the
instrument, and, beginning to sing, they commenced
the terrible duet which follows.</p>
<p class="center p2">KASKAMBO.</p>
<p>“Hey lully, hey lully, what have you to say? Be
careful. (At each question, and each answer, they sang
together verses of the Russian song following:)</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>“I am anxious, I am sad,<br>
What to do I cannot tell,<br>
Him I wait whom I love well,<br>
Lonely watch I for my lad.<br>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hey lully, hey lully,</span><br>
’Tis sad without my dearie.”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="center">IVAN.</p>
<p>“See that axe,—don’t look at it. Hey lully, hey
lully, I’ll split this rascal’s head.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>“Here I sit and spin apart,<br>
Breaks the thread my hand within:<br>
Ah! to-morrow I will spin,<br>
Now I am too sad at heart.<br>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hey lully, hey lully,</span><br>
Oh, where can be my dearie?”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="center">KASKAMBO.</p>
<p>“A useless slaughter! hey lully, how could I fly with
my fetters?</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>“As a calf its mother’s side,<br>
As a shepherd seeks his flocks,<br>
As a kid, beneath the rocks,<br>
Seeks the grass in sweet spring-tide,<br>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hey lully, hey lully,</span><br>
So seek I for my dearie.”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="center">IVAN.</p>
<p>“The key of the fetters will be in the brigand’s pocket.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>“When I hie at break of day,<br>
With my pitcher, to the well,—<br>
How it is I cannot tell!—<br>
Still my feet seek out the way,<br>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hey lully, hey lully,</span><br>
That leads me to my dearie.”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="center">KASKAMBO.</p>
<p>“The woman will give the alarm, hey lully.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>“Waiting, ah! what grief I prove,<br>
He, ingrate, elsewhere is gay,<br>
Maybe false he doth me play,<br>
Happy with another love.<br>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hey lully, hey lully,</span><br>
Can I have lost my dearie?”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="center">IVAN.</p>
<p>“It will happen as it may: will you not die all the
same, hey lully, of misery and starvation?</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>“Ah, if false he be indeed,<br>
If he pass me by some day,<br>
Let the village burn away,<br>
And on me the fierce flames feed!<br>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hey lully, hey lully,</span><br>
Why live without my dearie?”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p>
<p>The old man becoming attentive, they redoubled the
hey lully, accompanied by a noisy arpeggio: “Play,
master,” continued the denshchik, “play the Cossack
dance; I am going to dance round the room so as to
get near the axe; play boldly.”</p>
<p class="center">KASKAMBO.</p>
<p>“Well, be it so; this hell will be ended.”</p>
<p>He turned away his head and began with all his
might to play the required dance.</p>
<p>Ivan began the steps and grotesque attitudes of the
Cossack dance, which the old man especially liked,
leaping and gambolling, and uttering cries to distract
his attention. When Kaskambo felt that the dancer
was near the axe, his heart throbbed with anxiety:
this means of their deliverance was in a little cupboard
without a door, contrived within the wall, but at a
height to which Ivan could hardly reach. To have it
within his reach, he took advantage of a favourable
moment, seized it suddenly and at once placed it on the
ground in the shadow cast by Ibrahim’s body. When
the latter looked at him, he was far from the place, and
continuing his dance. This dangerous scene had lasted
for some time, and Kaskambo, weary of playing, began
to think that his denshchik’s courage was failing, or
that he did not think it a favourable opportunity. He
glanced at him at the instant when, having seized the
axe, the intrepid dancer was steadily advancing to strike
the brigand with it. The emotion felt by the major
was so strong, that he stopped playing, and let his
guitar fall on his knees. At the same moment, the
old man had stooped, and made a step forward to
push some brushwood into the fire: some dry leaves
burst into flame, and cast a bright glow into the room.
Ibrahim turned round to sit down.</p>
<p>If, at this juncture, Ivan had pursued his enterprise,
a hand-to-hand fight would have been inevitable: the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span>
alarm would have been given, which above all it was
needful to avoid; but his presence of mind saved him.
When he noticed the major’s confusion, and saw Ibrahim
rise, he placed the axe behind the very log which served
as a seat to the latter, and recommenced his dance.
“Play, confound it!” he said to his master; “what are
you thinking of?” The major, realizing how unwise he
had been, began to play again softly. The old gaoler
had no suspicion, and sat down again; but he ordered
them to finish the music and lie down. Ivan, quietly
going and taking the guitar-case, came and placed it on
the hearth; but, instead of taking the instrument which
his master held out to him, he suddenly snatched the
axe from behind Ibrahim, and dealt him such a frightful
blow on the head, that the unhappy man did not even
utter a sigh, but fell stark dead, his face in the fire; his
long grey beard began to blaze; Ivan pulled him out by
the feet and covered him with a mat.</p>
<p>They were listening, to find out if the woman had
been awakened, when, surprised no doubt at the silence
which reigned after so much noise, she opened the door
of her room: “What are you doing in here?” she
said, advancing towards the prisoners; “how is it that
there is a smell of burnt feathers?” The fire had just
been scattered and gave hardly any light. Ivan raised
the axe to strike her; she had time to turn her head,
and received the blow on her breast, uttering a frightful
sigh; another blow, swifter than lightning, caught her
as she fell, and stretched her dead at Kaskambo’s feet.
Terrified by this second murder, which he had not
expected, the major, seeing Ivan advance towards the
child’s room, placed himself in the way to stop him.
“Where are you going, wretched man?” he said;
“would you be so barbarous as to sacrifice the child
too, who has shown me such friendship? If you set
me free at this price, neither your attachment nor your
services shall save you when we reach the line.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span></p>
<p>“At the line,” answered Ivan, “you can do as you
like; but here we must make an end.”</p>
<p>Kaskambo, collecting all his strength, collared him
as he attempted to force his passage. “Wretch,” he
said, “if you dare to attempt his life, if you touch a
single hair of his head, I swear here before God that
I will give myself up into the hands of the Tchetchens,
and your barbarity will be in vain.”</p>
<p>“Into the hands of the Tchetchens!” repeated the
denshchik, raising his bloody axe above his master’s head;
“they shall never recapture you alive; I will slay them,
you and myself, before that happens. This child might
ruin us by giving the alarm; in your present state,
women would be enough to put you back in prison.”</p>
<p>“Stop! stop!” cried Kaskambo, from whose hands
Ivan was trying to free himself. “Stop! monster, you
shall murder me before committing this crime!”</p>
<p>But, impeded by his chains and weak as he was, he
could not restrain the ferocious young man, who thrust
him back, so that he fell violently to the ground, ready
to faint from bewilderment and horror. While, all
stained with the blood of the first victims, he was
attempting to rise, “Ivan,” he cried, “I implore you,
do not kill him! In the name of God, do not spill the
blood of that innocent creature!”</p>
<p>He ran to the help of the child as soon as he had
the strength; but when he reached the door of the room
he knocked in the darkness against Ivan coming out.</p>
<p>“All is over, master; let us lose no time, and don’t
make a noise. Don’t make a noise, I tell you,” he
answered to his master’s despairing reproaches: “what’s
done is done; it is impossible to draw back now. Until
we are free, every man I meet is dead, or else he must
kill me; and if any one comes in here before our
departure, I don’t care whether it is a man, a woman,
or a child, a friend or an enemy, I lay him there with
the others.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span></p>
<p>He lighted a splinter of larch and began to rummage
in the brigand’s cartridge-box and pockets; the key of
the fetters was not there: he sought for it as vainly
in the woman’s clothes, in a chest, and wherever he
fancied it could be hidden. Whilst he made this search,
the major gave himself up without restraint to his grief.
Ivan comforted him in his own way. “You would do
better,” he said, “to weep for the key of the fetters
which is lost. Why should you regret this race of
brigands, who have tortured you for more than fifteen
months? They wanted to put us to death, well! their
turn has come before ours. Is it <em>my</em> fault? May hell
swallow them all!”</p>
<p>However, as the key of the fetters was not to be
found, so many slaughters would be in vain if they
could not manage to break them. Ivan, with the corner
of the axe, succeeded in loosening the ring on the hand,
but that which fastened the chain to the feet resisted
all his efforts; he was afraid of hurting his master, and
dared not use all his strength. On the other hand, the
night was advancing, and the danger became urgent;
they decided to go. Ivan fastened the chain firmly
to the major’s belt, so that it impeded him as little as
possible, and made no noise. He placed in a wallet
a quarter of mutton, the remains of the evening meal,
added to it some other provisions, and armed himself
with the dead man’s pistol and dagger. Kaskambo
took possession of his “burka”;<a id="FNanchor_16" href="#Footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> they went out in
silence, and, going round the house to avoid meeting
any one, they took the path into the mountains, instead
of going towards Mozdok and the ordinary road, easily
foreseeing that they would be pursued in that direction.
For the rest of the night they tramped along the mountains<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>
that lay on their right, and when day began to
dawn they entered a beech wood which crowned the
whole mountain, and sheltered them from the danger of
being seen from a distance.</p>
<p>It was in the month of February; the ground, on these
heights, and especially in the forest, was still covered
with a hard snow which supported the travellers’ steps
during the night and part of the morning; but towards
midday, when it had been softened by the sun, they
sank at every instant, which made their progress very
slow. Thus they reached laboriously the side of a deep
valley which they had to cross, in the depths of which
the snow had disappeared; a beaten path followed the
windings of the stream, and proclaimed that the place
was frequented. On this account, and because of the
fatigue which overwhelmed the major, the travellers
decided to remain in that spot to wait for the night;
they settled down between some isolated rocks which
projected from the snow. Ivan cut down some pine-branches
to make from them, on the snow, a thick
bed, on which the major slept. While he rested, Ivan
tried to find out where they were. The valley at the
summit of which they were was surrounded by lofty
mountains between which no outlet was visible: he saw
that it was impossible to avoid the beaten track, and
that they must of necessity follow the course of the
stream in order to get out of the labyrinth. It was
about eleven o’clock at night, and the snow was beginning
to harden again, when they descended into
the valley. But before beginning their journey they
set fire to their shelter, as much to warm themselves
as to prepare a little meal of shashlyk, of which they
were in great need. A handful of snow was their drink,
and a mouthful of brandy finished the feast. They
crossed the valley, luckily without seeing anyone, and
entered the pass where the path and the stream were
confined between steep perpendicular mountains. They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>
walked with all possible speed, knowing well the danger
they ran of being met in this narrow passage, out of
which they only emerged towards nine o’clock in the
morning.</p>
<p>It was then only that the dark pass suddenly opened
out, and that they saw, beyond the lower mountains
which intersected in front of them, the immense horizon
of Russia, like a distant sea. It would be difficult to
form an idea of the joy felt by the major at this
unexpected sight. “Russia! Russia!” was the only
word he could pronounce. The travellers sat down to
rest and to enjoy beforehand their approaching freedom.
This anticipation of happiness was mingled in the major’s
mind with the memory of the horrible catastrophe which
he had just witnessed, and which his fetters and blood-stained
clothes recalled to him vividly. With eyes fixed
on the distant goal of his labours, he calculated the
difficulties of the journey. The sight of the long and
dangerous road which remained for him to travel with
fettered feet and legs swollen with fatigue, soon obliterated
even the trace of the momentary pleasure which
the sight of his native land had given him. To the
torments of imagination was added a burning thirst.
Ivan went down to the stream which flowed some way
off to bring some water to his master; he found there
a bridge made of two trees and saw far off a dwelling.
It was a kind of chalet, a summer house of the
Tchetchens which happened to be empty. In the plight
of the fugitives, this isolated house was a precious
discovery. Ivan came to tear his master away from
his reflections, in order to lead him into the refuge
which he had just discovered, and after having settled
him there he at once began to look for the store.</p>
<p>The inhabitants of the Caucasus, who, for the most
part, are half nomads and often exposed to attacks from
their neighbours, always have near their houses caves,
in which they hide their provisions and goods. These<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>
stores, formed like narrow wells, are closed with a
plank or large stone carefully covered with earth, and
are always placed in spots where turf is wanting, for
fear the colour of the grass should betray the deposit.
In spite of these precautions, the Russian soldiers often
discover them; they strike the earth with the ramrods
of their guns in the beaten paths which are near
dwellings, and the sound indicates the hollows which
they seek. Ivan found one under a shed adjoining
the house, in which he discovered earthenware pots,
some ears of maize, a piece of rock-salt and several
household utensils. He ran to fetch water for cooking
purposes; the quarter of mutton and some potatoes which
he had brought were placed on the fire. While the
soup was preparing, Kaskambo roasted the ears of
maize: finally, some hazelnuts also found in the store
completed the meal. When he had finished, Ivan, with
more time and means, succeeded in freeing his master
from his chains; and the latter, calmer, and revived
by a meal excellent under the circumstances, slept
soundly, and it was deep night when he awoke. In
spite of this favourable rest, when he wanted to continue
his journey, his swollen legs were so stiff that he could
not make the least movement without suffering unbearable
pain. However, he had to go. Leaning on
his servant, he set out mournfully, convinced that he
would never reach the longed-for goal. The motion and
the heat of walking appeased little by little the pain
he was suffering. He walked all night, often stopping,
and then immediately recommencing his march. Sometimes
also, giving way to discouragement, he threw
himself on the ground, and urged Ivan to leave him
to his evil fate. His dauntless companion not only
encouraged him by his talk and example, but almost
used violence to raise and drag him along with him.
They found in their journey a difficult and dangerous
pass, which they could not avoid. To wait for day<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span>
would have caused an irreparable loss of time; they
decided to cross it at the risk of being dashed to pieces,
but, before allowing his master to enter upon it, Ivan
wished to reconnoitre and go over it alone. While he
descended, Kaskambo stayed on the brink of the rock
in a state of anxiety difficult to describe. The night
was dark; he heard beneath his feet the dull murmur
of a rapid stream which flowed through the valley; the
sound of the stones loosened from the mountain under
his companion’s tread, and falling into the water, made
him aware of the immense depth of the precipice on
the edge of which he had stopped. In this moment
of anguish, which might perhaps be the last of his life,
the memory of his mother returned to his mind; she
had tenderly blessed him on his departure from the
line; this thought restored his courage. A secret presentiment
gave him the hope of seeing her again.
“O God!” he cried, “grant that her blessing may not
be in vain!” As he was ending this short but fervent
prayer, Ivan reappeared. The pass when surveyed was
not so difficult as they had thought at first. After
climbing down several fathoms between the rocks, it
was necessary, in order to reach the practicable side,
to walk along a narrow sloping ledge of rock, covered
with slippery snow, beneath which was a sheer precipice.
Ivan with his axe cut in the snow holes which made the
passage easier: they crossed themselves. “Come then,”
said Kaskambo, “if I perish, at least let it not be for
want of courage; it was only illness that took that
from me. I will go on now as long as God gives
me strength.” They emerged successfully from the
dangerous pass and continued their journey. The paths
began to be more continuous and well-beaten, and they
no longer found any snow except in places looking north,
and on low-lying ground where it had accumulated.
They had the good fortune to meet nobody until daybreak,
when the sight of two men appearing in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>
distance obliged them to lie down on the ground so
that they might not be seen.</p>
<p>When the mountains are left behind in these provinces,
woods are no longer to be found; the ground
there is absolutely bare, and a single tree would be
vainly sought, except on the banks of the large rivers,
where still they are very scarce, a most extraordinary
thing, considering the fertility of the soil. They had
for some time been following the course of the Sudja,
which they had to cross to reach Mozdok, seeking a
place where the water, less rapid, would offer a safer
passage, when they saw a man on horseback coming
straight towards them. The country, completely open,
offered neither trees nor bushes as a means of hiding.
They lay flat down under the bank of the Sudja, on the
edge of the water. The traveller passed within a few
fathoms of their lair. They intended only to defend
themselves if they were attacked. Ivan drew his dagger
and gave the pistol to the major. Seeing then that the
rider was only a child of twelve or thirteen, he hurled
himself suddenly upon him, collared him, and threw
him down on the grass. The youth would have resisted,
but, seeing the major appear on the river-bank, pistol
in hand, he fled at full speed. The horse had no saddle,
and a halter passed through its mouth by way of
bridle. The two fugitives at once made use of their
capture to cross the river. This encounter was very
fortunate for them, for they soon saw that it would
have been impossible for them to pass it on foot, as
they had purposed. Their mount, although burdened
with the weight of two men, was almost carried away
by the swiftness of the water. However, they arrived
safe and sound at the opposite shore, which unfortunately
was too steep for the horse to be able to land. They
got off to lighten it. As Ivan pulled with all his might
to enable it to mount upon the shore, the halter came
unfastened and remained in his hands. The animal,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>
swept away by the current, after many efforts to land,
was swallowed up in the river, and drowned.</p>
<p>Deprived of this resource, but from this time less
troubled as to the danger of pursuit, they made for
a hillock, covered with loose rocks, which they saw in
the distance, intending to hide themselves and rest there
until night. From their reckoning of the distance they
had already travelled, they judged that the dwellings of
the peaceful Tchetchens ought not to be very far away;
but nothing could be more unsafe than to give themselves
up to these men, whose probable treachery might be
their undoing.</p>
<p>However, considering the weak state of Kaskambo,
it would be very difficult for him to reach the Terek
unaided. Their provisions were exhausted: they passed
the rest of the day in gloomy silence, not daring to
reveal their anxieties to each other. Towards evening,
the major saw his denshchik strike his brow with his
fist, uttering a deep sigh. Astonished at this sudden
despair, which his dauntless companion had in no way
evinced until then, he asked him the reason of it.</p>
<p>“Master,” said Ivan, “I have done something very
wrong!”</p>
<p>“May God forgive us it!” answered Kaskambo,
crossing himself.</p>
<p>“Yes,” continued Ivan, “I have forgotten to bring
away that fine carbine which was in the child’s room.
What could you expect? It never entered my mind:
you were groaning so up there, and making such a
noise, that I forgot it. You’re laughing, are you? It
was the best carbine there was in the whole village.
I would have made a present of it to the first man
we met, to put him on our side: for I don’t know how,
in the state I see you are in, we can finish our march.”</p>
<p>The weather, which till then had favoured them,
changed during the day. The cold Russian wind blew
violently, and drove sleet in their faces. They set out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span>
at nightfall, uncertain whether they should try to reach
some villages, or to avoid them. But the long stage
which remained for them to travel, supposing the latter,
became absolutely impossible for them owing to a fresh
misfortune which befell them towards the end of the
night. As they were crossing a little ravine, over the
remains of snow which covered its bottom, the ice broke
under their feet, and they were plunged in water up
to the knees. Kaskambo’s efforts to extricate himself
made his garments wetter than ever. Since the time
when they set out, the cold had never been so keen;
the whole country-side was white with sleet. After
walking for a quarter of an hour, seized by the cold,
he fell, through weariness and pain, and absolutely
refused to go any farther. Seeing the impossibility of
reaching the goal of his journey, he considered it a
useless barbarity to detain his companion, who could
easily escape by himself.</p>
<p>“Listen, Ivan,” he said, “God is my witness that I
have done all I could up till now to take advantage
of the help you have given me, but you see that it
can no longer save me, and that my fate is sealed. Go
on to the line, my dear Ivan, return to our regiment;
I command you. Say to my old friends and to my
superior officers that you have left me here to feed
the ravens, and that I wish them a better fate. But,
before you go, recollect the oath which you made up
yonder in the blood of our gaolers. You swore that
the Tchetchens should not recapture me alive: keep
your word.”</p>
<p>So saying, he lay down on the ground, and covered
himself completely with his burka.</p>
<p>“There is one resource left,” Ivan answered; “it is to
seek the dwelling of a Tchetchen and to win over its
master with promises. If he betrays us, we shall at
least have less with which to reproach ourselves. Try
again to drag yourself so far; or else,” he added, seeing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span>
that his master kept silence, “I will go alone, and try
to win over a Tchetchen; and, if it turns out well, I
will return with him to fetch you; if badly, if I perish
and do not come back, here, take the pistol.”</p>
<p>Kaskambo stretched out a hand from under the burka
and took the pistol. Ivan covered him with dry grass
and brushwood for fear he should be discovered by anyone
during his excursion. As he prepared to go, his
master called him back. “Ivan,” he said, “hear again
my last request. If you recross the Terek, and if you
see my mother again without me ...”</p>
<p>“Master,” Ivan interrupted, “good-bye for the present.
If you perish, neither your mother nor mine will ever
see me again.”</p>
<p>After an hour’s walk, he saw from a small eminence
two villages three or four versts distant; that was not
what he sought; he wanted to find an isolated house,
which he could enter without being seen, to win over
its master secretly. The distant smoke of a chimney
discovered to him one such as he desired. He at once
betook himself thither, and entered without hesitation.
The master of the house was sitting on the ground,
engaged in patching one of his boots.</p>
<p>“I have come,” said Ivan, “to give you the chance
of earning two hundred roubles, and to ask a service
of you. No doubt you have heard of Major Kaskambo,
a prisoner among the mountaineers. Well, I have
rescued him; he is here, a step off, ill and in your
power. Should you please to give him up again to his
enemies, they will praise you no doubt, but, you know
well, they will not reward you. If on the contrary you
consent to save him, by keeping him in your house for
three days only, I will go to Mozdok, and will bring you
two hundred roubles in hard cash for his ransom; while,
if you dare to stir from your place,” (he added, drawing
his dagger) “and to give the alarm to have me seized,
I will kill you. Your word at once, or you are dead.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span></p>
<p>Ivan’s assured tone convinced the Tchetchen without
alarming him. “Young man,” he said, calmly putting
on his boot, “I also have a dagger in my girdle, and
yours does not terrify me. Had you entered my house
as a friend, I would never have betrayed a man who had
passed my threshold; but now I promise nothing. Sit
down there, and say what you will.”</p>
<p>Ivan, seeing with whom he had to deal, sheathed his
dagger again, sat down, and repeated his proposal.</p>
<p>“What security will you give me,” asked the
Tchetchen, “for the fulfilment of your promise?”</p>
<p>“I will leave you the major himself,” Ivan answered;
“do you think I would have suffered for fifteen months,
and brought my master to you, to desert him?”</p>
<p>“That is all right, I believe you; but two hundred
roubles is not enough: I must have four hundred.”</p>
<p>“Why not ask four thousand? it is easy enough;
but I, who wish to keep my word, offer you two
hundred, because I know where to get them, and not a
copeck more. Do you want to make me deceive you?”</p>
<p>“Well, be it so; I agree to two hundred roubles; and
you will return alone, and in three days?”</p>
<p>“Yes, alone, and in three days, I give you my word!
But have you given me yours? is the major your guest?”</p>
<p>“He is my guest, and you as well, from this moment,
you have my word for it.”</p>
<p>They shook hands and ran to fetch the major, whom
they brought back half dead with cold and hunger.</p>
<p>Instead of going to Mozdok, Ivan, learning that he
was nearer to Tchervelianskaya-Stanitsa, where there
was a large body of Cossacks, went thither immediately.
He had no difficulty in collecting the sum he needed.
The good Cossacks, some of whom had been engaged
in the unfortunate affair which had cost Kaskambo his
liberty, clubbed together with alacrity to complete the
ransom. On the day fixed, Ivan set out to go at last and
set his master free, but the colonel who commanded the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>
outpost, fearing some fresh treachery, did not allow him
to return alone, and in spite of the agreement made with
the Tchetchen he had him accompanied by some Cossacks.</p>
<p>This precaution again was nearly fatal to Kaskambo.
From his first distant sight of the Cossack lances, his
host thought himself betrayed, and, displaying at once
the savage courage of his nation, he led the major, who
was still ill, on to the roof of the house, bound him to a
post, and placed himself opposite him, carbine in hand:
“If you advance,” he shouted, when Ivan was within
hearing, at the same time aiming at his prisoner, “if
you make another step, I will blow out the major’s
brains, and I have fifty cartridges for my enemies and
the traitor who brings them.”</p>
<p>“You are not betrayed,” cried the denshchik, trembling
for his master’s life; “they forced me to come back
accompanied, but I have brought the two hundred
roubles, and have kept my word.”</p>
<p>“Let the Cossacks withdraw,” added the Tchetchen,
“or I will fire.”</p>
<p>Kaskambo himself begged the officer to retire. Ivan
followed the detachment for some time and returned
alone; but the suspicious brigand did not allow him
to approach. He made him count out the roubles a
hundred paces from the house, on the path, and ordered
him to go away.</p>
<p>As soon as he had taken possession of them, he went
back to the roof and threw himself down at the major’s
feet, begging his pardon and imploring him to forget the
ill treatment which, he said, he had been forced to make
him suffer for his own safety. “I will only remember,”
Kaskambo answered, “that I have been your guest and
that you have kept your word to me; but, before asking
my pardon, please begin by unfastening my bonds.” Instead
of answering him, the Tchetchen, seeing Ivan
returning, jumped from the roof and disappeared like
lightning.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span></p>
<p>On the same day, honest Ivan had the pleasure and
glory of restoring his master to the bosom of his friends,
who had despaired of seeing him again.</p>
<p>The gleaner of this tale, a few months afterwards,
at Yegorievski, passing, during the night, before a little
house, handsome and very much lighted up, got out
of his “kibitka,”<a id="FNanchor_17" href="#Footnote_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a> and approached a window to enjoy
the sight of a very lively ball which was being given
on the ground-floor. A young non-commissioned officer
was also looking very attentively at what was going on
inside the room.</p>
<p>“Who is giving the ball?” the traveller asked him.</p>
<p>“The major, who is being married.”</p>
<p>“What is the major’s name?”</p>
<p>“His name is Kaskambo.”</p>
<p>The traveller, knowing the strange story of that
officer, congratulated himself on having yielded to his
curiosity, and had pointed out to him the bridegroom,
who, beaming with pleasure, forgot in that hour the
Tchetchens and their cruelty.</p>
<p>“Show me, pray,” he again added, “the brave denshchik
who delivered him.”</p>
<p>The non-commissioned officer, after hesitating for some
time, answered, “It was myself.”</p>
<p>Doubly surprised at the encounter, and still more so at
finding him so young, the traveller asked him his age.
He had not yet completed his twentieth year, and had
just received a gratuity, with the rank of a non-commissioned
officer, as a reward for his courage and
fidelity. This splendid fellow, after having voluntarily
shared his master’s misfortunes, and restored him to
life and liberty, was now rejoicing in his happiness,
as he looked at his wedding-festivities through the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>window. But as the stranger expressed his surprise that
he was not present at the merry making, taxing his
former master with ingratitude on this score, Ivan gave
him a black look, and re-entered the house whistling the
tune of “Hey lully, hey lully.” He appeared soon
afterwards in the ball-room, and the inquisitive stranger
got into his kibitka again, very thankful to have escaped
having his head split open with an axe.</p>
<div class="chapter">
<div class="footnotes">
<p class="center p4 big2">FOOTNOTES:</p>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> By this name is designated the succession of stations guarded
by Russian troops between the Caspian Sea and the Black Sea,
from the mouth of the Terek to that of the Kuban.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> Vladikavkaz comes from the Russian verb “vladeti,” which
means “command, dominate.”</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="label">[10]</a> Soldier-servant.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="label">[11]</a> He was called Ivan Smirnoff, a name which might be translated
into French as “John the Gentile,” which contrasted
strangely with his character, as we shall see by what follows.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="label">[12]</a> A familiar proverb of Russian soldiers in the moment of
danger.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="label">[13]</a> A Russian drink; it is a kind of beer made with flour.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_14" href="#FNanchor_14" class="label">[14]</a> A Russian word which corresponds to what is called in French
“cap.”</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_15" href="#FNanchor_15" class="label">[15]</a> Mutton roasted in small pieces at the end of a stick.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_16" href="#FNanchor_16" class="label">[16]</a> A cloak of impervious felt with long hair, rather like bearskin.
The burka, the ordinary cloak of the Cossacks, is only
made in their country: with it they brave with impunity the
rain and mud of the bivouac.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_17" href="#FNanchor_17" class="label">[17]</a> The kibitka is a carriage, the body of which, like that of
a roughly-built barouche, is fixed directly on two axle-trees,
and in winter on two runners forming a sledge; it is the ordinary
travelling-carriage in Russia.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak p2b">EL VERDUGO<br>
<small>HONORÉ DE BALZAC</small></h2>
</div>
<p>Midnight had just sounded from the belfry of the
little town of Menda. At that moment a young French
officer, who was leaning over the parapet of a long terrace,
which ran along the edge of the gardens of the castle
of Menda, seemed to be sunk in meditation more profound
than was natural to the carelessness of military life; but
it must be said at the same time that hour, place, and
night were never more propitious to meditation. The
clear sky of Spain spread an azure dome overhead. The
sparkling of the stars and the soft light of the moon lit
up a delightful valley, which unrolled itself invitingly
at his feet. By supporting himself upon an orange-tree
in blossom, the major could see, a hundred feet
below him, the town of Menda, which seemed to have
taken shelter from the north winds at the foot of the
rock upon which the castle was built. Turning his
head, he could observe the sea, its shining waters framing
the prospect in a broad sheet of silver. The castle
was lit up. The merry tumult of a ball, the strains
of the orchestra, the laughter of some officers and their
partners reached his ears, blended with the distant
murmur of the waves. The coolness of the night
imparted a sort of energy to his body, fatigued by
the heat of the day. And, finally, the garden was
planted with shrubs so odoriferous and flowers so
sweet, that the young man felt as if plunged in a bath
of perfumes.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span></p>
<p>The castle of Menda belonged to a grandee of Spain,
who, together with his family, was then in residence.
All that evening the elder of his daughters had regarded
the officer with an interest characterized by such sadness,
that the sentiment of compassion expressed by the
Spaniard might well have been the cause of the Frenchman’s
reverie. Clara was beautiful, and, although she
had three brothers and a sister, the Marquis of Leganés’s
possessions seemed considerable enough to lead Victor
Marchand to believe that the young lady would have
a rich dowry. But how presume to think that the
daughter of an old man, the vainest in all Spain of his
nobility, would be bestowed on the son of a Parisian
grocer? Moreover, the French were hated. The Marquis
having been suspected by General G..t..r, who was
governor of the province, of organizing a movement
in favour of Ferdinand VII, the battalion commanded
by Victor Marchand had been stationed in the little town
of Menda to overawe the neighbouring districts, which
owed allegiance to the Marquis of Leganés. A recent
dispatch from Marshal Ney had given reason to
apprehend that the English might shortly attempt a
landing on the coast, and had pointed out the Marquis
as a man who kept in communication with the Cabinet
in London. So, in spite of the good reception which
the Spaniard had given to Victor Marchand and his
soldiers, the young officer was constantly on his guard.
As he made his way to the terrace, from which he intended
to examine the state of the town and the districts
committed to his oversight, he had asked himself how
he ought to interpret the friendliness which the Marquis
had never ceased to display towards him, and how
the tranquillity of the country could be reconciled with
his general’s disquietude; but for the last minute these
thoughts had been driven from the young officer’s
head by a sense of prudence, and by a very legitimate
curiosity. He had just observed a considerable number<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>
of lights in the town. In spite of it being the feast
of St. James, he had ordered, only that very morning,
that fires were to be put out at the hour prescribed by
his regulations. The castle alone had been exempted
from this measure. He could see here and there the
gleam of the bayonets of his soldiers at their usual posts;
but the silence was most solemn, and nothing announced
that the Spaniards were overcome by the intoxication of
a feast. After trying to discover a reason for this
infringement of which the townspeople were guilty,
he found their contravention all the more mysterious
and incomprehensible that he had left officers in
charge of the night police and the rounds. With the
impetuosity of youth, he was proceeding to slip through
a gap, in order to descend the rocks rapidly, and thus
arrive sooner than by the ordinary road at a small post
stationed at the entrance to the town on the castle side,
when a slight noise arrested him in his course. He
thought he heard the gravel of the walk crunch beneath
a woman’s light footstep. He turned his head and saw
nothing, but his eye was arrested by the extraordinary
brightness of the ocean. There, all of a sudden, he perceived
a sight so ominous that he stood motionless with
surprise, and refused to believe his senses. The silvery
rays of the moon enabled him to distinguish some sails
at a considerable distance. He trembled, and sought to
convince himself that this vision was an optical delusion
produced by the fantastic tricks of waves and moon.
At that moment a hoarse voice uttered the name of the
officer, who looked towards the gap, and there saw the
head of the soldier whom he had ordered to accompany
him to the castle slowly emerge.</p>
<p>“Is that you, commandant?”</p>
<p>“Yes. What is it?” was the whispered response
of the young man, whom a sort of presentiment warned
to proceed with secrecy.</p>
<p>“Those rascals down there are as restless as worms,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>
and I hasten, with your leave, to report some little
things I have observed.”</p>
<p>“Speak,” answered Victor Marchand.</p>
<p>“I have just been following a man from the castle,
who came this way with a lantern in his hand. A lantern
is terribly suspicious! I don’t think that there Christian
requires to light candles at this time of night.—‛They
mean to do for us,’ says I to myself, and I set about
examining his heels. And so, commandant, I discovered
a pretty heap of faggots on a rock two or three steps
away.”</p>
<p>A terrible cry which all at once resounded from the
town interrupted the soldier. A sudden gleam lit up
the commandant. The poor grenadier received a bullet
in his head and fell. A fire of straw and dry wood
blazed up like a conflagration some ten paces from the
young man. The instruments and laughter were no
longer to be heard in the ball-room. A deathly silence,
broken by occasional groans, had suddenly taken the
place of the hum and music of the feast. A cannon-shot
boomed across the silvery plain of the ocean. A cold
sweat ran down the young officer’s forehead. He was
without his sword. He understood that his soldiers had
perished, and that the English were about to land.
He saw himself dishonoured if he lived, he saw himself
brought before a court-martial; then with his eye he
measured the depth of the valley, and was about to dash
himself down, when at that moment Clara’s hand seized
his.</p>
<p>“Flee!” she said. “My brothers are coming behind
me to kill you. At the foot of the rock yonder, you
will find Juanito’s Andalusian. Go!”</p>
<p>She pushed him away; the young man gazed at her in
stupefaction for one moment; but, soon obeying the
instinct of self-preservation, which never forsakes any
man, even the bravest, he dashed into the park in the
direction indicated, and ran over rocks which only the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>
goats had trodden hitherto. He heard Clara calling
to her brothers to pursue him; he heard the steps
of his assassins; he heard the bullets from several discharges
whistle past his ears; but he reached the valley,
found the horse, mounted it, and disappeared with the
rapidity of lightning.</p>
<p>Some hours later, the young officer arrived at the
quarters of General G..t..r, whom he found at dinner
with his staff.</p>
<p>“I bring you my head!” exclaimed the major, as he
made his appearance, pale and disordered.</p>
<p>He sat down and related the horrible adventure.
His recital was received with appalling silence.</p>
<p>“I consider you more to be pitied than blamed,” the
terrible general at length replied. “You are not answerable
for the Spaniards’ crime; and provided the marshal
does not decide otherwise I acquit you.”</p>
<p>These words afforded but very slight consolation to
the unfortunate officer.</p>
<p>“When the emperor hears about it!” he exclaimed.</p>
<p>“He’ll want to have you shot,” said the general, “but
we shall see. Now, let us say no more about it,” he
added sternly, “except to exact a vengeance that will
strike salutary terror into this country where they make
war like savages.”</p>
<p>An hour later, a whole regiment of infantry, a detachment
of cavalry and a train of artillery were on the march.
The general and Victor marched at the head of the
column. The soldiers, aware of the massacre of their
comrades, were possessed with a fury without bounds.
The distance which separated the town of Menda from
the general headquarters was covered with miraculous
rapidity. On the line of march, the general found whole
villages under arms. Each of these miserable places
was surrounded, and its inhabitants decimated.</p>
<p>By some inexplicable fatality, the English ships had
remained hove to without advancing; but it was learned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>
subsequently that these vessels had nothing on board but
artillery, and had outsailed the other transports. Thus
the town of Menda, deprived of its expected defenders,
whom the appearance of the English sails had seemed to
promise, was surrounded by the French troops almost
without a blow being struck. The inhabitants, seized
with terror, offered to surrender at discretion. With
that devotion, instances of which have been not uncommon
in the Peninsula, the assassins of the French,
foreseeing from the notorious cruelty of the general
that Menda would perhaps be committed to the flames
and the inhabitants put to the sword, proposed to
denounce themselves to the general. He accepted their
offer, on condition that the inmates of the castle, from the
humblest serving-man to the Marquis, should be delivered
into his hands. This capitulation having been agreed to,
the general promised to show mercy to the rest of the
inhabitants, and to prevent his soldiers from pillaging
or setting fire to the town. An enormous fine was
imposed, and the richest inhabitants gave themselves
up as prisoners to guarantee its payment, which had to
be effected within twenty-four hours.</p>
<p>The general took all precautions necessary for the
safety of his troops, saw to the defence of the district,
and refused to billet his soldiers. After seeing them
encamped, he went up to the castle, and took it into
military occupation. The members of the Leganés
family and the domestics were kept carefully under
observation, bound, and shut up in the hall where the
dance had taken place. From the windows of this apartment
the terrace, which commanded the town, could
easily be seen. The staff took up its quarters in
an adjoining gallery, where the general at once held
a council upon the measures to be taken to oppose the
disembarkation. After having dispatched an aide-de-camp
to Marshal Ney, and ordered batteries to be
established on the coast, the general and his staff<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>
proceeded to deal with the prisoners. Two hundred
Spaniards whom the inhabitants had surrendered were
shot out of hand on the terrace. After this military
execution, the general ordered as many gallows to be
erected as there were persons in the hall of the castle,
and the town executioner to be sent for. Victor Marchand
took advantage of the time until dinner to visit the
prisoners. He was not long in returning to the general.</p>
<p>“I come,” he said with emotion, “to ask you some
favours.”</p>
<p>“You!” retorted the general in a tone of bitter irony.</p>
<p>“Alas!” Victor responded, “They are sad favours I
ask. When the Marquis saw you plant the gallows, he
hoped that you would change the punishment to be
inflicted on his family, and begs you to cause the nobles
to be beheaded.”</p>
<p>“Very well!” said the general.</p>
<p>“They ask also to be allowed the consolations of
religion, and to be set free from their bonds; they
promise not to attempt to escape.”</p>
<p>“I agree to that,” said the general; “but you
are responsible to me for them.”</p>
<p>“The old man also offers you all his fortune, if you
will pardon his youngest son.”</p>
<p>“Indeed!” replied the general. “His estate already
belongs to King Joseph.” He stopped. A look of
contempt wrinkled his brow, and he added: “I’ll do
more than he desires. I understand the importance of
his last request. Well, he shall purchase the eternity
of his name, but Spain shall always remember his
treachery and its punishment! I grant his fortune and
life to whichever of his sons will take the place of
the executioner. Go, and say no more about it.”</p>
<p>Dinner was served. The officers at table satisfied an
appetite which fatigue had sharpened. Only one of
them, Victor Marchand, was absent from the feast.
After long hesitation, he entered the apartment where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>
the haughty family of Leganés was languishing, and cast
a sorrowful look on the spectacle now presented by the
hall, where only the other evening he had seen the heads
of the two young women and the three young men
whirling round as they were borne along in the waltz:
he shuddered as he reflected that in a little they must
roll severed by the executioner’s sabre. Bound to their
gilded chairs, the father and mother, the three sons and
the two daughters, remained in a state of complete
immobility. Eight servants were standing, their hands
bound behind their backs. These fifteen persons looked
at one another gravely, and their eyes hardly betrayed
the sentiments by which they were animated. On some
brows profound resignation and regret at the failure
of their enterprise might be read. Some motionless
soldiers guarded them, and respected the grief of those
cruel enemies. An expression of curiosity animated their
visages when Victor made his appearance. He gave the
order to unbind the prisoners, and himself proceeded
to unfasten the cords which held Clara a prisoner in
her chair. She smiled sadly. The officer could not
help coming in contact with the young woman’s arms,
while he admired her black hair and her supple form.
She was a true Spaniard: she had the Spanish complexion,
the Spanish eyes, with long curved lashes and a pupil
blacker than the raven’s wing.</p>
<p>“Have you succeeded?” she asked, addressing him
with one of those mournful smiles in which there is
still some vestige of the young girl.</p>
<p>Victor could not restrain himself from groaning. He
looked at the three brothers and Clara one by one.
The first, and he was the eldest, was thirty years old.
Short, rather badly built, with a proud and disdainful
expression, he was not without a certain nobility of
manner, and seemed no stranger to that delicacy of
sentiment which once rendered Spanish gallantry so
celebrated. He was called Juanito. The second, Philip,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>
was aged about twenty. He resembled Clara. The
youngest was eight years old. In Manuel’s features,
a painter would have found something of that Roman
constancy which David has bestowed upon the children
in his republican scenes. The old Marquis had a head
covered with white hair, which looked as if it had come
out of one of Murillo’s pictures. At the sight, the
young officer shook his head in despair of seeing the
general’s bargain accepted by any one of those personages;
nevertheless he ventured to confide it to Clara.
At first the Spaniard shivered, but in an instant she
recovered calmness, and went and knelt before her
father.</p>
<p>“Oh!” she said to him. “Make Juanito swear that
he will obey faithfully the orders which you will give
him, and we shall be content.”</p>
<p>The Marchioness trembled with expectation; but,
when she bent over to her husband and heard Clara’s
horrible confidence, the mother fainted. Juanito understood
all, he sprang up like a caged lion. Victor took
upon himself to dismiss the soldiers, after having
obtained an assurance of perfect submission from the
Marquis. The domestics were led out and delivered to
the executioner, who hanged them. When the family
were observed by none but Victor, the old father rose.</p>
<p>“Juanito!” he said.</p>
<p>Juanito made no response but an inclination of the
head which was equal to a refusal, fell back in his chair,
and regarded his parents with a dry and terrible eye.
Clara came and sat on his knee, and began gaily: “My
dear Juanito,” she said, putting her arm round his neck
and kissing him on his eyelids, “if you only knew how
easy death will be to me if given by you! I shall not
have to submit to the hateful touch of an executioner’s
hands. You will cure me of the ills which awaited me,
and—my good Juanito, you did not wish to see me
belong to anybody, did you—?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span></p>
<p>Her velvety eyes darted a glance of fire upon Victor,
as if to rekindle in Juanito’s heart his horror of the
French.</p>
<p>“Be brave,” his brother Philip said, “or else our race,
which is almost royal, will be extinguished.”</p>
<p>Suddenly Clara rose, the group which had formed
about Juanito broke up; and the son, justifiably
mutinous, saw erect before him his old father, who
exclaimed solemnly: “Juanito, I command you!”</p>
<p>The young man remained motionless, his father fell
on his knees. Involuntarily, Clara, Manuel and Philip
followed his example. All stretched out their hands
to him who should save their family from oblivion, and
seemed to repeat these words of their father: “My son,
will you prove lacking in Spanish energy and right
feeling? Do you wish me to remain long on my knees,
and ought you to consider your own life and your own
sufferings?... Is this my son, madam?” added the old
man, turning to the Marchioness.</p>
<p>“He consents!” exclaimed his mother in despair,
observing Juanito move his eyebrows in a fashion of
which only she understood the significance.</p>
<p>Mariquita, the second daughter, knelt and clasped her
mother in her feeble arms; and, as she wept scalding
tears, her little brother Manuel came to scold her. At
that moment the almoner of the castle entered; he was
at once surrounded by the whole family, they led him
to Juanito. Unable to endure the scene any longer,
Victor made a sign to Clara, and hastened to go and
try a last effort with the general. He found him in good
humour, in the middle of the feast, and drinking with
his officers, who were beginning to exchange merry
remarks.</p>
<p>An hour later, a hundred of the most notable
inhabitants of Menda came up to the terrace, according
to the general’s orders, to be witnesses of the execution
of the family of Leganés. A detachment of soldiers<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span>
was posted to keep back the Spaniards, who were drawn
up beneath the gallows on which the Marquis’s domestics
had been hanged. The heads of the townsmen almost
touched the feet of those martyrs. Thirty paces distant
from them, a block rose, and a scimitar gleamed. The
executioner was there in case of a refusal on the part of
Juanito. Soon, amid the most profound silence, the
Spaniards heard the footsteps of several persons, the
measured sound of the march of a picket of soldiers, and
the slight rattle of their muskets. These different
sounds were blended with the merry accents from the
officers’ mess, as the dance-music of the ball had disguised
the preparations for the sanguinary treachery of the
other night. All eyes were turned towards the Castle,
and they saw the noble family advancing with incredible
firmness. Every brow was calm and serene. One man
only, pale and in disorder, leaned on the priest, who
expended all the consolations of religion on this man,
the only one who was to live. The executioner understood,
as did every one else, that Juanito had taken his
place for a day. The old Marquis and his wife, Clara,
Mariquita, and their two brothers, came and knelt a
few paces from the fatal spot. Juanito was led by the
priest. When he arrived at the block, the executioner,
taking him by the sleeve, drew him aside, and gave
him, probably, some instructions. The confessor placed
the victims in such a position that they could not see
the executions. But they were true Spaniards, and held
themselves erect and unfaltering.</p>
<p>Clara darted first to her brother. “Juanito,” she
said to him, “have pity on my want of courage, and
begin with me!”</p>
<p>At that moment, the precipitate steps of a man
resounded. Victor arrived on the place of this scene.
Clara had already knelt down, her white neck invited
the scimitar. The officer turned pale, but he found
strength to hasten up to her.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span></p>
<p>“The General grants you your life, if you will marry
me,” he said to her in an undertone.</p>
<p>The Spaniard darted a look of contempt and pride at
the officer. “Go on, Juanito!” she said in deep
accents.</p>
<p>Her head rolled at Victor’s feet. The Marchioness of
Leganés let a convulsive movement escape her when she
heard the sound; it was the only sign of her grief.</p>
<p>“Am I right like this, my good Juanito?” was the
demand which little Manuel made of his brother.</p>
<p>“Ah, you weep, Mariquita!” said Juanito to his sister.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes!” responded the young girl. “I am thinking
of you, my poor Juanito: you will be very unhappy
without us!”</p>
<p>Soon the tall figure of the Marquis appeared. He
gazed upon the blood of his children, turned towards the
hushed and motionless spectators, stretched out his
hands towards Juanito, and said in a loud voice:
“Spaniards, I give my son his father’s blessing! Now
<em>Marquis</em>, strike without fear, you are without reproach.”</p>
<p>But when Juanito saw his mother approach supported
by the confessor, he exclaimed: “She nursed me!”</p>
<p>His voice drew a cry of horror from the assemblage.
The din of the feast and the merry laughter of the
officers were hushed at the terrible clamour. The
Marchioness understood that Juanito’s courage was
exhausted, with one bound, she leaped over the balustrade,
to dash her brains out on the rocks below. A
cry of admiration arose. Juanito had fallen unconscious.</p>
<p>“General,” said a half-drunken officer, “Marchand
has just been telling me something of this execution.
I bet you did not order it....”</p>
<p>“Do you forget, gentlemen,” exclaimed General
G..t..r, “that, in a month, five hundred French
families will be in tears, and that we are in Spain? Do
you wish us to leave our bones here?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span></p>
<p>After that address there was no one, not even a sub-lieutenant,
who dared to empty his glass.</p>
<p>In spite of the respect with which he is everywhere
regarded, in spite of the title of <em>El Verdugo</em> (The
Executioner) which the King of Spain has granted as
a title of honour to the Marquis of Leganés, he is consumed
by regrets, he lives in retirement and shows
himself rarely. Bowed down by the burden of his
splendid crime, he seems to be waiting impatiently until
the birth of a second son gives him the right to rejoin
the shades who accompany him incessantly.</p>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak">LAURETTE, OR, THE RED SEAL<br>
<small>COUNT ALFRED DE VIGNY</small></h2>
</div>
<h3>I<br>
<br><em>OF THE MEETING WHICH BEFELL ME ONE DAY<br>
ON THE HIGH ROAD</em></h3>
<p>The high road through Artois and Flanders is long and
dreary. It stretches in a straight line, without trees,
without ditches, through flat fields that are always full
of yellow mud. In the month of March, 1815, I travelled
along this road, and a meeting befell me which I have
never forgotten since.</p>
<p>I was alone, on horseback, I was wearing a handsome
white cloak, a red uniform, a black helmet, pistols and
a big sabre; it had been raining in torrents for the last
four days and nights of my journey, and I remember that
I was singing “Joconde” at the top of my voice. I
was so young!—The King’s household, in 1814, had
been filled up with children and grandsires; the Emperor
seemed to have taken all the men and killed them.</p>
<p>My comrades were in front, on the road, in the train
of King Louis XVII.; I saw their white clocks and red
uniforms, right away on the northern horizon;
Bonaparte’s lancers, who were watching and following
our retreat step by step, from time to time showed the
tricolour pennons of their lances on the opposite sky-line.
A lost shoe had delayed my horse; he was young and
strong, and I urged him on, so that I might rejoin my
squadron; he set off at a rapid trot. I put my hand to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>
my belt,—it was well enough furnished with gold
pieces; I heard the iron scabbard of my sabre ringing
against the stirrup, and I felt very proud and perfectly
happy.</p>
<p>It was still raining, and I was still singing. However,
I soon grew silent, tired of hearing no one but myself,
and I no longer heard anything but the rain and the
hoofs of my horse, which was floundering in the ruts.
The road was unpaved; I was sinking, and was
obliged to go at a walk. My top-boots were covered,
outside, with a thick crust of mud as yellow as ochre;
inside they were filling with rain. I looked at my brand-new
gold epaulettes, my joy and comfort; they were
roughened by the wet, which distressed me.</p>
<p>My horse lowered his head; I did the same: I began
to think, and to wonder, for the first time, where I
was going. I knew absolutely nothing about it; but
that did not trouble me long: I was certain that, my
squadron being there, there was my duty also. Feeling
at my heart a deep, unchangeable calm, I gave thanks
for it to the indescribable sense of Duty, and I tried to
explain it to myself. Seeing at close quarters how
unaccustomed fatigues were gaily borne by heads so
fair, or so white, how a secure future was so cavalierly
risked by so many prosperous men of the world, and
taking my share in that miraculous satisfaction which is
imparted to every man by the conviction that he cannot
evade any debt of Honour, I concluded that an easier
and more common thing than people imagine, is <span class="smcap">Self-sacrifice</span>.</p>
<p>I wondered whether Self-sacrifice was not a feeling
innate in us; what was this need of obeying, and
resigning our will into another’s hands, as if it were
a heavy and wearisome load; whence came the secret
happiness at being rid of this burden, and why human
pride had never rebelled against it. I saw clearly how
this mysterious instinct bound peoples together, everywhere,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>
into powerful unions, but nowhere did I see, so
entire and so formidable as in Armies, this renunciation
of individual actions, words, wishes and almost of
thoughts. I saw resistance possible and usual everywhere,
the citizen, in all places, practising a discerning
and intelligent obedience which examines into matters,
and may be suspended. I saw how even the wife’s
tender submission ends as soon as she is bidden to do
wrong, and how the law defends her; but military
obedience, passive and active at one and the same
time, receiving the order and carrying it out, striking,
with eyes shut, like the ancient Destiny! I traced
the possible consequences of the soldier’s Self-sacrifice,
irretrievable, unconditional, and sometimes leading to
terrible duties.</p>
<p>Thus I thought as I journeyed on at my horse’s
pleasure, looking at the time by my watch, and seeing
the road still stretching out in a straight line, without
a tree or a house, and cutting the plain as far as
eye could see, like a broad yellow stripe on a grey
canvas. Sometimes the watery stripe blended with the
watery earth around it, and, when a rather less pallid
light illuminated this desolate stretch of country, I saw
myself in the midst of a muddy sea, following a current
of slime and plaster.</p>
<p>As I carefully examined this yellow stripe of road,
I noticed on it, about a quarter of a league off, a little
black moving speck. This gave me pleasure,—it was
somebody. I saw that this black speck was going like
myself in the direction of Lille, and that it was travelling
in a zigzag, a sign of a laborious journey. I accelerated
my pace and gained on this object, which lengthened
somewhat and grew larger beneath my gaze. I resumed
a trot on firmer ground, and thought I made out a kind
of small black vehicle. I was hungry, I hoped that it
was a canteen-woman’s cart, and, regarding my poor
horse as a boat, I rowed it with all my might to reach<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>
that fortunate isle, in that sea wherein at times it sank
up to the middle.</p>
<p>A hundred paces off, I was able to distinguish clearly
a little white wooden cart, covered with three hoops
and with black oilcloth. It looked like a little cradle
set on two wheels. The wheels were sunk in the mud
up to the axle-trees; a little mule which drew them was
laboriously led by a man on foot who held the bridle.
I drew near and viewed him with attention.</p>
<p>He was a man of about fifty, with a white moustache,
tall and strong, with back bent like those old infantry
officers who have carried the knapsack. He wore their
uniform, and you caught a glimpse of a major’s epaulette
under a short blue cloak, much worn. His face was
rugged, but kind, as so many are in the army. He
looked at me sideways under his thick black eyebrows,
and briskly drew from his cart a gun, which he cocked,
at the same time crossing to the other side of his mule,
of which he made a rampart. Having seen his white
cockade, I contented myself with showing the sleeve of my
red uniform, and he replaced his gun in the cart, saying:</p>
<p>“Ah! that makes a difference, I took you for one
of those fellows who are chasing us. Will you have
a drink?”</p>
<p>“With pleasure,” I said, approaching him, “I have
drunk nothing for twenty-four hours.”</p>
<p>He had hanging from his neck a cocoa-nut, very finely
carved, contrived as a flask, with a silver neck, and he
seemed rather proud of it. He passed it to me, and
I drank a little poor white wine from it with great
enjoyment; I returned the cocoa-nut to him.</p>
<p>“To the health of the King!” he said as he drank;
“he made me an officer of the Legion of Honour, it is
only fair that I should follow him to the frontier.
Indeed, as I have only my epaulette to live by, I
shall afterwards resume command of my battalion, it
is my duty.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span></p>
<p>So speaking, as if to himself, he started his little
mule once more, saying that we had no time to lose;
and, as I was of his opinion, I set off again along with
him. I looked at him continually without questioning
him, never having cared for the indiscreet chatter so
common amongst us.</p>
<p>We went on without speaking for about a quarter
of a league. As he stopped then to give a rest to
his little mule, which it pained me to see, I stopped
too and tried to squeeze from my riding-boots the water
which filled them, as if they were two wells in which
my legs had been soaked.</p>
<p>“Your boots are beginning to stick to your feet,”
he said.</p>
<p>“I have not had them off for four nights,” I told him.</p>
<p>“Pooh! in a week you won’t notice it,” he rejoined
in his hoarse voice; “it is something to be alone, you
know, in times like those we live in. Do you know
what I have in there?”</p>
<p>“No,” I said.</p>
<p>“A woman.”</p>
<p>I said “Oh!” without too much surprise, and marched
on calmly, at a walking pace. He followed me.</p>
<p>“That wretched wheelbarrow didn’t cost me much,”
he went on, “nor the mule either; but it is all I need,
though this road is a devil of a pull.”</p>
<p>I offered him my horse to mount when he felt tired;
and as I only talked to him gravely and simply of his
turn-out, for which he feared mockery, he suddenly put
himself at his ease, and, coming near my stirrup, slapped
me on the knee, saying:</p>
<p>“Well, you’re a good lad, though you are in the Reds.”</p>
<p>From his bitter tone, in thus designating the four Red
Companies, I gathered what malignant prejudices had
been aroused in the army by the luxury and the
commissions of these corps of officers.</p>
<p>“However,” he added, “I shall not accept your offer,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>
seeing that I cannot ride, and that that’s not <em>my</em>
business.”</p>
<p>“But, major, superior officers like yourself have to do
so.”</p>
<p>“Pooh! once a year at the inspection, and then on
a hired horse. <em>I</em> have always been a sailor, and since
then a foot-soldier; I don’t understand horsemanship.”</p>
<p>He walked twenty paces, looking at me sideways
from time to time, as if expecting a question: and as
no word was forthcoming he continued:</p>
<p>“You aren’t inquisitive, upon my word! What I said
just now should have surprised you.”</p>
<p>“I am seldom surprised,” said I.</p>
<p>“Oh! but if I told you how I left off being a sailor, we
should see.”</p>
<p>“Well,” I replied, “why don’t you try? it will warm
you, and make me forget that the rain is soaking into
my back and only stopping at my heels.”</p>
<p>The good major solemnly prepared to speak, with all
the pleasure of a child. He adjusted his oilcloth-covered
shako on his head, and jerked his shoulder in a way
that no one who has not served in the infantry can
picture, in the way that a foot-soldier does to lift his
knapsack and lighten its weight for a moment; it
is a soldier’s custom, which, in an officer, becomes a
bad habit. After this convulsive gesture, he again drank
a little wine from his cocoa-nut, gave the little mule an
encouraging kick in the stomach, and began.</p>
<h3>II<br>
<br>
<em>THE STORY OF THE RED SEAL</em></h3>
<p>You must know first of all, my lad, that I was born at
Brest; I began as a soldier’s son, earning my half-rations
and half-pay from the time I was nine years old,
my father being a private in the Guards. But, as I loved
the sea, one fine night, while I was on leave at Brest,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span>
I hid in the bottom of the hold of a merchant vessel
leaving for the Indies; they only discovered me in mid-ocean,
and the captain preferred making me a cabin-boy
to throwing me overboard. When the Revolution came,
I had made some progress, and in my turn had become
captain of a neat enough little merchant vessel, having
scoured the sea for fifteen years. When the ex-royal
navy, a fine old navy too, by Jove! suddenly found
itself without officers, they took some captains from
the merchant navy. I had had some skirmishes with
buccaneers of which I may tell you later; they put me
in command of a brig of war named the “Marat.”</p>
<p>On the 28th of Fructidor, 1797, I received orders
to set sail for Cayenne. I had to take there sixty
soldiers and a man sentenced to transportation, who
was left over from the hundred and ninety-three whom
the frigate “Decade” had taken on board some days
before. I was ordered to treat this individual with
consideration, and in the Directory’s first letter was
enclosed a second, sealed with three red seals, in the
midst of which was one very large. I was forbidden to
open this letter before reaching the first degree of north
latitude, between the twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth
of longitude, that is to say, when just about to cross the
line.</p>
<p>This big letter had a quite peculiar appearance. It
was long, and so tightly shut that I could read nothing
between the corners or through the envelope. I am not
superstitious, but that letter frightened me. I put it in
my room under the glass of a wretched little English
clock which was nailed over my bed. That bed was a real
sailor’s bed, you know what they are like. But what
am I talking about? You are sixteen at the very most,
you can’t have seen one.</p>
<p>A queen’s room cannot be arranged as neatly as
a sailor’s, I say it without any wish to boast. Everything
has its own little place and its own little nail.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span>
Nothing can move about. The vessel may roll as it
pleases, without displacing anything. The furniture is
made to suit the shape of the ship and of your own little
room. My bed was a chest. When it was open, I slept
in it; when it was shut, it was my sofa, and I smoked
my pipe on it. Sometimes it was my table; then we
sat on two little casks which were in the room. My
floor was waxed and scrubbed like mahogany, and shone
like a jewel: a real mirror! Oh! it was a pretty little
room! And my brig certainly had its value as well. We
often enjoyed ourselves famously there, and the voyage
began pleasantly enough that time, had it not been....
But we must not anticipate.</p>
<p>We had a good north-north-west wind, and I was engaged
in putting the letter under the glass of my clock,
when my “convict” entered my room; he was holding
the hand of a pretty young thing of about seventeen.
He told me that he was nineteen; a handsome fellow,
though rather pale, and too fair-skinned for a man.
He was a man all the same; and a man who conducted
himself, when occasion arose, better than many old ones
would have done, as you will see. He held his little
wife by the arm; she was as fresh and gay as a child.
They looked like two turtle-doves. To me it was a
pleasant sight. I said to them:</p>
<p>“Well, children! you have come to pay the old
captain a visit: it is charming of you. I am taking you
rather a long way; but so much the better, we shall
have time to get to know one another. I am sorry to
receive the lady without my coat; but I was going to
nail this great rascal of a letter up there. Perhaps you
would give me a hand?”</p>
<p>They really were good little things. The little
husband took the hammer, and the little wife the nails,
and they passed them to me as I asked for them; and
she said to me: “Right! left! captain!” laughing
because the pitching of the ship made my clock toss<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>
about. I can still hear her even now with her little
voice: “Left! right! captain!” She was laughing at
me.—” Ah!” I said, “you little mischief! I will
make your husband scold you, I will!” Then she
threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.
They really were charming, and that was the way
we became acquainted. We were good friends at
once.</p>
<p>It was a good crossing too. I always had weather
that might have been made for me. As I had never
had any but black faces on my ship, I made my two
little lovers come to my table every day. It cheered me
up. When we had eaten the biscuits and fish, the little
wife and her husband kept on looking at each other as if
they had never seen each other before. Then I would
begin to laugh with all my heart and make fun of them.
They laughed too with me. You would have laughed
to see us like three lunatics, not knowing what was the
matter with us. It was really pleasant to see them
loving each other like that! They were happy everywhere;
they liked all that was given to them. Yet they
were allowanced like all the rest of us; I only added a
little Swedish brandy when they dined with me, just a
small glass, to keep up my rank. They slept in a hammock,
in which the ship rolled them about like those two
pears I have there in my wet handkerchief. They were
brisk and contented. I was like you, I asked no questions.
What need was there for <em>me</em>, a ferryman, to
know their name and business? I was carrying them
from the other side of the sea, as I would have carried
two birds of paradise.</p>
<p>At the end of a month, I had got to look on them as
my children. All day long, when I called them, they
would come to sit with me. The young man wrote
at my table, that is to say on my bed; and, when I
wished, he helped me to take my “reckoning.” He
soon knew how to do it as well as I; I was sometimes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>
quite amazed at it. The young wife would sit on a
little cask and begin to sew.</p>
<p>One day that they were settled like this I said to
them:</p>
<p>“Do you know, my little friends, that we make a
family picture, as we are now? I don’t want to question
you, but probably you haven’t more money than you
need, and you are pretty delicate, both of you, to dig
and use the pick as the convicts at Cayenne do. It is a
wretched country, I can tell you that with all my heart;
but I, who am an old wizened tar dried up by the sun,
I should live there like a lord. If you had, as it seems
to me (without wishing to question you) that you do
have, a little liking for me, I should be willing enough
to leave my old brig, which is now no better than an
old tub, and I would settle there with you, if you like. I
have no family but a dog, which is a grief to me; you
would be a little company for me. I would help you in
many things; and I have got together a good stock of
goods honestly enough smuggled, on which we should
live, and which I should leave you when I came to
turn up my toes, as they say in polite society.”</p>
<p>They sat staring at one another quite amazed, looking
as if they thought I was not speaking the truth; and
the little woman ran, as she always did, and threw her
arms round the other’s neck, and sat on his knees, quite
red in the face, and crying. He hugged her tightly, and
I saw tears in his eyes as well; he held out his hand to
me, and turned paler than usual. She whispered to
him, and her long fair locks fell over his shoulder; her
hair had come untwisted like a rope suddenly uncoiled,
for she was as lively as a fish: that hair, if only you
could have seen it! it was like gold. As they kept on
whispering, the young man kissing her brow from time
to time, and she weeping, I grew impatient:</p>
<p>“Well, would that suit you?” I said to them at last.</p>
<p>“But ... but, captain, you are very kind,” said the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>
husband, “but the fact is ... you could not live with
convicts, and....” He looked down.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” I said, “what you have done to get
transported, but you’ll tell me that some day, or not at
all, if you’d prefer. You don’t look to me as if your
consciences were very heavy, and I’m quite sure that
I’ve done many worse things than you in my life, so
there, you poor innocents. Of course while you are in
my custody, I shall not release you, you mustn’t expect
it; I would sooner cut off your heads like two pigeons’.
But, the epaulette once laid aside, I no longer know
either admiral or anything else.”</p>
<p>“The fact is,” he answered, sadly shaking his dark
head, dark, although powdered a little, as was still the
fashion at that time, “the fact is I think it would be
dangerous for you, captain, to seem to know us. We
laugh because we are young; we look happy because we
love each other; but I have some bad moments when
I think of the future, and cannot tell what will happen
to my poor Laura.”</p>
<p>Again he pressed his young wife’s head to his bosom:</p>
<p>“That was really what I was bound to say to the
captain; would not you have said the same thing, child?”</p>
<p>I took my pipe and got up, because I was beginning
to feel my eyes rather moist, and that doesn’t suit <em>me</em>.</p>
<p>“Come! come!” I said, “things will clear themselves
up later on. If the lady objects to tobacco, her withdrawal
would oblige.”</p>
<p>She got up, her face all flaming and wet with tears,
like a child that has been scolded.</p>
<p>“Anyhow,” she said to me, looking at my clock, “you
are forgetting, you people; what about the letter!”</p>
<p>I felt something which affected me powerfully. I
seemed to have a pain in my hair when she said that
to me.</p>
<p>“Good Heavens! I had quite forgotten about it,” I
said. “Ah! upon my word, this is a pretty business!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>
If we had passed the first degree of north latitude, there
would be nothing more for me to do but to throw
myself into the water.—Just to make me happy, the
child reminds me of that villainous letter!”</p>
<p>I looked quickly at my chart, and, when I saw that we
had a week at least still to go, my head was relieved,
but my heart, without my knowing why, was not.</p>
<p>“The fact is that the Directory doesn’t treat the question
of obedience as a joke!” I said. “Come, I am
posted up this time again. The time went past so
quickly that I had quite forgotten that.”</p>
<p>Well, sir, we all three remained with our noses in the
air looking at the letter, as if it was going to speak to us.
What struck me a good deal was, that the sun, which
slipped in through the skylight, was lighting up the
glass of the clock, and showed up the big red seal, and
the other little ones, like the features of a face in the
midst of the fire.</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t you say that its eyes were jumping out
of its head?” I said to amuse them.</p>
<p>“Oh! my friend,” said the young wife, “it looks like
spots of blood.”</p>
<p>“Pooh! pooh!” said her husband, taking her arm,
“you are wrong, Laura; it looks like a circular to
announce a wedding. Come and rest, come along; why
does the letter trouble you?”</p>
<p>They ran away as if a ghost had followed them, and
went up on deck. I remained alone with the big letter,
and I remember that as I smoked my pipe I kept looking
at it, as if its red eyes held mine fast, sucking them in
as a serpent’s eyes do. Its great pale face, its third
seal, bigger than the eyes, wide open, gaping like the
jaws of a wolf ... all that put me in a bad temper; I
took my coat and hung it on the clock, so as not to see
any more either the time or the brute of a letter.</p>
<p>I went to finish my pipe on deck. I stayed there till
nightfall.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span></p>
<p>We were then off the Cape Verde Islands. The
“Marat” was shooting along, sailing before the wind, at
ten knots, without inconveniencing herself. The night
was the finest I have seen in my life near the tropic.
The moon was rising above the horizon, as large as a
sun; the sea cut it in half, and turned quite white like
a sheet of snow covered with little diamonds. I looked
at this as I smoked, sitting on my seat. The officer of
the watch and the sailors said nothing, and like me
watched the shadow of the brig on the water. I was
pleased at hearing nothing. I like silence and order.
I had forbidden any noise and any fire. I caught a
glimpse, however, of a little red line almost under my
feet. I should have flown into a rage at once; but, as it
was coming from my little “convicts,” I wanted to make
sure of what they were doing before I got angry. I had
only the trouble of stooping down, and I could see,
through the big skylight, into the little room: and I
looked.</p>
<p>The young wife was on her knees, saying her prayers.
There was a little lamp that threw its light on her. She
was in her nightgown; I could see from above her bare
shoulders, her little bare feet, and her long fair hair,
all dishevelled. I thought of drawing back, but I said
to myself: “Pooh! an old soldier, what does he matter?”
And I continued watching.</p>
<p>Her husband was sitting on a little trunk, his head on
his hands, watching her as she prayed. She raised her
head upwards, as if to heaven, and I saw her big blue
eyes wet like those of a Magdalene. While she prayed,
he took the ends of her long tresses and kissed them
noiselessly. When she had finished, she made the sign
of the cross, smiling as if she were entering paradise. I
saw that he made the sign of the cross like her, but as
if he were ashamed of it. In fact, for a man it is odd.</p>
<p>She stood up, kissed him, and stretched herself out
the first in her hammock, into which he lifted her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>
without a word, as you put a child into a swing. The
heat was stifling; she felt herself pleasantly lulled by
the motion of the ship, and seemed already to be falling
asleep. Her little white feet were crossed and raised
to a level with her head, and her whole body wrapped
in her long white nightgown. She was a dear, she
was!</p>
<p>“My love,” she said, half asleep, “are you not sleepy?
Do you know it’s very late?”</p>
<p>He still remained with his brow on his hands, not
answering. This troubled her a little, the good little
soul, and she put her pretty head out of the hammock,
like a bird’s out of its nest, and looked at him with
parted lips, not daring to speak again.</p>
<p>At last he said to her:</p>
<p>“Ah! my dear Laura, as we draw nearer to America,
I cannot help growing sadder. I don’t know why, but it
seems to me that the happiest time of our life will have
been that of the voyage.”</p>
<p>“I think so too,” she said; “I should like never to
get there.”</p>
<p>He looked at her, clasping his hands with a rapture
which you cannot imagine.</p>
<p>“And yet, my angel, you always weep as you pray to
God,” he said; “that grieves me very much, for I know
well of what people you are thinking, and I believe that
you regret what you have done.”</p>
<p>“I, regret it!” she said, looking very hurt; “I, regret
having followed you, my beloved! Do you think that,
because I have belonged to you such a little while, I
love you the less? Is one not a woman, does not one
know one’s duty, at seventeen? Did not my mother
and sisters say that it was my duty to follow you to
Guiana? Did they not say that in that I was doing
nothing surprising? I am only surprised that it should
have touched you, my love; it is all natural. And now I
don’t know how you can think that I regret anything,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>
when I am with you to help you to live, or to die with
you if you die!”</p>
<p>She said all that in a voice so soft that you would
have thought it was music. I was quite touched by it,
and said:</p>
<p>“You’re a good little woman, you are!”</p>
<p>The young man began to sigh and tap the floor with
his foot, as he kissed a pretty hand and bare arm that
she held out to him.</p>
<p>“Oh! Laurette, my Laurette!” he said, “when I
think that, if we had delayed our marriage for four
days, I should have been arrested alone and should have
departed alone, I cannot forgive myself.”</p>
<p>Then the little beauty stretched out of the hammock
her pretty white arms, bare to the shoulders, and stroked
his brow, his hair, and his eyes, taking his head as if she
would carry it away and hide it in her bosom. She
smiled like a child, and said to him a lot of little womanly
things, the like of which I had never heard before. She
closed his mouth with her fingers so that only she could
speak. She said, playfully taking her long hair like a
handkerchief to wipe his eyes:</p>
<p>“Tell me, is it not much better to have with you a
woman who loves you, my beloved? I am quite pleased,
myself, to go to Cayenne; I shall see savages and cocoa-palms
like Paul and Virginia’s, shan’t I? We shall each
plant our own. We shall see which will be the better
gardener. We’ll make a little hut for us two. I will
work all day and all night, if you like. I am strong;
see, look at my arms;—see, I could almost lift you.
Don’t laugh at me; I can embroider very well, besides;
and is there not a town somewhere thereabouts where
they need embroiderers? I will give lessons in drawing
and music if they want them too; and, if they can read
there, <em>you</em> will write.”</p>
<p>I remember that the poor fellow was in such despair
that he gave a great cry when she said that.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span></p>
<p>“Write!”—he exclaimed,—” write!”</p>
<p>And he grasped the wrist of his right hand with
his left.</p>
<p>“Oh! write! why did I ever learn to write? Write!
why it’s a madman’s trade!...—I believed in their
liberty of the press!—Where did I get my brains! Eh!
and for what? to print five or six poor commonplace
ideas, only read by those who like them, thrown in the
fire by those who hate them, of no use but to cause us to
be persecuted! It doesn’t matter for me; but you,
lovely angel, become a woman scarcely four days ago!
Explain to me, I beg of you, how it was I allowed you
to be so good as to follow me here? Do you know at
all where you are, poor little one? And do you know
where you are going? Soon, child, you will be sixteen
hundred leagues from your mother and sisters ... and
for me! all that for me!”</p>
<p>She hid her head for a moment in the hammock; and
I from above saw that she was crying; but he below did
not see her face; and, when she withdrew it from the
sheet, it was with a smile to make him cheerful.</p>
<p>“It’s true, we’re not rich just now,” she said, and
burst out laughing; “see, look at my purse, I have no
more than one single louis left. What have you?”</p>
<p>He began to laugh too like a child:</p>
<p>“On my word, I had a crown left, but I gave it to the
little boy who carried your box.”</p>
<p>“Oh, pooh! what does that matter”! she said snapping
her little white fingers like castanets; “one is never
gayer than when one has nothing; and haven’t I in
reserve the two diamond rings that my mother gave me?
those are good anywhere, and for anything, aren’t they?
When you wish, we will sell them. Besides, I think
that the dear good captain hasn’t told us all his kind
intentions towards us, and that he knows quite well
what is in the letter. It is surely a recommendation for
us to the governor of Cayenne.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span></p>
<p>“Perhaps,” he said; “who knows?”</p>
<p>“Isn’t it?” his little wife went on; “you are so good,
that I’m sure that the government has exiled you for a
little time, but isn’t angry with you.”</p>
<p>She had said that so well! calling me the dear good
captain, that I was quite moved and softened by it; and
I even rejoiced in my heart, that she had perhaps guessed
rightly about the sealed letter. They began again to kiss
one another; I stamped sharply on the deck to make
them stop.</p>
<p>I shouted to them:</p>
<p>“Hi! come now, my little friends! the order has been
given that all lights on this vessel are to be put out.
Blow out your light, if you please.”</p>
<p>They blew out the lamp, and I heard them laugh and
chatter in whispers in the dark like school-children. I
began again to walk up and down alone on my deck,
smoking my pipe. All the stars of the tropics were at
their posts, as big as little moons. I looked at them, and
breathed in air which felt fresh and pleasant.</p>
<p>I said to myself that the good little things had
certainly guessed the truth, and I was quite cheered up
by this. It was indeed to be wagered that one of the
five Directors had changed his mind and recommended
them to me; I didn’t very well explain to myself why, for
there are affairs of state that I for my part have never
understood; but, in short, I believed it, and, without
knowing why, I was satisfied.</p>
<p>I went down to my room, and went to look at the
letter under my old uniform coat. It had a different
face: it seemed to me to laugh, and its seals looked rose-coloured.
I no longer doubted its good nature, and
made it a little signal of friendship.</p>
<p>In spite of that, I put my coat back on the top of it; it
worried me. We never thought of looking at it at all for
some days, and we were cheerful; but, when we approached
the first degree of latitude, we began to stop talking.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span></p>
<p>One fine morning, I woke rather surprised at feeling
no motion in the ship. To tell the truth, I always sleep
with one eye open, as they say, and, as I missed the
rolling, I opened them both. We had fallen on a dead
calm, and it was below the first degree of north latitude,
at the 27th of longitude. I put my nose above deck:
the sea was as smooth as a bowl of oil; all the spread
sails were fallen, clinging to the masts like empty
balloons. I said at once: “Come, I shall have time to
read you!” looking sideways in the direction of the
letter. I waited till evening, at sunset. However, it
had to be done: I opened the clock, and hastily pulled
out the sealed order.—Well, my dear fellow, I held it in
my hands for a quarter of an hour, without being able
to read it. At last I said to myself: “This is too
much!” and I broke the three seals with my thumb; and,
as for the big red seal, I ground it into dust.</p>
<p>After I had read I rubbed my eyes, thinking I had
made a mistake.</p>
<p>I re-read the whole letter; I re-read it again; I
began once more taking the last line and going back to
the first. I didn’t believe it. My legs were shaking
under me a little, I sat down; I had a sort of quivering
on the skin of my face; I rubbed my cheeks a little
with rum, I put some in the hollow of my hands, I pitied
myself for being so foolish; but it only lasted a moment;
I went up to get some air.</p>
<p>Laurette was so pretty that day, that I didn’t wish
to go near her: she had a little white frock, quite plain,
her arms bare to the neck, and her long hair loose as she
always wore it. She was amusing herself with dipping
her other dress into the sea at the end of a string, and
laughed as she tried to catch the sea-wrack, a plant that
looks like bunches of grapes, and floats on the water in
the tropics.</p>
<p>“Do come and see the grapes! come quickly!” she
was crying; and her lover leaned on her and bent down,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>
and did not look at the water, for he was looking at her
very tenderly.</p>
<p>I signed to the young man to come and speak to me
on the quarter-deck. She turned round. I don’t know
what I looked like, but she let her string fall; she seized
him violently by the arm, and said:</p>
<p>“Oh! don’t go, he is quite pale.”</p>
<p>That might well be; there was something to be pale
about. Nevertheless he came to me on the quarter-deck;
she looked at us, leaning against the mainmast.
For a long time we walked up and down without saying
anything. I was smoking a cigar which seemed to me
bitter, and I spat it into the water. His eye followed
me; I took his arm; I was choking, truly, on my word
of honour! I was choking.</p>
<p>“Let us see!” I said to him at last, “tell me now,
my little friend, tell me a little of your history. What
the devil have you done to those dogs of lawyers who are
there like five bits of a king? It seems that they are
mightily angry with you! It’s strange!”</p>
<p>He shrugged his shoulders, inclining his head (with
such a gentle look, poor fellow!), and said:</p>
<p>“On my soul! captain, nothing much, after all:
three verses of a ballad on the Directory, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“Impossible!!” I said.</p>
<p>“On my soul, yes! The verses weren’t even very
good. I was arrested on the 15th of Fructidor and taken
to La Force, tried on the 16th, and condemned to
death at first, then to transportation as a favour.”</p>
<p>“Strange!” I said. “The Directors are very touchy
fellows: for that letter you know of orders me to shoot
you.”</p>
<p>He did not answer, and smiled, keeping his countenance
pretty well for a young man of nineteen. He only
looked at his wife, and wiped his brow, from which drops
of sweat were falling. I had as much at least on my
face, and drops of another kind in my eyes.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span></p>
<p>I went on:</p>
<p>“It appears that those citizens didn’t want to do for
you on land, they thought that here it wouldn’t be noticed
so much. But it’s very distressing for me; for
it’s no use your being a good fellow, I cannot get out
of it; the sentence of death is there in due form, and
the warrant for execution signed, paraphed, and sealed;
nothing is wanting.”</p>
<p>He bowed to me very politely, reddening.</p>
<p>“I ask nothing, captain,” he said in a voice as gentle
as ever; “I should be very sorry to make you fail in
your duty. I should only like to speak a little to
Laura, and to beg you to protect her in the event of
her surviving me, which I don’t think likely.”</p>
<p>“Oh! as for that, it’s all right, my lad,” I said to him;
“if you have no objection, I will take her to her family
on my return to France, and will only leave her when
she no longer wishes to see me. But, in my opinion,
you can flatter yourself that she won’t recover from that
blow; poor little woman!”</p>
<p>He took both my hands, and pressed them, saying to me:</p>
<p>“My good captain, you are suffering more than I from
what remains for you to do, I know very well; but
what can we do? I can count on you to keep for her
the little that belongs to me, to protect her, to see that
she receives whatever her old mother may leave her,
can I not? to defend her life, her honour, can I not? and
also to see that her health is always cared for.—Stay,”
he added in a lower tone, “I must tell you that she is
very delicate; often her chest is so much affected that
she faints several times in a day; she must always be
well wrapped up. In fact you will take the place of her
father, her mother, and myself as much as possible, is
that not so? If she could keep the rings that her
mother gave her, I should be very glad. But, if it is
needful to sell them for her, it must certainly be done.
My poor Laurette! see how beautiful she is!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span></p>
<p>As things were beginning to get too affecting, I was
worried, and began to frown; I had spoken to him
cheerfully to prevent myself growing weak; but I was
no longer anxious about that: “Come, enough!” I said
to him, “honest folk understand each other well
enough. Go and speak to her, and let us make haste.”</p>
<p>I pressed his hand in a friendly way, and, as he did
not let mine go and kept looking at me in a peculiar
manner: “Let me see!” I added, “if I have any advice
to give you, it is not to speak to her of this. We will
arrange the matter without her expecting it, or you
either, so be at ease; that’s my affair!”</p>
<p>“Ah! that makes a difference,” he said, “I didn’t
know ... that will be better certainly. Besides, the
good-byes! the good-byes! they weaken one.”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes,” I said, “don’t be a child, it’s better so.
Don’t kiss her, my friend, don’t kiss her, if you can
manage it, or you are lost.”</p>
<p>I gave him my hand again, and let him go. Oh! it
was very hard for me, all that.</p>
<p>It seemed to me, upon my word, that he kept the
secret well; for they walked up and down, arm in arm,
for a quarter of an hour, and they came back to the
ship’s side to get the string and the dress, which one
of my cabin-boys had fished up.</p>
<p>Night fell suddenly. It was the moment I had
decided to seize. But that moment has lasted for me up
to this very day, and I shall drag it after me all my
life like a chain and ball.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>Here the old major was obliged to stop. I took care
not to speak, for fear of diverting his thoughts; he
continued, beating his breast:</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>That moment, I tell you, I cannot yet understand.
I felt my rage mounting to my very hair, and, at the
same time, something or other made me obey and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>
urged me onward. I called the officers and said to one
of them:</p>
<p>“Come, launch a boat ... since we are now executioners!
You will put that woman in it, and will take
her out into the ocean until you hear guns going off.
Then you will return.” To obey a scrap of paper! for
that was really all it was! There must have been
something in the air that urged me on. I caught a
glimpse in the distance of the young man ... oh! it
was terrible to see! ... kneeling before his Laurette and
kissing her knees and her feet. Do you not think I
was very unhappy?</p>
<p>I called out like a madman! “Separate them ... we
are all rascals! Separate them.... The poor Republic
is a dead body! The Directors, the Directory, are its
vermin! I shall leave the sea! I’m not afraid of all
your lawyers; let them be told what I say, what does it
matter to me?” Ah! much I cared for them, indeed!
I should have liked to get hold of them, I should have
had all five of them shot, the rascals! Oh! I would
have done it; I cared as much for life as for the
rain falling yonder, there.... Much I cared for it! ... a
life like mine.... Ah! yes, indeed, a poor life ...
truly!” ...</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>And the major’s voice died away little by little and
became as uncertain as his words; and he walked on,
biting his lips and frowning in a wild and fierce abstraction.
He gave little convulsive movements, and struck
his mule with his scabbard, as if he wanted to kill it.
What astonished me, was to see the yellow skin of his
face turn a dark red. He unfastened and violently tore
open his coat at his chest, baring it to the wind and rain.
Thus we continued our march in deep silence. I saw
clearly that he would not speak any more of his own
accord, and that I must bring myself to question him.</p>
<p>“I quite understand,” I said, as if he had finished<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>
his story, “that, after so cruel an experience, one conceives
a horror for one’s calling.”</p>
<p>“Oh! calling; are you mad?” he said sharply, “it
isn’t the calling! Never will the captain of a vessel be
forced to turn executioner, unless when there come
governments of murderers and thieves, who take
advantage of a poor man’s habit of obeying blindly,
obeying always, obeying like a wretched machine, in
spite of his heart.”</p>
<p>At the same time he drew from his pocket a red handkerchief,
into which he began to cry like a child. I
stopped a minute as if to arrange my stirrup, and, staying
behind the cart, I walked after it for some time,
feeling that he would be humiliated if I saw too plainly
his copious tears.</p>
<p>I had guessed rightly, for after about a quarter of an
hour he also came behind his poor conveyance, and asked
me if I had any razors in my portmanteau; to which I
merely answered that, not yet having any beard, they
were of no use to me. But he did not mind, it was so
that he could speak of something else. I noticed with
pleasure, however that he was coming back to his story,
for he said to me suddenly:</p>
<p>“You’ve never seen any ships in your life, have you?”</p>
<p>“I have only seen them,” I said, “at the Panorama
in Paris, and I have not much confidence in the naval
knowledge I gathered there.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know, then, what the cat-head is?”</p>
<p>“I can’t imagine,” I said.</p>
<p>“It is a kind of terrace of beams projecting from the
bows of the ship, and from which they throw the anchor
into the sea. When a man is shot, he is generally placed
there,” he added in a lower voice.</p>
<p>“Ah! I understand, because from there he falls into
the sea.”</p>
<p>He did not answer, and began to describe all the
kinds of boat that a brig can carry, and their place in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>
the vessel; and then, without any order in his ideas, he
continued his story with that affected air of carelessness
which always results from long service, because a man
must show his inferiors his contempt of danger, contempt
of men, contempt of life, contempt of death, and contempt
of himself; and all this nearly always hides, under a hard
exterior, a profound sensibility.—The hardness of the
man of war is like an iron mask over a noble face, like
a stone dungeon that shuts in a royal prisoner.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>“These craft hold six men,” he went on. “They
jumped in and took Laura with them, before she had
time to cry out or speak. Oh! that’s a thing for which
no honest man can console himself when he is the cause
of it. It is no use saying so, such a thing cannot be
forgotten!... Ah! what weather it is!—What devil
urged me to talk about this! When I’m telling it, I
never can stop, it has to be finished. It’s a story that
intoxicates me like Jurançon wine.—Ah! what weather
it is!—My cloak is wet through!</p>
<p>“I was still telling you, I think, about that little
Laurette!—Poor woman!—What clumsy people there
are in the world! The officer was so stupid as to take
the boat ahead of the brig. After that, it is true to
say that one cannot foresee everything. I was counting
on the night to hide the deed, and didn’t think of the
light from twelve guns being fired at once. And, on my
life! from the boat she saw her husband fall into the sea,
shot dead.</p>
<p>“If there is a God up yonder, he knows how that
happened that I’m going to tell you; <em>I</em> don’t know, but
it was seen and heard as I see and hear you. At the
instant when they fired, she put her hand to her head as
if a bullet had struck her brow, and sat still in the boat
without fainting, without crying out, without speaking,
and came back to the brig when and how they wished.
I went to her and talked to her for a long time as well<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span>
as I could. She seemed to be listening to me and looked
me in the face, rubbing her brow. She did not understand,
and her brow was red and her face quite pale.
She was trembling in every limb as if she was afraid of
everybody. That has remained with her. She is still
the same, poor little thing! an idiot, or as it were imbecile,
or mad, whatever you please. Never has any one got a
word out of her, except when she asks for some one to
take away what is in her head.</p>
<p>“From that time I became as sad as she, and I felt
something within me saying to me: ‛Stay with her to
the end of your life, and take care of her’; I have done
it. When I returned to France, I asked to be transferred
with my rank into the land-troops, having taken
a hatred of the sea, because into it I had spilled innocent
blood. I sought out Laura’s family. Her mother was
dead. Her sisters, to whom I took her mad, didn’t
want her, and offered to send her to Charenton. I
turned my back on them, and I kept her with me.</p>
<p>“Ah! merciful heavens! if you want to see her,
comrade, it rests with you.” “Can it be she inside?” I
asked. “Certainly! here! wait. Whoa! mule....”</p>
<h3>III<br>
<br>
<em>HOW I CONTINUED MY JOURNEY</em></h3>
<p>And he stopped his poor mule, which seemed delighted
that I had asked the question. At the same time he
lifted the oilcloth from his little cart, as if to arrange
the straw which almost filled it, and I saw something
very sad. I saw two blue eyes, extraordinarily large,
admirably shaped, starting from a head pale, thin and
long, and overflowing with quite straight fair hair. I
saw nothing, in truth, but those two eyes, for the rest
was dead. Her brow was red; her hollow white cheeks
were bluish at the cheek-bones; she was cowering in the
midst of the straw, so much so that you scarcely saw<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span>
projecting from it her knees, on which she was playing
dominoes all by herself. She looked at us for a minute,
trembled a long time, smiled at me a little, and went on
playing. It seemed to me that she was labouring to
perceive how her right hand would beat her left. “You
see, she has been playing that game for a month,” the
major said to me; “to-morrow, perhaps it will be another
game that will last a long time. It’s strange, eh?”</p>
<p>At the same time he began to replace on his shako the
oilcloth, which the rain had slightly disarranged.</p>
<p>“Poor Laurette!” I said, “you have lost, and for
ever, truly!”</p>
<p>I brought my horse near the cart, and held out my
hand to her; she gave me hers mechanically, smiling
with great sweetness. I noticed with surprise that she
wore on her long fingers two diamond rings; I thought
that here were her mother’s rings still, and wondered
how poverty had left them there. I would not have
remarked as much to the old commandant for all the
world; but, as he followed me with his eyes, and saw
mine fixed on Laura’s fingers, he said to me with a
certain air of pride:</p>
<p>“They are pretty big diamonds, aren’t they? They
might fetch a price on occasion, but I did not want
her to part from them, poor child. When they are
touched, she cries, she is never without them. Otherwise,
she never complains, and she can sew now and
then. I have kept my word to her poor little husband,
and, in truth, I don’t regret it. I have never left her,
and I have said everywhere that she is my mad daughter.
People have respected that. In the army everything gets
arranged better than they would think at Paris, eh!—She
has been through all the Emperor’s wars with me, and
I have always got her through safe and sound. I have
always kept her comfortable. With straw and a little
carriage, it’s never impossible. Her dress was pretty well
cared for, and I, being a major, with good pay, my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span>
Legion of Honour pension, and the monthly napoleon,
whose value was double, formerly, I was quite able to
keep things going, and she did not embarrass me. On
the contrary, the officers of the 7th Light Horse would
sometimes laugh at her child’s play.”</p>
<p>Then he went near, and tapped her on the shoulder,
as he would have done to his little mule.</p>
<p>“Well, my girl! come now, say something to the
lieutenant there: come, just a nod.”</p>
<p>She went on with her dominoes.</p>
<p>“Oh!” he said, “she is a little shy to-day, because
it is raining. Yet she never catches cold. These mad
people are never ill, it’s convenient in that way. At the
Beresina and all through the retreat from Moscow, she
went bareheaded.—There, my girl, go on playing, come,
don’t worry about us; there, do as you please, Laurette.”</p>
<p>She took the hand that he rested on her shoulder, a
great black and wrinkled hand; she lifted it timidly to
her lips and kissed it like a poor slave. My heart was
wrung by that kiss, and I turned my horse back
violently.</p>
<p>“Shall we continue our march, commandant?” I said;
“it will be night before we reach Béthune.”</p>
<p>The commandant carefully scraped off with the end of
his sword the yellow mud that covered his boots; then
he got up on the footboard of the cart, and pulled
over Laura’s head the cloth hood of a little cloak she
was wearing. He took off his black silk scarf and put
it round his adopted daughter’s neck; after which he
gave the mule a kick, jerked his shoulder, and said:
“Off you go, you’re a poor lot!” and we set off again.</p>
<p>The rain was still falling dismally; the grey sky and
the grey earth stretched out endlessly; a kind of wan
light, a pale wet sun, was sinking behind great mills that
were not turning. We relapsed into profound silence.</p>
<p>I was looking at my old commandant; he was walking
in great strides, with energy still maintained, while his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>
mule was exhausted, and even my horse was beginning
to hang his head. This worthy man from time to time
took on his shako to wipe his bald forehead and his few
grey hairs, or his thick eyebrows, or his white moustache,
from which the rain was dripping. He did not worry
about the effect which his narrative might have had on
me. He had not made himself out either better or
worse than he was. He had not stooped to show himself
to advantage. He was not thinking of himself, and,
after a quarter of an hour, he began, in the same manner,
a very much longer story about a campaign of Marshal
Massena’s, where he had formed his company into a
square against some cavalry or other. I did not listen
to him, although he grew warm in demonstrating to me
the superiority of the foot-soldier over the mounted man.</p>
<p>Night fell, we were not going fast. The mud was
becoming thicker and deeper. Nothing on the road and
nothing at the end. We stopped at the foot of a dead
tree, the only tree in our path. He first attended to his
mule, as I did to my horse. Then he looked into the
cart, as a mother does into her child’s cradle. I heard
him saying: “Come, my girl, spread this coat over your
feet, and try to sleep.—Come, that’s right! She hasn’t
got a drop of rain on her.—Oh! confound it! she has
broken my watch that I left round her neck!—Oh! my
poor silver watch!—There, it’s no matter; try to sleep,
child. The fine weather will come soon.—It’s strange!
she is always feverish; mad people are like that. Look,
here’s some chocolate for you, child.”</p>
<p>He propped the cart against the tree, and we sat down
under the wheels, sheltered from the incessant shower,
sharing a loaf he had and one I had: a poor supper.</p>
<p>“I am sorry we have nothing but this,” he said; “but
it’s better than horseflesh cooked under the ashes with
gunpowder on top, by way of salt, as we used to eat it
in Russia. As for the poor little woman, I am bound
to give her the best I have. You see that I always<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span>
keep her by herself. She cannot bear to be near a man
since the affair of the letter. I am old, and she seems
to believe that I am her father; in spite of that, she
would strangle me if I tried merely to kiss her on the
forehead. Education always leaves them something, it
seems, for I have never seen her forget to hide herself
like a nun.—That’s strange, eh?”</p>
<p>As he was talking of her like this, we heard her sigh
and say: “Take away the lead! take away the lead!”
I got up, he made me sit down again.</p>
<p>“Sit still, sit still,” he said to me, “it is nothing. She
has always said that, because she always thinks she can
feel a bullet in her head. That doesn’t prevent her doing
whatever she is told, and that with great amiability.”</p>
<p>I was silent and listened to him sadly. I began to
calculate that from 1797 to 1815, which we had reached,
eighteen years had passed thus for this man.—For a
long time I stayed beside him in silence, trying to
account to myself for such a character and such a fate.
Then, for no apparent reason, I gave him a very enthusiastic
handshake. He was astonished at it.</p>
<p>“You are a noble man!” I said to him. He answered:</p>
<p>“Eh! why that? Is it because of that poor woman?...
You know well, my lad, that it was a duty. I have long
learnt to sacrifice self.”</p>
<p>And he talked to me about Massena again.</p>
<p>The next day, at dawn, we reached Béthune, an ugly
little fortified town, where you would say that the ramparts,
contracting their circle, had squeezed the houses
one on top of another. Everything there was in confusion;
there had just been an alarm. The inhabitants
were beginning to draw in the white flags from the
windows; and to sew the tricolours together in their
houses. The drums were beating the call to arms; the
trumpets were sounding “to horse,” by order of the
Duke of Berry. The long Picardy carts were carrying
the Swiss Hundred and their baggage; the cannon of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>
the Body-guard hastening to the ramparts, the princes’
carriages, the squadrons of the Red Companies falling
in, were blocking up the town. The sight of the Royal
Dragoons and the Musketeers made me forget my old
travelling companion. I joined my company, and in the
crowd I lost the little cart and its poor occupants. To
my great regret, it was for ever that I lost them.</p>
<p>It was the first time in my life that I read the inmost
depths of a real soldier’s heart. This meeting revealed
to me a kind of human nature unknown to me, and
which the country knows little and does not treat well;
I placed it thenceforward very high in my esteem. I
have often since then sought around me some man like
that one, capable of that complete and unheeding self-sacrifice.
Now, during the fourteen years that I have
lived in the army, it is in it alone, and above all in the
poor and despised ranks of the infantry, that I have met
these men of antique mould, carrying the sentiment of
duty to its final consequences, feeling neither remorse
for having obeyed nor shame for being poor, simple in
customs and in speech, proud of their country’s glory
and heedless of their own, gladly shutting themselves up
in their obscurity, and sharing with the unfortunate the
black bread which they pay for with their blood.</p>
<p>I was long ignorant of what had become of this poor
major, especially as he had not told me his name and I
had not asked it. One day, however, at the coffee-house,
in 1825, I think, an old infantry captain of the line
to whom I described him, whilst waiting for parade,
said to me:</p>
<p>“Oh! by heaven, my dear fellow, I knew him, poor
devil! He was a fine man; he was ‛put down’ by a
bullet at Waterloo. He had, indeed, left with the
baggage a kind of mad girl whom we took to the
hospital at Amiens, as we were on our way to join the
army of the Loire, and who died there, raving, three
days later.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p>
<p>“I can well believe it,” I said to him; “she had lost
her foster-father!”</p>
<p>“Oh pooh! <em>father</em>! what is that you say?” he rejoined
in a tone which he meant to be sly and
suggestive.</p>
<p>“I say that the call to arms is being sounded,” I
replied, going out. And I too exercised self-restraint.</p>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak">THE VENUS OF ILLE<br>
<small>PROSPER MÉRIMÉE</small></h2>
</div>
<p class="center">“Ιλεως, ἦν δ’ ἐγὼ, ἔοτω ὁ ἀνδριὰς καὶ ἢπιος οὔτως ἀνδρεῖος ὤν.”</p>
<p class="center p2b" style="padding-left: 10em;">Lucian, <em>Philopseudes</em>.</p>
<p>I was descending the last declivity of the Canigou, and,
although the sun was already set, I could distinguish
in the plain the houses of the little town of Ille, towards
which I was making.</p>
<p>“Of course,” I said to the Catalan who had served me
as guide since the previous evening, “of course you
know where M. de Peyrehorade stays?”</p>
<p>“Know where he stays!” he exclaimed; “I know his
house as well as my own; and, if it were not so dark, I
would show it you. It is the finest in Ille. He has
money, he has, M. de Peyrehorade, and he’s marrying
his son to richer than himself even.”</p>
<p>“And is this marriage to be soon?” I asked him.</p>
<p>“Soon! perhaps the fiddles are ordered for the
wedding already. To-night, perhaps, to-morrow, the
day after to-morrow, for all that I know! It’s to be
at Puygarrig; for it’s Mademoiselle de Puygarrig whom
the young gentleman is marrying. It will be grand,
that it will!”</p>
<p>I had an introduction from my friend, M. de P., to
M. de Peyrehorade. He, I had been informed, was a
very learned antiquary, and most exceedingly obliging.
He would consider it a pleasure to show me all the ruins
for ten leagues around. Now, I was counting on his aid
to visit the environs of Ille, which I knew to be rich in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span>
monuments of antiquity and of the Middle Ages. This
marriage, of which I now heard for the first time,
upset all my plans.</p>
<p>“I am going to be a spoil-sport,” I said to myself.
But I was expected; seeing that M. de P. had said I
was coming, I was bound to present myself.</p>
<p>“I’ll bet you, sir,” my guide said to me, when we were
now in the plain, “I’ll bet you a cigar that I guess
what you are going to do at M. de Peyrehorade’s.”</p>
<p>“O!” I said to him, as I handed him a cigar, “that’s
not very difficult to guess! At this hour of night,
after doing six leagues on the Canigou, the great thing
is supper.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but to-morrow?... Listen, I’ll wager you’ve
come to Ille to see the idol. I guessed as much from
seeing you take the portraits of the saints at Serrabona.”</p>
<p>“The idol! What idol?” The word excited my
curiosity.</p>
<p>“What! Did they not tell you at Perpignan, how
M. de Peyrehorade had found an idol in the ground?”</p>
<p>“A statue in terra cotta or earthenware, do you
mean?”</p>
<p>“No, no, in real copper, enough to make a lot of
pennies with. It weighs as much as a church-bell. It
was away down in the ground, at the foot of an olive-tree,
that we got it.”</p>
<p>“Then you were present at the discovery?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir. M. de Peyrehorade told us a fortnight
ago, Jean Coll and me, to root up an old olive-tree that
was frosted last year, for it was a very bad one, as
you know. Well then, as we were busy, Jean Coll, who
was going at it with all his might, gave a blow with
his pick, and I hear Boom ..., as if he had struck on a
bell. ‘What’s that?’ says I. We pick, and we pick,
and, look! there appears a black hand, which looked
like the hand of a corpse rising out of the ground. I
did get a fright. I go off to the master, and I says to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>
him, ‛Corpses, master, under the olive-tree! Must call
the parson,’ ‛What corpses?’ says he to me. He comes,
and has no sooner seen the hand than he cries out, ‛An
antique! An antique!’ You would have thought he had
found a treasure. And there he was, with the pick,
with his hands, fussing away and doing as much work
as the two of us, with his way of it.”</p>
<p>“And after all, what did you find?”</p>
<p>“A great black woman, more than half naked,
saving your Honour’s presence, all in copper, and
M. de Peyrehorade told us that it was an idol of the
time of the heathens ... of the time of Charlemagne,
no less!”</p>
<p>“I see what it is.... Just a Virgin in bronze from
some convent that has been destroyed.”</p>
<p>“Just a Virgin! Very much so!... I’d easily
have recognized it, if it had been just a Virgin. It’s an
idol, I tell you; that’s well seen from her look. She
fixes you with her great, white eyes.... You’d think
she was staring at you. You have to cast down your
eyes, you have, if you look at her.”</p>
<p>“White eyes, do you say? No doubt they are inlaid
on the bronze. Perhaps it will be some Roman statue.”</p>
<p>“Roman! that’s it. M. de Peyrehorade said that she’s
a Roman. Ah! I can see you’re a scholar like himself.”</p>
<p>“Is she complete, in good preservation?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir. She wants nothing. She’s even finer and
better finished than the bust of Louis-Philippe at the
Town-house in painted plaster. But, for all that, I don’t
like the idol’s face. She looks wicked ... and she is
wicked.”</p>
<p>“Wicked! What wickedness has she done to you?”</p>
<p>“Not to me exactly; but you’ll see. We were breaking
our backs to make her stand upright, even M. de
Peyrehorade, who was also pulling at the rope, though
he has not much more strength than a chicken, honest
man! After a good deal of trouble we get her straight.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>
I was picking up a piece of tile to prop her, when,
crash! there she falls in a heap on her back. I
shouted, ‛Look out below, there!’ But not quick enough,
though, for Jean Coll had not time to pull away his leg.”</p>
<p>“And was he hurt?”</p>
<p>“Broken as clean as a pipe-shank, his poor leg! Zounds,
when I saw that, my, I was furious! I wanted to put
my pick through the idol, but M. de Peyrehorade
prevented me. He gave money to Jean Coll, but for all
that he has been in bed a fortnight since it happened
to him, and the doctor says that he’ll never walk as
well with that leg as with the other. It’s a pity for him,
for he was our best runner and, next to the young
gentleman, our trickiest tennis-player. M. Alphonse de
Peyrehorade was sorry about it, for it was Coll he used
to play with. My word, it was good to see how they
returned the balls. Paf! Paf! They never once touched
the ground.”</p>
<p>Talking thus, we entered Ille, and soon I found
myself in presence of M. de Peyrehorade. He was a
little old man, still fresh and lively, powdered, red-nosed,
with a jovial and roguish air. Before opening M. de
P.’s letter, he had installed me in front of a well-spread
table, and had presented me to his wife and son as an
illustrious archæologist, who was to rescue Roussillon
from the oblivion in which it had been left by the
indifference of savants.</p>
<p>All the time that I was eating with a good appetite—for
nothing makes one so sharp-set as the keen air of
the mountains—I was examining my hosts. I have
said something about M. de Peyrehorade; I ought to add
that he was vivacity itself. He talked, ate, got up, ran
to his library, brought me books, showed me prints,
filled my glass; he was never two minutes at rest. His
wife, a little too stout, like most Catalan women when
they are over forty, struck me as a double-dyed provincial,
occupied solely with the cares of her household.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>
Although the supper was enough for six persons at least,
she ran to the kitchen, made them kill pigeons and fry
<em>miliasses</em>, and opened I don’t know how many pots of
preserves. In an instant the table was crowded with
dishes and bottles, and I should assuredly have died of
indigestion, if I had even tasted everything that they
offered me. Nevertheless, at each dish that I refused,
there were fresh excuses. They were afraid I should find
myself very uncomfortable at Ille. In the country
there are so few resources, and Parisians are so hard to
please!</p>
<p>Amid all his parents’ comings and goings, M. Alphonse
de Peyrehorade budged no more than a gate-post. He
was a tall young man of six-and-twenty, with a countenance
handsome and regular, but lacking in expression.
His build and his athletic proportions quite justified
the reputation of an indefatigable tennis-player which
he had acquired in the district. He was dressed that
evening with elegance, exactly after the plate in the
latest number of the <em>Journal des Modes</em>. But he seemed
to me to be ill at ease in his habiliments; he was as
stiff as a poker in his velvet stock, and could only turn
all in a piece. His large, sunburnt hands and short nails
contrasted singularly with his costume. They were the
hands of a labourer sticking out of the cuffs of a dandy.
Moreover, though he looked me up and down from head
to foot most inquisitively in my quality of a Parisian,
he never addressed me the whole evening, except once,
to ask me where I had bought my watch-chain.</p>
<p>“Ah, well, my dear guest,” M. de Peyrehorade said
to me as the supper was drawing to an end, “you belong
to me, you are under my roof. I will not let you go,
at least not until you have seen everything of interest
that we have in our mountains. You must get
acquainted with our Roussillon, and do justice to it.
You have no idea of all that we are going to show
you. Phœnician, Celtic, Roman, Arab, Byzantine<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span>
antiquities, I’ll show you them all, from the cedar to the
hyssop. I’ll take you everywhere, and won’t spare you
a single brick.”</p>
<p>A fit of coughing forced him to stop. I took advantage
of it to tell him that I should be most sorry to inconvenience
him on an occasion so interesting to his family.</p>
<p>If he would have the kindness to give me his valuable
advice as to the excursions which I ought to make,
I should be able, without his taking the trouble of
accompanying me, to....</p>
<p>“Ah, you mean the marriage of that boy there!” he
shouted, and interrupted me. “Fiddlesticks! that will
be over by the day after to-morrow. You’ll celebrate
the wedding along with us, a family affair, for the
bride is in mourning for an aunt, whose heiress she is.
So no party, no dance.... It’s a pity ... you would
have seen our Catalan girls dancing.... They are pretty,
and perhaps you’d have taken the fancy to imitate my
Alphonse. One marriage, they say, leads to another....
By Saturday, after the young couple are married, I’ll be
free, and we’ll set out. I must apologize to you for
boring you with a country wedding. For a Parisian
who is sated with gaieties ... and a wedding without a
dance into the bargain! However, you’ll see a bride ...
a bride ... you’ll tell me what you think about her....
But you’re a sober-sides and don’t look at women now.
I’ve better than that to show you. I’ll let you see something!...
I am keeping a fine surprise for you to-morrow.”</p>
<p>“Faith,” I said, “it is not easy to have a treasure
in the house without the public knowing all about
it. I think I can guess the surprise that you have in
store for me. Yes, if it is your statue you mean, the
description of it which my guide gave me has served
only to excite my curiosity and to dispose me to admiration.”</p>
<p>“Ah! He has told you of the idol, for so they call
my beautiful Venus Tur.... But I won’t tell you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span>
anything. To-morrow in daylight you shall see her,
and you shall tell me if I am right in thinking her a
masterpiece. Upon my word! you could not have arrived
more opportunely! There are some inscriptions, which
I, poor ignoramus, explain in my own way ... but a
savant from Paris!... You will perhaps laugh at my
interpretation ... for I have written a paper.... I
who am speaking to you ... an old provincial antiquary,
I have come out.... I mean to make the press groan....
If you will be so kind as read and correct me, I flatter
myself.... For example, I am very curious to know
how you will translate that inscription on the base:
<em>CAVE</em>.... But I won’t ask you anything just now!
To-morrow, to-morrow! Not a word about the Venus
to-day!”</p>
<p>“You are just as well, Peyrehorade,” said his wife,
“to let your idol alone. Can’t you see that you are
preventing the gentleman from eating? Go away with
you! The gentleman has seen plenty of finer statues
than yours at Paris. At the Tuileries there are dozens
of them, and in bronze, too.”</p>
<p>“There’s ignorance for you, the blessed ignorance of
the provinces!” broke in M. de Peyrehorade. “To
compare an admirable antique to Coustou’s vapid faces!</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>‛With great lack of reverence, truly,<br>
Speaks my wife of gods divine!’</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>“Do you know, my wife wanted me to melt down my
statue to make into a bell for our church? Because she
would have been the donor. A masterpiece of Myron’s,
my dear sir!”</p>
<p>“Masterpiece! Masterpiece! A pretty masterpiece
she’s made, breaking a man’s leg!”</p>
<p>“Look here, wife,” said M. de Peyrehorade, in a firm
tone, stretching out to her his right leg in a stocking of
clouded silk, “if my Venus had broken that leg for me,
I should not have regretted it.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span></p>
<p>“Gracious! Peyrehorade, how can you say that?
Fortunately the man’s getting better. But still I can’t
bring myself to look at a statue which causes misfortunes
like that. Poor Jean Coll!”</p>
<p>“Wounded by Venus, sir,” said M. de Peyrehorade
with a great laugh, “wounded by Venus, the rascal
complains:</p>
<p class="center p2 p2b">‛<em>Veneris nec præmia nôris.</em>’</p>
<p>Who hasn’t been wounded by Venus?”</p>
<p>M. Alphonse, who understood French better than
Latin, winked an eye with a knowing air, and looked at
me, as much as to ask, “D’ye understand, Mr. Parisian?”</p>
<p>The supper came to an end. For the last hour I had
eaten nothing. I was tired, and I could not manage to
hide the frequent yawns which escaped me. Madame
de Peyrehorade was the first to notice them, and remarked
that it was time to go to bed. Thereupon
began fresh apologies for the poor couch I was about to
find. I should not be so comfortable as in Paris.
Things are so uncomfortable in the provinces. I must
excuse Roussillon people. It was in vain that I protested
that after a journey in the mountains a truss of straw
would be a delicious couch for me; they persisted in
entreating me to pardon poor country folk, if they did
not treat me so well as they could have desired. At
last I went upstairs to the room which was meant for
me, accompanied by M. de Peyrehorade. The stair, the
upper steps of which were of wood, led to the middle
of a corridor, on which several rooms opened.</p>
<p>“To the right,” said my host, “are the apartments
which I intend for the future Madame Alphonse. Your
room is at the end of the opposite corridor. You quite
understand,” he added with an air which was meant to
be sly, “you quite understand that newly married folk
must be isolated. You are at one end of the house, they
at the other.” We entered a well furnished room, where
the first object on which I set eyes was a bed seven feet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>
long, six wide, and so high that one required a stool to
hoist oneself into it. My host, having shown me where
the bell was, and having satisfied himself that the sugar-bowl
was filled and the eau-de-Cologne bottles duly set on
the dressing-table, after having asked me several times
if I had everything I wanted, wished me good-night and
left me to myself.</p>
<p>The windows were shut. Before undressing, I opened
one to breathe the fresh night air, so delightful after a
long supper. Before me lay the Canigou, which is
wonderful to behold at any time, but which, that night,
seemed to me the finest mountain in the world, lit up as
it was by a resplendent moon. I remained some
minutes contemplating the marvellous sky-line, and I
was about to close my window when, looking down, I
observed the statue on a pedestal some two-score yards
from the house. It was placed at the corner of a quick-set
hedge, which divided a little garden from a spacious
square perfectly smooth, which, as I learned later, was
the town tennis-court. This space, the property of M.
de Peyrehorade, had been made over by him to the
commune, at the pressing solicitations of his son.</p>
<p>At the distance where I was, it was difficult to make
out the attitude of the statue; I could only judge of its
height, which seemed to be about six feet. At that
moment, two rascals from the town were passing by
the tennis-court, pretty close to the hedge, whistling the
pretty Roussillon air <em>Montagnes régalades</em>. They stopped
to look at the statue; one of them even apostrophized
it aloud. He spoke Catalan; but I had been in Roussillon
long enough to be able to understand pretty well
what he was saying.</p>
<p>“So you’re there, you hussy!” (The Catalan word
was more forcible). “You’re there!” he said. “So it’s
you who broke Jean Coll’s leg for him! If you belonged
to me, I’d break your neck.”</p>
<p>“Bah! What would you break it with?” said the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span>
other. “She’s made of copper, so hard that Stephen
broke his file on it trying to cut into it. It’s copper of
heathen times; it’s harder than I don’t know what.”</p>
<p>“If I had my cold chisel,” (it seems that he was an
apprentice locksmith), “I’d soon knock out her big white
eyes, as easy as I’d take an almond out of its shell.
There’s more than two half-crowns’ worth of silver in
them.”</p>
<p>They went a step or two on their way.</p>
<p>“I must wish the idol good-night,” said the taller of
the apprentices, stopping short.</p>
<p>He stooped down, and no doubt picked up a stone.
I saw him straighten out his arm and throw something,
and immediately a sonorous blow rang on the bronze.
That same instant, the apprentice put his hand to his
head and uttered a cry of pain.</p>
<p>“She’s thrown it back at me!” he exclaimed.</p>
<p>And my two rascals took to their heels. Evidently
the stone had rebounded from the metal and had
punished the joker for his outrage on the goddess.</p>
<p>I shut the window, laughing heartily.</p>
<p>“Another Vandal punished by Venus! Would that
all the destroyers of our ancient monuments had their
heads broken in the same way!”</p>
<p>With this charitable desire, I fell asleep.</p>
<p>It was broad daylight when I awoke. At one side of
my bed stood M. de Peyrehorade in his dressing-gown;
at the other a servant, sent by his wife, a cup of
chocolate in his hand.</p>
<p>“Come! get up, Parisian! That’s just like you lazy
people from the capital!” said my host, while I dressed
myself hurriedly. “Eight o’clock, and still in bed!
Why, I’ve been up since six o’clock! This is the third
time I’ve been upstairs; I went to your door on tiptoe;
no one, no sign of life. It is bad for you to sleep too
much at your age. And my Venus, whom you have not
seen yet! Come, quick and take this cup of Barcelona<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>
chocolate.... Real smuggled.... Chocolate such as you
don’t have in Paris. Fortify yourself, for, once you are
in the presence of my Venus, there will be no tearing you
away from her.”</p>
<p>In five minutes I was ready, that is to say, half shaved,
buttoned awry, and scalded by the chocolate that I had
swallowed boiling hot. I went down to the garden, and
found myself before an admirable statue.</p>
<p>It really was a Venus of marvellous beauty. The
upper part of the body was nude, as the ancients usually
represented the greater divinities; the right hand, raised
level with the breast, was turned palm inwards, the
thumb and first two fingers extended, the others slightly
bent. The other hand, approaching her haunch, supported
the drapery that covered the lower part of the body.
The pose of the statue recalled that of the player at
morra, which is designated, for some reason or other, by
the name of Germanicus. Perhaps the intention was to
represent the goddess as playing at morra.</p>
<p>Be that as it may, nothing more perfect could possibly
be seen than the body of that Venus; nothing more
suave, more voluptuous than its contours; nothing more
elegant and more noble than its drapery. I had expected
some work of the Lower Empire; I saw a masterpiece
of the best period of sculpture. What struck me
above all was the exquisite truth of the forms, so much
so that one might have supposed them moulded from
nature, if nature produced such perfect models.</p>
<p>The hair, piled above the forehead, seemed to have
been gilded at one time. The head, small like that of
almost all Greek statues, was slightly inclined forwards.
As for the face, I shall never succeed in expressing its
strange character, the type of which was not like that
of any other antique statue that I can remember. It was
not the calm and severe beauty of the Greek sculptors,
who, on system, gave all the features a majestic
immobility. Here, on the contrary, I observed with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>
surprise the distinct intention of the artist to render
mischievousness almost bordering on malice. All the
features were slightly contracted: the eyes a little oblique,
the mouth raised at the corners, the nostrils somewhat
distended. Disdain, irony, cruelty were to be read on
this visage, which was at the same time of an incredible
beauty. In fact, the more one looked at that
admirable statue, the more one experienced a feeling of
pain that such marvellous beauty could be allied to
utter absence of sensibility.</p>
<p>“If the model ever existed,” I said to M. de Peyrehorade—” and
I doubt if Heaven ever produced such a
woman—how I pity her lovers! She must have found
pleasure in making them die of despair. There is something
ferocious in her expression, and yet I have never
seen anything so beautiful.”</p>
<p class="center p2 p2b">“‛Tis Venus’ self a stooping o’er her prey!”</p>
<p>exclaimed M. de Peyrehorade, gratified at my enthusiasm.</p>
<p>The expression of infernal irony was augmented, perhaps,
by the contrast between her eyes inlaid with silver,
very brilliant, and the blackish-green patina which time
had given to the whole statue. Those brilliant eyes produced
a certain illusion, which recalled reality, life. I
remembered what my guide had told me, that she made
those who looked at her cast down their eyes. That
was almost true, and I could not refrain from a gesture
of anger against myself at feeling somewhat ill at ease
before this figure of bronze.</p>
<p>“Now that you have admired everything in detail,
my dear colleague in the antique,” said my host, “let
us proceed, if you please, to a scientific discussion.
What do you say about this inscription, to which you
have not paid any attention as yet?”</p>
<p>He showed me the base of the statue, and there I
read these words:</p>
<p class="center p11">CAVE AMANTEM.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span></p>
<p>“<em>Quid dicis, doctissime?</em>” he asked me, rubbing his
hands. “Let us see whether we shall agree on the
meaning of this <em>cave amantem</em>!”</p>
<p>“Why,” I said, “there are two possible meanings.
You can translate, ‛Beware of him who loves thee;
distrust lovers.’ But, in this sense I do not know
whether <em>cave amantem</em> would be good Latinity. Looking
to the lady’s diabolical expression, I am more inclined
to think that the artist meant to warn the beholder
against this terrible beauty. So I would translate,
‛Beware for thyself, if <em>she</em> loves thee.’”</p>
<p>“Humph!” said M. de Peyrehorade. “Yes, that is an
admissible rendering: but you will not be offended if I
prefer the first translation, which, however, I shall develop.
You know who the lover of Venus was, do you
not?”</p>
<p>“There are several.”</p>
<p>“Yes; but the first is Vulcan. Was the meaning not
intended to be ‛Despite all thy beauty, thy disdainful
air, thou shalt have a blacksmith, an ugly lameter for
lover?’ A profound moral, sir, for coquettes!”</p>
<p>I could not keep from smiling, the interpretation
seemed so far-fetched.</p>
<p>“It’s a terrible language, Latin, with its conciseness,”
I remarked, to avoid contradicting my antiquary
explicitly, and I fell back a few paces in order to view
the statue better.</p>
<p>“One moment, colleague!” said M. de Peyrehorade,
taking me by the arm, “you haven’t seen all. There’s
still another inscription. Get up on the base and look
at the right arm.” So speaking, he helped me to get up.</p>
<p>I clung on without much ceremony by the neck of the
Venus with whom I was beginning to be quite at home.
I even looked at her for a moment “under the nose,”
and found her more wicked and more beautiful than ever
at close quarters. Then I saw that there were engraved
on the arm some characters in ancient cursive character,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>
as it seemed to me. With the help of spectacles I spelled
out what follows, and meanwhile M. de Peyrehorade
repeated each word as I pronounced it, signifying his
approval by voice and gesture. Accordingly I read:</p>
<p class="p1 p1b indent12">VENERI TVRBVL ...<br>
EVTYCHES MYRO<br>
IMPERIO FECIT</p>
<p>After the word <span class="allsmcap">TVRBVL</span> in the first line it seemed to
me that there were several letters effaced; but <span class="allsmcap">TVRBVL</span>
was perfectly legible.</p>
<p>“Which means?” my host asked me, beaming and
smiling mischievously, for he was pretty sure that I
would not get easily over that <span class="allsmcap">TVRBVL</span>.</p>
<p>“There is one word which I can’t explain yet,” I told
him, “but all the rest is easy: Eutyches Myron made
this offering to Venus at her command.”</p>
<p>“Just so! But <span class="allsmcap">TVRBVL</span>, what do you make of that?
What is <span class="allsmcap">TVRBVL</span>?”</p>
<p>“<span class="smcap">Tvrbvl</span> bothers me considerably. I am hunting
in vain for some known epithet of Venus which might
help me. Let us see, what do you say to <span class="allsmcap">TVRBVLENTA</span>?
Venus who troubles, agitates?... You see that I am
always possessed by her wicked expression. <span class="allsmcap">TVRBVLENTA</span>,
that is not at all a bad epithet for Venus,”
I added in a modest tone, for I was not very well
satisfied myself with my explanation.</p>
<p>“Venus the Turbulent! Venus the Rowdy! Ah!
Then you believe that my Venus is a tavern Venus,
do you? Not at all, sir; she is a well-bred Venus. But
I’ll explain this <span class="allsmcap">TVRBVL</span> ... to you. Though you must
promise not to divulge my discovery before my paper
is printed. Because, you see, I am proud of this find....
You might as well leave us poor devils of provincials
some ears to glean. You are so rich, you learned gentlemen
of Paris!”</p>
<p>From the top of the pedestal, where I was still<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>
perched, I solemnly promised him that I would never be
so dishonourable as to rob him of his discovery.</p>
<p>“<span class="smcap">Tvrbvl</span> ..., sir,” said he, coming nearer and lowering
his voice, for fear any one besides me might hear him,
“read <span class="allsmcap">TVRBVLNERAE</span>.”</p>
<p>“I am still no wiser.”</p>
<p>“Listen! A league from here, at the foot of the
mountain, there is a village called Boulternère. That is a
corruption of the Latin word <span class="allsmcap">TVRBVLNERA</span>. Nothing
more common than these inversions. Boulternère, sir,
was a Roman town. I always suspected so, but I
never had evidence for it. The evidence is here! This
Venus was the local deity of the city of Boulternère;
and this word Boulternère, of which I have just demonstrated
the ancient origin, proves a thing more curious
still, namely, that Boulternère, before being a Roman
town, was a town of the Phœnicians!”</p>
<p>He paused for a moment to take breath and enjoy my
surprise. I managed to repress a strong desire to laugh.</p>
<p>“In fact,” he continued, “<span class="allsmcap">TVRBVLNERA</span> is pure
Phœnician; <span class="allsmcap">TVR</span>, pronounce <span class="allsmcap">TOOR</span>.... <span class="smcap">Toor</span> and <span class="allsmcap">SOOR</span>, the
same word, are they not? <span class="smcap">Sur</span> is the Phœnician name
of Tyre; I need not remind you of its meaning.
<span class="smcap">Bvl</span> is Baal; Bâl, Bel, Bul, slight difference of pronunciation.
As for <span class="allsmcap">NERA</span>, that gives me a little trouble.
I am inclined to think, failing a Phœnician word,
that it comes from the Greek νηρός, moist, marshy. The
word would then be a hybrid. To justify νηρός, I’ll
show you at Boulternère how the streams from the
mountains form pestilential marshes there. On the
other hand, the termination <span class="allsmcap">NERA</span> might have been added
much later in honour of Nera Pivesuvia, wife of Tetricus,
who may have rendered some benefit to the city of
Turbul. But, looking to the marshes, I prefer the
derivation from νηρός.”</p>
<p>He took a pinch of snuff with a satisfied air.</p>
<p>“But let us leave the Phœnicians and return to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span>
inscription. I translate, then, ‛To Venus of Boulternère
Myron dedicates at her command this statue, his work.’”</p>
<p>I took good care not to criticize his etymology; but
I wished in my turn to give evidence of penetration, and
said to him:</p>
<p>“Stop a moment, sir, Myron consecrated something;
but I do not at all see that it was this statue.”</p>
<p>“How so?” he exclaimed. “Was not Myron a famous
Greek sculptor? His talent must have been perpetuated
in his family: it must have been one of his descendants
who made this statue. Nothing is more certain.”</p>
<p>“But,” I replied, “I see a little hole in the arm. In
my opinion, it served to fasten something, a bracelet,
for instance, which this Myron gave to Venus as an expiatory
offering. Myron was an unhappy lover. Venus
was angry with him; he appeased her by consecrating
a golden bracelet to her. Note that <em>fecit</em> is very often
used for <em>consecravit</em>. They are synonymous terms. I
could show you more than one example, if I had
Gruter, or even Orellius at hand. It is natural that
a lover should see Venus in a dream, that he should
imagine that she commands him to give a golden bracelet
to her statue. Myron consecrated a bracelet to
her.... Then the barbarians, or even some sacrilegious
robber....”</p>
<p>“Ah, it is easy to see that you have written novels!”
exclaimed my host, as he lent me a hand to descend.
“No, sir; it is a work of the school of Myron. Only
look at the workmanship, and you’ll agree.”</p>
<p>Having made it an invariable rule never to give a point-blank
contradiction to obstinate antiquaries, I bowed my
head with an air of conviction and said:</p>
<p>“It is an admirable piece.”</p>
<p>“Good gracious!” exclaimed M. de Peyrehorade.
“Another piece of vandalism! Some one must have
been throwing stones at my statue!”</p>
<p>He had just observed a white mark a little above<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>
the breast of the Venus. I noticed a similar trace
on the fingers of the right hand, which, I supposed
at the time, the stone had touched in its passage, or
perhaps even a fragment had been knocked off it by
the shock, and had rebounded on to the hand. I related
to my host the insult, of which I had been a witness,
and the prompt punishment which had followed it. He
laughed heartily at the story, and, comparing the
appprentice to Diomede, wished that, like the Greek hero,
he might see all his companions turned into white birds.</p>
<p>The breakfast bell interrupted this classical conversation,
and, as on the previous evening, I was obliged to
eat enough for four. Then M. de Peyrehorade’s farmers
came; and, while he gave audience to them, his son took
me to see a barouche which he had bought at Toulouse
for his bride, and which I, of course, admired. Next I
went into the stable with him, where he kept me for
half an hour boasting about his horses, telling me their
pedigrees, and detailing the prizes that they had won
at the county races. At last he came to tell me about
his future wife, having been led up to her by a grey
mare which he intended for her.</p>
<p>“We’ll see her to-day,” he said. “I don’t know
whether you’ll think her pretty. You are difficult to
please at Paris; but every one here and at Perpignan
thinks her charming. The beauty of it is that she is
very rich. Her aunt at Prades has left her property to
her. Oh, I’ll be very happy.”</p>
<p>I was deeply disgusted to see a young man apparently
more impressed by the dowry than by the charms of
his future wife.</p>
<p>“You know something about jewels,” continued M.
Alphonse, “what do you think of this? This is the ring
which I’m to give her to-morrow.”</p>
<p>With these words he drew from the first joint of his
little finger a big ring enriched with diamonds, in the
form of two clasped hands; an allusion which struck<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>
me as infinitely poetical. The workmanship was ancient,
but I thought that it had been remodelled to set the
diamonds. Inside the ring, in Gothic letters, could be
read the words, “<em>Sempr’ ab ti</em>,” that is to say, “Ever with
thee.”</p>
<p>“It is a pretty ring,” I said; “but those diamonds that
have been added have made it lose something of its
character.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it is very much prettier like that,” he said
with a smile. “There are twelve hundred francs worth
of diamonds there. It was given to me by my mother.
It was a very ancient family ring ... from the times
of chivalry. My grandmother used it for her wedding-ring,
and she got it from her grandmother. Goodness
knows when it was made.”</p>
<p>“The custom at Paris,” I told him, “is to give quite a
simple ring, usually composed of two different metals,
such as gold and platinum. Wait! that other ring, the
one on that finger, would be very suitable. This one,
with its diamonds and its hands in relief, is so big that
one could never put on a glove over it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Madame Alphonse will manage as she likes.
I expect she’ll be quite glad to have it in any case.
Twelve thousand francs is a nice thing to have on one’s
finger. That little ring there,” he added, with a complacent
glance at the perfectly plain ring which he
wore on his hand, “that ring there was given me by
a girl at Paris one Shrove Tuesday. Ah, how I went
the pace when I was at Paris two years ago! That’s the
place to enjoy oneself!...” And he heaved a sigh
of regret.</p>
<p>We were to dine that day at Puygarrig, with the
bride’s parents; we got into a barouche and drove to
the château, which was about a league and a half distant
from Ille. I was presented and received as the friend of
the family. I shall say nothing about the dinner or the
conversation which ensued, and in which I took little part.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>
M. Alphonse, placed beside his betrothed, said something
in her ear every quarter of an hour. For her part,
she did not often raise her eyes, and, when her intended
spoke to her, she blushed modestly, but answered
him without embarrassment.</p>
<p>Mademoiselle de Puygarrig was eighteen years of
age; her supple and delicate figure was a contrast to the
large-boned frame of her robust bridegroom. She was
not merely beautiful, but entrancing. I admired the perfect
naturalness of all her answers; and her air of
kindness, which yet was not without a slight tinge of
mischief, reminded me involuntarily of my host’s Venus.
As I made this comparison mentally, I asked myself
whether the superiority in point of beauty, which was
undoubtedly to be awarded to the statue, was not due,
in great part, to its tigress-like expression; for energy,
even that of evil passions, always excites us to astonishment
and a sort of involuntary admiration.</p>
<p>“What a pity,” said I to myself, as we left Puygarrig,
“that so amiable a creature should be rich, and her
portion should attract the suit of a man so unworthy of
her!” On the way back to Ille, being at a loss for
something to say to Madame de Peyrehorade, whom
I thought it good manners to address occasionally, I exclaimed:</p>
<p>“You are great freethinkers in Roussillon! Why,
Madame, you are holding a marriage on a Friday! At
Paris we are more superstitious; nobody there would dare
to take a wife on such a day.”</p>
<p>“For goodness’ sake don’t talk about that to me!”
she said. “If it had depended on me alone, we should
certainly have chosen another day. But Peyrehorade
would have it, and we had to give in to him. I am
anxious about it all the same. What if anything happens?
There must be some reason for it, for else why is
everybody afraid of Friday?”</p>
<p>“Friday!” cried her husband, “that’s Venus’s day!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span>
A good day for a marriage! You see, my dear colleague,
I can never get away from my Venus. On my honour,
it’s because of her that I chose Friday! To-morrow, if
you like, before the wedding, we’ll make a little sacrifice
to her; we’ll sacrifice two doves, and if I knew where to
get some incense....”</p>
<p>“For shame, Peyrehorade!” broke in his wife,
scandalized beyond endurance. “Burn incense to an
idol! That would be an abomination! Whatever would
they say about us in the district?”</p>
<p>“At least,” said M. de Peyrehorade, “you will allow
me to place a wreath of roses and lilies on her head:</p>
<p class="center p2 p2b"><em>Manibus date lilia plenis.</em></p>
<p>You see, sir, the Charter is an empty word. We
have not liberty of worship!”</p>
<p>The arrangements for the morrow were settled as
follows. Everybody was to be dressed and ready at ten
o’clock sharp. After chocolate, we were to drive to
Puygarrig. The civil marriage was to take place at the
mayor’s office in the village, and the religious ceremony
in the chapel at the château. Next was to come a breakfast.
After the breakfast we were to pass the time as
best we could until seven o’clock. At seven we were to
return to Ille, to M. de Peyrehorade’s, where the united
families were to sup. The rest followed naturally. As
they could not dance, they meant to eat as much as
possible.</p>
<p>By eight o’clock I was seated before the Venus,
pencil in hand, beginning the head of the statue over again
for the twentieth time without being able to catch its
expression. M. de Peyrehorade kept coming and
going about me, giving me his advice and repeating
his Phœnician etymologies; then he disposed some
Bengal roses on the pedestal of the statue, and in a
tragi-comic voice addressed to it his prayers for the
couple who were about to live under his roof. About<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>
nine o’clock he went in to dress, and at the same moment
M. Alphonse made his appearance, very tight in a new
coat, with white gloves, patent-leather boots, chased
studs, a rose in his button-hole.</p>
<p>“You will draw my wife’s portrait?” he asked,
bending over my sketch. “She is pretty too.”</p>
<p>At that moment, on the tennis-court which I have
mentioned, a match began, which at once attracted M.
Alphonse’s attention. I too, tired and in despair of rendering
that diabolical face, soon quitted my sketch to
watch the players. Among them were some Spanish
muleteers who had arrived the night before. They
were Aragonese and Navarrese, almost all of marvellous
skill. Accordingly the Ille men, though encouraged
by the presence and advice of M. Alphonse, were pretty
promptly beaten by these new champions. The local
spectators were in consternation. M. Alphonse looked at
his watch. It was only half-past nine yet. His mother
had not got her hair dressed. He hesitated no longer;
he took off his coat, asked for a jacket, and challenged
the Spaniards. When I saw him do so, I smiled and was
rather surprised.</p>
<p>“We must keep up the honour of the country,” he said.
I found him really handsome then. He was aroused.
His dress, which had occupied him so much a little ago,
was nothing more to him now. A few minutes before,
he had been afraid to turn his head for fear of deranging his
neck-tie. Now he had no more thought of his curled
hair or his neatly pleated ruffle. And his bride?...
Really, had it been necessary, I believe he would have
had the marriage postponed. I saw him hastily slip on a
pair of sandals, turn up his sleeves, and, with a confident
air, place himself at the head of the defeated side,
like Cæsar rallying his soldiers at Dyrrachium. I leaped
over the hedge and stationed myself comfortably under
the shade of a <em>celiis australis</em>, so that I had a good view
of the two camps.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span></p>
<p>Contrary to general expectation, M. Alphonse missed
the first ball; true it came skimming low down and delivered
with surprising force by an Aragonese, who
appeared to be the leader of the Spaniards.</p>
<p>He was a man about forty years of age, hard and
wiry, about six feet tall, and his olive skin was
almost as dark in tone as the bronze of the Venus.</p>
<p>M. Alphonse threw his racket on the ground in a rage.</p>
<p>“It’s this confounded ring,” he cried, “which pinched
my finger, and made me miss a safe ball!”</p>
<p>He took off the diamond ring, not without difficulty;
I went to take it from him; but he was too quick for
me and ran to the Venus, put the ring on its ring-finger,
and resumed his place at the head of the Ille
men.</p>
<p>He was pale, but calm and resolute. Thenceforth he
did not make a single mistake, and the Spaniards were
thoroughly beaten. It was a fine sight to see the
enthusiasm of the on-lookers: some uttered a thousand
cries of joy and threw their bonnets in the air;
others pressed his hands, calling him the honour of
their country. If he had repelled an invasion, I doubt
whether he would have received more lively or more
sincere congratulations. The disappointment of the
losers added still more to the brilliance of his victory.</p>
<p>“We’ll have other matches, my good fellow,” he said
to the Aragonese with a tone of superiority; “but I’ll
give you a handicap.”</p>
<p>I could have wished that M. Alphonse had been
more modest, and I was almost pained at the humiliation
of his rival.</p>
<p>The Spanish giant felt the insult keenly. I saw him
turn pale under his sunburnt skin. He looked at his
racket gloomily and set his teeth; then, in a choked
voice, he said almost inaudibly, “<em>Me lo pagarás</em>.”</p>
<p>M. de Peyrehorade’s voice disturbed his son’s triumph;
my host, much surprised not to find him presiding over<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>
the harnessing of the new barouche, was still more surprised
to see him all in a sweat, racket in hand. M.
Alphonse ran to the house, washed his hands and face,
put his new coat and patent-leather shoes on again,
and five minutes later we were off at a brisk trot on the
way to Puygarrig. All the tennis-players of the town
and a great number of on-lookers followed us with cries
of joy. The strong horses which drew us had difficulty
in keeping ahead of those intrepid Catalans.</p>
<p>We were at Puygarrig, and the procession was about
to set out for the mayor’s office, when M. Alphonse struck
his forehead, and said to me in an undertone:</p>
<p>“How stupid of me! I’ve forgotten the ring! It’s
on the finger of the Venus, the Devil take her! What
ever you do, don’t mention it to my mother. Perhaps
she’ll not notice anything.”</p>
<p>“You could send somebody,” I said.</p>
<p>“Bah! My man is staying behind at Ille. And
those fellows here, I don’t much trust them. Twelve
hundred francs worth of diamonds! That would be a
temptation to a good many of them. Besides, what
would they think here of my absent-mindedness?
They’d make fine fun of me. They’d call me the statue’s
husband.... I just hope nobody steals it from me!
Fortunately the idol has put a fear on my rogues. They
don’t dare go within arm’s length of it. Bah! It doesn’t
matter; I’ve got another ring.” The two ceremonies,
civil and religious, were performed with due pomp; and
Mademoiselle de Puygarrig received a little Paris dress-maker’s
ring, never suspecting that her bridegroom was
making the sacrifice of a love-token to her. Then we sat
down to table, where we drank, ate, even sang, all at
great length. I felt for the bride in the coarse merriment
which was resounding about her; still, she kept a
better countenance than I had expected, and her embarrassment
had nothing either of awkwardness or
affectation about it.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span></p>
<p>Perhaps courage comes with difficult situations.</p>
<p>The breakfast having terminated when it pleased
Heaven, it was four o’clock; the men went to walk in
the park, which was magnificent, or to watch the Puygarrig
peasant-girls dancing on the château lawn arrayed
in their holiday clothes. In this way we spent some
hours. Meanwhile the women were very busy with the
bride, who was making them admire her wedding-presents.
Then she changed her dress, and I noticed
that she covered up her fine hair with a cap and a
feathered hat, for women are in a great hurry until they
have assumed as soon as possible the ornaments which
custom forbids them to wear as long as they are unmarried.</p>
<p>It was almost eight o’clock when they set about starting
for Ille. But first there was a pathetic scene. Mademoiselle
de Puygarrig’s aunt, who had been a mother to
her, a very aged and very devout woman, was not to go
to town with us. At her niece’s going away she made
a touching address to her on the duties of a wife, a discourse
which resulted in a torrent of tears and never-ending
embraces. M. de Peyrehorade compared this
parting to the Rape of the Sabines. We set out, however,
and on the way we all did our utmost to distract
the bride and make her laugh; but in vain.</p>
<p>At Ille supper was waiting us, and what a supper!
If I had been disgusted at the coarse merriment of the
morning, I was still more so at the equivocations and
pleasantries of which the bridegroom and, above all, the
bride were the objects. The bridegroom, who had disappeared
for an instant before sitting down to table, was
pale and icily serious. Every other minute he took a
draught of old Collioure wine, almost as strong as
brandy. I was beside him, and I felt obliged to warn him:</p>
<p>“Take care! They say that wine....”</p>
<p>I told him some nonsense or other to put myself on a
level with the other guests.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span></p>
<p>He nudged me with his knee and, in an undertone, said
to me:</p>
<p>“When we rise from table ..., let me have a word
with you.”</p>
<p>His grave tone surprised me. I looked more attentively
at him, and I noticed the strange alteration in his features.</p>
<p>“Do you feel unwell?” I asked him.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>And he fell to drinking again.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, amid shouts and clapping of hands, a child
of eleven, who had slipped under the table, showed the
company a pretty white and pink ribbon which he had
just unfastened from the bride’s ankle. That was called
her garter. It was at once cut in pieces and distributed
to the young people, who decorated their buttonholes
with it, after an old custom, which is still maintained in
some patriarchal families. This caused the bride to
blush to the whites of her eyes.... But her distress
was at a height when M. de Peyrehorade, having called
for silence, sang her certain Catalan verses, impromptu,
he said. Here is the sense of them, if I understood it
aright:</p>
<p>“What is this, my friends! Has the wine which I have
drunk made me see double! There are two Venuses
here....”</p>
<p>The bridegroom suddenly looked round with an air
of alarm which made everybody laugh.</p>
<p>“Yes,” pursued M. de Peyrehorade, “there are
two Venuses under my roof. The one, I found in the
earth, like a truffle; the other, descended from the skies,
has just divided her girdle among us.”</p>
<p>He meant her garter.</p>
<p>“My son, choose which you prefer, the Roman Venus
or the Catalan Venus. The rascal takes the Catalan, and
his choice is the best. The Roman is black, the Catalan
is white. The Roman is cold, the Catalan sets every one
who approaches her on fire.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span></p>
<p>This conclusion excited such a roar, such noisy applause
and such resounding laughter, that I thought the ceiling
was going to fall on our heads. Round the table there
were only three solemn faces, the young couple’s and my
own. I had a bad headache; and besides, for some
reason or other, a marriage always depresses me. This
one, besides, rather disgusted me.</p>
<p>The last couplets having been sung by the depute
mayor—and very free they were, I ought to mention—we
went into the drawing-room to witness the retiral of
the bride, who was soon to be conducted to her chamber,
for it was near midnight. M. Alphonse drew me into a
window recess, and said, with averted eyes:</p>
<p>“You will laugh at me.... But I don’t know what
is wrong with me.... I am bewitched! Devil take me!”</p>
<p>The first thought which came into my head was
that he imagined himself threatened with some misfortune
similar to those mentioned by Montaigne and
Madame de Sévigné:</p>
<p>“The whole Empire of Love is replete with tragic
histories, etc.”</p>
<p>“I thought that sort of accidents never happened
except to persons of intelligence,” I said to myself.</p>
<p>“You’ve drunk too much Collioure, my dear Monsieur
Alphonse,” I said to him. “I warned you.”</p>
<p>“Yes, perhaps. But this is something much more
dreadful.”</p>
<p>His voice was broken. I really thought he was drunk.</p>
<p>“You know my ring?” he continued after a pause.</p>
<p>“What! Has it been taken away?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Then you have it, have you not?”</p>
<p>“No ... I ... I can’t get it off that devil of a Venus’s
finger.”</p>
<p>“A fine story! You’ve not pulled hard enough.”</p>
<p>“Not at all.... But the Venus.... She has closed
her finger.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span></p>
<p>He stared at me with a haggard face, supporting himself
by the window-fastening to keep himself from falling.</p>
<p>“A pretty tale!” I said to him. “You have pushed
the ring too far on. You’ll get it off to-morrow with
pincers. But take care not to spoil the statue.”</p>
<p>“I tell you no! The Venus’s finger is turned in,
crooked in; she has her hand clenched, do you understand?...
She is my wife, it seems, since I have given
her my ring.... She won’t give it back now.”</p>
<p>I felt a sudden shiver, and for an instant my flesh crept.
Then a great sigh that he gave sent a reek of wine
over to me, and all my emotion disappeared.</p>
<p>“The silly fool,” thought I, “is quite drunk.”</p>
<p>“You are an antiquary, sir,” the bridegroom added in
a lamentable tone; “you know about those statues ...
perhaps there is some spring, some devilment, that I
don’t know about.... Would you go and see?”</p>
<p>“Willingly,” I said. “Come along with me.”</p>
<p>“No, I’d rather you went alone.”</p>
<p>I went out of the drawing-room. The weather had
changed during supper, and the rain was beginning to
fall heavily. I was about to ask for an umbrella, when
a thought arrested me. I should be a great fool, I
said to myself, to go and verify what a drunk man had
told me! Besides, he perhaps wished to play some ill-natured
joke on me to make me a laughing-stock for those
good provincials; and the least that would result to me
from it would be to get soaked to the skin and catch a
bad cold.</p>
<p>From the door I cast a glance at the statue all running
with water, and I went upstairs to my room without
returning to the drawing-room. I went to bed; but
sleep was long of coming. All the scenes of the day presented
themselves to my mind. I thought of that young
girl, so lovely and so pure, left to the mercy of a brutal
drunkard. “What an odious thing,” I said to myself,
“a marriage of convenience is! A mayor puts on a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>
tricolour scarf, a parson a stole, and there, the most
respectable girl in the world is handed over to the
Minotaur! what can two beings who do not love each
other have to say to each other at a moment such as
this, a moment which two lovers would purchase at
the price of their lives? Can a woman ever love a man
whom she has once seen coarse? First impressions are
never effaced, and I am sure of this, that that M.
Alphonse will richly deserve to be hated....”</p>
<p>During my monologue, which I have shortened considerably,
I had heard a great deal of coming and going
in the house, doors opening and shutting, carriages
driving away; then I seemed to have heard the light
steps of a number of women on the stair, making for
the end of the corridor opposite to my room. It was
probably the bride’s attendants taking her to bed. In
course of time they had gone downstairs again. Madame
de Peyrehorade’s door was shut. How anxious and uneasy
that poor girl must be, I thought! I turned
about on my bed in a bad temper. A bachelor cuts
a foolish figure in a house where a marriage is being held.</p>
<p>Silence reigned for some time; then it was broken
by heavy steps climbing up the stair. The wooden treads
cracked loudly.</p>
<p>“The brute!” I exclaimed. “I’ll wager he’s going to
fall on the stairs.”</p>
<p>All became quiet again. I took a book to change
the course of my thoughts. It was a statistical account
of the department, graced with a memorandum by M.
de Peyrehorade on the druidical monuments of the
Prades hundred. I fell over at the third page.</p>
<p>I slept badly, and woke several times. It might be
about five o’clock in the morning, and I had been awake
twenty minutes or more, when the cock crew. Day
was about to dawn. Just then I heard distinctly the
same heavy steps, the same cracking of the stair, that
I had heard before falling asleep. It struck me as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>
strange. I yawned and tried to think why M. Alphonse
was rising so early in the morning. I could imagine
no likely reason. I was about to close my eyes again,
when my attention was excited anew by a strange
trampling, with which the ringing of bells and the sound
of doors being noisily opened soon mingled; then I made
out confused cries.</p>
<p>“My drunk friend has set the house afire somewhere!”
I thought, as I jumped down out of bed.</p>
<p>I dressed in a hurry and went out into the corridor.
From the opposite end came cries and lamentations, and
one heart-rending voice dominated all the others—” My
son! My son!” It was evident that some calamity had
happened to M. Alphonse. I ran to the nuptial chamber:
it was full of people. The first thing that met my view
was the young man half-clad, stretched across the bed,
the frame of which was broken. He was livid and motionless.
His mother was weeping and crying at his side.
M. de Peyrehorade was busy, rubbing his temples with
eau-de-Cologne, or holding smelling-salts to his nose.
Alas! his son had been dead for a long time. On a sofa
at the other end of the room was the bride, writhing in
horrible convulsions. She was uttering inarticulate
cries, and two strong servants had the utmost difficulty
in holding her.</p>
<p>“Good God!” I exclaimed, “whatever has happened?”</p>
<p>I went up to the bed and raised the unfortunate young
man’s body; it was already stiff and cold. His clenched
teeth and his blackened face gave evidence of the
most frightful agony. It was only too plain that his
end had been violent and his death-struggles terrible.
Yet there was no trace of blood on his clothes. I opened
his shirt, and on his chest I saw a livid mark, which
was continued round his ribs and back. One would have
thought that he had been crushed in a band of iron.</p>
<p>My foot trod upon something hard on the carpet;
I stooped down, and saw the diamond ring.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span></p>
<p>I drew M. de Peyrehorade and his wife into their room;
then I had the bride taken there.</p>
<p>“You have still a daughter,” I said to them, “you
owe her your care.” Then I left them alone.</p>
<p>There seemed to me no doubt that M. Alphonse
had been the victim of a murder, the perpetrators of
which had found means to let themselves in to the
bride’s room at night. Yet those bruises on his chest
and their circular direction puzzled me considerably,
for a stick or an iron bar could not have produced them.
All at once I remembered to have heard that the bravos
of Valencia make use of long bags of leather, stuffed with
fine sand, to knock down the persons whom they have
been paid to kill. I immediately remembered the
Aragonese muleteer and his threat; at the same time I
scarcely dared to think that he had taken such a terrible
revenge for a harmless joke.</p>
<p>I went about the house, searching everywhere for
traces of breaking in, without finding them anywhere.
I went down to the garden, to see whether the
murderers could have got in from that side; but I found
no certain traces there. Besides last night’s rain had so
soaked the earth that it could not have retained any very
sharp impression. All the same, I observed some footprints
deeply imprinted in the ground; they were in two
contrary directions, but in the same line, starting
from the corner of the hedge beside the tennis-court and
ending at the house-door. They might have been made
by M. Alphonse when he went to look for his ring on the
statue’s finger. On the other hand, the hedge at that
place was not so close as elsewhere; that must have been
the spot where the murderers crossed it. Passing and
repassing before the statue, I halted for a moment to
look at it. This time, I confess, I could not contemplate
its expression of ironical wickedness without
fear; and, my head full of the horrible scenes which I
had just witnessed, I seemed to behold an infernal deity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span>
applauding the misfortune which had overtaken that
house.</p>
<p>I got back to my room and remained there until
midday. Then I went to inquire for my hosts. They
were a little more composed. Mademoiselle de Puygarrig—I
ought to say M. Alphonse’s widow—had recovered
consciousness. She had even spoken with the
public prosecutor from Perpignan, who was then on
circuit at Ille, and that official had taken her deposition.
He asked for mine. I told him what I knew, and
did not conceal my suspicions about the Aragonese
muleteer. He ordered him to be arrested at once.</p>
<p>“Have you learned anything from Madame Alphonse?”
I asked the public prosecutor, when my deposition had
been written and signed.</p>
<p>“That unhappy young lady has gone out of her
mind,” he said to me with a sad smile. “Out of her
mind! Quite out! Here’s her story.</p>
<p>“She had been in bed, she says, for some minutes,
with the curtains drawn, when the door of her room
opened, and some one came in. Madame Alphonse was
then on the far side of the bed, with her face to the wall.
She did not move, being sure that it was her husband.
An instant later the bed groaned as if it was loaded
with an enormous weight. She was very much afraid,
but did not dare to turn her head. Five minutes, ten
minutes perhaps—she could form no notion of the
time—passed thus. Then she made an involuntary movement,
or rather the person who was in the bed made one,
and she felt the contact of something as cold as ice,
these are the expressions she used. She buried herself
in the far side of the bed, trembling in every limb. Shortly
afterwards the door opened a second time, and some one
entered, who said, ‛Good evening, my little wife.’ Very
soon after, the curtains were drawn aside. She heard
a smothered cry. The person who was in the bed beside
her sat up, and seemed to stretch forward his arms.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span>
She turned her head then ... and saw, she declares, her
husband on his knees at the bed-side, his head level with
the pillow, in the arms of a sort of greenish giant who
was hugging him with violence. She says, and she has
repeated it to me a score of times, poor woman! ... she
says that she recognized ... can you guess? The bronze
Venus, M. de Peyrehorade’s statue.... Since it came
into the neighbourhood, every one dreams about it.
But to resume the unhappy madwoman’s story. At
that sight she lost consciousness, and probably she had
already lost her reason some time before. She is quite
unable to say how long she continued in her faint. When
she came to herself, she still saw the phantom, or the
statue, as she always calls it, motionless, its legs and the
lower part of its body in the bed, its bust and arms
stretched over, and in its arms her husband, without
movement. A cock crew. The statue then got out of
the bed, let fall the corpse, and went out. Madame
Alphonse tore at the bell-pull, and you know the rest.”</p>
<p>They brought up the Spaniard; he was calm, and
defended himself with much coolness and presence of
mind. To be sure, he did not deny the saying which I
had heard; but he explained that all he meant by it
was that, next day, when he was rested, he would have
won a tennis-match from his conqueror. I recollect that
he added:</p>
<p>“When an Aragonese is affronted, he does not wait
till the next day to avenge himself. If I had thought
that M. Alphonse meant to insult me, I would have
given him one in the belly with my knife on the spot.”</p>
<p>They compared his shoes with the footprints in the
garden; his shoes were very much larger.</p>
<p>Finally the innkeeper, with whom the man had lodged,
affirmed that he had spent the whole night rubbing and
dosing one of his mules that was sick.</p>
<p>Moreover, this Aragonese was a man of good reputation,
well known in the neighbourhood, to which he came<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>
every year on his business. So they released him and
made their excuses to him.</p>
<p>I forgot the deposition of a servant, who had been
the last to see M. Alphonse in life. It was at the
moment when he was about to go upstairs to his wife,
and, calling the servant, he had asked him with an air of
anxiety, if he knew where I was. The servant answered
him that he had seen nothing of me. M. Alphonse then
heaved a sigh, and remained speechless for more than a
minute, then he said, “<em>Well, I declare, the devil must have
taken him away too!</em>”</p>
<p>I asked this man whether M. Alphonse had his diamond
ring when he spoke to him. The servant hesitated
about answering; at last he said that he thought no,
but that he really had not paid any attention.</p>
<p>“If he had had the ring on his finger,” he added, correcting
himself, “I should certainly have noticed it, for I
thought that he had given it to Madame Alphonse.”</p>
<p>While questioning this man I felt something of the
superstitious terror which Madame Alphonse’s deposition
had spread all through the house. The public prosecutor
looked at me with a smile, and I took good care not to
say anything more.</p>
<p>Some hours after M. Alphonse’s funeral, I made ready
to leave Ille. M. de Peyrehorade’s carriage was to take
me to Perpignan. In spite of his weak condition, the
poor old man insisted on accompanying me to the gate
of his garden. We crossed it in silence, he dragging
himself along painfully, leaning on my arm. At the
moment of our parting, I cast a last look on the Venus.
I could well foresee that my host, although he did not
share the terror and hatred with which it inspired a part
of his family, would wish to rid himself of an object which
would remind him unceasingly of a fearful calamity.
My intention was to get him to promise to place it in a
museum. I was hesitating about how to broach the
matter, when M. de Peyrehorade mechanically turned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span>
his head in the direction in which he saw me looking
fixedly. He caught sight of the statue, and at once
burst into tears. I embraced him, and, without venturing
to say a single word to him, got into the carriage.</p>
<p>Since my departure I have not learned that the
slightest fresh light has been shed upon this mysterious
catastrophe.</p>
<p>M. de Peyrehorade died some months after his son.
By his will he bequeathed to me his manuscripts, which
I shall perhaps publish some day. I have found no trace
whatever among them of the paper dealing with the
inscriptions on the Venus.</p>
<p><em>P.S.</em>—My friend M. de P. has just written to me
from Perpignan that the statue no longer exists. After
her husband’s death, Madame de Peyrehorade’s first
care was to have it melted down and made into a bell,
and in this new form it is doing duty at the church of
Ille. But, adds M. de P., it would appear that ill luck
pursues the owners of that bronze. Since this bell began
to ring at Ille the vines have twice been frosted.</p>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak">THE STORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD<br>
<small>ALFRED DE MUSSET</small></h2>
</div>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>How glorious, but how distressing a thing it is to be an
exceptional blackbird in this world! I am by no means
a fabulous bird, and M. de Buffon has described me.
But, alas! I am extremely rare, and very difficult to
find. Would God I had been utterly undiscoverable!</p>
<p>My father and mother were two good souls, who had
lived for a number of years at the bottom of a secluded
old garden in the Marais. Theirs was an exemplary
household. While my mother, squatted in a thick bush,
laid regularly three times a year, and sat on her eggs,
dozing, with patriarchal devotion, my father, still very
tidy and very smart despite his great age, kept pilfering
around her all day long, bringing her fine insects which
he held delicately by the tip of the tail, so as not to
disgust his wife, and, when night came, he never failed,
if the weather was fine, to regale her with a song,
which rejoiced the whole neighbourhood. Never a
quarrel, never the least cloud, had disturbed that sweet
union.</p>
<p>Scarcely had I come into the world, when my father,
for the first time in his life, began to show bad temper.
Although I was as yet only a dubious grey, he failed to
recognize in me either the colour, or the form of his
numerous posterity.</p>
<p>“There’s a dirty child,” he would sometimes say,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>
looking askance at me; “it looks as if that ragamuffin
must go and poke himself into every mortar-heap and
mud-heap he comes across, that he is always so ugly and
bespattered.”</p>
<p>“Eh, dear me, my friend,” answered my mother,
always curled into a ball in an old bowl, of which she
had made her nest, “don’t you see that it’s all you can
expect at his age? In your young days, weren’t you a
charming little pickle yourself? Let our blackbirdie
grow, and you’ll see how handsome he’ll be; he’s one
of the best I ever laid.”</p>
<p>Although thus taking my side, my mother was under
no delusion; she saw the growth of my fatal plumage,
which to her appeared a monstrosity; but she did as
mothers do, who often become partial to their infants
because of the very thing in which they are hardly used
by Nature, as if the fault were their own, or as if they
could repel in advance the injustice of fortune which
must strike their children.</p>
<p>When the time of my first moult came, my father
turned very pensive indeed, and considered me attentively.
So long as my feathers were coming out, he
continued to treat me kindly enough, and even gave me
some paste when he saw me shivering almost naked in
a corner; but as soon as my poor numbed wings began
to get a new covering of down, with each white feather
he saw appear, he flew into such a rage that I was afraid
he’d pluck me for the rest of my days. Alas! I had no
mirror; I knew not the cause of his anger, and I asked
myself why the best of fathers showed himself so
barbarous to me.</p>
<p>One day, when a ray of sunshine and my sprouting
plumage had, despite me, stirred my heart to joy, as I
was fluttering about in an alley, I started, unfortunately
for me, to sing. The first note that my father heard, he
sprang up in the air like a rocket.</p>
<p>“What is that I hear there?” he exclaimed. “Is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>
that how a blackbird whistles? Is that how I whistle?
Is that whistling?”</p>
<p>And, alighting beside my mother with a most terrible
countenance:</p>
<p>“Wretch!” he said, “who has been laying in your
nest?”</p>
<p>At these words my mother darted, deeply insulted,
out of her bowl, not without doing some damage to one
foot; she tried to speak, but her sobs choked her; she
fell on the ground half swooning. I saw her at the
point of death; terrified and trembling with fear I threw
myself at my father’s knees.</p>
<p>“O my father!” I said to him, “though I whistle
wrong, and though I am wrongly clad, don’t let my
mother be punished for it! Is it her fault if Nature has
denied me a voice like yours? Is it her fault if I have
not your handsome yellow beak and your fine black
French coat, which make you look like a churchwarden
swallowing an omelette? If Heaven has made a monster
of me, and if some one must be punished for it, let me
at least be the only one to suffer!”</p>
<p>“That is not the question,” said my father. “What
is the meaning of the absurd way in which you have just
now presumed to whistle? Who taught you to whistle
like that, contrary to all custom and all rule?”</p>
<p>“Alas! sir,” I answered humbly, “I whistled as I
could, because I felt merry that it was fine weather, and
perhaps because I had eaten too many flies.”</p>
<p>“We don’t whistle like that in my family,” retorted
my father, beside himself. “For centuries we have
whistled from father to son, and, when I make my voice
heard in the night, let me tell you that there is an old
gentleman here on the first floor and a little work-girl
in the attic, who open their windows to listen to me.
Is it not enough to have before my eyes the frightful
colour of your ridiculous feathers, which give you a
powdered look, like a clown at a fair? If I were not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span>
the most peaceable of blackbirds, I would have plucked
you naked a hundred times before now, for all the world
like a barn-door fowl ready for the spit.”</p>
<p>“Why then!” I exclaimed, revolted at my father’s
injustice, “if that is the case, sir, don’t let that stand
in your way! I will take myself off from your presence,
I will spare your eyes the sight of this unfortunate
white tail by which you drag me about all day long. I
will depart, sir, I will flee; plenty other children will
console your old age, since my mother lays three times a
year; I will go far from you to hide my misery, and
perhaps,” I added sobbing, “perhaps I shall find, in
some neighbour’s kitchen-garden, or on the gutters,
some earth-worms or some spiders to maintain my sad
existence.”</p>
<p>“As you will,” replied my father, far from being
softened at this speech; “let me never see you again!
You are not my son; you are not a blackbird.”</p>
<p>“And what am I then, sir, if you please?”</p>
<p>“I have no idea, but you are not a blackbird.”</p>
<p>After these crushing words, my father went off with
slow steps. My mother rose sadly, and went limping
to have her cry out in her bowl. As for me, confounded
and overcome, I took my flight as best I could, and I
went, as I had announced, to perch myself on the gutter
of a neighbouring house.</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>My father had the inhumanity to leave me for several
days in this mortifying situation. In spite of his violence,
he had a good heart, and, from the stolen looks
which he directed towards me, I saw well that he would
have liked to pardon me and recall me; my mother
especially looked up to me constantly with eyes full of
fondness, and sometimes even ventured to call me with
a little plaintive cry; but my horrible white plumage
caused them, in spite of themselves, a repugnance and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>
a terror for which, I saw well, there was no remedy
whatever.</p>
<p>“I am not a blackbird!” I repeated; and, in fact,
when preening myself in the morning and gazing at my
reflection in the water of the gutter, I recognized only
too clearly how little I resembled my family. “O
Heaven!” I repeated again, “do tell me what I am!”</p>
<p>One night, when it was raining in torrents, I was about
to go to sleep, worn out by hunger and vexation, when
I saw a bird settle beside me, more drenched, more
pallid, and more lean than I thought possible. He was
about my colour, so far as I could judge in the rain
which was deluging us, he had scarcely feathers enough
on his body to clothe a sparrow, and he was bigger than
myself. He seemed to me, at first sight, a poor and
necessitous bird indeed; but, in spite of the storm which
maltreated his almost clean-plucked brow, he preserved
an air of pride which charmed me. I modestly made
him a profound reverence, to which he responded with a
peck of his bill, which all but threw me down off the
gutter. Seeing that I scratched my ear and took myself
off with compunction, without trying to answer him in
his own language:</p>
<p>“Who are you?” he asked in a voice which was as
hoarse as his skull was bald.</p>
<p>“Alas, your Lordship,” I answered (fearing a second
thrust), “I have no idea. I thought I was a blackbird,
but they have convinced me that I am not one.”</p>
<p>The singularity of my answer, and my air of sincerity,
interested him. He came beside me, and made me tell
my story, a task of which I acquitted myself with all
the sadness and all the humility which were suitable
to my position and the fearful weather which we were
having.</p>
<p>“If you were a carrier-pigeon like me,” he said, after
having heard me, “the petty annoyances at which you
distress yourself would not disturb you one moment.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>
We travel, that is our life, and we have our loves, it
is true, but I do not know who my father is. To cleave
the air, to traverse space, to see the mountains and plains
beneath our feet, to breathe the very azure of the heavens,
not the exhalations of the earth, to fly like the arrow
to an appointed mark which never escapes us, that is our
pleasure and our existence. I travel farther in one day
than a man can do in ten.”</p>
<p>“Upon my word, sir,” I said, somewhat emboldened,
“you are a Bohemian bird.”</p>
<p>“That’s another thing about which I don’t much
trouble,” he replied. “I have no country at all; I know
only three things: my travels, my wife, and my little
ones. Where my wife is, there is my country.”</p>
<p>“But what have you hanging there at your neck?
It’s like an old, tattered curl-paper.”</p>
<p>“These are papers of importance,” he replied, puffing
himself out; I am going to Brussels this trip, and I am
taking news to the celebrated banker X—— which will
make the funds fall one franc seventy-eight centimes.”</p>
<p>“Gracious goodness!” I exclaimed, “it is a fine life
yours, and Brussels, I am sure, must be a town well worth
seeing. Could you not take me with you? Since I am
not a blackbird, I am perhaps a carrier-pigeon.”</p>
<p>“If you were one,” he replied, “you would have
returned that peck which I gave you a moment ago.”</p>
<p>“Why, sir, I’ll return it to you; don’t let us quarrel
over such a trifle. See, the morning is appearing and
the storm is subsiding. Pray let me follow you! I am
lost, I have nothing left me in the world;—if you refuse
me, there is nothing for it but to drown myself in this
gutter.”</p>
<p>“Very well then, go ahead! Follow me if you can.”</p>
<p>I took a last look at the garden where my mother
was sleeping. A tear rolled from my eyes; the wind
and rain carried it away. I spread my wings, and
set out.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span></p>
<h3>III</h3>
<p>My wings, I have said, were not very strong yet.
While my guide went like the wind, I panted at his
side; I kept up for some time, but soon such a violent
dizziness seized me that I felt as if I should faint.</p>
<p>“Is there far to go yet?” I asked in a weak voice.</p>
<p>“No,” he answered me, “we are at Bourget; we
have only sixty leagues to do now.”</p>
<p>I tried to take fresh courage, not wishing to look like
a draggled hen, and flew another quarter of an hour, but,
for once, I was done up.</p>
<p>“Sir,” I stammered afresh, “couldn’t we stop here a
moment? I have a horrible thirst, which is torturing
me, and, if we perched on a tree....”</p>
<p>“Go to the devil! You’re a blackbird!” answered
the carrier-pigeon in a rage.</p>
<p>And, without deigning to turn his head, he continued
his journey in high dudgeon. As for me, dazed and
blind, I fell into a corn-field.</p>
<p>I do not know how long my faint lasted. When I
recovered consciousness, the first thing that I remembered
was the carrier-pigeon’s last words; “You’re only
a blackbird,” he had told me.—” Oh my dear parents,”
I thought, “you were wrong then! I will return to
you; you will recognize me as your true and lawful
child, and you will restore me my place in that dear
little heap of leaves which is below my mother’s bowl.”</p>
<p>I made an effort to rise; but the fatigue of my journey
and the pain which I felt from my fall paralysed all my
limbs. Scarcely had I stood up on my feet, when the
faintness seized me once more and I fell again on
my side.</p>
<p>The frightful thought of death was already presenting
itself to my mind, when, across the cornflowers and
poppies, I saw two charming persons coming towards
me on tiptoe. One was a little magpie, very neatly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>
marked and extremely coquettish, and the other a rose-coloured
turtle-dove. The turtle halted some paces from
me, with an intense air of modesty and of compassion
for my misfortune; but the magpie came up to me
hopping in the most graceful manner in the world.</p>
<p>“Eh, dear me, poor child, what are you doing there?”
she asked me in a playful and silvery voice.</p>
<p>“Alas! my Lady Marchioness,” I answered (for she
must have been that at least), “I am a poor devil of a
traveller whom his postilion has dropped by the roadside,
and I am in a fair way of dying of hunger.”</p>
<p>“Holy Virgin! Do you tell me so!” she responded.</p>
<p>And she at once began to flit here and there upon the
bushes which surrounded us, coming and going from one
side to the other, bringing me a quantity of berries and
fruits, of which she made a little heap beside me, continuing
her questions all the time.</p>
<p>“But who are you? And where do you come from?
What an incredible adventure yours is! And where are
you going? Fancy travelling alone, so young, for you are
only coming out of your first moult! What do your
parents do? Where do they come from? How did they
come to let you away in that state? Why, it’s enough
to make one’s feathers stand on end!”</p>
<p>While she was talking, I had raised myself a little on
one wing, and I ate with a good appetite. The turtle
remained motionless, always looking at me with an air
of pity. Meanwhile she noticed that I was looking
about with an exhausted air, and she understood that
I was thirsty. A drop from the rain which had fallen
during the night was left on a scrap of pimpernel; she
timidly gathered this drop in her beak and brought it
to me quite fresh. Certainly, if I had not been so ill,
such a reserved person would never have ventured on
such a proceeding.</p>
<p>I did not yet know what love was, but my heart beat
violently. Divided between two varying emotions, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span>
was possessed by an inexplicable pleasure. My table-maid
was so gay, my cup-bearer so effusive and gentle,
that I could have wished to go on breakfasting thus to
all eternity. Unfortunately everything has an end, even
a convalescent’s appetite. The repast finished and my
strength restored, I satisfied the little magpie’s curiosity
and related my misfortunes to her with as much sincerity
as I had told them the evening before to the pigeon.
The magpie listened to me with more attention than
seemed natural to her, and the turtle gave me some
charming tokens of her profound sensibility. But when
I came to touch on the prime cause of my troubles, that
is to say my ignorance as to what I was:</p>
<p>“Are you joking?” the pie exclaimed; “You a blackbird!
You a pigeon! Fie! you are a magpie, my dear
child, a magpie, if ever there was one—and a very
pretty magpie,” she added, giving me a little blow with
her wing, a tap with her fan, so to speak.</p>
<p>“But, my Lady Marchioness,” I answered, “it seems
to me that, for a magpie, my colour, if you’ll excuse me
saying so....”</p>
<p>“A Russian magpie, my dear; you are a Russian
magpie! Don’t you know that they are white? Poor
boy, what innocence!”</p>
<p>“But, madam,” I replied, “how should I be a Russian
magpie, when I was born in the Marais in an old broken
bowl?”</p>
<p>“Ah! the dear child! You are one of the invaders,
my dear; do you fancy that you are the only one?
Leave it to me, and do as I bid you; I’ll take you with
me this very hour, and show you the finest things in the
world.”</p>
<p>“Where is that, madam, if you please?”</p>
<p>“In my green palace, my darling; you’ll see what a
life we lead there. You’ll not have been a magpie a
quarter of an hour, before you’ll want to hear tell of no
other thing. There are a hundred of us there; not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span>
those great village magpies, who beg alms on the high
roads, but all noble and well-bred, slim, active, and no
bigger than a fist. Not one of us but has neither more
nor less than seven black bars and five white bars; that
is an invariable rule, and we despise everybody else.
You have not the black marks, it is true, but your quality
of Russian will be enough to secure your admission.
Our life is spent in two things, chattering and tittivating.
From morning to midday we tittivate, and from
midday to evening we chatter. Each of us perches on a
tree, as lofty and old as possible. In the middle of the
forest rises an immense oak, uninhabited alas! It was
the dwelling of the late King Pie X., whither we used
to go in pilgrimage, heaving mighty great sighs; but,
apart from this little sadness, we pass the time wonderfully.
Our wives are not prudes, any more than our
husbands are jealous, but our pleasures are pure and
honest, because our heart is as noble as our language is
frank and joyous. Our pride has no bounds, and, if a
jay or any other low fellow should chance to thrust
himself in among us, we pluck him without mercy. But
that does not prevent us from being the best neighbours
in the world, and the sparrows, the tomtits, and the
goldfinches, who live in our copses, find us always ready
to help them, to feed them, and to defend them.
Nowhere is there more chattering than among us, and
nowhere less evil speaking. We are not without some
old devotee magpies, who say their paternosters all day
long, but the giddiest young gossip among us can pass,
without fear of a peck, close to the severest dowager.
In a word, we live on pleasure, on honour, on gossip,
on glory, and on dress.”</p>
<p>“That is very fine indeed, madam,” I replied, “and I
should certainly be ill-advised not to obey the orders of
a person like you. But, before having the honour of
following you, allow me, by your leave, to say a word
to this good young lady here. Mademoiselle,” I continued,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>
addressing myself to the turtle, “tell me frankly,
I entreat you, do you think that I am really a Russian
magpie?”</p>
<p>At this question, the turtle hung down her head, and
turned pink, like Lolotte’s ribbons.</p>
<p>“Why, sir,” she said, “I don’t know if I can....”</p>
<p>“In Heaven’s name, speak, mademoiselle! I have not
the slightest intention of offending you, quite the contrary.
You both look so charming to me, that I here
and now vow to offer my heart and my claw to whichever
of you will accept it, the moment I know if I am a
magpie or something else; for, when I look at you,” I
added, speaking in a lower tone to the young lady, “I
feel a something of the turtle-dove about me, which
torments me strangely.”</p>
<p>“Why, to be sure,” said the turtle, blushing still more,
“I do not know if it is the reflection of the sun striking
on you through these poppies, but your plumage does
seem to me to have a slight tint....”</p>
<p>She did not venture to say more.</p>
<p>“O perplexity!” I exclaimed, “how am I to know
what to believe? How give my heart to one of you,
when it is so cruelly torn asunder? O Socrates! how
admirable, but how hard to follow, the principle thou
hast given us, when thou saidst, ‛Know thyself!’”</p>
<p>Since the day when my unfortunate song had so
enraged my father, I had never made use of my voice.
At this juncture it came into my mind to employ it as
a means of discerning the truth. “By Jove,” thought I,
“since my father put me to the door after the first
couplet, the least the second can do is to produce some
effect on these ladies!” Having, then, commenced by
bowing politely, as if to request their indulgence because
of the rain which I had come through, I began first of
all to whistle, then to warble, then to do roulades, then
at last to sing at the pitch of my voice, like a Spanish
muleteer in full blast.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span></p>
<p>The longer I sang, the farther and farther the little
magpie made off from me with an air of surprise, which
soon became stupefaction, then turned into a feeling of
terror mingled with profound weariness. She described
circles round about me, like a cat about a piece of scalding
hot bacon which has just burned her, but which she
wishes to taste again. Seeing the effect of my experiment,
and wishing to carry it out to the end, the more
impatience the poor Marchioness showed, the more I
sang myself hoarse. She resisted my melodious efforts
for five-and-twenty minutes; at last, unable to stand
them any longer, she flew away noisily and returned
to her palace of verdure. As for the turtle, she had been
sound asleep almost from the first.</p>
<p>“Admirable effect of harmony!” I reflected. “O
Marais! O maternal bowl! More than ever my thoughts
return to you!”</p>
<p>At the moment when I was spreading my wings to
depart, the turtle reopened her eyes.</p>
<p>“Adieu,” she said, “stranger, so polite and so tiresome!
My name is Guruli; remember me!”</p>
<p>“Beauteous Guruli,” I answered, “you are good,
gentle and charming; I would live and die for you.
But you are rose-colour; such happiness is not meant
for me!”</p>
<h3>IV</h3>
<p>The unfortunate effect produced by my song did not
fail to sadden me. “Alas, music; alas, poesy!” I
repeated on my way back to Paris, “How few hearts
there are which comprehend you!”</p>
<p>Whilst making these reflections, I bumped my head
against another bird’s who was flying in the opposite
direction to me. The shock was so violent and so unexpected
that we both fell down on a tree-top, which, by
good luck, was there. After shaking ourselves a bit, I
eyed the new comer, expecting a quarrel. I was surprised<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span>
to see that he was white. To tell the truth, he
had a head somewhat bigger than myself, and over his
brow a sort of crest, which gave him a mock-heroic
appearance. Besides that, he carried his tail well up in
the air, with great magnanimity; however, he did not
seem at all disposed to do battle. We addressed each
other very civilly, and made our mutual excuses, after
which we entered into conversation. I took the liberty
of asking him his name and what country he came from.</p>
<p>“I am astonished,” he said to me, “that you do not
know me. Are you not one of us?”</p>
<p>“To tell the truth, sir,” I answered, “I do not know
whom I belong to. Every one asks me and says the
same thing to me; it must be a wager that they have
made.”</p>
<p>“You are joking,” he said; “your plumage becomes
you too well for me not to recognize a brother. You
belong unmistakably to that illustrious and venerable
race which is entitled in Latin <em>cacatua</em>, in learned
language <em>kakatoës</em>, and in vulgar jargon cockatoo.”</p>
<p>“Faith, sir, that is possible, and it would be a great
honour indeed for me. But do not let that prevent you
from acting as if I were not one, and have the condescension
to inform me whom I have the honour of
addressing.”</p>
<p>“I am,” responded the unknown, “the great poet
Kacatogan. I have made mighty travels, sir, arid passages,
and cruel peregrinations. It was not yesterday
that I began to rhyme, and my Muse has had her misfortunes.
I have warbled under Louis XVI., sir, I have
bawled for the Republic, I have nobly sung the Empire,
I have discreetly lauded the Restoration, I have even
made an effort in these last times, and have submitted,
not without difficulty, to the exigencies of this tasteless
century. I have launched on the world piquant distichs,
sublime hymns, gracious dithyrambs, pious elegies, long-haired
dramas, woolly romances, powdered vaudevilles,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span>
and bald tragedies. In a word, I can flatter myself with
having added to the Temple of the Muses some gallant
festoons, some sombre battlements, and some ingenious
arabesques. What more do you want? I have grown
old. But I still rhyme vigorously, sir, and such as you
see me now, I was dreaming over a poem in one canto,
which would be at least six pages long, when you gave
me a bump on my brow. Nevertheless, if I can help
you in any way, I am entirely at your service.”</p>
<p>“Indeed you can, sir,” I replied, “for you find me at
this moment in a serious poetical difficulty. I do not
presume to say that I am a poet, still less a great poet,
such as you,” I added, bowing to him, “but Nature has
endowed me with a throat, which itches when I am at
ease or when I am vexed. To tell you the truth, I am
absolutely ignorant of the rules.”</p>
<p>“I have forgotten them,” said Kacatogan, “don’t
worry yourself about that.”</p>
<p>“But an annoying thing happens to me,” I replied;
“my voice produces an effect on those who hear it,
almost the same as that which a certain Jean de
Nivelle’s produced on.... You know what I mean?”</p>
<p>“I know,” said Kacatogan; “I have seen this odd
effect in my own experience. The cause of it is unknown
to me, but the effect is indisputable.”</p>
<p>“Well then, sir, you who seem to me to be the Nestor
of poesy, can you suggest, I entreat you, a remedy for
this painful drawback?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Kacatogan, “for my own part, I have
never been able to find one. I was much exercised
about it when I was young, because they always hissed
me; but nowadays I have ceased to think about it
I suspect that this repugnance arises from what the
public reads by others than ourselves: that distracts its
attention.”</p>
<p>“I am of your opinion; but you will agree, sir, that
it is very hard for a well-intentioned creature to put<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span>
people to flight the moment a good impulse seizes him.
Would you be so kind as do me the service of listening
to me, and giving me your frank opinion?”</p>
<p>“Most willingly,” said Kacatogan; “I am all ears.”</p>
<p>I at once began to sing, and I had the satisfaction
of seeing that Kacatogan neither fled nor fell asleep.
He stared at me fixedly, and from time to time nodded
his head with an air of approval, and with a sort of
murmur of commendation. But I soon saw that he was
not listening to me, and was dreaming of his poem.
Taking advantage of a moment when I was taking
breath, he interrupted me all at once.</p>
<p>“I have found that rhyme after all!” he cried, smiling
and wagging his head; “it is the sixty-thousand-seven-hundred-and-fourteenth
that has come out of this brain
of mine! And they have the audacity to say that I
am ageing! I’ll go and read it to my kind friends, I’ll
go and read it to them, and we’ll see what they have to
say to it!”</p>
<p>So speaking, he took flight and disappeared, apparently
having quite forgotten that he had met me.</p>
<h3>V</h3>
<p>Left alone and disappointed, the best thing I could
do was to take advantage of what was left of the day,
and fly at the full stretch of my wings towards Paris.
Unfortunately I did not know my way. My journey
with the pigeon had been too agreeable to leave me with
any very exact recollection; so, instead of going straight
on, I turned to the left at Bourget, and, overtaken by
the night, was obliged to seek a resting-place in the
woods of Morfontaine.</p>
<p>They were all going to bed when I arrived. The
magpies and jays, who, as every one knows, are the
worst bedfellows in the world, were squabbling on every
hand. In the bushes the sparrows were chirruping and
treading one upon another. At the water’s edge two<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span>
herons were stalking gravely, perched on their long
stilts, in the attitude of meditation, the George Dandins
of the place, waiting patiently for their wives. Some
enormous crows, half asleep, were settling themselves
heavily on the tops of the highest trees, and were
snuffling their evening prayers. Lower down, the
amorous tits were still pursuing one another in the
copses, whilst a dishevelled woodpecker was pushing
her family from behind to make them go into the
hollow of a tree. Troops of hedge-sparrows returned
from the fields, dancing in the air like puffs of smoke,
and swooping down upon a shrub, which they covered
entirely; chaffinches, warblers, redbreasts arranged themselves
lightly on detached branches, like the crystals on
a chandelier. On every hand voices resounded, saying
as plainly as could be: “Come, my wife! Come, my
girl!—Come to me, my fair one!—This way, my sweet!—Here
I am, my dear!—Good evening, my mistress!—Adieu,
my friends!—Sound sleep, my children!”</p>
<p>What a situation for a bachelor to have to sleep in
such a guesthouse! I was tempted to attach myself to
some birds of my own build, and ask hospitality of
them. “At night,” I reflected, “all birds are grey;
and, besides, does one do any harm to people by sleeping
politely beside them?”</p>
<p>I made my way first of all to a ditch, where the
starlings were assembling. They were dressing for the
night with very great care, and I noticed that the most
of them had gilded wings and varnished claws; they
were the dandies of the forest. They were good enough
fellows, and did not honour me with any attention. But
their talk was so empty, and they related their petty
quarrels and their conquests with such fatuity, and made
up to one another so clumsily, that it was impossible for
me to stay there.</p>
<p>I next went to perch myself on a branch where half
a dozen birds of different sorts were in a row. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span>
modestly took the last place, at the extremity of the
branch, in the hope that they would tolerate me. As
ill luck would have it, my neighbour was an old dove, as
dry as a rusty weather-cock. At the moment when I
came near her, the few feathers which covered her bones
were the object of her solicitude; she pretended to
preen them, but she was too much afraid of pulling one
out; she merely passed them in review to see if she had
her count. Scarcely had I touched her with the tip of
my wing, when she drew herself up majestically.</p>
<p>“What do you mean, sir?” she said to me, compressing
her beak with a modesty quite British.</p>
<p>And, fetching me a great nudge with her elbow, she
sent me down with a vigour that would have done
honour to a porter.</p>
<p>I fell into a clump of heather, where a fat woodhen
was sleeping. My own mother in her bowl did not
have such an air of bliss. She was so plump, so full-blown,
so well set on her triple stomach, that one would
have taken her for a pie of which the crust had been
eaten. I crept furtively in beside her. “She won’t
wake,” I said to myself, “and in any case such a good
fat mammy can’t be very cross.” No more she was.
She half opened her eyes, and said to me, with a slight
sigh:</p>
<p>“You’re bothering me, child; go away.”</p>
<p>At the same instant I heard some one calling me: it
was some thrushes who were making signs to me from
the top of a mountain-ash to come to them. “Here are
some kind souls at last,” I thought. They made room
for me, laughing like mad, and I slipped into their
feathery group as promptly as a love-letter into a muff.
But I was not long in concluding that those ladies had
eaten more grapes than was wise; they could scarcely
support themselves on the branches, and their ill-bred
jokes, their outbursts of laughter and their decidedly
free songs forced me to take my departure.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span></p>
<p>I began to despair, and I was about to go to sleep in
a solitary corner, when a nightingale began to sing.
Everybody at once became silent. Alas! how pure his
voice was, how his very melancholy appeared sweet! So
far from disturbing the slumbers of others, his harmonies
seemed to lull them to sleep. No one dreamt of silencing
him, no one found fault with him for singing his song
at such an hour; his father did not beat him, his friends
did not take flight.</p>
<p>“Is there no one, then, but me,” I cried, “who is
forbidden to be happy? Let us depart, let us flee this
cruel world! Better to seek my way amid the darkness,
at the risk of being devoured by some owl, than to let
myself be thus tortured by the sight of others’ happiness.</p>
<p>With this thought I set out again, and wandered a long
time at random. With the first streak of day I descried
the towers of Notre Dame. In the twinkling of an eye I
had reached it, and I did not cast my eyes around long
before I recognized our garden. I flew thither quicker
than lightning.... Alas, it was empty!... I called
in vain for my parents: no one answered me. The tree
where my father used to post himself, the maternal
bush, the dear bowl, all had disappeared. The axe had
destroyed everything; instead of the green alley where
I was born, there remained only a hundred of faggots.</p>
<h3>VI</h3>
<p>At first I searched for my parents in all the gardens
round about, but it was wasted labour; they had without
doubt taken refuge in some far-off quarter, and I should
never be able to get news of them.</p>
<p>Overcome by a dreadful sorrow, I went to perch myself
on the gutter to which my father’s anger had first exiled
me. I passed days and nights there in deploring my
sad existence. I had no more sleep, I scarcely ate: I
was like to die of grief.</p>
<p>One day, when I was lamenting as usual:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span></p>
<p>“So then,” I said aloud, “I am neither a blackbird,
for my father plucked me; nor a pigeon, since I fell by
the way when I wanted to go to Belgium; nor a Russian
magpie, since the little Marchioness stopped her ears
the moment I opened my beak; nor a turtle-dove, since
Guruli, even the good Guruli, snored like a monk when
I was singing; nor a parrot, since Kacatogan did not
deign to listen to me; nor a bird of any kind, in short,
since at Morfontaine they let me sleep all by myself.
And yet I have feathers on my body; here are claws
and here are wings. I am no monster, witness Guruli,
and even the little Marchioness, who found me quite to
their taste. By what inexplicable mystery can these
feathers, these wings, these claws not form a total to
which a name might be given? Can I not by any
chance be....”</p>
<p>I was about to continue my lamentations, when I was
interrupted by two market-women disputing in the street.</p>
<p>“Why, hang me,” said one of them to the other, “if
you ever manage it, I’ll make you a present of a white
blackbird!”</p>
<p>“Merciful Heaven!” I exclaimed, “that’s my case. O
Providence! I am the son of a blackbird, and I am white:
I am a white blackbird!”</p>
<p>This discovery, it must be acknowledged, altered my
ideas considerably. Instead of continuing to lament my
lot, I began to puff out my chest and march proudly
up and down the gutter, looking into space with a
victorious air.</p>
<p>“It’s something,” I said to myself, “to be a white
blackbird: that isn’t found in a donkey’s stride. I was
very simple to distress myself at not finding my like:
it is the fate of genius, it is mine! I meant to flee the
world: now I mean to astonish it! Since I am this
bird without a peer, of which the vulgar deny the
existence, I ought, and I mean, to comport myself as
such, nothing more or less than the Phœnix, and to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span>
despise the rest of the winged race. I must buy the
memoirs of Alfieri and the poems of Lord Byron; that
substantial pabulum will inspire me with a noble pride;
without reckoning that which God has given me. Yes,
I mean to add, if that is possible, to the lustre of my
birth. Nature has made me rare; I will make myself
mysterious. It will be a favour, a glory, to see me.
And, indeed,” I added in a lower tone, “supposing I
show myself frankly for money?</p>
<p>“But shame! What an unworthy thought! I mean
to make a poem, like Kacatogan, not in one canto, but
in twenty-four, like all the great men; that is not
enough, there will be forty-eight, with notes and an
appendix! The universe must learn of my existence. I
shall not fail, in my verses, to deplore my loneliness;
but I shall do it in such a way that the most fortunate
will envy me. Since Heaven has refused me a mate, I
will say frightful evil of those of others. I will prove
that everything is too sour, except the grapes which I
eat. The nightingales must look to themselves; I will
demonstrate, as sure as two and two make four, that
their complaints make one sick, and that their wares are
worth nothing. I must go and find Charpentier. I
mean to establish a strong literary position for myself
at the very start. I intend to have a court about me
composed not only of journalists, but of real authors
and even of women writers. I’ll write a rôle for
Mademoiselle Rachel, and, if she refuses to take it, I’ll
publish with sound of trumpet that her talent is much
inferior to that of an old provincial actress. I will go
to Venice and I’ll hire on the banks of the Grand Canal,
in the heart of that fairy city, the beautiful Mocenigo
Palace, which costs four livres ten sous a day; there I
will inspire myself with all the souvenirs which the
author of ‛Lara’ must have left in it. From the depth
of my solitude I will inundate the world with a deluge
of alternate rhymes, modelled on the Spenserian stanza,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>
wherewith I shall solace my great soul; I shall make
all the tomtits sigh, all the turtles coo, all the woodcocks
dissolve in tears, and all the old screech-owls screech.
But, as regards my own person, I will prove inexorable
and inaccessible to love. In vain will they press me,
supplicate me to have pity on the unfortunates whom
my sublime songs have led astray; to all that I will
answer ‛Faugh!’ O superabundance of glory! My
manuscripts will sell for their weight in gold, my books
will traverse the seas; renown, fortune, will attend me
everywhere; I alone shall seem indifferent to the murmurs
of the crowd which will surround me. In one
word, I will be a perfect white blackbird, a veritable
eccentric author, fêted, petted, admired, envied, but
utterly surly and insupportable.”</p>
<h3>VII</h3>
<p>It did not take me more than six weeks to give my
first work to the world. It was, as I had promised
myself, a poem in forty-eight cantos. True there were
some negligences in it owing to the prodigious fecundity
with which I had written it; but I reckoned that the
public of to-day, accustomed as it is to the elegant
literature at the foot of the newspapers, would not
reproach me with them.</p>
<p>I had a success worthy of myself, that is to say, without
its like. The subject of my work was nothing else than
myself: in this respect I conformed to the height of
fashion of our day. I related my past sufferings with a
charming fatuity; I informed the reader of a thousand
domestic details of the most piquant interest; the
description of my mother’s bowl filled no less than
fourteen cantos: I counted its grooves, its holes, its
lumps, its chips, its splinters, its nails, its stains, its
different colours, its reflections; I showed its inside, its
outside, its edges, its bottom, its sides, its inclined planes
and its level planes; passing to its contents, I gave<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span>
studies of the tufts of grass, the straws, the dried leaves,
the little scraps of wood, the pebbles, the drops of
water, the remains of flies, the broken cockchafers’ legs,
which were to be found there; it was a ravishing
description. But do not imagine that I had it printed
all in a piece; there are impertinent readers who would
have skipped it. I had cleverly cut it into pieces, and
worked it into the narrative in such a fashion that
none of it was lost; so that at the most interesting and
most dramatic moment, all of a sudden there came
fifteen pages of bowl. There, in my opinion, is one of
the great secrets of the art, and, as there is not the least
trace of avarice about me, any one who likes may profit
by it.</p>
<p>All Europe was in a stir at the appearance of my
book; it devoured the intimate revelations which I condescended
to communicate to it. How could it have
been otherwise? Not only did I enumerate all the facts
relative to my person, but I also gave the public a
complete picture of all the moonshine that I had passed
through my head since the age of two months; I had
even intercalated, in the best place, an ode composed
by me in the egg. At the same time, it is needless to
say that I did not neglect, in passing, to discuss the
great subject which is occupying the world so much
nowadays, to wit, the future of the human race. This
problem had struck me as interesting; in a leisure
moment I had sketched a solution of it, which passed
generally for satisfying.</p>
<p>Every day people sent me compliments in verse, letters
of congratulation, and anonymous declarations of love.
As for visits, I adhered rigorously to the plan which I
had traced for myself; my door was shut to every one.
Still, I could not debar myself from seeing two strangers
who announced themselves as relations of mine. One
was a blackbird from Senegal, and the other a blackbird
from China.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span></p>
<p>“Ah, sir!” they said to me, embracing me like to
choke me, “what a great blackbird you are! How well
you have depicted, in your immortal poem, the deep-seated
suffering of misunderstood genius! If we were
not as unappreciated as possible already, we should
become so after having read you. How we sympathize
with your griefs, with your sublime contempt of the
vulgar. We also, sir, we know from our own experience
the secret pains which you have sung! Here are two
sonnets which we have composed, such as they are, and
which we beg you to accept.”</p>
<p>“Here also,” said the Chinese, “is some music which
my wife has composed on a passage in your preface. It
expresses the author’s intention most wonderfully.”</p>
<p>“Gentlemen,” I said to them, “so far as I can judge,
you appear to me to be endowed with a great heart and
an enlightened mind. But excuse me asking you a
question. Whence proceeds your melancholy?”</p>
<p>“Why, sir,” replied the inhabitant of Senegal, “look
how I am built. My plumage, it is true, is pleasant to
look at, and I am clad in that handsome green colour
which is seen shining on ducks; but my beak is too
short and my foot too large; and see what a tail I am
rigged out with! The length of my body does not
make two-thirds of it. Is that not reason enough to
wish oneself dead and done with?”</p>
<p>“And as for me, sir,” said the Chinese, “my misfortune
is even more distressing. My brother’s tail sweeps
the streets; but the street-boys point their finger at me
because I have no tail at all.”</p>
<p>“Gentlemen,” I replied, “I pity you with all my
soul; it is always annoying to have too much or too
little of anything, no matter what it is. But permit
me to tell you that in the Zoological Gardens there are
several persons who resemble you, and who have stayed
there a long time very peaceably, stuffed. Just as it
is not enough for a woman author to cast aside all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span>
modesty in order to write a good book, no more is it
enough for a blackbird to be discontented in order to
have genius. I am the only one of my kind; and I
grieve over the fact; perhaps I am wrong, but I am
within my rights. I am white, gentlemen; become the
same, and we’ll see what you’ll be able to say.”</p>
<h3>VIII</h3>
<p>In spite of the resolution which I had formed and the
calm which I had affected, I was not happy. My
isolation, though glorious, did not seem to me less
painful, and I could not reflect without dread on the
necessity, under which I found myself, of passing all
my life in celibacy. The return of spring, in particular,
caused me mortal discomfort, and I was beginning to
relapse into my old melancholy, when an unforeseen
circumstance decided my whole life.</p>
<p>It need hardly be said that my writings had crossed
the Channel, and that the English made a run upon them.
The English make a run upon everything, except the
things they understand. One day I received a letter
from London, signed by a young lady blackbird: “I
have read your poem,” she said to me, “and the admiration
which I felt has caused me to form the resolution
of offering you my hand and my person. God has
created us for each other! I am like you, I am a
white young lady blackbird!...”</p>
<p>My surprise and my joy may be easily imagined.
“A white young lady blackbird!” I said to myself.
“Is it really possible? Then I am no longer alone
upon the earth!” I hastened to reply to the fair
unknown, and I did so in a manner which showed
plainly enough how much her offer was to my mind. I
pressed her to come to Paris, or to permit me to fly to
her. She replied that she preferred to come herself,
because her parents bored her, that she was arranging
her affairs, and that I should see her very soon.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span></p>
<p>She did indeed come some days later. O joy! she was
the prettiest lady blackbird in the world, and she was
even whiter than myself.</p>
<p>“Ah, mademoiselle!” I exclaimed, “or rather madam,
for I regard you from this moment as my lawful wife, is
it credible that such a charming creature should have
existed on the earth without fame informing me of her
existence? Blessed be the misfortunes which I have
experienced and the pecks which my father has given
me, since Heaven reserved me a consolation so unhoped-for!
Until this day I thought myself condemned to an
eternal solitude, and, to speak frankly to you, it was a
heavy burden to bear; but when I see you I feel within
me all the qualities of a father of a family. Accept
my hand without delay; let us be married English
fashion, without ceremony, and go away together to
Switzerland.”</p>
<p>“I won’t hear of that,” said the young lady blackbird;
“I mean our marriage to be magnificent, and all the
blackbirds in France, who are anything like well-born,
to be solemnly gathered to it. People like us owe it to
their own reputation not to get married like cats in the
gutter. I have brought a supply of bank-notes with me.
Write out your invitations, go to your tradesmen, and
don’t be stingy with the refreshments.”</p>
<p>I conformed blindly to the white lady blackbird’s
orders. Our wedding was of overwhelming magnificence;
they ate ten thousand flies at it. We received
the nuptial benediction from a Reverend Father Cormorant,
who was archbishop <em>in partibus</em>. The day
finished up with a superb ball; in short nothing was
wanting to my happiness.</p>
<p>The more deeply I understood the character of my
charming wife, the more my love increased. She united
in her little person all advantages of soul and body.
Her only fault was that she was somewhat strait-laced;
but I attributed this to the influence of the English fogs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>
in which she had lived hitherto, and I had no doubt that
the climate of France would soon dissipate this slight
cloud.</p>
<p>A thing which disquieted me more seriously was a sort
of mystery, in which she sometimes wrapped herself
with singular strictness, locking herself in with her lady’s
maids, and so passing hours together at her toilette, as
she pretended. Husbands do not much like such whims
in their households. A score of times it happened that
I knocked at my wife’s apartments without getting the
door opened. This vexed me cruelly. One day I insisted
with so much ill temper, that she found herself obliged
to accede and open to me for a moment, not without
complaining bitterly of my importunity. I noticed, on
entering, a great bottle full of a sort of paste made with
flour and Spanish whiting. I asked my wife what she
did with that concoction, and she replied that it was
a soothing application for some chilblains that she had.</p>
<p>This soothing application seemed to me just a little
suspicious; but what distrust could be excited in me by
a person so gentle and discreet, who had surrendered
herself to me with such enthusiasm and such perfect
sincerity? I did not know at first that my well-beloved
was a woman of the pen; she made the avowal in course
of time, and she even went so far as to show me the
manuscript of a novel in which she had imitated at one
and the same time Walter Scott and Scarron. I leave
you to imagine the agreeable surprise which such a discovery
caused me. Not only did I see myself the
possessor of an incomparable beauty, but I also acquired
the certainty that the intelligence of my companion was
in every respect worthy of my genius. From that moment
we worked together. While I composed my poems, she
blotted reams of paper. I recited my verses to her aloud,
which did not in the least hinder her from writing all
the time. She laid her novels with a facility almost
equal to my own, always choosing the most dramatic<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>
subjects, parricides, rapes, murders, and even knaveries,
always taking care to attack the Government by the
way and to preach the emancipation of women blackbirds.
In a word, no task was too great for her mind,
no daring too much for her modesty; she never once
had to strike out a line or to form a plan before setting
to work. She was the type of the literary woman blackbird.</p>
<p>One day when she was applying herself to her work
with unaccustomed ardour, I noticed that she was
sweating great drops, and I was astonished to see at the
same time that she had a great black stain on her back.</p>
<p>“Why, good gracious, I said to her, “whatever is
that! Are you unwell?”</p>
<p>She seemed rather frightened, and even put out at first;
but her great experience of the world soon helped her to
regain the admirable command which she always exercised
over herself. She told me that it was a spot of ink, and
that she was very liable to it in her moments of
inspiration.</p>
<p>“Can it be that my wife is going off colour?” I asked
myself in a whisper. This thought prevented me from
sleeping. The bottle of paste came to my mind. “O
Heaven!” I exclaimed, “What a suspicion! Can this
celestial creature be nothing but a painting, a touch of
whitewash? Can she have varnished herself to impose
upon me?... When I thought I was pressing to my
heart the sister of my soul, the privileged being created
for me alone, can it be that I wedded nothing but
flour?”</p>
<p>Haunted by this horrible doubt, I formed a plan for
delivering myself from it. I made the purchase of a
barometer, and waited eagerly for it to be a wet day. I
meant to take my wife to the country, to choose a
doubtful Sunday, and try the experiment of a drenching.
But we were in the middle of July; it was frightfully
fine weather.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span></p>
<p>The semblance of happiness and the habit of writing
had stimulated my sensibility exceedingly. Artless as I
was, it sometimes happened, when I was at work, that
sentiment was stronger than thought, and I began to
weep whilst waiting for a rhyme. My wife loved those
rare occasions immensely: any masculine weakness charms
feminine pride. One night when I was polishing an
erasure, according to Boileau’s precept, it so happened
that I opened my heart.</p>
<p>“O thou!” I said to my dear lady blackbird, “thou,
my only and best beloved! Thou without whom my life
is a dream, thou whose look, whose smile metamorphoses
the universe for me, life of my heart, knowest thou how
much I love thee? A little study and attention would
easily enable me to find words to put into verse a
commonplace idea, already worn threadbare by other
poets; but where will I ever find them to express that
with which thy beauty inspires me? Could the
memory of my past pains, even, furnish me with a word
to describe to thee my present happiness? Before thou
camest to me, my isolation was that of an orphan in exile;
to-day it is that of a king. In this feeble body, of which I
have the form until death make of it a ruin, in this
fevered little brain, where an unavailing thought ferments,
dost thou know, my angel, dost thou comprehend,
my fair one, that there can be nothing but what is
thine? Hear what little my brain can express, and
understand how much greater is my love! O that my
genius were a pearl, and that thou wert Cleopatra!”</p>
<p>Whilst raving thus, I shed tears on my wife, and she
changed colour visibly. At each tear that dropped from
my eyes, appeared a feather, not even black, but of the
most faded russet (I do believe she had already bleached
herself elsewhere). After some minutes of tender outpouring,
I found myself in presence of a bird stripped of
paste and flour, exactly like the most common and everyday
blackbirds.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span></p>
<p>What could I do or say? what measures could I take?
Reproaches were useless. No doubt I was fully entitled
to consider the matter redhibitory and have my
marriage declared null; but how dare to publish my
shame? Had I not misfortune enough already? I took
my courage in my claws, I resolved to forsake the world,
to abandon my literary career, to flee into a desert, if
that were possible, to shun for ever the sight of a living
creature, and to seek, like Alceste,</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p><span style="margin-left: 11em;">... some solitary place,</span><br>
Where a white blackbird may be white in perfect peace!</p>
</div>
</div>
<h3>IX</h3>
<p>Thereupon I flew away, always weeping; and the
wind, which is the Fate of birds, bore me to a branch
in Morfontaine. This time they were all in bed.—” What
a marriage!” I said to myself, “What a business!
No doubt it was with a good intention that the poor
child made herself white; but I am none the less to be
pitied, and she is none the less russet.”</p>
<p>The nightingale was singing again. Alone, in the
bosom of the night, he was enjoying whole-heartedly his
divine gift, which makes him so superior to the poets,
and was uttering his thought freely to the silence that
surrounded him. I could not resist the temptation of
going up to him and addressing him.</p>
<p>“How happy you are!” I said to him. “Not only do
you sing as much as you wish, and very well, too, and
all the world listens to you; but you have a wife and
children, your nest, your friends, a good pillow of moss,
full moon, and no newspapers. Rubini and Rossini are
nothing compared to you: you are as good as the one,
and you anticipate the other. I too have sung, sir,
and it was pitiable. I have drawn up words in serried
rows like so many Prussian soldiers, I have strung stale
commonplaces together, while you were in the wood.
Is your secret to be discovered?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span></p>
<p>“Yes,” the nightingale replied to me, “but it is not
what you imagine. My wife bores me, I do not love
her at all; I am in love with the rose; Sadi the Persian
has mentioned it. I sing myself hoarse for her all night
long, but she sleeps and does not hear me. Her chalice
is shut at the present moment: she is nursing an old
beetle in it—and to-morrow morning, when I reach my
bed worn out with suffering and fatigue, then she will
spread herself out to let a bee devour her heart!”</p>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak p2b">VANINA VANINI;<br>
<br>
OR, PARTICULARS OF THE LAST LODGE<br>
OF CARBONARI DISCOVERED IN THE PAPAL STATES<br>
<br>
<small>“STENDHAL” (HENRY BEYLE)</small></h2>
</div>
<p>One evening in the spring of 182-all Rome was in a
stir: the Duke of B——, the famous banker, was giving
a ball at his new palace in the Piazza Venezia. The
utmost magnificence that the arts of Italy and the
luxury of Paris and London could produce had been
brought together to embellish the palace. The throng
was immense. The blonde, reserved beauties of noble
England had solicited the honour of being present at this
ball; they arrived in crowds. The handsomest women in
Rome disputed the prize of beauty with them. A
young girl, whom the brilliance of her eyes and her ebon
hair proclaimed a Roman, entered escorted by her father;
all eyes followed her. A singular pride shone in all her
movements.</p>
<p>The strangers as they entered were visibly impressed
by the magnificence of the ball. “None of the fêtes of
the kings of Europe comes anywhere near this,” they
said.</p>
<p>The kings have not a palace of Roman architecture:
they are obliged to invite the great ladies of their
courts; the Duke of B—— only invites pretty women.
That evening he had been happy in his invitations; the
men seemed dazzled. Among so many remarkable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span>
women the difficulty was to decide who was the handsomest.
The choice for some time remained undecided;
but at last the Princess Vanina Vanini, the young girl
with the black hair and the eye of fire, was proclaimed
queen of the ball. At once the strangers and the
young men of Rome, abandoning all the other saloons,
formed a crowd in the one where she was.</p>
<p>Her father, Prince Asdrubale Vanini, had wished her
to dance first with two or three German sovereigns.
After that she accepted the invitations of some Englishmen,
very handsome and very noble; their air of
solemnity wearied her. She evidently found more
pleasure in tormenting young Livio Savelli, who seemed
deeply in love. He was the most magnificent young
man in Rome, and, what was more, he too was a prince;
but, if you had given him a novel to read, he would have
thrown the volume away after twenty pages, saying that
it gave him a headache. That was a disadvantage in
Vanina’s eyes.</p>
<p>About midnight a piece of news spread through the
ball and produced a great stir. A young carbonaro,
who had been confined in the Castle of Sant’ Angelo,
had just escaped that very night by means of a disguise;
and, with an excess of romantic daring, on arriving at
the last ward of the prison, he had attacked the soldiers
with a poniard; but he himself had been wounded; the
police were tracking him through the streets by his blood,
and they hoped to find him.</p>
<p>As this anecdote was being told, Don Livio Savelli,
dazzled by the graces and the triumphs of Vanina, with
whom he had just been dancing, said to her as, almost
beside himself with love, he led her back to her place:</p>
<p>“But, really, who could please you?”</p>
<p>“That young carbonaro who has just escaped,” Vanina
answered him; “he at least has done something more
than take the trouble of being born.”</p>
<p>Prince Don Asdrubale came up to his daughter. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span>
was a rich man, who for the last twenty years had not
taken reckoning with his steward, who lent him his own
revenues at a very high rate of interest. If you met
him in the street, you would have taken him for an old
actor; you would not have observed that his hands were
ornamented with five or six enormous rings set with big
diamonds. His two sons had become Jesuits and afterwards
died insane. He had forgotten them; but he was
vexed that his only daughter Vanina would not marry.
She was now nineteen, and had refused the most
brilliant matches. What was her reason? The same as
Sulla’s for abdicating: <em>her contempt for the Romans</em>.</p>
<p>The day after the ball, Vanina noticed that her father,
the most careless of men, who had never in his life
taken the trouble to carry a key, very carefully shut the
door of a little stair which led to some rooms on the
third floor of the palace. The windows of these rooms
looked on to a terrace adorned with orange-trees.
Vanina went to pay some visits in Rome; on her return,
the main entrance of the palace was blocked by the preparations
for an illumination, so the carriage went in by
the courts at the back. Vanina looked up, and saw to
her astonishment that one of the windows of the rooms
which her father had shut with such care was open. She
got rid of her companion, climbed to the top of the palace,
and searched about until she found a little grated
window, which gave a view of the terrace ornamented
with orange-trees. The open window that she had
noticed was close beside her. That room must certainly
be occupied; but by whom? Next day, Vanina managed
to obtain the key of a little door which opened on to
the terrace ornamented with orange-trees.</p>
<p>She stealthily approached the window, which was
still open. A sun-shutter helped to cover it. Inside
the room was a bed and some one in the bed. Her first
impulse was to withdraw; but she caught sight of a
woman’s dress thrown on a chair. Looking more closely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>
at the person in the bed, she saw that she was fair and
apparently very young. She had no more doubt about
its being a woman. The dress thrown down on the chair
was stained with blood; there was blood on the woman’s
shoes, too, laid on a table. The stranger moved; Vanina
perceived that she was wounded. A large cloth, spotted
with blood, covered her breast; the cloth was only kept
on with ribbons; it was no surgeon’s hand that had fixed
it so. Vanina noticed that every day, about four o’clock,
her father shut himself up in his room, then went to see
the stranger; he soon came downstairs again, and took
the carriage to visit the Countess Vitteleschi. Immediately
he had gone, Vanina climbed up to the little
terrace from which she could see the stranger. Her
feelings were actively excited in favour of this most unfortunate
young woman; she tried to guess at her
adventure. The blood-stained dress thrown on a chair
seemed to have been pierced with dagger-thrusts. Vanina
could count the rents. One day she saw the stranger
more distinctly: her blue eyes were gazing towards
heaven; she seemed to be praying. Soon tears filled
her lovely eyes; the young princess could scarcely refrain
from speaking to her. The next day Vanina summoned
up courage to hide herself in the little terrace before her
father arrived. She saw Don Asdrubale go into the
stranger’s room; he carried a little basket containing
provisions. The prince seemed to be disturbed and did
not say much. He spoke so low that, although the sash
of the window was open, Vanina could not make out
what he said. He went away immediately.</p>
<p>“The poor woman must have some very terrible
enemies,” said Vanina to herself, “that my father, who
is usually so careless, dares not trust anybody, and takes
the trouble of climbing a hundred and twenty steps every
day.”</p>
<p>One evening when Vanina softly advanced her head
in the direction of the stranger’s window, she met her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span>
eyes, and all was discovered. Vanina fell on her knees,
and exclaimed:</p>
<p>“I love you; I am at your service!”</p>
<p>The stranger signed to her to come in.</p>
<p>“I owe you many apologies!” exclaimed Vanina.
“How offensive my foolish curiosity must seem to you!
I swear secrecy, and, if you insist on it, I shall never
return.”</p>
<p>“Who would not be happy to see you?” said the
stranger. “Do you live in this palace?”</p>
<p>“Of course,” replied Vanina; “but I see you do not
know me; I am Vanina, Don Asdrubale’s daughter.”</p>
<p>The stranger looked at her in astonishment, blushed
deeply, and then added:</p>
<p>“Permit me to hope that you will come and see me
every day; but I should like the prince not to know of
your visits.”</p>
<p>Vanina’s heart beat fast; the stranger’s manners
seemed to her full of distinction. This poor young
woman had no doubt offended some powerful person.
Had she, perhaps, in a moment of jealousy, killed her
lover? Vanina could not conceive of a commonplace
reason for her misfortune. The stranger told her that
she had received a wound in the shoulder, which had
penetrated to her chest and was causing her much
suffering. She often found her mouth full of blood.</p>
<p>“Yet you have no surgeon?” exclaimed Vanina.</p>
<p>“You are aware,” said the stranger, “that at Rome
the surgeons have to give the police an exact report
of all the wounds that they treat. The prince condescends
to bind up my wounds with his own hands, in
the cloth which you see.”</p>
<p>With the most perfect grace, the stranger avoided
any bemoaning over her accident; Vanina loved her to
madness. One thing, however, astonished the young
princess greatly, namely that, in the middle of a conversation
which was certainly serious enough, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span>
stranger had great difficulty in suppressing a sudden
desire to laugh.</p>
<p>“I should be happy,” said Vanina, “to know your
name.”</p>
<p>“They call me Clementine.”</p>
<p>“Well, dear Clementine, to-morrow at five o’clock I’ll
come and see you.”</p>
<p>Next day, Vanina found her new friend very ill.</p>
<p>“I want to get a surgeon to you,” said Vanina, embracing
her.</p>
<p>“I would rather die,” said the stranger. “Why
should I wish to compromise my benefactors?”</p>
<p>“The surgeon to Monsignore Savelli-Catanzara, the
governor of Rome, is the son of one of our servants,”
Vanina replied eagerly; “he is devoted to us, and, in his
position, is afraid of no one. My father does not do
justice to his fidelity; I am going to send for him.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want any surgeon,” the stranger exclaimed,
with a sharpness which surprised Vanina. “Come and see
me; and, if God must call me to Himself, I shall die
happy in your arms.”</p>
<p>Next day, the stranger was still worse.</p>
<p>“If you love me,” said Vanina, as she left her,
“you’ll see a surgeon.”</p>
<p>“If he comes, my happiness is gone.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to send for one,” replied Vanina.</p>
<p>Without a word, the stranger detained her and took
her hand, which she covered with kisses. There was a
long silence; the stranger’s eyes were full of tears. At
last she let go Vanina’s hand, and, with the air with
which she might have gone to her death, said to her:</p>
<p>“I have a confession to make to you. The day before
yesterday I told you a lie when I said I was Clementine;
I am an unfortunate carbonaro——.”</p>
<p>Vanina, astonished, pushed back her chair and stood
up at once.</p>
<p>“I am aware,” continued the carbonaro, “that this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span>
confession will cause me to lose the only good thing that
attaches me to life; but it is unworthy of me to deceive
you. I am called Pietro Missirilli; I am nineteen years
old; my father is a poor surgeon at Sant’ Angelo in
Vado, for my part I am a carbonaro. Our lodge was
surprised; I was brought, in chains, from Romagna to
Rome. Buried in a dungeon lighted night and day by a
lamp, I passed thirteen months there. A charitable soul
conceived the idea of rescuing me. They dressed me
in women’s clothes. As I was coming out of prison and
was passing the warders at the last door, one of them
cursed the carbonari; I gave him a slap. I assure you
that this was not a piece of vain bravado, but simply
thoughtlessness. Pursued through the streets of Rome
at night after this imprudence, wounded with bayonets,
fast losing my strength, I rushed up the stairs of a
mansion, the door of which was open; I heard the
soldiers coming up after me; I sprang into the garden;
I fell down only a few paces from a woman who was
walking there.”</p>
<p>“The Countess Vitteleschi, my father’s friend!” said
Vanina.</p>
<p>“What! Has she told you?” exclaimed Missirilli.
“In any case, the lady, whose name must never be
uttered, saved my life. As the soldiers came into her
house to seize me, your father took me out of it in his
carriage. I feel very ill; for some days this bayonet-wound
in my shoulder has prevented me from breathing.
I am going to die, in despair, too, because I shall not
see you again.”</p>
<p>Vanina had listened with impatience; she went out
hastily: Missirilli could discover no pity in her fine
eyes; only the expression of a haughty character which
had been wounded.</p>
<p>At night, a surgeon appeared; he was alone. Missirilli
was in despair; he feared that he would never see
Vanina again. He questioned the surgeon, who bled him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span>
and gave him no answer. The succeeding days, the
same silence. Pietro’s eyes never left the terrace-window
by which Vanina had been accustomed to enter; he was
very unhappy. Once, about midnight, he thought he
saw some one in the shadow on the terrace: was it
Vanina?</p>
<p>Vanina came every night to press her cheek against
the young carbonaro’s window-panes.</p>
<p>“If I speak to him,” she said to herself, “I am lost!
No, I must not see him again!”</p>
<p>Having taken this resolution, she recalled, in spite of
herself, the fondness which she had conceived for the
young man when she so foolishly took him for a woman.
And now, after so sweet an intimacy, she must forget
him! In her more reasonable moments, Vanina was
terrified at the change which had taken place in her
thoughts. Since Missirilli had named himself, all the
things she had been accustomed to think about were as
if covered with a veil, and seemed very far away.</p>
<p>A week had not passed before Vanina, pale and
trembling, entered the young carbonaro’s room with the
surgeon. She came to tell him that the prince must be
made to promise to let a servant take his place. She
did not remain ten seconds; but some days afterwards
she came back again with the surgeon, out of humanity.
One night, though Missirilli was much better and Vanina
had no longer the excuse of fearing for his life, she
ventured to come alone. Nothing could exceed Missirilli’s
happiness at seeing her, but he thought to conceal his
love; above all, he did not wish to forget the dignity of
a man. Vanina, who had come to his room covered with
blushes and afraid she would have to listen to words of
love, was disconcerted by the noble and devoted, but
far from tender, friendliness with which he received her.
She went away without his trying to detain her.</p>
<p>Some days after, when she returned, the same conduct,
the same assurances of respectful devotion and eternal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span>
gratitude. So far from having to put a curb on the
young carbonaro’s transports, Vanina asked herself if she
alone was in love. This young girl, till then so proud,
bitterly felt the extent of her folly. She affected gaiety,
even coldness, came less often, but could not bring herself
to cease seeing the young invalid.</p>
<p>Missirilli, burning with love, but remembering his
obscure birth and his duty towards himself, had vowed
never to descend to talking of love unless Vanina remained
a week without seeing him. The young princess’s
pride disputed every foot of the way.</p>
<p>“Well,” she said to herself at last, “if I see him, it is
on my own account, it is for my amusement, and I will
never avow the interest with which he inspires me.”</p>
<p>She paid long visits to Missirilli, who talked with her
as he might have done if twenty people had been present.
One night, after having spent the whole day in detesting
him and promising herself to be even colder and severer
than usual to him, she told him that she loved him.
Soon she had nothing left to refuse him.</p>
<p>Though her folly was great, it must be owned that
Vanina was perfectly happy. Missirilli had no more
thought of what he considered due to his dignity as a
man; he loved as they love for the first time at nineteen
and in Italy. He had all the scruples of passionate love,
even to the extent of acknowledging to the proud young
princess the policy which he had employed to make her
fall in love with him. He was astonished at the excess
of his happiness. Four months passed only too quickly.
One day the surgeon gave the invalid his liberty. “But
what am I to do?” thought Missirilli. “Am I to
remain in hiding under the roof of one of the handsomest
women in Rome? And the vile tyrants who kept me
thirteen months in prison without letting me see the
light of day will think they have broken my spirit!
Italy, thou art unfortunate indeed, if thy children
abandon thee for so little!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span></p>
<p>Vanina never doubted that Pietro’s greatest happiness
would be to remain attached to her for ever; he seemed
only too happy; but a saying of General Bonaparte
rankled in the young man’s soul and influenced all his
conduct towards women. In 1796, when General Bonaparte
was leaving Brescia, the magistrates, who accompanied
him to the gate of the town, said to him that
the Brescians loved liberty more than all other Italians.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he answered, “they love to talk about it to
their mistresses.”</p>
<p>Missirilli said to Vanina with some constraint:</p>
<p>“As soon as it is night, I must go out.”</p>
<p>“Take good care to be in the palace again before
daybreak; I’ll wait for you.”</p>
<p>“At daybreak I’ll be several miles from Rome.”</p>
<p>“Indeed,” said Vanina coldly, “and where are you
going to?”</p>
<p>“To Romagna, to take my revenge.”</p>
<p>“Seeing that I am rich,” Vanina said with the
calmest air imaginable, “I hope that you will accept
some arms and some money from me.”</p>
<p>Missirilli looked at her for a moment without moving
a muscle; then, throwing himself into her arms:</p>
<p>“Soul of my soul, you make me forget everything
else, even my duty. But, the nobler your heart is, the
better you should understand me.”</p>
<p>Vanina wept copiously, and it was settled that he
should not leave Rome for another two days yet.</p>
<p>“Pietro,” she said to him next day, “you have often
told me that a well-known man, a Roman prince for
example, who had command of plenty of money, could
render great service to the cause of liberty, if ever
Austria should be involved in any great war at a distance
from us.”</p>
<p>“Undoubtedly,” said Pietro in astonishment.</p>
<p>“Well then, you have courage; all you lack is position:
I am going to offer you my hand and two hundred<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span>
thousand livres a year. I undertake to get my father’s
consent.”</p>
<p>Pietro threw himself at her feet; Vanina was radiant
with joy.</p>
<p>“I love you passionately,” he said; “but I am a poor
servant of my country; and, the unhappier Italy is,
the more faithful I must be to her. To obtain Don
Asdrubale’s consent, I should have to play a sorry part
for many years. Vanina, I refuse you.”</p>
<p>Missirilli was in a hurry to commit himself by this
speech. His courage threatened to fail him.</p>
<p>“My misfortune,” he exclaimed, “is that I love you
more than life, that to leave Rome is the worst of
tortures for me. Ah! why is Italy not delivered from
the barbarians? With what pleasure I should embark
along with you to go and live in America!”</p>
<p>Vanina remained as if frozen. This refusal of her
hand had astonished her pride; but soon she cast herself
into Missirilli’s arms.</p>
<p>“You never seemed so dear to me as now,” she exclaimed;
“yes, my little country surgeon, I am yours
for ever. You are a great man, like our ancient
Romans.”</p>
<p>All ideas of the future, all the gloomy suggestions
of good sense disappeared; there was a moment of perfect
love. When they were able to talk sensibly, Vanina
said:</p>
<p>“I shall be in Romagna almost as soon as you. I’ll
get sent to the baths at Poretta. I will stop at our castle
at San Nicolo, near Forli——”</p>
<p>“There I’ll spend my life with you!” exclaimed
Missirilli.</p>
<p>“My part in future is to dare everything,” Vanina
resumed with a sigh. “I shall ruin myself for you,
but what matter——. Could you love a woman who
has lost her honour?”</p>
<p>“Are you not my wife?” said Missirilli, “and a wife<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span>
always adored? I shall know how to love you and
protect you.”</p>
<p>Vanina had to go and pay visits. Scarcely had she
left Missirilli when he began to think his conduct barbarous.</p>
<p>“What is our <em>country</em>, after all?” he said to himself.
“It is not a being to whom we owe any gratitude for
any benefit, and who might be unhappy and curse us if we
failed to be grateful. <em>Country</em> and <em>liberty</em> are like my
cloak, a thing that is useful to me, that I must buy,
no doubt, if I have not inherited it from my father;
but after all I love country and liberty because these
two things are useful to me. If I can do nothing with
them, if they are no more use to me than a cloak in
August, what is the good of buying them, at an enormous
price too? Vanina is so beautiful! She has such a remarkable
mind! People will seek to please her; she
will forget me. What woman ever had only one lover?
Those Roman princes, whom I despise as citizens, have
such an advantage over me! They must be very lovable!
Ah, if I go away, she will forget me, and I shall lose her
for ever!”</p>
<p>In the middle of the night Vanina came to see him; he
told her of the indecision in which he had been plunged,
and the examination to which, because he loved her, he
had subjected the great word <em>country</em>. Vanina was very
happy.</p>
<p>“If he had to choose definitely between his country
and me,” she said to herself, “the choice would fall on
me.”</p>
<p>The clock of the neighbouring church struck three;
the moment of their last farewells arrived. Pietro tore
himself from the arms of his beloved. He was already
descending the little stair, when Vanina, restraining her
tears, said to him with a smile:</p>
<p>“If you had been tended by some poor countrywoman,
would you not do something out of gratitude? Would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span>
you not try to repay her? The future is uncertain;
you are going to travel amidst enemies; give me three
days out of gratitude, as if I were a poor woman, and in
repayment of my trouble.”</p>
<p>Missirilli remained. At last he quitted Rome. Thanks
to a passport bought from a foreign embassy, he reached
his home. There was great rejoicing; they had given
him up for dead. His friends wished to celebrate his
safe return by killing one or two carabineers, as the
police in the Papal states are called.</p>
<p>“Do not let us kill an Italian that knows the use
of arms, unless we are forced to,” said Missirilli; “our
country is not an island, like happy England: we need
soldiers to resist the intervention of the kings of
Europe.”</p>
<p>Shortly afterwards, Missirilli, hard pressed by the
carabineers, killed two of them with the pistols that
Vanina had given him. A price was set on his head.</p>
<p>Vanina did not make her appearance in Romagna:
Missirilli thought he was forgotten. His vanity was
hurt; he began to dwell on the difference of rank which
separated him from his mistress. In a moment of
softening and regret for his past happiness, he took the
notion of returning to Rome to see what Vanina was
doing. This mad thought was on the point of prevailing
over what he believed to be his duty, when one evening
the bell of a mountain-church sounded the angelus in a
strange fashion, as if the ringer were preoccupied. It
was the signal for the meeting of the lodge of carbonari
to which Missirilli had been affiliated on his arrival in
Romagna. That same night, they all met in a certain
hermitage in the woods. The two hermits, stupefied with
opium, had no suspicion of the use that was being made
of their little dwelling. Missirilli, who arrived very
downcast, learned that the head of the lodge had been
arrested, and that he, a young man of barely twenty,
was to be elected head of a lodge which included men<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span>
over fifty, who had been engaged in the conspiracies
since Murat’s expedition of 1815. Pietro felt his heart
beat at receiving this unexpected honour. As soon as he
was alone, he resolved to think no more of the young
Roman lady who had forgotten him, and to consecrate
all his thoughts to <em>delivering Italy from the barbarians</em>.<a id="FNanchor_18" href="#Footnote_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></p>
<p>Two days later, Missirilli saw in the list of arrivals
and departures sent to him as head of the lodge that
the Princess Vanina had just arrived at her castle of San
Nicolo. To read this name caused more trouble than
pleasure to his soul. In vain he thought to make sure
of his fidelity to his country by restraining himself from
hastening that very night to the castle of San Nicolo;
the thought of Vanina whom he was neglecting prevented
his fulfilling his duties in a reasonable fashion.
He saw her the next day; she loved him as she had
done at Rome. Her father, who wished to marry her,
had hindered her departure. She brought two thousand
sequins with her. This unexpected assistance helped
wonderfully to establish Missirilli in his new dignity.
Thanks to them they got daggers made in Corfu, they
gained over the confidential secretary of the legate
charged with pursuing the carbonari, and also obtained
the list of parish priests who served as spies to the
government.</p>
<p>It was at this period that one, not the most unreasonable,
of the conspiracies that have been attempted in
unhappy Italy was finally organized. I shall not enter
into details that would be out of place here. I shall
content myself with saying that, if the enterprise had
been crowned with success, Missirilli would have been
able to claim a great share of the glory. According to it
several thousand insurgents would have risen at a given
signal, and awaited under arms the arrival of their
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>superior heads. The decisive moment was at hand, when,
as always happens, the conspiracy was paralysed by the
arrests of the leaders.</p>
<p>Vanina had not long arrived in Romagna when she
fancied she could see that love of country would make
her lover forget all other love. The young Roman’s
pride was chafed. She tried in vain to reason with herself;
black disappointment took possession of her; she
found herself cursing liberty. One day when she had
come to Forli to see Missirilli, she was no longer mistress
of her grief, which, so far, her pride had always been
able to master.</p>
<p>“Really,” she said to him, “you love me like a
husband; that’s not what I want.”</p>
<p>Her tears soon began to flow; but they were tears
of shame at having descended to reproaches. Missirilli
responded to her tears like one preoccupied. All at once
it occurred to Vanina to leave him and return to Rome.
She found a cruel joy in punishing herself for the weakness
which had just made her speak. After some
moments’ silence, her mind was made up; she decided
that she was unworthy of Missirilli if she did not leave
him. She rejoiced in the prospect of his sad surprise
when he sought for her at his side, and did not find her.
Soon the thought that she had been unable to win the
love of the man for whose sake she had committed so
many follies revived all her tenderness. She thereupon
broke the silence, and did everything in the world to
elicit a word of love from him. He said many very
tender things to her, with an air of abstraction;
but it was with quite a much profounder accent that,
talking of his political enterprises, he exclaimed
mournfully:</p>
<p>“<em>Ah, if this affair does not succeed, if the government discovers
it this time, I’ll give it up!</em>”</p>
<p>Vanina remained motionless. For an hour and more
she had had the feeling that she was seeing her lover for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span>
the last time. His words flashed a fatal ray into her
mind. She said to herself:</p>
<p>“The carbonari have already got several thousand
sequins from me. There can be no doubt about my
devotion to the conspiracy.”</p>
<p>Vanina at last roused herself from her reverie, to say
to Pietro:</p>
<p>“Will you come and spend twenty-four hours with me
at the castle of San Nicolo? Your gathering this evening
does not require your presence. To-morrow morning,
at San Nicolo, we can walk about; that will calm
your agitation and give you all the coolness that you
need at such an important juncture.”</p>
<p>Pietro consented.</p>
<p>Vanina left him to make preparations for the journey,
locking, as usual, the little room in which she hid him.</p>
<p>She hastened to a former waiting-woman of hers, who
had left her to get married and set up a small business
at Forli. On arriving at this woman’s, she hurriedly
wrote on the margin of a book of hours, which she
found in her room, an exact indication of the place
where the lodge of carbonari was to meet that same night.
She concluded her denunciation with these words: “This
lodge consists of nineteen members; here are their names
and addresses.” After writing this list, very exact,
except that Missirilli’s name was omitted, she said to
the woman, whom she could depend on:</p>
<p>“Take this book to the Cardinal Legate; let him read
what is written and give you back the book. Here are
ten sequins; if ever the legate pronounces your name,
your death is assured; but you will save my life if you
get the legate to read the page I have just written.”</p>
<p>Everything succeeded perfectly. The legate’s fears
prevented him from behaving like a great lord. He
let the woman of the people who asked to speak with him
appear in his presence masked, but on condition that
she had her hands tied. In this state the shopwoman<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span>
was brought into the presence of the great person,
whom she found entrenched behind an immense table
covered with a green cloth.</p>
<p>The legate read the page of the book of hours, holding
it well away from him, for fear of some subtle poison.
He gave it back to the shopwoman, and did not have
her followed. In less than forty minutes after leaving her
lover, Vanina, who had seen her former waiting-woman’s
return, appeared once more to Missirilli, convinced that
thenceforth he was entirely hers. She told him that
there was an extraordinary commotion in the town;
patrols of carabineers were to be seen in streets where
they never used to go.</p>
<p>“If you’ll take my advice,” she added, “we’ll start
for San Nicolo at once.”</p>
<p>Missirilli consented to do so. They walked to the
young princess’s carriage, which, with her companion, a
discreet and well-paid confidante, was waiting for her
half a league outside the town.</p>
<p>On arriving at the castle of San Nicolo, Vanina, who
was uneasy about the strange step that she had taken,
redoubled her tenderness to her lover. But it seemed
to her that in talking love to him she was acting a part.
The night before, when she played the traitor, she had
forgotten about remorse. As she clasped her lover in
her arms, she said to herself:</p>
<p>“There is a word that might be uttered in his hearing,
and, once it was pronounced, he would have a
horror of me at once and for ever.”</p>
<p>In the middle of the night, one of Vanina’s servants
came abruptly into her room. This man was a carbonaro,
though she did not suspect it. So, then,
Missirilli had secrets from her, even about details like
that. She shuddered. The man had come to warn
Missirilli that during the night the houses of nineteen
carbonari at Forli had been searched, and they themselves
arrested the moment they returned from the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span>
lodge. Although taken by surprise, nine had escaped.
The carabineers had been able to take ten of them to
prison in the citadel. On entering it, one of them had
thrown himself down the well, which is very deep, and
had killed himself.</p>
<p>Vanina was covered with confusion; fortunately Pietro
did not observe it: he could have read her crime in her
eyes.... “At this very moment,” the servant added,
“the garrison of Forli is forming a cordon in all the
streets. Each soldier is within speaking distance of his
neighbour. The inhabitants cannot cross from one side
of the street to the other except where an officer is
stationed.”</p>
<p>After the man had gone, Pietro was pensive, but only
for an instant.</p>
<p>“There is nothing that can be done for the moment,”
he said at last.</p>
<p>Vanina was like to die; she trembled beneath her
lover’s glance.</p>
<p>“Whatever is wrong with you?” he said at last.</p>
<p>Then he began to think about something else, and
ceased to look at her. About the middle of the day,
she ventured to say to him:</p>
<p>“That’s another lodge discovered; I should think
you’ll keep quiet for some time now.”</p>
<p>“<em>Very quiet</em>,” Missirilli answered, with a smile that
made her shudder.</p>
<p>She went to make a necessary visit to the village
priest of San Nicolo, perhaps a spy of the Jesuits. On
returning for dinner at seven o’clock, she found the
little room where her lover was hidden deserted. Beside
herself, she ran all through the house seeking for him;
he was not there. In despair she returned to the little
room; only then did she catch sight of a note; she read:</p>
<p>“<em>I am going to surrender myself to the legate; I despair
of our cause; Heaven is against us. Who has betrayed us?
Apparently the wretch who threw himself into the well. Since<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span>
my life is useless to poor Italy, I do not wish that my
comrades, seeing that I alone have not been arrested, should
imagine that I have sold them. Adieu; if you love me, think
on how to avenge me. Ruin, annihilate, the infamous
wretch that has betrayed us, even though he be my father.</em>”</p>
<p>Vanina fell into a chair, half-fainting and plunged
in the most cruel unhappiness. She was unable to utter
a word; her eyes were dry and burning.</p>
<p>At last she flung herself on her knees.</p>
<p>“Great God! accept my vow,” she exclaimed; “yes,
I will punish the infamous wretch who has been a
traitor; but Pietro must first be restored to liberty.”</p>
<p>An hour later she was on her way to Rome. Her
father had long been urging her to return. During her
absence, he had arranged her marriage with Prince
Livio Savelli. Vanina had scarcely arrived when he
mentioned it to her, trembling. To his great astonishment,
she consented at the first word. That same
evening, at Countess Vitteleschi’s house, her father presented
Don Livio almost officially to her; she talked a
great deal with him. He was a most elegant young
man, and kept the finest possible horses; but, though he
was admitted to be clever, his character was supposed
to be so light that he was not an object of suspicion
to the government. Vanina thought that by first turning
his head she would make a convenient agent of him.
Since he was nephew to Monsignore Savelli-Catanzara,
governor of Rome and minister of police, she supposed
that the spies would not presume to follow him.</p>
<p>After having treated the amiable Don Livio exceedingly
well for some days, Vanina announced to him that
he would never be her husband; he was, according to
her, empty-headed.</p>
<p>“If you were not a child,” she told him, “your
uncle’s clerks would have no secrets from you. For
example, what has been decided about the carbonari who
were discovered recently at Forli?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p>
<p>Two days later Don Livio came to tell her that all
the carbonari taken at Forli had made their escape. She
fastened her great black eyes upon him with the bitter
smile of most profound contempt, and did not deign to
speak to him all that evening. The next day but one
Don Livio came to acknowledge to her with a blush
that he had been deceived the first time.</p>
<p>“But,” he said, “I have got the key to my uncle’s
study; I have seen from the papers that I found there
that a Congregation (or Commission) composed of some
of the leading cardinals and prelates is meeting in the
strictest secrecy and discussing whether these carbonari
should be tried at Ravenna or at Rome. The nine carbonari
taken at Forli and their head, one Missirilli,
who has been foolish enough to surrender himself, are
at the present moment confined in the castle of San Leo.<a id="FNanchor_19" href="#Footnote_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></p>
<p>At the word “foolish,” Vanina pinched the prince with
all her might.</p>
<p>“I want,” she said, “to see the official papers myself,
and go into your uncle’s study with you; you have
most likely read them wrong.”</p>
<p>At these words Don Livio shuddered; Vanina was
demanding a thing almost impossible; but the young
woman’s strange genius redoubled his love. A day or
two later Vanina, disguised as a man and wearing a pretty
little coat of the Savelli livery, was able to spend half an
hour amidst the police minister’s most secret papers.
She felt a thrill of the keenest delight when she discovered
the daily report on “Pietro Missirilli, prisoner
awaiting trial.” Her hands trembled as she held the
paper. As she read that name she was on the point of
being overcome. When they went out from the governor
of Rome’s palace Vanina permitted Don Livio to embrace
her.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span></p>
<p>“You are coming well out of the tests to which I am
submitting you,” she said.</p>
<p>After a speech like that the young prince would have
set fire to the Vatican to please Vanina. That evening
there was a ball at the French ambassador’s; she
danced a great deal, and almost always with Don Livio.
He was intoxicated with happiness; she must not allow
him to reflect.</p>
<p>“My father is sometimes strange,” Vanina said to him
one day. “This morning he dismissed two of his
servants, who came to tell me their sorrows. One of
them has asked a place with your uncle, the governor of
Rome; the other, who has been an artilleryman with
the French, would like to be employed in the castle of
Sant’ Angelo.”</p>
<p>“I’ll take them both into my service,” said the young
prince briskly.</p>
<p>“Is that what I asked you?” Vanina replied proudly.
“I repeated those poor fellows’ petitions word for word;
they ought to get what they asked, and not something
else.”</p>
<p>There was nothing more difficult. Monsignore Catanzara
was anything but an imprudent man, and only
admitted servants into his house who were well known
to him. In the midst of a life apparently full of all
manner of pleasures, Vanina, tormented by remorse,
was very unhappy. The slowness of events was killing
her. Her father’s man of business had procured money
for her. Ought she to flee from her father’s house and
go to Romagna, and attempt to get her lover out of
prison? Senseless as this notion was she was on the
point of carrying it into execution when chance took
pity on her.</p>
<p>Don Livio said to her:</p>
<p>“The ten carbonari of Missirilli’s lodge are going to
be transferred to Rome on the understanding that they
are to be executed in Romagna after they have been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span>
condemned. That is what my uncle has got the Pope
to sanction this evening. You and I are the only persons
in Rome who know this secret. Are you satisfied!”</p>
<p>“You are becoming a man,” Vanina replied; “make
me a present of your portrait.”</p>
<p>The day before Missirilli was due to arrive at Rome
Vanina found a pretext for going to Città-Castellana.
The prison of that town is where the carbonari spend
the night when they are transferred from Romagna to
Rome. She saw Missirilli in the morning as he came out
of prison. He was chained by himself to a cart; he
seemed to her to be pale, but by no means downhearted.
An old woman threw a bunch of violets to
him; Missirilli smiled her his thanks.</p>
<p>Vanina had seen her lover; all her thoughts seemed
renewed; she had fresh courage. A long time ago she
had procured a good preferment to the Abbate Cari, the
chaplain of the castle of Sant’ Angelo, in which her lover
was to be confined; she had made this good priest her
confessor. At Rome it is no small thing to be confessor
of a princess who is niece to the governor.</p>
<p>The trial of the Forli carbonari did not last long. In
revenge for their arrival in Rome, which it had been
unable to prevent, the extreme party so contrived that
the commission which was to try them was composed
of the most ambitious prelates. This commission was
presided over by the minister of police.</p>
<p>The law against carbonari is clear; those from Forli
could cherish no hope; none the less they defended their
lives by every possible subterfuge. Not only did their
judges condemn them to death, but several declared for
atrocious tortures, that their hands should be cut off,
and such like. The minister of police, whose fortune
was made (for no one leaves that position except to
take a red hat), had no use for cut-off hands: when he
referred the sentence to the Pope he had the punishment
of all the condemned men commuted to several years’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span>
imprisonment. Pietro Missirilli alone was excepted.
The minister regarded that young man as a dangerous
fanatic, and besides he had already been condemned to
death as guilty of the murder of the two carabineers
already mentioned. Vanina knew about the sentence
and its commutation a few minutes after the minister had
returned from his audience of the Pope.</p>
<p>Next day Monsignore Catanzara returned to his
palace about midnight and found no sign of his valet in
his room; the minister, astonished, rang several times;
at last an old, imbecile servant appeared: the minister,
out of all patience, decided to undress unaided. He
locked his door; it was very warm; he took his gown
and threw it in a heap on a chair. The gown, thrown
too hard, went over the chair and struck the muslin
curtain at the window, and showed the form of a man.
The minister quickly rushed to his bed and seized a
pistol. As he was returning to the window a very young
man, in his livery, came towards him pistol in hand. At
this sight the minister raised his pistol and took aim;
he was about to fire; the young man said to him,
laughing:</p>
<p>“What, Monsignore, do you not recognize Vanina
Vanini?”</p>
<p>“What is the meaning of this unseemly pleasantry?”
the Minister retorted angrily.</p>
<p>“Let us discuss things coolly,” said the young woman.
“To begin with, your pistol is not loaded.”</p>
<p>The Minister, astonished, satisfied himself that such
was the case; after which he drew a dagger from his
vest-pocket.<a id="FNanchor_20" href="#Footnote_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span></p>
<p>Vanina said to him, with a charming little air of
authority:</p>
<p>“Let us be seated, Monsignore.”</p>
<p>And she calmly took her place on a sofa.</p>
<p>“Are you alone, though?” the Minister said.</p>
<p>“Absolutely alone, I swear!” exclaimed Vanina.</p>
<p>The Minister was careful to verify this: he went round
the room and looked everywhere; after which he sat
down on a chair three paces from Vanina.</p>
<p>“What interest should I have,” said Vanina in a
gentle and reasonable tone, “in attempting the life of
a moderate man, who would probably be succeeded by
some weak, hot-headed person that would be capable of
undoing himself and others besides.”</p>
<p>“What do you want, pray, madam?” the minister
said somewhat testily. “This scene is not to my taste,
and must cease.”</p>
<p>“What I am about to add,” Vanina replied haughtily,
suddenly forgetting her gracious air, “concerns you
more than me. There is a desire that the life of the
carbonaro Missirilli should be spared: if he is executed,
you will not survive him a week. I have no interest in
all this; the folly which you deplore I did to amuse
myself in the first place, and next, to oblige a lady
who is one of my friends. I wished,” Vanina continued,
resuming her affability, “I wished to render a service to
an accomplished man, who soon will be my uncle, and,
from all appearance, should carry the fortunes of his
house to a great pitch.”</p>
<p>The minister cast aside his vexed air: Vanina’s beauty
no doubt contributed to this rapid change. Monsignore
Catanzara’s taste for pretty women was well known in
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>Rome, and in her disguise of a footman of the house of
Savelli, with well-fitting silk stockings, a red vest, her
little sky-blue coat laced with silver, and the pistol in her
hand, Vanina was ravishing.</p>
<p>“My future niece,” said the minister, almost laughing,
“you are committing a great folly, and it will not be
your last.”</p>
<p>“I hope that so discreet a person as you will keep my
secret, especially from Don Livio; and, to make sure of
your promise, my dear uncle, if you grant me the life of
my friend’s protégé, I’ll give you a kiss.”</p>
<p>Thus continuing the conversation in that half-jocular
tone in which Roman ladies know how to discuss the
most important affairs, Vanina contrived to give this
interview, which she had begun pistol in hand, the air of
a visit paid by the young princess Savelli to her uncle
the governor of Rome.</p>
<p>Soon Monsignore Catanzara, although rejecting with
scorn the notion of being influenced by fear, went so far
as to explain to his niece all the difficulties that he
would encounter in saving Missirilli’s life. As he discussed
them, the minister walked up and down the room
with Vanina; he took up a carafe of lemonade that was
on the chimney-piece, and poured some into a crystal
glass. When he was on the point of putting it to his lips,
Vanina secured it, and, after holding it some time, let it
fall into the garden, as if by carelessness. A moment
later, the minister took a chocolate pastille out of a
sweetmeat-box. Vanina snatched it from him, and said,
laughing as she did so:</p>
<p>“Do take care; everything in the house is poisoned,
for they intended your death. It is I who have obtained
the respite of my future uncle, so as not to enter the
family of Savelli absolutely empty-handed.”</p>
<p>Monsignore Catanzara, greatly astonished, thanked his
niece, and gave her great hopes of Missirilli’s life.</p>
<p>“Our bargain is settled,” exclaimed Vanina, “and in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span>
proof of it, here is your reward,” she said, embracing
him.</p>
<p>The minister took his reward.</p>
<p>“I must own, my dear Vanina,” he added, “that I am
not fond of blood. Besides, I am still young, though
I perhaps look very old to you; and I may live to see
the day when blood shed now will leave a stain.”</p>
<p>Two o’clock was striking when Monsignore Catanzara
escorted Vanina to the private gate of his
garden.</p>
<p>The day after next, when the minister appeared before
the Pope, not a little anxious about the course that he
had to pursue, His Holiness said to him:</p>
<p>“Before we go any further, I have a favour to ask you.
There is one of those carbonari from Forli, who is still
under sentence of death; the thought keeps me from
sleeping: the man must be saved.”</p>
<p>The minister, seeing that the Pope had made up his
mind, made many objections, and ended by writing a
decree, or <em>motu proprio</em>, which the Pope signed, contrary
to custom.</p>
<p>It had occurred to Vanina that she might perhaps
obtain her lover’s pardon, but that they would try to
poison him. The previous evening, Missirilli had received
some small parcels of ship-biscuit from Abbate Cari, her
confessor, with a warning not to touch the food provided
by the State.</p>
<p>Vanina, having afterwards learned that the Forli carbonari
were to be transferred to the castle of San Leo,
wished to try to see Missirilli at Città-Castellana on his
way; she arrived in that town twenty-four hours in advance
of the prisoners; there she found Abbate Cari, who
had preceded her by some days. He had got the jailor’s
leave for Missirilli to hear Mass at midnight in the prison
chapel. He had obtained even more: if Missirilli would
allow his arms and legs to be fastened with a chain, the
jailor would withdraw to the door of the chapel, so that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span>
he could always see the prisoner, for whom he was
responsible, but could not hear what he said.</p>
<p>The day which was to decide Vanina’s destiny dawned
at last. Early in the morning she shut herself up in
the prison chapel. Who could tell the thoughts which
agitated her during that long day? Did Missirilli love
her sufficiently to pardon her? She had denounced his
lodge, but she had saved his life. When reason regained
command of that tortured soul, Vanina hoped that he
would consent to leave Italy in her company; if she had
sinned, it was through excess of love. As four o’clock
struck, she heard the tread of the carabineers’ horses on
the pavement in the distance. Each tread seemed to
ring in her heart. Soon she made out the rumbling of
the carts which conveyed the prisoners. They halted in
the little square in front of the prison; she saw two
carabineers lift out Missirilli, who was alone on a cart
and so heavily loaded with irons that he could not move.
“At least he is alive,” she said to herself with tears in
her eyes; “they have not poisoned him.” The evening
was cruel; the altar-lamp, which was hung high up, and
which the jailor stinted of oil, was the only light in the
gloomy chapel. Vanina’s eyes wandered over the tombs
of some great lords of the Middle Ages who had died in
the neighbouring prison. Their statues looked ferocious.</p>
<p>All sounds had long ago ceased; Vanina was absorbed
in her black thoughts. Shortly after midnight struck,
she thought she heard a slight noise like the flutter of a
bat. She tried to walk, and fell half-fainting on the
altar-rail. At the same instant, two phantoms stood
beside her, without her having heard them come. They
were the jailor and Missirilli, so loaded with chains that
he was almost swathed in them. The jailor opened a
lantern, which he placed on the altar-rail, beside Vanina,
in such a position that he could see his prisoner clearly.
Then he withdrew into the background, near the door.
Scarcely had the jailor removed, when Vanina flung<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span>
herself on Missirilli’s neck. As she clasped him in her
arms, she felt nothing but his cold, sharp chains. “Who
put these chains on him?” she thought. She felt no
pleasure in embracing her lover. To this pain succeeded
another more piercing: she believed, for a moment, that
Missirilli knew of her crime, his reception of her was
so chilly.</p>
<p>“Dear friend,” he said to her at last, “I regret the
love which you have conceived for me; though I search,
I cannot discover the merit that might have inspired it.
Let us return, I entreat you, to more Christian feelings,
let us forget the illusions which once led us astray; I
cannot be yours. The continual misfortune that has
dogged my enterprises proceeds, perhaps, from the state
of mortal sin in which I have always lived. Even
listening to the counsels of human prudence, why was I
not arrested with my friends on that fatal night at Forli?
Why was I not found at my post at the moment of danger?
Why was it that my absence could authorize the most
cruel suspicions?—Because I had another passion than
the liberation of Italy.”</p>
<p>Vanina could not recover from the surprise that she
felt at the change in Missirilli. Though he did not
appear to have grown thinner, he looked like thirty.
Vanina attributed this change to the bad treatment that
he had suffered in prison; she burst into tears.</p>
<p>“Ah,” she said to him, “the jailors promised so faithfully
that they would treat you kindly!”</p>
<p>The fact was that, at the approach of death, all the
religious principles that were consistent with his passion
for the liberation of Italy had revived in the young carbonaro’s
heart. Little by little Vanina perceived that
the astonishing change which she noticed in her lover
was entirely moral, and in no wise the result of physical
ill-treatment. Her grief, which she had thought at its
height, was augmented by this discovery.</p>
<p>Missirilli ceased speaking; Vanina seemed on the point<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span>
of being suffocated by her sobs. He added, with some
emotion:</p>
<p>“If I loved anything on earth, it would be you,
Vanina; but thanks to God I have only one object left
me in life; I will die in prison, or in the endeavour to
restore liberty to Italy.”</p>
<p>There was another silence; evidently Vanina was
unable to speak: she tried to do so, in vain. Missirilli
added:</p>
<p>“Duty is cruel, my friend; but, if there were no pain
in accomplishing it, where would heroism be? Give me
your word that you will not try to see me again.”</p>
<p>As well as his close-bound chain allowed him, he made
a little motion with his wrist and stretched out his fingers
to Vanina.</p>
<p>“If you will let a man who was dear to you advise
you, be sensible and marry the deserving man whom
your father intends for you. Do not make any awkward
confidence to him; but on the other hand do not ever
try to see me again; let us be strangers to each other in
future. You have advanced a considerable sum for the
service of your country; if ever it is delivered from its
tyrants, that sum will be repaid to you in national funds.”</p>
<p>Vanina was overwhelmed. While he spoke to her,
Pietro’s eye had never once flashed, except when he
uttered the word “country.”</p>
<p>At last pride came to the rescue of the young princess;
she had provided herself with diamonds and small files.
Without a word of reply, she offered them to Missirilli.
“I accept them out of duty,” he said, “for I must try
to escape; but I will never see you again; I swear it in
presence of your new benefits. Adieu, Vanina; promise
me that you will never write to me, never try to see
me; leave all of me to my country, I am dead to you:
farewell.”</p>
<p>“No!” Vanina replied furiously, “I wish you to know
what I have done, led by the love I had for you.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span></p>
<p>With that she told him all her proceedings from the
moment that Missirilli quitted the castle of San Nicolo
to surrender himself to the legate. When the recital was
ended, Vanina said:</p>
<p>“All that is nothing; I did more for love of you.”</p>
<p>And she told him of her treason.</p>
<p>“Ah, monster!” exclaimed Pietro in a rage, hurling
himself upon her, and he tried to fell her with his
chains.</p>
<p>He would have succeeded in doing so, but for the
jailor, who ran forward at his first cries. He seized
Missirilli.</p>
<p>“Here, monster! I won’t be indebted to you for anything,”
said Missirilli to Vanina, flinging the files and
diamonds at her as well as his chains permitted; and he
hastened away.</p>
<p>Vanina remained utterly crushed. She returned to
Rome, and the newspapers announce that she has just
married Prince Don Livio Savelli.</p>
<div class="chapter">
<div class="footnotes">
<p class="center p4 big2">FOOTNOTES:</p>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_18" href="#FNanchor_18" class="label">[18]</a> “<em>Librar l’Italia de’ barbari</em>,” a saying of Petrarch’s in 1350,
afterwards repeated by Julius II., by Machiavelli, and by Count
Alfieri.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_19" href="#FNanchor_19" class="label">[19]</a> Near Rimini in Romagna. It was in this castle that the
famous Cagliostro perished; it is said in the district that he was
suffocated there.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_20" href="#FNanchor_20" class="label">[20]</a> A Roman prelate would no doubt not be fit to command an
army corps bravely, as was more than once done by a general of
division who was minister of police at Paris at the time of
Mallet’s attempt; but he never would have let himself be held
up in his own house so easily. He would have been too much
afraid of being quizzed by his colleagues. A Roman who knows
that he is hated does not go about without being well armed.</p>
<p>The writer has not thought it necessary to justify some other
little differences between the ways of doing and speaking at
Paris and those at Rome. So far from toning down these differences,
he has thought it right to state them boldly. The Romans
whom he describes have not the honour of being Frenchmen.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak p2b">THE CHILD WITH THE BREAD SHOES<br>
<small>THÉOPHILE GAUTIER</small></h2>
</div>
<p>Listen to this story which the grandmothers of Germany
tell their grandchildren,—Germany, a beautiful country
of legends and dreams, where the moonlight, playing on
the mists of Old Rhine, creates a thousand fantastic
visions.</p>
<p>At the end of the village a poor woman lived alone
in a humble cottage: the house was very poor and contained
but the barest necessities in the way of furniture.</p>
<p>An old bed with twisted columns whence hung serge
curtains yellow with age; a bread-bin; a walnut chest,
polished till it shone, but the numerous worm-eaten holes
of which were stopped with wax, indicated a long period
of service; an arm-chair, covered with tapestry from
which the colours had faded and which had been worn
thin by the shaking head of the old grandmother; a
spinning-wheel polished with use: that was all.</p>
<p>We were about to forget a child’s cradle, quite new,
very cosily padded and covered with a pretty flowered
counterpane stitched by an indefatigable needle, that
of a mother ornamenting the crib of her little Jesus.</p>
<p>All the wealth in the little house was centred there.</p>
<p>The child of a burgomaster or of an aulic councillor
could not have been more softly couched. Sacred prodigality,
sweet folly of the mother who deprives herself
of everything to provide a little luxury, in the midst
of her poverty, for her dear nursling!</p>
<p>The cradle gave a festal air to the poor hovel; nature,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span>
which is compassionate to the unfortunate, made the
bareness of this white-washed cottage gay with tufts of
houseleek and velvet moss. Kind plants, full of pity,
although they looked like parasites, filled up the holes in
the roof and made it as dazzling as a bride’s jewels, and
prevented the rain from falling on the cradle; the pigeons
alighted on the window and cooed until the child fell
asleep.</p>
<p>A little bird, to which young Hans had given a crumb
of bread in the winter, when the snow made the ground
white, had, when spring came, let a grain fall from his
beak at the foot of the wall, and thence had sprung a
beautiful bindweed which, clinging to the stones with its
green claws, had entered the room by a broken window-pane,
and crowned the child’s cradle with its cluster, so
that in the morning Hans’s blue eyes and the blue bells
of the bindweed woke up at the same time, and looked
at each other with an understanding air.</p>
<p>This home, then, was poor but not gloomy.</p>
<p>Hans’s mother, whose husband had died far away at
the war, lived as best she could on vegetables from the
garden, and the product of her spinning-wheel: very
little, it is true, but Hans wanted for nothing and that
was enough.</p>
<p>Hans’s mother was a truly pious and believing woman.
She prayed, worked and practised virtue; but she had
one fault: she looked upon herself with too much complacence
and prided herself too much on her son.</p>
<p>It sometimes happens that mothers, seeing these
beautiful rosy children, with dimpled hands, white skin
and pink heels, think that they belong to them for ever.</p>
<p>But God gives nothing; he only lends, and, like a
forgotten creditor, he sometimes comes to demand his
own again all of a sudden.</p>
<p>Because this fresh bud had sprung from her stem,
Hans’s mother believed that she had made him to be
born: and God, who, from within his Paradise with its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span>
azure vaults starred with gold, watches everything that
happens on earth, and hears from the ends of the infinite
the sound that the blade of grass makes as it grows,
was not pleased to see this.</p>
<p>He also saw that Hans was greedy and that his mother
was too indulgent to this greediness; the naughty child
often cried when he had, after grapes or an apple, to eat
bread, object of envy to so many unfortunates, and his
mother let him throw away the piece of bread he had
commenced, or else finished it herself.</p>
<p>Now it happened that Hans fell ill: fever burned him,
his breath whistled in his choking throat; he had croup,
a terrible illness that has made the eyes of many mothers
and fathers red.</p>
<p>At the sight the poor woman was filled with horrible
anguish.</p>
<p>You have doubtless seen in some church the image of
Our Lady, clothed in mourning and standing under the
Cross, with her breast open and her bleeding heart,
where lie plunged seven swords of silver, three on one
side, four on the other. That means that there is no
agony more terrible than that of a mother who sees her
child dying.</p>
<p>And yet the Holy Virgin believed in the divinity of
Jesus and knew that her son would come to life again.</p>
<p>Now Hans’s mother had not that hope.</p>
<p>During the last days of Hans’s illness his mother,
even while watching him, continued to spin mechanically
and the whirring of the wheel mingled with the rattle in
the throat of the dying child.</p>
<p>If some rich people find it strange that a mother can
spin by the bed-side of a dying child, it is because they
do not understand what tortures poverty contains for
the soul; alas! it does not only break the body, it also
breaks the heart.</p>
<p>What she was spinning thus, was the thread for her
little Hans’s shroud; she did not wish that any cloth<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span>
that had been used should cover that dear body, and,
as she had no money, she made her spinning-wheel hum
with a mournful activity; but she did not pass the
thread through her lips as was her custom: enough tears
fell from her eyes to moisten it.</p>
<p>At the end of the sixth day, Hans expired. Whether
from chance or from sympathy, the cluster of bindweed
that caressed his cradle faded, dried up and let its last
curled-up flower fall on the bed.</p>
<p>When the mother was quite convinced that the breath
had for ever flown from his lips, on which the violets
of death had replaced the roses of life, she covered the
too dear head with the edge of the sheet, took her
bundle of thread under her arm, and made her way
towards the weaver’s house.</p>
<p>“Weaver,” she said to him, “here is some very fine
thread, very regular and without knots; the spider does
not spin any finer between the joists of the ceiling; let
your shuttle come and go; from this thread I must have
an ell of cloth as soft as the cloth of Friesland or Holland.”</p>
<p>The weaver took the skein, set the warp, and the busy
shuttle, drawing the thread after it, began to run hither
and thither.</p>
<p>The card strengthened the woof and the thread continued
to grow evenly, and without breaking, on the
loom; it was as fine as the shift of an archduchess or
the linen with which the priest dries the communion-cup
at the altar.</p>
<p>When all the thread was used, the weaver gave the
cloth to the poor mother, and, as he had understood
everything from the settled look of despair on the unhappy
woman’s face, he said to her:</p>
<p>“The emperor’s son, who died last year while still an
infant, was not wrapped in a finer or softer shroud in
his little ebony coffin with silver nails.”</p>
<p>Having folded the cloth, the mother drew from her
wasted finger a thin gold ring, all worn with use.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span></p>
<p>“Good weaver,” she said, “take this ring, my
wedding-ring, the only gold I ever possessed.”</p>
<p>The kind weaver-man did not wish to take it; but
she said to him:</p>
<p>“Where I am going I shall have no need of a ring;
for I feel my Hans’s small arms pulling me into the
ground.”</p>
<p>Then she went to the carpenter and said to him:</p>
<p>“Master, get me some oak from the heart of the tree,
which will not rot and which the worms will not be
able to eat; cut from it five boards and two little boards
and make a coffin to these measurements.”</p>
<p>The carpenter took his saw and plane, trimmed the
planks, and struck the nails as lightly as possible with
his hammer, so as not to let the iron points enter
farther into the poor woman’s heart than into the wood.</p>
<p>When the work was finished, it was so carefully and
so well done that it might have been taken for a box to
put jewels and laces in.</p>
<p>“Carpenter, as you have made so beautiful a coffin for
my little Hans, I give you my house at the end of the
village, and the little garden behind it, and the well with
the vineyard.—You shall not wait long.”</p>
<p>With the shroud and the coffin, which she held under
her arm, it was so small, she went through the village
streets, and the children, who do not know what death
is, said:</p>
<p>“Look at Hans’s mother taking him a beautiful box
of toys from Nuremberg; it must be a town with its
painted and varnished wooden houses, its steeple covered
with tin-foil, its belfry and its tower with battlements,
and its trees in the promenades, all curly and green; or
else a beautiful violin with its sculptured pegs at the
neck and its horsehair bow.—Oh, why have we not a
box like it!”</p>
<p>And the mothers, growing pale, kissed them and told
them to be quiet:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></p>
<p>“Silly children that you are, you must not say that;
do not wish for the box of toys, or the violin-case that
one carries with tears under one’s arm: you will have
it soon enough, poor little ones!”</p>
<p>When Hans’s mother got home, she took the dainty,
still pretty, corpse of her son and began to make his last
toilet—it must be made carefully, for it has to last for
eternity.</p>
<p>She clothed him in his Sunday clothes, his silk dress
and fur pelisse, so that he should not be cold in the damp
place to which he was going. Beside him she put the
doll with the enamel eyes, the doll he loved so much
that he always took it to bed with him.</p>
<p>But, just as she was turning down the shroud on the
body which she had kissed for the last time a thousand
times, she saw that she had forgotten to place his pretty
little red slippers on the child’s feet.</p>
<p>She looked for them in the room, for it hurt her to see
the little feet bare that used to be so warm and pink,
and were now so cold and white; but during her
absence the rats had found the shoes under the bed, and
for want of better food had nibbled them, gnawed at
them, and cut holes in the leather.</p>
<p>It was a great grief to the poor mother that Hans
should go away into the other world with bare feet;
when the heart is all one wound, it only needs a touch
to make it bleed.</p>
<p>She cried to see the slippers: from that inflamed,
worn-out eye a tear could still gush.</p>
<p>How could she get shoes for Hans, when she had
already given her ring and her house? That was the
thought that troubled her. By dint of thinking she had
an idea.</p>
<p>In the bread-bin there was still a whole loaf of bread,
as, for a long time, the unhappy woman, kept alive by
her sorrow, had been eating nothing.</p>
<p>She broke the loaf, remembering that, in the past,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span>
she had often made with the soft parts pigeons, geese,
chickens, wooden shoes, boats, and other boys’ things to
amuse Hans.</p>
<p>Placing the bread in the hollow of her hand, and
kneading it with her thumb while she moistened it with
her tears, she made a little pair of bread shoes, with
which she covered the cold, bluish feet of the dead child,
and, her heart consoled, she turned down the shroud
and closed the coffin.—While she was kneading the
bread, a poor man had come to the door and timidly
asked for some bread; but she had signed to him with
her hand to go away.</p>
<p>The grave-digger came to take away the box, and
buried it in a corner of the cemetery under a clump of
white rose-bushes: the air was warm, it was not raining
and the ground was not wet; this was a comfort to the
mother, who thought that her poor little Hans would not
pass the first night in his tomb too uncomfortably.</p>
<p>When she returned home to her solitary house, she
placed Hans’s cradle beside her bed, lay down and fell
asleep.</p>
<p>Overtaxed nature succumbed.</p>
<p>As she slept, she had a dream or, at least, she believed
it was a dream.</p>
<p>Hans appeared to her, clothed, as he was in his coffin,
in his Sunday dress and his pelisse lined with swans’-down,
in his hand his doll with the enamel eyes and on
his feet his bread shoes.</p>
<p>He seemed to be sad.</p>
<p>He had not the halo that death ought to give to the
little innocents; for, if a child is placed in the ground,
it comes out an angel.</p>
<p>The roses of Paradise were not flourishing on his
pale cheeks, coloured white by death; tears fell from
his blond eyelashes, and great sighs swelled his little
breast.</p>
<p>The vision disappeared, and the mother awoke,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span>
bathed in perspiration, delighted at having seen her
child, terrified at having seen him so sad; but she reassured
herself by saying, “Poor Hans! even in Paradise
he cannot forget me.”</p>
<p>The following night, the apparition was repeated:
Hans was still more sad and more pale.</p>
<p>His mother, stretching her arms out to him, said:</p>
<p>“Dear child, take comfort, and do not weary in
Heaven; I shall soon rejoin you.”</p>
<p>The third night, Hans came again; he moaned and
cried more than at the other times, and he disappeared
with his little hands joined; he no longer had his doll,
but he still had his bread shoes.</p>
<p>His mother, being uneasy, went to consult a venerable
priest, who said to her:</p>
<p>“I will watch beside you to-night, and I will question
the little ghost; he will answer me; I know what
words to say to innocent or guilty spirits.”</p>
<p>Hans appeared at the usual hour, and the priest
summoned him, in the consecrated words, to tell him
what troubled him in the other world.</p>
<p>“It is the bread shoes which torment me, and hinder
me from mounting the diamond staircase of Paradise;
they are heavier on my feet than postilion’s boots and I
cannot get past the first two or three steps, and that
troubles me greatly, for I see above a cloud of beautiful
cherubim with rosy wings who are calling to me to play
with them and are showing me toys of silver and gold.”</p>
<p>Having said these words, he disappeared.</p>
<p>The good priest, to whom Hans’s mother had made
her confession, said to her:</p>
<p>“You have committed a grave fault, you have profaned
the daily bread, the sacred bread, our good God’s bread,
the bread that Jesus Christ, at his last repast, chose to
represent his body, and, after having refused a slice of it
to the poor man who came to your door, you kneaded
from it slippers for your Hans.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span></p>
<p>“You must open the coffin, take the bread shoes off
the child’s feet, and burn them in the all-purifying fire.”</p>
<p>Accompanied by the grave-digger and the mother, the
priest proceeded to the cemetery: with four blows of the
spade the coffin was laid bare, and was opened.</p>
<p>Hans was lying inside, just as his mother had laid him
there, but his face bore an expression of pain.</p>
<p>The holy priest gently removed the bread shoes from
the dead child’s feet and burned them himself at the
flames of a candle, reciting a prayer the while.</p>
<p>When night came, Hans appeared to his mother one
last time, but he was gay, rosy and happy, and had
with him two little cherubim with whom he had already
made friends; he had wings of light and a fillet of
diamonds.</p>
<p>“Oh, mother, what joy, what happiness, and oh, how
beautiful are the gardens of Paradise! We play there all
the time and our good God never scolds.”</p>
<p>Next day, the mother saw her son again, not on earth,
but in heaven; for she died during the day, her brow
pressed against the empty cradle.</p>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak p2b">THE REVEREND FATHER GAUCHER’S ELIXIR<br>
<small>ALPHONSE DAUDET</small></h2>
</div>
<p>“Drink this, neighbour, and tell me what you think
of it.”</p>
<p>And drop by drop, with the scrupulous care of a
lapidary counting pearls, the <em>curé</em> of Graveson poured
me out two fingers of a golden-green liquor, warm,
shimmering, exquisite.... It warmed my stomach like
sunshine.</p>
<p>“That is Father Gaucher’s elixir, the pride and the
health of our Provence,” the good man informed me
triumphantly. “It is made at the Premonstratensian
convent, a couple of leagues from your mill.... Isn’t
it worth all their Chartreuses?... And if you only
knew how amusing the story of this elixir is! Just
listen....”</p>
<p>Thereupon quite innocently, thinking no evil, in the
Presbytery dining-room so simple and quiet with its
little pictures of the Stations of the Cross and its pretty
white starched curtains like surplices, the abbé began to
tell me a tale just a little sceptical and irreverent, after
the manner of a story from Erasmus or D’Assoucy.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>“Twenty years ago the Premonstratensians, or rather
the White Fathers, as our Provençals call them, had
fallen into great poverty. If you had seen their house
in those days, it would have made your heart ache.</p>
<p>“The great wall and St. Pachomius’ tower were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span>
falling into pieces. Around the weed-grown cloisters
the columns were splitting, the stone saints were crumbling
in their niches. Not a window was whole, not a door
held fast. In the garths and chapels the Rhone wind
blew as it does in the Camargue, extinguishing the
candles, breaking the lead of the windows, and driving
the holy water out of the stoups. But saddest of all
was the convent steeple as silent as a deserted dove-cote,
and the fathers, for want of means to buy themselves
a bell, forced to ring to matins with clappers of almond-wood!...</p>
<p>“Poor White Fathers! I can see them yet, at a
Corpus Christi procession, filing sadly past in their
patched mantles, pale, thin from their diet of pumpkins
and melons, and behind them his lordship the abbot,
who hung down his head as he went, ashamed at letting
the sun see his crosier with the gilding worn off and his
white woollen mitre all moth-eaten. The ladies of the
confraternity wept in their ranks for pity at the sight,
and the big banner-carriers grinned and whispered to
each other, as they pointed at the poor monks:</p>
<p>“‛Starlings go thin when they go in a flock!’</p>
<p>“The fact is that the unfortunate White Fathers were
themselves reduced to debating whether they would not
be better to take their flight across the world and seek
fresh pasture each one where he could.</p>
<p>“So then, one day when this grave question was
being discussed in the chapter, a message was brought
to the prior that Brother Gaucher asked to be heard
before the council.... You must understand that this
Brother Gaucher was the convent cowherd; that is to say,
he spent his days in wandering from arch to arch of
the cloisters, driving two scraggy cows, which sought
for grass in the crevices of the pavement. Brought
up until his twelfth year by an old half-witted woman
in Les Baux, called Auntie Bégon, and then taken in by
the monks, the unfortunate cowherd had never been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span>
able to learn anything except to drive his beasts and to
repeat his paternoster, and even that he said in Provençal;
for he had a thick skull, and his wits were
about as sharp as a leaden dagger. A fervent Christian,
for all that, though somewhat visionary, quite comfortable
in his sackcloth, and disciplining himself with strong
conviction and such arms!...</p>
<p>“When they saw him enter the chapter-house, simple
and clownish, and salute the assembly with a scrape,
prior, canons, treasurer, and every one burst out laughing.
That was always the effect produced everywhere that his
honest, grizzled face appeared, with its goatee and its
somewhat vacuous eyes; so Brother Gaucher was not
put about.</p>
<p>“‛Your Reverences,’ he said in a good-natured tone,
twisting at his olive-stone beads, ‛it’s a true saying that
empty barrels make the most sound. What do you
think? By putting my poor brains to steep, though
they’re soft enough already, I do believe I’ve found the
way to get us all out of our difficulties.</p>
<p>“‛It’s this way. You know Auntie Bégon, the good
woman who took care of me when I was little—God
rest her soul, the old sinner! She used to sing some
queer songs when she had drink—Well, what I want
to tell you, my reverend fathers, is that when Auntie
Bégon was alive she knew the herbs that grow in the
mountains as well and better than any old hag in Corsica.
And, by the same token, in her latter days she compounded
an incomparable elixir by blending five or six
sorts of simples, which we used to go and gather together
in the Alpilles. That’s many a year ago; but I think
that with the aid of Saint Augustine, and the permission
of our father abbot, I might—if I search carefully—recall
the composition of that mysterious elixir. Then we
should only have to put it into bottles and sell it a little
dear, and the community would be able to get rich at its
ease, like our brethren at La Trappe and the Grande....’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span></p>
<p>“He had not time to finish. The prior got up and
fell on his neck. The canons took him by the hands.
The treasurer, even more deeply moved than any of
the others, respectfully kissed the frayed hem of his
cowl.... Then each returned to his stall to deliberate;
and in solemn assembly the chapter decided to entrust
the cows to Brother Thrasybulus, in order that Brother
Gaucher might devote himself entirely to the preparation
of his elixir.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>“How did the good brother manage to recall Auntie
Bégon’s recipe? What efforts, what vigils did it cost
him? History does not relate. But this much is certain,
at the end of six months the White Fathers’ elixir was
very popular already. In all the Comtat, in all the
Arles district not a <em>mas</em>, not a farm-house but had at
the backdoor of its spence, among the bottles of wine
syrup and jars of <em>olives picholines</em>, a little brown stone
flagon sealed with the arms of Provence, with a monk
in ecstasy on a silver label. Thanks to the vogue of its
elixir the house of the Premonstratensians got rich very
rapidly. St Pachomius’ tower was rebuilt. The prior
got a new mitre, the church grand new painted windows;
and in the fine tracery of the steeple a whole flight of
bells, big and little, alighted one fine Easter morning,
chiming and pealing in full swing.</p>
<p>“As for Brother Gaucher, the poor lay brother whose
rusticities used to amuse the chapter so, he was never
mentioned now in the convent. They only knew the
Reverend Father Gaucher, a man of brains and ability,
who lived quite isolated from the petty, multifarious
occupations of the cloister, and shut himself up all day in
his distillery, while thirty monks scoured the mountains
in search of his fragrant herbs.... This distillery, to
which no one, not even the prior, had the right of
entry, was an old abandoned chapel at the bottom of the
canons’ garden. The good fathers’ simplicity had made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span>
it into a very mysterious and formidable place; and
any bold and inquisitive monk who managed to reach
the rose-window above the door by scrambling up the
climbing vines promptly tumbled down, terrified at his
peep of Father Gaucher with his necromancer’s beard,
stooping over his furnaces, hydrometer in hand; and all
around him red stone retorts, gigantic alembics, glass
worms, a regular weird litter that glowed as if enchanted
in the red gleam of the windows....</p>
<p>“At close of day, when the last stroke of the Angelus
sounded, the door of this place of mystery was opened
discreetly, and his Reverence betook himself to the
church for the evening office. You should have seen the
reception that he got as he traversed the monastery!
The brethren lined up as he passed. They said:</p>
<p>“‛Hush!... He has the secret!...’</p>
<p>“The treasurer walked behind him and spoke to him,
bowing deferentially.... Amid these adulations the
Father went his way, wiping his brow, his three-cornered
hat with its broad brim on the back of his head like
an aureole, looking complacently about him at the wide
courts planted with orange-trees, the blue roofs where
new vanes were turning, and in the dazzling white
cloister, amid the neat flower columns, the canons all
newly rigged out, walking two and two with contented
faces.</p>
<p>“‛They owe all that to me!’ his Reverence said
inwardly; and, as often as he did so, the thought made
his pride rise in gusts.</p>
<p>“The poor man was heavily punished for it. You’ll
hear how that happened....</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>“You must understand that one evening, whilst the
office was being sung, he arrived at the church in an
extraordinary state of agitation: red, breathless, his
cowl awry, and so upset that in taking holy water he
dipped his sleeves into it up to the elbows. At first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span>
they thought that it was excitement at being late; but
when they saw him make profound reverences to the
organ and the galleries instead of saluting the high altar,
rush across the church like a whirlwind, wander about
in the choir for five minutes in search of his stall, then,
once he was seated, sway right and left, smiling benignly,
a murmur of astonishment ran through the nave and
aisles. They chuckled to one another behind their
breviaries:</p>
<p>“‛Whatever is the matter with our Father Gaucher?...
Whatever is the matter with our Father Gaucher?’</p>
<p>“Twice the prior impatiently let his crosier fall on
the pavement to command silence.... Down at the end
of the choir the psalms still went on; but the responses
lacked animation....</p>
<p>“Suddenly, in the middle of the <em>Ave verum</em>, lo and
behold, Father Gaucher flung himself back in his stall,
and sang out at the top of his voice:</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>“‛In Paris there dwells a White Father,<br>
Patatin, patatan, tarabin, taraban....’</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>“General consternation. Every one rose. There
were cries of:</p>
<p>“‛Take him away!... He’s possessed!’</p>
<p>“The canons crossed themselves. His Lordship
flourished his crosier.... But Father Gaucher saw
nothing, heard nothing; and two sturdy monks had to
drag him out by the side-door of the choir, struggling
like a demoniac and going on worse than ever with his
‛patatins’ and ‛tarabans.’</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>“Next morning, at daybreak, the unfortunate man
was on his knees in the prior’s oratory, owning his fault
with a torrent of tears.</p>
<p>“‛It was the elixir, my lord; it was the elixir that
overcame me,’ he said, beating on his breast.</p>
<p>“And seeing him so conscience-smitten, so penitent,
the good prior himself was moved.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span></p>
<p>“‛Come, come, Father Gaucher, set your mind at
rest; it will all pass away like dew in the sun....
After all, the scandal has not been so great as you think.
To be sure, there was a song that was a little ... hem!
hem!... Yet let us hope that the novices would not pick
it up.... But now, let us see; tell me frankly how it all
happened.... It was when you were trying the elixir,
was it not? Perhaps your hand was too heavy?... Yes,
yes, I understand.... It is like brother Schwartz, the
inventor of gunpowder: you have been the victim of
your invention. But tell me, my good friend, is it
absolutely necessary for you to try this terrible elixir on
yourself?’</p>
<p>“‛Unfortunately it is, my lord! The gauge gives
me the strength and the degree of alcohol, it is true;
but for the fineness, the velvetiness, I can’t very well
trust anything but my tongue!...’</p>
<p>“‛Ah, to be sure!... But listen for another moment
to what I am going to say to you.... When you are
compelled to taste the elixir thus, does it seem good?
Do you derive any pleasure from it?’</p>
<p>“‛Alas, yes, my lord!’ said the unfortunate father,
blushing to the roots of his hair. ‛These last two
evenings I have found such a bouquet in it, such an
aroma!... Surely it must be the Devil that has
played me this sorry trick.... And so I have quite
decided to use nothing but the gauge in future. If the
liquor is not fine enough, if it does not pearl enough,
so much the worse....’</p>
<p>“‛For any sake don’t do that,’ the prior interrupted
excitedly. ‛We must not run the risk of making our
customers dissatisfied.... All you have to do, now
that you are forewarned, is to be on your guard....
Let us see, how much do you require to ascertain?...
Fifteen or twenty drops, eh?... Let’s say twenty drops....
The Devil will be smart indeed if he catches you
with twenty drops.... In any case, to prevent accidents,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span>
I’ll dispense you from coming to church in future.
You will say the evening office in the distillery....
And, meanwhile, go in peace, reverend father, and, above
all things, count your drops carefully.’</p>
<p>“Alas, his poor reverence had much need to count his
drops!... The Devil had hold of him, and never afterwards
let him go.</p>
<p>“The distillery heard some strange offices!</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>“So long as it was day, all went well. The father
was tolerably calm: he prepared his chafing-dishes and
alembics, sorted his herbs carefully, all Provence herbs,
fine, grey, serrated, hot with perfume and sunshine....
But in the evening, when the simples were infused and
the elixir was cooling in great copper basins, the poor
man’s martyrdom began.</p>
<p>“‛Seventeen ... eighteen ... nineteen ... twenty!...’</p>
<p>“The drops fell from the stirring-rod into the silver-gilt
goblet. The father swallowed the twenty at a gulp,
almost without pleasure. What he longed for was the
twenty-first. Oh, that twenty-first drop!... Then, to
escape temptation, he went and knelt down at the
farthest end of the laboratory, and buried himself in
his paternosters. But from the still-warm liquor there
rose a faint steam charged with aromas, which came
stealing about him and sent him back willy-nilly to his
basins.... The liquor was a lovely golden green....
Leaning over it with open nostrils, the father stirred it
gently with his stirring-rod, and in the little sparkling
bubbles that the emerald wave carried round he seemed
to see Auntie Bégon’s eyes laughing and twinkling as
they looked at him....</p>
<p>“‛Here goes! Another drop!’</p>
<p>“And with one drop and another the unfortunate at
last had his goblet full to the brim. Then, completely
vanquished, he sank down in a great arm-chair, and
lolling at ease, his eyes half shut, tasted his sin sip<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span>
by sip, saying softly to himself with a delicious
remorse:</p>
<p>“‘Ah! I’m damning myself ... damning myself....’</p>
<p>“The most terrible thing was that at the bottom
of this diabolical elixir he rediscovered by some black
art or other all Auntie Bégon’s naughty songs:
‛There are three little gossips, who talk of making a
banquet’ ... or: ‛Master Andrew’s little shepherdess
goes off to the wood by her little self,’ and always
the famous one about the White Fathers: ‛Patatin,
patatan.’</p>
<p>“Imagine his confusion next day when his cell-mates
said to him slyly:</p>
<p>“‛Eh, eh, Father Gaucher, you had a bee in your
bonnet last night, when you went to bed!’</p>
<p>“Then it was tears, despair and fasting, sackcloth and
discipline. But nothing could avail against the demon
of the elixir, and every evening at the same hour his
possession began anew.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>“All this time orders were pouring into the abbey in
excess of expectation. They came from Nîmes, from
Aix, from Avignon, from Marseilles.... Every day the
convent became more like a factory. There were packing
brothers, labelling brothers, others for the accounts,
others for the carting; the service of God may have
lost a few tolls of the bells now and again by it; but I
can assure you that the poor folk of the district lost
nothing....</p>
<p>“Well, then, one fine Sunday morning, whilst the
treasurer was reading in full chapter his stock-sheet at
the end of the year, and the good canons were listening
to him with sparkling eyes and smiles on their lips, who
should burst into the middle of the meeting but Father
Gaucher, shouting out:</p>
<p>“‛That’s an end of it!... I can’t stand it any
longer!... Give me my cows again!’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span></p>
<p>“‛But what is it, Father Gaucher?’ asked the prior,
who had his own suspicions of what it was.</p>
<p>“‛What is it, my lord?... I’m on a fair way of
preparing myself a fine eternity of flames and pitch-forks....
I drink, and drink, like a lost soul; that’s
what it is!...’</p>
<p>‛But I told you to count your drops.’</p>
<p>‛Ah, so you did! To count my drops! But I would
need to count by goblets now.... Yes, your Reverences,
that’s what I’ve come to. Three bottles an evening!...
You know quite well that can’t go on for ever.... So,
get whom you like to make the elixir.... God’s fire
burn me, if I take anything more to do with it!’</p>
<p>“There was no more laughing for the chapter.</p>
<p>“‛But, wretched man, you’ll ruin us!’ cried the
treasurer, brandishing his ledger.</p>
<p>“‛Would you rather I damned myself?’</p>
<p>“Thereupon the prior stood up.</p>
<p>“‛Reverend sirs,’ he said, stretching out his fine white
hand, on which the pastoral ring glistened, ‛it can all
be arranged.... It’s at night, is it not, my dear son,
that the demon assails you?...’</p>
<p>‛Yes, Sir Prior, regularly every evening.... When
I see the night coming on, I get all in a sweat, saving
your Reverence’s presence, like Capitou’s ass, when he
saw them come with the pack-saddle.’</p>
<p>“‛Well, then, keep your mind easy.... In future,
every evening, during the office, we’ll recite on your
behalf the Prayer of Saint Augustine, to which plenary
indulgence is attached.... With that, you are safe,
whatever happens.... It is absolution at the very
moment of sin.’</p>
<p>“‘O that is good, thank you, Sir Prior.’</p>
<p>“And, without asking anything more, Father Gaucher
returned to his alembics as light as a lark.</p>
<p>“And in fact, from that moment, every evening, at
the end of compline, the officiant never failed to say:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span></p>
<p>“‘Let us pray for our poor Father Gaucher, who is
sacrificing his soul in the interests of the community.
<em>Oremus, Domine</em>....’</p>
<p>“And, while the prayer ran along all those white cowls
prostrated in the shadow of the naves, like a little breeze
over snow, away at the other end of the convent, behind
the lighted windows of the distillery, Father Gaucher
might be heard chanting open-throated:</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>“‘In Paris there dwells a White Father,<br>
Patatin, patatan, tarabin, taraban;<br>
In Paris there dwells a White Father<br>
Who sets all the little nuns dancing,<br>
Trip, trip, trip, trip in a garden;<br>
Who sets all the....’”</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr class="tb">
<p>At this point the good <em>curé</em> stopped short in horror.
“Mercy on us! If my parishioners heard me!”</p>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak">THE LEGEND OF SAINT JULIAN HOSPITATOR<br>
<small>GUSTAVE FLAUBERT</small></h2>
</div>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>Julian’s father and mother lived in a castle in the midst
of woods on the slope of a hill.</p>
<p>Its four corner-towers had pointed roofs covered with
scales of lead, and the base of the walls rested on masses
of rock which went down abruptly right to the bottom
of the moat.</p>
<p>The pavements of the court were as clean as the
flagged floor of a church. Long gutters, shaped like
dragons with down-drooped jaws, vomited the rain-water
into the cistern; and on the window-ledges at every
storey, in a pot of painted earthenware, a plant of basil
or heliotrope opened to the sun.</p>
<p>A second line of defence, formed of stakes, enclosed
first an orchard of fruit-trees, then a parterre, where the
combinations of the flowers formed patterns, and next
a trellis with bowers in which to take the air, and a
mall which served to amuse the pages. On the other
side were the kennel, the stables, the bakery, the wine-press
and the barns. A meadow of green grass extended
all around, itself enclosed by a strong hedge of
thorns.</p>
<p>They had lived in peace so long that the portcullis
was never let down; the moats were full of water; the
swallows made their nests in the openings of the battlements;
and the archer who walked up and down upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span>
the walls all day long retired into his turret as soon as
the sun shone too strongly, and slept there like a
monk.</p>
<p>Indoors, the ironwork shone everywhere; tapestries in
the rooms gave protection from the cold; and the presses
were crammed with linen; the wine-tuns were piled up
in the cellars, the oaken coffers groaned with the weight
of bags of silver.</p>
<p>In the great hall arms of every age and every nation
were to be seen among banners and heads of wild beasts,
from the slings of the Amalekites and the javelins of
the Garamantes to the scimitars of the Saracens and the
chain-coats of the Normans.</p>
<p>The great spit in the kitchen could turn an ox; the
chapel was as sumptuous as the oratory of a king. There
was even, in a retired corner, a vapour-bath in the Roman
fashion; but the good lord of the castle abstained from
it, deeming that it was an idolatrous custom.</p>
<p>Always wrapped in a fox pelisse, he walked about his
house, did justice among his vassals, and appeased the
quarrels of his neighbours. In winter he watched the
snow-flakes fall, or had histories read to him. As soon
as the good weather came, he went out on his mule
along the lanes, amongst the green cornfields, and talked
with the rustics, to whom he gave advice. After many
adventures, he had taken to wife a damsel of high degree.</p>
<p>She was very fair, somewhat proud and serious. The
horns of her head-dress brushed against the lintel of the
doors; the train of her cloth gown trailed three paces
behind her. Her household was ruled like the interior of
a monastery; every morning she gave out their work
to her servants, saw to the comfits and unguents, span
on her distaff, or embroidered altar-cloths. In answer
to her prayers God granted her a son.</p>
<p>Then there were great rejoicings, and a feast which
lasted three days and four nights, amid the illumination
of torches, to the sound of harps, on floors strawed with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span>
leafage. At it they ate the rarest spices, with fowls as
big as sheep; as a diversion, a dwarf came out of a
pasty; and when the bowls gave out, for the crowd
was ever increasing, they were obliged to drink from the
horns and helmets.</p>
<p>The young mother was not present at those festivities.
She stayed in her bed and kept quiet. One evening she
woke and saw, by a moonbeam that shone in at the
window, something like a shadow that moved. It was an
ancient in a frock of coarse stuff, with a chaplet at his
side, a wallet on his shoulder, with all the appearance of
a hermit. He came up to her pillow and said without
opening his lips:</p>
<p>“Rejoice, O mother! Thy son will be a saint!”</p>
<p>She was about to cry out; but gliding upon the
moon-ray he rose gently into the air, then disappeared.
The songs of the banquet sounded more loudly than
ever. She heard the voices of angels; and her head
sank back upon the pillow, which was surmounted by
the bone of a martyr in a frame of carbuncles.</p>
<p>Next day all the servants, when questioned, declared
that they had not seen any hermit. Dream or reality,
this must have been a communication from Heaven;
but she was careful to say nothing about it, lest she
should be charged with pride.</p>
<p>The revellers departed at break of day; and Julian’s
father was outside the postern, where he had been seeing
the last of them off, when all at once a mendicant rose
up before him in the mist. He was a gipsy with
plaited beard, silver rings on both his arms, and sparkling
eyeballs. With an inspired air he stammered these
inconsequent words:</p>
<p>“Ah! ah! your son!... much blood!... much glory!...
always fortunate! An Emperor’s family.”</p>
<p>And, stooping to pick up his alms, he disappeared in
the grass and vanished.</p>
<p>The good castellan looked right and left and called<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span>
his loudest. Not a soul! The wind blew, the morning
mists cleared away.</p>
<p>He attributed this vision to lightheadedness from want
of sleep. “If I talk about it,” he said to himself,
“they will laugh at me.” However, the splendours
destined for his son dazzled him, although the promise
of them was by no means clear, and he even doubted
whether he had heard it.</p>
<p>The spouses kept their secrets from each other. But
both cherished the child with equal love; and, respecting
him as one marked out by God, they bestowed an
infinity of care upon his person. His cradle was stuffed
with the finest down; a lamp in the shape of a dove
burned over it continually; three nurses lulled him to
rest; and, well wrapped in his swaddling-bands, his face
rosy, and his eyes blue, with his brocade cloak and his
cap trimmed with pearls, he looked like a little Jesus.
His teeth came without his uttering a single moan.</p>
<p>When he was seven, his mother taught him to sing.
To make him brave, his father hoisted him on to a great
horse. The child smiled with satisfaction, and was not
long in learning everything about chargers.</p>
<p>A very learned old monk instructed him in the Holy
Scriptures, Arabic cyphering, Latin letters, and the art
of drawing dainty pictures on vellum. They worked
together away up at the top of a tower, out of the noise.</p>
<p>The lesson finished, they went down to the garden,
where, walking about side by side, they studied the flowers.</p>
<p>Sometimes they would see a string of pack-animals
making their way along the bottom of the vale conducted
by a man on foot in Oriental garb. The castellan,
who had recognized him for a merchant, would send a
servant to him. The stranger, taking confidence, turned
out of his way, and, taken into the parlour, he brought
out of his coffers pieces of velvet and silk, jewellery,
aromatics, strange things of which the use was unknown;
in the end the honest man went away with great gain,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span>
without having suffered any violence. At other times
a group of pilgrims would knock at the door. Their
wet garments smoked before the fire; and when they
were fed they told their travels: the wanderings of
barks on the foaming sea, marches on foot through the
burning sands, the ferocity of the Paynims, the caverns
of Syria, the Cradle and the Sepulchre. Then they gave
the young lord cockle-shells from their mantles.</p>
<p>Often the castellan feasted his old companions-in-arms.
As they drank, they recalled their wars, the assaults on
fortresses with battering of engines and prodigious
wounds. Julian, who was listening, uttered shouts at
what he heard; thereupon his father had no doubt that
he would some day be a conqueror. But in the evening,
when the angelus sounded, as he passed between the
bowing poor, he put his hand in his purse with such
modesty and such a noble air that his mother was
certain he would be an archbishop in course of time.</p>
<p>His place in chapel was beside his parents; and however
long the offices might be he remained on his knees
at his faldstool, his bonnet on the ground and his hands
clasped.</p>
<p>One day during Mass, on raising his head, he noticed
a little white mouse which came out of a hole in the
wall. It ran on to the first step of the altar, and, after
two or three turns to right and left, made off the same
way. Next Sunday the thought that he might see it
again troubled him. It came back; and each Sunday
he waited for it, was annoyed by it, and was seized by
hatred of it, and resolved to make away with it.</p>
<p>So, having shut the door and scattered some crumbs
of cake on the steps, he stationed himself before the
hole with a switch in his hand.</p>
<p>After a very long time a pink muzzle appeared, then
all the mouse. He struck a light blow and remained
stupefied before the tiny body that no longer moved.
A drop of blood stained the pavement. He wiped it off<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span>
hastily with his sleeve, threw the mouse outside, and
said nothing about it to any one.</p>
<p>All sorts of small birds picked at the seeds in the
garden. He took it into his head to put peas into a
hollow reed. When he heard a twittering in the garden,
he approached softly, then raised his tube, puffed his
cheeks, and the little creatures rained upon his shoulders
so abundantly that he could not keep from laughing,
overjoyed at his mischief.</p>
<p>One morning, as he was returning along the wall, he
caught sight of a big pigeon on top of the rampart,
pouting in the sun. Julian stopped to look at it; there
was a gap in the wall just there, a splinter of stone
came to his hand. He bent his arm, and the stone
knocked down the bird, which fell in a heap into the moat.</p>
<p>He hurried down, tearing himself on the bushes,
searching everywhere, more active than a young dog.</p>
<p>The pigeon was quivering with broken wings, hanging
in the branches of a privet-bush.</p>
<p>Its persistence in life irritated the child. He set
about wringing its neck, and the bird’s convulsions
made his heart beat, and filled it with a savage and
tumultuous pleasure. When it at last stiffened, he felt
himself fainting.</p>
<p>That evening, at supper, his father declared that a boy
of his age ought to learn venery; and he went to look
for an old manuscript containing all the pastime of the
chase in question and answer. In it a master showed
his pupil the art of entering dogs and manning hawks,
of setting snares, how to recognize the stag by his
fumets, the fox by his footprints, the wolf by his pads;
the best way to discover their tracks, how they are
started, and where their refuges usually are; what are
the most favourable winds, with an enumeration of the
calls and rules of the quarry.</p>
<p>When Julian could repeat all those things by heart,
his father made up a pack of hounds for him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span></p>
<p>First were to be seen four and twenty Barbary greyhounds,
faster than gazelles, but apt to get out of hand;
then seventeen couples of Breton dogs, spotted with
white on a red ground, unfaltering in their obedience
to command, strong-chested and deep-throated. For the
attack of the wild boar and perilous lairs, there were
forty griffons, hairy as bears. Mastiffs from Tartary,
almost as tall as asses, flame-coloured, broad-backed
and straight-legged, were meant to pursue the aurochs.
The black coat of the spaniels gleamed like satin; the
yelping of the talbots rivalled the music of the beagles.
In a separate yard, rattling their chains and rolling
their eyes, growled eight Alan bulldogs, formidable
brutes, which would spring at a horseman’s belly and
were not afraid of lions.</p>
<p>They all were fed on wheaten bread, drank from
stone troughs, and bore sonorous names.</p>
<p>The falconry, perhaps, even excelled the kennel.
The good lord, by dint of money, had procured tercels
from the Caucasus, sakers from Babylon, gerfalcons
from Germany, and peregrine falcons captured on the
cliffs by the shores of frozen seas in distant lands. They
were lodged in a shed covered with thatch, and, fastened
in order of their size on the perch, had a sod of turf
before them, on which they were set from time to
time to keep them limber.</p>
<p>Purse-nets, hooks, spring-traps, all sorts of gins, were
constructed.</p>
<p>Often they took out to the fields spaniels, which very
soon stood. Then the huntsmen, advancing step by step,
cautiously spread an immense net over their motionless
bodies. A word made them bark; quails started up;
and the ladies of the neighbourhood, who had been
invited with their husbands, the children and the
waiting-women, all threw themselves upon them and
caught them easily.</p>
<p>At other times, a drum was beaten to start the hares;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span>
foxes fell into trenches, or else a spring opened and
caught a wolf by the foot.</p>
<p>But Julian despised those easy artifices; he preferred
to hunt far away from other people, with his horse and
his hawk. It was almost always a great tartaret from
Scythia, white as snow. Its leather hood was surmounted
by a plume, golden bells trembled on its blue
feet; and it sat fast on its master’s wrist while his horse
galloped and the plains unrolled beneath them. Julian,
unfastening its leashes, loosed it all at once; the brave
bird mounted straight into the air like an arrow; and
two unequal specks could be seen twisting, meeting,
then disappearing in the heights of the azure. The
falcon was not long in descending, tearing some bird in
pieces, and came to resume its place on its master’s
gauntlet, its two wings trembling.</p>
<p>In this fashion Julian flew the heron, the kite, the
crow, and the vulture.</p>
<p>He loved, sounding his horn, to follow his dogs as
they ran along the hill-sides, leapt the brooks, climbed
up to the woods; and when the stag began to sigh under
their bites he struck it down swiftly, then took pleasure
in the fury of the mastiffs as they devoured it, cut in
pieces upon its reeking hide.</p>
<p>On misty days, he hid himself in a marsh to watch for
geese, otters and wild duck.</p>
<p>Three squires waited for him at break of day at the
foot of the porch, and the old monk, leaning out of
his attic window, made signs to him in vain. Julian did
not turn back, he went his way in the heat of the sun, in
the rain, in storm, drank water from the springs in his
hand, ate wild apples as he trotted; if he was tired, he
rested beneath an oak; and he came home at midnight
covered with blood and mire, with thorns in his hair
and smelling of wild beasts. He became like them.
When his mother embraced him, he submitted coldly to
her clasp, and appeared to be dreaming of something deep.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span></p>
<p>He slew bears with blows of his hunting-knife, bulls
with the axe, wild boars with the spear; and once,
even, without so much as a stick, he defended himself
against wolves which were gnawing some corpses beneath
a gallows.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>One winter morning, he set out before daylight, well
equipped, a cross-bow on his shoulder and a quiverful
of bolts at his saddle-bow.</p>
<p>His Danish jennet, followed by two basset-hounds,
made the ground ring as it walked with even pace.
Drops of sleet clung to his mantle, a strong breeze was
blowing. One side of the horizon cleared; and in the
paleness of the twilight he saw some rabbits running
about at the mouth of their burrows. The two basset-hounds
suddenly dashed upon them, and with a quick
shake to this side and that broke their necks.</p>
<p>Soon he entered a wood. On the end of a branch a
capercaillie benumbed with cold was sleeping with its
head under its wing. Julian sliced off both its feet
with a backhanded stroke of his sword, and went on his
way without picking it up.</p>
<p>Three hours later he found himself on the peak of a
mountain so high that the sky seemed almost black.
Before him a rock like a long wall sloped down and
overhung a precipice; and at its end two wild goats
looked down into the abyss. As he had not his bolts,
for he had left his horse behind, he determined to climb
down to them; crouching, bare-footed, he at last
reached the first of the goats and plunged a poniard
between its ribs. The second, seized with terror,
leapt into space. Julian darted forward to strike it,
and, his right foot slipping, he fell across the carcase
of the other, his face over the abyss and his arms
out-stretched.</p>
<p>Having got down to the plain again, he followed the
willows that fringed a stream. Cranes, flying very low,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span>
passed over his head from time to time. Julian felled
them with his whip and never missed one.</p>
<p>Meanwhile the warmer air had melted the rime, great
mists floated about and the sun appeared. He saw
shining far away a frozen lake, which looked like lead.
In the middle of the lake was a beast which Julian did
not know, a beaver with its black muzzle. In spite of
the distance, a bolt brought it down; and he was vexed
not to be able to carry away its skin.</p>
<p>Then he went on through an avenue of great trees
which formed a sort of triumphal arch with their crowns
at the edge of a forest. A roe-deer sprang out of a
thicket, a fallow-deer appeared in a cross-way, a badger
came out of a hole, a peacock on the grass displayed its
tail;—and, when he had killed them all, more roe-deer
presented themselves, more fallow-deer, more badgers,
more peacocks, and blackbirds, jays, polecats, foxes,
hedgehogs, lynxes, an infinity of beasts, more numerous
at every step. They played about him, trembling, with
sweet and supplicating looks. But Julian never grew
tired of killing them, now winding his cross-bow, now
unsheathing his sword, now thrusting with his cutlass,
without a thought in his mind, without recollection of
anything whatsoever. He was hunting in some country
somewhere, from a time unknown, simply because he
was there, everything done with the ease experienced
in dreams. An extraordinary spectacle arrested him.
Stags filled a valley shaped like a circus; and huddled
one against the other they warmed themselves with their
breaths, which could be seen reeking in the mist.</p>
<p>The prospect of such carnage choked him with delight
for some minutes. Then he dismounted, turned up his
sleeves, and began to shoot.</p>
<p>At the whistling of the first bolt, all the stags turned
round their heads at once. Gaps showed in their mass;
plaintive voices sounded, and a great commotion agitated
the herd.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span></p>
<p>The sides of the valley were too high for them to
clear. They sprang about in the enclosure, seeking to
escape. Julian aimed, let go, and his arrows fell like
the rainstreaks in a storm-shower. The maddened stags
fought, reared, climbed upon one another; and their
bodies locked by their antlers made a great hillock which
crumbled away as it moved.</p>
<p>At last they were dead, lying on the sand, the foam
at their nostrils, their entrails protruding, the heaving of
their flanks subsiding by degrees. Then all was still.</p>
<p>Night was about to fall; and behind the wood,
between the branches, the sky was like a lake of
blood.</p>
<p>Julian leant his back against a tree. With listless
eye he contemplated the enormity of the massacre, not
understanding how he had been able to do it.</p>
<p>On the other side of the valley, at the edge of the
forest, he saw a stag, a hind and her fawn.</p>
<p>The stag, which was black and of monstrous size, had
sixteen points and a white beard. The hind, light as
withered leaves in colour, was browsing on the grass;
and the dappled fawn sucked at her dug without
hindering her progress.</p>
<p>The cross-bow snored once again. The fawn, that
same instant, was killed. Then its dam, looking to the
sky, brayed in a voice deep, heart-rending, human.
With a shot full in the breast the exasperated Julian
stretched her on the earth.</p>
<p>The great stag had seen him, and gave a spring.
Julian discharged his last bolt at him. It struck his
forehead and remained fixed there.</p>
<p>The great stag did not seem to feel it; striding over
the dead he kept advancing, was about to charge down
upon him and disembowel him; and Julian drew back in
unspeakable terror. The prodigious animal halted; and
with flaming eyes, solemn as a patriarch or a justiciary,
while a bell tolled in the distance, it thrice repeated:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span></p>
<p>“Accursed! Accursed! Accursed! Some day, ferocious
heart, thou wilt murder thy father and mother!”</p>
<p>It bent its knees, closed its eyelids gently, and died.</p>
<p>Julian was stupefied, then overcome by sudden fatigue;
and an immense disgust, an immense sadness, took
possession of him. With his head in both his hands, he
wept a long time.</p>
<p>His horse was lost; his dogs had left him; the solitude
which enfolded him seemed all menacing with vague
perils. Then, seized with fright, he took a way across
country, chose a path at hazard, and found himself almost
immediately at the castle-gate.</p>
<p>That night he did not sleep. Under the swaying of
the hanging lamp he continually saw the great black
stag. Its prediction obsessed him; he fought against
it. “No, no, no! I cannot kill them!” Then he
thought, “But what if I wished it?” And he was in
dread lest the Devil should inspire him with the
desire.</p>
<p>For three long months, his mother prayed in anguish
at his pillow, and his father walked continually up and
down the corridors in anguish, groaning. He summoned
the most famous master-leeches, who ordered quantities
of drugs. Julian’s malady, they said, was caused by some
noxious wind or some amorous desire. But to all questions
the young man shook his head.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>His strength came back to him; and they walked
him out in the courtyard, the old monk and the good
lord each supporting him by an arm.</p>
<p>When he was completely restored, he refrained obstinately
from the chase.</p>
<p>His father, wishing to cheer him, made him a present
of a great Saracen sword.</p>
<p>It was at the top of a pillar, in a trophy. To reach
it a ladder was required. Julian climbed it. The heavy
sword slipped through his fingers, and grazed the good<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span>
lord so closely, as it fell, that his gown was cut by it;
Julian thought he had killed his father, and fainted.</p>
<p>Thenceforth he had a dread of weapons. The sight
of a naked blade made him blench. This weakness caused
great distress to his family.</p>
<p>At length the old monk commanded him in the name
of God and for the honour of his ancestors to resume
the exercises of a gentleman.</p>
<p>The squires amused themselves every day with throwing
the javelin. In this Julian very soon excelled.
He sent his into bottle-mouths, broke the teeth of the
weather-vanes, hit the nails-studs of the doors at a
hundred paces.</p>
<p>One summer evening, at the hour when the mist
renders things indistinct, he was under the trellis in the
garden and saw down at the end two white wings that
fluttered at the height of the fence. He never doubted
but it was a stork; and he darted his javelin.</p>
<p>A piercing cry resounded.</p>
<p>It was his mother, whose head-dress with its long
lappets remained pinned to the wall.</p>
<p>Julian fled from the castle, and was never seen there
again.</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>He joined himself to a band of adventurers who were
passing.</p>
<p>He learned to know hunger, thirst, fevers, and vermin.
He became accustomed to the din of mellays and the
sight of the dying. The wind tanned his skin. His
limbs became calloused by contact with his armour; and
since he was very strong, courageous, temperate, and of
good counsel, he had no trouble in obtaining the command
of a company.</p>
<p>At the beginning of a battle he roused his soldiers
with a great wave of his sword. With a knotted rope he
climbed the walls of citadels at night, swayed about by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span>
the hurricane, while the drops of Greek fire stuck to his
cuirass, and the boiling pitch and melted lead streamed
down from the battlements. Often the hurtling of a
stone shivered his buckler. Bridges overloaded with
men collapsed beneath him. With a sweep of his mace
he rid himself of fourteen horsemen. In the lists he
defeated all who came forward. More than a score of
times he was taken for dead.</p>
<p>Thanks to divine favour he always escaped; for he
protected churchmen, orphans, widows, and especially
aged men. When he saw one of these last walking in
front of him, he called to him, in order to see his face,
as if he were afraid of killing him by mistake.</p>
<p>Fugitive slaves, revolted peasants, portionless bastards,
all sorts of desperate men flocked to his banner, and
he gathered an army of his own.</p>
<p>It increased. He became famous. He was sought
after.</p>
<p>He aided in turn the Dauphin of France and the King
of England, the Templars of Jerusalem, the Surenas of
the Parthians, the Negus of Abyssinia, and the Emperor
of Calicut. He fought Scandinavians covered with fish-scales,
negroes furnished with targets of hippopotamus
hide and mounted on red asses, golden-skinned Indians,
brandishing above their diadems broad sabres brighter
than mirrors. He vanquished the Troglodytes and the
Anthropophagi. He traversed regions so torrid that
under the burning heat of the sun the hair of men’s
heads took fire of itself like torches; and others so icy
that men’s arms came away from their bodies and fell
to the ground; and countries where there were so many
fogs that they marched surrounded by phantoms.</p>
<p>States in difficulty consulted him. He obtained
unhoped-for terms in interviews with ambassadors. If
a monarch governed ill, he arrived suddenly and remonstrated
with him. He set peoples free. He delivered
queens shut up in towers. It was he, and no other,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span>
who smote the great serpent of Milan and the dragon of
Oberbirbach.</p>
<p>Now, the Emperor of Occitania, having triumphed
over the Spanish Mussulmans, had united in concubinage
with the sister of the Caliph of Cordova, and had a
daughter by her, whom he had brought up as a
Christian. But the Caliph, making as if he wished to be
converted, came to him on a visit accompanied by a
numerous escort, massacred all his garrison and plunged
him into a dungeon-pit, where he treated him most
harshly, in order to extract treasure from him.</p>
<p>Julian hastened to his aid, destroyed the army of the
infidels, laid siege to the town, slew the Caliph, cut off
his head, and threw it like a ball over the ramparts.
Then he took the Emperor from his prison and caused
him to remount his throne in presence of all his court.</p>
<p>As the price of such a service, the Emperor presented
him with much silver in baskets; Julian would have none
of it. Believing that he desired more, he offered him
three-quarters of his wealth; another refusal. Then to
share his kingdom; Julian thanked him and declined.
And the Emperor wept for vexation, not knowing how
to testify his gratitude, when he struck his forehead,
said a word into the ear of a courtier, the curtains of a
tapestry were raised, and a young girl appeared.</p>
<p>Her great black eyes shone like two soft lamps. A
charming smile parted her lips. The ringlets of her hair
were caught in the jewels on her open dress; and
under the transparence of her tunic her youthful form
was half-revealed. She was all dainty and plump, with
a slender waist.</p>
<p>Julian was dazzled with love, the more so as he had
so far led a life of extreme chastity.</p>
<p>So he received the Emperor’s daughter in marriage,
with a castle which she held of her mother; and, the
nuptials ended, they parted with no end of compliments
on either side.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span></p>
<p>The palace was of white marble, built in the Moresque
style, on a headland, in a grove of orange-trees. Terraces
of flowers stretched down to the border of a bay, where
pink shells crunched under the feet. Behind the castle
extended a forest in the shape of a fan. The sky was
always blue, and the trees bent now beneath the sea-breeze,
now beneath the wind from the mountains that
framed the distant horizon.</p>
<p>The rooms, full of twilight, were illumined by the
incrustations upon the walls. Tall columns, slender as
reeds, supported the vaulting of the cupolas, which were
decorated with reliefs in imitation of the stalactites of
grottoes.</p>
<p>There were fountains in the halls, mosaics in the courtyards,
festooned partition-walls, a thousand refinements
of architecture and everywhere such silence that one
could hear the rustling of a scarf or the echo of a sigh.</p>
<p>Julian made war no longer. He rested, surrounded
by a people at peace; and each day a crowd passed before
him with genuflexions and hand-kissing in the Oriental
fashion.</p>
<p>Clad in purple he leaned on his elbows in a window-recess
and recalled his hunts of bygone days; and he
could have wished to be coursing over the desert after
the gazelles and the ostriches, to be hiding in the
bamboos on the watch for leopards, to be traversing the
forests full of rhinoceroses, climbing to the summit of
the most inaccessible mountains to get better aim at the
eagles, or fighting the white bears on the icebergs of the
sea.</p>
<p>Sometimes in a dream he saw himself like our father
Adam in the midst of Paradise among all the beasts; he
stretched out his arm and made them die; or else they
passed before him two by two in order of their bigness,
from the elephants and the lions to the ermines and
the ducks, as on the day when they entered Noah’s Ark.
In the shade of a cavern he darted unerring javelins<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span>
upon them; others came; there was no end to them;
and he woke up rolling his eyes savagely.</p>
<p>Princes of his acquaintance invited him to hunt. He
always refused, thinking by this sort of penance to avert
his misfortune; for it seemed to him that the fate of
his parents depended on the murder of the animals. But
he suffered from not seeing them, and his other desire
became intolerable.</p>
<p>To divert him his wife sent for jugglers and dancing-girls.</p>
<p>She walked with him, in an open litter, in the country;
at other times stretched on the side of a skiff they
watched the fish straying in the water clear as the sky.
Often she threw flowers in his face; sitting at his feet
she drew music from a three-stringed mandoline; then,
placing her clasped hands on his shoulder, she would
ask in a timid voice, “Why, what ails you, my dear
lord?”</p>
<p>He gave no reply, or burst into sobs; at last one day
he confessed his horrible thought.</p>
<p>She opposed it with very sound arguments: his father
and mother were probably dead; if ever he saw them
again, by what chance, with what purpose, would he
come to work this abomination? Therefore his fears
were groundless, and he ought to take to hunting again.</p>
<p>Julian smiled as he heard her, but he did not decide
to satisfy her desire.</p>
<p>One evening in the month of August, when they were
in their room, she had just gone to bed, and he was
kneeling for his prayers, when he heard the barking of a
fox, then light footsteps under the window; and caught
sight in the dusk of something that looked like animals.
The temptation was too strong. He took his quiver
down from the peg.</p>
<p>She seemed surprised.</p>
<p>“It is to obey you!” he said, “I shall be back by
sunrise.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span></p>
<p>For all that, she was apprehensive of some unhappy
accident.</p>
<p>He reassured her, then went out, astonished at the
inconsequence of her moods.</p>
<p>Soon afterwards a page came to announce that two
strangers, in the absence of the lord, asked to see the
lady at once.</p>
<p>And soon came into the room an old man and an old
woman, bent, dusty, in coarse garments, each leaning on
a staff.</p>
<p>They took courage and declared that they brought
Julian news of his parents.</p>
<p>She leant forward to listen to them.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, having understood each other by a glance,
they asked her if he always loved them still, if he ever
spoke about them.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” she said.</p>
<p>Then they exclaimed:</p>
<p>“Well, we are they!” And they sat down very weary
and overcome with fatigue.</p>
<p>Nothing could persuade the young wife that her
husband was their son.</p>
<p>They proved it to her by describing certain marks
which he had on his body.</p>
<p>She sprang from her couch, called her page, and a
repast was set before them.</p>
<p>Although they were very hungry, they could not eat
much; and even at a distance she could perceive the
trembling of their gnarled hands as they took the
goblets.</p>
<p>They had a thousand questions to ask about Julian.
She answered them all, but was careful to say nothing
about his gloomy notion with regard to them.</p>
<p>When there was no sign of his return, they had left
their castle; and they had travelled for several years,
following vague indications, without losing hope. They
had required so much money for the ferries and in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span>
hostelries, for the rights of princes and the exactions of
robbers, that they had come to the bottom of their purse
and were now begging. What matter, now that they
were soon to embrace their son? They extolled his
happiness in having so gracious a wife, and never wearied
admiring her and kissing her.</p>
<p>The richness of the apartment astonished them
greatly, and the old man, having examined the walls,
asked why they bore the blazon of the Emperor of
Occitania.</p>
<p>She replied:</p>
<p>“He is my father!”</p>
<p>At that he trembled, recalling the prediction of the
gipsy, and the old woman thought of the word of the
hermit. Doubtless her son’s glory was but the dawn of
the splendours of eternity; and the pair remained awestruck
in the light of the candelabra which illumined
the table.</p>
<p>They must have been very handsome in their youth.
The mother still had all her hair, the fine braids of
which, like wreaths of snow, hung down to the bottom of
her cheeks; and the father, with his tall form and his
long beard, was like a church statue.</p>
<p>Julian’s wife counselled them not to wait for him.
She put them to bed herself in her own room, then
closed the casement; they fell asleep. Day was about
to appear and outside the window the little birds were
beginning to sing.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>Julian had crossed the park; and was marching in the
forest with vigorous step, rejoicing in the softness of
the grass and the sweetness of the air.</p>
<p>The shadows of the trees lay upon the moss. Sometimes
the moon made white patches in the glades, and
he hesitated to go on, thinking that he saw a sheet of
water, or again the surface of calm pools blended with
the colour of the herbage. Everywhere was a great<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span>
silence; and he discovered none of the animals which
had been roaming round his castle only a few minutes
before.</p>
<p>The wood became thicker, the darkness profound.
Puffs of warm wind passed by, full of softening perfumes.
He sank in heaps of dead leaves, and leant
against an oak to take breath.</p>
<p>All at once, behind him leapt a darker mass, a wild
boar. Julian had not time to seize his bow, and
grieved at that as if it were a misfortune.</p>
<p>Then, coming out of the wood, he caught sight of a
wolf slinking along a hedge.</p>
<p>Julian sent an arrow after it. The wolf halted,
turned its head to look at him, and went on its way.
It trotted on, always keeping the same distance between
them, halted now and then, and, as soon as it was
aimed at, took to flight again.</p>
<p>In this manner Julian traversed an interminable plain,
then sandhills, and found himself at last on a table-land
commanding a great stretch of country. Flat rocks were
strewn among caves and ruins. He stumbled over dead
men’s bones; here and there mouldering crosses leaned
over in melancholy fashion. But shapes moved in the
uncertain shadow of the tombs, and out of it came
hyenas, excited, panting. Their claws clattering on the
flagstones, they came up to him, and smelled him with
yawns that showed their gums. He unsheathed his
sabre. They fled at once in all directions and, continuing
their limping and precipitate gallop, were lost in the
distance amid a cloud of dust.</p>
<p>An hour later, he met in a ravine a furious bull, his
horns levelled, pawing the sand with his hoof. Julian
thrust his lance under his dewlap. It shattered as if
the animal had been made of brass; he shut his eyes
and waited for his death. When he opened them again,
the bull had disappeared.</p>
<p>At that his soul was overwhelmed with shame. A<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span>
superior power was taking away his strength; and he
went back to the forest to return home.</p>
<p>It was entangled with creepers; and he was cutting
them with his sabre when a polecat suddenly slipped
between his legs, a panther made a spring over his
shoulder, a serpent climbed in a spiral about an ash-tree.</p>
<p>In its foliage was a monstrous jackdaw, which looked
at Julian; and, here and there, a number of great sparks
showed among the branches, as if the sky had caused
all its stars to rain down on the forest. They were
the eyes of animals, wild cats, squirrels, owls, parrots,
monkeys.</p>
<p>Julian darted his arrows at them; the arrows with
their feathers settled on the leaves like white butterflies.
He hurled stones at them; the stones fell back without
hitting anything. He cursed himself, could have struck
himself, howled imprecations, was like to choke with
rage.</p>
<p>And all the animals that he had pursued were represented,
forming a circle close about him. Some were
squatted on their rumps, the others standing at their
full height. He stood in the centre, frozen with terror,
incapable of the smallest movement. By a supreme
effort of will, he took a step; the animals perched on the
trees spread their wings, those which trod the ground
moved their limbs; and all accompanied him.</p>
<p>The hyenas marched before him, the wolf and the
wild boar behind. The bull at his right hand rocked
its head, and at his left the serpent writhed through the
plants, while the panther, with arched back, advanced
with velvety step in great strides. He moved as gently
as possible, not to irritate them, and from the depths
of the thickets he saw issuing porcupines, foxes, vipers,
jackals and bears.</p>
<p>Julian started to run; they ran too. The serpent
hissed, the foul-smelling beasts drooled. The wild boar
rubbed his heels with its tusks, the wolf the palms of his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span>
hands with its hairy muzzle. The monkeys grimaced as
they pinched him, the polecat rolled over his feet. A
bear took away his bonnet with a back-stroke of its
paw; and the panther scornfully let fall an arrow which
it carried in its mouth.</p>
<p>A certain irony was evident in their stealthy proceedings.
Looking at him out of the corner of their eyes,
they seemed to be meditating a plan of revenge; and,
deafened by the humming of insects, beaten by birds’
tails, suffocated by breaths, he walked with his arms
stretched forward, his eyelids closed, like a blind man,
without even the strength to cry “Mercy!”</p>
<p>The crow of a cock vibrated in the air. Others
answered it; it was day; and over the orange-trees he
recognized the summit of his palace.</p>
<p>Then, at the edge of a field, he saw, three paces off,
some red partridges fluttering in the stubble. He undid
his cloak and flung it over them like a net. When he
uncovered them, he could find only one, and that one
long dead and rotten.</p>
<p>This deception exasperated him more than all the
others. His thirst for carnage came back to him; failing
beasts, he could have massacred men.</p>
<p>He climbed the three terraces, burst in the door with
a blow of his fist; but at the foot of the stairs the
thought of his dear wife relieved his heart. She was
sleeping, no doubt, and he would go and surprise her.</p>
<p>Having drawn off his sandals, he turned the lock
gently and entered.</p>
<p>The leaded panes obscured the pale light of the dawn.
Julian caught his feet in some garments on the floor;
further on, he stumbled against a side-board still covered
with dishes. “She must have been eating,” he said to
himself, and went towards the bed, which was lost in
the darkness of the farther side of the room. When he
reached the bed-side, in order to embrace his wife, he
leant over the pillow where the two heads were reposing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span>
side by side. Thereupon he felt the touch of a beard
against his mouth.</p>
<p>He recoiled, thinking he was going mad; but he
returned to the bed-side, and his fingers, as he felt about,
came against hair which was very long. To convince
himself of his error, he passed his hand gently over the
pillow yet again. It was indeed a beard, this time, and
a man!—a man lying with his wife!</p>
<p>Bursting into a wrath beyond measure, he fell upon
them with his poniard; and he stamped and foamed,
with howls like a savage beast. Then he stopped. The
dead, pierced to the heart, had not so much as moved.
He listened attentively to the two groanings almost
equal, and, as they subsided, another one far away
continued them. Indistinct at first, this plaintive, long-drawn
voice came nearer, became loud, cruel: and to his
terror he recognized it for the belling of the great black
stag.</p>
<p>And, as he turned round, he thought he saw in the
door-way the phantom of his wife, light in hand.</p>
<p>The din of the murder had brought her. With one
staring glance she comprehended all, and, flying in
horror, let fall her candle.</p>
<p>He picked it up.</p>
<p>His father and mother lay before him, stretched on
their backs, with their bosoms pierced; and their
countenances, of a majestic gentleness, were as if they
guarded some eternal secret. Smears and clots of blood
showed on their white skin, on the sheets, on the floor,
upon an ivory crucifix hanging in the alcove. The
crimson reflection of the window, touched at that
moment by the sun, lit up those crimson stains, and
cast yet others all over the apartment. Julian went up
to the two bodies saying to himself, trying to persuade
himself, that it could not be, that he was mistaken, that
there are sometimes extraordinary resemblances. At
last he stooped to look more closely at the old man; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span>
he saw between the half-closed eyelids a lifeless eye that
burnt him like fire. Then he crossed to the other side
of the couch, occupied by the other corpse, the face of
which was partially concealed by its white hair. Julian
passed his hand under its braids, lifted its head;—and
he gazed at it, holding it at the length of his rigid
arm, while he lighted himself with the candle in his other
hand. Some drops soaking through the mattress fell one
by one upon the boards.</p>
<p>At the end of the day he presented himself before his
wife; and, in a voice unlike his own, commanded her
first, not to answer him, not to come near him, not even
to look at him, then to follow, under pain of damnation,
all his orders, which were irrevocable.</p>
<p>The obsequies were to be carried out according to the
instructions which he had left in writing on a faldstool
in the chamber of the dead. He left her his palace, his
vassals, all his possessions, not even retaining the clothes
on his body, nor his sandals, which they would find at
the top of the staircase.</p>
<p>She had obeyed the will of God in being the occasion
of his crime, and was to pray for his soul, since thenceforward
he should be as one dead.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>The dead were magnificently interred in the chapel of
a monastery three days’ journey from the castle. A
monk with his cowl drawn over his head followed the
train far apart from the rest, and no one dared to speak
to him.</p>
<p>During the Mass he remained flat on his belly in the
porch, his arms out-stretched in a cross, and his brow in
the dust.</p>
<p>After the burial, they saw him take the road that led
to the mountains. He turned round several times, and
at last disappeared.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span></p>
<h3>III</h3>
<p>He went away, begging his bread through the world.</p>
<p>He held out his hand to horsemen on the highways,
approached the harvesters with genuflexions, or remained
motionless before the barriers of courts; and his visage
was so sad that they never refused him alms.</p>
<p>In his humility he told his story; thereupon all fled
from him, crossing themselves. In the villages where
he had already passed, as soon as he was recognized, they
shut the doors, shouted threats at him, threw stones at
him. The more charitable set a dish on their window-sill,
then closed the shutter so as not to see him.</p>
<p>Repulsed everywhere, he avoided men; and nourished
himself with roots, plants, wild fruits, and shell-fish
which he sought along the shores.</p>
<p>Sometimes on turning a hill he would see below him
a confusion of crowded roofs, with stone spires, bridges,
towers, black streets crossing one another, whence a continual
hum rose up to his ears.</p>
<p>The need of mingling with the existence of others
would force him to descend to the town. But the
brutish air of the faces, the din of occupations, the indifference
of their talk, froze his heart. On feast-days,
when the great bell of some cathedral filled the whole
people with joy from break of day, he watched the
inhabitants issuing from their houses, then the dances
in the squares, the fountains running ale at the crossings,
the damask hangings outside the lodgings of princes, and
at evening, through the panes of the ground-floors, the
long family tables, where grandparents held little children
on their knees; sobs choked him and he turned back to
the country.</p>
<p>He contemplated with transports of love the foals in
the pastures, the birds in their nests, the insects on the
flowers; at his approach all fled farther away, hid themselves
in alarm, flew off as fast as they could.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span></p>
<p>He sought the solitudes again. But the wind brought
what seemed groans of death-agony to his ear; the
tears of the dew falling to earth recalled other drops
of heavier weight to his mind. The sun showed like blood
in the clouds every evening; and every night, in a
dream, his parricide began anew.</p>
<p>He made himself a haircloth shirt with iron points.
He climbed on his two knees up every hill that had a
chapel on its summit. But pitiless thought obscured the
splendours of the sanctuaries, and tortured him amid the
macerations of his penance.</p>
<p>He did not revolt against God who had inflicted this
deed upon him, and yet he was in despair to think that
he could have wrought it.</p>
<p>His own person caused him such horror that he adventured
himself in perils in the hope of delivering himself
from it. He saved paralytics from fires, children from
the bottom of gulfs. The abyss rejected him, the flames
spared him.</p>
<p>Time did not ease his sufferings. They became intolerable.
He resolved to die.</p>
<p>And one day that he found himself at the edge of a
fountain, as he stooped over it to judge the depth of
the water, he saw facing him an old man, all fleshless,
with white beard and so lamentable an aspect that he
could not restrain his tears. The other wept also.
Without recognizing his own reflection, Julian had a
confused remembrance of a face that resembled it. He
uttered a cry; it was his father; and he had no more
thought of killing himself.</p>
<p>So bearing about the burden of his memory he covered
many countries; and he arrived beside a river the crossing
of which was dangerous because of its violence, and
because there was a great stretch of mud on its banks.
No one had dared to cross it for a long time.</p>
<p>An old boat, sunk by the stern, reared its prow
among the reeds. On examining it, Julian discovered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span>
a pair of oars; and the thought struck him to employ
his existence in the service of others.</p>
<p>He began by establishing a sort of causeway on the
bank, which would permit of descending to the channel;
and he broke his nails dislodging enormous stones,
thrust his stomach against them to move them, slid in the
mud, sunk in it, all but perished several times.</p>
<p>Then he repaired the boat with some wreckage, and
built himself a cabin with clay and tree-trunks.</p>
<p>When the ferry became known, travellers presented
themselves. They summoned him from the other bank
by waving flags; Julian quickly sprang into his boat.
It was very heavy; and they overloaded it with all sort
of baggage and bundles, not to speak of the beasts of
burden, which, plunging with terror, increased the
encumbrance. He asked nothing for his trouble; some
gave him scraps of victuals that they took from their
wallets, or worn-out clothes that they no longer wanted.
Rough characters vociferated blasphemies. Julian reproached
them gently, and they retorted with insults.
He contented himself with blessing them.</p>
<p>A little table, a stool, a bed of dead leaves and three
earthenware cups, that was all his furniture. Two holes
in the wall served for windows. On one side, as far as
the eye could reach, extended sterile plains with pale
meres on their surface here and there; and in front of
him the great river rolled its greenish waves. In spring
the humid earth had an odour of rottenness. Then a
wanton wind would raise the dust in clouds. It came
in everywhere, muddied the water, crunched under his
teeth. A little later, there were clouds of mosquitoes,
whose trumpeting and stinging never ceased day or night.
Next came cruel frosts, which gave things the rigidity of
stone and caused a mad longing to eat flesh.</p>
<p>Months passed without Julian seeing any person.
Often he closed his eyes, trying by way of memory to
return to his youth;—and a castle yard appeared with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span>
greyhounds in a porch, serving-men in the hall, and
beneath an arbour of vines a fair-haired youth between
an old man in furs and a lady with a great head-dress;
all at once the two corpses were there. He threw himself
flat on his face upon his bed and weeping repeated:</p>
<p>“Ah, poor father! poor mother! poor mother!” and
fell into a swoon in which the doleful visions continued.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>One night as he slept he thought he heard some one
calling him. He listened intently and could make out
nothing but the roaring of the waves. But the same
voice repeated:</p>
<p>“Julian!”</p>
<p>It came from the other side, which seemed extraordinary,
considering the breadth of the river.</p>
<p>A third time the call came:</p>
<p>“Julian!”</p>
<p>And the loud voice had the tone of a church-bell.</p>
<p>Lighting his lantern he went out of his cabin. A
furious hurricane filled the night. The darkness was
profound, rent here and there by the whiteness of
leaping waves.</p>
<p>After a moment’s hesitation, Julian unfastened the
moorings. The water immediately became calm, the
boat glided upon it and touched the other bank, where a
man was waiting.</p>
<p>He was wrapped in a tattered sheet, his face like a
plaster mask, and his two eyes redder than coals. On
holding his lantern to him, Julian saw that he was covered
with a hideous leprosy; yet he had in his bearing a sort
of kingly majesty.</p>
<p>As soon as he entered the boat, it sank prodigiously,
crushed under his weight; a shock sent it up again, and
Julian began to row.</p>
<p>At each stroke of the oar the surge of the waves
heaved up the bow. The water, blacker than ink, rushed
furiously past either side of the planking. It scooped<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span>
out abysses, it made mountains, and the skiff now leaped
up, now sank back into depths where it spun round,
tossed about by the wind.</p>
<p>Julian bent his back, stretched his arms, and taking
a purchase with his feet, came back, bending from his
waist, in order to get more power. The hail lashed his
hands, the rain ran down his back, the violence of the
wind choked him, he halted. Then the boat was carried
away by the current. But, comprehending that some
great thing was afoot, some order which he durst not
disobey, he took to his oars again; and the creaking of
the tholes broke on the clamour of the tempest.</p>
<p>The little lantern burned in front of him. Birds flying
past hid it at intervals. But he saw always the eyes of
the Leper, who sat up in the stern immobile as a column.</p>
<p>And this lasted long, very long!</p>
<p>When they arrived in the cabin, Julian shut the door;
and he saw him sitting on the stool. The sort of shroud
that covered him had fallen to his haunches; and his
shoulders, his chest, his meagre arms, were hidden under
patches of scaly pustules. Enormous wrinkles furrowed
his brow. Like a skeleton, he had a hole in place of a
nose; and his bluish lips gave out a breath as thick as a
fog and nauseating.</p>
<p>“I’m hungry,” he said.</p>
<p>Julian gave him what he had, an old piece of bacon
and the crusts of a black loaf.</p>
<p>When he had devoured them, the table, the dish, and
the haft of the knife all bore the same marks as were to
be seen on his body.</p>
<p>Next he said, “I’m thirsty!”</p>
<p>Julian went to get his pitcher; and as he took it an
aroma came from it which made his heart swell and his
nostrils dilate, it was wine; what a find! But the Leper
put out his arm and emptied the whole pitcher at one
draught.</p>
<p>Then he said, “I’m cold!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span></p>
<p>With his candle Julian set light to a bundle of fern
in the middle of the hut.</p>
<p>The Leper went to it to warm himself; and, squatted
on his heels, he trembled in every limb, became weaker;
his eyes no longer shone, his sores ran, and in a voice
almost inaudible he murmured:</p>
<p>“Your bed!”</p>
<p>Julian aided him gently to drag himself to it, and even
spread over him, to cover him, the sail of his boat.</p>
<p>The Leper groaned. The corners of his mouth exposed
his teeth, a quicker rattle shook his breast, and at each
breath his belly sank in to his backbone.</p>
<p>Then he closed his eyelids.</p>
<p>“My bones are like ice! Come beside me!”</p>
<p>And Julian, lifting up the canvas, lay down on the
dead leaves, beside him.</p>
<p>The Leper turned his head.</p>
<p>“Undress yourself, so that I can have the warmth of
your body!”</p>
<p>Julian stripped off his garments, then, naked as at the
day of his birth, got into bed again, and against his thigh
he felt the Leper’s skin, colder than a serpent and rough
as a file.</p>
<p>He tried to cheer him, and the other answered panting:</p>
<p>“Ah, I am dying!... Come close to me, warm me!
No, not with your hands! No, with your whole body!”</p>
<p>Julian stretched himself full length upon him, mouth
against mouth and breast against breast.</p>
<p>Then the Leper caught him in his embrace, and his
eyes all at once assumed the brightness of stars; his
hair lengthened out like sunbeams, the breath of his
nostrils had the sweetness of roses; a cloud of incense
rose from the hearth; the waves sang. There at a fulness
of delight, a joy more than human, descended like a
flood upon Julian’s fainting soul; and he whose arms
clasped him grew greater and greater; till he touched
either wall of the hut with his head and feet. The roof<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span>
flew off, the firmament opened wide,—and Julian mounted
up to the azure spaces, face to face with Our Lord Jesus,
who bore him away into Heaven.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>Such is the story of Saint Julian Hospitator, almost
exactly as it is to be seen in a church-window in my
native province.</p>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak p2b">THE GATE-KEEPER<br>
<small>FRANÇOIS COPPÉE</small></h2>
</div>
<p>Her Majesty the Queen of Bohemia—for story-tellers
there will always be a kingdom of Bohemia—is travelling
in the strictest and most modest incognito, under the
name of the Comtesse des Sept-Châteaux and accompanied
only by the old Baroness de Georgenthal, her
reader, and General Horschowitz, her gentleman in
waiting.</p>
<p>In spite of their hot-water pans and furs, it has been
cold all the time in their reserved compartment, and when
the Queen, tired of her English novel, or fidgetted by the
general’s knitting—for the general knits—wished to look
out at the landscape white with snow, she was forced to
rub a moment with her handkerchief on the carriage-window,
which the frost covered with sparkling crystals
and delicate ferns of ice. It is a singular caprice indeed
that her Majesty has had, and well worthy of a twenty-year-old
head, to set out for Paris in mid-winter, there
to meet her mother, the Queen of Moravia, though she
had arranged to see her at Prague next spring. In spite
of that, she must needs start on her journey in ten degrees
below zero, the baroness has had to shake up her old
rheumatic bones, the general, in despair, has left a magnificent
bedspread behind him that he was busy knitting
for his daughter-in-law, taking nothing with him to
beguile the tedium of the journey but material for a
modest pair of worsted stockings. The journey has been
bad; all Europe is covered with snow, and they have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span>
come half-way across, with many delays and difficulties,
on railways where the service is disorganized by the
severity of the season. At last the end is coming near;
this evening, at nine o’clock, they have dined in the
refreshment room at Mâcon, and now, though to-night
the foot-warmers are once more barely lukewarm, and
outside the great flakes whirl in the darkness, the baroness
and the general, slumbering under their furred mantles
and their rugs, dream in their corners of their arrival and
their stay in Paris, where the good lady will be able to
fulfil a special little piece of devotion, and where the
old campaigner will betake himself without delay to a
certain wool-shop in the Rue Saint-Honoré, the only one
where he can match his green skeins to his satisfaction.</p>
<p>As for the Queen, she is not sleeping.</p>
<p>Feverish and shivering in her great blue-fox pelisse,
her elbow in the padded rest, and her hand clenched
amid the disorder of her magnificent straw-coloured hair
which escapes from her smart travelling toque, she is
reflecting, her great eyes open in the half-shadow, listening
mechanically to the vague and distant music that
the tired ears of travellers fancy they hear in the iron
gallop of an express. She reviews in memory all her
existence, poor young Queen, and she reflects that she is
very unhappy.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>First she sees herself again as the little princess with
red hands and a flat waist, beside her twin sister, the
one who is married far away in the North, her sister
whom she loved so, and who resembled her so closely
that when they were dressed alike they had to have
different-coloured bows put in their hair to distinguish
them. That was before the rising had overthrown her
parents’ throne; and she loved the calm, sleepy atmosphere
of the little court of Olmutz, where etiquette was
tempered with homeliness; that was the time when her
father, the good King Louis V., who has since died in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span>
exile of a broken heart, used to take her for a walk
across the park, without laying aside his court-suit and
his stars, to drink coffee with her sister at four o’clock
in the afternoon, in a Chinese pavilion overrun with
convolvulus and virgin’s bower, from which the course
of the river was seen and the distant amphitheatre of
the hills reddened by the autumn.</p>
<p>Then there was her marriage and the grand state-ball,
on that lovely night in July, when they heard through
the open windows the murmur ascending from the
crowd that thronged the illuminated gardens. How she
trembled when she had been left alone for an instant in
the conservatory with the young King! Yet she loved
him already, she had always loved him from her first
glimpse of him, when he had advanced, the white aigrette
in his busby, so elegant and supple in his blue uniform
all over diamonds, at each step jingling the curved gold
spurs on his little grey boots with a thousand folds.
After the first waltz Ottokar had taken her arm, and,
caressing his long black moustache all the time, had led
her to the conservatory, had made her sit down under
a great palm, then, placing himself beside her and taking
her hand with the most noble ease, had said to her, looking
her in the eyes, “Princess, will you do me the honour
of becoming my wife?” Then she had blushed, bowed
her head, and replied, repressing with one hand the mad
beating of her heart, “Yes, Sire!” while the furious
violins of the Hungarians attacked all together the first
notes of the Czech March, that sublime song of enthusiasm
and triumph!</p>
<p>Alas, how quickly that happiness had taken wings!
Six months of error and illusion, barely six months, and
then, one day, when soon to become a mother, a brutal
chance had informed her that she had been deceived, that
the King did not love her, never had loved her, that the
very day after his marriage he had supped with La
Gazella, the <em>première danseuse</em> at the Prague Theatre, a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span>
common strumpet. And that was not all! She had
then learned what every one knew but herself, Ottokar’s
old liaison with the Comtesse de Pzibrann, by whom he
had three children, whom he had never quitted amid a
hundred passing fancies, and whom he had had the
audacity to make first lady in waiting to his wife. At
one blow the Queen’s love was killed, that frail and
timid love which she had never dared to avow to her
husband, and which she now compared to the pet bird
that she had smothered when she was a little girl through
closing her hand suddenly at the noise of a Chinese vase
broken by a housemaid.</p>
<p>Her son! To be sure she had a son, and she loved
him; but, dreadful thought, very often, when seated
beside the gilded cradle adorned with the royal crown in
which her little Ladislas was sleeping, the Queen had
felt an icy pang shoot through her heart as she looked
at the child, begotten by a man who had cruelly, cynically
outraged her. Besides, she never had him to herself, at
least to herself alone. Things were not as they had
been at home with her good parents, whom—a fresh
grief—a revolution had lately driven far away, and
everything in this old-fashioned and pompous court of
Bohemia was done according to the laws of the most
rigid ceremonial. A whole swarm of duennas and dry
nurses, ancient ladies with grand airs and imposing
head-gear, bustled about the royal cradle, and, when the
Queen went to look at her son and embrace him, they
would say to her solemnly, “His Highness was coughing
a little during the night.... His Highness’s teeth are
troubling him....” And she felt as if the icy breaths of
those women blew on her mother’s heart to freeze it
and extinguish it.</p>
<p>Ah, she was indeed helpless, poor Queen, and life was
too cruel! So sometimes, giving way to vexation and
weariness, she obtained permission from the King to go
and see the Queen of Moravia, a refugee in France; she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span>
escaped away, she stole out as if from a prison—alone,
for tradition forbade the Heir Apparent to travel without
his father—and she hastened to pour out all her tears,
with her arms round the neck of her grey-haired
mother.</p>
<p>This time she had left suddenly, without asking permission,
and after a hasty kiss on the brow of the sleeping
Ladislas; for she was almost mad with disgust and shame.
The King’s debauchery was becoming more notorious
every day; he now had establishments and families in
all the towns of Bohemia, at all his hunting-resorts. It
was food for derision everywhere, and satirical verses
were sung in the streets of Prague, asking what was to
become of this illegitimate race, and if Ottokar, like
Augustus the Strong in his day, would not form a
squadron of Life Guards from his bastards. To meet
the expense of such a warren, the King was turning
everything into money, was exhausting and burdening
the state. The trade in decorations was particularly
scandalous, and a case was quoted of a tailor in Vienna
who had made a fortune by selling connoisseurs of
foreign crosses, for five hundred florins, black coats, in
the pocket and button-hole of which the purchaser found
the diploma and ribbon of Bohemia’s most illustrious
order, a military order that dates back to the Thirty
Years’ War.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>But what is the matter? For the last minute the train
has been slowing down; it stops. What is the meaning
of this halt in the open country, at dead of night? The
general and the baroness have waked up, much alarmed;
and the gentleman in waiting, having let down the
window, leans out into the darkness, and, see, the guard’s
lamp, who was running alongside the carriages in the
snow, stops, is raised, and all at once illumines the
general’s long, white, bristling moustache and his
otter cap.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span></p>
<p>“What’s the matter? What’s the reason of this stoppage?”
asks old Horschowitz.</p>
<p>“The matter is, sir, that we are held up for an hour
at least.... Two feet of snow! No way of getting
further!... The Parisians will have to do without
their coffee to-morrow.”</p>
<p>“What? An hour to wait here, in this weather!...
You know that the foot-warmers are cold....”</p>
<p>“What can we do, sir?... They have just telegraphed
to Tonnerre for a gang to clear the line.... But, I
repeat, we’re here for an hour at least.”</p>
<p>And the man goes off with his lamp toward the engine.</p>
<p>“But this is abominable! Your Majesty will catch
cold!” chirps the baroness.</p>
<p>“Yes, I do feel cold,” says the Queen, with a shiver.</p>
<p>The general divines that now is the moment to be
heroic; he jumps down to the rails, sinks knee-deep in
the snow and overtakes the man with the lamp. He
says something to him in an undertone.</p>
<p>“I don’t care though it was the Grand Mogul, I
couldn’t do anything,” answers the railwayman. “However,
we are opposite a gate-keeper’s house, there should
be a fire there.... And if the lady cares to get down....
Hey, Sabatier!...”</p>
<p>A second lamp comes up.</p>
<p>“Just go and see if there is a fire in the gate-keeper’s
house.”</p>
<p>By great good-fortune there is. The general is happier
than if he had won a battle or finished the last strip of
his famous knitted bedspread. He returns to the Queen’s
compartment, announces the result of his exertions, and,
an instant afterwards, the three travellers, with much
stamping of feet to shake off the snow that has gathered
under their shoes, are in the low room of the tiny house,
where the gate-keeper, who has just let them in and has
kept on his goatskin, kneels in front of the fire and puts
dead wood on the fire-dogs.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span></p>
<p>The Queen, seated in front of the cheerful blaze, has
thrown her pelisse over the back of her straw-bottomed
chair; she has taken off her long suède gloves to warm
her hands, and is looking about her.</p>
<p>It is a peasant’s room. The floor is hard and uneven
underfoot; bunches of onions hang from the smoky
beams; there is an old poacher’s gun on two nails over
the fire-place, and some flowered dishes on the dresser.
The general has just made a wry face on catching sight
of two Épinal pictures fastened to the wall with pins:
the portrait of M. de Thiers, decorated with the Grand
Cross of the Legion of Honour, and that of Garibaldi in a
red shirt. But what attracts the young Queen’s attention
is, beside the great bed, and half hidden by the curtains
of striped calico, a wicker cradle, from which the whimpering
of a waking child has just sounded.</p>
<p>In a moment the gate-keeper has left his fire and has
gone to the cradle, and there he is rocking it gently.</p>
<p>“Go bye-bye, my biddie, go bye-bye! It’s nothing,
it’s friends of papa.”</p>
<p>He looks a good father, the man in the goatskin, with
his bald Saint Peter’s pate, his fierce old soldier’s
moustache, and the two great, sad wrinkles in his
cheeks.</p>
<p>“Is that your little girl?” the Queen asks him,
interested.</p>
<p>“Yes, ma’am, she’s my Cecily.... She’ll be three
years old next month.”</p>
<p>“But ... her mother?” Her Majesty asks with some
hesitation, and, as the man shakes his head, “you are a
widower?”</p>
<p>But he makes another sign of negation. At that the
Queen, greatly moved, rises, goes to the cradle, and looks
at Cecily, who has fallen asleep again, tenderly clasping
to her heart a little pasteboard poodle.</p>
<p>“Poor child!” she murmurs.</p>
<p>“Don’t you think, ma’am,” the gate-keeper thereupon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span>
says in a hoarse voice, “don’t you think that a mother
must be very heartless to leave her daughter at that
age? As for her leaving me, after all, that is partly my
fault.... I was wrong to marry a wife too young for
me, wrong to let her go to town, where she made
undesirable acquaintances. But to leave this darling!...
Is it not a scandal?... Well, well, I’ll have to rear her
all by myself, poor little brat!... It’s difficult, I can
tell you, because of my duties.... At night I have
often to leave her there screaming and crying, when I
hear the train whistle.... But in the day-time, you
see, I carry her about with me, and she is quite used to
it already, the darling, she’s not afraid of the railway
now.... Why, yesterday I held her in my left arm,
while I held out my flag with my right. Well, she did
not even tremble when the express passed.... What
bothers me most, you know, is sewing her dresses and
bonnets. It’s a good thing that I’ve been a corporal
in the Zouaves in my day, and know a little about
needles and thread.”</p>
<p>“But, my poor man,” replies the Queen, “that is a
very difficult task.... See here, I should like to help
you.... There must be a village in the neighbourhood,
and in that village some respectable people who would
undertake to look after your little girl.... If it’s only a
question of money....”</p>
<p>But the gate-keeper shook his head again.</p>
<p>“No, ma’am, no, thank you kindly. I am not proud,
and I would cheerfully accept any offer of help for my
little Cecily ... but I will never part from her ... never,
not even for an hour!”</p>
<p>“But why?”</p>
<p>“Why?” the man answered in a sad tone. “Because
I will trust no one but myself to make the child what
her mother has not been ... a good woman! But excuse
me, would you be so kind as rock Cecily for a little?...
I’m wanted on the line.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span></p>
<p>Will it ever be known what the young Queen of
Bohemia thought about that winter night when she
nursed a poor gate-keeper’s child for a whole hour, while
the general and the baroness, whose help she had refused,
sat mightily offended by the fire? When the guard
opened the door and called, “Come, ladies and gentlemen,
the express is about to start again ... all aboard!”
the Queen laid her purse well filled with gold, and the
bunch of violets from her waist, on little Cecily’s cradle,
then she climbed back into the carriage.</p>
<p>But her Majesty spent only two days in Paris; she
went back at once to Prague, from which she is scarcely
ever absent now, and where she devotes herself entirely
to her son’s education. The governesses with thirty
quarterings who used to cast the shadow of their funereal
head-gear over the infancy of the Heir Apparent have
only sinecures now. If there are still kings in Europe
when little Ladislas has grown up, he will be what his
father has not been, a good king. At five years of age
he is already very popular, and when he travels with his
mother on those dear Bohemian railways that crawl like
four-wheelers, and when he sees from the window of the
saloon-carriage a gate-keeper carrying a baby on one arm
and presenting his little flag with the other, the royal
child, to whom his mother has made a sign, always
throws him a kiss.</p>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak">MADEMOISELLE PERLE<br>
GUY DE MAUPASSANT</h2>
</div>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>What a strange notion indeed of mine to choose Mademoiselle
Perle for queen this evening.</p>
<p>Every year I go to my old friend Chantal’s for Twelfth-night.
My father, whose most intimate friend he was,
used to take me there when a child. I have kept up the
custom, and no doubt will continue to keep it up as
long as I live, and as long as there is a Chantal in this
world.</p>
<p>The Chantals, I ought to say, lead a singular existence:
they live at Paris as if they were at Grasse, Yvetot, or
Pont-à-Mousson.</p>
<p>They have a house with a small garden near the
Observatory. There they live their own life as if they
were in the country. Of Paris, the real Paris, they have
no knowledge and no suspicion: they are so far, far away
from it! Sometimes, however, they take a journey, a
long journey, there. Madame Chantal goes to lay in
supplies, as they say in the family. This is how they
lay in supplies.</p>
<p>Mademoiselle Perle, who keeps the keys of the pantry-presses
(for the linen-presses are administered by the
mistress of the house herself), Mademoiselle Perle notices
that the sugar is running down, that the preserves are
exhausted, that there is not much more left at the bottom
of the coffee-sack.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span></p>
<p>Thus warned against famine, Madame Chantal inspects
the remains, and takes notes in a note-book. Then,
when she has written a great many figures, she plunges
first into long calculations, then into long discussions with
Mademoiselle Perle. The upshot of it is, however, that
they come to an agreement and settle upon the quantities
of each article that they will provide for a quarter, sugar,
rice, prunes, coffee, preserves, tins of green peas, of
haricot beans, of lobster, salt and smoked fish, and so on,
and so on.</p>
<p>This done, they fix the day for their shopping, and set
out in a cab, a cab with a rail, to a biggish grocer, whose
shop is across the bridges, in the new districts.</p>
<p>Madame Chantal and Mademoiselle Perle make this
expedition in company, mysteriously, and come home
at dinner-time quite exhausted, though still excited, and
shaken up in the cab, the top of which is covered with
parcels and bags, like a removal van.</p>
<p>For the Chantals all Paris on the other side of the
Seine is the new districts, districts inhabited by a strange
population, noisy, not too honest, that passes its days in
dissipation, its nights in feasting, and makes ducks and
drakes of its money. Nevertheless the young ladies are
now and again taken to the theatre, the Opéra-Comique
or the Théâtre Français, when the piece is approved by
the newspaper that M. Chantal reads.</p>
<p>The young ladies are now nineteen and seventeen
years old; they are two pretty girls, tall and fresh, very
well brought up, too well brought up, so well brought
up that they pass unnoticed like two pretty dolls. It
would never enter my head to pay attentions or to pay
court to Mesdemoiselles Chantal: one scarcely dares to
speak of them, they seem so immaculate, and as for
bowing to them, one almost fears he is taking a liberty.</p>
<p>As for their father, he is a charming man, very well
informed, very frank, very cordial, but whose one desire
is repose and peace and quietness, and who is largely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span>
responsible for thus mummifying his family in order to
live as he desires in stagnant immobility. He reads a
great deal, is fond of conversation, is easily touched.
The absence of all contact, elbowing and collisions has
made him very sensitive and thin-skinned. The least
thing excites him, agitates him, and hurts him.</p>
<p>Yet the Chantals do have some acquaintances, but
restricted acquaintances, carefully selected in their neighbourhood.
They also exchange two or three annual
visits with some relatives who live at a distance.</p>
<p>As for me, I dine with them on the 15th of August
and on Twelfth-night. The latter is part of my duty,
like a Catholic’s Easter communion.</p>
<p>On the 15th of August some friends are invited, but
on Twelfth-night I am the only guest.</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>So this year, as in other years, I have been dining at
the Chantals’ to celebrate Epiphany.</p>
<p>According to custom I embraced M. Chantal, Madame
Chantal and Mademoiselle Perle, and made a profound
bow to Mesdemoiselles Louise and Pauline. They asked
me a thousand questions, about town gossip, about
politics, about popular opinion on the events in Tonkin,
and about our representatives. Madame Chantal, a stout
lady, whose ideas always give me the impression that
they are squared like so many hewn stones, had a habit
of enouncing the phrase, “That will bear evil fruit some
day,” as the conclusion of every political discussion.
Why have I always imagined that Madame Chantal’s
ideas are square? I do not know, the fact remains that
everything she says assumes this shape in my mind; a
square, a big square with four equal angles. There are
other persons whose ideas always seem to be round and
rolling like circles. No sooner have they commenced a
phrase on some subject, than it goes rolling and issues in
a dozen, a score, fifty round ideas, big and little, which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span>
I see running one after the other to the farthest horizon.
Other persons, again, have pointed ideas.... But that
is neither here nor there.</p>
<p>We sat down to table as usual, and the dinner passed
without anything being said worth remembering.</p>
<p>At dessert, the Twelfth-cake was brought in. Now,
every year M. Chantal was king. Whether that was a
repeated coincidence or a family arrangement, I do not
know, but he used infallibly to find the bean in his
share of the cake, and used to proclaim Madame Chantal
queen. So I was astounded to feel in a mouthful of
cake something very hard, which almost broke a tooth
for me. I carefully removed the thing from my mouth
and saw a little china doll no bigger than a bean. In
my surprise, I exclaimed, “Ah!” They looked at me,
and Chantal clapped his hands and shouted, “Gaston’s
got it! Gaston’s got it! Long live the king! Long live
the king!”</p>
<p>Everybody repeated in chorus, “Long live the king!”
and I blushed up to my ears, as one will blush, for no
reason whatever, in rather foolish situations. I sat
looking down at the cloth, with the scrap of china in my
finger and thumb, forcing a laugh, and at a loss what
to say or do, when Chantal resumed, “Now, you must
choose a queen.”</p>
<p>At that I was overwhelmed. In a second, a thousand
thoughts, a thousand suppositions flashed through my
mind. Did they mean me to single out one of the
Chantal girls? Was this a plan for making me say
which one I preferred? Was it a gentle, slight, insensible
impulse from the parents towards a possible marriage?
The notion of marriage is constantly lurking in all
those houses with grown-up daughters, and takes all
sorts of forms, all sorts of disguises, all sorts of measures.
I felt horribly afraid of compromising myself, and also
excessively timid in face of the obstinately correct and
composed attitude of Mesdemoiselles Louise and Pauline.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span>
To elect one of them to the detriment of the other was,
to my mind, as difficult as to choose between two drops
of water; and, besides, I was dreadfully scared by the
fear of risking myself in an affair where I should be led
on to marriage against my will by procedures so discreet,
so imperceptible, and so calm as this trumpery royalty.</p>
<p>But all at once I had an inspiration, and I offered
the symbolical doll to Mademoiselle Perle. They were
all surprised at first; then they undoubtedly appreciated
my delicacy and my discretion, for they applauded
furiously. “Long live the queen, long live the queen!”
they shouted.</p>
<p>As for her, poor old maid, she had lost countenance
entirely: she trembled, quite scared, and stammered,
“Oh no.... Oh no.... Oh no ... not me.... I pray
you ... not me.... I pray you!”</p>
<p>At that I considered Mademoiselle Perle for the first
time in my life, and began to ask myself what she was.</p>
<p>I was accustomed to seeing her in that house, as one
sees the old tapestry arm-chairs on which one has sat
from childhood, without ever noticing them. Some day,
no one knows why, because a sunbeam falls on the chair,
one says, “Why, this is very interesting.” And one
discovers that the wood has been wrought by an artist,
and that the covering is remarkable. I had never taken
any notice of Mademoiselle Perle.</p>
<p>She was a member of the Chantal household, and
nothing more. But why, on what footing?—She was a
tall, thin person, who kept herself in the background,
but was not insignificant. They treated her friendly,
better than a housekeeper, not so well as a relative.
Now, however, on a sudden I grasped some fine distinctions
which I had not troubled about before! Madame
Chantal said “Perle,” the girls, “Mademoiselle Perle,”
and Chantal always called her “Mademoiselle,” though
perhaps more respectfully than they did.</p>
<p>I began to consider her.—What was her age? Forty?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span>
Yes, forty.—She was not an old maid, she was growing
old. This observation suddenly occurred to me. She
did her hair, dressed, adorned herself in a ridiculous
fashion, yet for all that she was not ridiculous, she
had such a simple, natural grace about her, a veiled
grace, studiously concealed. What a strange creature,
to be sure! Why had I never observed her better?
She did her hair in a grotesque fashion, in little, droll,
old-fashioned ringlets. Yet under this antiquated
Virgin’s hairdressing appeared a broad, calm forehead,
scored by two deep wrinkles, two wrinkles of long-continued
griefs, then two blue eyes, large and gentle,
so timid, so startled, so humble, two beautiful eyes that
had remained so innocent; so full of maiden astonishment,
of youthful sensations, and also of disappointments that
had entered into them and softened without troubling
them.</p>
<p>Her whole face was intelligent and discreet, one of
those faces which have toned down without being worn
out or faded by the fatigues or the great emotions of
life.</p>
<p>What a pretty mouth! and what pretty teeth! Yet
one would have said that she dared not smile!</p>
<p>And suddenly I compared her with Madame Chantal!
Why, to be sure! Mademoiselle Perle was handsomer, a
hundred times handsomer, more intelligent, more noble,
more dignified.</p>
<p>I was stupefied with the result of my observations.
Champagne was poured out. I held my glass towards
the queen, and proposed her health in a well-turned
compliment. She would have liked, I could see, to hide
her face in her napkin. Then, as she dipped her lips in
the clear wine, every one cried, “The queen drinks, the
queen drinks!” At that she blushed all over and
choked; but I could see that she was greatly beloved in
that house.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span></p>
<h3>III</h3>
<p>As soon as dinner was over, Chantal took me by the
arm. It was the hour for his cigar, a sacred hour.
When he was alone, he went out to smoke it in the
street; when he had any one to dinner, they went up to
the billiard-room, and he smoked as he played. This
evening they had even lighted a fire in the billiard-room
in honour of Twelfth-night, and my old friend took his
cue, a very thin cue, which he chalked with great care,
then he said:</p>
<p>“You lead off, my boy!”</p>
<p>For he always called me “my boy,” in spite of my
five-and-twenty years; but then he had seen me when I
was a baby.</p>
<p>So I commenced the game; I made some cannons,
and missed others; but, as Mademoiselle Perle was
always running through my mind, I suddenly asked:</p>
<p>“I say, Monsieur Chantal, is Mademoiselle Perle any
relation of yours?”</p>
<p>He stopped playing in great surprise, and looked at
me.</p>
<p>“What, don’t you know? Have you never heard
Mademoiselle Perle’s story?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Did your father never tell you?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Well, well, that is strange! That is indeed
strange! Why, it is quite a romance!”</p>
<p>He was silent, then began again:</p>
<p>“If you only knew how singular it is that you should
ask me that question to-day, on Twelfth-night!”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“Ah! Why? Listen. It was forty-one years ago,
forty-one years this very day, Epiphany. We were then
living at Roüy-le-Tors, on the ramparts. But I must
first describe the house, in order that you may understand<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span>
properly. Roüy is built on a slope, or rather on
a knoll which commands a wide extent of that country.
We had a house there with a fine hanging garden,
supported in the air by the old city walls. So the house
was in the town, in the street, while the garden overlooked
the plain. There was also a postern-gate from
this garden to the country, at the foot of a secret
staircase which went down in the thickness of the walls,
like those read of in romances. A road passed by this
gate, which was furnished with a big bell, for the
peasants used to bring their provisions that way to
escape the long round about.</p>
<p>“You can see the places, can’t you? Well, that year,
on Twelfth-day, it had been snowing for a week. It
looked like the end of the world. It chilled our very
soul when we went to the ramparts to look at the plain,
the great white landscape, all white, icy, shining like
varnish. It looked as if the good Lord had wrapped up
the Earth to send it to the lumber-room of old worlds.
I can assure you that it was very dreary.</p>
<p>“The whole family was together at that moment,
and we were numerous, very numerous, my father, my
mother, my uncle and aunt, my two brothers, and my
four cousins; pretty girls they were. I am married to
the youngest. Of all that company there are only three
alive now, my wife, myself, and my sister-in-law at
Marseilles. Bless me, how a family slips away! It
makes me tremble when I think of it. I was fifteen
then; now I am fifty-six.</p>
<p>“Well, we were going to keep Twelfth-night, and we
were very merry, very merry! All were in the drawing-room
waiting dinner, when my elder brother, Jacques,
suddenly said, ‛There’s a dog been howling in the plain
for the last ten minutes. It must be some poor beast
that is lost.’</p>
<p>“We had not finished speaking when the garden-bell
rang. It had a deep church-bell tone, which made one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span>
think of the dead. We all shivered at the sound. My
father called the servant and told him to go and look.
There was perfect silence as we waited; we were thinking
of the snow that covered all the earth. When the
man returned, he declared that he had seen nothing.
The dog was still howling incessantly, and the sound
came from exactly the same place.</p>
<p>“We sat down to table, but we were still a little
upset, especially we young people. All went nicely
until the joint, when, hark, the bell began ringing again,
three times in succession, three great, long peals, which
thrilled us to our finger-tips and made us catch our
breath. We sat looking at each other, our forks in the
air, still listening, seized with a sort of supernatural fear.</p>
<p>“At last my mother spoke. ‛It is extraordinary that
they should have waited so long before coming back.
Do not go alone, Baptiste; one of these gentlemen will
go with you.’</p>
<p>“My uncle François rose. He was a Hercules, very
proud of his strength, and afraid of nothing on earth.
My father said to him, ‛Take a gun. You never know
what it may be.’</p>
<p>“But my uncle only took a stick, and went out at
once with the servant.</p>
<p>“We others remained behind, trembling with terror
and anxiety, without eating, without speaking. My
father tried to reassure us. ‛You will see,’ he said,
‛that it will be some beggar or some traveller lost in the
snow. After he rang the first time, seeing that the
door was not opened at once, he has tried to find his way,
then, failing to do so, he has come back to our door.’</p>
<p>“We felt as if our uncle’s absence lasted an hour.
Then he returned furious and swearing. ‛There’s
nothing, as I’m alive! Some one’s playing a trick!
There’s nothing but that confounded dog howling a
hundred yards away from the walls. If I had had my
gun, I’d have shot him to make him quiet!’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span></p>
<p>“We sat down again, but we all continued anxious.
We felt that this was not the end of it, that something
was going to happen, and that presently the bell would
ring again.</p>
<p>“And it did sound, at the very moment when we
were cutting the Twelfth cake. All the men got up
together. My uncle François, who had drunk some
champagne, declared that he was going to massacre IT, so
furiously that my mother and my aunt caught hold of
him to stop him. My father, in spite of being quite
calm and not very fit (he dragged one leg ever after it had
been broken by a fall from a horse), declared in his turn
that he wanted to know what it was, and that he was
going. My brothers, aged nineteen and twenty, ran to
get their guns; and, as no one paid much attention to
me, I possessed myself of a rook-rifle and so prepared to
accompany the expedition.</p>
<p>“It set out at once. My father and my uncle led,
with Baptiste carrying a lantern. My brothers Jacques
and Paul followed, and I brought up the rear in spite
of my mother’s entreaties, who remained with her sister
and my cousins on the door-step.</p>
<p>“The snow had begun again the last hour, and the
trees were laden. The pines were bending under the
heavy dusky mantle, like white pyramids, or enormous
sugar loaves; and through the grey curtain of fine hurrying
flakes it was almost impossible to make out the
smaller shrubs, all pale in the gloom. The snow was
falling so quickly that nothing else could be seen ten
paces off. But the lantern threw a great light before us.
When we began to descend the corkscrew staircase
hollowed in the thickness of the wall, I was afraid in
good earnest. I felt as if some one was walking behind
me; as if some one was about to catch me by the
shoulders and carry me off; and I wanted to go home.
But, as I should have had to go all the way back through
the garden, I did not dare.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span></p>
<p>“I heard the door to the plain being opened; then my
uncle began to swear afresh. ‛Hang it! he’s off again.
If I could see his shadow, I’d not miss him, the—.’</p>
<p>“It was eerie to see the plain, or rather to feel it was
there before one; for it could not be seen, all that was
visible was an endless veil of snow, above, below, in
front, to right, to left, everywhere.</p>
<p>“My uncle spoke again, ‛Wait, there is the dog
howling. I’ll go and show it how I can shoot. That
will always be something.’</p>
<p>“But my father, who was a kindly man, replied,
‛Better go and look for the poor animal that’s crying
with hunger. It’s barking for help, poor wretch. It’s
calling like a human being in distress. Let’s go to it.’</p>
<p>“And we set out through that curtain, through that
dense unceasing fall, through that powder that filled the
night and the air, that moved, floated, fell, and froze
the flesh as it melted, froze as if it would burn, with a
short sharp sting on the skin at each touch of the tiny
white flakes.</p>
<p>“We sank to the knees in the soft chill dust, and had
to step very high to walk at all. As we advanced the
dog’s bark became clearer and louder. My uncle cried,
‛There it is!’ We halted to observe it, as one ought to
do on encountering an unknown enemy in the dark.</p>
<p>“For my part I could see nothing; then I made up
with the others, and I made it out. The dog was a
fearful and fantastic sight; a great black dog, a sheepdog,
with shaggy hair and a head like a wolf, standing
on all fours at the very end of the long beam of light
cast by the lantern on the snow. He did not move;
he was quiet now, and was looking at us.</p>
<p>“My uncle said, ‛It is strange, he does not come at us,
and he does not run away. I have a good mind to take
a shot at him.’</p>
<p>“But my father said decidedly, ‛No, we must catch
him.’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span></p>
<p>“Thereupon my brother Jacques said, ‛But he is not
alone. There’s something beside him.’</p>
<p>“And there was something beside him, something
grey, indistinct. We began to advance again carefully.</p>
<p>“When the dog saw us approaching, he squatted down
on his hindquarters. He did not look savage, rather he
seemed pleased that he had succeeded in attracting
somebody.</p>
<p>“My father went straight up to him and caressed
him. The dog licked his hands, and we saw that he was
tied to the wheel of a little carriage, a sort of toy
carriage completely enveloped in three or four woollen
wraps. We took these cloths off carefully, and when
Baptiste held his lantern to the door of the go-cart,
which was like a kennel on wheels, we saw a little baby
inside asleep.</p>
<p>“We were so dumbfounded that we could not utter
a word. My father was the first to recover himself,
and, as he was a large-hearted man, and somewhat of a
visionary, he laid his hand on the top of the carriage
and said, ‛Poor forsaken child, you shall be one of us!’
And he ordered my brother Jacques to wheel our find
in front of us.</p>
<p>“And my father continued, thinking aloud:</p>
<p>“‘Some love-child whose poor mother has come and
rung at my door this Epiphany night, thinking of the
Christ-child.’</p>
<p>“He stopped again, and four times shouted through
the night at the pitch of his voice to the four corners
of the heavens, ‛We have taken it up!’ Then, putting
his hand on his brother’s shoulder, he murmured, ‛If
you had shot at the dog, François?...’</p>
<p>“My uncle gave no answer, but he made a great sign
of the cross in the darkness, for he was very devout,
in spite of his swaggering airs.</p>
<p>“The dog had been untied, and followed us.</p>
<p>“I can assure you our return to the house was a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span>
pretty sight indeed. First we had a lot of trouble to get
the carriage up the rampart stair: but we managed at
last, and wheeled it into the hall.</p>
<p>“How amused, and pleased, and frightened mamma
was! As for my four little cousins (the youngest was
six), they were like four hens around a nest. At last
the baby, which was still sleeping, was taken out of its
carriage. It was a girl, about six weeks old. And in
its clothes we found ten thousand francs in gold, yes, ten
thousand francs, which papa invested for her dowry.
So she was not the child of poor parents ... but perhaps
the child of a nobleman and some small citizen’s
daughter ... or else ... we formed a thousand conjectures
but we never learned anything ... no, not a thing ... not
a thing.... Even the dog was not recognized
by any one. He was strange to these parts. In any
case, he or she who came three times and rang at our
door must have known my parents well, to have chosen
them in this way.</p>
<p>“So that is how Mademoiselle Perle made her entrance
at six weeks’ age to the Chantal family.</p>
<p>“We did not call her Mademoiselle Perle until later,
however. She was baptized Marie Simonne Claire;
Claire was to serve as her surname.</p>
<p>“I can tell you it was a funny return to the dining-room
with the small mite, now awake, who gazed about
her at the people and the lights with her big wondering
blue eyes.</p>
<p>“We sat down once more and the cake was cut up. I
was king, and I chose Mademoiselle Perle as my queen,
just as you did a little ago. She was all unconscious
then of the honour that was done her.</p>
<p>“Well, the child was adopted and brought up as one
of the family. She grew up, years passed on. She was
a nice, gentle, obedient child. Every one loved her, and
she would have been dreadfully spoiled, if my mother
had not prevented that.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span></p>
<p>“My mother was a woman of order and hierarchy.
She consented to treat little Claire as she did her own
sons, but at the same time she took care that the
distance between us was clearly marked, and the situation
distinctly laid down.</p>
<p>“Therefore, as soon as the child was old enough to
understand, she explained her story to her, and gently,
indeed tenderly, impressed upon the little one’s mind
that her relation to the Chantals was that of an adopted
daughter, welcome, no doubt, but still a stranger.</p>
<p>“Claire grasped the situation with singular intelligence,
and with surprising intuition. She learned to
accept and keep the place assigned to her with such
tact, grace, and delicacy that it moved my father to
tears.</p>
<p>“My mother, too, was so touched by the passionate
gratitude and the somewhat timid devotion of the
darling, tender creature that she took to calling her ‛my
daughter.’ Sometimes, when the little one had done
something good or delicate, my mother would push her
spectacles up on her brow, always a sign of emotion
with her, and repeat, ‛Why, she’s a pearl, a regular
pearl, the child!’ The name stuck to little Claire, who
became and remained for us Mademoiselle Perle.”</p>
<h3>IV</h3>
<p>M. Chantal ceased speaking. He was seated on the
billiard-table, dangling his feet, his left hand playing
with a ball, while his right fiddled with a cloth which
was used for wiping the chalk-marks off the scoring-slate,
and which from its use we called the chalk-cloth.
Rather red, his voice indistinct, he was speaking to himself
now, lost in his recollections, going gently through
the bygone things and the old events that were waking
in his mind, as one strolls through the old gardens of
the home where one was brought up, and where each
tree, each path, each plant, the prickly hollies, the sweet-smelling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span>
laurels, the yews, whose fat red berries crush
between one’s fingers, evoke at every step some little
fact of our past life, one of those insignificant and
delicious facts that make up the very foundation, the
very warp of existence.</p>
<p>As for me, I stood there facing him, my back leaning
against the wall, and my hands supported on my unused
billiard-cue.</p>
<p>After a minute he resumed.</p>
<p>“Ah, me! How pretty she was at eighteen ... and
gracious ... and perfect.... Ah! what a pretty ...
pretty ... pretty and kind ... and good ... and charming
girl! ... She had eyes ... blue eyes ... transparent ...
clear ... the like of which I have never seen ... never!”</p>
<p>He lapsed into silence again. I asked, “Why has
she never married?”</p>
<p>He replied, not to me, but to the word “married”
that had been let fall:</p>
<p>“Why? Why? She never wished to ... never wished.
Though she had thirty thousand francs dowry, and was
asked several times ... she never wished to! She
seemed sad in those days. That was when I married
my cousin, little Charlotte, my wife, to whom I had
been engaged for six years.”</p>
<p>I looked at M. Chantal, and it seemed to me that I
saw into his soul, that I suddenly saw into one of those
humble and cruel dramas of honourable hearts, upright
hearts, of hearts without reproach, into one of those mute,
unexplored hearts, which no one has understood, not even
those who are their uncomplaining and resigned victims.</p>
<p>And, suddenly impelled by a daring curiosity, I
blurted out:</p>
<p>“Should not you have married her, Monsieur
Chantal?”</p>
<p>He trembled, looked at me, and said:</p>
<p>“I? Marry whom?”</p>
<p>“Mademoiselle Perle.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span></p>
<p>“Why so?”</p>
<p>“Because you loved her better than your cousin.”</p>
<p>He looked at me with strange, round, startled eyes,
then he stammered:</p>
<p>“I loved her ... I? ... how? Who told you that?...”</p>
<p>“Why, any one can see it ... and that’s why you
were so long in marrying your cousin, who waited six
years for you.”</p>
<p>He dropped the ball that he was holding in his left
hand, seized the chalk-cloth with both hands, and,
hiding his face with it, began to sob into it. He wept
in a distressing, ridiculous way, as a sponge weeps when
it is squeezed, from his eyes and nose and mouth all at
once. And he coughed and hawked, blew his nose into
the chalk-cloth, wiped his eyes, sneezed, began running
again from every aperture in his face, with a throaty
noise that suggested gargling.</p>
<p>As for me, frightened and ashamed, I wanted to make
my escape and was at my wits’ end to know what to
say, or to do, or try.</p>
<p>And suddenly Madame Chantal’s voice sounded on
the stairs, “Will you soon be done with your smoke?”</p>
<p>I opened the door and called, “Yes, Madame, we are
coming down.”</p>
<p>Then I rushed to her husband, and seizing him by
the elbows said, “Monsieur Chantal, my good friend
Chantal, listen; your wife is calling you; pull yourself
together, pull yourself together at once; we must go
downstairs; pull yourself together.”</p>
<p>He stammered, “Yes ... yes ... I’m coming ... poor
girl ... I’m coming ... tell her I’ll be in a moment.”</p>
<p>And he began conscientiously to wipe his face with
the cloth that had been wiping all the marks off the
slate for two or three years. When he finished, he
showed half white, half red, his brow, his nose, his
cheeks, his chin all smeared with chalk, and his eyes
swollen and still full of tears.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span></p>
<p>I took him by the hands and dragged him into his
room, murmuring, “I beg your pardon, I do indeed,
Monsieur Chantal, for having given you pain, ... but ...
I did not know ... you ... you understand.”</p>
<p>He pressed my hand, “Yes ... yes ... there are some
awkward moments....”</p>
<p>Then he plunged his face into the basin. When he
lifted his head he still did not look presentable, but I
thought of a little ruse. As he looked rather uncomfortably
at himself in the glass, I said to him, “It will do
if you tell them that you have some dust in your eye,
and you can let them see it watering as much as you
like.”</p>
<p>So he went downstairs rubbing his eyes with his
handkerchief. They made a fuss about him; every one
wanted to look for the speck of dust, which was not to
be found, and they related similar cases in which the
doctor had eventually to be called in.</p>
<p>As for me, I had rejoined Mademoiselle Perle, and I
was watching her, tormented by a burning curiosity, a
curiosity which was becoming torture. She must really
have been very pretty once, with her gentle eyes, so
large, so calm, so open that they looked as if she never
closed them as other people do. Her dress was rather
ridiculous, a regular old maid’s toilet, and, without
making her look a fright, did not set her off.</p>
<p>I seemed to see into her soul, as I had seen into M.
Chantal’s a little before, as if I surveyed from end to
end her humble, simple, devoted life; but a necessity
forced my lips, an imperious necessity of questioning
her, of learning if she too had loved him; if she had
suffered like him from that long-drawn sorrow, secret
and acute, which none knows, none sees, none suspects,
but which finds vent at night, in the solitude of the
darkened room. I looked at her, I saw her heart beating
under her muslin bodice, and I asked myself whether
that sweet, frank face had groaned night by night in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span>
the moist thickness of her pillow, and sobbed, her body
racked by convulsions, in the fever of her burning bed.</p>
<p>And I said to her, cautiously, as children do when
they break a trinket to see inside it, “If you had seen
M. Chantal crying just now, you would have been sorry
for him.”</p>
<p>She trembled, “What? He was crying?”</p>
<p>“Yes, he was crying!”</p>
<p>“And why was he?”</p>
<p>She seemed very much perturbed. I replied:</p>
<p>“Because of you.”</p>
<p>“Because of me?”</p>
<p>“Yes. He was telling me how much he used to love
you, and what it cost him to marry his present wife
instead of you....”</p>
<p>Her pale face seemed to me to lengthen a little; her
eyes, always open, her calm eyes closed suddenly, so
quickly that they seemed to have closed for ever. She
slipped from her chair to the floor, and collapsed there
gently, gradually, as a fallen veil might have done.</p>
<p>I cried, “Help, help! Mademoiselle Perle is unwell.”</p>
<p>Madame Chantal and her daughters rushed to her,
and, as they went for water and a napkin and vinegar, I
got my hat and escaped.</p>
<p>I hurried away, my heart torn, my mind full of
remorse and regret. And yet now and again I was glad;
I felt as if I had done something commendable and
necessary.</p>
<p>I kept asking myself, “Was I wrong? Was I right?”
They had that in their souls like a bullet in a healed-up
wound. Will they not be happier now? It was too
late to renew their torture, and not too late for them to
remember with fondness.</p>
<p>And perhaps some evening next spring, moved by a
moonbeam falling through the branches on the grass at
their feet, they will take each other’s hands and clasp
them in memory of all that suppressed cruel suffering;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span>
and perhaps, too, that brief clasp will send through
their veins a little of that thrill which otherwise they
would never have known, and will excite in those dead
ones, resuscitated in an instant, the swift, divine sensation
of that intoxication, that madness, which gives
lovers more happiness in one thrill than other men can
gather in a lifetime.</p>
<p class="center p2 big1">THE END.</p>
<p class="center p6">GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.</p>
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