It was growing late on a fine evening in autumn, as I, a solitary
pedestrian, drew near the little town of Spa. From the time of my
leaving Chaude Fontaine, I lingered along the road, enjoying to the
utmost the beautiful valley of the Vesdre, and sometimes half hesitating
whether I would not loiter away some days in one of the little villages
I passed, and see if the trout, whose circling eddies marked the stream,
might not rise as favourably to my fly as to the vagrant insect that now
flitted across the water. In good sooth I wished for rest, and I wished
for solitude; too much of my life latterly had been passed in salons and
soirées; the peaceful habit of my soul, the fruit of my own lonely
hours, had suffered grievous inroads by my partnership with the world,
and I deemed it essential to be once more apart from the jarring
influences and distracting casualties which every step in life is beset
by, were it only to recover again my habitual tranquillity--to refit the
craft ere she took the sea once more.
I wanted but little to decide my mind; the sight of an inn, some
picturesque spot, a pretty face--anything, in short, would have
sufficed. But somehow I suppose I must have been more fastidious than I
knew of, for I continued to walk onward; and at last, leaving the little
hamlet of Pepinsterre behind me, I set out with brisker pace towards
Spa. The air was calm and balmy; no leaf stirred; the river beside the
road did not even murmur, but crept silently along its gravelly bed,
fearful to break the stillness. Gradually the shadows fell stronger and
broader, and at length mingled into one broad expanse of gloom; in a few
minutes more it was night.
There is something very striking, I had almost said saddening, in the
sudden transition from day to darkness in those countries where no
twilight exists. The gradual change by which road and mountain, rock and
cliff, mellow into the hues of sunset, and grow grey in the gloaming,
deepening the shadows, and by degrees losing all outline in the dimness
around, prepares us for the gloom of night. We feel it like the tranquil
current of years marking some happy life, where childhood and youth and
manhood and age succeed in measured time. Not so the sudden and
immediate change, which seems rather like the stroke of some fell
misfortune, converting the cheerful hours into dark, brooding
melancholy. Tears may--they do--fall lightly on some; they creep with
noiseless step, and youth and age glide softly into each other without
any shock to awaken the thought that says, Adieu to this! Farewell to
that for ever!
Thus was I musing, when suddenly I found myself at the spot where the
road branched off in two directions. No house was near, nor a living
thing from whom I could ask the way. I endeavoured by the imperfect
light of the stars, for there was no moon, to ascertain which road
seemed most frequented and travelled, judging that Spa was the most
likely resort of all journeying in these parts; but unhappily I could
detect no difference to guide me. There were wheel-tracks in both, and
ruts and stones tolerably equitably adjusted; each had a pathway, too--
the right-hand road enjoying a slight superiority over the other in this
respect, as its path was more even.
I was completely puzzled. Had I been mounted, I had left the matter to
my horse; but unhappily my decision had not a particle of reason to
guide it. I looked from the road to the trees, and from the trees to the
stars, but they looked down as tranquilly as though either way would do-
-all save one, a sly little brilliant spangle in the south, that seemed
to wink at my difficulty. ‘No matter,’ said I, ‘one thing is certain--
neither a supper nor a bed will come to look for me here; and so now for
the best pathway, as I begin to feel foot-sore.’
My momentary embarrassment about the road completely routed all my
musings, and I now turned my thoughts to the comforts of the inn, and to
the pleasant little supper I promised myself on reaching it. I debated
as to what was in season and what was not. I spelled October twice to
ascertain if oysters were in, and there came a doubt across me whether
the Flemish name for the month might have an r in it, and then I laughed
at my own bull; afterwards I disputed with myself as to the relative
merits of Chablis and Hochheimer, and resolved to be guided by the
_garçon_. I combated long a weakness I felt growing over me for a pint
of mulled claret, as the air was now becoming fresh; but I gave in at
last, and began to hammer my brain for the French words for cloves and
nutmeg.
In these innocent ruminations did an hour pass by, and yet no sign of
human habitation, no sound of life, could I perceive at either side of
me. The night, ‘tis true, was brighter as it became later, and there
were stars in thousands in the sky; but I would gladly have exchanged
Venus for the chambermaid of the humblest _auberge_, and given the Great
Bear himself for a single slice of bacon. At length, after about two
hours’ walking, I remarked that the road was becoming much more steep;
indeed, it had presented a continual ascent for some miles, but now the
acclivity was very considerable, particularly at the close of a long
day’s march. I remembered well that Spa lay in a valley, but for the
life of me I could not think whether a mountain was to be crossed to
arrive there. ‘That comes of travelling by post,’ said I to myself; had
I walked the road, I had never forgotten so remarkable a feature.’ While
I said this, I could not help confessing that I had as lief my present
excursion had been also in a conveyance.
‘Forwärts! fort, und immer fort!’
hummed I, remembering Körner’s song; and taking it for my motto, on I
went at a good pace. It needed all my powers as a pedestrian, however,
to face the mountain, for such I could see it was that I was now
ascending; the pathway, too, less trodden than below, was encumbered
with loose stones, and the trees which lined the way on either side
gradually became thinner and rarer, and at last ceased altogether,
exposing me to the cold blast which swept from time to time across the
barren heath with a chill that said October was own brother to November.
Three hours and a half did I toil along, when at last the conviction
came over me that I must have taken the wrong road. This could not
possibly be the way to Spa; indeed, I had great doubts that it led
anywhere. I mounted a little rock, and took a survey of the bleak
mountain-side; but nothing could I see that indicated that the hand of
man had ever laboured in that wild region. Fern and heath, clumps of
gorse and misshapen rocks, diversified the barren surface on every side,
and I now seemed to have gained the summit, a vast tableland spreading
away for miles. I sat down to consider what was best to be done. The
thought of retracing so many leagues of way was very depressing; and yet
what were my chances if I went forward?
Ah, thought I, why did not some benevolent individual think of erecting
lighthouses inland? What a glorious invention would it have been! Just
think of the great mountain districts which lie in the very midst of
civilisation, pathless, trackless, and unknown, where a benighted
traveller may perish within the very sound of succour, if he but knew
where to seek it. How cheering to the wayworn traveller as he plods
along his weary road, to lift from time to time his eyes to the guide-
star in the distance! Had the monks been in the habit of going out in
the dark, there’s little doubt they’d have persuaded some good Catholics
to endow some institutions like this. How well they knew how to have
their chapels and convents erected! I’m not sure but I’d vow a little
lighthouse myself to the Virgin, if I could only catch a glimpse of a
gleam of light this moment.
Just then I thought I saw something twinkle, far away across the heath.
I climbed up on the rock, and looked steadily in the direction. There
was no doubt of it-there was a light; no Jack-o’-Lantern either, but a
good respectable light, of domestic habits, shining steadily and
brightly. It seemed far off; but there is nothing so deceptive as the
view over a flat surface. In any case, I resolved to make for it; and
so, seizing my staff, I once more set forward. Unhappily, however, I
soon perceived that the road led off in a direction exactly the reverse
of the object I sought, and I was now obliged to make my choice of
quitting the path or abandoning the light; my resolve was quickly made,
and I started off across the plain, with my eyes steadily fixed upon my
beacon.
The mountain was marshy and wet--that wearisome surface of spongy
hillock, and low, creeping brushwood, the most fatal thing to a tired
walker--and I made but slow progress; besides, frequently, from
inequalities of the soil, I would lose sight of the light for half an
hour together, and then, on its reappearing suddenly, discover how far I
had wandered out of the direct line. These little aberrations did not
certainly improve my temper, and I plodded along, weary of limb and out
of spirits.
At length I came to the verge of a declivity. Beneath me lay a valley,
winding and rugged, with a little torrent brawling through rocks and
stones--a wild and gloomy scene by the imperfect light of the stars. On
the opposite mountain stood the coveted light, which now I could
discover proceeded from a building of some size, at least so far as I
could pronounce from the murky shadow against the background of sky.
I summoned up one great effort, and pushed down the slope--now sliding
on hands and feet, now trusting to a run of some yards where the ground
was more feasible. After a fatiguing course of two hours, I reached the
crest of the opposite hill, and stood within a few hundred yards of the
house--the object of my wearisome journey. It was indeed in keeping with
the deserted wildness of the place. A ruined tower, one of those square
keeps which formerly were intended as frontier defences, standing on a
rocky base, beside the edge of a steep cliff, had been made a dwelling
of by some solitary herdsman--for so the sheep collected within a little
inclosure bespoke him. The rude efforts to make the place habitable were
conspicuous in the door formed of wooden planks nailed coarsely
together, and the window, whose panes were made of a thin substance like
parchment, through which, however, the blaze of a fire shone brightly
without.
Creeping carefully forward to take a reconnaissance of the interior
before I asked for admission, I approached a small aperture, where a
single pane of glass permitted a view. A great heap of blazing furze,
that filled the old chimney of the tower, lit up the whole space, and
enabled me to see a man who sat on a log of wood beside the hearth, with
his head bent upon his knees. His dress was a coarse blouse of striped
woollen descending to his knees, where a pair of gaiters of sheepskin
were fastened by thongs of untanned leather; his head was bare, and
covered only by a long mass of black hair, that fell in tangled locks
down his back, and even over his face as he bent forward. A shepherd’s
staff and a broad hat of felt lay on the ground beside him; there was
neither chair nor table, nor, save some fern in one corner, anything
that might serve as a bed; a large earthenware jug and a metal pot stood
near the fire, and a knife, such as butchers kill with, lay beside them.
Over the chimney, however, was suspended, by two thongs of leather, a
sword, long and straight, like the weapon of the heavy cavalry of
France; and, higher again, I could see a great piece of printed paper
was fastened to the wall. As I continued to scan, one by one, these
signs of utter poverty, the man stretched out his limbs and rubbed his
eyes for a minute or two, and then with a start sprang to his feet,
displaying, as he did so, the proportions of a most powerful and
athletic frame.
He was, as well as I could guess, about forty-five years of age; but
hardship and suffering had worn deep lines about his face, which was
sallow and emaciated. A black moustache, that hung down over his lip and
descended to his chin, concealed the lower part of his face; the upper
was bold and manly, the forehead high and well developed; but his eyes--
and I could mark them well as the light fell on him--were of an
unnatural brilliancy; their sparkle had the fearful gleam of a mind
diseased, and in their quick, restless glances through the room I saw
that he was labouring under some insane delusion. He paced the room with
a steady step, backwards and forwards, for a few minutes, and once, as
he lifted his eyes above the chimney, he stopped abruptly and carried
his hand to his forehead in a military salute, while he muttered
something to himself. The moment after he threw open the door, and
stepping outside, gave a long shrill whistle; he paused for a few
seconds, and repeated it, when I could hear the distant barking of a dog
replying to his call. Just then he turned abruptly, and with a spring
seized me by the arm.
‘Who are you? What do you want here?’ said he, in a voice tremulous with
passion.
A few words--it was no time for long explanations--told him how I had
lost my way in the mountain, and was in search of shelter for the night.
‘It was a lucky thing for you that one of my lambs was astray,’ said he,
with a fierce smile. ‘If Tête-noir had been at home, he’d have made
short work of you. Come in.’
With that he pushed me before him into the tower, and pointed to the
block of wood where he had been sitting previously, while he threw a
fresh supply of furze upon the hearth, and stirred up the blaze with his
foot.
‘The wind is moving round to the southard,’ said he; ‘we ‘ll have a
heavy fall of rain soon.’
‘The stars look very bright, however.’
‘Never trust them. Before day breaks, you’ll see the mountain will be
covered with mist.’
As he spoke, he crossed his arms on his breast, and recommenced his walk
up and down the chamber. The few words he spoke surprised me much by the
tones of his voice, so unlike the accents I should have expected from
one of his miserable and squalid appearance; they were mild, and bore
the traces of one who had seen very different fortunes from his present
ones.
I wished to speak, and induce him to converse with me; but the efforts I
made seeming only to excite his displeasure, I abandoned the endeavour
with a good grace; and having disposed my knapsack as a pillow,
stretched myself full length before the hearth, and fell sound asleep.
When I awoke, the shepherd was not to be seen. The fire, which blazed
brightly, showed, however, that he had not long been absent; a huge log
of beech had recently been thrown upon it. The day was breaking, and I
went to the door to look out. Nothing, however, could I see; vast clouds
of mist were sweeping along before the wind, that sighed mournfully over
the bleak mountains and concealed everything a few yards off, while a
thin rain came slanting down, the prelude to the storm the shepherd had
prophesied.
Never was there anything more dreary within or without; the miserable
poverty of the ruined tower was scarcely a shelter from the coming
hurricane. I returned to my place beside the fire, sad and low at heart.
While I was conjecturing within myself what distance I might be from
Spa, and how I could contrive to reach it, I chanced to fix my eyes on
the sabre above the chimney, which I took down to examine. It was a
plain straight weapon, of the kind carried by the soldiery; its only
sign of inscription was the letter ‘N’ on the blade. As I replaced it, I
caught sight of the printed paper, which, begrimed with smoke and partly
obliterated by time, was nearly illegible. After much pains, however, I
succeeded in deciphering the following; it was headed in large letters--
‘Ordre du Jour, de l’Armée Française. Le 9 Thermidor.’
The lines which immediately followed were covered by another piece of
paper pasted over them, where I could just here and there detect a stray
word, which seemed to indicate that the whole bore reference to some
victory of the republican army. The last four lines, much clearer than
the rest, ran thus:--
‘Le citoyen Aubuisson, chef de bataillon de Grenadiers, de cette demi-
brigade, est entré le premier dans la redoute. Il a eu son habit criblé
de balles.’
I read and re-read the lines a dozen times over; indeed, to this hour
are they fast fixed in my memory. Some strange mystery seemed to connect
them with the poor shepherd; otherwise, why were they here? I thought
over his figure, strong and well-knit, as I saw him stand upright in the
room, and of his military salute; and the conviction came fully over me
that the miserable creature, covered with rags and struggling with want,
was no other than the citizen Aubuisson. Yet, by what fearful
vicissitude had he fallen to this? The wild expression of his features
at times did indeed look like insanity; still, what he said to me was
both calm and coherent. The mystery excited all my curiosity, and I
longed for his return, in the hope of detecting some clue to it.
The door opened suddenly. A large dog, more mastiff than sheep-dog,
dashed in; seeing me, he retreated a step, and fixing his eyes steadily
upon me, gave a fearful howl. I could not stir from fear. I saw that he
was preparing for a spring, when the voice of the shepherd called out,
‘Couche-toi, Tête-noir, couche!’ The savage beast at once slunk quietly
to a corner, and lay down--still never taking his eyes from me, and
seeming to feel as if his services would soon be in request in my
behalf; while his master shook the rain from his hat and blouse, and
came forward to dry himself at the fire. Fixing his eyes steadfastly on
the red embers as he stirred them with his foot, he muttered some few
and broken words, among which, although I listened attentively, I could
but hear, ‘Pas un mot; silence, silence, à la mort!’
‘You were not wrong in your prophecy, shepherd; the storm is setting in
already,’ said I, wishing to attract his attention.
‘Hush!’ said he, in a low whisper, while he motioned me with his hand to
be still--‘hush! not a word!’
The eager glare of madness was in his eye as he spoke, and a tremulous
movement of his pale cheek betokened some great inward convulsion. He
threw his eyes slowly around the miserable room, looking below and above
with the scrutinising glance of one resolved to let nothing escape his
observation; and then kneeling down on one knee beside the blaze he took
a piece of dry wood, and stole it quietly among the embers.
‘There, there!’ cried he, springing to his legs, while he seized me
rudely by the shoulder, and hurried me to the distant end of the room.
‘Come quickly! stand back, stand back there! see, see!’ said he, as the
crackling sparks flew up and the tongued flame rose in the chimney,
‘there it goes!’ Then putting his lips to my ear he muttered, ‘Not a
word! silence! silence to the death!’
As he said this, he drew himself up to his full height, and crossing his
arms upon his breast stood firm and erect before me, and certainly,
covered with rags the meanest poverty would have rejected, shrunk by
famine and chilled by hunger and storm, there was still remaining in him
the traits of a once noble face and figure. The fire of madness,
unquenched by every misery, lit up his dark eye, and even on his
compressed lip there was a curl of pride. Poor fellow! some pleasant
memory seemed to flit across him; he smiled, and as he moved his hair
from his forehead he bowed his head slightly, and murmured, ‘Oui, sire!’
How soft, how musical that voice was then! Just at this instant the deep
bleating of the sheep was heard without, and Tête-noir, springing up,
rushed to the door, and scratched fiercely with his fore-paws. The
shepherd hastened to open it, and to my surprise I beheld a boy about
twelve years of age, poorly clad and dripping with wet, who was carrying
a small canvas bag on his back.
‘Has the lamb been found, Lazare?’ said the child, as he unslung his
little sack.
‘Yes; ‘tis safe in the fold.’
‘And the spotted ewe? You don’t think the wolves could have taken her
away so early as this----’
‘Hush, hush!’ said the shepherd, with a warning gesture to the child,
who seemed at once to see that the lunatic’s vision was on him; for he
drew his little blouse close around his throat, and muttered a ‘Bonjour,
Lazare,’ and departed.
‘Couldn’t that boy guide me down to Spa, or some village near it?’ said
I, anxious to seize an opportunity of escape.
He looked at me without seeming to understand my question. I repeated it
more slowly, when, as if suddenly aware of my meaning, he replied
quickly--
‘No, no; little Pierre has a long road to go home; he lives far away in
the mountains. I ‘ll show you the way myself.
With that, he opened the sack, and took forth a loaf of coarse wheaten
bread, such as the poorest cottagers make, and a tin flask of milk.
Tearing the loaf asunder, he handed me one-half, which more from policy
than hunger, though I had endured a long fast, I accepted. Then passing
the milk towards me he made a sign for me to drink, and when I had done,
seized the flask himself, and nodding gaily with his head, cried, ‘A
vous, camarade.’ Simple as the gesture and few the words, they both
convinced me that he had been a soldier once; and each moment only
strengthened me in the impression that I had before me in the shepherd
Lazare an officer of the Grande Armée--one of those heroes of a hundred
fights, whose glory was the tributary stream in the great ocean of the
Empire’s grandeur.
Our meal was soon concluded, and in silence; and Lazare, having
replenished his fire, went to the door and looked out.
‘It will be wilder ere night,’ said he, as he peered into the dense
mist, which, pressed down by rain, lay like a pall upon the earth; ‘if
you are a good walker, I ‘ll take you by a short way to Spa.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said I, ‘to follow you.’
‘The mountain is easy enough; but there may be a stream or two swollen
by the rains. They are sometimes dangerous.’
‘What distance are we then from Spa?’
‘Four leagues and a half by the nearest route--seven and a half by the
road. Come, Tête-noir, bonne bête,’ said he, patting the savage beast,
who with a rude gesture of his tail evinced his joy at the recognition.
‘Thou must be on guard to-day; take care of these for me--that thou
wilt, old fellow; farewell, good beast, good-bye!’
The animal, as if he understood every word, stood with his red eyes
fixed upon him till he had done, and then answered by a long low howl.
Lazare smiled with pleasure, as he waved his hand towards him, and led
the way from the tower.
I had but time to leave two louis-d’ors on the block of wood, when he
called out to me to follow him. The pace he walked at, as well as the
rugged course of the way he took, prevented my keeping at his side; and
I could only track him as he moved along through the misty rain, like
some genius of the storm, his long locks flowing wildly behind him, and
his tattered garments fluttering in the wind.
It was a toilsome and dreary march, unrelieved by aught to lessen the
fatigue. Lazare never spoke one word the entire time; occasionally he
would point with his staff to the course we were to take, or mark the
flight of some great bird of prey soaring along near the ground, as if
fearless of man in regions so wild and desolate; save at these moments,
he seemed buried in his own gloomy thoughts. Four hours of hard walking
brought us at last to the summit of a great mountain, from which, as the
mist was considerably cleared away, I could perceive a number of lesser
mountains surrounding it, like the waves of the sea. My guide pointed to
the ground, as if recommending a rest, and I willingly threw myself on
the heath, damp and wet as it was.
The rest was a short one; he soon motioned me to resume the way, and we
plodded onward for an hour longer, when we came to a great tableland of
several miles in extent, but which still I could perceive was on a very
high level. At last we reached a little grove of stunted pines, where a
rude cross of stone stood--a mark to commemorate the spot where a murder
had been committed, and to entreat prayers for the discovery of the
murderers. Here Lazare stopped, and pointing to a little narrow path in
the heather, he said--
‘Spa is scarce two leagues distant; it lies in the valley yonder; follow
this path, and you ‘ll not fail to reach it.’
While I proffered my thanks to him for his guidance, I could not help
expressing my wish to make some slight return for it. A dark, disdainful
look soon stopped me in my speech, and I turned it off in a desire to
leave some souvenir of my night’s lodging behind me in the old tower.
But even this he would not hear of; and when I stretched out my hand to
bid him good-bye, he took it with a cold and distant courtesy, as though
he were condescending to a favour he had no fancy for.
‘Adieu, monsieur,’ said I, still tempted, by a last effort of allusion
to his once condition, to draw something from him--‘adieu!’
He approached me nearer, and with a voice of tremulous eagerness, he
muttered--
‘Not a word yonder, not a syllable! Pledge me your faith in that!’
Thinking now that it was merely the recurrence of his paroxysm, I
answered carelessly, ‘Never fear, I’ll say nothing.’
‘Yes, but swear it,’ said he, with a fixed look of his dark eye; ‘swear
it to me now, that so long as you are below there’--he pointed to the
valley--‘you will never speak of me.’
I made him the promise he required, though with great unwillingness, as
my curiosity to learn something about him was becoming intense.
‘Not a word!’ said he, with a finger on his lip, ‘that’s the _consigne_.
‘Not a word!’ repeated I, and we parted.