was in the winter--in December--mother died--a bright coal fire--I
took the poker--I let it get red-hot--and I made crosses on his back,
eight or more, I cannot remember how many--then I turned him over and
repeated them on his stomach. Say, wasn't it funny, papa? Formerly
they marked convicts in this way. He wriggled like an eel--but I had
gagged him so that he couldn't scream. I gathered up the bills--twelve
in all--with mine it made thirteen--an unlucky number. I left the
house, after telling the servants not to bother their master until
dinner-time, because he was asleep. I thought that he would hush the
matter up because he was a senator and would fear the scandal. I was
mistaken. Four days later I was arrested in a Paris restaurant. I got
three years for the job. That is the reason why I did not come to you
sooner." He drank again, and stuttering so as to render his words
almost unintelligible, continued:
"Now--papa--isn't it funny to have one's papa a curé? You must be nice
to me, very nice, because, you know, I am not commonplace,--and I did a
good job--didn't I--on the old man?"
The anger which years ago had driven the Abbé Vilbois to desperation
rose within him at the sight of this miserable man.
He, who in the name of the Lord, had so often pardoned the infamous
secrets whispered to him under the seal of confession, was now
merciless in his own behalf. No longer did he implore the help of a
merciful God, for he realized that no power on earth or in the sky
could save those who had been visited by such a terrible disaster.
All the ardor of his passionate heart and of his violent blood, which
long years of resignation had tempered, awoke against the miserable
creature who was his son. He protested against the likeness he bore to
him and to his mother, the wretched mother who had formed him so like
herself; and he rebelled against the destiny that had chained this
criminal to him, like an iron ball to a galley-slave.
The shock roused him from the peaceful and pious slumber which had
lasted twenty-five years; with a wonderful lucidity he saw all that
would inevitably ensue.
Convinced that he must talk loud so as to intimidate this man from the
first, he spoke with his teeth clenched with fury:
"Now that you have told all, listen to me. You will leave here
to-morrow morning. You will go to a country that I shall designate, and
never leave it without my permission. I will give you a small income,
for I am poor. If you disobey me once, it will be withdrawn and you
will learn to know me."
Though Philippe-Auguste was half dazed with wine, he understood the
threat. Instantly the criminal within him rebelled. Between hiccoughs
he sputtered: "Ah! papa, be careful what you say--you're a curé,
remember--I hold you--and you have to walk straight, like the rest!"
The abbé started. Through his whole muscular frame crept the
unconquerable desire to seize this monster, to bend him like a twig, so
as to show him that he would have to yield.
Shaking the table, he shouted: "Take care, take care--I am afraid of
nobody."
The drunkard lost his balance and seeing that he was going to fall and
would forthwith be in the priest's power, he reached with a murderous
look for one of the knives lying on the table. The abbé perceived his
motion, and he gave the table a terrible shove; his son toppled over
and landed on his back. The lamp fell with a crash and went out.
During a moment the clinking of broken glass was heard in the darkness,
then the muffled sound of a soft body creeping on the floor, and then
all was silent.
With the crashing of the lamp a complete darkness spread over them;
it was so prompt and unexpected that they were stunned by it as by
some terrible event. The drunkard, pressed against the wall, did not
move; the priest remained on his chair in the midst of the night which
had quelled his rage. The somber veil that had descended so rapidly,
arresting his anger, also quieted the furious impulses of his soul; new
ideas, as dark and dreary as the obscurity, beset him.
The room was perfectly silent, like a tomb where nothing draws the
breath of life. Not a sound came from outside, neither the rumbling of
a distant wagon, nor the bark of a dog, nor even the sigh of the wind
passing through the trees.
This lasted a long time, perhaps an hour. Then suddenly the gong
vibrated! It rang once, as if it had been struck a short, sharp blow,
and was instantly followed by the noise of a falling body and an
overturned chair.
Marguerite came running out of the kitchen, but as soon as she opened
the door she fell back, frightened by the intense darkness. Trembling,
her heart beating as if it would burst, she called in a low, hoarse
voice: "M'sieur le Curé! M'sieur le Curé!"
Nobody answered, nothing stirred.
"_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu_," she thought, "what has happened, what have they
done?"
She did not dare enter the room, yet feared to go back to fetch a
light. She felt as if she would like to run away, to screech at the top
of her voice, though she knew her legs would refuse to carry her. She
repeated: "M'sieur le Curé! M'sieur le Curé! it is me, Marguerite."
But, notwithstanding her terror, the instinctive desire of helping her
master and a woman's courage, which is sometimes heroic, filled her
soul with a terrified audacity, and running back to the kitchen she
fetched a lamp.
She stopped at the doorsill. First, she caught sight of the tramp lying
against the wall, asleep, or simulating slumber; then she saw the
broken lamp, and then, under the table, the feet and black-stockinged
legs of the priest, who must have fallen backward, striking his head on
the gong.
Her teeth chattering and her hands trembling with fright, she kept on
repeating: "My God! My God! what is this?"
She advanced slowly, taking small steps, till she slid on something
slimy and almost fell.
Stooping, she saw that the floor was red and that a red liquid was
spreading around her feet toward the door. She guessed that it was
blood. She threw down her light so as to hide the sight of it, and fled
from the room out into the fields, running half crazed toward the
village. She ran screaming at the top of her voice, and bumping against
the trees she did not heed, her eyes fastened on the gleaming lights of
the distant town.
Her shrill voice rang out like the gloomy cry of the night-owl,
repeating continuously, "The maoufatan--the maoufatan--the
maoufatan----"
When she reached the first house, some excited men came out and
surrounded her; but she could not answer them and struggled to escape,
for the fright had turned her head.
After a while they guessed that something must have happened to the
curé, and a little rescuing party started for the lodge.
The little pink house standing in the middle of the olive grove had
grown black and invisible in the dark, silent night. Since the gleam of
the solitary window had faded, the cabin was plunged in darkness, lost
in the grove, and unrecognizable for anyone but a native of the place.
Soon lights began to gleam near the ground, between the trees,
streaking the dried grass with long, yellow reflections. The twisted
trunks of the olive-trees assumed fantastic shapes under the moving
lights, looking like monsters or infernal serpents. The projected
reflections suddenly revealed a vague, white mass, and soon the low,
square wall of the lodge grew pink from the light of the lanterns.
Several peasants were carrying the latter, escorting two gendarmes with
revolvers, the mayor, the _garde-champêtre_, and Marguerite, supported
by the men, for she was almost unable to walk.
The rescuing party hesitated a moment in front of the open, grewsome
door. But the brigadier, snatching a lantern from one of the men,
entered, followed by the rest.
The servant had not lied, blood covered the floor like a carpet. It had
spread to the place where the tramp was lying, bathing one of his hands
and legs.
The father and son were asleep, the one with a severed throat, the
other in a drunken stupor. The two gendarmes seized the latter and
before he awoke they had him handcuffed. He rubbed his eyes, stunned,
stupefied with liquor, and when he saw the body of the priest, he
appeared terrified, unable to understand what had happened.
"Why did he not escape?" said the mayor.
"He was too drunk," replied the officer.
And every man agreed with him, for nobody ever thought that perhaps the
Abbé Vilbois had taken his own life.
REVENGE
As they were still speaking of Pranzini, M. Maloureau, who had been
Attorney-General under the Empire, said:
"I knew another case like that, a very curious affair, curious from
many points, as you shall see.
"I was at that time Imperial attorney in the province, and stood
very well at Court, thanks to my father, who was first President at
Paris. I had charge of a still celebrated case, called 'The Affair of
Schoolmaster Moiron.'
"M. Moiron, a schoolmaster in the north of France, bore an excellent
reputation in all the country thereabout. He was an intelligent,
reflective, very religious man, and had married in the district
of Boislinot, where he practiced his profession. He had had three
children, who all died in succession from weak lungs. After the loss of
his own little ones, he seemed to lavish upon the urchins confided to
his care all the tenderness concealed in his heart. He bought, with his
own pennies, playthings for his best pupils, the diligent and good.
He allowed them to have play dinners, and gorged them with dainties of
candies and cakes. Everybody loved and praised this brave man, this
brave heart, and it was like a blow when five of his pupils died of the
same disease that had carried off his children. It was believed that an
epidemic prevailed, caused by the water being made impure from drought.
They looked for the cause, without discovering it, more than they did
at the symptoms, which were very strange. The children appeared to be
taken with a languor, could eat nothing, complained of pains in the
stomach, and finally died in most terrible agony.
"An autopsy was made of the last to die, but nothing was discovered.
The entrails were sent to Paris and analyzed, but showed no sign of any
toxic substance.
"For one year no further deaths occurred; then two little boys, the
best pupils in the class, favorites of father Moiron, expired in four
days' time. An examination was ordered, and in each body fragments
of pounded glass were found imbedded in the organs. They concluded
that the two children had eaten imprudently of something carelessly
prepared. Sufficient broken glass remained in the bottom of a bowl of
milk to have caused this frightful accident, and the matter would have
rested there had not Moiron's servant been taken ill in the interval.
The physician found the same morbid signs that he observed in the
preceding attacks of the children, and, upon questioning her, finally
obtained the confession that she had stolen and eaten some bonbons,
bought by the master for his pupils.
"Upon order of the court, the schoolhouse was searched and a closet was
found, full of sweetmeats and dainties for the children. Nearly all
these edibles contained fragments of glass or broken needles.
"Moiron was immediately arrested. He was so indignant and stupefied
at the weight of suspicion upon him that he was nearly overcome.
Nevertheless, the indications of his guilt were so apparent that they
fought hard in my mind against my first conviction, which was based
upon his good reputation, his entire life of truthfulness, and the
absolute absence of any motive for such a crime.
"Why should this good, simple religious man kill children, and the
children whom he seemed to love best? Why should he select those he had
feasted with dainties, for whom he had spent in playthings and bonbons
half his stipend?
"To admit this, it must be concluded that he was insane. But Moiron
seemed so reasonable, so calm, so full of judgment and good sense! It
was impossible to prove insanity in him.
"Proofs accumulated, nevertheless! Bonbons, cakes, _pâtés_ of
marshmallow, and other things seized at the shops where the
schoolmaster got his supplies were found to contain no suspected
fragment.
"He pretended that some unknown enemy had opened his closet with a
false key and placed the glass and needles in the eatables. And he
implied a story of heritage dependent on the death of a child, sought
out and discovered by a peasant, and so worked up as to make the
suspicion fall upon the schoolmaster. This brute, he said, was not
interested in the other poor children who had to die also.
"This theory was plausible. The man appeared so sure of himself and
so pitiful, that we should have acquitted him without doubt, if two
overwhelming discoveries had not been made at one blow. The first was
a snuffbox full of ground glass! It was his own snuffbox, in a secret
drawer of his secretary, where he kept his money.
"He explained this in a manner not acceptable, by saying that it was
the last ruse of an unknown guilty one. But a merchant of Saint-Marlouf
presented himself at the house of the judge, telling him that Moiron
had bought needles of him many times, the finest needles he could find,
breaking them to see whether they suited him.
"The merchant brought as witnesses a dozen persons who recognized
Moiron at first glance. And the inquest revealed the fact that the
schoolmaster was at Saint-Marlouf on the days designated by the
merchant.
"I pass over the terrible depositions of the children upon the master's
choice of dainties, and his care in making the little ones eat in his
presence and destroying all traces of the feast.
"Public opinion, exasperated, recalled capital punishment, and took on
a new force from terror which permitted no delays or resistance.
"Moiron was condemned to death. His appeal was rejected. No recourse
remained to him for pardon. I knew from my father that the Emperor
would not grant it.
"One morning, as I was at work in my office, the chaplain of the prison
was announced. He was an old priest who had a great knowledge of men
and a large acquaintance among criminals. He appeared troubled and
constrained. After talking a few moments of other things, he said
abruptly, on rising:
"'If Moiron is decapitated, Monsieur Attorney-General, you will have
allowed the execution of an innocent man.'
"Then, without bowing, he went out, leaving me under the profound
effect of his words. He had pronounced them in a solemn, affecting
fashion, opening lips, closed and sealed by confession, in order to
save a life.
"An hour later I was on my way to Paris, and my father, at my request,
asked an immediate audience with the Emperor.
"I was received the next day. Napoleon III. was at work in a little
room when we were introduced. I exposed the whole affair, even to the
visit of the priest, and, in the midst of the story, the door opened
behind the chair of the Emperor, and the Empress, who believed in him
alone, entered. His Majesty consulted her. When she had run over the
facts, she exclaimed:
"'This man must be pardoned! He must, because he is innocent.'
"Why should this sudden conviction of a woman so pious throw into my
mind a terrible doubt?
"Up to that time I had ardently desired a commutation of the sentence.
And now I felt myself the puppet, the dupe of a criminal ruse, which
had employed the priest and the confession as a means of defense.
"I showed some hesitation to their Majesties. The Emperor remained
undecided, solicited on one hand by his natural goodness, and on the
other held back by the fear of allowing himself to play a miserable
part; but the Empress, convinced that the priest had obeyed a divine
call, repeated: 'What does it matter? It is better to spare a guilty
man than to kill an innocent one.' Her advice prevailed. The penalty of
death was commuted, and that of hard labor was substituted.
"Some years after I heard that Moiron, whose exemplary conduct at
Toulon had been made known again to the Emperor, was employed as a
domestic by the director of the penitentiary. And then I heard no word
of this man for a long time.
"About two years after this, when I was passing the summer at the house
of my cousin, De Larielle, a young priest came to me one evening, as we
were sitting down to dinner, and wished to speak to me.
"I told them to let him come in, and he begged me to go with him to a
dying man, who desired, before all else, to see me. This had happened
often, during my long career as judge, and, although I had been put
aside by the Republic, I was still called upon from time to time in
like circumstances.
"I followed the ecclesiastic, who made me mount into a little miserable
lodging, under the roof of a high house. There, upon a pallet of straw,
I found a dying man, seated with his back against the wall, in order to
breathe. He was a sort of grimacing skeleton, with deep, shining eyes.
"When he saw me he murmured: 'You do not know me?'
"'No.'
"'I am Moiron.'
"I shivered, but said: 'The schoolmaster?'
"'Yes.'
"'How is it you are here?'
"'That would be too long--I haven't time--I am going to die--They
brought me this curate--and as I knew you were here, I sent him for
you--It is to you that I wish to confess--since you saved my life
before--the other time----'
"He seized with his dry hands the straw of his bed, and continued, in a
rasping, bass voice:
"'Here it is--I owe you the truth--to you, because it is necessary to
tell it to some one before leaving the earth.
"'It was I who killed the children--all--it was I--for vengeance!
"'Listen. I was an honest man, very honest--very honest--very
pure--adoring God--the good God--the God that they teach us to love,
and not the false God, the executioner, the robber, the murderer
who governs the earth--I had never done wrong, never committed a
villainous act. I was pure as one unborn.
"'After I was married I had some children, and I began to love them as
never father or mother loved their own. I lived only for them. I was
foolish. They died, all three of them! Why? Why? What had I done? I? I
had a change of heart, a furious change. Suddenly I opened my eyes as
of one awakening; and I learned that God is wicked. Why had He killed
my children? I opened my eyes and I saw that He loved to kill. He loves
only that, Monsieur. He exists only to destroy! God is a murderer! Some
death is necessary to Him every day. He causes them in all fashions,
the better to amuse Himself. He has invented sickness and accident
in order to divert Himself through all the long months and years.
And, when He is weary, He has epidemics, pests, the cholera, quinsy,
smallpox.
"'How do I know all that this monster has imagined? All these evils are
not enough to suffice. From time to time He sends war, in order to see
two hundred thousand soldiers laid low, bruised in blood and mire, with
arms and legs torn off, heads broken by bullets, like eggs that fall
along the road.
"'That is not all. He has made men who eat one another. And then, as
men become better than He, He has made beasts to see the men chase
them, slaughter, and nourish themselves with them. That is not all.
He has made all the little animals that live for a day, flies which
increase by myriads in an hour, ants, that one crushes, and others,
many, so many that we cannot even imagine them. And all kill one
another, chase one another, devour one another, murdering without
ceasing. And the good God looks on and is amused, because He sees all
for Himself, the largest as well as the smallest, those which are in
drops of water, as well as those in the stars. He looks at them all and
is amused! Ugh! Beast!
"'So I, Monsieur, I also have killed some children. I acted the part
for Him. It was not He who had them. It was not He, it was I. And I
would have killed still more, but you took me away. That's all!
"'I was going to die, guillotined. I! How He would have laughed, the
reptile! Then I asked for a priest, and lied to him. I confessed. I
lied, and I lived.
"'Now it is finished. I can no longer escape Him. But I have no fear of
Him, Monsieur, I understand Him too well.'
"It was frightful to see this miserable creature, hardly able to
breathe, talking in hiccoughs, opening an enormous mouth to eject some
words scarcely heard, pulling up the cloth of his straw bed, and, under
a cover nearly black, moving his meager limbs as if to save himself.
"Oh! frightful being and frightful remembrance!
"I asked him: 'You have nothing more to say?'
"'No, Monsieur.'
"'Then, farewell.'
"'Farewell, sir, one day or the other.'
"I turned toward the priest, whose somber silhouette was on the wall.
"'You will remain, M. Abbé?'
"'I will remain.'
"Then the dying man sneered: 'Yes, yes, he sends crows to dead bodies.'
"As for me, I had seen enough. I opened the door and went away in
self-protection."
AN OLD MAID
In Argenteuil they called her Queen Hortense. No one ever knew the
reason why. Perhaps because she spoke firmly, like an officer in
command. Perhaps because she was large, bony, and imperious. Perhaps
because she governed a multitude of domestic animals, hens, dogs, cats,
canaries, and parrots,--those animals so dear to old maids. But she
gave these familiar subjects neither dainties, nor pretty words, nor
those tender puerilities which seem to slip from the lips of a woman to
the velvety coat of the cat she is fondling. She governed her beasts
with authority. She ruled.
She was an old maid, one of those old maids with cracked voice, and
awkward gesture, whose soul seems hard. She never allowed contradiction
from any person, nor argument, nor would she tolerate hesitation, or
indifference, or idleness, or fatigue. No one ever heard her complain,
or regret what was, or desire what was not. "Each to his part," she
said, with the conviction of a fatalist. She never went to church,
cared nothing for the priests, scarcely believed in God, and called all
religious things "mourning merchandise."
For thirty years she had lived in her little house, with its tiny
garden in front, extending along the street, never modifying her
garments, changing only maids, and that mercilessly, when they became
twenty-one years old.
She replaced, without tears and without regrets, her dogs or cats
or birds, when they died of old age, or by accident, and she buried
trespassing animals in a flower-bed, heaping the earth above them and
treading it down with perfect indifference.
She had in the town some acquaintances, the families of employers,
whose men went to Paris every day. Sometimes they would invite her
to go to the theater with them. She inevitably fell asleep on these
occasions, and they were obliged to wake her when it was time to go
home. She never allowed anyone to accompany her, having no fear by
night or day. She seemed to have no love for children.
She occupied her time with a thousand masculine cares, carpentry,
gardening, cutting or sawing wood, repairing her old house, even doing
mason's work when it was necessary.
She had some relatives who came to see her twice a year. Her two
sisters, Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel, were married, one to
a florist, the other to a small householder. Madame Cimme had no
children; Madame Columbel had three: Henry, Pauline, and Joseph. Henry
was twenty-one, Pauline and Joseph were three, having come when one
would have thought the mother past the age. No tenderness united this
old maid to her kinsfolk.
In the spring of 1882, Queen Hortense became suddenly ill. The
neighbors went for a physician, whom she drove away. When the priest
presented himself she got out of bed, half naked, and put him out of
doors. The little maid, weeping, made gruel for her.
After three days in bed, the situation became so grave that the
carpenter living next door, after counsel with the physician (now
reinstated with authority), took it upon himself to summon the two
families.
They arrived by the same train, about ten o'clock in the morning; the
Columbels having brought their little Joseph.
When they approached the garden gate, they saw the maid seated in a
chair against the wall, weeping. The dog lay asleep on the mat before
the door, under a broiling sun; two cats, that looked as if dead, lay
stretched out on the window-sills, with eyes closed and paws and tails
extended at full length. A great glossy hen was promenading before the
door, at the head of a flock of chickens, covered with yellow down,
and in a large cage hung against the wall, covered with chickweed,
were several birds, singing themselves hoarse in the light of this hot
spring morning.
Two others, inseparable, in a little cage in the form of a cottage,
remained quiet, side by side on their perch.
M. Cimme, a large, wheezy personage, who always entered a room first,
putting aside men and women when it was necessary, remarked to the
maid: "Eh, Celeste! Is it so bad as that?"
The little maid sobbed through her tears:
"She doesn't know me any more. The doctor says it is the end."
They all looked at one another.
Madame Cimme and Madame Columbel embraced each other instantly, not
saying a word.
They resembled each other much, always wearing braids of hair and
shawls of red cashmere, as bright as hot coals.
Cimme turned toward his brother-in-law, a pale man, yellow and thin,
tormented by indigestion, who limped badly, and said to him in a
serious tone:
"Gad! It was time!"
But no one dared to go into the room of the dying woman situated on
the ground floor. Cimme himself stopped at that step. Columbel was the
first to decide upon it; he entered, balancing himself like the mast of
a ship, making a noise on the floor with the iron of his cane.
The two women ventured to follow, and M. Cimme brought up the line.
Little Joseph remained outside, playing with the dog.
A ray of sunlight fell on the bed, lighting up the hands which moved
nervously, opening and shutting without ceasing. The fingers moved
as if a thought animated them, as if they would signify something,
indicate some idea, obey some intelligence. The rest of the body
remained motionless under the covers. The angular figure gave no start.
The eyes remained closed.
The relatives arranged themselves in a semicircle and, without saying a
word, regarded the heaving breast and the short breathing. The little
maid had followed them, still shedding tears.
Finally, Cimme asked: "What was it the doctor said?"
The servant whispered: "He said we should leave her quiet, that nothing
more could be done."
Suddenly the lips of the old maid began to move. She seemed to
pronounce some silent words, concealed in her dying brain, and her
hands quickened their singular movement.
Then she spoke in a little, thin voice, quite unlike her own, an
utterance that seemed to come from far off, perhaps from the bottom of
that heart always closed.
Cimme walked upon tiptoe, finding this spectacle painful. Columbel,
whose lame leg wearied him, sat down.
The two women remained standing.
Queen Hortense muttered something quickly, which they were unable to
understand. She pronounced some names, called tenderly some imaginary
persons:
"Come here, my little Philip, kiss your mother. You love mamma, don't
you, my child? You, Rose, you will watch your little sister while I am
out. Especially, don't leave her alone, do you hear? And I forbid you
to touch matches."
She was silent some seconds; then, in a loud tone, as if she would
call, she said: "Henrietta!" She waited a little and continued: "Tell
your father to come and speak to me before going to his office." Then
suddenly: "I am suffering a little to-day, dear; promise me you will
not return late; you will tell your chief that I am ill. You know it is
dangerous to leave the children alone when I am in bed. I am going to
make you a dish of rice and sugar for dinner. The little ones like it
so much. Claire will be the happy one!"
She began to laugh, a young and noisy laugh, as she had never laughed
before. "Look, John," she said, "what a droll head he has. He has
smeared himself with the sugarplums, the dirty thing! Look! my dear,
how funny he looks!"
Columbel, who changed the position of his lame leg every moment,
murmured: "She is dreaming that she has children and a husband; the end
is near."
The two sisters did not move, but seemed surprised and stupid.
The little maid said: "Will you take off your hats and your shawls, and
go into the other room?"
They went out without having said a word. And Columbel followed them
limping, leaving the dying woman alone again.
When they were relieved of their outer garments, the women seated
themselves. Then one of the cats left the window, stretched herself,
jumped into the room, then upon the knees of Madame Cimme, who began to
caress her.
They heard from the next room the voice of agony, living, without
doubt, in this last hour, the life she had expected, living her dreams
at the very moment when all would be finished for her.
Cimme, in the garden, played with the little Joseph and the dog,
amusing himself much, with the gaiety of a great man in the country,
without thought of the dying woman.
But suddenly he entered, addressing the maid: "Say, then, my girl, are
you going to give us some luncheon? What are you going to eat, ladies?"
They decided upon an omelet of fine herbs, a piece of fillet with new
potatoes, a cheese, and a cup of coffee.
And as Madame Columbel was fumbling in her pocket for her purse: Cimme
stopped her, and turning to the maid said, "You need money?" and she
answered: "Yes, sir."
"How much?"
"Fifteen francs."
"Very well. Make haste, now, my girl, because I am getting hungry."
Madame Cimme, looking out at the climbing flowers bathed in the
sunlight, and at two pigeons making love on the roof opposite, said,
with a wounded air: "It is unfortunate to have come for so sad an
event. It would be nice in the country, to-day."
Her sister sighed without response, and Columbel murmured, moved
perhaps by the thought of a walk:
"My leg plagues me awfully."
Little Joseph and the dog made a terrible noise, one shouting with joy
and the other barking violently. They played at hide-and-seek around
the three flower-beds, running after each other like mad.
The dying woman continued to call her children, chatting with each,
imagining that she was dressing them, that she caressed them, that she
was teaching them to read: "Come, Simon, repeat, A, B, C, D. You do
not say it well; see, D, D, D, do you hear? Repeat, then----"
Cimme declared: "It is curious what she talks about at this time."
Then said Madame Columbel: "It would be better, perhaps, to go in
there."
But Cimme dissuaded her from it:
"Why go in, since we are not able to do anything for her? Besides we
are as well off here."
No one insisted. Madame observed the two green birds called
inseparable. She remarked pleasantly upon this singular fidelity, and
blamed men for not imitating these little creatures. Cimme looked
at his wife and laughed, singing with a bantering air, "Tra-la-la,
Tra-la-la," as if to say he could tell some things about her fidelity
to him.
Columbel, taken with cramps in his stomach, struck the floor with his
cane. The other cat entered, tail in the air. They did not sit down at
table until one o'clock.
When he had tasted the wine, Columbel, whom some one had recommended to
drink only choice Bordeaux, called the servant:
"Say, is there nothing better than this in the cellar?"
"Yes, sir; there is some of the wine that was served to you when you
were here before."
"Oh, well, go and bring three bottles."
They tasted this wine, which seemed excellent. Not that it proved to be
remarkable, but it had been fifteen years in the cellar. Cimme declared
it was just the wine for sickness.
Columbel, seized with a desire of possessing some of it, asked of the
maid: "How much is left of it, my girl?"
"Oh, nearly all, sir; Miss never drinks any of it. It is the heap at
the bottom."
Then Columbel turned toward his brother-in-law: "If you wish, Cimme, I
will take this wine instead of anything else; it agrees with my stomach
wonderfully."
The hen, in her turn, had entered with her troop of chickens; the two
women amused themselves by throwing crumbs to them. Joseph and the dog,
who had eaten enough, returned to the garden.
Queen Hortense spoke continually, but the voice was lower now, so that
it was no longer possible to distinguish the words.
When they had finished the coffee, they all went in to learn the
condition of the sick one. She seemed calm.
They went out and seated themselves in a circle in the garden, to aid
digestion.
Presently the dog began to run around the chairs with all speed,
carrying something in his mouth. The child ran after him violently.
Both disappeared into the house. Cimme fell asleep, with his stomach in
the sun.
The dying one began to speak loud again. Then suddenly she shouted.
The two women and Columbel hastened in to see what had happened. Cimme
awakened but did not move, liking better things as they were.
The dying woman was sitting up, staring with haggard eyes. Her dog,
to escape the pursuit of little Joseph, had jumped upon the bed,
startling her from the death agony. The dog was intrenched behind the
pillow, peeping at his comrade with eyes glistening, ready to jump
again at the least movement. He held in his mouth one of the slippers
of his mistress, shorn of its heel in the hour he had played with it.
The child, intimidated by the woman rising so suddenly before him,
remained motionless before the bed.
The hen, having just entered, had jumped upon a chair, frightened
by the noise. She called desperately to her chickens, which peeped,
frightened, from under the four legs of the seat.
Queen Hortense cried out with a piercing tone: "No, no, I do not wish
to die! I am not willing! Who will bring up my children? Who will care
for them? Who will love them? No, I am not willing! I am not----"
She turned on her back. All was over.
The dog, much excited, jumped into the room and skipped about.
Columbel ran to the window and called his brother-in-law: "Come
quickly! come quickly! I believe she is gone."
Then Cimme got up and resolutely went into the room, muttering: "It was
not as long as I should have believed."
COMPLICATION
After swearing for a long time that he would never marry, Jack
Boudillère suddenly changed his mind. It happened one summer at the
seashore, quite unexpectedly.
One morning, as he was extended on the sand, watching the women come
out of the water, a little foot caught his attention, because of its
slimness and delicacy. Raising his eyes higher, the entire person
seemed attractive. Of this entire person he had, however, seen only
the ankles and the head, emerging from a white flannel bathing suit,
fastened with care. He may be called sensuous and impressionable, but
it was by grace of form alone that he was captured. Afterward, he was
held by the charm and sweet spirit of the young girl, who was simple
and good and fresh, like her cheeks and her lips.
Presented to the family, he was pleased, and straightway became
love-mad. When he saw Bertha Lannis at a distance, on the long stretch
of yellow sand, he trembled from head to foot. Near her he was dumb,
incapable of saying anything or even of thinking, with a kind of
bubbling in his heart, a humming in his ears, and a frightened feeling
in his mind. Was this love?
He did not know, he understood nothing of it, but the fact remained
that he was fully decided to make this child his wife.
Her parents hesitated a long time, deterred by the bad reputation of
the young man. He had a mistress, it was said,--an old mistress, an old
and strong entanglement, one of those chains that is believed to be
broken, but which continues to hold, nevertheless. Beyond this, he had
loved, for a longer or shorter period, every woman who had come within
reach of his lips.
But he withdrew from the woman with whom he had lived, not even
consenting to see her again. A friend arranged her pension, assuring
her a subsistence. Jack paid, but he did not wish to speak to her,
pretending henceforth that he did not know her name. She wrote letters
which he would not open. Each week brought him a new disguise in the
handwriting of the abandoned one. Each week a greater anger developed
in him against her, and he would tear the envelope in two, without
opening it, without reading a line, knowing beforehand the reproaches
and complaints of the contents.
One could scarcely credit her perseverance, which lasted the whole
winter long, and it was not until spring that her demand was satisfied.
The marriage took place in Paris during the early part of May. It was
decided that they should not take the regular wedding journey. After a
little ball, composed of a company of young cousins who would not stay
past eleven o'clock, and would not prolong forever the cares of the day
of ceremony, the young couple intended to pass their first night at the
family home and to set out the next morning for the seaside, where they
had met and loved.
The night came, and they were dancing in the great drawing-room. The
newly-married pair had withdrawn from the rest into a little Japanese
boudoir shut off by silk hangings, and scarcely lighted this evening,
except by the dim rays from a colored lantern in the shape of an
enormous egg, which hung from the ceiling. The long window was open,
allowing at times a fresh breath of air from without to blow upon
their faces, for the evening was soft and warm, full of the odor of
springtime.
They said nothing, but held each other's hands, pressing them from time
to time with all their force. She was a little dismayed by this great
change in her life, but smiling, emotional, ready to weep, often ready
to swoon from joy, believing the entire world changed because of what
had come to her, a little disturbed without knowing the reason why,
and feeling all her body, all her soul, enveloped in an indefinable,
delicious lassitude.
Her husband she watched persistently, smiling at him with a fixed
smile. He wished to talk but found nothing to say, and remained quiet,
putting all his ardor into the pressure of the hand. From time to time
he murmured "Bertha!" and each time she raised her eyes to his with a
sweet and tender look. They would look at each other a moment, then his
eyes, fascinated by hers, would fall.
They discovered no thought to exchange. But they were alone, except as
a dancing couple would sometimes cast a glance at them in passing, a
furtive glance, as if it were the discreet and confidential witness of
a mystery.
A door at the side opened, a domestic entered, bearing upon a tray an
urgent letter which a messenger had brought. Jack trembled as he took
it, seized with a vague and sudden fear, the mysterious, abrupt fear of
misfortune.
He looked long at the envelope, not knowing the handwriting, nor daring
to open it, wishing not to read, not to know the contents, desiring to
put it in his pocket and to say to himself: "To-morrow, to-morrow, I
shall be far away and it will not matter!" But upon the corner were two
words underlined: _very urgent_, which frightened him. "You will permit
me, my dear," said he, and he tore off the wrapper. He read the letter,
growing frightfully pale, running over it at a glance, and then seeming
to spell it out.
When he raised his head his whole countenance was changed. He
stammered: "My dear little one, a great misfortune has happened to
my best friend. He needs me immediately, in a matter of--of life and
death. Allow me to go for twenty minutes. I will return immediately."
She, trembling and affrighted, murmured: "Go, my friend!" not yet being
enough of a wife to dare to ask or demand to know anything. And he
disappeared. She remained alone, listening to the dance music in the
next room.
He had taken a hat, the first he could find, and descended the
staircase upon the run. As soon as he was mingled with the people on
the street, he stopped under a gaslight in a vestibule and re-read the
letter. It said:
"SIR: The Ravet girl, your old mistress, has given birth to
a child which she asserts is yours. The mother is dying and
implores you to visit her. I take the liberty of writing
to you to ask whether you will grant the last wish of this
woman, who seems to be very unhappy and worthy of pity.
"Your servant, D. BONNARD."
When he entered the chamber of death, she was already in the last
agony. He would not have known her. The physician and the two nurses
were caring for her, dragging across the room some buckets full of ice
and linen.
Water covered the floor, two tapers were burning on a table; behind
the bed, in a little wicker cradle, a child was crying, and, with each
of its cries, the mother would try to move, shivering under the icy
compresses.
She was bleeding, wounded to death, killed by this birth. Her life was
slipping away; and, in spite of the ice, in spite of all care, the
hemorrhage continued, hastening her last hour.
She recognized Jack, and tried to raise her hand. She was too weak for
that, but the warm tears began to glide down her cheeks.
He fell on his knees beside the bed, seized one of her hands and kissed
it frantically; then, little by little, he approached nearer to the
wan face which strained to meet him. One of the nurses, standing with
a taper in her hand, observed them, and the doctor looked at them from
the remote corner of the room.
With a far-off voice, breathing hard, she said: "I am going to die, my
dear; promise me you will remain till the end. Oh! do not leave me now,
not at the last moment!"
He kissed her brow, her hair with a groan. "Be tranquil!" he murmured,
"I will stay."
It was some minutes before she was able to speak again, she was so weak
and overcome. Then she continued: "It is yours, the little one. I swear
it before God, I swear it to you upon my soul, I swear it at the moment
of death. I have never loved any man but you--promise me not to abandon
it----" He tried to take in his arms the poor, weak body, emptied of
its life blood. He stammered, excited by remorse and chagrin: "I swear
to you I will bring it up and love it. It shall never be separated from
me." Then she held Jack in an embrace. Powerless to raise her head, she
held up her blanched lips in an appeal for a kiss. He bent his mouth to
receive this poor, suppliant caress.
Calmed a little, she murmured in a low tone: "Take it, that I may see
that you love it."
He went to the cradle and took up the child.
He placed it gently on the bed between them. The little creature ceased
to cry. She whispered: "Do not stir!" And he remained motionless. There
he stayed, holding in his burning palms a hand that shook with the
shiver of death, as he had held, an hour before, another hand that had
trembled with the shiver of love. From time to time he looked at the
hour, with a furtive glance of the eye, watching the hand as it passed
midnight, then one o'clock, then two.
The doctor retired. The two nurses, after roaming around for some time
with light step, slept now in their chairs. The child slept, and the
mother, whose eyes were closed, seemed to be resting also.
Suddenly, as the pale daylight began to filter through the torn
curtains, she extended her arms with so startling and violent a motion
that she almost threw the child upon the floor. There was a rattling in
her throat; then she turned over motionless, dead.
The nurses hastened to her side, declaring: "It is over."
He looked once at this woman he had loved, then at the hand that marked
four o'clock, and, forgetting his overcoat, fled in his evening clothes
with the child in his arms.
After she had been left alone, his young bride had waited calmly
at first, in the Japanese boudoir. Then, seeing that he did not
return, she went back to the drawing-room, indifferent and tranquil
in appearance, but frightfully disturbed. Her mother, perceiving her
alone, asked where her husband was. She replied: "In his room; he will
return presently."
At the end of an hour, as everybody asked about him, she told of the
letter, of the change in Jack's face, and her fears of some misfortune.
They still waited. The guests had gone; only the parents and near
relatives remained. At midnight, they put the bride in her bed, shaking
with sobs. Her mother and two aunts were seated on the bed listening
to her weeping. Her father had gone to the police headquarters to make
inquiries. At five o'clock a light sound was heard in the corridor. The
door opened and closed softly. Then suddenly a cry, like the miauling
of a cat, went through the house, breaking the silence.
All the women of the house were out with one bound, and Bertha was the
first to spring forward, in spite of her mother and her aunts, clothed
only in her night-robe.
Jack, standing in the middle of the room, livid, breathing hard, held
the child in his arms.
The four women looked at him frightened; but Bertha suddenly became
rash, her heart wrung with anguish, and ran to him saying: "What is it?
What have you there?"
He had a foolish air, and answered in a husky voice: "It is--it is--I
have here a child, whose mother has just died." And he put into her
arms the howling little marmot.
Bertha, without saying a word, seized the child and embraced it,
straining it to her heart. Then, turning toward her husband with
her eyes full of tears, she said: "The mother is dead, you say?" He
answered: "Yes, just died--in my arms--I had broken with her since last
summer--I knew nothing about it--only the doctor sent for me and----"
Then Bertha murmured: "Well, we will bring up this little one."
FORGIVENESS
She had been brought up in one of those families who live shut up
within themselves, entirely apart from the rest of the world. They pay
no attention to political events, except to chat about them at table,
and changes in government seem so far, so very far away that they are
spoken of only as a matter of history--like the death of Louis XVI., or
the advent of Napoleon.
Customs change, fashions succeed each other, but changes are never
perceptible in this family, where old traditions are always followed.
And if some impossible story arises in the neighborhood, the scandal of
it dies at the threshold of this house.
The father and mother, alone in the evening, sometimes exchange a few
words on such a subject, but in an undertone, as if the walls had ears.
With great discretion, the father says: "Do you know about this
terrible affair in the Rivoil family?"
And the mother replies: "Who would have believed it? It is frightful!"
The children doubt nothing, but come to the age of living, in their
turn, with a bandage over their eyes and minds, without a suspicion of
any other kind of existence, without knowing that one does not always
think as he speaks, nor speak as he acts, without knowing that it is
necessary to live at war with the world, or at least, in armed peace,
without surmising that the ingenuous are frequently deceived, the
sincere trifled with, and the good wronged.
Some live until death in this blindness of probity, loyalty, and honor;
so upright that nothing can open their eyes. Others, undeceived,
without knowing much, are weighed down with despair, and die believing
that they are the puppets of an exceptional fatality, the miserable
victims of unlucky circumstance or particularly bad men.
The Savignols arranged a marriage for their daughter when she was
eighteen. She married a young man from Paris, George Barton, whose
business was on the Exchange. He was an attractive youth, with a
smooth tongue, and he observed all the outward proprieties necessary.
But at the bottom of his heart he sneered a little at his guileless
parents-in-law, calling them, among his friends, "My dear fossils."
He belonged to a good family, and the young girl was rich. He took her
to live in Paris.
She became one of the provincials of Paris, of whom there are many.
She remained ignorant of the great city, of its elegant people, of
its pleasures and its customs, as she had always been ignorant of the
perfidy and mystery of life.
Shut up in her own household, she scarcely knew the street she lived
in, and when she ventured into another quarter, it seemed to her that
she had journeyed far, into an unknown, strange city. She would say in
the evening:
"I crossed the boulevards to-day."
Two or three times a year, her husband took her to the theater. These
were feast-days not to be forgotten, which she recalled continually.
Sometimes at table, three months afterward, she would suddenly burst
out laughing and exclaim:
"Do you remember that ridiculous actor who imitated the cock's crowing?"
All her interests were within the boundaries of the two allied
families, who represented the whole of humanity to her. She designated
them by the distinguishing prefix "the," calling them respectively "the
Martinets," or "the Michelins."
Her husband lived according to his fancy, returning whenever he wished,
sometimes at daybreak, pretending business, and feeling in no way
constrained, so sure was he that no suspicion would ruffle this candid
soul.
But one morning she received an anonymous letter. She was too much
astonished and dismayed to scorn this letter, whose author declared
himself to be moved by interest in her happiness, by hatred of all
evil and love of truth. Her heart was too pure to understand fully the
meaning of the accusations.
But it revealed to her that her husband had had a mistress for two
years, a young widow, Mrs. Rosset, at whose house he passed his
evenings.
She knew neither how to pretend, nor to spy, nor to plan any sort of
ruse. When he returned for luncheon, she threw him the letter, sobbing,
and then fled to her room.
He had time to comprehend the matter and prepare his response before he
rapped at his wife's door. She opened it immediately, without looking
at him. He smiled, sat down, and drew her to his knee. In a sweet
voice, and a little jocosely, he said:
"My dear little one, Mrs. Rosset is a friend of mine. I have known her
for ten years and like her very much. I may add that I know twenty
other families of whom I have not spoken to you, knowing that you care
nothing for the world or for forming new friendships. But in order to
finish, once for all, these infamous lies, I will ask you to dress
yourself, after luncheon, and we will go to pay a visit to this young
lady, who will become your friend at once, I am sure." She embraced
her husband eagerly; and, from feminine curiosity, which no sooner
sleeps than wakes again, she did not refuse to go to see this unknown
woman, of whom, in spite of all, she was still suspicious. She felt by
instinct that a known danger is sooner overcome.
They were ushered into a little apartment on the fourth floor of a
handsome house. It was a coquettish little place, full of bric-à-brac
and ornamented with works of art. After about five minutes' waiting,
in a drawing-room where the light was dimmed by its generous window
draperies and portières, a door opened and a young woman appeared. She
was very dark, small, rather plump, and looked astonished, although she
smiled. George presented them. "My wife, Madame Julie Rosset."
The young widow uttered a little cry of astonishment and joy, and came
forward with both hands extended. She had not hoped for this happiness,
she said, knowing that Madame Barton saw no one. But she was so happy!
She was so fond of George! (She said George quite naturally, with
sisterly familiarity.) And she had had great desire to know his young
wife, and to love her, too.
At the end of a month these two friends were never apart from each
other. They met every day, often twice a day, and nearly always dined
together, either at one house or at the other. George scarcely ever
went out now, no longer pretended delay on account of business, but
said he loved his own chimney corner.
Finally, an apartment was left vacant in the house where Madame Rosset
resided. Madame Barton hastened to take it in order to be nearer her
new friend.
During two whole years there was a friendship between them without a
cloud, a friendship of heart and soul, tender, devoted, and delightful.
Bertha could not speak without mentioning Julie's name, for to her
Julie represented perfection. She was happy with a perfect happiness,
calm and secure.
But Madame Rosset fell ill. Bertha never left her. She passed nights of
despair; her husband, too, was broken-hearted.
One morning, in going out from his visit the doctor took George and his
wife aside, and announced that he found the condition of their friend
very grave.
When he had gone out, the young people, stricken down, looked at each
other and then began to weep. They both watched that night near the
bed. Bertha would embrace the sick one tenderly, while George, standing
silently at the foot of her couch, would look at them with dogged
persistence. The next day she was worse.
Finally, toward evening, she declared herself better, and persuaded her
friends to go home to dinner.
They were sitting sadly at table, scarcely eating anything, when the
maid brought George an envelope. He opened it, turned pale, and rising,
said to his wife, in a constrained way: "Excuse me, I must leave you
for a moment. I will return in ten minutes. Please don't go out." And
he ran into his room for his hat.
Bertha waited, tortured by a new fear. But, yielding in all things, she
would not go up to her friend's room again until he had returned.
As he did not re-appear, the thought came to her to look in his room to
see whether he had taken his gloves, which would show whether he had
really gone somewhere.
She saw them there, at first glance. Near them lay a rumpled paper.
She recognized it immediately; it was the one that had called George
away.
And a burning temptation took possession of her, the first of her life,
to read--to know. Her conscience struggled in revolt, but curiosity
lashed her on and grief directed her hand. She seized the paper, opened
it, recognized the trembling handwriting as that of Julie, and read:
"Come alone and embrace me, my poor friend; I am going to
die."
She could not understand it all at once, but stood stupefied, struck
especially by the thought of death. Then, suddenly, the familiarity of
it seized upon her mind. This came like a great light, illuminating
her whole life, showing her the infamous truth, all their treachery,
all their perfidy. She saw now their cunning, their sly looks, her
good faith played with, her confidence turned to account. She saw
them looking into each other's faces, under the shade of her lamp at
evening, reading from the same book, exchanging glances at the end of
certain pages.
And her heart, stirred with indignation, bruised with suffering, sunk
into an abyss of despair that had no boundaries.
When she heard steps, she fled and shut herself in her room.
Her husband called her: "Come quickly, Madame Rosset is dying!"
Bertha appeared at her door and said with trembling lip:
"Go alone to her; she has no need of me."
He looked at her sheepishly, careless from anger, and repeated:
"Quick, quick! She is dying!"
Bertha answered: "You would prefer it to be I."
Then he understood, probably, and left her to herself, going up again
to the dying one.
There he wept without fear, or shame, indifferent to the grief of his
wife, who would no longer speak to him, nor look at him, but who lived
shut in with her disgust and angry revolt, praying to God morning and
evening.
They lived together, nevertheless, eating together face to face, mute
and hopeless.
After a time, he tried to appease her a little. But she would not
forget. And so the life continued, hard for them both.
For a whole year they lived thus, strangers one to the other. Bertha
almost became mad.
Then one morning, having set out at dawn, she returned toward eight
o'clock carrying in both hands an enormous bouquet of roses, of white
roses, all white.
She sent word to her husband that she would like to speak to him. He
came in disturbed, troubled.
"Let us go out together," she said to him. "Take these flowers, they
are too heavy for me."
He took the bouquet and followed his wife. A carriage awaited them,
which started as soon as they were seated.
It stopped before the gate of a cemetery. Then Bertha, her eyes full of
tears, said to George: "Take me to her grave."
He trembled, without knowing why, but walked on before, holding the
flowers in his arms. Finally he stopped before a shaft of white marble
and pointed to it without a word.
She took the bouquet from him, and, kneeling, placed it at the foot of
the grave. Then her heart was raised in suppliant, silent prayer.
Her husband stood behind her, weeping, haunted by memories.
She arose and put out her hands to him.
"If you wish, we will be friends," she said.
THE WHITE WOLF
This is the story the old Marquis d'Arville told us after a dinner in
honor of Saint-Hubert, at the house of Baron des Ravels. They had run
down a stag that day. The Marquis was the only one of the guests who
had not taken part in the chase. He never hunted.
During the whole of the long repast, they had talked of scarcely
anything but the massacre of animals. Even the ladies interested
themselves in the sanguinary and often unlikely stories, while the
orators mimicked the attacks and combats between man and beast, raising
their arms and speaking in thunderous tones.
M. d'Arville talked much, with a certain poesy, a little flourish,
but full of effect. He must have repeated this story often, it ran so
smoothly, never halting at a choice of words in which to clothe an
image.
"Gentlemen, I never hunt, nor did my father, nor my grandfather, nor
my great-great-grandfather. The last named was the son of a man who
hunted more than all of you. He died in 1764. I will tell you how. He
was named John, and was married, and became the father of the man who
was my great-great-grandfather. He lived with his younger brother,
Francis d'Arville, in our castle, in the midst of a deep forest in
Lorraine.
"Francis d'Arville always remained a boy through his love for hunting.
They both hunted from one end of the year to the other without
cessation or weariness. They loved nothing else, understood nothing
else, talked only of this, and lived for this alone.
"They were possessed by this terrible, inexorable passion. It consumed
them, having taken entire control of them, leaving no place for
anything else. They had agreed not to put off the chase for any reason
whatsoever. My great-great-grandfather was born while his father was
following a fox, but John d'Arville did not interrupt his sport,
and swore that the little beggar might have waited until after the
death-cry! His brother Francis showed himself still more hot-headed
than he. The first thing on rising, he would go to see the dogs, then
the horses; then he would shoot some birds about the place, even when
about to set out hunting big game.
"They were called in the country Monsieur the Marquis and Monsieur the
Cadet, noblemen then not acting as do those of our time, who wish to
establish in their titles a descending scale of rank, for the son of a
marquis is no more a count, or the son of a viscount a baron, than the
son of a general is a colonel by birth. But the niggardly vanity of
the day finds profit in this arrangement. To return to my ancestors:
"They were, it appears, immoderately large, bony, hairy, violent, and
vigorous. The younger one was taller than the elder, and had such a
voice that, according to a legend he was very proud of, all the leaves
of the forest moved when he shouted.
"And when mounted, ready for the chase, it must have been a superb
sight to see these two giants astride their great horses.
"Toward the middle of the winter of that year, 1764, the cold was
excessive and the wolves became ferocious.
"They even attacked belated peasants, roamed around houses at night,
howled from sunset to sunrise, and ravaged the stables.
"At one time a rumor was circulated. It was said that a colossal wolf,
of grayish-white color, which had eaten two children, devoured the arm
of a woman, strangled all the watchdogs of the country, was now coming
without fear into the house inclosures and smelling around the doors.
Many inhabitants affirmed that they had felt his breath, which made the
lights flicker. Shortly a panic ran through all the province. No one
dared to go out after nightfall. The very shadows seemed haunted by the
image of this beast.
"The brothers D'Arville resolved to find and slay him. So they called
together for a grand chase all the gentlemen of the country.
"It was in vain. They had beaten the forests and scoured the thickets,
but had seen nothing of him. They killed wolves, but not that one. And
each night after such a chase, the beast, as if to avenge himself,
attacked some traveler, or devoured some cattle, always far from the
place where they had sought him.
"Finally, one night he found a way into the swine-house of the castle
D'Arville and ate two beauties of the best breed.
"The two brothers were furious, interpreting the attack as one of
bravado on the part of the monster--a direct injury, a defiance.
Therefore, taking all their best-trained hounds, they set out to run
down the beast, with courage excited by anger.
"From dawn until the sun descended behind the great nut-trees, they
beat about the forests with no result.
"At last, both of them, angry and disheartened, turned their horses'
steps into a bypath bordered by brushwood. They were marveling at the
baffling power of this wolf, when suddenly they were seized with a
mysterious fear.
"The elder said:
"'This can be no ordinary beast. One might say he can think like a man.'
"The younger replied:
"'Perhaps we should get our cousin, the Bishop, to bless a bullet for
him, or ask a priest to pronounce some words to help us.'
"Then they were silent.
"John continued: 'Look at the sun, how red it is. The great wolf will
do mischief to-night.'
"He had scarcely finished speaking when his horse reared. Francis's
horse started to run at the same time. A large bush covered with dead
leaves rose before them, and a colossal beast, grayish white, sprang
out, scampering away through the wood.
"Both gave a grunt of satisfaction, and bending to the necks of their
heavy horses, they urged them on with the weight of their bodies,
exciting them, hastening with voice and spur, until these strong
riders seemed to carry the weight of their beasts between their knees,
carrying them by force as if they were flying.
"Thus they rode, crashing through forests, crossing ravines, climbing
up the sides of steep gorges, and sounding the horn, at frequent
intervals, to arouse the people and the dogs of the neighborhood.
"But suddenly, in the course of this breakneck ride, my ancestor struck
his forehead against a large branch and fractured his skull. He fell to
the ground as if dead, while his frightened horse disappeared in the
surrounding thicket.
"The younger D'Arville stopped short, sprang to the ground, seized his
brother in his arms, and saw that he had lost consciousness.
"He sat down beside him, took his disfigured head upon his knees,
looking earnestly at the lifeless face. Little by little a fear crept
over him, a strange fear that he had never before felt, fear of
the shadows, of the solitude, of the lonely woods, and also of the
chimerical wolf, which had now come to be the death of his brother.
"The shadows deepened, the branches of the trees crackled in the sharp
cold. Francis arose shivering, incapable of remaining there longer,
and already feeling his strength fail. There was nothing to be heard,
neither the voice of dogs nor the sound of a horn; all within this
invisible horizon was mute. And in this gloomy silence and the chill of
evening there was something strange and frightful.
"With his powerful hands he seized John's body and laid it across
the saddle to take it home; then mounted gently behind it, his mind
troubled by horrible, supernatural images, as if he were possessed.
"Suddenly, in the midst of these fears, a great form passed. It was
the wolf. A violent fit of terror seized upon the hunter; something
cold, like a stream of ice-water seemed to glide through his veins,
and he made the sign of the cross, like a monk haunted with devils, so
dismayed was he by the reappearance of the frightful wanderer. Then,
his eyes falling upon the inert body before him, his fear was quickly
changed to anger, and he trembled with inordinate rage.
"He pricked his horse and darted after him.
"He followed him through copses, over ravines, and around great forest
trees, traversing woods that he no longer recognized, his eye fixed
upon a white spot, which was ever flying from him as night covered the
earth.
"His horse also seemed moved by an unknown force. He galloped on with
neck extended, crashing over small trees and rocks, with the body of
the dead stretched across him on the saddle. Brambles caught in his
mane; his head, where it had struck the trunks of trees, was spattered
with blood; the marks of the spurs were over his flanks.
"Suddenly the animal and its rider came out of the forest, rushing
through a valley as the moon appeared above the hills. This valley was
stony and shut in by enormous rocks, over which it was impossible to
pass; there was no other way for the wolf but to turn on his steps.
"Francis gave such a shout of joy and revenge that the echo of it was
like the roll of thunder. He leaped from his horse, knife in hand.
"The bristling beast, with rounded back, was awaiting him; his eyes
shining like two stars. But before joining in battle, the strong
hunter, grasping his brother, seated him upon a rock, supporting his
head, which was now but a mass of blood, with stones, and cried aloud
to him, as to one deaf: 'Look, John! Look here!'
"Then he threw himself upon the monster. He felt himself strong enough
to overthrow a mountain, to crush the very rocks in his hands. The
beast meant to kill him by sinking his claws in his vitals; but the man
had seized him by the throat, without even making use of his weapon,
and strangled him gently, waiting until his breath stopped and he could
hear the death-rattle at his heart. And he laughed, with the joy of
dismay, clutching more and more with a terrible hold, and crying out in
his delirium: 'Look, John! Look!' All resistance ceased. The body of
the wolf was limp. He was dead.
"Then Francis, taking him in his arms, threw him down at the feet of
his elder brother, crying out in expectant voice: 'Here, here, my
little John, here he is!'
"Then he placed upon the saddle the two bodies, the one above the
other, and started on his way.
"He returned to the castle laughing and weeping, like Gargantua at the
birth of Pantagruel, shouting in triumph and stamping with delight in
relating the death of the beast, and moaning and tearing at his beard
in calling the name of his brother.
"Often, later, when he recalled this day, he would declare, with tears
in his eyes: 'If only poor John had seen me strangle the beast, he
would have died content, I am sure!'
"The widow of my ancestor inspired in her son a horror of the chase,
which was transmitted from father to son down to myself."
The Marquis d'Arville was silent. Some one asked: "Is the story a
legend or not?"
And the narrator replied:
"I swear to you it is true from beginning to end."
Then a lady, in a sweet little voice, declared:
"It is beautiful to have passions like that."