“But--madame!--I do not know--You must have mistaken.”

“No. I am Mathilde Loisel.”

Her friend uttered a cry.

“Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed!”

“Yes, I have had a pretty hard life, since I last saw you, and great

poverty--and that because of you!”

“Of me! How so?”

“Do you remember that diamond necklace you lent me to wear at the

ministerial ball?”

“Yes. Well?”

“Well, I lost it.”

“What do you mean? You brought it back.”

“I brought you back another exactly like it. And it has taken us ten

years to pay for it. You can understand that it was not easy for us, for

us who had nothing. At last it is ended, and I am very glad.”

Madame Forestier had stopped.

“You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine?”

“Yes. You never noticed it, then! They were very similar.”

And she smiled with a joy that was at once proud and ingenuous.

Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her hands.

“Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste! It was worth at most

only five hundred francs!”

THE MARQUIS DE FUMEROL

Roger de Tourneville was whiffing a cigar and blowing out small clouds

of smoke every now and then, as he sat astride a chair amid a party of

friends. He was talking.

“We were at dinner when a letter was brought in which my father opened.

You know my father, who thinks that he is king of France ad interim.

I call him Don Quixote, because for twelve years he has been running a

tilt against the windmill of the Republic, without quite knowing whether

it was in the cause of the Bourbons or the Orleanists. At present he is

bearing the lance in the cause of the Orleanists alone, because there is

no one else left. In any case, he thinks himself the first gentleman of

France, the best known, the most influential, the head of the party;

and as he is an irremovable senator, he thinks that the thrones of the

neighboring kings are very insecure.

“As for my mother, she is my father's soul, she is the soul of the

kingdom and of religion, and the scourge of all evil-thinkers.

“Well, a letter was brought in while we were at dinner, and my father

opened and read it, and then he said to mother: 'Your brother is dying.'

She grew very pale. My uncle was scarcely ever mentioned in the house,

and I did not know him at all; all I knew from public talk was, that

he had led, and was still leading, a gay life. After having spent his

fortune in fast living, he was now in small apartments in the Rue des

Martyrs.

“An ancient peer of France and former colonel of cavalry, it was said

that he believed in neither God nor devil. Not believing, therefore,

in a future life he had abused the present life in every way, and had

become a live wound in my mother's heart.

“'Give me that letter, Paul,' she said, and when she read it, I asked

for it in my turn. Here it is:

'Monsieur le Comte, I think I ought to let you know that your

brother-in-law, the Comte Fumerol, is going to die. Perhaps you

would like to make some arrangements, and do not forget I told you.

Your servant,

'MELANIE.'

“'We must take counsel,' papa murmured. 'In my position, I ought to

watch over your brother's last moments.'

“Mamma continued: 'I will send for Abbe Poivron and ask his advice, and

then I will go to my brother with the abbe and Roger. Remain here, Paul,

for you must not compromise yourself; but a woman can, and ought to do

these things. For a politician in your position, it is another matter.

It would be a fine thing for one of your opponents to be able to bring

one of your most laudable actions up against you.' 'You are right,' my

father said. 'Do as you think best, my dear wife.'

“A quarter of an hour, later, the Abbe Poivron came into the

drawing-room, and the situation was explained to him, analyzed and

discussed in all its bearings. If the Marquis de Fumerol, one of the

greatest names in France, were to die without the ministrations of

religion, it would assuredly be a terrible blow to the nobility

in general, and to the Count de Tourneville in particular, and the

freethinkers would be triumphant. The liberal newspapers would sing

songs of victory for six months; my mother's name would be dragged

through the mire and brought into the prose of Socialistic journals, and

my father's name would be smirched. It was impossible that such a thing

should be.

“A crusade was therefore immediately decided upon, which was to be led

by the Abbe Poivron, a little, fat, clean, priest with a faint perfume

about him, a true vicar of a large church in a noble and rich quarter.

“The landau was ordered and we all three set out, my mother, the cure

and I, to administer the last sacraments to my uncle.

“It had been decided first of all we should see Madame Melanie who had

written the letter, and who was most likely the porter's wife, or my

uncle's servant, and I dismounted, as an advance guard, in front of

a seven-story house and went into a dark passage, where I had great

difficulty in finding the porter's den. He looked at me distrustfully,

and I said:

“'Madame Melanie, if you please.' 'Don't know her!' 'But I have received

a letter from her.' 'That may be, but I don't know her. Are you asking

for a lodger?' 'No, a servant probably. She wrote me about a place.' 'A

servant?--a servant? Perhaps it is the marquis'. Go and see, the fifth

story on the left.'

“As soon as he found I was not asking for a doubtful character he became

more friendly and came as far as the corridor with me. He was a tall,

thin man with white whiskers, the manners of a beadle and majestic

gestures.

“I climbed up a long spiral staircase, the railing of which I did not

venture to touch, and I gave three discreet knocks at the left-hand door

on the fifth story. It opened immediately, and an enormous dirty woman

appeared before me. She barred the entrance with her extended arms which

she placed against the two doorposts, and growled:

“'What do you want?' 'Are you Madame Melanie?' 'Yes.' 'I am the Visconte

de Tourneville.' 'Ah! All right! Come in.' 'Well, the fact is, my mother

is downstairs with a priest.' 'Oh! All right; go and bring them up; but

be careful of the porter.'

“I went downstairs and came up again with my mother, who was followed by

the abbe, and I fancied that I heard other footsteps behind us. As soon

as we were in the kitchen, Melanie offered us chairs, and we all four

sat down to deliberate.

“'Is he very ill?' my mother asked. 'Oh! yes, madame; he will not be

here long.' 'Does he seem disposed to receive a visit from a priest?'

'Oh! I do not think so.' 'Can I see him?' 'Well--yes madame--only

--only--those young ladies are with him.' 'What young ladies?'

'Why--why--his lady friends, of course.' 'Oh!' Mamma had grown scarlet,

and the Abbe Poivron had lowered his eyes.

“The affair began to amuse me, and I said: 'Suppose I go in first? I

shall see how he receives me, and perhaps I shall be able to prepare him

to receive you.'

“My mother, who did not suspect any trick, replied: 'Yes, go, my dear.'

But a woman's voice cried out: 'Melanie!'

“The servant ran out and said: 'What do you want, Mademoiselle Claire?'

'The omelette; quickly.' 'In a minute, mademoiselle.' And coming back to

us, she explained this summons.

“They had ordered a cheese omelette at two o'clock as a slight

collation. And she at once began to break the eggs into a salad bowl,

and to whip them vigorously, while I went out on the landing and pulled

the bell, so as to formally announce my arrival. Melanie opened the door

to me, and made me sit down in an ante-room, while she went to tell my

uncle that I had come; then she came back and asked me to go in, while

the abbe hid behind the door, so that he might appear at the first

signal.

“I was certainly very much surprised at the sight of my uncle, for he

was very handsome, very solemn and very elegant, the old rake.

“Sitting, almost lying, in a large armchair, his legs wrapped in

blankets, his hands, his long, white hands, over the arms of the chair,

he was waiting for death with the dignity of a patriarch. His white

beard fell on his chest, and his hair, which was also white, mingled

with it on his cheeks.

“Standing behind his armchair, as if to defend him against me, were two

young women, who looked at me with bold eyes. In their petticoats and

morning wrappers, with bare arms, with coal black hair twisted in a knot

on the nape of their neck, with embroidered, Oriental slippers, which

showed their ankles and silk stockings, they looked like the figures

in some symbolical painting, by the side of the dying man. Between the

easy-chair and the bed, there was a table covered with a white cloth,

on which two plates, two glasses, two forks and two knives, were waiting

for the cheese omelette which had been ordered some time before of

Melanie.

“My uncle said in a weak, almost breathless, but clear voice:

“'Good-morning, my child; it is rather late in the day to come and see

me; our acquaintanceship will not last long.' I stammered out, 'It was

not my fault, uncle:' 'No; I know that,' he replied. 'It is your father

and mother's fault more than yours. How are they?' 'Pretty well, thank

you. When they heard that you were ill, they sent me to ask after you.'

'Ah! Why did they not come themselves?'

“I looked up at the two girls and said gently: 'It is not their fault if

they could not come, uncle. But it would be difficult for my father, and

impossible for my mother to come in here.' The old man did not reply,

but raised his hand toward mine, and I took the pale, cold hand and held

it in my own.

“The door opened, Melanie came in with the omelette and put it on the

table, and the two girls immediately sat down at the table, and began to

eat without taking their eyes off me. Then I said: 'Uncle, it would

give great pleasure to my mother to embrace you.' 'I also,' he murmured,

'should like----' He said no more, and I could think of nothing to

propose to him, and there was silence except for the noise of the plates

and that vague sound of eating.

“Now, the abbe, who was listening behind the door, seeing our

embarrassment, and thinking we had won the game, thought the time had

come to interpose, and showed himself. My uncle was so stupefied at

sight of him that at first he remained motionless; and then he opened

his mouth as if he meant to swallow up the priest, and shouted to him in

a strong, deep, furious voice: 'What are you doing here?'

“The abbe, who was used to difficult situations, came forward into

the room, murmuring: 'I have come in your sister's name, Monsieur le

Marquis; she has sent me. She would be happy, monsieur--'

“But the marquis was not listening. Raising one hand, he pointed to the

door with a proud, tragic gesture, and said angrily and breathing

hard: 'Leave this room--go out--robber of souls. Go out from here, you

violator of consciences. Go out from here, you pick-lock of dying men's

doors!'

“The abbe retreated, and I also went to the door, beating a retreat with

the priest; the two young women, who had the best of it, got up, leaving

their omelette only half eaten, and went and stood on either side of my

uncle's easy-chair, putting their hands on his arms to calm him, and

to protect him against the criminal enterprises of the Family, and of

Religion.

“The abbe and I rejoined my mother in the kitchen, and Melanie again

offered us chairs. 'I knew quite well that this method would not work;

we must try some other means, otherwise he will escape us.' And they

began deliberating afresh, my mother being of one opinion and the abbe

of another, while I held a third.

“We had been discussing the matter in a low voice for half an hour,

perhaps, when a great noise of furniture being moved and of cries

uttered by my uncle, more vehement and terrible even than the former had

been, made us all four jump up.

“Through the doors and walls we could hear him shouting: 'Go out--out

--rascals--humbugs, get out, scoundrels--get out--get out!'

“Melanie rushed in, but came back immediately to call me to help her,

and I hastened in. Opposite to my uncle, who was terribly excited by

anger, almost standing up and vociferating, stood two men, one behind

the other, who seemed to be waiting till he should be dead with rage.

“By his ridiculous long coat, his long English shoes, his manners of

a tutor out of a position, his high collar, white necktie and straight

hair, his humble face of a false priest of a bastard religion, I

immediately recognized the first as a Protestant minister.

“The second was the porter of the house, who belonged to the reformed

religion and had followed us, and having seen our defeat, had gone to

fetch his own pastor, in hopes that he might meet a better reception. My

uncle seemed mad with rage! If the sight of the Catholic priest, of the

priest of his ancestors, had irritated the Marquis de Fumerol, who

had become a freethinker, the sight of his porter's minister made him

altogether beside himself. I therefore took the two men by the arm and

threw them out of the room so roughly that they bumped against each

other twice, between the two doors which led to the staircase; and then

I disappeared in my turn and returned to the kitchen, which was our

headquarters in order to take counsel with my mother and the abbe.

“But Melanie came back in terror, sobbing out:

“'He is dying--he is dying--come immediately--he is dying.'

“My mother rushed out. My uncle had fallen to the ground, and lay full

length along the floor, without moving. I fancy he was already dead. My

mother was superb at that moment! She went straight up to the two girls

who were kneeling by the body and trying to raise it up, and pointing

to the door with irresistible authority, dignity and majesty, she said:

'Now it is time for you to leave the room.'

“And they went out without a word of protest. I must add, that I was

getting ready to turn them out as unceremoniously as I had done the

parson and the porter.

“Then the Abbe Poivron administered the last sacraments to my uncle with

all the customary prayers, and remitted all his sins, while my mother

sobbed as she knelt near her brother. Suddenly, however, she exclaimed:

'He recognized me; he pressed my hand; I am sure he recognized

me!!!--and that he thanked me! Oh, God, what happiness!'

“Poor mamma! If she had known or guessed for whom those thanks were

intended!

“They laid my uncle on his bed; he was certainly dead this time.

“'Madame,' Melanie said, 'we have no sheets to bury him in; all the

linen belongs to these two young ladies,' and when I looked at the

omelette which they had not finished, I felt inclined to laugh and to

cry at the same time. There are some humorous moments and some humorous

situations in life, occasionally!

“We gave my uncle a magnificent fungal, with five speeches at the grave.

Baron de Croiselles, the senator, showed in admirable terms that God

always returns victorious into well-born souls which have temporarily

been led into error. All the members of the Royalist and Catholic party

followed the funeral procession with the enthusiasm of victors, as they

spoke of that beautiful death after a somewhat troublous life.”

Viscount Roger ceased speaking; his audience was laughing. Then somebody

said: “Bah! That is the story of all conversions in extremis.”

THE TRIP OF LE HORLA

On the morning of July 8th I received the following telegram: “Fine day.

Always my predictions. Belgian frontier. Baggage and servants left at

noon at the social session. Beginning of manoeuvres at three. So I will

wait for you at the works from five o'clock on. Jovis.”

At five o'clock sharp I entered the gas works of La Villette. It might

have been mistaken for the colossal ruins of an old town inhabited by

Cyclops. There were immense dark avenues separating heavy gasometers

standing one behind another, like monstrous columns, unequally high and,

undoubtedly, in the past the supports of some tremendous, some fearful

iron edifice.

The balloon was lying in the courtyard and had the appearance of a cake

made of yellow cloth, flattened on the ground under a rope. That is

called placing a balloon in a sweep-net, and, in fact, it appeared like

an enormous fish.

Two or three hundred people were looking at it, sitting or standing, and

some were examining the basket, a nice little square basket for a human

cargo, bearing on its side in gold letters on a mahogany plate the

words: Le Horla.

Suddenly the people began to stand back, for the gas was beginning to

enter into the balloon through a long tube of yellow cloth, which lay

on the soil, swelling and undulating like an enormous worm. But another

thought, another picture occurs to every mind. It is thus that nature

itself nourishes beings until their birth. The creature that will rise

soon begins to move, and the attendants of Captain Jovis, as Le Horla

grew larger, spread and put in place the net which covers it, so that

the pressure will be regular and equally distributed at every point.

The operation is very delicate and very important, for the resistance

of the cotton cloth of which the balloon is made is figured not in

proportion to the contact surface of this cloth with the net, but in

proportion to the links of the basket.

Le Horla, moreover, has been designed by M. Mallet, constructed under

his own eyes and made by himself. Everything had been made in the shops

of M. Jovis by his own working staff and nothing was made outside.

We must add that everything was new in this balloon, from the varnish to

the valve, those two essential parts of a balloon. Both must render

the cloth gas-proof, as the sides of a ship are waterproof. The old

varnishes, made with a base of linseed oil, sometimes fermented and

thus burned the cloth, which in a short time would tear like a piece of

paper.

The valves were apt to close imperfectly after being opened and when the

covering called “cataplasme” was injured. The fall of M. L'Hoste in the

open sea during the night proved the imperfection of the old system.

The two discoveries of Captain Jovis, the varnish principally, are of

inestimable value in the art of ballooning.

The crowd has begun to talk, and some men, who appear to be specialists,

affirm with authority that we shall come down before reaching the

fortifications. Several other things have been criticized in this novel

type of balloon with which we are about to experiment with so much

pleasure and success.

It is growing slowly but surely. Some small holes and scratches made

in transit have been discovered, and we cover them and plug them with

a little piece of paper applied on the cloth while wet. This method of

repairing alarms and mystifies the public.

While Captain Jovis and his assistants are busy with the last details,

the travellers go to dine in the canteen of the gas-works, according to

the established custom.

When we come out again the balloon is swaying, enormous and transparent,

a prodigious golden fruit, a fantastic pear which is still ripening,

covered by the last rays of the setting sun. Now the basket is attached,

the barometers are brought, the siren, which we will blow to our hearts'

content, is also brought, also the two trumpets, the eatables, the

overcoats and raincoats, all the small articles that can go with the men

in that flying basket.

As the wind pushes the balloon against the gasometers, it is necessary

to steady it now and then, to avoid an accident at the start.

Captain Jovis is now ready and calls all the passengers.

Lieutenant Mallet jumps aboard, climbing first on the aerial net between

the basket and the balloon, from which he will watch during the night

the movements of Le Horla across the skies, as the officer on watch,

standing on starboard, watches the course of a ship.

M. Etierine Beer gets in after him, then comes M. Paul Bessand, then M.

Patrice Eyries and I get in last.

But the basket is too heavy for the balloon, considering the long trip

to be taken, and M. Eyries has to get out, not without great regret.

M. Joliet, standing erect on the edge of the basket, begs the ladies, in

very gallant terms, to stand aside a little, for he is afraid he might

throw sand on their hats in rising. Then he commands:

“Let it loose,” and, cutting with one stroke of his knife the ropes that

hold the balloon to the ground, he gives Le Horla its liberty.

In one second we fly skyward. Nothing can be heard; we float, we rise,

we fly, we glide. Our friends shout with glee and applaud, but we hardly

hear them, we hardly see them. We are already so far, so high! What? Are

we really leaving these people down there? Is it possible? Paris spreads

out beneath us, a dark bluish patch, cut by its streets, from which

rise, here and there, domes, towers, steeples, then around it the plain,

the country, traversed by long roads, thin and white, amidst green

fields of a tender or dark green, and woods almost black.

The Seine appears like a coiled snake, asleep, of which we see neither

head nor tail; it crosses Paris, and the entire field resembles

an immense basin of prairies and forests dotted here and there by

mountains, hardly visible in the horizon.

The sun, which we could no longer see down below, now reappears as

though it were about to rise again, and our balloon seems to be lighted;

it must appear like a star to the people who are looking up. M. Mallet

every few seconds throws a cigarette paper into-space and says quietly:

“We are rising, always rising,” while Captain Jovis, radiant with joy,

rubs his hands together and repeats: “Eh? this varnish? Isn't it good?”

In fact, we can see whether we are rising or sinking only by throwing a

cigarette paper out of the basket now and then. If this paper appears

to fall down like a stone, it means that the balloon is rising; if it

appears to shoot skyward the balloon is descending.

The two barometers mark about five hundred meters, and we gaze with

enthusiastic admiration at the earth we are leaving and to which we are

not attached in any way; it looks like a colored map, an immense plan of

the country. All its noises, however, rise to our ears very distinctly,

easily recognizable. We hear the sound of the wheels rolling in the

streets, the snap of a whip, the cries of drivers, the rolling and

whistling of trains and the laughter of small boys running after one

another. Every time we pass over a village the noise of children's

voices is heard above the rest and with the greatest distinctness. Some

men are calling us; the locomotives whistle; we answer with the siren,

which emits plaintive, fearfully shrill wails like the voice of a weird

being wandering through the world.

We perceive lights here and there, some isolated fire in the farms,

and lines of gas in the towns. We are going toward the northwest, after

roaming for some time over the little lake of Enghien. Now we see a

river; it is the Oise, and we begin to argue about the exact spot we are

passing. Is that town Creil or Pontoise--the one with so many lights?

But if we were over Pontoise we could see the junction of the Seine

and the Oise; and that enormous fire to the left, isn't it the blast

furnaces of Montataire? So then we are above Creil. The view is superb;

it is dark on the earth, but we are still in the light, and it is now

past ten o'clock. Now we begin to hear slight country noises, the double

cry of the quail in particular, then the mewing of cats and the barking

of dogs. Surely the dogs have scented the balloon; they have seen it and

have given the alarm. We can hear them barking all over the plain and

making the identical noise they make when baying at the moon. The cows

also seem to wake up in the barns, for we can hear them lowing; all the

beasts are scared and moved before the aerial monster that is passing.

The delicious odors of the soil rise toward us, the smell of hay, of

flowers, of the moist, verdant earth, perfuming the air-a light air, in

fact, so light, so sweet, so delightful that I realize I never was so

fortunate as to breathe before. A profound sense of well-being, unknown

to me heretofore, pervades me, a well-being of body and spirit, composed

of supineness, of infinite rest, of forgetfulness, of indifference to

everything and of this novel sensation of traversing space without any

of the sensations that make motion unbearable, without noise, without

shocks and without fear.

At times we rise and then descend. Every few minutes Lieutenant Mallet,

suspended in his cobweb of netting, says to Captain Jovis: “We are

descending; throw down half a handful.” And the captain, who is talking

and laughing with us, with a bag of ballast between his legs, takes a

handful of sand out of the bag and throws it overboard.

Nothing is more amusing, more delicate, more interesting than the

manoeuvring of a balloon. It is an enormous toy, free and docile, which

obeys with surprising sensitiveness, but it is also, and before all,

the slave of the wind, which we cannot control. A pinch of sand, half a

sheet of paper, one or two drops of water, the bones of a chicken which

we had just eaten, thrown overboard, makes it go up quickly.

A breath of cool, damp air rising from the river or the wood we are

traversing makes the balloon descend two hundred metres. It does not

vary when passing over fields of ripe grain, and it rises when it passes

over towns.

The earth sleeps now, or, rather, men sleep on the earth, for the beasts

awakened by the sight of our balloon announce our approach everywhere.

Now and then the rolling of a train or the whistling of a locomotive is

plainly distinguishable. We sound our siren as we pass over inhabited

places; and the peasants, terrified in their beds, must surely tremble

and ask themselves if the Angel Gabriel is not passing by.

A strong and continuous odor of gas can be plainly observed. We must

have encountered a current of warm air, and the balloon expands, losing

its invisible blood by the escape-valve, which is called the appendix,

and which closes of itself as soon as the expansion ceases.

We are rising. The earth no longer gives back the echo of our trumpets;

we have risen almost two thousand feet. It is not light enough for us to

consult the instruments; we only know that the rice paper falls from

us like dead butterflies, that we are rising, always rising. We can no

longer see the earth; a light mist separates us from it; and above our

head twinkles a world of stars.

A silvery light appears before us and makes the sky turn pale, and

suddenly, as if it were rising from unknown depths behind the horizon

below us rises the moon on the edge of a cloud. It seems to be coming

from below, while we are looking down upon it from a great height,

leaning on the edge of our basket like an audience on a balcony. Clear

and round, it emerges from the clouds and slowly rises in the sky.

The earth no longer seems to exist, it is buried in milky vapors that

resemble a sea. We are now alone in space with the moon, which looks

like another balloon travelling opposite us; and our balloon, which

shines in the air, appears like another, larger moon, a world wandering

in the sky amid the stars, through infinity. We no longer speak, think

nor live; we float along through space in delicious inertia. The air

which is bearing us up has made of us all beings which resemble itself,

silent, joyous, irresponsible beings, intoxicated by this stupendous

flight, peculiarly alert, although motionless. One is no longer

conscious of one's flesh or one's bones; one's heart seems to have

ceased beating; we have become something indescribable, birds who do not

even have to flap their wings.

All memory has disappeared from our minds, all trouble from our

thoughts; we have no more regrets, plans nor hopes. We look, we feel, we

wildly enjoy this fantastic journey; nothing in the sky but the moon and

ourselves! We are a wandering, travelling world, like our sisters, the

planets; and this little world carries five men who have left the

earth and who have almost forgotten it. We can now see as plainly as in

daylight; we look at each other, surprised at this brightness, for we

have nothing to look at but ourselves and a few silvery clouds floating

below us. The barometers mark twelve hundred metres, then thirteen,

fourteen, fifteen hundred; and the little rice papers still fall about

us.

Captain Jovis claims that the moon has often made balloons act thus, and

that the upward journey will continue.

We are now at two thousand metres; we go up to two thousand three

hundred and fifty; then the balloon stops: We blow the siren and are

surprised that no one answers us from the stars.

We are now going down rapidly. M. Mallet keeps crying: “Throw out more

ballast! throw out more ballast!” And the sand and stones that we throw

over come back into our faces, as if they were going up, thrown from

below toward the stars, so rapid is our descent.

Here is the earth! Where are we? It is now past midnight, and we are

crossing a broad, dry, well-cultivated country, with many roads and well

populated.

To the right is a large city and farther away to the left is another.

But suddenly from the earth appears a bright fairy light; it disappears,

reappears and once more disappears. Jovis, intoxicated by space,

exclaims: “Look, look at this phenomenon of the moon in the water. One

can see nothing more beautiful at night!”

Nothing indeed can give one an idea of the wonderful brightness of these

spots of light which are not fire, which do not look like reflections,

which appear quickly here or there and immediately go out again. These

shining lights appear on the winding rivers at every turn, but one

hardly has time to see them as the balloon passes as quickly as the

wind.

We are now quite near the earth, and Beer exclaims:--“Look at that!

What is that running over there in the fields? Isn't it a dog?” Indeed,

something is running along the ground with great speed, and this

something seems to jump over ditches, roads, trees with such ease that

we could not understand what it might be. The captain laughed: “It is

the shadow of our balloon. It will grow as we descend.”

I distinctly hear a great noise of foundries in the distance. And,

according to the polar star, which we have been observing all night,

'and which I have so often watched and consulted from the bridge of my

little yacht on the Mediterranean, we are heading straight for Belgium.

Our siren and our two horns are continually calling. A few cries from

some truck driver or belated reveler answer us. We bellow: “Where are

we?” But the balloon is going so rapidly that the bewildered man has not

even time to answer us. The growing shadow of Le Horla, as large as a

child's ball, is fleeing before us over the fields, roads and woods. It

goes along steadily, preceding us by about a quarter of a mile; and now

I am leaning out of the basket, listening to the roaring of the wind in

the trees and across the harvest fields. I say to Captain Jovis: “How

the wind blows!”

He answers: “No, those are probably waterfalls.” I insist, sure of my

ear that knows the sound of the wind, from hearing it so often whistle

through the rigging. Then Jovis nudges me; he fears to frighten his

happy, quiet passengers, for he knows full well that a storm is pursuing

us.

At last a man manages to understand us; he answers: “Nord!” We get the

same reply from another.

Suddenly the lights of a town, which seems to be of considerable

size, appear before us. Perhaps it is Lille. As we approach it, such a

wonderful flow of fire appears below us that I think myself transported

into some fairyland where precious stones are manufactured for giants.

It seems that it is a brick factory. Here are others, two, three. The

fusing material bubbles, sparkles, throws out blue, red, yellow, green

sparks, reflections from giant diamonds, rubies, emeralds, turquoises,

sapphires, topazes. And near by are great foundries roaring like

apocalyptic lions; high chimneys belch forth their clouds of smoke and

flame, and we can hear the noise of metal striking against metal.

“Where are we?”

The voice of some joker or of a crazy person answers: “In a balloon!”

“Where are we?”

“At Lille!”

We were not mistaken. We are already out of sight of the town, and we

see Roubaix to the right, then some well-cultivated, rectangular fields,

of different colors according to the crops, some yellow, some gray or

brown. But the clouds are gathering behind us, hiding the moon, whereas

toward the east the sky is growing lighter, becoming a clear blue tinged

with red. It is dawn. It grows rapidly, now showing us all the little

details of the earth, the trains, the brooks, the cows, the goats. And

all this passes beneath us with surprising speed. One hardly has time

to notice that other fields, other meadows, other houses have

already disappeared. Cocks are crowing, but the voice of ducks drowns

everything. One might think the world to be peopled, covered with them,

they make so much noise.

The early rising peasants are waving their arms and crying to us: “Let

yourselves drop!” But we go along steadily, neither rising nor falling,

leaning over the edge of the basket and watching the world fleeing under

our feet.

Jovis sights another city far off in the distance. It approaches;

everywhere are old church spires. They are delightful, seen thus from

above. Where are we? Is this Courtrai? Is it Ghent?

We are already very near it, and we see that it is surrounded by water

and crossed in every direction by canals. One might think it a Venice

of the north. Just as we are passing so near to a church tower that our

long guy-rope almost touches it, the chimes begin to ring three o'clock.

The sweet, clear sounds rise to us from this frail roof which we have

almost touched in our wandering course. It is a charming greeting, a

friendly welcome from Holland. We answer with our siren, whose raucous

voice echoes throughout the streets.

It was Bruges. But we have hardly lost sight of it when my neighbor,

Paul Bessand, asks me: “Don't you see something over there, to the

right, in front of us? It looks like a river.”

And, indeed, far ahead of us stretches a bright highway, in the light

of the dawning day. Yes, it looks like a river, an immense river full of

islands.

“Get ready for the descent,” cried the captain. He makes M. Mallet

leave his net and return to the basket; then we pack the barometers

and everything that could be injured by possible shocks. M. Bessand

exclaims: “Look at the masts over there to the left! We are at the sea!”

Fogs had hidden it from us until then. The sea was everywhere, to the

left and opposite us, while to our right the Scheldt, which had joined

the Moselle, extended as far as the sea, its mouths vaster than a lake.

It was necessary to descend within a minute or two. The rope to the

escape-valve, which had been religiously enclosed in a little white bag

and placed in sight of all so that no one would touch it, is unrolled,

and M. Mallet holds it in his hand while Captain Jovis looks for a

favorable landing.

Behind us the thunder was rumbling and not a single bird followed our

mad flight.

“Pull!” cried Jovis.

We were passing over a canal. The basket trembled and tipped over

slightly. The guy-rope touched the tall trees on both banks. But our

speed is so great that the long rope now trailing does not seem to slow

down, and we pass with frightful rapidity over a large farm, from which

the bewildered chickens, pigeons and ducks fly away, while the cows,

cats and dogs run, terrified, toward the house.

Just one-half bag of ballast is left. Jovis throws it overboard, and Le

Horla flies lightly across the roof.

The captain once more cries: “The escape-valve!”

M. Mallet reaches for the rope and hangs to it, and we drop like an

arrow. With a slash of a knife the cord which retains the anchor is cut,

and we drag this grapple behind us, through a field of beets. Here are

the trees.

“Take care! Hold fast! Look out for your heads!”

We pass over them. Then a strong shock shakes us. The anchor has taken

hold.

“Look out! Take a good hold! Raise yourselves by your wrists. We are

going to touch ground.”

The basket does indeed strike the earth. Then it flies up again. Once

more it falls and bounds upward again, and at last it settles on the

ground, while the balloon struggles madly, like a wounded beast.

Peasants run toward us, but they do not dare approach. They were a long

time before they decided to come and deliver us, for one cannot set foot

on the ground until the bag is almost completely deflated.

Then, almost at the same time as the bewildered men, some of whom showed

their astonishment by jumping, with the wild gestures of savages, all

the cows that were grazing along the coast came toward us, surrounding

our balloon with a strange and comical circle of horns, big eyes and

blowing nostrils.

With the help of the accommodating and hospitable Belgian peasants, we

were able in a short time to pack up all our material and carry it to

the station at Heyst, where at twenty minutes past eight we took the

train for Paris.

The descent occurred at three-fifteen in the morning, preceding by only

a few seconds the torrent of rain and the blinding lightning of the

storm which had been chasing us before it.

Thanks to Captain Jovis, of whom I had heard much from my colleague,

Paul Ginisty--for both of them had fallen together and voluntarily into

the sea opposite Mentone--thanks to this brave man, we were able to see,

in a single night, from far up in the sky, the setting of the sun, the

rising of the moon and the dawn of day and to go from Paris to the mouth

of the Scheldt through the skies.

[This story appeared in “Figaro” on July 16, 1887, under the title:

“From Paris to Heyst.”]

FAREWELL!

The two friends were getting near the end of their dinner. Through the

cafe windows they could see the Boulevard, crowded with people. They

could feel the gentle breezes which are wafted over Paris on warm summer

evenings and make you feel like going out somewhere, you care not where,

under the trees, and make you dream of moonlit rivers, of fireflies and

of larks.

One of the two, Henri Simon, heaved a deep sigh and said:

“Ah! I am growing old. It's sad. Formerly, on evenings like this, I felt

full of life. Now, I only feel regrets. Life is short!”

He was perhaps forty-five years old, very bald and already growing

stout.

The other, Pierre Carnier, a trifle older, but thin and lively,

answered:

“Well, my boy, I have grown old without noticing it in the least. I

have always been merry, healthy, vigorous and all the rest. As one sees

oneself in the mirror every day, one does not realize the work of age,

for it is slow, regular, and it modifies the countenance so gently that

the changes are unnoticeable. It is for this reason alone that we do

not die of sorrow after two or three years of excitement. For we cannot

understand the alterations which time produces. In order to appreciate

them one would have to remain six months without seeing one's own face

--then, oh, what a shock!

“And the women, my friend, how I pity the poor beings! All their joy,

all their power, all their life, lies in their beauty, which lasts ten

years.

“As I said, I aged without noticing it; I thought myself practically

a youth, when I was almost fifty years old. Not feeling the slightest

infirmity, I went about, happy and peaceful.

“The revelation of my decline came to me in a simple and terrible

manner, which overwhelmed me for almost six months--then I became

resigned.

“Like all men, I have often been in love, but most especially once.

“I met her at the seashore, at Etretat, about twelve years ago, shortly

after the war. There is nothing prettier than this beach during the

morning bathing hour. It is small, shaped like a horseshoe, framed

by high white cliffs, which are pierced by strange holes called the

'Portes,' one stretching out into the ocean like the leg of a giant, the

other short and dumpy. The women gather on the narrow strip of sand

in this frame of high rocks, which they make into a gorgeous garden of

beautiful gowns. The sun beats down on the shores, on the multicolored

parasols, on the blue-green sea; and all is gay, delightful, smiling.

You sit down at the edge of the water and you watch the bathers. The

women come down, wrapped in long bath robes, which they throw off

daintily when they reach the foamy edge of the rippling waves; and they

run into the water with a rapid little step, stopping from time to time

for a delightful little thrill from the cold water, a short gasp.

“Very few stand the test of the bath. It is there that they can be

judged, from the ankle to the throat. Especially on leaving the water

are the defects revealed, although water is a powerful aid to flabby

skin.

“The first time that I saw this young woman in the water, I was

delighted, entranced. She stood the test well. There are faces whose

charms appeal to you at first glance and delight you instantly. You seem

to have found the woman whom you were born to love. I had that feeling

and that shock.

“I was introduced, and was soon smitten worse than I had ever been

before. My heart longed for her. It is a terrible yet delightful thing

thus to be dominated by a young woman. It is almost torture, and yet

infinite delight. Her look, her smile, her hair fluttering in the wind,

the little lines of her face, the slightest movement of her features,

delighted me, upset me, entranced me. She had captured me, body and

soul, by her gestures, her manners, even by her clothes, which seemed to

take on a peculiar charm as soon as she wore them. I grew tender at the

sight of her veil on some piece of furniture, her gloves thrown on a

chair. Her gowns seemed to me inimitable. Nobody had hats like hers.

“She was married, but her husband came only on Saturday, and left on

Monday. I didn't concern myself about him, anyhow. I wasn't jealous of

him, I don't know why; never did a creature seem to me to be of less

importance in life, to attract my attention less than this man.

“But she! how I loved her! How beautiful, graceful and young she was!

She was youth, elegance, freshness itself! Never before had I felt so

strongly what a pretty, distinguished, delicate, charming, graceful

being woman is. Never before had I appreciated the seductive beauty to

be found in the curve of a cheek, the movement of a lip, the pinkness of

an ear, the shape of that foolish organ called the nose.

“This lasted three months; then I left for America, overwhelmed with

sadness. But her memory remained in me, persistent, triumphant. From far

away I was as much hers as I had been when she was near me. Years passed

by, and I did not forget her. The charming image of her person was ever

before my eyes and in my heart. And my love remained true to her, a

quiet tenderness now, something like the beloved memory of the most

beautiful and the most enchanting thing I had ever met in my life.

“Twelve years are not much in a lifetime! One does not feel them slip

by. The years follow each other gently and quickly, slowly yet rapidly,

each one is long and yet so soon over! They add up so rapidly, they

leave so few traces behind them, they disappear so completely, that,

when one turns round to look back over bygone years, one sees nothing

and yet one does not understand how one happens to be so old. It seemed

to me, really, that hardly a few months separated me from that charming

season on the sands of Etretat.

“Last spring I went to dine with some friends at Maisons-Laffitte.

“Just as the train was leaving, a big, fat lady, escorted by four little

girls, got into my car. I hardly looked at this mother hen, very big,

very round, with a face as full as the moon framed in an enormous,

beribboned hat.

“She was puffing, out of breath from having been forced to walk quickly.

The children began to chatter. I unfolded my paper and began to read.

“We had just passed Asnieres, when my neighbor suddenly turned to me and

said:

“'Excuse me, sir, but are you not Monsieur Garnier?'

“'Yes, madame.'

“Then she began to laugh, the pleased laugh of a good woman; and yet it

was sad.

“'You do not seem to recognize me.'

“I hesitated. It seemed to me that I had seen that face somewhere; but

where? when? I answered:

“'Yes--and no. I certainly know you, and yet I cannot recall your name.'

“She blushed a little:

“'Madame Julie Lefevre.'

“Never had I received such a shock. In a second it seemed to me as

though it were all over with me! I felt that a veil had been torn

from my eyes and that I was going to make a horrible and heartrending

discovery.

“So that was she! That big, fat, common woman, she! She had become the

mother of these four girls since I had last her. And these little beings

surprised me as much as their mother. They were part of her; they

were big girls, and already had a place in life. Whereas she no longer

counted, she, that marvel of dainty and charming gracefulness. It seemed

to me that I had seen her but yesterday, and this is how I found her

again! Was it possible? A poignant grief seized my heart; and also a

revolt against nature herself, an unreasoning indignation against this

brutal, nefarious act of destruction.

“I looked at her, bewildered. Then I took her hand in mine, and tears

came to my eyes. I wept for her lost youth. For I did not know this fat

lady.

“She was also excited, and stammered:

“'I am greatly changed, am I not? What can you expect--everything has

its time! You see, I have become a mother, nothing but a good mother.

Farewell to the rest, that is over. Oh! I never expected you to

recognize me if we met. You, too, have changed. It took me quite a while

to be sure that I was not mistaken. Your hair is all white. Just think!

Twelve years ago! Twelve years! My oldest girl is already ten.'

“I looked at the child. And I recognized in her something of her

mother's old charm, but something as yet unformed, something which

promised for the future. And life seemed to me as swift as a passing

train.

“We had reached. Maisons-Laffitte. I kissed my old friend's hand. I had

found nothing but the most commonplace remarks. I was too much upset to

talk.

“At night, alone, at home, I stood in front of the mirror for a long

time, a very long time. And I finally remembered what I had been,

finally saw in my mind's eye my brown mustache, my black hair and the

youthful expression of my face. Now I was old. Farewell!”

THE WOLF

This is what the old Marquis d'Arville told us after St. Hubert's dinner

at the house of the Baron des Ravels.

We had killed a stag that day. The marquis was the only one of the

guests who had not taken part in this chase. He never hunted.

During that long repast we had talked about hardly anything but the

slaughter of animals. The ladies themselves were interested in bloody

and exaggerated tales, and the orators imitated the attacks and

the combats of men against beasts, raised their arms, romanced in a

thundering voice.

M. d'Arville talked well, in a certain flowery, high-sounding, but

effective style. He must have told this story frequently, for he told it

fluently, never hesitating for words, choosing them with skill to make

his description vivid.

Gentlemen, I have never hunted, neither did my father, nor my

grandfather, nor my great-grandfather. This last was the son of a man

who hunted more than all of you put together. He died in 1764. I will

tell you the story of his death.

His name was Jean. He was married, father of that child who became

my great-grandfather, and he lived with his younger brother, Francois

d'Arville, in our castle in Lorraine, in the midst of the forest.

Francois d'Arville had remained a bachelor for love of the chase.

They both hunted from one end of the year to the other, without stopping

and seemingly without fatigue. They loved only hunting, understood

nothing else, talked only of that, lived only for that.

They had at heart that one passion, which was terrible and inexorable.

It consumed them, had completely absorbed them, leaving room for no

other thought.

They had given orders that they should not be interrupted in the chase

for any reason whatever. My great-grandfather was born while his father

was following a fox, and Jean d'Arville did not stop the chase, but

exclaimed: “The deuce! The rascal might have waited till after the view

--halloo!”

His brother Franqois was still more infatuated. On rising he went to see

the dogs, then the horses, then he shot little birds about the castle

until the time came to hunt some large game.

In the countryside they were called M. le Marquis and M. le Cadet, the

nobles then not being at all like the chance nobility of our time, which

wishes to establish an hereditary hierarchy in titles; for the son of

a marquis is no more a count, nor the son of a viscount a baron, than a

son of a general is a colonel by birth. But the contemptible vanity of

today finds profit in that arrangement.

My ancestors were unusually tall, bony, hairy, violent and vigorous.

The younger, still taller than the older, had a voice so strong that,

according to a legend of which he was proud, all the leaves of the

forest shook when he shouted.

When they were both mounted to set out hunting, it must have been a

superb sight to see those two giants straddling their huge horses.

Now, toward the midwinter of that year, 1764, the frosts were excessive,

and the wolves became ferocious.

They even attacked belated peasants, roamed at night outside the houses,

howled from sunset to sunrise, and robbed the stables.

And soon a rumor began to circulate. People talked of a colossal wolf

with gray fur, almost white, who had eaten two children, gnawed off a

woman's arm, strangled all the watch dogs in the district, and even come

without fear into the farmyards. The people in the houses affirmed

that they had felt his breath, and that it made the flame of the lights

flicker. And soon a panic ran through all the province. No one dared go

out any more after nightfall. The darkness seemed haunted by the image

of the beast.

The brothers d'Arville determined to find and kill him, and several

times they brought together all the gentlemen of the country to a great

hunt.

They beat the forests and searched the coverts in vain; they never

met him. They killed wolves, but not that one. And every night after a

battue the beast, as if to avenge himself, attacked some traveller

or killed some one's cattle, always far from the place where they had

looked for him.

Finally, one night he stole into the pigpen of the Chateau d'Arville and

ate the two fattest pigs.

The brothers were roused to anger, considering this attack as a direct

insult and a defiance. They took their strong bloodhounds, used to

pursue dangerous animals, and they set off to hunt, their hearts filled

with rage.

From dawn until the hour when the empurpled sun descended behind the

great naked trees, they beat the woods without finding anything.

At last, furious and disgusted, both were returning, walking their

horses along a lane bordered with hedges, and they marvelled that their

skill as huntsmen should be baffled by this wolf, and they were suddenly

seized with a mysterious fear.

The elder said:

“That beast is not an ordinary one. You would say it had a mind like a

man.”

The younger answered:

“Perhaps we should have a bullet blessed by our cousin, the bishop, or

pray some priest to pronounce the words which are needed.”

Then they were silent.

Jean continued:

“Look how red the sun is. The great wolf will do some harm to-night.”

He had hardly finished speaking when his horse reared; that of Franqois

began to kick. A large thicket covered with dead leaves opened before

them, and a mammoth beast, entirely gray, jumped up and ran off through

the wood.

Both uttered a kind of grunt of joy, and bending over the necks of their

heavy horses, they threw them forward with an impulse from all their

body, hurling them on at such a pace, urging them, hurrying them away,

exciting them so with voice and with gesture and with spur that the

experienced riders seemed to be carrying the heavy beasts between 4

their thighs and to bear them off as if they were flying.

Thus they went, plunging through the thickets, dashing across the beds

of streams, climbing the hillsides, descending the gorges, and blowing

the horn as loud as they could to attract their people and the dogs.

And now, suddenly, in that mad race, my ancestor struck his forehead

against an enormous branch which split his skull; and he fell dead on

the ground, while his frightened horse took himself off, disappearing in

the gloom which enveloped the woods.

The younger d'Arville stopped quick, leaped to the earth, seized his

brother in his arms, and saw that the brains were escaping from the

wound with the blood.

Then he sat down beside the body, rested the head, disfigured and red,

on his knees, and waited, regarding the immobile face of his elder

brother. Little by little a fear possessed him, a strange fear which he

had never felt before, the fear of the dark, the fear of loneliness, the

fear of the deserted wood, and the fear also of the weird wolf who had

just killed his brother to avenge himself upon them both.

The gloom thickened; the acute cold made the trees crack. Francois got

up, shivering, unable to remain there longer, feeling himself growing

faint. Nothing was to be heard, neither the voice of the dogs nor the

sound of the horns-all was silent along the invisible horizon; and this

mournful silence of the frozen night had something about it terrific and

strange.

He seized in his immense hands the great body of Jean, straightened it,

and laid it across the saddle to carry it back to the chateau; then he

went on his way softly, his mind troubled as if he were in a stupor,

pursued by horrible and fear-giving images.

And all at once, in the growing darkness a great shape crossed his path.

It was the beast. A shock of terror shook the hunter; something cold,

like a drop of water, seemed to glide down his back, and, like a monk

haunted of the devil, he made a great sign of the cross, dismayed at

this abrupt return of the horrible prowler. But his eyes fell again on

the inert body before him, and passing abruptly from fear to anger, he

shook with an indescribable rage.

Then he spurred his horse and rushed after the wolf.

He followed it through the copses, the ravines, and the tall trees,

traversing woods which he no longer recognized, his eyes fixed on the

white speck which fled before him through the night.

His horse also seemed animated by a force and strength hitherto unknown.

It galloped straight ahead with outstretched neck, striking against

trees, and rocks, the head and the feet of the dead man thrown across

the saddle. The limbs tore out his hair; the brow, beating the huge

trunks, spattered them with blood; the spurs tore their ragged coats

of bark. Suddenly the beast and the horseman issued from the forest and

rushed into a valley, just as the moon appeared above the mountains. The

valley here was stony, inclosed by enormous rocks.

Francois then uttered a yell of joy which the echoes repeated like a

peal of thunder, and he leaped from his horse, his cutlass in his hand.

The beast, with bristling hair, the back arched, awaited him, its

eyes gleaming like two stars. But, before beginning battle, the strong

hunter, seizing his brother, seated him on a rock, and, placing stones

under his head, which was no more than a mass of blood, he shouted in

the ears as if he was talking to a deaf man: “Look, Jean; look at this!”

Then he attacked the monster. He felt himself strong enough to overturn

a mountain, to bruise stones in his hands. The beast tried to bite him,

aiming for his stomach; but he had seized the fierce animal by the neck,

without even using his weapon, and he strangled it gently, listening to

the cessation of breathing in its throat and the beatings of its heart.

He laughed, wild with joy, pressing closer and closer his formidable

embrace, crying in a delirium of joy, “Look, Jean, look!” All resistance

ceased; the body of the wolf became limp. He was dead.

Franqois took him up in his arms and carried him to the feet of the

elder brother, where he laid him, repeating, in a tender voice: “There,

there, there, my little Jean, see him!”

Then he replaced on the saddle the two bodies, one upon the other, and

rode away.

He returned to the chateau, laughing and crying, like Gargantua at the

birth of Pantagruel, uttering shouts of triumph, and boisterous with joy

as he related the death of the beast, and grieving and tearing his beard

in telling of that of his brother.

And often, later, when he talked again of that day, he would say, with

tears in his eyes: “If only poor Jean could have seen me strangle the

beast, he would have died content, that I am sure!”

The widow of my ancestor inspired her orphan son with that horror of

the chase which has transmitted itself from father to son as far down as

myself.

The Marquis d'Arville was silent. Some one asked:

“That story is a legend, isn't it?”

And the story teller answered:

“I swear to you that it is true from beginning to end.”

Then a lady declared, in a little, soft voice

“All the same, it is fine to have passions like that.”

THE INN

Resembling in appearance all the wooden hostelries of the High Alps

situated at the foot of glaciers in the barren rocky gorges that

intersect the summits of the mountains, the Inn of Schwarenbach serves

as a resting place for travellers crossing the Gemini Pass.

It remains open for six months in the year and is inhabited by the

family of Jean Hauser; then, as soon as the snow begins to fall and to

fill the valley so as to make the road down to Loeche impassable, the

father and his three sons go away and leave the house in charge of the

old guide, Gaspard Hari, with the young guide, Ulrich Kunsi, and Sam,

the great mountain dog.

The two men and the dog remain till the spring in their snowy prison,

with nothing before their eyes except the immense white slopes of the

Balmhorn, surrounded by light, glistening summits, and are shut in,

blocked up and buried by the snow which rises around them and which

envelops, binds and crushes the little house, which lies piled on the

roof, covering the windows and blocking up the door.

It was the day on which the Hauser family were going to return to

Loeche, as winter was approaching, and the descent was becoming

dangerous. Three mules started first, laden with baggage and led by

the three sons. Then the mother, Jeanne Hauser, and her daughter Louise

mounted a fourth mule and set off in their turn and the father followed

them, accompanied by the two men in charge, who were to escort the

family as far as the brow of the descent. First of all they passed round

the small lake, which was now frozen over, at the bottom of the mass of

rocks which stretched in front of the inn, and then they followed the

valley, which was dominated on all sides by the snow-covered summits.

A ray of sunlight fell into that little white, glistening, frozen desert

and illuminated it with a cold and dazzling flame. No living thing

appeared among this ocean of mountains. There was no motion in this

immeasurable solitude and no noise disturbed the profound silence.

By degrees the young guide, Ulrich Kunsi, a tall, long-legged Swiss,

left old man Hauser and old Gaspard behind, in order to catch up the

mule which bore the two women. The younger one looked at him as he

approached and appeared to be calling him with her sad eyes. She was a

young, fairhaired little peasant girl, whose milk-white cheeks and pale

hair looked as if they had lost their color by their long abode amid the

ice. When he had got up to the animal she was riding he put his hand on

the crupper and relaxed his speed. Mother Hauser began to talk to him,

enumerating with the minutest details all that he would have to attend

to during the winter. It was the first time that he was going to stay up

there, while old Hari had already spent fourteen winters amid the snow,

at the inn of Schwarenbach.

Ulrich Kunsi listened, without appearing to understand and looked

incessantly at the girl. From time to time he replied: “Yes, Madame

Hauser,” but his thoughts seemed far away and his calm features remained

unmoved.

They reached Lake Daube, whose broad, frozen surface extended to the end

of the valley. On the right one saw the black, pointed, rocky summits

of the Daubenhorn beside the enormous moraines of the Lommern glacier,

above which rose the Wildstrubel. As they approached the Gemmi pass,

where the descent of Loeche begins, they suddenly beheld the immense

horizon of the Alps of the Valais, from which the broad, deep valley of

the Rhone separated them.

In the distance there was a group of white, unequal, flat, or pointed

mountain summits, which glistened in the sun; the Mischabel with its two

peaks, the huge group of the Weisshorn, the heavy Brunegghorn, the lofty

and formidable pyramid of Mount Cervin, that slayer of men, and the

Dent-Blanche, that monstrous coquette.

Then beneath them, in a tremendous hole, at the bottom of a terrific

abyss, they perceived Loeche, where houses looked as grains of sand

which had been thrown into that enormous crevice that is ended and

closed by the Gemmi and which opens, down below, on the Rhone.

The mule stopped at the edge of the path, which winds and turns

continually, doubling backward, then, fantastically and strangely, along

the side of the mountain as far as the almost invisible little village

at its feet. The women jumped into the snow and the two old men joined

them. “Well,” father Hauser said, “good-by, and keep up your spirits

till next year, my friends,” and old Hari replied: “Till next year.”

They embraced each other and then Madame Hauser in her turn offered her

cheek, and the girl did the same.

When Ulrich Kunsi's turn came, he whispered in Louise's ear, “Do not

forget those up yonder,” and she replied, “No,” in such a low voice that

he guessed what she had said without hearing it. “Well, adieu,” Jean

Hauser repeated, “and don't fall ill.” And going before the two women,

he commenced the descent, and soon all three disappeared at the first

turn in the road, while the two men returned to the inn at Schwarenbach.

They walked slowly, side by side, without speaking. It was over, and

they would be alone together for four or five months. Then Gaspard

Hari began to relate his life last winter. He had remained with Michael

Canol, who was too old now to stand it, for an accident might happen

during that long solitude. They had not been dull, however; the only

thing was to make up one's mind to it from the first, and in the end one

would find plenty of distraction, games and other means of whiling away

the time.

Ulrich Kunsi listened to him with his eyes on the ground, for in his

thoughts he was following those who were descending to the village. They

soon came in sight of the inn, which was, however, scarcely visible, so

small did it look, a black speck at the foot of that enormous billow of

snow, and when they opened the door Sam, the great curly dog, began to

romp round them.

“Come, my boy,” old Gaspard said, “we have no women now, so we must get

our own dinner ready. Go and peel the potatoes.” And they both sat down

on wooden stools and began to prepare the soup.

The next morning seemed very long to Kunsi. Old Hari smoked and spat

on the hearth, while the young man looked out of the window at the

snow-covered mountain opposite the house.

In the afternoon he went out, and going over yesterday's ground again,

he looked for the traces of the mule that had carried the two women.

Then when he had reached the Gemmi Pass, he laid himself down on his

stomach and looked at Loeche.

The village, in its rocky pit, was not yet buried under the snow, from

which it was sheltered by the pine woods which protected it on all

sides. Its low houses looked like paving stones in a large meadow

from above. Hauser's little daughter was there now in one of those

gray-colored houses. In which? Ulrich Kunsi was too far away to be able

to make them out separately. How he would have liked to go down while he

was yet able!

But the sun had disappeared behind the lofty crest of the Wildstrubel

and the young man returned to the chalet. Daddy Hari was smoking, and

when he saw his mate come in he proposed a game of cards to him, and

they sat down opposite each other, on either side of the table. They

played for a long time a simple game called brisque and then they had

supper and went to bed.

The following days were like the first, bright and cold, without any

fresh snow. Old Gaspard spent his afternoons in watching the eagles and

other rare birds which ventured on those frozen heights, while Ulrich

returned regularly to the Gemmi Pass to look at the village. Then they

played cards, dice or dominoes and lost and won a trifle, just to create

an interest in the game.

One morning Hari, who was up first, called his companion. A moving, deep

and light cloud of white spray was falling on them noiselessly and was

by degrees burying them under a thick, heavy coverlet of foam. That

lasted four days and four nights. It was necessary to free the door

and the windows, to dig out a passage and to cut steps to get over

this frozen powder, which a twelve hours' frost had made as hard as the

granite of the moraines.

They lived like prisoners and did not venture outside their abode. They

had divided their duties, which they performed regularly. Ulrich

Kunsi undertook the scouring, washing and everything that belonged to

cleanliness. He also chopped up the wood while Gaspard Hari did the

cooking and attended to the fire. Their regular and monotonous work was

interrupted by long games at cards or dice, and they never quarrelled,

but were always calm and placid. They were never seen impatient or

ill-humored, nor did they ever use hard words, for they had laid in a

stock of patience for their wintering on the top of the mountain.

Sometimes old Gaspard took his rifle and went after chamois, and

occasionally he killed one. Then there was a feast in the inn at

Schwarenbach and they revelled in fresh meat. One morning he went out as

usual. The thermometer outside marked eighteen degrees of frost, and as

the sun had not yet risen, the hunter hoped to surprise the animals at

the approaches to the Wildstrubel, and Ulrich, being alone, remained in

bed until ten o'clock. He was of a sleepy nature, but he would not have

dared to give way like that to his inclination in the presence of the

old guide, who was ever an early riser. He breakfasted leisurely with

Sam, who also spent his days and nights in sleeping in front of the

fire; then he felt low-spirited and even frightened at the solitude, and

was-seized by a longing for his daily game of cards, as one is by the

craving of a confirmed habit, and so he went out to meet his companion,

who was to return at four o'clock.

The snow had levelled the whole deep valley, filled up the crevasses,

obliterated all signs of the two lakes and covered the rocks, so that

between the high summits there was nothing but an immense, white,

regular, dazzling and frozen surface. For three weeks Ulrich had not

been to the edge of the precipice from which he had looked down on the

village, and he wanted to go there before climbing the slopes which led

to Wildstrubel. Loeche was now also covered by the snow and the houses

could scarcely be distinguished, covered as they were by that white

cloak.

Then, turning to the right, he reached the Loemmern glacier. He went

along with a mountaineer's long strides, striking the snow, which was as

hard as a rock, with his iron-pointed stick, and with his piercing eyes

he looked for the little black, moving speck in the distance, on that

enormous, white expanse.

When he reached the end of the glacier he stopped and asked himself

whether the old man had taken that road, and then he began to walk along

the moraines with rapid and uneasy steps. The day was declining, the

snow was assuming a rosy tint, and a dry, frozen wind blew in rough

gusts over its crystal surface. Ulrich uttered a long, shrill, vibrating

call. His voice sped through the deathlike silence in which the

mountains were sleeping; it reached the distance, across profound and

motionless waves of glacial foam, like the cry of a bird across the

waves of the sea. Then it died away and nothing answered him.

He began to walk again. The sun had sunk yonder behind the mountain

tops, which were still purple with the reflection from the sky, but the

depths of the valley were becoming gray, and suddenly the young man felt

frightened. It seemed to him as if the silence, the cold, the solitude,

the winter death of these mountains were taking possession of him, were

going to stop and to freeze his blood, to make his limbs grow stiff and

to turn him into a motionless and frozen object, and he set off running,

fleeing toward his dwelling. The old man, he thought, would have

returned during his absence. He had taken another road; he would, no

doubt, be sitting before the fire, with a dead chamois at his feet. He

soon came in sight of the inn, but no smoke rose from it. Ulrich walked

faster and opened the door. Sam ran up to him to greet him, but Gaspard

Hari had not returned. Kunsi, in his alarm, turned round suddenly, as

if he had expected to find his comrade hidden in a corner. Then he

relighted the fire and made the soup, hoping every moment to see the old

man come in. From time to time he went out to see if he were not coming.

It was quite night now, that wan, livid night of the mountains, lighted

by a thin, yellow crescent moon, just disappearing behind the mountain

tops.

Then the young man went in and sat down to warm his hands and feet,

while he pictured to himself every possible accident. Gaspard might

have broken a leg, have fallen into a crevasse, taken a false step and

dislocated his ankle. And, perhaps, he was lying on the snow, overcome

and stiff with the cold, in agony of mind, lost and, perhaps, shouting

for help, calling with all his might in the silence of the night.. But

where? The mountain was so vast, so rugged, so dangerous in places,

especially at that time of the year, that it would have required ten or

twenty guides to walk for a week in all directions to find a man in that

immense space. Ulrich Kunsi, however, made up his mind to set out with

Sam if Gaspard did not return by one in the morning, and he made his

preparations.

He put provisions for two days into a bag, took his steel climbing iron,

tied a long, thin, strong rope round his waist, and looked to see that

his iron-shod stick and his axe, which served to cut steps in the ice,

were in order. Then he waited. The fire was burning on the hearth, the

great dog was snoring in front of it, and the clock was ticking, as

regularly as a heart beating, in its resounding wooden case. He waited,

with his ears on the alert for distant sounds, and he shivered when

the wind blew against the roof and the walls. It struck twelve and he

trembled: Then, frightened and shivering, he put some water on the fire,

so that he might have some hot coffee before starting, and when the

clock struck one he got up, woke Sam, opened the door and went off in

the direction of the Wildstrubel. For five hours he mounted, scaling the

rocks by means of his climbing irons, cutting into the ice, advancing

continually, and occasionally hauling up the dog, who remained below at

the foot of some slope that was too steep for him, by means of the rope.

It was about six o'clock when he reached one of the summits to which

old Gaspard often came after chamois, and he waited till it should be

daylight.

The sky was growing pale overhead, and a strange light, springing

nobody could tell whence, suddenly illuminated the immense ocean of pale

mountain summits, which extended for a hundred leagues around him. One

might have said that this vague brightness arose from the snow itself

and spread abroad in space. By degrees the highest distant summits

assumed a delicate, pink flesh color, and the red sun appeared behind

the ponderous giants of the Bernese Alps.

Ulrich Kunsi set off again, walking like a hunter, bent over, looking

for tracks, and saying to his dog: “Seek, old fellow, seek!”

He was descending the mountain now, scanning the depths closely, and

from time to time shouting, uttering aloud, prolonged cry, which soon

died away in that silent vastness. Then he put his ear to the ground to

listen. He thought he could distinguish a voice, and he began to run and

shouted again, but he heard nothing more and sat down, exhausted and in

despair. Toward midday he breakfasted and gave Sam, who was as tired as

himself, something to eat also, and then he recommenced his search.

When evening came he was still walking, and he had walked more than

thirty miles over the mountains. As he was too far away to return home

and too tired to drag himself along any further, he dug a hole in

the snow and crouched in it with his dog under a blanket which he had

brought with him. And the man and the dog lay side by side, trying to

keep warm, but frozen to the marrow nevertheless. Ulrich scarcely slept,

his mind haunted by visions and his limbs shaking with cold.

Day was breaking when he got up. His legs were as stiff as iron bars

and his spirits so low that he was ready to cry with anguish, while his

heart was beating so that he almost fell over with agitation, when he

thought he heard a noise.

Suddenly he imagined that he also was going to die of cold in the

midst of this vast solitude, and the terror of such a death roused his

energies and gave him renewed vigor. He was descending toward the inn,

falling down and getting up again, and followed at a distance by Sam,

who was limping on three legs, and they did not reach Schwarenbach until

four o'clock in the afternoon. The house was empty and the young man

made a fire, had something to eat and went to sleep, so worn out that he

did not think of anything more.

He slept for a long time, for a very long time, an irresistible sleep.

But suddenly a voice, a cry, a name, “Ulrich!” aroused him from his

profound torpor and made him sit up in bed. Had he been dreaming? Was it

one of those strange appeals which cross the dreams of disquieted minds?

No, he heard it still, that reverberating cry-which had entered his ears

and remained in his flesh-to the tips of his sinewy fingers. Certainly

somebody had cried out and called “Ulrich!” There was somebody there

near the house, there could be no doubt of that, and he opened the door

and shouted, “Is it you, Gaspard?” with all the strength of his lungs.

But there was no reply, no murmur, no groan, nothing. It was quite dark

and the snow looked wan.

The wind had risen, that icy wind that cracks the rocks and leaves

nothing alive on those deserted heights, and it came in sudden gusts,

which were more parching and more deadly than the burning wind of the

desert, and again Ulrich shouted: “Gaspard! Gaspard! Gaspard.” And then

he waited again. Everything was silent on the mountain.

Then he shook with terror and with a bound he was inside the inn, when

he shut and bolted the door, and then he fell into a chair trembling all

over, for he felt certain that his comrade had called him at the moment

he was expiring.

He was sure of that, as sure as one is of being alive or of eating a

piece of bread. Old Gaspard Hari had been dying for two days and three

nights somewhere, in some hole, in one of those deep, untrodden ravines

whose whiteness is more sinister than subterranean darkness. He had been

dying for two days and three nights and he had just then died, thinking

of his comrade. His soul, almost before it was released, had taken its

flight to the inn where Ulrich was sleeping, and it had called him by

that terrible and mysterious power which the spirits of the dead have to

haunt the living. That voiceless soul had cried to the worn-out soul of

the sleeper; it had uttered its last farewell, or its reproach, or its

curse on the man who had not searched carefully enough.

And Ulrich felt that it was there, quite close to him, behind the wall,

behind the door which he had just fastened. It was wandering about, like

a night bird which lightly touches a lighted window with his wings, and

the terrified young man was ready to scream with horror. He wanted to

run away, but did not dare to go out; he did not dare, and he should

never dare to do it in the future, for that phantom would remain there

day and night, round the inn, as long as the old man's body was not

recovered and had not been deposited in the consecrated earth of a

churchyard.

When it was daylight Kunsi recovered some of his courage at the return

of the bright sun. He prepared his meal, gave his dog some food and then

remained motionless on a chair, tortured at heart as he thought of the

old man lying on the snow, and then, as soon as night once more covered

the mountains, new terrors assailed him. He now walked up and down the

dark kitchen, which was scarcely lighted by the flame of one candle, and

he walked from one end of it to the other with great strides, listening,

listening whether the terrible cry of the other night would again break

the dreary silence outside. He felt himself alone, unhappy man, as no

man had ever been alone before! He was alone in this immense desert of

Snow, alone five thousand feet above the inhabited earth, above human

habitation, above that stirring, noisy, palpitating life, alone under an

icy sky! A mad longing impelled him to run away, no matter where, to get

down to Loeche by flinging himself over the precipice; but he did not

even dare to open the door, as he felt sure that the other, the dead

man, would bar his road, so that he might not be obliged to remain up

there alone:

Toward midnight, tired with walking, worn out by grief and fear, he at

last fell into a doze in his chair, for he was afraid of his bed as one

is of a haunted spot. But suddenly the strident cry of the other evening

pierced his ears, and it was so shrill that Ulrich stretched out his

arms to repulse the ghost, and he fell backward with his chair.

Sam, who was awakened by the noise, began to howl as frightened dogs

do howl, and he walked all about the house trying to find out where

the danger came from. When he got to the door, he sniffed beneath it,

smelling vigorously, with his coat bristling and his tail stiff, while

he growled angrily. Kunsi, who was terrified, jumped up, and, holding

his chair by one leg, he cried: “Don't come in, don't come in, or I

shall kill you.” And the dog, excited by this threat, barked angrily at

that invisible enemy who defied his master's voice. By degrees, however,

he quieted down and came back and stretched himself in front of the

fire, but he was uneasy and kept his head up and growled between his

teeth.

Ulrich, in turn, recovered his senses, but as he felt faint with terror,

he went and got a bottle of brandy out of the sideboard, and he drank

off several glasses, one after anther, at a gulp. His ideas became

vague, his courage revived and a feverish glow ran through his veins.

He ate scarcely anything the next day and limited himself to alcohol,

and so he lived for several days, like a drunken brute. As soon as he

thought of Gaspard Hari, he began to drink again, and went on drinking

until he fell to the ground, overcome by intoxication. And there he

remained lying on his face, dead drunk, his limbs benumbed, and snoring

loudly. But scarcely had he digested the maddening and burning liquor

than the same cry, “Ulrich!” woke him like a bullet piercing his brain,

and he got up, still staggering, stretching out his hands to save

himself from falling, and calling to Sam to help him. And the dog, who

appeared to be going mad like his master, rushed to the door, scratched

it with his claws and gnawed it with his long white teeth, while the

young man, with his head thrown back drank the brandy in draughts, as

if it had been cold water, so that it might by and by send his thoughts,

his frantic terror, and his memory to sleep again.

In three weeks he had consumed all his stock of ardent spirits. But his

continual drunkenness only lulled his terror, which awoke more furiously

than ever as soon as it was impossible for him to calm it. His fixed

idea then, which had been intensified by a month of drunkenness, and

which was continually increasing in his absolute solitude, penetrated

him like a gimlet. He now walked about the house like a wild beast in

its cage, putting his ear to the door to listen if the other were there

and defying him through the wall. Then, as soon as he dozed, overcome by

fatigue, he heard the voice which made him leap to his feet.

At last one night, as cowards do when driven to extremities, he sprang

to the door and opened it, to see who was calling him and to force him

to keep quiet, but such a gust of cold wind blew into his face that

it chilled him to the bone, and he closed and bolted the door again

immediately, without noticing that Sam had rushed out. Then, as he was

shivering with cold, he threw some wood on the fire and sat down in

front of it to warm himself, but suddenly he started, for somebody was

scratching at the wall and crying. In desperation he called out: “Go

away!” but was answered by another long, sorrowful wail.

Then all his remaining senses forsook him from sheer fright. He

repeated: “Go away!” and turned round to try to find some corner in

which to hide, while the other person went round the house still crying

and rubbing against the wall. Ulrich went to the oak sideboard, which

was full of plates and dishes and of provisions, and lifting it up

with superhuman strength, he dragged it to the door, so as to form a

barricade. Then piling up all the rest of the furniture, the mattresses,

palliasses and chairs, he stopped up the windows as one does when

assailed by an enemy.

But the person outside now uttered long, plaintive, mournful groans, to

which the young man replied by similar groans, and thus days and

nights passed without their ceasing to howl at each other. The one was

continually walking round the house and scraped the walls with his nails

so vigorously that it seemed as if he wished to destroy them, while the

other, inside, followed all his movements, stooping down and holding his

ear to the walls and replying to all his appeals with terrible cries.

One evening, however, Ulrich heard nothing more, and he sat down, so

overcome by fatigue, that he went to sleep immediately and awoke in

the morning without a thought, without any recollection of what had

happened, just as if his head had been emptied during his heavy sleep,

but he felt hungry, and he ate.

The winter was over and the Gemmi Pass was practicable again, so the

Hauser family started off to return to their inn. As soon as they had

reached the top of the ascent the women mounted their mule and spoke

about the two men whom they would meet again shortly. They were, indeed,

rather surprised that neither of them had come down a few days before,

as soon as the road was open, in order to tell them all about their long

winter sojourn. At last, however, they saw the inn, still covered with

snow, like a quilt. The door and the window were closed, but a little

smoke was coming out of the chimney, which reassured old Hauser. On

going up to the door, however, he saw the skeleton of an animal which

had been torn to pieces by the eagles, a large skeleton lying on its

side.

They all looked close at it and the mother said:

“That must be Sam,” and then she shouted: “Hi, Gaspard!” A cry from the

interior of the house answered her and a sharp cry that one might have

thought some animal had uttered it. Old Hauser repeated, “Hi, Gaspard!”

and they heard another cry similar to the first.

Then the three men, the father and the two sons, tried to open the door,

but it resisted their efforts. From the empty cow-stall they took a

beam to serve as a battering-ram and hurled it against the door with all

their might. The wood gave way and the boards flew into splinters. Then

the house was shaken by a loud voice, and inside, behind the side board

which was overturned, they saw a man standing upright, with his hair

falling on his shoulders and a beard descending to his breast, with

shining eyes, and nothing but rags to cover him. They did not recognize

him, but Louise Hauser exclaimed:

“It is Ulrich, mother.” And her mother declared that it was Ulrich,

although his hair was white.

He allowed them to go up to him and to touch him, but he did not reply

to any of their questions, and they were obliged to take him to Loeche,

where the doctors found that he was mad, and nobody ever found out what

had become of his companion.

Little Louise Hauser nearly died that summer of decline, which the

physicians attributed to the cold air of the mountains.