IV

A fortnight later, Gilbert wrote to his friends a letter conceived

thus:

"Madame:--I have found here neither fetes, cavalcades, gala-days

nor Muscovite beauties. What should we do, I beg to know, with

these Muscovite beauties? or perhaps I ought to ask, what would

they do with us? We live in the woods; our castle is an old, very

old one, and in the moonlight it looks like a specter. What I like

best about it, is its long and gloomy corridors, through which the

wind sweeps freely; but I assure you that I have not yet

encountered there a white robe or a plumed hat. Only the other

evening a bat, who had entered by a broken pane, brushed my face

with its wing and almost put out my candle. This, up to the

present time has been my sole adventure. And as for you, sir, know

that I am not obliged to resist the fascinations of my tyrant, for

the reason that he has not taken the trouble to be fascinating.

Know also that I am not bored. I am contented; I am enjoying the

tranquility of mind which comes from a well-defined, well-

regulated, and after all, very supportable position. I am no

longer compelled to urge my life on before me and to show it the

road; it makes its own way, and I follow it as Martin followed his

ass. And then pleasures are not wanting for us,--listen! Our

castle is a long series of dilapidated buildings, of which we

occupy the only one habitable. I am lodged alone in a turret which

commands a magnificent view, and I have a grand precipice under my

window. I can say 'my turret,' 'my precipice!' Oh, my poor

Parisians, you will never understand all there is in these two

words: MY PRECIPICE! 'What is it then but a precipice?' exclaims

Madame Lerins. 'It is only a great chasm.' Ah, yes! Madame, it is

'a great chasm'; but imagine that this morning this chasm was a

deep blue, and this evening at sunset it was--stay, of the color of

your nasturtiums. I opened my window and put my head out to inhale

the odor of this admirable precipice, for I have discovered that in

the evening precipices have an odor. How shall I describe it to

you? It is a perfume of rocks scorched by the sun, with which

mingles a subtle aroma of dry herbs. The combination is exquisite.

"The proud rock, of which we occupy the summit and which deserves

its name of Vulture's Crag, is bounded at the north as you already

know, at the west by a ravine which separates it from a range of

hills higher and fantastically jagged, and following the windings

of the river. This line of hills is not continuous; it is cut by

narrow gorges, which open into the valley and through which the

last rays of the sun reach us. The other evening there was a red

sunset, and one of these gorges seemed to vomit flames; you might

have supposed it the mouth of the furnace. Upon the east, from its

heights and its terrace, Geierfels overlooks the Rhine, from which

it is separated by the main road and a tow-path. At the south it

communicates by steep paths with a vast plateau, of which it forms,

as it were, the upper story, and which is clothed with a forest of

beeches, and furrowed here and there with noisy streams. It is on

this side only that our castle is accessible,--and here not to

carriages,--even a cart could reach us but with difficulty, and all

of our provisions are brought to us upon the backs of men or mules.

Mountains, perpendicular rocks, turrets overhanging a precipice,

grand and somber woods, rugged paths and brooks which fall in

cascades, do not all these, Madame, make this a very wild and very

romantic retreat? On the right bank of the Rhine which stretches

out under our eyes, it is another thing. Picture to yourself a

landscape of infinite sweetness, a great cultivated plain, which

rises by imperceptible gradation to the base of a distant chain of

mountains, the undulating outlines of which are traced upon the sky

in aerial indentations.

"Directly in front of the chateau, beyond the Rhine, a market town,

with neat houses carefully whitewashed and with gardens attached,

spreads itself around a little cove, like a fan. Upon the right of

this great village a rustic church reflects the sun from its tinned

spire; on the left, some large mills show their lazily turning

wheels, and behind these mills, the church and the market town,

extends the fertile plain which I have just endeavored to describe

to you, and which I cannot praise too much. Oh! charming

landscape! This afternoon I was occupied in feasting my eyes upon

it, when a white goat came to distract my attention, followed at a

distance by a little girl whom I suspected of being very pretty;

but I forgot them both in watching a steamboat passing up the river

towing a flotilla of barges, covered with awnings and attended by

their lighters, and a huge raft laden with timber from the Black

Forest, manned by fifty or sixty boatmen, some of whom in front,

and some in the rear, directed its course with vigorous strokes of

the oar.

"But what pleases me above everything else is, that Geierfels, by

its position, is a kind of acoustic focus to which all the noises

of the valley incessantly ascend. This afternoon, the dull

murmuring of the river, the panting respiration of the tug-boat,

the vibration of a bell in a distant church tower, the song of a

peasant girl washing her linen in a spring, the bleating of sheep,

the tic tac of the mills, the tinkling bells of a long train of

mules drawing a barge by a rope, the reverberating clamors of

boatmen stowing casks in their boats--all these various sounds came

to my ear in vibrations of surprising clearness, when suddenly a

gust of wind mingled them confusedly together, and I could hear but

a vague music which seemed to fall from the skies. But a moment

afterwards all of these vibrating voices emerged anew from the

whirlwind of confused harmony, and each, sonorous and distinct,

recounted to my enraptured heart some episode in the life of man

and nature. And then, when night comes, Madame, to all of these

noises of the day succeed others more mysterious, more penetrating,

more melancholy. Do you like the hooting of the owl, Madame? But

first, I wonder if you have ever heard it. It is a cry-- No, it

is not a cry, it is a soft, stifled wail; a monotonous and resigned

sorrow, which unbosoms itself to the moon and stars. One of these

sad birds lodges within two steps of me, in the hollow of a tree,

and when night comes, he amuses himself by singing a duet with the

singing wind. The Rhine plays an accompaniment, and its grave,

subdued voice furnishes a continuous bass, whose volume swells and

falls in rhythmic waves. The other evening this concert failed;

neither the wind nor the owl was in voice. The Rhine alone

grumbled beneath; but it arranged a surprise for me and proved that

it could make harmony of its own without other aid. Towards

midnight a barge carrying a lantern on its prow had become detached

from the bank and had drifted across the river, and I distinctly

heard, or imagined that I heard, the wash of the waves upon the

side of the boat, the bubbling of the eddy which formed under the

stern, the dull sound of the oar when it dipped into the current,

and still sweeter, when raised out of it the tender tears which

dripped from it drop by drop. This music contrasted strongly with

that I had heard the night before at the same hour. The north wind

had risen during the evening, and near eleven o'clock it became

furious; it filled the air with sad howlings, and increased to a

rage that was inexpressible. The weathercocks creaked, the tiles

ground against each other, the roof timbers trembled in their

mortices, and the walls shook upon their foundations. From time to

time a blast would hurl itself against my window with wild shrieks,

and from my bed I imagined I could see through the panes the

bloodshot eyes of a band of famished wolves. In the brief

intervals when this outside tumult subsided, strange murmurs came

from the interior of the castle; the wainscoting gave forth dismal

creakings;--there was not a crack in the partitions, nor a fissure

in the ceiling from which did not issue a sigh, or hoarse groans.

Then again all this became silent, and I heard only something like

a low whispering in the far off corridors, as of phantoms murmuring

in the darkness as they swept the walls in their flight; then

suddenly they seemed to gather up their forces, the floors trembled

under their spasmodic tramping, while they clambered in confusion

up the staircase which led to my room, throwing themselves over the

threshold of my door and uttering indescribable lamentations.

"But enough of this, perhaps you will say; let us now talk a little

of your patron: This terrible man, will you believe it, has not

inspired me with the antagonism which you prophesied. But in the

first place we do not live together from morning to night. The day

after my arrival, he sent me a long list of difficult or mutilated

passages to interpret and restore. It is a work of time, to which

I devote all my afternoons. He has had some of his finest folios

sent to my room, and I live in these like a rat in a Dutch cheese.

It is true, I pass my mornings in his study, where we hold learned

discussions which would edify the Academy of Inscriptions; but to

my delight, after nightfall I can dispose of myself as I choose.

He has even agreed that, after seven o'clock, I may lock myself in

my room, and that no human being under any pretext whatever shall

come to disturb me there. This privilege M. Leminof granted to me

in the most gracious manner, and you can imagine how grateful I am

to him for it. I do not mean to say by this that he is an amiable

man, nor that he cares to be; but he is a man of sense and wit. He

understood me at once, and he means to make me serviceable to him.

I am like a horse who feels that he carries a skilful rider."

V

The next day was Sunday, and for Gilbert was a day of liberty.

Towards the middle of the forenoon, he went out to take a walk in

the woods. He had wandered for an hour, when, turning his head, he

saw coming behind him a little troop of children, decked out in

strange costumes. The two oldest wore blue dresses and red

mantles, and their heads were covered with felt caps encircled by

bands of gilt paper in imitation of aureoles. A smaller one wore a

gray dress, upon which were painted black devils and inverted

torches. The last five were clothed in white; their shoulders were

ornamented with long wings of rose-tinted gauze, and they held in

their hands sprigs of box by way of palm branches.

Gilbert slackened his pace, and when they came up with him, he

recognized in the one who wore the san-benito the little hog-

driver, so maltreated by Stephane. The child, who while marching

looked down complacently on the torches and the devils with which

his robe was decorated, advanced towards Gilbert, and without

waiting for his questions, said to him, "I am Judas Iscariot. Here

is Saint Peter, and here is Saint John. The others are angels. We

are all going to R----, to take part in a grand procession, that

they have there every five years. If you want to see something

fine, just follow us. I shall sing a solo and so will Saint Peter;

the others sing in the chorus."

Upon which Judas Iscariot, Saint Peter, Saint John and the angels

resumed their march, and Gilbert decided to follow them. The first

houses of the village of R---- rise at the extremity of the wooded

plain which extends to the south of Geierfels. In about half an

hour, the little procession made its entry into the village in the

midst of a considerable crowd which hastily gathered from the

neighboring hamlets. Gilbert made his way along the main street,

decorated with hangings and altars, and passed on to an open square

planted with elms, of which the church formed one of the sides.

Presently the bells sounded a grand peal; the doors of the church

opened, and the procession came out. At the head marched priests,

monks, and laymen of both sexes, bearing wax tapers, crosses, and

banners. Behind them came a long train of children representing

the escort of the Saviour to Calvary. One of them, a young lad of

ten years, filled the role of Christ.

At a moment when Gilbert was absorbed in reflection, a voice which

was not unknown to him murmured in his ear these words, which made

him shudder:

"You seem prodigiously interested, Monsieur, in this ridiculous

comedy!"

Turning his head quickly, he recognized Stephane. The young man

had just dismounted from his horse, which he had left in the care

of his servant, and had pushed his way through the crowd,

indifferent to the exclamations of the good people whose pious

meditations he disturbed. Gilbert looked at him a moment severely,

and then fixed his eyes on the procession, and tried, but in vain,

to forget the existence of this Stephane whom he had not met before

since the adventure at the fountain, and whose presence at this

moment caused him an indefinable uneasiness. The reproachful look

which he had cast upon the young man, far from intimidating him,

served but to excite his mocking humor, and after a few seconds of

silence he commenced the following soliloquy in French, speaking

low, but in a voice so distinct that Gilbert, to his great regret,

lost not a word of it:

"Mon Dieu! how ridiculous these young ones are! They really seem

to take the whole thing seriously; what vulgar types! what square,

bony faces. Don't their low, stupid expressions contrast oddly

with their wings? Do you see that little chap twisting his mouth

and rolling his eyes? His air of contrition is quite edifying.

The other day he was caught stealing fagots from a neighbor. . . .

And look at that other one who has lost his wings! What an unlucky

accident! He is stooping to pick them up, and tucks them under his

arm like a cocked hat. The idea is a happy one! But thank God,

their litanies are over. It's Saint Peter's turn to sing."

For a long time Gilbert looked about him anxiously, seeking an

opportunity to escape, but the crowd was so compact that it was

impossible to make his way through it. He saw himself forced to

remain where he was and to submit, even to the end, to Stephane's

amiable soliloquy. So he pretended not to hear him, and concealed

his impatience as well as he could; but his nervousness betrayed

him in spite of himself, and to the great diversion of Stephane,

who maliciously enjoyed his own success. Fortunately for Gilbert,

when Judas had stopped singing, the procession resumed its march

towards a second station at the other end of the village, and this

caused a general movement among the bystanders who hedged his

passage. Gilbert profited by this disorder to escape, and was soon

lost in the crowd, where even Stephane's piercing eyes could not

follow him.

Hastening from the village he took the road to the woods. "This

Stephane is decidedly a nuisance," thought he. "Three weeks since

he surprised me at a bright fountain, where I was deliciously

dreaming, and put my fancies to flight, and now by his impertinent

babbling he has spoiled a fete in which I took interest and

pleasure. What is he holding in reserve for me? The most annoying

part of it is, that henceforth I shall be condemned to see him

daily. Even to-day, in a few hours, I shall meet him at his

father's table. Presentiments do not always deceive, and at first

sight I recognize in him a strong enemy to my repose and happiness;

but I shall manage to keep him at a distance. We won't distress

ourselves over a trifle. What does philosophy amount to, if the

happiness of a philosopher is to be at the mercy of a spoiled

child!"

Thus saying, he drew from his pocket a book which he often carried

in his walks: It was a volume of Goethe, containing the admirable

treatise on the "Metamorphosis of Plants." He began to read, often

raising his head from the page to gaze at a passing cloud, or a

bird fluttering from tree to tree. To this pleasant occupation he

abandoned himself for nearly an hour, when he heard the neighing of

a horse behind him, and turning, he saw Stephane advancing at full

speed on his superb chestnut and followed at a few paces by his

groom, mounted on a gray horse. Gilbert's first impulse was to

dart into a path which opened at his left, and thus gain the

shelter of the copse; but he did not wish to give Stephane the

pleasure of imagining that he was afraid of him, and so continued

on his way, his eyes riveted upon the book.

Stephane soon came up to him, and bringing his horse to a walk,

thus accosted him:

"Do you know, sir, that you are not very polite? You quitted me

abruptly, without taking leave. Your proceedings are singular, and

you seem to be a stranger to the first principles of good

breeding."

"What do you expect, my dear sir?" answered Gilbert. "You were so

amiable, so prepossessing the first time I had the honor of meeting

you, that I was discouraged. I said to myself, that do what I

would, I should always be in arrears to you."

"You are spiteful, Mr. Secretary," retorted Stephane. "What, have

you not forgotten that little affair at the spring?"

"You have taken no trouble, it seems, to make me forget it."

"It is true, I was wrong," replied he with a sneer; "wait a moment,

I will dismount, go upon my knees there in the middle of the road,

and say to you in dolorous voice, 'Sir, I'm grieved, heart-broken,

desperate,'--For what? I know not. Tell me, I pray you, sir, for

what must I beg your pardon? For if I rightly remember, you

commenced by raising your cane to me.

"I did not raise my cane to you," replied Gilbert, beside himself

with indignation; "I contented myself with parrying the blow which

you were about to give me."

"It was not my intention to strike you," rejoined Stephane,

impetuously. "And besides, learn once for all, that between us

things are not equal, and that even should I provoke you, you would

be a wretch to raise the end of your finger against me."

"Oh, that is too much!" cried Gilbert, laughing loudly.

"And why so, my little friend?"

"Because--because--" stammered Stephane; and then suddenly stopped.

An expression of bitter sadness passed over his face; his brows

contracted and his eyes became fixed. It was thus that terrible

paroxysm had commenced which so alarmed Gilbert at their first

meeting. This time, fortunately, the attack was less violent. The

good Gilbert passed quickly from anger to pity; "there is a secret

wound in that heart," thought he, and he was still more convinced

of it when, after a long pause Stephane, recovering the use of his

speech, said to him in a broken voice: "I was ill the other day, I

often am. People should have some consideration for invalids."

Gilbert made no answer; he feared by a hard word to exasperate his

soul so passionate, and so little master of itself; but he thought

that when Stephane felt ill, he had better stay in his room.

They walked on some moments in silence until, recovering from his

dejection, Stephane said ironically: "You made a mistake in leaving

the fete so soon. If you had stayed until the end, you would have

heard Christ and his mother sing; you lost a charming duet."

"Let us drop that subject," interrupted Gilbert; "we could not

understand each other. Yours is a kind of pleasantry for which I

have but little taste."

"Pedant!" murmured Stephane, turning his head, then adding with

animation: "It is just because I respect religion that I do not

like to see it burlesqued and parodied. Let a true angel appear

and I am ready to render him homage; but I am enraged when I see

great seraph's wings tied with white strings to the shoulders of

wicked, boorish, little thieves, liars, cowards, slaves, and

rascals. Their hypocritical airs do not impose on me, for I read

their base natures in their eyes. I detest all affectations, all

shams. I have the misfortune of being able to see through all

masks."

"These are very old words for such very young lips," answered

Gilbert sadly. "I suspect, my child, you are repeating a lesson

you have learned."

"And what do you know of my age?" cried he angrily. "By what do

you judge? Are faces clocks which mark the hours and minutes of

life? Well, yes, I am but sixteen; but I have lived longer than

you. I am not a library rat, and have not studied the world in

duodecimos. Thank God! for the advancement of my education. He

has gathered under my eyes a few specimens of the human race which

have enabled me to judge of the rest, and the more experience I

gain, the more I am convinced that all men are alike. On that

account I scorn them all,--all without exception!"

"I thank you sincerely for myself and your groom," answered Gilbert

smiling.

"Don't trouble yourself about my groom," replied Stephane, beating

down with his whip the foliage which obstructed his path. "In the

first place, he knows but little French; and it is useless to tell

him in Russian that I despise him,--he would be none the worse for

it. He is well lodged, well fed, and well clothed; what matters my

scorn to him? And besides, let me tell you for your guidance, that

my groom is not a groom, he is my jailer. I am a prisoner under

constant surveillance; these woods constitute a yard, where I can

walk but twice a week, and this excellent Ivan is my keeper.

Search his pockets and you will find a scourge."

Gilbert turned to examine the groom, who answered his scrutinizing

look by a jovial and intelligent smile. Ivan represented the type

of the Russian serf in all his original beauty. He was small, but

vigorous and robust; he had a fresh complexion, cheeks full and

rosy, hair of a pale yellow, large soft eyes and a long chestnut

beard, in which threads of silver already mingled. It was such a

face as one often sees among the lower classes of Slavonians;

indicating at once energy in action and placidity in repose.

When Gilbert had looked at him well, he said, "My dear sir, I do

not believe in Ivan's scourge."

"Ah! that is like you bookworms," exclaimed Stephane with an angry

gesture. "You receive all the monstrous nonsense which you find in

your old books for Gospel truth, and without any hesitation, while

the ordinary matters of life appear to you prodigious absurdities,

which you refuse to believe."

"Don't be angry. Ivan's scourge is not exactly an article of

faith. One can fail to believe in it without being in danger of

hell-fire. Besides, I am ready to recant my heresy; but I will

confess to you that I find nothing ferocious or stern in the face

of this honest servant. At all events, he is a jailer who does not

keep his prisoners closely, and who sometimes gives them a

relaxation beyond his orders; for the other day, it seems to me,

you scoured the country without him, and really the use you make of

your liberty--"

"The other day," interrupted Stephane, "I did a foolish thing. For

the first time I amused myself by evading Ivan's vigilance. It was

an effort that I longed to make, but it turned out badly for me.

Would you like to see with your own eyes what this fine exploit

cost me?"

Then pushing up the right sleeve of his black velvet blouse, he

showed Gilbert a thin delicate wrist marked by a red circle, which

indicated the prolonged friction of an iron ring. Gilbert could

not repress an exclamation of surprise and pity at the sight, and

repented his pleasantry.

"I have been chained for a fortnight in a dungeon which I thought I

should never come out of again," said Stephane, "and I indulged in

a good many reflections there. Ah! you were right when you accused

me of repeating a lesson I had learned. The pretty bracelet which

I bear on my right arm is my thought-teacher, and if I dared to

repeat all that it taught me--" Then interrupting himself:

"A lie!" exclaimed he in a bitter tone, drawing his cap down over

his eyes. "The truth is, that I came out of the dungeon like a

lamb, flexible as a glove, and that I am capable of committing a

thousand base acts to save myself the horror of returning there. I

am a coward like the rest, and when I tell you that I despise all

men, do not believe that I make an exception in my own favor."

And at these words he drove the spurs into his horse's flank so

violently that the fiery chestnut, irritated by the rude attack,

kicked and pranced. Stephane subdued him by the sole power of his

haughty and menacing voice; then exciting him again, he launched

him forward at full speed and amused himself by suddenly bringing

him up with a jerk of the rein, and by turns making him dance and

plunge; then urging him across the road he made him clear at a

bound, the ditch and hedge which bordered it. After several

minutes of this violent exercise, he trotted away, followed by his

inseparable Ivan, leaving Gilbert to his reflections, which were

not the most agreeable.

He had experienced in talking with Stephane an uneasiness, a secret

trouble which had never oppressed him before. The passionate

character of this young man, the rudeness of his manners, in which

a free savage grace mingled, the exaggeration of his language,

betraying the disorder of an ill-governed mind, the rapidity with

which his impressions succeeded each other, the natural sweetness

of his voice, the caressing melody of which was disturbed by loud

exclamations and rude and harsh accents; his gray eyes turning

nearly black and flashing fire in a paroxysm of anger or emotion;

the contrast between the nobility and distinction of his face and

bearing, and the arrogant scorn of proprieties in which he seemed

to delight--in short, some painful mystery written upon his

forehead and betrayed in his smile--all gave Gilbert much to

speculate upon and troubled him profoundly. The aversion he had at

first felt for Stephane had changed to pity since the poor child

had shown him the red bracelet, which he called his "thought-

teacher,"--but pity without sympathy is a sentiment to which one

yields with reluctance. Gilbert reproached himself for taking such

a lively interest in this young man who had so little merited his

esteem, and more especially as with his pity mingled an indefinable

terror or apprehension. In fact, he hardly knew himself; he so

calm, so reasonable, to be the victim of such painful

presentiments! It seemed to him that Stephane was destined to

exercise great influence over his fate, and to bring disorder into

his life.

Suddenly, he heard once more the sound of horse's hoofs and

Stephane re-appeared. Perceiving Gilbert, the young man stopped

his horse and cried out, "Mr. Secretary, I am looking for you."

And then, laughing, continued:

"This is a tender avowal I have just made; for believe me, it is

years since I have thought of looking for anybody; but as in your

estimation I have not been very courteous, and as I pride myself on

my good manners, I wish to obtain your pardon by flattering you a

little."

"This is too much goodness," answered Gilbert. "Don't take the

trouble. The best course you can pursue to win my esteem is to

trouble yourself about me as little as possible."

"And you will do the same in regard to me?"

"Remember that matters are not equal between us. I am but an

insect,--it is easy for you to avoid me, whilst--"

"You are not talking with common sense," interrupted Stephane;

"look at this green beetle crawling across the road. I see him,

but he does not see me. But to drop this bantering--for it's quite

out of character with me--what I like in you is your remarkable

frankness, it really amuses me. By the way, be good enough to tell

me what book that is which never leaves you for a moment and which

you ponder over with such intensity. Do tell me," added he in a

coaxing, childish tone, "what is the book that you press to your

heart with so much tenderness."

Gilbert handed it to him.

"'Essay on the Metamorphosis of Plants.' So, plants have the

privilege of changing themselves? Mon Dieu, they must be happy!

But they ought to tell us their secret."

Then closing the volume, and returning it to Gilbert, he exclaimed:

"Happy man! you live among the plants of the field as if in your

element. Are you not something of a plant yourself? I am not sure

but that you have just now stopped reading to say to the primroses

and anemones covering this slope, 'I am your brother!' Mon Dieu! I

am sorry to have disturbed the charming conversation! And hold!

your eyes are a little the color of the periwinkle."

He turned his head and looked at Gilbert with a scornful air, and

had already prepared to leave him, when a glance over the road

dispersed his ill-humor, for in the distance he saw Wilhelm and his

comrades returning from the fete.

"Come quick, my children," cried he, rising in his stirrups. "Come

quick, my lambs, for I have something of the greatest importance to

propose to you."

Hearing his challenge, the children raised their eyes and

recognizing Stephane, they stopped and took counsel together. The

somewhat brutal impudence of the young Russian had given him a bad

reputation, and the little peasants would rather have turned back

than encounter his morose jesting or his terrible whip.

The three apostles and the five angels, after consulting together,

concluded prudently to beat a retreat, when Stephane drawing from

his pocket a great leather purse, shook it in the air crying,

"There is money to be gained here,--come, my dear children, you

shall have all you want."

The large, full purse which Stephane shook in his hand was a very

tempting bait for the eight children; but his whip, which he held

under his left arm, warned them to be careful. Hesitating between

fear and covetousness, they stood still like the ass in the fable

between his two bundles of hay; but Stephane at that moment was

seized with a happy inspiration and threw his switch to the top of

a neighboring tree, where it rested. This produced a magical

effect, the children with one accord deciding to approach him,

although with slow and hesitating steps. Wilhelm alone,

remembering his recent treatment, darted into a path nearby and

disappeared in the bushes.

The troop of children stopped a dozen paces from Stephane and

formed in a group, the little ones hiding behind the larger. All

of them fumbled nervously with the ends of their belts, and kept

their heads down, awkward and ashamed, with eyes fixed upon the

ground, but casting sidelong glances at the great leather purse

which danced between Stephane's hands.

"You, Saint Peter," said he to them in a grave tone; "you, Saint

John, and your five dear little angels of Heaven, listen to me

closely. You have sung to-day very pretty songs in honor of the

good Lord; he will reward you some day in the other world; but for

the little pleasures people give me, I reward them at once. So

every one of you shall have a bright dollar, if you will do the

little thing I ask. It is only to kiss delicately and respectfully

the toe of my boot. I tell you again, that this little ceremony

will gain for each of you a bright dollar, and you will afterwards

have the happiness of knowing that you have learned to do something

which you can't do too well if you want to get on in this world."

The seven children looked at Stephane with a sheepish air and open

mouths. Not one of them stirred. Their immobility, and their

seven pairs of fixed round eyes directed upon him, provoked him.

"Come, my little lambs," he continued persuasively, "don't stretch

your eyes in this way; they look like barn doors wide open. You

should do this bravely and neatly. Ah! mon Dieu! you will see it

done often enough, and do it yourselves again too in your lifetime.

There must always be a beginning. Come on, make haste. A thaler

is worth thirty-six silbergroschen, and a silbergroschen is worth

ten pfennigs, and for five pfennigs you can buy a cake, a hot

muffin, or a little man in licorice--"

And shaking the leather purse again, he cried:

"Ah, what a pretty sound that makes! How pleasantly the click,

click of these coins sounds to our ears. All music is discordant

compared to that. Nightingales and thrushes, stop your concerts!

we can sing better than you. I am an artist who plays your

favorite air on his violin. Let us open the ball, my darlings."

The seven children seemed still uncertain. They were red with

excitement, and consulted each other by looks. At last the

youngest, a little blond fellow, made up his mind.

"Monsieur HAS ONE CHEVRON TOO MANY," said he to his companions,

which being interpreted means: "Monsieur is a little foolish with

pride, his head is turned, he is crack-brained, and," added he

laughingly, "after all, it's only in fun, and there is a dollar to

get."

So speaking, he approached Stephane deliberately and gave his boot

a loud kiss. The ice was broken; all of his companions followed

his example, some with a grave and composed air, others laughing

till they showed all their teeth. Stephane clapped his hands in

triumph:

"Bravo! my dear friends," exclaimed he. "The business went off

admirably, charmingly!"

Then drawing seven dollars from his purse, he threw them into the

road with a scornful gesture:

"Now then, Messrs. Apostles and Seraphim," cried he in a thundering

voice, "pick up your money quick, and scamper away as fast as your

legs can carry you. Vile brood, go and tell your mothers by what a

glorious exploit you won this prize!

And while the children were moving off, he turned towards Gilbert

and said, crossing his arms: "Well, my man of the periwinkles, what

do you think of it?"

Gilbert had witnessed this little scene with mingled sadness and

disgust. He would have given much if only one of the children had

resisted Stephane's insolent caprice; but not having this

satisfaction, he tried to conceal his chagrin as best he could.

"What does it prove?" replied he dryly.

"It seems to me it proves many things, and among others this: that

certain emotions are very ridiculous, and that certain mentors of

my acquaintance who thrust their lessons upon others--"

He said no more, for at this moment a pebble thrown by a vigorous

hand whistled by his ears, and rolled his cap in the dust.

Starting, he uttered an angry cry, and striking spurs into his

horse, he launched him at a gallop across the bushes. Gilbert

picked up the cap, and handed it to Ivan, who said to him in bad

German:

"Pardon him; the poor child is sick," and then departed hastily in

pursuit of his young master.

Gilbert ran after them. When he had overtaken them, Stephane had

dismounted, and stood with clenched fists before a child, who,

quite out of breath from running, had thrown himself exhausted at

the foot of a tree. In running he had torn many holes in his San-

benito, and he was looking with mournful eyes at these rents, and

replied only in monosyllables to all of Stephane's threats.

"You are at my mercy," said the young man to him at last. "I will

forgive you if you ask my pardon on your knees."

"I won't do it," replied the child, getting up. "I have no pardon

to ask. You struck me with your whip, and I swore to pay you for

it. I'm a good shot. I sighted your cap and I was sure I'd hit

it. That makes you mad, and now we're even. But I'll promise not

to throw any more stones, if you'll promise not to strike me with

your whip any more."

"That is a very reasonable proposition," said Gilbert.

"I don't ask your opinion, sir," interrupted Stephane haughtily,--

then turning to Ivan: "Ivan, my dear Ivan," continued he, "in this

matter you ought to obey me. You know very well the Count does not

love me, but he does not mean to have others insult me: it is a

privilege he reserves to himself. Dismount, and make this little

rascal kneel to me and ask my pardon."

Ivan shook his head.

"You struck him first," answered he; "why should he ask your

pardon?"

In vain Stephane exhausted supplications and threats. The serf

remained inflexible, and during his talk Gilbert approached

Wilhelm, and said to him in a low voice:

"Run away quickly, my child; but remember your promise; if you

don't, you'll have to settle with me."

Stephane, seeing him escape, would have started in pursuit; but

Gilbert barred his way.

"Ivan!" cried he, wringing his hands, "drive this man out of my

path!"

Ivan shook his head again.

"I don't wish to harm the young Frenchman," replied he; "he has a

kind way and loves children."

Stephane's face was painfully agitated. His lips trembled. He

looked with sinister eye first at Ivan, then at Gilbert. At last

he said to himself in a stifled voice:

"Wretch that I am! I am as feeble as a worm, and weakness is not

respected!"

Then lowering his head, he approached his horse, mounted him, and

pushed slowly through the copse. When he had regained the wood,

looking fixedly at Gilbert:

"Mr. Secretary," said he, "my father often quotes that diplomatist

who said that all men have their price; unfortunately I am not rich

enough to buy you; you are worth more than a dollar; but permit me

to give you some good advice. When you return to the castle,

repeat to Count Kostia certain words that I have allowed to escape

me to-day. It will give him infinite pleasure. Perhaps he will

make you his spy-in-chief, and without asking it, he may double

your salary. The most profitable trade in the world is burning

candles on the devil's shrine. You will do wonders in it, as well

as others."

Upon which, with a profound bow to Gilbert, he disappeared at a

full trot.

"The devil! the devil! he talks of nothing but the devil!" said

Gilbert to himself, taking the road to the castle. "My poor

friend, you are condemned to pass some years of your life here

between a tyrant who is sometimes amiable, and a victim who is

never so at all!"