thinking about it, soon ceased to believe it. That would have been too
horrible, really! His self-pity and the feeling that he must be proud
of her forced back the thought, which, driven away for a moment,
returned again at once with more force as a sure, proven, established
fact. It returned like a flash of light which hurt his eyes. Yes, yes,
she was false to the core! yes, from pure wantonness the woman had
deceived him again and again since the day of the bath, when she
exhibited her naked body to him with the deliberate purpose of leading
him astray, of leaving him, some day, stranded in the desert, without
his fiancee, without his love--alone.
And he struggled desperately to see her again--in his memory at
least--in order to question her crafty features, but, try as he would,
his mind was unable to restore the picture, drowned as it was beneath
a wavering, irritating mist. He opened his eyes to their fullest
extent, as if, by causing them to express a fixed determination to see
her again, he could compel her to appear before him in flesh and
blood. And he no longer saw the trees or the moor that lay before him,
or the sky or the horizon, but neither did he see her whose image he
sought to evoke. Then he suddenly closed his eyes, and for a brief
second--in the darkness--he caught a glimpse of her. Was it really
she? He had not time to recognize her. Once, however, the image became
clearer, and he _saw_ her; but still it was only a shadowy face, still
veiled with falsehood and impenetrable to him.
[Illustration: Chapter XXIII
_She went to the farther end of the Allee des Alyscamps,
between the rows of tall poplars, amid the stone monuments,
and lighted a fire of twigs, to give her light enough to look
about and select a spot where she could sleep comfortably._]
What he was seeking was her real face, WHICH DID NOT EXIST, for a face
is the expression of a soul, and she had no soul. Had she ever loved
him? that is what he would have liked to ascertain, if nothing
more. Had she smiled on Rampal? Perhaps--God! could it be
possible? Who knows? Of what was she not capable to consummate her
crime?--And yet he secretly admired her for the extraordinary perfidy
he attributed to her. The Saracen blood, the blood of heathen pirates,
did not flow in his veins for nothing.
Yes, indeed, if, in her hate-inspired work, she had had need of
Rampal, with whom he had several times seen her talking, was it not
possible that she had given herself to him in order to make him
absolutely submissive to her will? What was he thinking of? Given
herself to him? No, not that!--Not in its fullest meaning, at all
events--but she might have let him steal a kiss--a long kiss,
perhaps--from her lips. And the herdsman felt the keen point of the
spear of jealousy pierce his heart.
He thought and thought, feverish with passion, excited by his
excessive exertions for several days past, and he rode through the
fields and swamps, amid the grass and stones of Crau, surrounded by
buzzing insects maddened by the heat, which was terrible.
Great God! only the night before, he had believed that she had a
veritable woman's passion for him, a passion like those he had often
aroused in women, with his strength, his courage, and his prowess as
horse-breaker and cavalier. And as she was the daughter of a free
race, and queen of her tribe, he had been proud of his conquest. He
had straightened himself up in his saddle, like a crowned king,
conqueror in many battles. He had handled his spear with a firmer
hand. He had glanced proudly at the other drovers, his comrades, with
a distinct feeling that he was "better than they," since this savage
queen, who, in her travels, had doubtless seen so many brave and
comely men, had chosen him--even though he were not the first!--that
she, whom the laws of her people forbade to love a European dog, the
slave of cities, had chosen him, the drover of Camargue!
Now that that happiness was gone from him, he suddenly realized its
value. An immense void lay before him. For the first time, the desert
seemed a melancholy place to him, too vast, too bare. He realized that
henceforth his whole life would lie in the past. He was no longer the
king! He would never be the king again! She had never loved him! And
she had pretended that she did!
But when she had cried out and turned pale in his arms, had she not
forgotten that she was acting a lie? If that were so, she must be very
sure of finding elsewhere such ardent caresses as his, from another.
Otherwise she would not have fled, for he scouted the idea that she
was afraid. Such a one as she could have no fear! And if, as he
thought the night before, he had really taken her fancy, would she not
have remained, guilty or not, to enjoy his caresses anew, even though
she were to die of them?
But she would not have died of them! She, sorceress as she was, must
have known that he would have forgiven everything. Therefore she had
_wanted_ to go. She cared nothing for him. If, on the other hand, it
had pleased her to keep him with her, to continue their liaison, she
would have found a way to do it, in spite of everything. She had only
to desire to do it. She did not _desire_!--Even so, he desired her!
He rode away at headlong speed. He must find her again. Then they
would see! And he circled round the cabin in the swamp like a hawk,
examining all the clumps of thorn-broom, all the tamarisks and reeds.
Oh! he would find her!
He had been riding for several hours, and he began to feel that his
quest was useless. If she were outside the limits of the last greater
circle that he had described in his search for her, it was all over!
he was too late.
At last, convinced of his discomfiture, he leaped from his horse and
seated himself on the sloping bank of a ditch. It was near midday. He
was neither hungry nor thirsty, but the sun told him that it was
midday.
The gnats were humming about his ears, devouring him, riddling the
hide of his horse, who hung his head and sniffed at a tuft of salt
grass without eating it, pulling a little upon the rein which Renaud,
still seated, held loosely in his hand.
Renaud was looking straight before him, and now that he was assured of
his misfortune, now that he had neither betrothed nor mistress,
neither present nor future, he felt that he was becoming cold and
hard, and was astonished to find it so. It seemed to him as if his
misfortune had happened to a piece of wood or stone. The wood and the
stone were himself. How could he have had such dread of the certainty
that had come to him at last? While he had that dread, he still hoped
and suffered. Now that all was said, he found that he was insensible
to it all--dead, in a measure. And that gratified him.
He who had wept so bitterly the night that he tried to put aside his
nascent passion, now, in this final catastrophe, which should have
called forth all the tears in his body, felt as if the springs had run
dry. Instead of being more deeply moved than ever, he found that he
was strangely composed, as if armed against fate.--He received the
blow like a soldier, like a drover. His tranquillity became more
pronounced and more extraordinary as the excessive severity of the
disaster became more certain.
Tranquillity for an hour, perhaps! But what did that matter? He had no
suspicion of it. He found that he was strong in the face of disaster.
Ah! she could make up her mind to go? She was laughing at me? Very
good! I have no need of her, the vagabond! I have seen through the
sorceress! I know her, I know her! Good-evening!
He rose, to return home. As he raised his head, he saw the
gitana--five hundred yards ahead of him.--Her back was turned to him,
and she was walking tranquilly along.
In a twinkling, he was in the saddle. "Stop!" Blanchet, smarting under
a blow from the stirrup-leather, flew over the ground, making the sand
and stones fly, snorting with wrath as the spur tore his flank. In
four minutes they made half a league. The gipsy, still in front, with
her back turned to them, walked quietly along. It was her orange
handkerchief, her copper crown, her undulating gait. It was certainly
she!
Suddenly, when she reached the shore of a pond, she walked out, with
the same tranquil step, upon the surface of the water, which bore her
weight as if it were covered with ice; while, not far away, a large
brig, decked out with flags, was bearing down upon him, with all sail
set, through the furze-bushes and prickly oaks of Crau, across the
arid fields.
Renaud sadly hung his head. The brig explained it all. It was all a
spectre due to the mirage! Discouragement came upon the man and
crushed him.
Thus, all the strength he had expended, his shameful acceptance of
such a love, his toilsome day of fruitless search, after the mad ride
of the preceding night, the exhaustion of horse and rider, all came to
an end in the endless trickery of the mirage!
The sorceress must be far away! And in what direction? There was
nothing for him to do but abandon the pursuit. He retraced his steps
to the Icard farm. The fruitlessness of the effort affected him more
keenly than the effort itself.
He no longer looked about, he no longer thought, he no longer loved or
hated. Weariness had suddenly fallen upon his shoulders and his loins
like a weight too heavy to be borne. He rode on, bent almost double,
swaying like an inert thing, with the motion of his horse. He felt as
if he were falling from a great height in a sort of sick man's dream.
His eyes, worn out with gazing over the fields and scrutinizing every
bush, closed in spite of him. His nerveless hand knew not where the
reins were; nor did his brain know what had become of his ideas.
Blanchet went forward mechanically, with his head almost touching the
ground. He, too, was without will-power, overdone, exhausted, his eyes
injected with blood; his breath was short and quick, and his flanks
beat the charge.
At another time, the careful horseman, who loved his beasts, would
very quickly have noticed that his horse's wind was broken, when he
felt his sides rise and fall with that short, hard, jerky breath; but
Renaud was conscious of nothing. There was nothing in his head but a
burning void. He did not even long for shade or rest. He was suffering
from the utter dejection that follows terrible crises, from the great
sorrow caused by death, from hopeless despair. Overwhelmed as he was
by his selfish weariness, if he had been capable of recognizing any
sentiment in his mind, he would have found there a vague, cowardly
feeling of annoyance at having to enter a sick-chamber, at having to
witness the spectacle of Livette's suffering. He would have liked--but
he had not the strength to do it--to dismount from his horse, to lie
down in the fresh air, under a tamarisk, and sleep there a long, long
time; to forget himself, to cease to see or speak or hear or listen or
exist!--He was like one walking in his sleep.
Suddenly Blanchet stopped, and began to tremble in every limb, and,
before his rider had come to his senses, his four legs, planted
stiffly like stakes, seemed to be broken by a single blow, and he fell
in a heap.
Renaud awoke, standing on his feet beside his fallen horse. Blanchet
was dying. It was soon over. The honest creature opened, to an
unnatural width, his great glazed eyes, green as the stagnant water in
the swamps, and filled with that wondering expression which the
infinite mystery of living or of having lived imparts to the gaze of
little children, animals, and dying men; he straightened out his four
legs, trembling like the reeds in the marshes. A shiver ran over his
whole body, riddled with the stings of a myriad of gnats and great
flies, some of which flew up into the air and settled down again in
the corners of the dim, wide-open eyes. Then the poor creature became
motionless, with an indefinable something that was alarming and
terrible in his immobility, something that put joy to flight, that
seemed to imply finality. It was death. Blanchet had ended his humble
Camarguese life in the open desert, in the bright sunlight. Livette's
horse was dead in the service of Renaud's passion for Zinzara!
The faithful beast did not know what had happened; he did not know the
reason of the forced journeys, the multiplied wounds inflicted by
Renaud's spurs, by the stings of the gadflies, and by Zinzara's pin,
buried in his flesh; he had submitted, without a murmur, to the
destiny that bade him suffer at the hands of those who might have made
life pleasanter for him, and, as he lay dead, his eyes still expressed
his endless amazement at his failure to understand what was expected
of him.
It was all over. He was dead. The affectionate creature had fallen a
victim to the violence and malignity of human passions. Man had
betrayed him for a woman's sake. And now his graceful form, made for
swift movement, was infinitely sad to see, because the eye could see
clearly all that there was in its immobility contrary to the purpose
for which it was designed--and irreparable.
Renaud gazed stupidly at him.--He saw again, like so many reproachful
words, Blanchet's last look, his short, rapid breath, the shudder that
ran over his bleeding skin. And, restored to his senses by this
unforeseen catastrophe which awoke a thousand salutary thoughts in his
mind, he felt his heart grow soft. He burst into tears.
Thus Blanchet served his mistress still by his death. "Everything is
of some use," said Sigaud.
Renaud stooped and returned, upon his still warm nostrils, the kiss he
had received from him on the day of his first despair; then, having
removed the saddle and bridle and concealed them in a safe place, he
returned on foot to the Icard farm, with an intense, affectionate
desire to do his utmost to care for and comfort poor Livette, for the
death of her horse brought him back to her more quickly than anything
else could have done.
He promised himself that he would return and bury Blanchet, but he did
not have time. The good horse belonged to the vulture and the eagle.
In the evening of that same day, while Livette, sleeping soundly,
seemed to everybody to be out of danger,--while Renaud lay, like a
dog, in front of her door, determined to defend and save her,--Zinzara
arrived at the Alyscamps at Arles.
There, thinking that Renaud might, with the devil's assistance,
succeed in overtaking her,--although she may have had her reasons for
thinking that his horse was not in condition for service at that
time,--she left her house on wheels, in order that she might not be
taken by surprise therein like a wild beast in its lair,--not from
fear, but because she was desirous, before all else, not to see him
again. She went to the farther end of the Allee des Alyscamps, between
the rows of tall poplars, amid the stone monuments, and lighted a
fire of twigs, to give her light enough to look about and select a
spot where she could sleep comfortably.
She went there late, when the lovers who congregate there on May
evenings, to make love upon the tombs, had returned to the sleeping
city.
Along the whole length of the avenue, between the tall, straight
poplars, run two rows of sarcophagi, some very high, with massive
lids, others low and without lids, with a few scattered blossoms, sown
by the wind, at the bottom. The dead who once slept there were sent
down to Arles in sealed urns, abandoned to the current of the Rhone by
the cities farther up the river. Now flowers are springing from their
dust; and their open tombs are nothing more than beds for vagabonds
and lovers.
By the bright light of her fire, which cast her shadow, enormously
exaggerated, upon the wall of the ruined chapel, Zinzara selected her
couch. She tossed an armful of grass and leaves upon the bottom of a
sarcophagus; and, while the nightingale, who builds his nest there
every year, was singing for dear life, the strange creature slept
peacefully, with her face to the sky, trusting in her destiny; and, as
a ray of moonlight fell upon her calm face with its closed eyelids,
the sorceress resembled her black mummy, which concealed and idealized
corruption--embalmed beneath a golden mask.
XXIV
IN THE GARGATE
When he received Zinzara's message from the gipsy child, Rampal, who
was still suffering from his fall of a few days before, did not think
of going in person to surprise Renaud. He did better than that. He
went at once to Livette, and told her of the rendezvous at the cabin.
"Your lover, Livette, who defends you so fiercely against a harmless
kiss, is with a woman to-night--you ought to be able to guess who she
is--in the Conscript's Hut, near the Icard farm."
As Livette stood aghast, with pale cheeks, he continued:
"Your father has good horses; if you want to see for yourself, you
can. It will be worth your while."
"Thanks, Rampal," said Livette.
Not for an instant did she doubt the truth of what he told her, and
she said to her father:
"Go with me to the Icard farm, father, as you know the people there.
Let us go to the Icard farm at once; my happiness depends on it.
There is something there that I want to see to-morrow morning."
The poor man did not understand, but he always yielded to her caprice.
They set out at once for the Chateau d'Avignon.
They left the wagon at the chateau; they harnessed the best pair of
horses to the cabriolet, and made seven or eight leagues without
stopping.
"Thanks, father. I must be here to-morrow morning. I will tell you
why----"
It was eleven o'clock at night.
When all were in bed, Livette, being familiar with "the place," which
her father had pointed out to her anew at her request,--Livette
furtively left the house to prowl about the spot where disaster
awaited her, for love knows no obstacles, and we follow our destiny
through everything, and rush on to death in pursuit of our last
sorrow.
And then?--Ah! throughout the visions of her sick-bed Livette
constantly lived over that terrible moment when she was prowling
around the swamp. In truth, she was still there, in agony of mind.
About the swamp, in the darkness, Livette hovered like a sea-gull in
distress. Like a lost soul from hell she flitted about the edges of
the bog, trying to pierce with her gaze the dark clumps of reeds and
tamarisks.
From time to time, according to the spot from which she looked, she
could see the gray roof of the cabin, silvered by the moonlight.
Was any one there? Had Rampal told her the truth? Ought she to lose
this opportunity of convincing herself with her own eyes of Renaud's
treachery?
Should she give her life to a traitor without endeavoring to unmask
him, although warned? With her widely dilated eyes, she imagined that
she saw lights that did not exist; or--if she did really see a feeble
gleam through the chinks in the door--she refused to believe her eyes.
The blood was tingling in her ears, and she thought she could hear
voices. It seemed to her at times as if her head were bursting. She
could see, inside her head, beneath her skull, a great white light,
and in the centre of the light Renaud and the gipsy together. Oh! to
think of not finding out!
And, if it should be so, what should she do?
The essential thing was to find out. Afterward, she would see. If she
were strong enough, if she could do it--she would certainly kill the
woman.--How? Livette did not know. Simply with a look, perhaps.--Madness
rises from the swamps with the miasmatic exhalations at night. Livette
felt that she was going mad.
"How do you get to the cabin?" she had asked her father.
Ah! yes, the path is marked by stakes, is it not? To the left of the
stakes is the path. She cannot see the tops of the stakes in the dark
water. Frogs were sitting on them, perhaps, to look at the moon; or
turtles on those that were just level with the surface. But no, it was
grass that covered them all. And Livette's eyes ached with her
endeavors to open them wider in the darkness, and find some sign upon
the indistinct objects about her.
But suppose Rampal had deceived her?
At one time, it seemed to her that she could hear something resembling
the gipsy music that made the snakes dance--but so weak! Surely it was
in her poor, tired head,--for if it had been the real music, all the
reptiles in the swamp would have come out to dance, all at once, in
the moonlight.
Bah! Why should she be afraid? As if there were so very many of the
creatures in the country! They are not fond of the salt in the bogs,
nor the high winds.
She hovered about the swamp like a sea-gull lost at sea!
"Yes, yes, this is the way, here is the path under the water and the
stakes that mark it! I must keep the stakes at my right as I walk
along."
She starts to take the first step, and dares not--but suddenly the
sound of voices comes to her ears. She distinguishes two
voices--two!--beyond any question. And now it is surely the metallic
sound of the tambourine that floats through the reeds in the
moonlight, bringing to her heart the frightful vision of the other's
joy!
She will go. After all, since her unhappiness is certain, what matter
if she die of it! Ah! how bitter would be his punishment if, on coming
out, at daybreak, he should find her there, drowned!
She makes a step; she sinks! but she does not cry out. No, she will
extricate herself unaided--she must. She clings to the long grass, to
the reeds which break in her hands. She is sinking! Ah! God! is she to
die there? They would be too well pleased, aye, both of them, to have
caused her death! Therefore she must not die! She will not! She
struggles, and sinks deeper. As she lifts one foot, she rests her
weight on the other, which goes down, down, and the ooze gains upon
her. It rises to her waist; and still she cannot refrain from raising
her feet, one after the other, as if to climb an imaginary stairway,
the solid ladder that she dreams of but cannot find!
With every upward effort she sinks lower; it is horrible. Her hands
are so small that she does not grasp enough grass, enough reeds, at
once! Everything about her yields, everything fails to give support.
How the reeds break between her fingers! like grass threads! It seems
to her that clammy creatures are rubbing against her legs, her
hands--ah! yes, the snakes--the bloodsuckers! She will be eaten alive
by the bloodsuckers.--But where is the stake, near the edge of the
swamp, that she thought she saw a moment ago? She lets go the grass to
which she is clinging, with the result that she sinks deeper, still
deeper. Now the cold water submerges her bosom, surrounds her neck,
crawls up toward her mouth. Will she be compelled in a moment to drink
that filthy water? At that thought, she makes one final effort. Her
dishevelled locks cling about her neck, as if to strangle her, all
drenched and cold and slimy, like veritable snakes!--She struggles,
tosses her hands about this way and that--until one of them comes in
contact with the wooden stake, firmly planted in the ground.--Saintes
Maries!--She seizes it, twines her fingers about it, digs her nails
into it, and does not relax her hold. Nor will she, even when she is
dead! But her arm no longer has the strength to raise her, and her
head falls heavily back--her eyes close. Is this death?--It was at
that moment, just as she lost consciousness, that the brave-hearted
maid cried out,--not until then. And her cry rang out over the swamps,
like the call of the birds of passage, which ceaselessly, over all the
waters upon earth, seek the repose that can never be found.
That ghastly vision recurred again and again to Livette, while the
women of the Icard farm were busying themselves, a little too noisily,
around her bed. At last, there was silence in her room. She saw her
father come in, but she did not choose to explain anything to him. She
sent word to the grandmother not to be anxious, that she would return
home in three days. Livette asked to see Renaud. Her father went to
find him. She closed her eyes.