added, turning to point out a thing which we had not noticed, "he
has stuck up there, on the left, a wooden cross, to show that he has
put himself under the protection of God, the Blessed Virgin, and the
saints. Even if he hadn't consecrated himself like that, the fear
everybody has of him would make him as safe there as if he were guarded
by soldiers. He hasn't said a word since he shut himself up there in
the open air; he lives on bread and water that his brother's daughter
brings him every morning--a little maid of twelve years, that he's left
his property to; and she's a pretty thing, as gentle as a lamb, a nice
little girl and very clever. She has blue eyes as long as that," he
said, holding up his thumb, "and a cherub's head of hair. When any one
says to her: 'I say, Pérotte' (that means Pierrette among us," he said,
interrupting himself: "she is consecrated to St. Pierre; Cambremer's
name is Pierre, and he was her godfather), 'I say, Pérotte, what does
your uncle say to you?' 'He don't say anything,' she'll answer, 'not
anything at all, nothing!' 'Well, then, what does he do to you?' 'He
kisses me on the forehead Sundays!' 'Aren't you afraid of him?' 'Why
no, he's my godfather.' He won't let any one else bring him anything
to eat. Pérotte says that he smiles when she comes; but that's like a
sunbeam in a fog, for they say he's as gloomy as a fog."
"But," I said, "you arouse our curiosity without gratifying it. Do you
know what brought him here? Was it grief, was it repentance, was it
insanity, was it a crime, was it----?"
"Oh! only my father and I know the truth of the thing, monsieur. My
dead mother worked for a judge to whom Cambremer told the whole story,
by the priest's order; for he wouldn't give him absolution on any other
condition, according to what the people at the harbour said. My poor
mother overheard what Cambremer said, without meaning to, because the
judge's kitchen was right next to his study, and she listened. She's
dead, and the judge who heard him is dead. My mother made father and me
promise never to tell anything to the people about here; but I can tell
you that the night my mother told it to us, the hair on my head turned
gray."
"Well, tell us, my fine fellow; we will not mention it to anybody."
The fisherman looked at us, and continued thus:
"Pierre Cambremer, whom you saw yonder, is the oldest of the
Cambremers, who have always been sailors, from father to son; that's
what their name says--the sea has always bent under them. The man you
saw was a boat fisherman. So he had boats and went sardine-fishing;
he went deep-sea fishing, too, for the dealers. He'd have fitted out
a vessel and gone after cod, if he hadn't been so fond of his wife; a
fine woman she was, a Brouin from Guérande; a magnificent girl, and she
had a big heart. She was so fond of Cambremer that she'd never let her
man leave her any longer than he had to, to go after sardines. They
used to live over there--look!" said the fisherman, ascending a hillock
to point to an islet in the little inland sea between the dunes, across
which we were walking, and the salt marshes of Guérande. "Do you see
that house? That was his.
"Jacquette Brouin and Cambremer never had but one child, a boy; and
they loved him like--like what shall I say?--indeed, like people love
their only child; they were mad over him. If their little Jacques had
put dirt in the saucepan, saving your presence, they'd have thought
it was sugar. How many times we've seen 'em at the fair, buying the
prettiest fallals for him! It was all nonsense--everybody told 'em so.
Little Cambremer, seeing that he was allowed to do whatever he wanted
to, became as big a rogue as a red ass. When any one went to the elder
Cambremer and told him: 'Your boy nearly killed little So-and-so,'
he'd laugh and say: 'Bah! he'll make a fine sailor! he'll command the
king's fleet.' And when somebody else said: 'Pierre Cambremer, do you
know that your boy put out the little Pougaud girl's eye?' Pierre said:
'He'll be fond of the girls!' He thought everything was all right. So
my little scamp, when he was ten years old, used to be at everybody and
amuse himself cutting off hens' heads, cutting pigs open; in short,
he rolled in blood like a polecat. 'He'll make a famous soldier!'
Cambremer would say; 'he s got a taste for blood.' I remembered all
that, you see," said the fisherman.
"And so did Cambremer too," he continued after a pause. "When he got
to be fifteen or sixteen years old, Jacques Cambremer was--what shall
I say?--a shark. He used to go to Guérande to enjoy himself, or to
Savenay to make love to the girls. Then he began to steal from his
mother, who didn't dare to say anything to her husband. Cambremer was
so honest that he'd travel twenty leagues to pay back two sous, if he
had been overpaid in settling an account. At last the day came when his
mother was stripped clean. While his father was away fishing, the boy
carried off the sideboard, the dishes, the sheets, the linen, and left
just the four walls; he'd sold everything to get money to go to Nantes
and raise the devil. The poor woman cried for whole days and nights.
She couldn't help telling the father about that, when he came home;
and she was afraid of the father--not for herself, oh no! When Pierre
Cambremer came home and found his house furnished with things people
had lent his wife, he said:
"'What does all this mean?'
"The poor woman was nearer dead than alive.
"'We've been robbed,' said she.
"'Where's Jacques?'
"'Jacques is on a spree.'
"No one knew where the villain had gone.
"'He goes on too many sprees!' said Pierre.
"Six months later, the poor man learned that his son was in danger of
falling into the hands of justice at Nantes. He went there on foot;
made the journey faster than he could have gone by sea, got hold of his
son, and brought him back here. He didn't ask him: 'What have you been
doing?' He just said to him:
"'If you don't behave yourself here with your mother and me for two
years, going fishing and acting like an honest man, you'll have an
account to settle with me!'
"The idiot, counting on his father's and mother's stupidity, made
a face at him. At that Pierre fetched him a crack that laid Master
Jacques up in bed for six months. The poor mother almost died of grief.
One night, when she was sleeping peacefully by her husband's side, she
heard a noise, got out of bed, and got a knife-cut on her arm. She
shrieked and some one brought a light. Pierre Cambremer found his wife
wounded; he thought that a robber did it--as if there was any such
thing in our province, where you can carry ten thousand francs in gold
from Le Croisic to St.-Nazaire, without fear, and without once being
asked what you've got under your arm! Pierre looked for Jacques, but
couldn't find him.
"In the morning, the little monster had the face to come home and
say that he'd been to Batz. I must tell you that his mother didn't
know where to hide her money. Cambremer always left his with Monsieur
Dupotet at Le Croisic. Their son's wild ways had eaten up crowns by
the hundred, francs by the hundred, and louis d'or; they were almost
ruined, and that was pretty hard for folks who used to have about
twelve thousand francs, including their island. No one knew what
Cambremer paid out at Nantes to clear his son. Bad luck raised the
deuce with the family. Cambremer's brother was in a bad way and needed
help. To encourage him, Pierre told him that Jacques and Pérotte (the
younger Cambremer's daughter) should marry. Then he employed him in
the fishing, so that he could earn his living; for Joseph Cambremer
was reduced to living by his work. His wife had died of a fever, and
he had had to pay for a wet-nurse for Pérotte. Pierre Cambremer's wife
owed a hundred francs to different people on the little girl's account,
for linen and clothes, and for two or three months' wages for that big
Frelu girl, who had a child by Simon Gaudry, and who nursed Pérotte.
Mère Cambremer had sewed a Spanish coin into the cover of her mattress,
and marked it: 'For Pérotte.' She had had a good education; she could
write like a clerk, and she'd taught her son to read; that was the
ruin of him. No one knew how it happened, but that scamp of a Jacques
scented the gold, stole it, and went off to Le Croisic on a spree.
"As luck would have it, Goodman Cambremer came in with his boat. As he
approached the beach, he saw a piece of paper floating; he picked it
up and took it in to his wife, who fell flat when she recognised her
own written words. Cambremer didn't say anything, but he went to Le
Croisic, and found out that his son was playing billiards; then he sent
for the good woman who keeps the cafe, and said:
"'I told Jacques not to spend a gold-piece that he'll pay you with;
I'll wait outside; you bring it to me, and I'll give you silver for
it.'
"The good woman brought him the money. Cambremer took it, said: 'All
right!' and went home. The whole town heard about that. But here's
something that I know, and that other people only suspect in a general
way. He told his wife to clean up their room, which was on the ground
floor; he made a fire on the hearth, lighted two candles, placed two
chairs on one side of the fireplace and a stool on the other. Then he
told his wife to put out his wedding clothes and to get into her own.
When he was dressed, he went to his brother and told him to watch in
front of the house and tell him if he heard any noise on either of the
beaches, this one or the one in front of the Guérande salt marshes.
When he thought that his wife was dressed, he went home again, loaded
a gun, and put it out of sight in the corner of the fireplace. Jacques
came at last; it was late; he had been drinking and playing billiards
till ten o'clock; he had come home by the point of Carnouf. His uncle
heard him hailing, crossed to the beach in front of the marsh to fetch
him, and rowed him to the island without a word. When he went into the
house, his father said to him:
"'Sit down there,' pointing to the stool. 'You are before your father
and mother, whom you have outraged, and who have got to try you.'
"Jacques began to bellow, because Cambremer's face was working in a
strange way. The mother sat as stiff as an oar.
"'If you call out, if you move, if you don't sit on your stool as
straight as a mast, I'll shoot you like a dog,' said Pierre, pointing
his gun at him.
"The son was dumb as a fish; the mother didn't say anything.
"'Here,' said Pierre to his son, 'is a paper that was wrapped round a
Spanish gold-piece; the gold-piece was in your mother's bed; nobody
else knew where she had put it; I found the paper on the water as I was
coming ashore; you gave this Spanish gold-piece to Mother Fleurant
to-night, and your mother can't find hers in her bed. Explain yourself!'
"Jacques said that he didn't take the money from his mother, and that
he had had the coin ever since he went to Nantes.
"'So much the better,' said Pierre. 'How can you prove it?'
"'I had it before.'
"'You didn't take your mother's?'
"'No.'
"'Will you swear it by your everlasting life?'
"He was going to swear; his mother looked up at him and said:
"'Jacques, my child, be careful; don't swear, if it isn't true. You may
mend your ways and repent; there's time enough still.'
"And she began to cry.
"'You're neither one thing nor the other,' he said, 'and you've always
wanted to ruin me.'
"Cambremer turned pale, and said:
"'What you just said to your mother will lengthen your account. Come
to the point! Will you swear?'
"'Yes.'
"'See,' said Pierre, 'did your piece have this cross which the
sardine-dealer who paid it to me had made on ours?'
"Jacques sobered off, and began to cry.
"'Enough talk,' said Pierre. 'I don't say anything about what you've
done before this. I don't propose that a Cambremer shall be put to
death on the public square at Le Croisic. Say your prayers, and make
haste! A priest is coming to confess you.'
"The mother went out, so that she needn't hear her son's sentence. When
she had left the room, Cambremer the uncle arrived with the rector of
Piriac; but Jacques wouldn't say anything to him. He was sly; he knew
his father well enough to be sure that he wouldn't kill him without
confession.
"'Thank you, monsieur; excuse us,' said Cambremer to the priest, when
he saw that Jacques was obstinate. 'I meant to give my son a lesson,
and I ask you not to say anything about it.--If you don't mend your
ways,' he said to Jacques, 'the next time will be the last, and I'll
put an end to it without confession.'
"He sent him off to bed. The boy believed what he had heard and
imagined that he could arrange matters with his father. He went to
sleep. The father sat up. When he saw that his son was sound asleep,
he stuffed his mouth with hemp and tied a strip of canvas over it very
tight; then he bound his hands and feet. Jacques stormed and wept
blood, so Cambremer told the judge. What could you expect! The mother
threw herself at the father's feet.
"'He has been tried,' he said; 'you must help me put him in the boat.'
"She refused. Cambremer took him to the boat all alone, laid him in
the bottom, tied a stone round his neck, and rowed abreast of the rock
where he is now. Then the poor mother, who had got her brother-in-law
to bring her over here, cried: 'Mercy!' All in vain; it had the effect
of a stone thrown at a wolf. The moon was shining; she saw the father
throw their son into the water, the son to whom her heart still clung;
and as there wasn't any wind, she heard a splash, then nothing more,
not a sound or a bubble; the sea's a famous keeper, I tell you! When he
came ashore here to quiet his wife, who was groaning, Cambremer found
her about the same as dead. The two brothers couldn't carry her, so
they had to put her in the boat that had just held the son, and they
took her home, going round through Le Croisic passage. Ah! _La Belle
Brouin_, as they called her, didn't last a week. She died asking her
husband to burn the accursed boat. He did it, too. As for him, he was
like a crazy man; he didn't know what he wanted, and he staggered when
he walked, like a man who can't carry his wine. Then he went off for
ten days, and when he came back he planted himself where you saw him,
and since he's been there he hasn't said a word."
The fisherman took only a moment or two in telling us this story, and
he told it even more simply than I have written it. The common people
make few comments when they tell a story; they select the point that
has made an impression on them, and interpret it as they feel it. That
narrative was as sharp and incisive as a blow with an axe.
"I shall not go to Batz," said Pauline, as we reached the upper end of
the lake.
We returned to Le Croisic by way of the salt marshes, guided through
their labyrinth by a fisherman who had become as silent as we.
The current of our thoughts had changed. We were both absorbed by
depressing reflections, saddened by that drama which explained the
swift presentiment that we had felt at the sight of Cambremer. We both
had sufficient knowledge of the world to divine all that our guide had
not told us of that triple life. The misfortunes of those three people
were reproduced before us as if we had seen them in the successive
scenes of a drama, to which that father, by thus expiating his
necessary crime, had added the dénouement. We dared not look back at
that fatal man who terrified a whole province.
A few clouds darkened the sky; vapours were rising along the horizon.
We were walking through the most distressingly desolate tract of land
that I have ever seen; the very soil beneath our feet seemed sickly and
suffering--salt marshes, which may justly be termed the scrofula of
the earth. There the ground is divided into parcels of unequal size,
all enclosed by enormous heaps of gray earth, and filled with brackish
water, to the surface of which the salt rises. These ravines, made
by the hand of man, are subdivided by causeways along which workmen
walk, armed with long rakes, with which they skim off the brine, and
carry the salt to round platforms built here and there, when it is in
condition to pile. For two hours we skirted that dismal checker-board,
where the salt is so abundant that it chokes the vegetation, and
where we saw no other living beings than an occasional _paludier_--the
name given to the men who gather the salt. These men, or rather this
tribe of Bretons, wear a special costume: a white jacket not unlike
that worn by brewers. They intermarry, and there has never been an
instance of a girl of that tribe marrying anybody except a _paludier_.
The ghastly aspect of those swamps, where the surface of the mire is
neatly raked, and of that grayish soil, which the Breton flora holds
in horror, harmonised with the mourning of our hearts. When we reached
the place where we were to cross the arm of the sea which is formed by
the eruption of the water into that basin, and which serves doubtless
to supply the salt marshes with their staple, we rejoiced to see the
meagre vegetation scattered along the sandy shore. As we crossed, we
saw, in the centre of the lake, the islet where the Cambremers lived;
we looked the other way.
When we reached our hotel, we noticed a billiard-table in a room on
the ground floor; and, when we learned that it was the only public
billiard-table in Le Croisic, we prepared for our departure that night.
The next day we were at Guérande. Pauline was still depressed, and I
could already feel the coming of the flame that is consuming my brain.
I was so cruelly tormented by my visions of those three lives that she
said to me:
"Write the story, Louis; in that way you will change the nature of this
fever."
So I have written it down for you, my dear uncle; but it has already
destroyed the tranquillity that I owed to the sea-baths and to our
visit here.
1835.
An Episode under the Terror
To MONSIEUR GUYONNET-MERVILLE:
Would it not be well for me, my dear former master, to
explain to those people who are curious to know everything,
where I was able to learn enough of legal procedure to
manage the business of my little circle, and at the same
time to consecrate here the memory of the amiable and
intellectual man who said to Scribe, another amateur lawyer,
on meeting him at a ball: "Go to the office--I promise you
that there is work enough there"? But do you need this
public testimony in order to be assured of the author's
affection? DE BALZAC.
On the twenty-second of January, 1793, about eight o'clock in the
evening, an old lady was descending the steep hill which ends in front
of the church of St.-Laurent, on Faubourg St.-Martin, Paris. It had
snowed so hard all day that footfalls could scarcely be heard. The
streets were deserted; the not unnatural dread inspired by the silence
was intensified by the terror under which France was then groaning; so
that the old lady had not as yet met anybody; her sight, which had long
been poor, made it impossible for her to see, in the distance, by the
dim light of the street-lanterns, the few people who were scattered
about like ghosts in the broad highway of the faubourg. She went her
way courageously, alone, through that solitude, as if her age were a
talisman certain to preserve her from all evil.
When she had passed Rue des Morts, she fancied that she could
distinguish the firm and heavy step of a man walking behind her. It
seemed to her that it was not the first time that she had heard that
sound; she was terrified at the thought that she had been followed, and
she tried to walk even faster, in order to reach a brightly lighted
shop, hoping to be able to set at rest in the light the suspicions
which had seized her. As soon as she had stepped beyond the horizontal
rays of light that shone from the shop, she suddenly turned her head
and caught sight of a human figure in the fog; that indistinct glimpse
was enough for her; she staggered for an instant under the weight of
the fear which oppressed her, for she no longer doubted that she had
been attended by the stranger from the first step that she had taken
outside of her home; and the frantic longing to escape a spy gave her
additional strength. Incapable of reasoning, she quickened her pace,
as if she could possibly elude a man who was surely more active than
she. After running for some minutes, she reached a pastry-cook's shop,
rushed in, and fell rather than sat down upon a chair in front of the
counter.
The instant that she rattled the latch of the door, a young woman,
who was engaged in embroidering, raised her eyes, recognised through
the glass door the old-fashioned mantle of violet silk in which the
old lady was wrapped, and hastily opened a drawer, as if to take out
something which she intended to give her. Not only did the young
woman's movement and expression denote a wish to be rid of the stranger
at once, as if she were one of those people whom one is not glad to
see, but she also uttered an impatient exclamation when she found the
drawer empty; then, without glancing at the lady, she rushed from
behind the counter, towards the back-shop, and called her husband, who
appeared instantly.
"Where have you put ---- ----?" she asked him with a mysterious
expression, indicating the old lady by a glance, and not finishing her
sentence.
Although the pastry-cook could see only the enormous black silk bonnet,
surrounded by violet ribbons, which the stranger wore upon her head, he
disappeared, after a glance at his wife, which seemed to say: "Do you
suppose that I am going to leave _that_ on your counter?"
Amazed by the old lady's silence and immobility, the trades-woman
walked towards her, and as she examined her she was conscious of a
feeling of compassion, and perhaps of curiosity as well. Although the
stranger's complexion was naturally sallow, like that of a person vowed
to secret austerities, it was easy to see that some recent emotion
had made her even paler than usual. Her bonnet was so arranged as
to conceal her hair, which was presumably whitened by age, for the
neatness of the collar of her dress indicated that she did not wear
powder. That lack of adornment imparted to her face a sort of religious
asceticism. Her features were serious and dignified. In the old
days the manners and customs of people of quality were so different
from those of people belonging to the lower classes, that one could
easily distinguish a person of noble birth. So that the young woman
was convinced that the stranger was a _ci-devant_, and that she had
belonged to the court.
"Madame," she said involuntarily and with respect, forgetting that that
title was proscribed.
The old lady did not reply. She kept her eyes fastened upon the
shop-window, as if some terrifying object were there apparent.
"What's the matter with you, citizeness?" asked the proprietor, who
reappeared at that moment.
The citizen pastry-cook aroused the lady from her revery by handing her
a little paste-board box covered with blue paper.
"Nothing, nothing, my friends," she replied in a mild voice.
She looked up at the pastry-cook as if to bestow a grateful glance
upon him; but when she saw a red cap on his head she uttered an
exclamation:
"Ah! you have betrayed me!"
The young woman and her husband replied by a gesture of horror which
made the stranger blush, perhaps for having suspected them, perhaps
with pleasure.
"Excuse me," she said with childlike gentleness.
Then, taking a louis d'or from her pocket, she handed it to the
pastry-cook.
"This is the price agreed upon," she added.
There is a sort of poverty which the poor are quick to divine. The
pastry-cook and his wife looked at each other and then at the old lady,
exchanging the same thought. That louis d'or was evidently the last.
The lady's hands trembled as she held out that coin, at which she gazed
sorrowfully but without avarice; but she seemed to realise the full
extent of the sacrifice. Fasting and poverty were written upon that
face, in lines as legible as those of fear and ascetic habits. There
were vestiges of past splendour in her clothes: they were worn silk; a
neat though old-fashioned cloak, and lace carefully mended--in a word,
the rags and tatters of opulence. The trades-people, wavering between
pity and self-interest, began by relieving their consciences in words:
"But, citizeness, you seem very weak----"
"Would madame like something to refresh herself?" asked the woman,
cutting her husband short.
"We have some very good soup," added the pastry-cook.