I went back to the slope and followed the road Joseph had taken,
inquiring for him as I went along, but could hear nothing except that
he had been seen to pass, and had not returned. The road led me to
the right of the forest, and I went in to question the forester,
whose house, a very ancient building, stands at the top of a large
tract of heathland lying on the hillside. It is a melancholy place,
though you can see from there to a great distance; and nothing grows
there at the edge of the oak-copses but brake and furze.
The forester of those days was Jarvois, a relation of mine, born in
Verneuil. As soon as he saw me, and because I did not often walk
that way, he was so friendly and hospitable that I could not get away.
"Your comrade, Joseph, was here about an hour ago," he said, "and
asked if the charcoal-burners were in the woods; his master probably
told him to inquire. He spoke clear enough and was steady on his
legs, and he went on up to the big oak; you need not be uneasy. And
now you are here, you must drink a bottle with me, and wait till my
wife comes back with the cows, for she will be hurt if you go away
without seeing her."
Thinking there was no reason to worry, I stayed with my relations
till sunset. It was about the middle of February; and when it got to
be nearly dark I said good-night, and took the upper road, intending
to cross to Verneuil and go home by the straight road, without
returning to Saint-Chartier, where I had nothing further to do.
My relative explained the road, as I had never been in the forest
more than once or twice in my life. You know that in these parts we
seldom go far from home, especially those of us who till the ground,
and keep near our dwellings like chicks round a coop.
So, in spite of a warning, I kept too far to the left; and instead of
striking a great avenue of oaks, I got among the birches, at least a
mile and a half from where I ought to have been.
The night was dark, and I could not see a thing; for in those days
the forest of Saint-Chartier was still a fine one,--not as to size,
for it was never very large, but from the age of the trees, which
allowed no light from the sky to get through them. What it thus
gained in grandeur and greenery it made you pay for in other ways.
Below it was all roots and brambles, sunken paths and gullies full of
spongy black mud, out of which you could hardly draw your feet, and
where you sank knee-deep if you got even a little way off the track.
Presently, getting lost in the forest and scratched and muddied in
the opens, I began to curse the luckless time and the luckless place.
After struggling and wading till I was overheated, though the night
was chilly, I got among some dry brake which were up to my chin; and
looking straight before me, I saw in the gray of the night something
like a huge black mass in the middle of an open tract. I felt sure
it was the big oak, and that I had reached the end of the forest. I
had never seen the tree, but I had heard tell of it, for it was
famous as one of the oldest in the country; and from the talk of
others I knew pretty well how it was shaped. You must surely have
seen it. It is a gnarled tree, topped in its youth by some accident
so that it grew in breadth and thickness; its foliage, shrivelled by
the winter, still clung to it, and it stood up there like a rock
looking to heaven.
I was about to go towards it, thinking I should find the path, which
made a straight line through the woods, when I heard a sound of music
that was something like bagpipes, but so loud you might think it
thunder.
Don't ask me why a thing which ought to have comforted me, by showing
the presence of a human being, did actually frighten me like a child.
I must honestly tell you that in spite of my nineteen years and a
good pair of fists, I had not felt easy after I found I had lost my
way. It was not because wolves do come down sometimes into that
forest from the great woods of Saint-Aoust that I lost heart, nor yet
that I feared any evil-intentioned Christian; but I was chilled
through with the kind of fear that you can't explain to your own
self, because you don't really know the cause of it. The dark night;
the wintry fog; a jumble of noises heard in the woods, with others
coming from the plain; a crowd of foolish stories which you have
heard, and which now start up in your head; and finally the idea of
being all alone far from your own belongings,--there's enough in all
that to upset your mind when you are young, and, indeed, when you are
old.
You can laugh at me if you like; but that music, in that lonely
place, seemed to me devilish. It was too loud and strong to be
natural, and the tune was so sad and strange that it was not like any
other known music on this Christian earth. I quickened my steps;
then I stopped, amazed at another sound. While the music clashed on
one side, a bell chimed on the other; and the two sounds came at me,
as if to prevent me from going forward or back.
I jumped to one side and hid in the brake; and as I did so, there was
a flash of light about four feet from me, and I saw a large black
animal, that I couldn't make out distinctly, spring up and disappear
at a run.
Instantly from all parts of the undergrowth a crowd of the same
animals sprang out, stamping, and running towards the bell and
towards the music, which now seemed to be getting nearer to each
other. There might have been two hundred of these animals, but I saw
at least thirty thousand; for terror got hold of me, and I began to
see sparks and white specks in my eyes, such as fear produces in
those who can't defend themselves.
I don't know whose legs carried me to the oak; I seemed to have none
of my own. But I got there, quite astonished to have crossed that
bit of ground like a whirlwind; and when I recovered breath I heard
nothing, neither far nor near, and could see nothing under the tree
nor yet in the brake, and was not quite sure that I hadn't dreamed a
pandemonium of crazy music and evil beasts.
I began to look about me and find out where I was. The oak-branches
overhung a large piece of grassy ground; it was so dark under them
that I could not see my feet, and I stumbled over a big root and
fell, hands forward, upon the body of a man who was lying there as if
asleep or dead. I don't know what fear made me say or shout, but at
any rate my voice was recognized, and that of Joseph replied,
saying,--
"Is that you, Tiennet? What are you doing here at this time of
night?"
"And you yourself, what are you doing, old fellow?" I replied, much
pleased and comforted to have found him. "I have looked everywhere
for you. Your mother was worrying, and I hoped you had got back to
her long ago."
"I had business over here," he replied, "and before starting back I
wanted to rest, that's all."
"Were not you afraid of being here alone at night in this hideous,
gloomy place?"
"Afraid of what? Why should I be afraid, Tiennet? I don't
understand you."
I was ashamed to confess what a fool I had been. Still, I did
venture to ask if he hadn't seen people and animals in the open.
"Yes, yes," he said, "I have seen plenty of animals, and people too;
but they are not mischievous, and we can go away together without
their harming us."
I fancied from his voice that he was sneering at my fears. I left
the oak as he did; but when we got out of its shadow, I fancied that
José's face and figure were not the same as usual. He seemed to me
taller, and carried his head higher, walking quickly, and speaking
with more energy than naturally belonged to him. This did not ease
my mind, for all sorts of queer recollections crossed it. It was not
from my grandmother only that I had heard tell that folks with white
faces and green eyes, gloomy tempers and speech that you couldn't
understand, were apt to consort with evil spirits; and in all
countries, as you know, old trees are said to be haunted by sorcerers
and _other such_.
I hardly dared to breathe as long as we were in the undergrowth. I
kept expecting to see the same things I had either dreamed in my
brain or seen with my senses. But all was still; there was no sound
except the breaking of the dried branches as we went along, or the
crunching of the remains of ice under our feet.
Joseph, who walked in front, did not follow the main path, but cut
across the covert. You would have thought he was a hare, well
acquainted with the ins and outs, and he led me so quickly to the
ford of the Igneraie, without crossing the potter's village, that it
seemed as if I got there by magic. Then he left me, without having
opened his lips, except to say that he wished to show himself to his
mother, as she was worried about him; and he followed the road to
Saint-Chartier, while I took a short cut through the two parishes to
my own house.
I no sooner found myself in the places I was familiar with than my
terror left me, and I was very much ashamed not to have conquered it.
Joseph would no doubt have told me the things I wanted to know if I
had only asked him; for, for once in his life, he had lost his sleepy
air, and I had even detected for an instant a sort of laugh in his
voice, and something in his behavior like a wish to give assistance.
However, when I had slept upon the adventure, and my senses were
calmer, I was convinced that I had not dreamed what I had seen in the
undergrowth, and I began to think there was something queer about
Joseph's tranquillity under the oak. The animals that I had seen in
such number were certainly not an ordinary sight. In our part of the
country we have no flocks, except sheep, and those I had seen were
animals of another color and another shape. They were neither horses
nor cattle nor sheep nor goats; besides, no animals were allowed to
pasture in the forest.
Now, as I tell you all this, I think I was a great fool. And yet
there's a deal that's unknown in the affairs of this world into which
a man sticks his nose, and more still in God's affairs, which He
chooses to keep secret. Anyhow, I did not venture to question
Joseph; for though you may be inquisitive about good things, you
ought not to be so about evil ones; and, indeed, a wise man feels
reluctant to poke into matters where he may find a good deal more
than he looks for.