children of prejudices."
"In that case, messieurs, I will go from here to-morrow without trousers
and declare that that is the most natural costume."
"Oh! Robineau, that’s very different! Decency is of all times--the
fig-leaf dates from a long way back!--However, you are absolutely at
liberty to show your posteriors to the people of Chadrat and to those on
your own estate too, if it will give you any pleasure. As you have just
bought the château, they will think that it’s an ancient custom which
you mean to revive, and it is possible that they will decide to imitate
you, which would be extremely interesting, especially on the days of
large parties."
During this colloquy the mistress of the hut distributed wooden plates
and spoons to everybody, and the aged father cut slices of rye bread.
Despite his repugnance, Robineau accepted a plate of soup and ended by
eating it like the others, although he muttered that it was too thick
and too salt, and swore at the wine, which he considered too new. But
the mountaineers did not notice his ill humor; they kept putting more
soup into his plate, although he said that he had had enough. And the
old man shared his bowlful with the old goat by his side, which seemed
to be an old friend of the family.
During the supper Edouard returned to the subject of the White House,
because the little that had been said about it had roused his curiosity.
"Pray tell us, good people," he said, "what you know about this place
that frightens you so. How long has this White House been the terror of
the country?"
"Oh, yes! do tell us that," said Alfred. "I like ghost stories; they
make you shudder; it’s delicious!"
Robineau said nothing, but he drew his seat a little nearer to the
circle formed by the others.
"Well! messieurs," said the old man, "it ain’t so very long that the
White House has been such a scarecrow to all of us. I must tell you
first that it ain’t very far from here, to the left, at the foot of the
mountains. You go down into a pretty little valley, where there’s vines
and lucern and some fine walnut trees, and the White House in the midst
of it all."
"It doesn’t seem to have made the land sterile at all events.--To whom
does the house belong?"
"Oh! that’s just what nobody don’t know, monsieur, for it ain’t ever
been lived in, in the twenty years since it was built, unless the
devil’s been living there lately. You see, messieurs, that there’s a
pretty little cottage just about a hundred yards from the White House;
it’s a kind of a little farm house that used to belong to a man named
André Sarpiotte. André was pretty well off; he had some good-sized
flocks and some cash; so he went to work and built this house that we
call the White House, because when it was new, it was just as pretty and
white, and finer than any house hereabout. So André Sarpiotte built the
house, thinking he’d sell it to some one as might want it; but, bless
me! it’s a big house, with a fine garden with walls all round it, and it
was too high-priced for us poor folks!--So André, he couldn’t get rid of
it; but he took comfort for his disappointment with his little wife, for
he was married, André was, and his wife had just give him a little boy."
"But, my good man, I don’t see what connection all this has with the
terror inspired by that spot?"
"Oh! yes, monsieur! Oh, yes! It’s all connected, and that’s what I’m
coming to. One fine morning, we heard say in the village that André’s
wife had took another child to nurse, with hers. It was a little girl.
No one in this region had ever seen her parents, but André, he said that
they was folks as lived some distance off and wasn’t rich; but still we
took notice that André’s wife was better dressed and had lots of fine
things to wear, and that André had a better time than ever. As he was in
a lucky streak, he sold his White House six months after to a stranger
who was travelling through here. The deeds was passed at the notary’s at
Saint-Amand. The man’s name, they say, was Gervais, and that’s all
anybody knows about him; for the most surprising thing is that this
gentleman sent for furniture and everything he needed to run the house,
but he didn’t never live in it. He went right off again, and he ain’t
been seen again since; and that’s what makes folks think that the devil
had got possession of the cursed house, and the poor man that bought it
found it out and swore he wouldn’t never come back to it. Still, nobody
didn’t notice nothing, only folks thought it was a strange thing that
the owner of the house shouldn’t come to live in it. Time passed, and
the little girl André and his wife had took in was still with ’em. After
two years they said as how her parents was dead and that they’d adopted
the child; but, my word! that good deed didn’t bring ’em luck. Their own
child died, and about a year after, André, who had a way of drinking a
little too much, fell into a hole on his way home from the fêtes at
Saint-Gall, and he wa’n’t alive when they took him out. So then there
wa’n’t nobody left at the farm but André’s widow and little
Isaure--that’s the name of the little girl they adopted. That was when
folks began to notice strange goings on in the White House. In the first
place there wa’n’t nobody in the house, and yet there used to be lights
going to and fro sometimes at night; then someone heard stamping in the
garden--like horses’ feet!--You may be quite certain that that gave
folks a bad fright. If it had been the owner of the house come back,
somebody’d have seen him; he wouldn’t have kept out of sight and never
come except at night. All these doings began to make people talk, to
give ’em strange ideas; and then that house, with all the doors and
windows shut and locked all the time, and yet noises and lights
inside--you see that wa’n’t clear at all!"
"And André’s widow, who lived very near the White House, must have been
more frightened than the others, I suppose?"
"Not a bit of it, monsieur; and that’s another thing that wa’n’t clear
either; when anyone spoke to the widow Sarpiotte about them noises and
lights, she’d just answer that we was all idiots, and that it wa’n’t
none of our business anyway."
"It would seem that the widow Sarpiotte was strong-minded."
"My word, monsieur, I don’t know whether it was her mind, but it didn’t
prevent her going to join her husband--twelve years afterward, to be
sure!"
"Ah! so the farmer’s wife is dead too?"
"Yes, monsieur; she died nigh onto three years ago, and left her farm
and cows and goats, everything she had, in fact, to little Isaure, who
was fifteen years old then."
"And did this girl continue to live near the White House?"
"Bless my soul! yes, monsieur! And not a bit more scared than if she was
in the middle of the village; and yet we noticed that the noises and
lights came much oftener in the abandoned house after André’s widow’s
death. Before that, we often went six months without hearing a sound;
but now there ain’t hardly ever two months goes by without someone being
in that house at night, for sure. And it wa’n’t long ago that Jacques,
who went by the house before sunset and saw that all the shutters was
shut, went by again the next day just as it was light, and saw two
shutters open on the first floor! They didn’t come open of themselves,
you know. The next night they was shut again. And that little girl, who
ain’t eighteen years old yet, if I’m right, lives all alone close by a
fearful place like that! a place we men don’t dare to pass after
dark!--Oh! that’s mighty queer, I tell you!--So the old men of the
neighborhood, and I’m one of ’em, we put this and that together, and we
come to this conclusion: that little girl ain’t no common girl!"
"What’s that? do you think that she’s a boy?" asked Alfred with a laugh.
"Nay, nay, monsieur; that ain’t it at all. But you see I took notice
that it was just about the time she come to André’s that these strange
things that have been happening begun. The sale of the White House to a
man as we never see again; the house always locked up, but with lights
in it sometimes--and then a sort of black ghost that’s been seen
prowling round the farm!"
"Ah! there’s a ghost, is there?" asked Edouard.
"A ghost!" echoed Robineau, who during the old man’s narrative had
gradually moved his bench so far that he was now in the centre of the
circle formed by the audience.
"Yes, messieurs, yes, there’s a ghost--or an imp--that shows himself in
the valley now and then."
"Have you seen it, excellent old man?"
"No, monsieur, oh, no! but Claude’s seen it."
"I ain’t seen it myself," said Claude, "but my oldest son Pierre, he’s
seen it."
"It wasn’t me," said Pierre, "it was Joseph."
"I didn’t just exactly see it myself," said Joseph, "but I was along
with Nicolas, and he said he thought he saw something."
"Oh! according to that," exclaimed Alfred, "the existence of the ghost
is abundantly proved.--But let us return to little Isaure, who is
neither a boy nor a girl, you say, which would give her more or less
resemblance to an imp."
"Well, monsieur, to go back to her, we folks think that, if she ain’t
afraid of the devil, it must be because she’s in league with him; and we
say--but we don’t say it out loud--that the girl may be bewitched, or at
any rate have some sly tricks we don’t know about, for snapping her
fingers at evil spirits. For just see! take the family that took her
in--they all died----"
"Yes, in the space of fifteen years."
"But does this girl live absolutely alone now?"
"Yes, messieurs, all alone and close by the White House, where folks
like us wouldn’t like to live in a crowd!--It’s a very strange thing.
And then, you see, this young Isaure, she ain’t like the other girls
here in our mountains; and yet, as she was brought up here, there ain’t
no reason why she should know more’n we do; for André and his wife
wa’n’t no scholars, although they was well off."
"What do you say? that this girl is better educated than the people of
these mountains?"
"I should say so! she knows lots of things! In the first place she knows
how to read printed books, and they say as how she reads ’em right off,
too! And yet André Sarpiotte wasn’t very smart at that! How is it that
she knows more’n her master?"
"That happens every day, my good man; but what else?"
"Why, she sings lots of songs that we don’t know and that don’t belong
to this part of the country.--I ask you who can have taught her them?
And then, when she talks to you, she smiles and curtsies just like a
fine city young lady!"
"And you don’t tell it all, father," said Claudine, who thus far had
maintained a respectful silence and allowed the old man to talk; "Isaure
knows a lot too about planting trees and raising flowers and sowing
grain; she knows an amazing deal about that! You ought to see the garden
at her farm-house; everything grows there, and it’s wonderful to look
at! And she has medicines for doctoring animals."
"She has medicines for animals?" exclaimed Robineau with a stupefied
air.
"Yes, monsieur; it ain’t long ago that she cured her cow that looked
like she was going to die, with some herb or other she give her to eat;
and Jeannette’s goat, as had a swelling under her stomach--why, Isaure
went an’ cured her too, with some drug or other she made her take."
"What’s that? she cured Jeannette’s she-goat?" cried the shepherd.
"Well! I tell you, all my goats could just die before I’d let little
Isaure touch ’em.--Seems to me, messieurs, we’ve told you things enough
to prove that the girl has dealings with Satan."
"If she cures cows and goats," muttered Robineau, "she must certainly
know a lot."
"In fact, messieurs, for a girl brought up among these mountains--why,
she ain’t our sort, not a bit; she talks to us sometimes in words we
can’t understand; in short, she has a kind of a silver-gilt, honey-sweet
language that ain’t like what our goatherds use."
"Parbleu! I am very curious to see this girl," said Alfred.
"So am I," said Edouard.
"Faith," added Robineau, "I give you my word that she doesn’t tempt me
in the least!"
"But let us come to the most interesting point," said Alfred; "what sort
of looking girl is this Isaure? You have not described her. Is there
anything devilish in her face, her features?"
"Well! messieurs, as for that," said the shepherd, "I can’t deny that
she ain’t bad-looking--there’s even some folks hereabout who say she’s
pretty."
"Oh! yes, father," said Claude’s three sons, "she’s very pretty, Isaure
is, and her smile is very sweet!"
"Hold your tongue, little ones!" said Claudine; "you don’t know what
you’re talking about! I tell you that there’s something wicked in her
blue eyes--something that covers up treachery; and her soft voice is
just a cheat to trap people. Besides, as if a little witch like her
could be pretty!"
"No," said Robineau, "I agree with the Auvergnate; a witch is always
frightful."
"Pretty or not," said the shepherd, "this much is certain, that
everybody in this neighborhood keeps out of her way instead of seeking
her. When they see her in one direction they go in the other. When she
takes her goats to the mountain, they hurry down into the valley; and
bless me! they’re quite right, for she’s capable of throwing a spell on
you, of bringing you bad luck!"
"Yes, yes," said Claudine; "and if Bastien’s sheep is dead, I know well
enough it’s because Isaure patted her the other day."
"Oh, mother!" interposed one of the young Auvergnats, "Bastien’s sheep
fell fifty feet."
"That may be," rejoined Claudine, "but what made her fall? because
Isaure had touched her; do you suppose she’d have lost her footing if it
hadn’t been for that?"
"True," said the old man.
"These are the arguments of ignorance," said Edouard; "the simplest
things become supernatural in the eyes of these honest folk! They do not
care to seek causes, they refer everything to the first idea that
strikes them; and behold a girl, who is perhaps a pretty, gentle
creature, becomes an object of terror to these mountaineers, because she
lives quietly in a place which they imagine to be inhabited by the
devil! But these peasants never leave their hovels, so they are
excusable! Think how many people there are in our large cities in whom
education has not destroyed superstition!"
"I say, Edouard, you, who have all the sentiments of a paladin of
old,--fidelity excepted,--ought to do as they do in the _Château du
Diable_, an old play that was formerly acted in the Cité--visit this
haunted mansion and deliver young Isaure, who may be a princess in
disguise, from the spell which keeps her with her cows and goats! For my
own part, I propose to see the girl to-morrow; I wish with all my heart
that she might prove to be a witch; for, having never seen one, I should
be enchanted to know how they are made. You will go with us to see the
White House, won’t you, Robineau?"
"Oh! messieurs, it’s to be hoped that I shall be in my château
to-morrow; then you can wander where you choose, but the deuce take me
if I go with you! I shall remember too long our journey through the
mountains!"
The young men laughed at their companion’s ill humor. But the evening
meal was at an end and the Auvergnats were already thinking of going to
rest.
"Messieurs," said Claude, "I wish I had beds to offer you, but we sleep
on plain straw, and that’s all we’ve got to give you, with some
sheepskins I keep for the winter."
"We shall be very comfortable," said Alfred; "besides, a night is soon
passed."
"If you have no bed," said Robineau, with a grimace, "at least give me
the sheepskins; they’ll be softer than your straw!"
"Yes, monsieur; I’ll go fix ’em for you."
They made a bed with the sheepskins in one corner of the hovel; but
Alfred and Edouard preferred to lie on the straw, whereon they stretched
themselves, laughing good-humoredly; while the three young Auvergnats
did the same near by. The old man followed the example of his
grandchildren and lay down beside his he-goat. Claude and his wife
retired to the other compartment of the hovel, to which a rough sort of
curtain served as a door. But, before joining his wife, Claude blew out
the lamp, and only an occasional fitful gleam from the fire lighted the
interior.
"Why do you put out the light?" cried Robineau.
"Oh! because it wouldn’t be safe to keep it lighted all night, monsieur.
If the house should catch fire, we should all be baked like coals."
With that, he threw water on the remains of the fire, to extinguish it
completely.
"How amusing this is!" said Robineau; "to go to bed without a light--I,
who always have my night light in Paris!--By the way, mountaineer, are
you sure you locked the door of your cottage?"
The shepherd made no reply; he had gone to join his wife, by whom he lay
down, and ere long their prolonged snoring, reinforced by that of the
old man and the three boys, announced that the whole family was enjoying
sound sleep.
"How pleasant!" muttered Robineau, throwing himself testily on his
sheepskins; "the idea of sleeping in the midst of an uproar like this!
It seems to me as if I were at a funeral, with six bass horns tooting in
my ears!--I say, my friends, can you sleep?"
Alfred and Edouard in reply made a pretence of snoring with the rest.
"They’re asleep! they’re very lucky!--But that peasant didn’t answer my
question about the door; I’ll just go and make sure that we’re safe."
Robineau rose, felt his way to the door, found the latch, raised it,
opened the door, and discovered to his horror that it could be opened as
easily from the outside.
"How imprudent these peasants are!" he cried; "a door that can be opened
from outside! We’re about as safe as we should be on the high road! I
say! Monsieur Claude! boys! Hallo! old grandpa! why don’t you answer?"
Robineau’s outcries and the uproar he made roused the old man.
"What’s the matter with you, monsieur?" he said.
"The matter with me! Why, I think it’s an outrage that there isn’t so
much as a bolt on your door! The first thief that passes can come in and
murder us."
"Oh! monsieur, there ain’t no thieves in this part of the country!
Besides, we ain’t got anything to steal!"
"You haven’t! that’s just it! There’s selfishness for you! They think
only of themselves.--But, old peasant, I shouldn’t be pleased if they
stole no more than my hat.--I say, old man----"
The old man had fallen asleep again, and Alfred said to Robineau:
"For heaven’s sake, let these good people sleep in peace! Are you going
to make this noise much longer?"
"Ah! so you’re not asleep either?"
"Parbleu! with such a row as you are making!"
"But there’s no sense in lying in bed at the mercy of every passer-by!"
"Do you suppose anyone is passing at this hour?"
"Nobody knows.--However, I’ll put the table in front of the door; that
will offer some little resistance."
"Why don’t you put yourself there?"
"Oh, of course! to act as _chevaux de frise_ for you! God! what a
pleasant night I am going to have! I trust that I can find the table."
Robineau felt his way about the room, and, having found the table,
placed it against the door; then, feeling a little more at ease in his
mind, he threw himself on his sheepskins again, and exclaimed with a
long-drawn sigh:
"Was it worth while to buy a château, to be rich, to inherit Uncle
Gratien’s fortune, in order to lie on sheepskins like an Indian? I shall
be able to say that I have known the vicissitudes of fortune.--It is
stifling in this damned hovel. Not even a pillow or a bolster to put
one’s head on! God! how I will make up for this to-morrow at La
Roche-Noire! I will lie in cotton!--I shall never be able to sleep in
this bed; it smells horribly of game.--I say, Alfred! Alfred! are you
comfortable on your straw?"
"My dear Robineau," replied Alfred with a yawn, "it’s the novelty of the
position that makes its charm; it seems so amusing to me to lie on
straw!--Only it’s a pity not to have a little Auvergnate--because--oh----"
"Because what?" said Robineau.--"Well! he’s asleep.--I say, Monsieur
Edouard, are you asleep, too?--It seems that the poet sleeps; I will try
to follow his example. If only I could dream of my poor château, at
which I have so much difficulty in arriving!--God grant that that witch
may not come here to-night and cast a spell on us! With their White
House--they’ll give me bad dreams!"
However, fatigue triumphed over fear, and Robineau fell into a deep
sleep, like his companions.
The new landed proprietor had a most delectable dream: he was at his
château at last; he was called monseigneur, and was being fêted and
congratulated, when he was suddenly and painfully awakened by a heavy
weight resting on his chest.
"Who’s that?" he cried, trying to escape from the burden that weighed
upon him. But there was no reply, and he felt an additional weight on
his shoulder. A cold perspiration stood out on his forehead; he no
longer had the strength to cry out, but said in a faltering, trembling
voice:
"Who--who is it? In heaven’s name--what do you--want of me?"
There was no reply; the weight did not move but continued to rest on the
traveller’s chest and shoulder. Several minutes passed thus. Robineau no
longer had the strength to cry out, but waited until he should be at
liberty to move, praying fervently meanwhile. But, after some time,
surprised to find that the intruder did not stir, he softly raised his
head to try to free himself, and his face came in contact with a long
beard which seemed to cover almost the whole of his bedfellow’s face.
Robineau uttered a loud shriek, thinking that he had the devil upon him,
and in his terror threw himself to one side; whereupon he found that he
was clear of the object that had held him down, and he sprang to his
feet and ran to the middle of the room. But he fancied that he heard
footsteps and he was convinced that the devil was pursuing him. In his
terror, he ran about at random, came in contact with the curtain that
separated the two parts of the room, caught his feet in the straw, fell
headlong into it and lay there all huddled up, praying to heaven to
protect him.
Meanwhile, tranquillity was reestablished; Robineau concluded that the
devil had lost trace of him and had gone to torment one of his
companions; so, after remaining a quarter of an hour under the straw,
where he was nearly stifled, he turned over to try to get a little air.
When he turned, Robineau’s face found itself once more in contact with
something, which, however, did not resemble a beard, for it was large
and fat and smooth, soft to the touch, and endowed with a pleasant
warmth. Robineau drew back his head and put out his hand to ascertain
whether his suspicions were well-founded; but at the same instant the
person to whom that plump object belonged turned over, and stretching
out an arm and a leg, enlaced Robineau, who was thus caught anew and
dared not stir.
This time Robineau was less alarmed than before, for he realized whom he
had to do with; he had no doubt that it was Madame Claude who was lying
upon him, and he preferred to feel the weight of Madame Claude rather
than of the devil. However, he reflected that, if he remained there, the
shepherd would find him there, and that he might not be gratified to see
him lying under his wife. On the other hand he feared that, if he went
away, he would fall once more into the clutches of the long-bearded
creature who had waked him; and the fear of the devil was stronger than
the fear of the shepherd. So he decided to retain his position until
daybreak, when demons cease to be dangerous.
It was decidedly difficult to remain quiet in such a posture. Robineau
instinctively remembered that the Auvergnate was still very comely,
albeit a little dark; but all women are fair at night, when we choose to
consider them so, and Robineau, still instinctively, put out his arms
and let his hands run over everything that they came in contact with,
until his fear gradually vanished, and his ideas became much less black.