*MARTIN GUERRE*
*MARTIN GUERRE*
We are sometimes astonished at the striking resemblance existing between
two persons who are absolute strangers to each other, but in fact it is
the opposite which ought to surprise us. Indeed, why should we not
rather admire a Creative Power so infinite in its variety that it never
ceases to produce entirely different combinations with precisely the
same elements? The more one considers this prodigious versatility of
form, the more overwhelming it appears.
To begin with, each nation has its own distinct and characteristic type,
separating it from other races of men. Thus there are the English,
Spanish, German, or Slavonic types; again, in each nation we find
families distinguished from each other by less general but still
well-pronounced features; and lastly, the individuals of each family,
differing again in more or less marked gradations. What a multitude of
physiognomies! What variety of impression from the innumerable stamps of
the human countenance! What millions of models and no copies!
Considering this ever changing spectacle, which ought to inspire us with
most astonishment--the perpetual difference of faces or the accidental
resemblance of a few individuals? Is it impossible that in the whole
wide world there should be found by chance two people whose features are
cast in one and the same mould? Certainly not; therefore that which
ought to surprise us is not that these duplicates exist here and there
upon the earth, but that they are to be met with in the same place, and
appear together before our eyes, little accustomed to see such
resemblances. From Amphitryon down to our own days, many fables have
owed their origin to this fact, and history also has provided a few
examples, such as the false Demetrius in Russia, the English Perkin
Warbeck, and several other celebrated impostors, whilst the story we now
present to our readers is no less curious and strange.
On the 10th of, August 1557, an inauspicious day in the history of
France, the roar of cannon was still heard at six in the evening in the
plains of St. Quentin; where the French army had just been destroyed by
the united troops of England and Spain, commanded by the famous Captain
Emanuel Philibert, Duke of Savoy. An utterly beaten infantry, the
Constable Montmorency and several generals taken prisoner, the Duke
d'Enghien mortally wounded, the flower of the nobility cut down like
grass,--such were the terrible results of a battle which plunged France
into mourning, and which would have been a blot on the reign of Henry
II, had not the Duke of Guise obtained a brilliant revenge the following
year.
In a little village less than a mile from the field of battle were to be
heard the groans of the wounded and dying, who had been carried thither
from the field of battle. The inhabitants had given up their houses to
be used as hospitals, and two or three barber surgeons went hither and
thither, hastily ordering operations which they left to their
assistants, and driving out fugitives who had contrived to accompany the
wounded under pretence of assisting friends or near relations. They had
already expelled a good number of these poor fellows, when, opening the
door of a small room, they found a soldier soaked in blood lying on a
rough mat, and another soldier apparently attending on him with the
utmost care.
"Who are you?" said one of the surgeons to the sufferer. "I don't think
you belong to our French troops."
"Help!" cried the soldier, "only help me! and may God bless you for it!"
"From the colour of that tunic," remarked the other surgeon, "I should
wager the rascal belongs to some Spanish gentleman. By what blunder was
he brought here?"
"For pity's sake!" murmured the poor fellow, "I am in such pain."
"Die, wretch!" responded the last speaker, pushing him with his foot.
"Die, like the dog you are!"
But this brutality, answered as it was by an agonised groan, disgusted
the other surgeon.
"After all, he is a man, and a wounded man who implores help. Leave him
to me, Rene."
Rene went out grumbling, and the one who remained proceeded to examine
the wound. A terrible arquebus-shot had passed through the leg,
shattering the bone: amputation was absolutely necessary.
Before proceeding to the operation, the surgeon turned to the other
soldier, who had retired into the darkest corner of the room.
"And you, who may you be?" he asked.
The man replied by coming forward into the light: no other answer was
needed. He resembled his companion so closely that no one could doubt
they were brothers-twin brothers, probably. Both were above middle
height; both had olive-brown complexions, black eyes, hooked noses,
pointed chins, a slightly projecting lower lip; both were
round-shouldered, though this defect did not amount to disfigurement:
the whole personality suggested strength, and was not destitute of
masculine beauty. So strong a likeness is hardly ever seen; even their
ages appeared to agree, for one would not have supposed either to be
more than thirty-two; and the only difference noticeable, besides the
pale countenance of the wounded man, was that he was thin as compared
with the moderate fleshiness of the other, also that he had a large scar
over the right eyebrow.
"Look well after your brother's soul," said the surgeon to the soldier,
who remained standing; "if it is in no better case than his body, it is
much to be pitied."
"Is there no hope?" inquired the Sosia of the wounded man.
"The wound is too large and too deep," replied the man of science, "to
be cauterised with boiling oil, according to the ancient method.
'Delenda est causa mali,' the source of evil must be destroyed, as says
the learned Ambrose Pare; I ought therefore 'secareferro,'--that is to
say, take off the leg. May God grant that he survive the operation!"
While seeking his instruments, he looked the supposed brother full in
the face, and added--
"But how is it that you are carrying muskets in opposing armies, for I
see that you belong to us, while this poor fellow wears Spanish
uniform?"
"Oh, that would be a long story to tell," replied the soldier, shaking
his head. "As for me, I followed the career which was open to me, and
took service of my own free will under the banner of our lord king,
Henry II. This man, whom you rightly suppose to be my brother, was born
in Biscay, and became attached to the household of the Cardinal of
Burgos, and afterwards to the cardinal's brother, whom he was obliged to
follow to the war. I recognised him on the battle-field just as he fell;
I dragged him out of a heap of dead, and brought him here."
During his recital this individual's features betrayed considerable
agitation, but the surgeon did not heed it. Not finding some necessary
instruments, "My colleague," he exclaimed, "must have carried them off.
He constantly does this, out of jealousy of my reputation; but I will be
even with him yet! Such splendid instruments! They will almost work of
themselves, and are capable of imparting some skill even to him, dunce
as he is!... I shall be back in an hour or two; he must rest, sleep,
have nothing to excite him, nothing to inflame the wound; and when the
operation is well over, we shall see! May the Lord be gracious to him!"
Then he went to the door, leaving the poor wretch to the care of his
supposed brother.
"My God!" he added, shaking his head, "if he survive, it will be by the
help of a miracle."
Scarcely had he left the room, when the unwounded soldier carefully
examined the features of the wounded one.
"Yes," he murmured between his teeth, "they were right in saying that my
exact double was to be found in the hostile army . . . . Truly one would
not know us apart! . . . I might be surveying myself in a mirror. I did
well to look for him in the rear of the Spanish army, and, thanks to the
fellow who rolled him over so conveniently with that arquebus-shot; I
was able to escape the dangers of the melee by carrying him out of it."
"But that's not all," he thought, still carefully studying the tortured
face of the unhappy sufferer; "it is not enough to have got out of that.
I have absolutely nothing in the world, no home, no resources. Beggar by
birth, adventurer by fortune, I have enlisted, and have consumed my pay;
I hoped for plunder, and here we are in full flight! What am I to do? Go
and drown myself? No, certainly a cannon-ball would be as good as that.
But can't I profit by this chance, and obtain a decent position by
turning to my own advantage this curious resemblance, and making some
use of this man whom Fate has thrown in my way, and who has but a short
time to live?"
Arguing thus, he bent over the prostrate man with a cynical laugh: one
might have thought he was Satan watching the departure of a soul too
utterly lost to escape him.
"Alas! alas!" cried the sufferer; "may God have mercy on me! I feel my
end is near."
"Bah! comrade, drive away these dismal thoughts. Your leg pains
you--well they will cut it off! Think only of the other one, and trust
in Providence!"
"Water, a drop of water, for Heaven's sake!" The sufferer was in a high
fever. The would-be nurse looked round and saw a jug of water, towards
which the dying man extended a trembling hand. A truly infernal idea
entered his mind. He poured some water into a gourd which hung from his
belt, held it to the lips of the wounded man, and then withdrew it.
"Oh! I thirst-that water! . . . For pity's sake, give me some!"
"Yes, but on one condition you must tell me your whole history."
"Yes . . . but give me water!"
His tormentor allowed him to swallow a mouthful, then overwhelmed him
with questions as to his family, his friends and fortune, and compelled
him to answer by keeping before his eyes the water which alone could
relieve the fever which devoured him. After this often interrupted
interrogation, the sufferer sank back exhausted, and almost insensible.
But, not yet satisfied, his companion conceived the idea of reviving him
with a few drops of brandy, which quickly brought back the fever, and
excited his brain sufficiently to enable him to answer fresh questions.
The doses of spirit were doubled several times, at the risk of ending
the unhappy man's days then and there: Almost delirious, his head
feeling as if on fire, his sufferings gave way to a feverish excitement,
which took him back to other places and other times: he began to recall
the days of his youth and the country where he lived. But his tongue was
still fettered by a kind of reserve: his secret thoughts, the private
details of his past life were not yet told, and it seemed as though he
might die at any moment. Time was passing, night already coming on, and
it occurred to the merciless questioner to profit by the gathering
darkness. By a few solemn words he aroused the religious feelings of the
sufferer, terrified him by speaking of the punishments of another life
and the flames of hell, until to the delirious fancy of the sick man he
took the form of a judge who could either deliver him to eternal
damnation or open the gates of heaven to him. At length, overwhelmed by
a voice which resounded in his ear like that of a minister of God, the
dying man laid bare his inmost soul before his tormentor, and made his
last confession to him.
Yet a few moments, and the executioner--he deserves no other name--hangs
over his victim, opens his tunic, seizes some papers and a few coins,
half draws his dagger, but thinks better of it; then, contemptuously
spurning the victim, as the other surgeon had done--
"I might kill you," he says, "but it would be a useless murder; it would
only be hastening your last Sigh by an hour or two, and advancing my
claims to your inheritance by the same space of time."