*The Project Gutenberg Etext of A Set of Six, by Joseph Conrad*
#24 in our series by Joseph Conrad
Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!!
Please take a look at the important information in this header.
We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an
electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*
Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and
further information is included below. We need your donations.
A Set of Six
by Joseph Conrad
August, 2000 [Etext #2305]
*The Project Gutenberg Etext of A Set of Six, by Joseph Conrad*
*****This file should be named seto610.txt or seto610.zip******
Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, seto611.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, seto610a.txt
This etext was prepared by Judy Boss, Omaha, NE
Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,
all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a
copyright notice is included. Therefore, we do NOT keep these books
in compliance with any particular paper edition, usually otherwise.
We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance
of the official release dates, for time for better editing.
Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an
up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes
in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has
a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a
look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a
new copy has at least one byte more or less.
Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The
fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take
to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This
projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-two text
files per month, or 384 more Etexts in 1998 for a total of 1500+
If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the
total should reach over 150 billion Etexts given away.
The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
Files by the December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion]
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only 10% of the present number of computer users. 2001
should have at least twice as many computer users as that, so it
will require us reaching less than 5% of the users in 2001.
We need your donations more than ever!
All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are
tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie-
Mellon University).
For these and other matters, please mail to:
Project Gutenberg
P. O. Box 2782
Champaign, IL 61825
When all other email fails try our Executive Director:
Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>
We would prefer to send you this information by email
(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail).
******
If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please
FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives:
[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type]
ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu
login: anonymous
password: your@login
cd etext/etext90 through /etext96
or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information]
dir [to see files]
get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]
GET INDEX?00.GUT
for a list of books
and
GET NEW GUT for general information
and
MGET GUT* for newsletters.
**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor**
(Three Pages)
***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to.
*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.
ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-
tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor
Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at
Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other
things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this
etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.
If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.
THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.
INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors,
officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost
and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or
indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause:
[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification,
or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect.
DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:
[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this
requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however,
if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable
binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
including any form resulting from conversion by word pro-
cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as
*EITHER*:
[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
does *not* contain characters other than those
intended by the author of the work, although tilde
(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
be used to convey punctuation intended by the
author, and additional characters may be used to
indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
form by the program that displays the etext (as is
the case, for instance, with most word processors);
OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
or other equivalent proprietary form).
[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
"Small Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the
net profits you derive calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you
don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are
payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon
University" within the 60 days following each
date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare)
your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time,
scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty
free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution
you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg
Association / Carnegie-Mellon University".
*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*
This etext was prepared by Judy Boss, Omaha, NE
Note: I have made the following changes to the text:
PAGE LINE ORIGINAL CHANGED TO
45 25 Commander-in Commander-in-
155 35 "'I "I
253 20 Ferand Feraud
283 5 "<i>Vostri anelli</i>." "'<i>Vostri anelli</i>.'"
A SET OF SIX
BY
JOSEPH CONRAD
Les petites marionnettes
Font, font, font,
Trois petits tours
Et puis s'en vont.
- NURSERY RHYME
TO
MISS M. H. M. CAPES
[page intentionally blank]
AUTHOR'S NOTE
THE six stories in this volume are the result of some
three or four years of occasional work. The dates of
their writing are far apart, their origins are various.
None of them are connected directly with personal ex-
periences. In all of them the facts are inherently
true, by which I mean that they are not only possible
but that they have actually happened. For instance,
the last story in the volume, the one I call Pathetic,
whose first title is Il Conde (misspelt by-the-by) is an
almost verbatim transcript of the tale told me by a very
charming old gentleman whom I met in Italy. I don't
mean to say it is only that. Anybody can see that it is
something more than a verbatim report, but where he
left off and where I began must be left to the acute dis-
crimination of the reader who may be interested in the
problem. I don't mean to say that the problem is
worth the trouble. What I am certain of, however,
is that it is not to be solved, for I am not at all clear
about it myself by this time. All I can say is that the
personality of the narrator was extremely suggestive
quite apart from the story he was telling me. I heard
a few years ago that he had died far away from his be-
loved Naples where that "abominable adventure" did
really happen to him.
Thus the genealogy of Il Conde is simple. It is
not the case with the other stories. Various strains
contributed to their composition, and the nature of
many of those I have forgotten, not having the habit of
making notes either before or after the fact. I mean
the fact of writing a story. What I remember best
about Gaspar Ruiz is that it was written, or at any rate
begun, within a month of finishing Nostromo; but
apart from the locality, and that a pretty wide one (all
the South American Continent), the novel and the
story have nothing in common, neither mood, nor in-
tention and, certainly, not the style. The manner for
the most part is that of General Santierra, and that
old warrior, I note with satisfaction, is very true to
himself all through. Looking now dispassionately at
the various ways in which this story could have been
presented I can't honestly think the General super-
fluous. It is he, an old man talking of the days of his
youth, who characterizes the whole narrative and
gives it an air of actuality which I doubt whether I
could have achieved without his help. In the mere
writing his existence of course was of no help at all,
because the whole thing had to be carefully kept within
the frame of his simple mind. But all this is but a
laborious searching of memories. My present feeling
is that the story could not have been told otherwise.
The hint for Gaspar Ruiz the man I found in a book
by Captain Basil Hall, R.N., who was for some time,
between the years 1824 and 1828, senior officer of a
small British Squadron on the West Coast of South
America. His book published in the thirties obtained a
certain celebrity and I suppose is to be found still in
some libraries. The curious who may be mistrusting
my imagination are referred to that printed document,
Vol. II, I forget the page, but it is somewhere not far
from the end. Another document connected with this
story is a letter of a biting and ironic kind from a friend
then in Burma, passing certain strictures upon "the
gentleman with the gun on his back" which I do not
intend to make accessible to the public. Yet the gun
episode did really happen, or at least I am bound to
believe it because I remember it, described in an ex-
tremely matter-of-fact tone, in some book I read in my
boyhood; and I am not going to discard the beliefs of
my boyhood for anybody on earth.
The Brute, which is the only sea-story in the volume,
is, like Il Conde, associated with a direct narrative and
based on a suggestion gathered on warm human lips.
I will not disclose the real name of the criminal ship
but the first I heard of her homicidal habits was from
the late Captain Blake, commanding a London ship
in which I served in 1884 as Second Officer. Captain
Blake was, of all my commanders, the one I remember
with the greatest affection. I have sketched in his
personality, without however mentioning his name,
in the first paper of The Mirror of the Sea. In his
young days he had had a personal experience of the
brute and it is perhaps for that reason that I have put
the story into the mouth of a young man and made of it
what the reader will see. The existence of the brute
was a fact. The end of the brute as related in the story
is also a fact, well-known at the time though it really
happened to another ship, of great beauty of form and
of blameless character, which certainly deserved a
better fate. I have unscrupulously adapted it to the
needs of my story thinking that I had there something
in the nature of poetical justice. I hope that little
villainy will not cast a shadow upon the general honesty
of my proceedings as a writer of tales.
Of The Informer and An Anarchist I will say next
to nothing. The pedigree of these tales is hopelessly
complicated and not worth disentangling at this dis-
tance of time. I found them and here they are. The
discriminating reader will guess that I have found them
within my mind; but how they or their elements came
in there I have forgotten for the most part; and for the
rest I really don't see why I should give myself away
more than I have done already.
It remains for me only now to mention The Duel, the
longest story in the book. That story attained the
dignity of publication all by itself in a small illustrated
volume, under the title, "The Point of Honour." That
was many years ago. It has been since reinstated in
its proper place, which is the place it occupies in this
volume, in all the subsequent editions of my work.
Its pedigree is extremely simple. It springs from a
ten-line paragraph in a small provincial paper published
in the South of France. That paragraph, occasioned
by a duel with a fatal ending between two well-known
Parisian personalities, referred for some reason or other
to the "well-known fact" of two officers in Napoleon's
Grand Army having fought a series of duels in the
midst of great wars and on some futile pretext. The
pretext was never disclosed. I had therefore to invent
it; and I think that, given the character of the two offi-
cers which I had to invent, too, I have made it suffi-
ciently convincing by the mere force of its absurdity.
The truth is that in my mind the story is nothing but a
serious and even earnest attempt at a bit of historical
fiction. I had heard in my boyhood a good deal of the
great Napoleonic legend. I had a genuine feeling that
I would find myself at home in it, and The Duel is the
result of that feeling, or, if the reader prefers, of that
presumption. Personally I have no qualms of con-
science about this piece of work. The story might
have been better told of course. All one's work might
have been better done; but this is the sort of reflection
a worker must put aside courageously if he doesn't
mean every one of his conceptions to remain for ever a
private vision, an evanescent reverie. How many of
those visions have I seen vanish in my time! This one,
however, has remained, a testimony, if you like, to my
courage or a proof of my rashness. What I care to re-
member best is the testimony of some French readers
who volunteered the opinion that in those hundred
pages or so I had managed to render "wonderfully"
the spirit of the whole epoch. Exaggeration of kind-
ness no doubt; but even so I hug it still to my breast,
because in truth that is exactly what I was trying to cap-
ture in my small net: the Spirit of the Epoch -- never
purely militarist in the long clash of arms, youthful,
almost childlike in its exaltation of sentiment -- naively
heroic in its faith.
1920. J. C.
CONTENTS
GASPAR RUIZ
THE INFORMER
THE BRUTE
AN ANARCHIST
THE DUEL
IL CONDE
A SET OF SIX
A SET OF SIX
GASPAR RUIZ
I
A REVOLUTIONARY war raises many strange charac-
ters out of the obscurity which is the common lot of
humble lives in an undisturbed state of society.
Certain individualities grow into fame through their
vices and their virtues, or simply by their actions, which
may have a temporary importance; and then they
become forgotten. The names of a few leaders alone
survive the end of armed strife and are further pre-
served in history; so that, vanishing from men's active
memories, they still exist in books.
The name of General Santierra attained that cold
paper-and-ink immortality. He was a South American
of good family, and the books published in his lifetime
numbered him amongst the liberators of that continent
from the oppressive rule of Spain.
That long contest, waged for independence on one
side and for dominion on the other, developed in the
course of years and the vicissitudes of changing fortune
the fierceness and inhumanity of a struggle for life. All
feelings of pity and compassion disappeared in the
growth of political hatred. And, as is usual in war, the
mass of the people, who had the least to gain by the
issue, suffered most in their obscure persons and their
humble fortunes.
General Santierra began his service as lieutenant in
the patriot army raised and commanded by the famous
San Martin, afterwards conqueror of Lima and liberator
of Peru. A great battle had just been fought on the
banks of the river Bio-Bio. Amongst the prisoners
made upon the routed Royalist troops there was a
soldier called Gaspar Ruiz. His powerful build and his
big head rendered him remarkable amongst his fellow-
captives. The personality of the man was unmistak-
able. Some months before he had been missed from
the ranks of Republican troops after one of the many
skirmishes which preceded the great battle. And now,
having been captured arms in hand amongst Royalists,
he could expect no other fate but to be shot as a deserter.
Gaspar Ruiz, however, was not a deserter; his mind
was hardly active enough to take a discriminating view
of the advantages or perils of treachery. Why should
he change sides? He had really been made a prisoner,
had suffered ill-usage and many privations. Neither
side showed tenderness to its adversaries. There came
a day when he was ordered, together with some other
captured rebels, to march in the front rank of the Royal
troops. A musket had been thrust into his hands.
He had taken it. He had marched. He did not want
to be killed with circumstances of peculiar atrocity for
refusing to march. He did not understand heroism
but it was his intention to throw his musket away at
the first opportunity. Meantime he had gone on load-
ing and firing, from fear of having his brains blown out
at the first sign of unwillingness, by some non-
commissioned officer of the King of Spain. He tried to
set forth these elementary considerations before the
sergeant of the guard set over him and some twenty
other such deserters, who had been condemned sum-
marily to be shot.
It was in the quadrangle of the fort at the back of
the batteries which command the roadstead of Val-
paraiso. The officer who had identified him had gone
on without listening to his protestations. His doom
was sealed; his hands were tied very tightly together
behind his back; his body was sore all over from the
many blows with sticks and butts of muskets which had
hurried him along on the painful road from the place of
his capture to the gate of the fort. This was the only
kind of systematic attention the prisoners had received
from their escort during a four days' journey across a
scantily watered tract of country. At the crossings of
rare streams they were permitted to quench their thirst
by lapping hurriedly like dogs. In the evening a few
scraps of meat were thrown amongst them as they
dropped down dead-beat upon the stony ground of the
halting-place.
As he stood in the courtyard of the castle in the
early morning, after having been driven hard all night,
Gaspar Ruiz's throat was parched, and his tongue felt
very large and dry in his mouth.
And Gaspar Ruiz, besides being very thirsty, was
stirred by a feeling of sluggish anger, which he could
not very well express, as though the vigour of his spirit
were by no means equal to the strength of his body.
The other prisoners in the batch of the condemned
hung their heads, looking obstinately on the ground.
But Gaspar Ruiz kept on repeating: "What should I
desert for to the Royalists? Why should I desert?
Tell me, Estaban!"
He addressed himself to the sergeant, who happened
to belong to the same part of the country as himself.
But the sergeant, after shrugging his meagre shoulders
once, paid no further attention to the deep murmuring
voice at his back. It was indeed strange that Gaspar
Ruiz should desert. His people were in too humble
a station to feel much the disadvantages of any form
of government. There was no reason why Gaspar Ruiz
should wish to uphold in his own person the rule of
the King of Spain. Neither had he been anxious to
exert himself for its subversion. He had joined the
side of Independence in an extremely reasonable and
natural manner. A band of patriots appeared one
morning early, surrounding his father's ranche, spearing
the watch-dogs and hamstringing a fat cow all in the
twinkling of an eye, to the cries of "Viva la Libertad!"
Their officer discoursed of Liberty with enthusiasm and
eloquence after a long and refreshing sleep. When
they left in the evening, taking with them some of
Ruiz, the father's, best horses to replace their own
lamed animals, Gaspar Ruiz went away with them,
having been invited pressingly to do so by the eloquent
officer.
Shortly afterwards a detachment of Royalist troops
coming to pacify the district, burnt the ranche, carried
off the remaining horses and cattle, and having thus
deprived the old people of all their worldly possessions,
left them sitting under a bush in the enjoyment of the
inestimable boon of life.
II
GASPAR RUIZ, condemned to death as a deserter,
was not thinking either of his native place or of his
parents, to whom he had been a good son on account
of the mildness of his character and the great strength
of his limbs. The practical advantage of this last
was made still more valuable to his father by his
obedient disposition. Gaspar Ruiz had an acquiescent
soul.
But it was stirred now to a sort of dim revolt by
his dislike to die the death of a traitor. He was not a
traitor. He said again to the sergeant: "You know
I did not desert, Estaban. You know I remained
behind amongst the trees with three others to keep
the enemy back while the detachment was running
away!"
Lieutenant Santierra, little more than a boy at the
time, and unused as yet to the sanguinary imbecilities
of a state of war, had lingered near by, as if fascinated
by the sight of these men who were to be shot pres-
ently -- "for an example" -- as the Commandante had
said.
The sergeant, without deigning to look at the
prisoner, addressed himself to the young officer with
a superior smile.
"Ten men would not have been enough to make
him a prisoner, mi teniente. Moreover, the other three
rejoined the detachment after dark. Why should he,
unwounded and the strongest of them all, have failed to
do so?"
"My strength is as nothing against a mounted man
with a lasso," Gaspar Ruiz protested, eagerly. "He
dragged me behind his horse for half a mile."
At this excellent reason the sergeant only laughed
contemptuously. The young officer hurried away after
the Commandante.
Presently the adjutant of the castle came by. He
was a truculent, raw-boned man in a ragged uniform.
His spluttering voice issued out of a flat yellow face.
The sergeant learned from him that the condemned
men would not be shot till sunset. He begged then
to know what he was to do with them meantime.
The adjutant looked savagely round the courtyard
and, pointing to the door of a small dungeon-like
guardroom, receiving light and air through one heavily
barred window, said: "Drive the scoundrels in there."
The sergeant, tightening his grip upon the stick he
carried in virtue of his rank, executed this order with
alacrity and zeal. He hit Gaspar Ruiz, whose move-
ments were slow, over his head and shoulders. Gaspar
Ruiz stood still for a moment under the shower of
blows, biting his lip thoughtfully as if absorbed by a
perplexing mental process -- then followed the others
without haste. The door was locked, and the adjutant
carried off the key.
By noon the heat of that vaulted place crammed
to suffocation had become unbearable. The prisoners
crowded towards the window, begging their guards for
a drop of water; but the soldiers remained lying in
indolent attitudes wherever there was a little shade
under a wall, while the sentry sat with his back against
the door smoking a cigarette, and raising his eyebrows
philosophically from time to time. Gaspar Ruiz had
pushed his way to the window with irresistible force.
His capacious chest needed more air than the others;
his big face, resting with its chin on the ledge, pressed
close to the bars, seemed to support the other faces
crowding up for breath. From moaned entreaties they
had passed to desperate cries, and the tumultuous howl-
ing of those thirsty men obliged a young officer who
was just then crossing the courtyard to shout in order
to make himself heard.
"Why don't you give some water to these prisoners?"
The sergeant, with an air of surprised innocence,
excused himself by the remark that all those men were
condemned to die in a very few hours.
Lieutenant Santierra stamped his foot. "They are
condemned to death, not to torture," he shouted.
"Give them some water at once."
Impressed by this appearance of anger, the soldiers
bestirred themselves, and the sentry, snatching up his
musket, stood to attention.
But when a couple of buckets were found and filled
from the well, it was discovered that they could not be
passed through the bars, which were set too close. At
the prospect of quenching their thirst, the shrieks of
those trampled down in the struggle to get near the
opening became very heartrending. But when the
soldiers who had lifted the buckets towards the window
put them to the ground again helplessly, the yell of dis-
appointment was still more terrible.
The soldiers of the army of Independence were not
equipped with canteens. A small tin cup was found,
but its approach to the opening caused such a com-
motion, such yells of rage and pain in the vague mass
of limbs behind the straining faces at the window, that
Lieutenant Santierra cried out hurriedly, "No, no -- you
must open the door, sergeant."
The sergeant, shrugging his shoulders, explained
that he had no right to open the door even if he had
had the key. But he had not the key. The adjutant
of the garrison kept the key. Those men were giving
much unnecessary trouble, since they had to die at sun-
set in any case. Why they had not been shot at once
early in the morning he could not understand.
Lieutenant Santierra kept his back studiously to the
window. It was at his earnest solicitations that the
Commandante had delayed the execution. This favour
had been granted to him in consideration of his dis-
tinguished family and of his father's high position
amongst the chiefs of the Republican party. Lieutenant
Santierra believed that the General commanding would
visit the fort some time in the afternoon, and he ingenu-
ously hoped that his naive intercession would induce
that severe man to pardon some, at least, of those crim-
inals. In the revulsion of his feeling his interference
stood revealed now as guilty and futile meddling. It ap-
peared to him obvious that the general would never even
consent to listen to his petition. He could never save
those men, and he had only made himself responsible for
the sufferings added to the cruelty of their fate.
"Then go at once and get the key from the adjutant,"
said Lieutenant Santierra.
The sergeant shook his head with a sort of bashful
smile, while his eyes glanced sideways at Gaspar Ruiz's
face, motionless and silent, staring through the bars at
the bottom of a heap of other haggard, distorted, yelling
faces.
His worship the adjutant de Plaza, the sergeant
murmured, was having his siesta; and supposing that
he, the sergeant, would be allowed access to him, the
only result he expected would be to have his soul
flogged out of his body for presuming to disturb his
worship's repose. He made a deprecatory movement
with his hands, and stood stock-still, looking down
modestly upon his brown toes.
Lieutenant Santierra glared with indignation, but
hesitated. His handsome oval face, as smooth as a
girl's, flushed with the shame of his perplexity. Its
nature humiliated his spirit. His hairless upper lip
trembled; he seemed on the point of either bursting
into a fit of rage or into tears of dismay.
Fifty years later, General Santierra, the venerable
relic of revolutionary times, was well able to remem-
ber the feelings of the young lieutenant. Since he
had given up riding altogether, and found it difficult
to walk beyond the limits of his garden, the general's
greatest delight was to entertain in his house the
officers of the foreign men-of-war visiting the harbour.
For Englishmen he had a preference, as for old com-
panions in arms. English naval men of all ranks
accepted his hospitality with curiosity, because he had
known Lord Cochrane and had taken part, on board the
patriot squadron commanded by that marvellous sea-
man, in the cutting out and blockading operations be-
fore Callao -- an episode of unalloyed glory in the wars
of Independence and of endless honour in the fighting
tradition of Englishmen. He was a fair linguist, this
ancient survivor of the Liberating armies. A trick of
smoothing his long white beard whenever he was short
of a word in French or English imparted an air of
leisurely dignity to the tone of his reminiscences.
III
"YES, my friends," he used to say to his guests,
"what would you have? A youth of seventeen sum-
mers, without worldly experience, and owing my
rank only to the glorious patriotism of my father, may
God rest his soul. I suffered immense humiliation,
not so much from the disobedience of that subordinate,
who, after all, was responsible for those prisoners; but
I suffered because, like the boy I was, I myself dreaded
going to the adjutant for the key. I had felt, before,
his rough and cutting tongue. Being quite a common
fellow, with no merit except his savage valour, he made
me feel his contempt and dislike from the first day I
joined my battalion in garrison at the fort. It was only
a fortnight before! I would have confronted him sword
in hand, but I shrank from the mocking brutality of his
sneers.
"I don't remember having been so miserable in my
life before or since. The torment of my sensibility
was so great that I wished the sergeant to fall dead at
my feet, and the stupid soldiers who stared at me to
turn into corpses; and even those wretches for whom
my entreaties had procured a reprieve I wished dead
also, because I could not face them without shame. A
mephitic heat like a whiff of air from hell came out of
that dark place in which they were confined. Those at
the window who had heard what was going on jeered at
me in very desperation: one of these fellows, gone mad
no doubt, kept on urging me volubly to order the soldiers
to fire through the window. His insane loquacity made
my heart turn faint. And my feet were like lead. There
was no higher officer to whom I could appeal. I had
not even the firmness of spirit to simply go away.
"Benumbed by my remorse, I stood with my back
to the window. You must not suppose that all this
lasted a long time. How long could it have been? A
minute? If you measured by mental suffering it was
like a hundred years; a longer time than all my life has
been since. No, certainly, it was not so much as a
minute. The hoarse screaming of those miserable
wretches died out in their dry throats, and then sud-
denly a voice spoke, a deep voice muttering calmly.
It called upon me to turn round.
"That voice, senores, proceeded from the head of
Gaspar Ruiz. Of his body I could see nothing. Some
of his fellow-captives had clambered upon his back.
He was holding them up. His eyes blinked without
looking at me. That and the moving of his lips was
all he seemed able to manage in his overloaded state.
And when I turned round, this head, that seemed more
than human size resting on its chin under a multitude
of other heads, asked me whether I really desired to
quench the thirst of the captives.
"I said, 'Yes, yes!' eagerly, and came up quite
close to the window. I was like a child, and did not
know what would happen. I was anxious to be com-
forted in my helplessness and remorse.
"'Have you the authority, Senor teniente, to re-
lease my wrists from their bonds?' Gaspar Ruiz's
head asked me.
"His features expressed no anxiety, no hope; his
heavy eyelids blinked upon his eyes that looked past
me straight into the courtyard.
"As if in an ugly dream, I spoke, stammering:
'What do you mean? And how can I reach the bonds
on your wrists?'
"'I will try what I can do,' he said; and then that
large staring head moved at last, and all the wild faces
piled up in that window disappeared, tumbling down.
He had shaken his load off with one movement, so
strong he was.
"And he had not only shaken it off, but he got free
of the crush and vanished from my sight. For a
moment there was no one at all to be seen at the
window. He had swung about, butting and shoulder-
ing, clearing a space for himself in the only way he could
do it with his hands tied behind his back.
"Finally, backing to the opening, he pushed out to
me between the bars his wrists, lashed with many turns
of rope. His hands, very swollen, with knotted veins,
looked enormous and unwieldy. I saw his bent back.
It was very broad. His voice was like the muttering
of a bull.
"'Cut, Senor teniente. Cut!'
"I drew my sword, my new unblunted sword that
had seen no service as yet, and severed the many turns
of the hide rope. I did this without knowing the why
and the wherefore of my action, but as it were com-
pelled by my faith in that man. The sergeant made as
if to cry out, but astonishment deprived him of his
voice, and he remained standing with his mouth open
as if overtaken by sudden imbecility.
"I sheathed my sword and faced the soldiers. An
air of awestruck expectation had replaced their usual list-
less apathy. I heard the voice of Gaspar Ruiz shouting
inside, but the words I could not make out plainly. I
suppose that to see him with his arms free augmented
the influence of his strength: I mean by this, the spiritual
influence that with ignorant people attaches to an excep-
tional degree of bodily vigour. In fact, he was no more
to be feared than before, on account of the numbness of
his arms and hands, which lasted for some time.
"The sergeant had recovered his power of speech.
'By all the saints!' he cried, 'we shall have to get a
cavalry man with a lasso to secure him again, if he is
to be led to the place of execution. Nothing less than
a good enlazador on a good horse can subdue him.
Your worship was pleased to perform a very mad thing.'
"I had nothing to say. I was surprised myself,
and I felt a childish curiosity to see what would hap-
pen next. But the sergeant was thinking of the diffi-
culty of controlling Gaspar Ruiz when the time for
making an example would come.
"'Or perhaps,' the sergeant pursued, vexedly, 'we
shall be obliged to shoot him down as he dashes out
when the door is opened.' He was going to give
further vent to his anxieties as to the proper carrying
out of the sentence; but he interrupted himself with a
sudden exclamation, snatched a musket from a soldier,
and stood watchful with his eyes fixed on the window.
IV
"GASPAR RUIZ had clambered up on the sill, and sat
down there with his feet against the thickness of the
wall and his knees slightly bent. The window was
not quite broad enough for the length of his legs.
It appeared to my crestfallen perception that he
meant to keep the window all to himself. He seemed
to be taking up a comfortable position. Nobody inside
dared to approach him now he could strike with his
hands.
"'Por Dios!' I heard the sergeant muttering at my
elbow, 'I shall shoot him through the head now, and
get rid of that trouble. He is a condemned man.'
"At that I looked at him angrily. 'The general
has not confirmed the sentence,' I said -- though I knew
well in my heart that these were but vain words. The
sentence required no confirmation. 'You have no
right to shoot him unless he tries to escape,' I added,
firmly.
"'But sangre de Dios!' the sergeant yelled out,
bringing his musket up to the shoulder, 'he is escaping
now. Look!'
"But I, as if that Gaspar Ruiz had cast a spell
upon me, struck the musket upward, and the bullet
flew over the roofs somewhere. The sergeant dashed
his arm to the ground and stared. He might have
commanded the soldiers to fire, but he did not. And
if he had he would not have been obeyed, I think, just
then.
"With his feet against the thickness of the wall
and his hairy hands grasping the iron bar, Gaspar
sat still. It was an attitude. Nothing happened for a
time. And suddenly it dawned upon us that he was
straightening his bowed back and contracting his arms.
His lips were twisted into a snarl. Next thing we per-
ceived was that the bar of forged iron was being bent
slowly by the mightiness of his pull. The sun was
beating full upon his cramped, unquivering figure. A
shower of sweat-drops burst out of his forehead.
Watching the bar grow crooked, I saw a little blood
ooze from under his finger-nails. Then he let go. For
a moment he remained all huddled up, with a hanging
head, looking drowsily into the upturned palms of his
mighty hands. Indeed he seemed to have dozed off.
Suddenly he flung himself backwards on the sill, and
setting the soles of his bare feet against the other
middle bar, he bent that one, too, but in the opposite
direction from the first.
"Such was his strength, which in this case relieved
my painful feelings. And the man seemed to have
done nothing. Except for the change of position in
order to use his feet, which made us all start by its
swiftness, my recollection is that of immobility. But
he had bent the bars wide apart. And now he could
get out if he liked; but he dropped his legs inwards,
and looking over his shoulder beckoned to the soldiers.
'Hand up the water,' he said. 'I will give them all a
drink.'
"He was obeyed. For a moment I expected man
and bucket to disappear, overwhelmed by the rush of
eagerness; I thought they would pull him down with
their teeth. There was a rush, but holding the bucket
on his lap he repulsed the assault of those wretches by
the mere swinging of his feet. They flew backwards at
every kick, yelling with pain; and the soldiers laughed,
gazing at the window.
"They all laughed, holding their sides, except the
sergeant, who was gloomy and morose. He was afraid
the prisoners would rise and break out -- which would
have been a bad example. But there was no fear of
that, and I stood myself before the window with my
drawn sword. When sufficiently tamed by the strength
of Gaspar Ruiz they came up one by one, stretching
their necks and presenting their lips to the edge of the
bucket which the strong man tilted towards them from
his knees with an extraordinary air of charity, gentleness,
and compassion. That benevolent appearance was of
course the effect of his care in not spilling the water
and of his attitude as he sat on the sill; for, if a man
lingered with his lips glued to the rim of the bucket
after Gaspar Ruiz had said 'You have had enough,'
there would be no tenderness or mercy in the shove of
the foot which would send him groaning and doubled
up far into the interior of the prison, where he would
knock down two or three others before he fell himself.
They came up to him again and again; it looked as if
they meant to drink the well dry before going to their
death; but the soldiers were so amused by Gaspar
Ruiz's systematic proceedings that they carried the
water up to the window cheerfully.
"When the adjutant came out after his siesta there
was some trouble over this affair, I can assure you.
And the worst of it was that the general whom we
expected never came to the castle that day."
The guests of General Santierra unanimously ex-
pressed their regret that the man of such strength
and patience had not been saved.
"He was not saved by my interference," said the
General. "The prisoners were led to execution half an
hour before sunset. Gaspar Ruiz, contrary to the
sergeant's apprehensions, gave no trouble. There was no
necessity to get a cavalry man with a lasso in order to
subdue him, as if he were a wild bull of the campo. I
believe he marched out with his arms free amongst the
others who were bound. I did not see. I was not there.
I had been put under arrest for interfering with the
prisoner's guard. About dusk, sitting dismally in my
quarters, I heard three volleys fired, and thought that I
should never hear of Gaspar Ruiz again. He fell with
the others. But we were to hear of him nevertheless,
though the sergeant boasted that as he lay on his face
expiring or dead in the heap of the slain, he had slashed
his neck with a sword. He had done this, he said, to
make sure of ridding the world of a dangerous traitor.
"I confess to you, senores, that I thought of that
strong man with a sort of gratitude, and with some
admiration. He had used his strength honourably.
There dwelt, then, in his soul no fierceness correspond-
ing to the vigour of his body."
V
GASPAR RUIZ, who could with ease bend apart the
heavy iron bars of the prison, was led out with others
to summary execution. "Every bullet has its billet,"
runs the proverb. All the merit of proverbs consists
in the concise and picturesque expression. In the
surprise of our minds is found their persuasiveness. In
other words, we are struck and convinced by the shock.
What surprises us is the form, not the substance.
Proverbs are art -- cheap art. As a general rule they
are not true; unless indeed they happen to be mere
platitudes, as for instance the proverb, "Half a loaf is
better than no bread," or "A miss is as good as a mile."
Some proverbs are simply imbecile, others are immoral.
That one evolved out of the naive heart of the great
Russian people, "Man discharges the piece, but God
carries the bullet," is piously atrocious, and at bitter
variance with the accepted conception of a compassion-
ate God. It would indeed be an inconsistent occupa-
tion for the Guardian of the poor, the innocent, and the
helpless, to carry the bullet, for instance, into the heart
of a father.
Gaspar Ruiz was childless, he had no wife, he had
never been in love. He had hardly ever spoken to a
woman, beyond his mother and the ancient negress of
the household, whose wrinkled skin was the colour of
cinders, and whose lean body was bent double from age.
If some bullets from those muskets fired off at fifteen
paces were specifically destined for the heart of Gaspar
Ruiz, they all missed their billet. One, however,
carried away a small piece of his ear, and another a
fragment of flesh from his shoulder.
A red and unclouded sun setting into a purple ocean
looked with a fiery stare upon the enormous wall
of the Cordilleras, worthy witnesses of his glorious
extinction. But it is inconceivable that it should have
seen the ant-like men busy with their absurd and
insignificant trials of killing and dying for reasons that,
apart from being generally childish, were also im-
perfectly understood. It did light up, however, the
backs of the firing party and the faces of the condemned
men. Some of them had fallen on their knees, others
remained standing, a few averted their heads from the
levelled barrels of muskets. Gaspar Ruiz, upright, the
burliest of them all, hung his big shock head. The low
sun dazzled him a little, and he counted himself a dead
man already.
He fell at the first discharge. He fell because he
thought he was a dead man. He struck the ground
heavily. The jar of the fall surprised him. "I am not
dead apparently," he thought to himself, when he heard
the execution platoon reloading its arms at the word of
command. It was then that the hope of escape dawned
upon him for the first time. He remained lying
stretched out with rigid limbs under the weight of two
bodies collapsed crosswise upon his back.
By the time the soldiers had fired a third volley
into the slightly stirring heaps of the slain, the sun had
gone out of sight, and almost immediately with the
darkening of the ocean dusk fell upon the coasts of the
young Republic. Above the gloom of the lowlands the
snowy peaks of the Cordilleras remained luminous and
crimson for a long time. The soldiers before marching
back to the fort sat down to smoke.
The sergeant with a naked sword in his hand strolled
away by himself along the heap of the dead. He was
a humane man, and watched for any stir or twitch of
limb in the merciful idea of plunging the point of his
blade into any body giving the slightest sign of life.
But none of the bodies afforded him an opportunity for
the display of this charitable intention. Not a muscle
twitched amongst them, not even the powerful muscles
of Gaspar Ruiz, who, deluged with the blood of his
neighbours and shamming death, strove to appear more
lifeless than the others.
He was lying face down. The sergeant recognized
him by his stature, and being himself a very small man,
looked with envy and contempt at the prostration of so
much strength. He had always disliked that particular
soldier. Moved by an obscure animosity, he inflicted a
long gash across the neck of Gaspar Ruiz, with some
vague notion of making sure of that strong man's death,
as if a powerful physique were more able to resist the
bullets. For the sergeant had no doubt that Gaspar
Ruiz had been shot through in many places. Then he
passed on, and shortly afterwards marched off with his
men, leaving the bodies to the care of crows and
vultures.
Gaspar Ruiz had restrained a cry, though it had
seemed to him that his head was cut off at a blow; and
when darkness came, shaking off the dead, whose weight
had oppressed him, he crawled away over the plain on
his hands and knees. After drinking deeply, like a
wounded beast, at a shallow stream, he assumed an
upright posture, and staggered on light-headed and
aimless, as if lost amongst the stars of the clear night.
A small house seemed to rise out of the ground before
him. He stumbled into the porch and struck at the
door with his fist. There was not a gleam of light.
Gaspar Ruiz might have thought that the inhabitants
had fled from it, as from many others in the neigh-
bourhood, had it not been for the shouts of abuse that
answered his thumping. In his feverish and enfeebled
state the angry screaming seemed to him part of a
hallucination belonging to the weird, dreamlike feeling
of his unexpected condemnation to death, of the thirst
suffered, of the volleys fired at him within fifteen paces,
of his head being cut off at a blow. "Open the door!"
he cried. "Open in the name of God!"
An infuriated voice from within jeered at him:
"Come in, come in. This house belongs to you. All
this land belongs to you. Come and take it."
"For the love of God," Gaspar Ruiz murmured.
"Does not all the land belong to you patriots?"
the voice on the other side of the door screamed on.
"Are you not a patriot?"
Gaspar Ruiz did not know. "I am a wounded man,"
he said, apathetically.
All became still inside. Gaspar Ruiz lost the hope of
being admitted, and lay down under the porch just
outside the door. He was utterly careless of what
was going to happen to him. All his consciousness
seemed to be concentrated in his neck, where he felt a
severe pain. His indifference as to his fate was genuine.
The day was breaking when he awoke from a feverish
doze; the door at which he had knocked in the dark
stood wide open now, and a girl, steadying herself
with her outspread arms, leaned over the threshold.
Lying on his back, he stared up at her. Her face was
pale and her eyes were very dark; her hair hung down
black as ebony against her white cheeks; her lips were
full and red. Beyond her he saw another head with
long grey hair, and a thin old face with a pair of
anxiously clasped hands under the chin.
VI
"I KNEW those people by sight," General Santierra
would tell his guests at the dining-table. "I mean
the people with whom Gaspar Ruiz found shelter.
The father was an old Spaniard, a man of property
ruined by the revolution. His estates, his house in
town, his money, everything he had in the world had
been confiscated by proclamation, for he was a bitter foe
of our independence. From a position of great dignity
and influence on the Viceroy's Council he became of
less importance than his own negro slaves made free
by our glorious revolution. He had not even the means
to flee the country, as other Spaniards had managed to
do. It may be that, wandering ruined and houseless,
and burdened with nothing but his life, which was left
to him by the clemency of the Provisional Government,
he had simply walked under that broken roof of old
tiles. It was a lonely spot. There did not seem to be
even a dog belonging to the place. But though the roof
had holes, as if a cannon-ball or two had dropped
through it, the wooden shutters were thick and tight-
closed all the time.
"My way took me frequently along the path in
front of that miserable rancho. I rode from the fort to
the town almost every evening, to sigh at the window
of a lady I was in love with, then. When one is young,
you understand. . . . She was a good patriot, you
may believe. Caballeros, credit me or not, political
feeling ran so high in those days that I do not believe
I could have been fascinated by the charms of a woman
of Royalist opinions. . . ."
Murmurs of amused incredulity all round the table
interrupted the General; and while they lasted he
stroked his white beard gravely.
"Senores," he protested, "a Royalist was a monster
to our overwrought feelings. I am telling you this in
order not to be suspected of the slightest tenderness
towards that old Royalist's daughter. Moreover, as you
know, my affections were engaged elsewhere. But I
could not help noticing her on rare occasions when with
the front door open she stood in the porch.
"You must know that this old Royalist was as crazy
as a man can be. His political misfortunes, his total
downfall and ruin, had disordered his mind. To show
his contempt for what we patriots could do, he affected
to laugh at his imprisonment, at the confiscation of his
lands, the burning of his houses, and at the misery
to which he and his womenfolk were reduced. This
habit of laughing had grown upon him, so that he
would begin to laugh and shout directly he caught
sight of any stranger. That was the form of his
madness.
"I, of course, disregarded the noise of that madman
with that feeling of superiority the success of our cause
inspired in us Americans. I suppose I really despised
him because he was an old Castilian, a Spaniard born,
and a Royalist. Those were certainly no reasons to
scorn a man; but for centuries Spaniards born had
shown their contempt of us Americans, men as well
descended as themselves, simply because we were what
they called colonists. We had been kept in abasement
and made to feel our inferiority in social intercourse.
And now it was our turn. It was safe for us patriots
to display the same sentiments; and I being a young
patriot, son of a patriot, despised that old Spaniard, and
despising him I naturally disregarded his abuse, though
it was annoying to my feelings. Others perhaps would
not have been so forbearing.
"He would begin with a great yell -- 'I see a patriot.
Another of them!' long before I came abreast of
the house. The tone of his senseless revilings, mingled
with bursts of laughter, was sometimes piercingly shrill
and sometimes grave. It was all very mad; but I
felt it incumbent upon my dignity to check my
horse to a walk without even glancing towards the
house, as if that man's abusive clamour in the porch
were less than the barking of a cur. Always I rode by
preserving an expression of haughty indifference on my
face.
"It was no doubt very dignified; but I should have
done better if I had kept my eyes open. A military
man in war time should never consider himself off
duty; and especially so if the war is a revolutionary
war, when the enemy is not at the door, but within
your very house. At such times the heat of passionate
convictions passing into hatred, removes the re-
straints of honour and humanity from many men and
of delicacy and fear from some women. These last,
when once they throw off the timidity and reserve of
their sex, become by the vivacity of their intelligence
and the violence of their merciless resentment more
dangerous than so many armed giants."
The General's voice rose, but his big hand stroked
his white beard twice with an effect of venerable calm-
ness. "Si, Senores! Women are ready to rise to the
heights of devotion unattainable by us men, or to sink
into the depths of abasement which amazes our mas-
culine prejudices. I am speaking now of exceptional
women, you understand. . . ."
Here one of the guests observed that he had never
met a woman yet who was not capable of turning out
quite exceptional under circumstances that would en-
gage her feelings strongly. "That sort of superiority
in recklessness they have over us," he concluded,
"makes of them the more interesting half of man-
kind."
The General, who bore the interruption with gravity,
nodded courteous assent. "Si. Si. Under circum-
stances. . . . Precisely. They can do an infinite
deal of mischief sometimes in quite unexpected ways.
For who could have imagined that a young girl, daughter
of a ruined Royalist whose life was held only by the
contempt of his enemies, would have had the power
to bring death and devastation upon two flourishing
provinces and cause serious anxiety to the leaders
of the revolution in the very hour of its success!"
He paused to let the wonder of it penetrate our
minds.
"Death and devastation," somebody murmured in
surprise: "how shocking!"
The old General gave a glance in the direction of
the murmur and went on. "Yes. That is, war --
calamity. But the means by which she obtained the
power to work this havoc on our southern frontier seem
to me, who have seen her and spoken to her, still more
shocking. That particular thing left on my mind a
dreadful amazement which the further experience of life,
of more than fifty years, has done nothing to diminish."
He looked round as if to make sure of our attention,
and, in a changed voice: "I am, as you know, a re-
publican, son of a Liberator," he declared. "My in-
comparable mother, God rest her soul, was a French-
woman, the daughter of an ardent republican. As a
boy I fought for liberty; I've always believed in the
equality of men; and as to their brotherhood, that, to
my mind, is even more certain. Look at the fierce
animosity they display in their differences. And what
in the world do you know that is more bitterly fierce
than brothers' quarrels?"
All absence of cynicism checked an inclination to
smile at this view of human brotherhood. On the
contrary, there was in the tone the melancholy natural
to a man profoundly humane at heart who from duty,
from conviction, and from necessity, had played his
part in scenes of ruthless violence.
The General had seen much of fratricidal strife.
"Certainly. There is no doubt of their brotherhood,"
he insisted. "All men are brothers, and as such know
almost too much of each other. But" -- and here in
the old patriarchal head, white as silver, the black eyes
humorously twinkled -- "if we are all brothers, all the
women are not our sisters."
One of the younger guests was heard murmuring
his satisfaction at the fact. But the General continued,
with deliberate earnestness: "They are so different!
The tale of a king who took a beggar-maid for a partner
of his throne may be pretty enough as we men look upon
ourselves and upon love. But that a young girl,
famous for her haughty beauty and, only a short time
before, the admired of all at the balls in the Viceroy's
palace, should take by the hand a guasso, a common
peasant, is intolerable to our sentiment of women and
their love. It is madness. Nevertheless it happened.
But it must be said that in her case it was the madness
of hate -- not of love."
After presenting this excuse in a spirit of chivalrous
justice, the General remained silent for a time. "I
rode past the house every day almost," he began again,
"and this was what was going on within. But how it
was going on no mind of man can conceive. Her
desperation must have been extreme, and Gaspar Ruiz
was a docile fellow. He had been an obedient soldier.
His strength was like an enormous stone lying on the
ground, ready to be hurled this way or that by the hand
that picks it up.
"It is clear that he would tell his story to the people
who gave him the shelter he needed. And he needed
assistance badly. His wound was not dangerous, but
his life was forfeited. The old Royalist being wrapped
up in his laughing madness, the two women arranged a
hiding-place for the wounded man in one of the huts
amongst the fruit trees at the back of the house. That
hovel, an abundance of clear water while the fever
was on him, and some words of pity were all they could
give. I suppose he had a share of what food there was.
And it would be but little: a handful of roasted corn,
perhaps a dish of beans, or a piece of bread with a few
figs. To such misery were those proud and once
wealthy people reduced."
VII
GENERAL SANTIERRA was right in his surmise. Such
was the exact nature of the assistance which Gaspar
Ruiz, peasant son of peasants, received from the
Royalist family whose daughter had opened the door of
their miserable refuge to his extreme distress. Her
sombre resolution ruled the madness of her father and
the trembling bewilderment of her mother.
She had asked the strange man on the doorstep,
"Who wounded you?"
"The soldiers, senora," Gaspar Ruiz had answered,
in a faint voice.
"Patriots?"
"Si."
"What for?"
"Deserter," he gasped, leaning against the wall
under the scrutiny of her black eyes. "I was left for
dead over there."
She led him through the house out to a small hut of
clay and reeds, lost in the long grass of the overgrown
orchard. He sank on a heap of maize straw in a corner,
and sighed profoundly.
"No one will look for you here," she said, looking
down at him. "Nobody comes near us. We, too, have
been left for dead -- here."
He stirred uneasily on his heap of dirty straw, and
the pain in his neck made him groan deliriously.
"I shall show Estaban some day that I am alive yet,"
he mumbled.
He accepted her assistance in silence, and the many
days of pain went by. Her appearances in the hut
brought him relief and became connected with the
feverish dreams of angels which visited his couch;
for Gaspar Ruiz was instructed in the mysteries of his
religion, and had even been taught to read and write a
little by the priest of his village. He waited for her
with impatience, and saw her pass out of the dark hut
and disappear in the brilliant sunshine with poignant
regret. He discovered that, while he lay there feeling
so very weak, he could, by closing his eyes, evoke her
face with considerable distinctness. And this discovered
faculty charmed the long, solitary hours of his convales-
cence. Later on, when he began to regain his strength,
he would creep at dusk from his hut to the house and
sit on the step of the garden door.
In one of the rooms the mad father paced to and
fro, muttering to himself with short, abrupt laughs. In
the passage, sitting on a stool, the mother sighed and
moaned. The daughter, in rough threadbare clothing,
and her white haggard face half hidden by a coarse
manta, stood leaning against the side of the door.
Gaspar Ruiz, with his elbows propped on his knees and
his head resting in his hands, talked to the two women
in an undertone.
The common misery of destitution would have made
a bitter mockery of a marked insistence on social differ-
ences. Gaspar Ruiz understood this in his simplicity.
From his captivity amongst the Royalists he could give
them news of people they knew. He described their
appearance; and when he related the story of the battle
in which he was recaptured the two women lamented the
blow to their cause and the ruin of their secret hopes.
He had no feeling either way. But he felt a great
devotion for that young girl. In his desire to appear
worthy of her condescension, he boasted a little of his
bodily strength. He had nothing else to boast of.
Because of that quality his comrades treated him with
as great a deference, he explained, as though he had
been a sergeant, both in camp and in battle.
"I could always get as many as I wanted to follow
me anywhere, senorita. I ought to have been made an
officer, because I can read and write."
Behind him the silent old lady fetched a moaning
sigh from time to time; the distracted father muttered
to himself, pacing the sala; and Gaspar Ruiz would
raise his eyes now and then to look at the daughter of
these people.
He would look at her with curiosity because she was
alive, and also with that feeling of familiarity and awe
with which he had contemplated in churches the
inanimate and powerful statues of the saints, whose
protection is invoked in dangers and difficulties. His
difficulty was very great.
He could not remain hiding in an orchard for ever
and ever. He knew also very well that before he had
gone half a day's journey in any direction, he would be
picked up by one of the cavalry patrols scouring the
country, and brought into one or another of the camps
where the patriot army destined for the liberation of
Peru was collected. There he would in the end be
recognized as Gaspar Ruiz -- the deserter to the Royal-
ists -- and no doubt shot very effectually this time.
There did not seem any place in the world for the
innocent Gaspar Ruiz anywhere. And at this thought
his simple soul surrendered itself to gloom and re-
sentment as black as night.
They had made him a soldier forcibly. He did not
mind being a soldier. And he had been a good soldier
as he had been a good son, because of his docility and
his strength. But now there was no use for either.
They had taken him from his parents, and he could no
longer be a soldier -- not a good soldier at any rate.
Nobody would listen to his explanations. What in-
justice it was! What injustice!
And in a mournful murmur he would go over the
story of his capture and recapture for the twentieth
time. Then, raising his eyes to the silent girl in the
doorway, "Si, senorita," he would say with a deep sigh,
"injustice has made this poor breath in my body quite
worthless to me and to anybody else. And I do not
care who robs me of it."
One evening, as he exhaled thus the plaint of his
wounded soul, she condescended to say that, if she were
a man, she would consider no life worthless which held
the possibility of revenge.
She seemed to be speaking to herself. Her voice
was low. He drank in the gentle, as if dreamy sound
with a consciousness of peculiar delight of something
warming his breast like a draught of generous wine.
"True, Senorita," he said, raising his face up to hers
slowly: "there is Estaban, who must be shown that I
am not dead after all."
The mutterings of the mad father had ceased long
before; the sighing mother had withdrawn somewhere
into one of the empty rooms. All was still within as
well as without, in the moonlight bright as day on the
wild orchard full of inky shadows. Gaspar Ruiz saw
the dark eyes of Dona Erminia look down at him.
"Ah! The sergeant," she muttered, disdainfully.
"Why! He has wounded me with his sword," he
protested, bewildered by the contempt that seemed to
shine livid on her pale face.
She crushed him with her glance. The power of her
will to be understood was so strong that it kindled in
him the intelligence of unexpressed things.
"What else did you expect me to do?" he cried, as
if suddenly driven to despair. "Have I the power to do
more? Am I a general with an army at my back? --
miserable sinner that I am to be despised by you at
last."
VIII
"SEnORES," related the General to his guests,
"though my thoughts were of love then, and therefore
enchanting, the sight of that house always affected me
disagreeably, especially in the moonlight, when its
close shutters and its air of lonely neglect appeared
sinister. Still I went on using the bridle-path by the
ravine, because it was a short cut. The mad Royalist
howled and laughed at me every evening to his complete
satisfaction; but after a time, as if wearied with my
indifference, he ceased to appear in the porch. How
they persuaded him to leave off I do not know. How-
ever, with Gaspar Ruiz in the house there would have
been no difficulty in restraining him by force. It was
now part of their policy in there to avoid anything
which could provoke me. At least, so I suppose.
"Notwithstanding my infatuation with the brightest
pair of eyes in Chile, I noticed the absence of the old
man after a week or so. A few more days passed. I
began to think that perhaps these Royalists had gone
away somewhere else. But one evening, as I was
hastening towards the city, I saw again somebody in the
porch. It was not the madman; it was the girl. She
stood holding on to one of the wooden columns, tall and
white-faced, her big eyes sunk deep with privation and
sorrow. I looked hard at her, and she met my stare
with a strange, inquisitive look. Then, as I turned
my head after riding past, she seemed to gather courage
for the act, and absolutely beckoned me back.
"I obeyed, senores, almost without thinking, so great
was my astonishment. It was greater still when I heard
what she had to say. She began by thanking me for
my forbearance of her father's infirmity, so that I felt
ashamed of myself. I had meant to show disdain, not
forbearance! Every word must have burnt her lips,
but she never departed from a gentle and melancholy
dignity which filled me with respect against my will.
Senores, we are no match for women. But I could
hardly believe my ears when she began her tale. Provi-
dence, she concluded, seemed to have preserved the
life of that wronged soldier, who now trusted to my
honour as a caballero and to my compassion for his
sufferings.
"'Wronged man,' I observed, coldly. 'Well, I think
so, too: and you have been harbouring an enemy of
your cause.'
"'He was a poor Christian crying for help at our
door in the name of God, senor,' she answered, simply.
"I began to admire her. 'Where is he now?' I
asked, stiffly.
"But she would not answer that question. With
extreme cunning, and an almost fiendish delicacy, she
managed to remind me of my failure in saving the lives
of the prisoners in the guardroom, without wounding
my pride. She knew, of course, the whole story.
Gaspar Ruiz, she said, entreated me to procure for him
a safe-conduct from General San Martin himself. He
had an important communication to make to the com-
mander-in-chief.
"Por Dios, senores, she made me swallow all that,
pretending to be only the mouthpiece of that poor man.
Overcome by injustice, he expected to find, she said, as
much generosity in me as had been shown to him by
the Royalist family which had given him a refuge.
"Ha! It was well and nobly said to a youngster
like me. I thought her great. Alas! she was only
implacable.
"In the end I rode away very enthusiastic about the
business, without demanding even to see Gaspar Ruiz,
who I was confident was in the house.
"But on calm reflection I began to see some dif-
ficulties which I had not confidence enough in myself to
encounter. It was not easy to approach a commander-
in-chief with such a story. I feared failure. At last I
thought it better to lay the matter before my general-
of-division, Robles, a friend of my family, who had
appointed me his aide-de-camp lately.
"He took it out of my hands at once without any
ceremony.
"'In the house! of course he is in the house,' he said
contemptuously. 'You ought to have gone sword in
hand inside and demanded his surrender, instead of
chatting with a Royalist girl in the porch. Those
people should have been hunted out of that long ago.
Who knows how many spies they have harboured right
in the very midst of our camps? A safe-conduct from
the Commander-in-Chief! The audacity of the fellow!
Ha! ha! Now we shall catch him to-night, and then
we shall find out, without any safe-conduct, what
he has got to say, that is so very important. Ha!
ha! ha!'
"General Robles, peace to his soul, was a short, thick
man, with round, staring eyes, fierce and jovial. Seeing
my distress he added:
"'Come, come, chico. I promise you his life if he
does not resist. And that is not likely. We are not
going to break up a good soldier if it can be helped. I
tell you what! I am curious to see your strong man.
Nothing but a general will do for the picaro -- well, he
shall have a general to talk to. Ha! ha! I shall go
myself to the catching, and you are coming with me, of
course.'
"And it was done that same night. Early in the
evening the house and the orchard were surrounded
quietly. Later on the General and I left a ball we were
attending in town and rode out at an easy gallop. At
some little distance from the house we pulled up. A
mounted orderly held our horses. A low whistle
warned the men watching all along the ravine, and we
walked up to the porch softly. The barricaded house
in the moonlight seemed empty.
"The General knocked at the door. After a time a
woman's voice within asked who was there. My chief
nudged me hard. I gasped.
"'It is I, Lieutenant Santierra,' I stammered out, as
if choked. 'Open the door.'
"It came open slowly. The girl, holding a thin
taper in her hand, seeing another man with me, began
to back away before us slowly, shading the light with
her hand. Her impassive white face looked ghostly. I
followed behind General Robles. Her eyes were fixed
on mine. I made a gesture of helplessness behind my
chief's back, trying at the same time to give a reassur-
ing expression to my face. None of us three uttered
a sound.
"We found ourselves in a room with bare floor and
walls. There was a rough table and a couple of stools
in it, nothing else whatever. An old woman with her
grey hair hanging loose wrung her hands when we
appeared. A peal of loud laughter resounded through
the empty house, very amazing and weird. At this the
old woman tried to get past us.
"'Nobody to leave the room,' said General Robles
to me.
"I swung the door to, heard the latch click, and
the laughter became faint in our ears.
"Before another word could be spoken in that
room I was amazed by hearing the sound of distant
thunder.
"I had carried in with me into the house a vivid im-
pression of a beautiful clear moonlight night, without a
speck of cloud in the sky. I could not believe my ears.
Sent early abroad for my education, I was not familiar
with the most dreaded natural phenomenon of my
native land. I saw, with inexpressible astonishment, a
look of terror in my chief's eyes. Suddenly I felt giddy.
The General staggered against me heavily; the girl
seemed to reel in the middle of the room, the taper fell
out of her hand and the light went out; a shrill cry of
'Misericordia!' from the old woman pierced my ears.
In the pitchy darkness I heard the plaster off the walls
falling on the floor. It is a mercy there was no ceiling.
Holding on to the latch of the door, I heard the grinding
of the roof-tiles cease above my head. The shock was
over.
"'Out of the house! The door! Fly, Santierra, fly!'
howled the General. You know, senores, in our country
the bravest are not ashamed of the fear an earthquake
strikes into all the senses of man. One never gets used
to it. Repeated experience only augments the mastery
of that nameless terror.
"It was my first earthquake, and I was the calmest of
them all. I understood that the crash outside was
caused by the porch, with its wooden pillars and tiled
roof projection, falling down. The next shock would
destroy the house, maybe. That rumble as of thunder
was approaching again. The General was rushing
round the room, to find the door perhaps. He made a
noise as though he were trying to climb the walls, and I
heard him distinctly invoke the names of several saints.
'Out, out, Santierra!' he yelled.
"The girl's voice was the only one I did not hear.
"'General,' I cried, I cannot move the door. We
must be locked in.'
"I did not recognize his voice in the shout of male-
diction and despair he let out. Senores, I know many
men in my country, especially in the provinces most
subject to earthquakes, who will neither eat, sleep, pray,
nor even sit down to cards with closed doors. The dan-
ger is not in the loss of time, but in this -- that the
movement of the walls may prevent a door being opened
at all. This was what had happened to us. We were
trapped, and we had no help to expect from anybody.
There is no man in my country who will go into a house
when the earth trembles. There never was -- except
one: Gaspar Ruiz.
"He had come out of whatever hole he had been
hiding in outside, and had clambered over the timbers of
the destroyed porch. Above the awful subterranean
groan of coming destruction I heard a mighty voice
shouting the word 'Erminia!' with the lungs of a giant.
An earthquake is a great leveller of distinctions. I
collected all my resolution against the terror of the
scene. 'She is here,' I shouted back. A roar as of a
furious wild beast answered me -- while my head swam,
my heart sank, and the sweat of anguish streamed like
rain off my brow.
"He had the strength to pick up one of the heavy
posts of the porch. Holding it under his armpit like a
lance, but with both hands, he charged madly the rock-
ing house with the force of a battering-ram, bursting
open the door and rushing in, headlong, over our pros-
trate bodies. I and the General picking ourselves up,
bolted out together, without looking round once till we
got across the road. Then, clinging to each other, we
beheld the house change suddenly into a heap of form-
less rubbish behind the back of a man, who staggered
towards us bearing the form of a woman clasped in his
arms. Her long black hair hung nearly to his feet. He
laid her down reverently on the heaving earth, and the
moonlight shone on her closed eyes.
"Senores, we mounted with difficulty. Our horses
getting up plunged madly, held by the soldiers who had
come running from all sides. Nobody thought of catch-
ing Gaspar Ruiz then. The eyes of men and animals
shone with wild fear. My general approached Gaspar
Ruiz, who stood motionless as a statue above the girl.
He let himself be shaken by the shoulder without
detaching his eyes from her face.
"'Que guape!' shouted the General in his ear. 'You
are the bravest man living. You have saved my life.
I am General Robles. Come to my quarters to-morrow
if God gives us the grace to see another day.'
"He never stirred -- as if deaf, without feeling, in-
sensible.
"We rode away for the town, full of our relations, of
our friends, of whose fate we hardly dared to think.
The soldiers ran by the side of our horses. Everything
was forgotten in the immensity of the catastrophe over-
taking a whole country."
. . . . . . .
Gaspar Ruiz saw the girl open her eyes. The raising
of her eyelids seemed to recall him from a trance. They
were alone; the cries of terror and distress from homeless
people filled the plains of the coast remote and immense,
coming like a whisper into their loneliness.
She rose swiftly to her feet, darting fearful glances
on all sides. "What is it?" she cried out low, and peer-
ing into his face. "Where am I?"
He bowed his head sadly, without a word.
". . . Who are you?"
He knelt down slowly before her, and touched the
hem of her coarse black baize skirt. "Your slave," he
said.
She caught sight then of the heap of rubbish that
had been the house, all misty in the cloud of dust.
"Ah!" she cried, pressing her hand to her forehead.
"I carried you out from there," he whispered at her
feet.
"And they?" she asked in a great sob.
He rose, and taking her by the arms, led her gently
towards the shapeless ruin half overwhelmed by a land-
slide. "Come and listen," he said.
The serene moon saw them clambering over that
heap of stones, joists and tiles, which was a grave.
They pressed their ears to the interstices, listening for
the sound of a groan, for a sigh of pain.
At last he said, "They died swiftly. You are alone."
She sat down on a piece of broken timber and put
one arm across her face. He waited -- then approaching
his lips to her ear: "Let us go," he whispered.
"Never -- never from here," she cried out, flinging her
arms above her head.
He stooped over her, and her raised arms fell upon
his shoulders. He lifted her up, steadied himself and
began to walk, looking straight before him.
"What are you doing?" she asked, feebly.
"I am escaping from my enemies," he said, never
once glancing at his light burden.
"With me?" she sighed, helplessly.
"Never without you," he said. "You are my
strength."
He pressed her close to him. His face was grave
and his footsteps steady. The conflagrations bursting
out in the ruins of destroyed villages dotted the plain
with red fires; and the sounds of distant lamentations,
the cries of Misericordia! Misericordia! made a desolate
murmur in his ears. He walked on, solemn and col-
lected, as if carrying something holy, fragile, and
precious.
The earth rocked at times under his feet.
IX
WITH movements of mechanical care and an air of
abstraction old General Santierra lighted a long and
thick cigar.
"It was a good many hours before we could send a
party back to the ravine," he said to his guests. "We
had found one-third of the town laid low, the rest
shaken up; and the inhabitants, rich and poor, reduced
to the same state of distraction by the universal disaster.
The affected cheerfulness of some contrasted with the
despair of others. In the general confusion a number of
reckless thieves, without fear of God or man, became a
danger to those who from the downfall of their homes
had managed to save some valuables. Crying 'Miseri-
cordia' louder than any at every tremor, and beating
their breast with one hand, these scoundrels robbed the
poor victims with the other, not even stopping short of
murder.
"General Robles' division was occupied entirely in
guarding the destroyed quarters of the town from the
depredations of these inhuman monsters. Taken up
with my duties of orderly officer, it was only in the
morning that I could assure myself of the safety of my
own family. My mother and my sisters had escaped
with their lives from that ballroom, where I had left
them early in the evening. I remember those two
beautiful young women -- God rest their souls -- as if I
saw them this moment, in the garden of our destroyed
house, pale but active, assisting some of our poor neigh-
bours, in their soiled ball-dresses and with the dust of
fallen walls on their hair. As to my mother, she had a
stoical soul in her frail body. Half-covered by a costly
shawl, she was lying on a rustic seat by the side of an
ornamental basin whose fountain had ceased to play for
ever on that night.
"I had hardly had time to embrace them all with
transports of joy when my chief, coming along, dis-
patched me to the ravine with a few soldiers, to bring in
my strong man, as he called him, and that pale girl.
"But there was no one for us to bring in. A land-
slide had covered the ruins of the house; and it was
like a large mound of earth with only the ends of some
timbers visible here and there -- nothing more.
"Thus were the tribulations of the old Royalist couple
ended. An enormous and unconsecrated grave had
swallowed them up alive, in their unhappy obstinacy
against the will of a people to be free. And their
daughter was gone.
"That Gaspar Ruiz had carried her off I understood
very well. But as the case was not foreseen, I had no
instructions to pursue them. And certainly I had no
desire to do so. I had grown mistrustful of my inter-
ference. It had never been successful, and had not even
appeared creditable. He was gone. Well, let him go.
And he had carried off the Royalist girl! Nothing
better. Vaya con Dios. This was not the time to
bother about a deserter who, justly or unjustly, ought to
have been dead, and a girl for whom it would have been
better to have never been born.
"So I marched my men back to the town.
"After a few days, order having been re-established,
all the principal families, including my own, left for
Santiago. We had a fine house there. At the same
time the division of Robles was moved to new canton-
ments near the capital. This change suited very well
the state of my domestic and amorous feelings.
"One night, rather late, I was called to my chief. I
found General Robles in his quarters, at ease, with his
uniform off, drinking neat brandy out of a tumbler --
as a precaution, he used to say, against the sleepless-
ness induced by the bites of mosquitoes. He was a good
soldier, and he taught me the art and practice of war.
No doubt God has been merciful to his soul; for his mo-
tives were never other than patriotic, if his character
was irascible. As to the use of mosquito nets, he consid-
ered it effeminate, shameful -- unworthy of a soldier.
"I noticed at the first glance that his face, already
very red, wore an expression of high good-humour.
"'Aha! Senor teniente,' he cried, loudly, as I saluted
at the door. 'Behold! Your strong man has turned
up again.'
"He extended to me a folded letter, which I saw was
superscribed 'To the Commander-in-Chief of the Re-
publican Armies.'
"'This,' General Robles went on in his loud voice,
'was thrust by a boy into the hand of a sentry at the
Quartel General, while the fellow stood there thinking of
his girl, no doubt -- for before he could gather his wits
together the boy had disappeared amongst the market
people, and he protests he could not recognize him to
save his life.'
"'My chief told me further that the soldier had given
the letter to the sergeant of the guard, and that ulti-
mately it had reached the hands of our generalissimo.
His Excellency had deigned to take cognizance of it
with his own eyes. After that he had referred the
matter in confidence to General Robles.
"The letter, senores, I cannot now recollect textually.
I saw the signature of Gaspar Ruiz. He was an auda-
cious fellow. He had snatched a soul for himself out of
a cataclysm, remember. And now it was that soul
which had dictated the terms of his letter. Its tone
was very independent. I remember it struck me at
the time as noble -- dignified. It was, no doubt, her
letter. Now I shudder at the depth of its duplicity.
Gaspar Ruiz was made to complain of the injustice
of which he had been a victim. He invoked his previ-
ous record of fidelity and courage. Having been saved
from death by the miraculous interposition of Provi-
dence, he could think of nothing but of retrieving his
character. This, he wrote, he could not hope to do
in the ranks as a discredited soldier still under suspicion.
He had the means to give a striking proof of his fidelity.
He had ended by proposing to the General-in-Chief
a meeting at midnight in the middle of the Plaza be-
fore the Moneta. The signal would be to strike fire
with flint and steel three times, which was not too con-
spicuous and yet distinctive enough for recognition.
"San Martin, the great Liberator, loved men of
audacity and courage. Besides, he was just and com-
passionate. I told him as much of the man's story as I
knew, and was ordered to accompany him on the ap-
pointed night. The signals were duly exchanged. It
was midnight, and the whole town was dark and silent.
Their two cloaked figures came together in the centre of
the vast Plaza, and, keeping discreetly at a distance, I
listened for an hour or more to the murmur of their
voices. Then the General motioned me to approach;
and as I did so I heard San Martin, who was courteous
to gentle and simple alike, offer Gaspar Ruiz the hospi-
tality of the headquarters for the night. But the sol-
dier refused, saying that he would be not worthy of that
honour till he had done something.
"'You cannot have a common deserter for your
guest, Excellency,' he protested with a low laugh, and
stepping backwards merged slowly into the night.
"The Commander-in-Chief observed to me, as we
turned away: 'He had somebody with him, our friend
Ruiz. I saw two figures for a moment. It was an un-
obtrusive companion.'
"I, too, had observed another figure join the vanishing
form of Gaspar Ruiz. It had the appearance of a short
fellow in a poncho and a big hat. And I wondered
stupidly who it could be he had dared take into his con-
fidence. I might have guessed it could be no one but
that fatal girl -- alas!
"Where he kept her concealed I do not know. He
had -- it was known afterwards -- an uncle, his mother's
brother, a small shopkeeper in Santiago. Perhaps it
was there that she found a roof and food. Whatever she
found, it was poor enough to exasperate her pride and
keep up her anger and hate. It is certain she did not
accompany him on the feat he undertook to accomplish
first of all. It was nothing less than the destruction of a
store of war material collected secretly by the Spanish au-
thorities in the south, in a town called Linares. Gaspar
Ruiz was entrusted with a small party only, but they
proved themselves worthy of San Martin's confidence.
The season was not propitious. They had to swim
swollen rivers. They seemed, however, to have gal-
loped night and day out-riding the news of their foray,
and holding straight for the town, a hundred miles
into the enemy's country, till at break of day they rode
into it sword in hand, surprising the little garrison.
It fled without making a stand, leaving most of its
officers in Gaspar Ruiz' hands.
"A great explosion of gunpowder ended the con-
flagration of the magazines the raiders had set on fire
without loss of time. In less than six hours they were
riding away at the same mad speed, without the loss of
a single man. Good as they were, such an exploit is
not performed without a still better leadership.
"I was dining at the headquarters when Gaspar
Ruiz himself brought the news of his success. And it
was a great blow to the Royalist troops. For a proof he
displayed to us the garrison's flag. He took it from
under his poncho and flung it on the table. The man
was transfigured; there was something exulting and
menacing in the expression of his face. He stood
behind General San Martin's chair and looked proudly
at us all. He had a round blue cap edged with silver
braid on his head, and we all could see a large white
scar on the nape of his sunburnt neck.
"Somebody asked him what he had done with the
captured Spanish officers.
"He shrugged his shoulders scornfully. 'What a
question to ask! In a partisan war you do not burden
yourself with prisoners. I let them go -- and here are
their sword-knots.'
"He flung a bunch of them on the table upon the
flag. Then General Robles, whom I was attending there,
spoke up in his loud, thick voice: 'You did! Then, my
brave friend, you do not know yet how a war like ours
ought to be conducted. You should have done -- this.'
And he passed the edge of his hand across his own
throat.
"Alas, senores! It was only too true that on both
sides this contest, in its nature so heroic, was stained by
ferocity. The murmurs that arose at General Robles'
words were by no means unanimous in tone. But the
generous and brave San Martin praised the humane
action, and pointed out to Ruiz a place on his right
hand. Then rising with a full glass he proposed a
toast: 'Caballeros and comrades-in-arms, let us drink
the health of Captain Gaspar Ruiz.' And when we had
emptied our glasses: 'I intend,' the Commander-in-
Chief continued, 'to entrust him with the guardianship
of our southern frontier, while we go afar to liberate our
brethren in Peru. He whom the enemy could not stop
from striking a blow at his very heart will know how
to protect the peaceful populations we leave behind us
to pursue our sacred task.' And he embraced the silent
Gaspar Ruiz by his side.
"Later on, when we all rose from table, I approached
the latest officer of the army with my congratulations.
'And, Captain Ruiz,' I added, 'perhaps you do not mind
telling a man who has always believed in the upright-
ness of your character what became of Dona Erminia on
that night?'
"At this friendly question his aspect changed. He
looked at me from under his eyebrows with the heavy,
dull glance of a guasso -- of a peasant. 'Senor teniente,'
he said, thickly, and as if very much cast down, 'do not
ask me about the senorita, for I prefer not to think
about her at all when I am amongst you."
"He looked, with a frown, all about the room, full of
smoking and talking officers. Of course I did not
insist.
"These, senores, were the last words I was to hear him
utter for a long, long time. The very next day we em-
barked for our arduous expedition to Peru, and we only
heard of Gaspar Ruiz' doings in the midst of battles of
our own. He had been appointed military guardian of
our southern province. He raised a partida. But his
leniency to the conquered foe displeased the Civil
Governor, who was a formal, uneasy man, full of
suspicions. He forwarded reports against Gaspar Ruiz
to the Supreme Government; one of them being that
he had married publicly, with great pomp, a woman of
Royalist tendencies. Quarrels were sure to arise be-
tween these two men of very different character. At last
the Civil Governor began to complain of his inactivity
and to hint at treachery, which, he wrote, would be not
surprising in a man of such antecedents. Gaspar Ruiz
heard of it. His rage flamed up, and the woman ever
by his side knew how to feed it with perfidious words.
I do not know whether really the Supreme Government
ever did -- as he complained afterwards -- send orders for
his arrest. It seems certain that the Civil Governor
began to tamper with his officers, and that Gaspar Ruiz
discovered the fact.
"One evening, when the Governor was giving a
tertullia, Gaspar Ruiz, followed by six men he could
trust, appeared riding through the town to the door of
the Government House, and entered the sala armed, his
hat on his head. As the Governor, displeased, ad-
vanced to meet him, he seized the wretched man round
the body, carried him off from the midst of the appalled
guests, as though he were a child, and flung him down
the outer steps into the street. An angry hug from
Gaspar Ruiz was enough to crush the life out of a giant;
but in addition Gaspar Ruiz' horsemen fired their
pistols at the body of the Governor as it lay motionless
at the bottom of the stairs.
X
"AFTER this -- as he called it -- act of justice, Ruiz
crossed the Rio Blanco, followed by the greater part
of his band, and entrenched himself upon a hill. A
company of regular troops sent out foolishly against
him was surrounded, and destroyed almost to a man.
Other expeditions, though better organized, were
equally unsuccessful.
"It was during these sanguinary skirmishes that his
wife first began to appear on horseback at his right
hand. Rendered proud and self-confident by his suc-
cesses, Ruiz no longer charged at the head of his partida,
but presumptuously, like a general directing the move-
ments of an army, he remained in the rear, well mounted
and motionless on an eminence, sending out his orders.
She was seen repeatedly at his side, and for a long time
was mistaken for a man. There was much talk then
of a mysterious white-faced chief, to whom the defeats
of our troops were ascribed. She rode like an Indian
woman, astride, wearing a broad-rimmed man's hat and
a dark poncho. Afterwards, in the day of their greatest
prosperity, this poncho was embroidered in gold, and
she wore then, also, the sword of poor Don Antonio de
Leyva. This veteran Chilian officer, having the mis-
fortune to be surrounded with his small force, and
running short of ammunition, found his death at the
hands of the Arauco Indians, the allies and auxiliaries
of Gaspar Ruiz. This was the fatal affair long remem-
bered afterwards as the 'Massacre of the Island.' The
sword of the unhappy officer was presented to her by
Peneleo, the Araucanian chief; for these Indians, struck
by her aspect, the deathly pallor of her face, which no
exposure to the weather seemed to affect, and her calm
indifference under fire, looked upon her as a supernat-
ural being, or at least as a witch. By this superstition
the prestige and authority of Gaspar Ruiz amongst
these ignorant people were greatly augmented. She
must have savoured her vengeance to the full on that
day when she buckled on the sword of Don Antonio
de Leyva. It never left her side, unless she put on her
woman's clothes -- not that she would or could ever use
it, but she loved to feel it beating upon her thigh as a
perpetual reminder and symbol of the dishonour to the
arms of the Republic. She was insatiable. Moreover,
on the path she had led Gaspar Ruiz upon, there is no
stopping. Escaped prisoners -- and they were not many
-- used to relate how with a few whispered words she
could change the expression of his face and revive his
flagging animosity. They told how after every skirm-
ish, after every raid, after every successful action, he
would ride up to her and look into her face. Its
haughty calm was never relaxed. Her embrace,
senores, must have been as cold as the embrace of a
statue. He tried to melt her icy heart in a stream of
warm blood. Some English naval officers who visited
him at that time noticed the strange character of his
infatuation."
At the movement of surprise and curiosity in his
audience General Santierra paused for a moment.
"Yes -- English naval officers," he repeated. "Ruiz
had consented to receive them to arrange for the libera-
tion of some prisoners of your nationality. In the
territory upon which he ranged, from sea coast to the
Cordillera, there was a bay where the ships of that time,
after rounding Cape Horn, used to resort for wood and
water. There, decoying the crew on shore, he captured
first the whaling brig Hersalia, and afterwards made
himself master by surprise of two more ships, one
English and one American.
"It was rumoured at the time that he dreamed of
setting up a navy of his own. But that, of course, was
impossible. Still, manning the brig with part of her
own crew, and putting an officer and a good many men
of his own on board, he sent her off to the Spanish
Governor of the island of Chiloe with a report of his
exploits, and a demand for assistance in the war against
the rebels. The Governor could not do much for him;
but he sent in return two light field-pieces, a letter of
compliments, with a colonel's commission in the royal
forces, and a great Spanish flag. This standard with
much ceremony was hoisted over his house in the heart
of the Arauco country. Surely on that day she may
have smiled on her guasso husband with a less haughty
reserve.
"The senior officer of the English squadron on our
coast made representations to our Government as to
these captures. But Gaspar Ruiz refused to treat with
us. Then an English frigate proceeded to the bay, and
her captain, doctor, and two lieutenants travelled inland
under a safe-conduct. They were well received, and
spent three days as guests of the partisan chief. A sort
of military barbaric state was kept up at the residence.
It was furnished with the loot of frontier towns. When
first admitted to the principal sala, they saw his wife
lying down (she was not in good health then), with
Gaspar Ruiz sitting at the foot of the couch. His hat
was lying on the floor, and his hands reposed on the
hilt of his sword.
"During that first conversation he never removed his
big hands from the sword-hilt, except once, to arrange
the coverings about her, with gentle, careful touches.
They noticed that whenever she spoke he would fix his
eyes upon her in a kind of expectant, breathless atten-
tion, and seemingly forget the existence of the world and
his own existence, too. In the course of the farewell
banquet, at which she was present reclining on her couch,
he burst forth into complaints of the treatment he had
received. After General San Martin's departure he had
been beset by spies, slandered by civil officials, his
services ignored, his liberty and even his life threatened
by the Chilian Government. He got up from the table,
thundered execrations pacing the room wildly, then sat
down on the couch at his wife's feet, his breast heaving,
his eyes fixed on the floor. She reclined on her back,
her head on the cushions, her eyes nearly closed.
"'And now I am an honoured Spanish officer,' he
added in a calm voice.
"The captain of the English frigate then took the
opportunity to inform him gently that Lima had fallen,
and that by the terms of a convention the Spaniards
were withdrawing from the whole continent.
"Gaspar Ruiz raised his head, and without hesitation,
speaking with suppressed vehemence, declared that if
not a single Spanish soldier were left in the whole of
South America he would persist in carrying on the con-
test against Chile to the last drop of blood. When he
finished that mad tirade his wife's long white hand was
raised, and she just caressed his knee with the tips of
her fingers for a fraction of a second.
"For the rest of the officers' stay, which did not
extend for more than half an hour after the banquet,
that ferocious chieftain of a desperate partida over-
flowed with amiability and kindness. He had been
hospitable before, but now it seemed as though he could
not do enough for the comfort and safety of his visitors'
journey back to their ship.
"Nothing, I have been told, could have presented a
greater contrast to his late violence or the habitual
taciturn reserve of his manner. Like a man elated
beyond measure by an unexpected happiness, he over-
flowed with good-will, amiability, and attentions. He
embraced the officers like brothers, almost with tears in
his eyes. The released prisoners were presented each
with a piece of gold. At the last moment, suddenly, he
declared he could do no less than restore to the masters
of the merchant vessels all their private property. This
unexpected generosity caused some delay in the depar-
ture of the party, and their first march was very short.
"Late in the evening Gaspar Ruiz rode up with an
escort, to their camp fires, bringing along with him a
mule loaded with cases of wine. He had come, he said,
to drink a stirrup cup with his English friends, whom he
would never see again. He was mellow and joyous in his
temper. He told stories of his own exploits, laughed like
a boy, borrowed a guitar from the Englishmen's chief
muleteer, and sitting cross-legged on his superfine pon-
cho spread before the glow of the embers, sang a guasso
love-song in a tender voice. Then his head dropped on
his breast, his hands fell to the ground; the guitar
rolled off his knees -- and a great hush fell over the camp
after the love-song of the implacable partisan who had
made so many of our people weep for destroyed homes
and for loves cut short.
"Before anybody could make a sound he sprang up
from the ground and called for his horse.
"'Adios, my friends!' he cried. 'Go with God. I
love you. And tell them well in Santiago that between
Gaspar Ruiz, colonel of the King of Spain, and the
republican carrion-crows of Chile there is war to the last
breath -- war! war! war!'
"With a great yell of 'War! war! war!' which his
escort took up, they rode away, and the sound of
hoofs and of voices died out in the distance between the
slopes of the hills.
"The two young English officers were convinced that
Ruiz was mad. How do you say that? -- tile loose -- eh?
But the doctor, an observant Scotsman with much
shrewdness and philosophy in his character, told me
that it was a very curious case of possession. I met him
many years afterwards, but he remembered the experi-
ence very well. He told me, too, that in his opinion that
woman did not lead Gaspar Ruiz into the practice of
sanguinary treachery by direct persuasion, but by the
subtle way of awakening and keeping alive in his simple
mind a burning sense of an irreparable wrong. Maybe,
maybe. But I would say that she poured half of her
vengeful soul into the strong clay of that man, as you
may pour intoxication, madness, poison into an empty
cup.
"If he wanted war he got it in earnest when our
victorious army began to return from Peru. Systematic
operations were planned against this blot on the honour
and prosperity of our hardly won independence. Gen-
eral Robles commanded, with his well-known ruthless
severity. Savage reprisals were exercised on both sides
and no quarter was given in the field. Having won my
promotion in the Peru campaign, I was a captain on the
staff. Gaspar Ruiz found himself hard pressed; at the
same time we heard by means of a fugitive priest
who had been carried off from his village presbytery
and galloped eighty miles into the hills to perform the
christening ceremony, that a daughter was born to them.
To celebrate the event, I suppose, Ruiz executed one or
two brilliant forays clear away at the rear of our forces,
and defeated the detachments sent out to cut off his
retreat. General Robles nearly had a stroke of apoplexy
from rage. He found another cause of insomnia than
the bites of mosquitoes; but against this one, senores,
tumblers of raw brandy had no more effect than so
much water. He took to railing and storming at me
about my strong man. And from our impatience to end
this inglorious campaign I am afraid that all we young
officers became reckless and apt to take undue risks on
service.
"Nevertheless, slowly, inch by inch as it were, our
columns were closing upon Gaspar Ruiz, though he had
managed to raise all the Araucanian nation of wild
Indians against us. Then a year or more later our
Government became aware through its agents and spies
that he had actually entered into alliance with Car-
reras, the so-called dictator of the so-called republic of
Mendoza, on the other side of the mountains. Whether
Gaspar Ruiz had a deep political intention, or whether
he wished only to secure a safe retreat for his wife and
child while he pursued remorselessly against us his war
of surprises and massacres, I cannot tell. The alliance,
however, was a fact. Defeated in his attempt to
check our advance from the sea, he retreated with
his usual swiftness, and preparing for another hard
and hazardous tussle, began by sending his wife with
the little girl across the Pequena range of mountains,
on the frontier of Mendoza.
XI
"Now Carreras, under the guise of politics and
liberalism, was a scoundrel of the deepest dye, and
the unhappy state of Mendoza was the prey of thieves,
robbers, traitors, and murderers, who formed his party.
He was under a noble exterior a man without heart,
pity, honour, or conscience. He aspired to nothing
but tyranny, and though he would have made use of
Gaspar Ruiz for his nefarious designs, yet he soon
became aware that to propitiate the Chilian Govern-
ment would answer his purpose better. I blush to say
that he made proposals to our Government to deliver
up on certain conditions the wife and child of the man
who had trusted to his honour, and that this offer was
accepted.
"While on her way to Mendoza over the Pequena
Pass she was betrayed by her escort of Carreras' men,
and given up to the officer in command of a Chilian fort
on the upland at the foot of the main Cordillera range.
This atrocious transaction might have cost me dear, for
as a matter of fact I was a prisoner in Gaspar Ruiz'
camp when he received the news. I had been captured
during a reconnaissance, my escort of a few troopers
being speared by the Indians of his bodyguard. I was
saved from the same fate because he recognized my
features just in time. No doubt my friends thought I
was dead, and I would not have given much for my life
at any time. But the strong man treated me very well,
because, he said, I had always believed in his innocence
and had tried to serve him when he was a victim of
injustice.
"'And now,' was his speech to me, 'you shall see
that I always speak the truth. You are safe.'
"I did not think I was very safe when I was called
up to go to him one night. He paced up and down like
a wild beast, exclaiming, 'Betrayed! Betrayed!'
"He walked up to me clenching his fists. 'I could
cut your throat.'
"'Will that give your wife back to you?' I said as
quietly as I could.
"'And the child!' he yelled out, as if mad. He fell
into a chair and laughed in a frightful, boisterous
manner. 'Oh, no, you are safe.'
"I assured him that his wife's life was safe, too; but
I did not say what I was convinced of -- that he would
never see her again. He wanted war to the death, and
the war could only end with his death.
"He gave me a strange, inexplicable look, and sat
muttering blankly, 'In their hands. In their hands.'
"I kept as still as a mouse before a cat.
"Suddenly he jumped up. 'What am I doing
here?' he cried; and opening the door, he yelled out
orders to saddle and mount. 'What is it?' he stam-
mered, coming up to me. 'The Pequena fort; a
fort of palisades! Nothing. I would get her back
if she were hidden in the very heart of the moun-
tain.' He amazed me by adding, with an effort: "I
carried her off in my two arms while the earth
trembled. And the child at least is mine. She at
least is mine!'
"Those were bizarre words; but I had no time for
wonder.
"'You shall go with me,' he said, violently. 'I may
want to parley, and any other messenger from Ruiz, the
outlaw, would have his throat cut.'
"This was true enough. Between him and the rest
of incensed mankind there could be no communication,
according to the customs of honourable warfare.
"In less than half an hour we were in the saddle,
flying wildly through the night. He had only an escort
of twenty men at his quarters, but would not wait for
more. He sent, however, messengers to Peneleo, the
Indian chief then ranging in the foothills, directing him
to bring his warriors to the uplands and meet him at the
lake called the Eye of Water, near whose shores the
frontier fort of Pequena was built.
"We crossed the lowlands with that untired rapidity
of movement which had made Gaspar Ruiz' raids so
famous. We followed the lower valleys up to their
precipitous heads. The ride was not without its dan-
gers. A cornice road on a perpendicular wall of
basalt wound itself around a buttressing rock, and at
last we emerged from the gloom of a deep gorge upon
the upland of Pequena.
"It was a plain of green wiry grass and thin flower-
ing bushes; but high above our heads patches of snow
hung in the folds and crevices of the great walls of rock.
The little lake was as round as a staring eye. The garri-
son of the fort were just driving in their small herd of
cattle when we appeared. Then the great wooden
gates swung to, and that four-square enclosure of broad
blackened stakes pointed at the top and barely hiding
the grass roofs of the huts inside seemed deserted,
empty, without a single soul.
"But when summoned to surrender, by a man
who at Gaspar Ruiz' order rode fearlessly forward
those inside answered by a volley which rolled him and
his horse over. I heard Ruiz by my side grind his
teeth. 'It does not matter,' he said. 'Now you go.'
"Torn and faded as its rags were, the vestiges of my
uniform were recognized, and I was allowed to approach
within speaking distance; and then I had to wait,
because a voice clamouring through a loophole with joy
and astonishment would not allow me to place a word.
It was the voice of Major Pajol, an old friend. He, like
my other comrades, had thought me killed a long
time ago.
"'Put spurs to your horse, man!' he yelled, in the
greatest excitement; 'we will swing the gate open for
you.'
"I let the reins fall out of my hand and shook my
head. 'I am on my honour,' I cried.
"'To him!' he shouted, with infinite disgust.
"'He promises you your life.'
"'Our life is our own. And do you, Santierra,
advise us to surrender to that rastrero?'
"'No!' I shouted. 'But he wants his wife and
child, and he can cut you off from water.'
"'Then she would be the first to suffer. You may
tell him that. Look here -- this is all nonsense: we
shall dash out and capture you.'
"'You shall not catch me alive,' I said, firmly.
"'Imbecile!'
"'For God's sake,' I continued, hastily, 'do not open
the gate.' And I pointed at the multitude of Peneleo's
Indians who covered the shores of the lake.
"I had never seen so many of these savages to-
gether. Their lances seemed as numerous as stalks of
grass. Their hoarse voices made a vast, inarticulate
sound like the murmur of the sea.
"My friend Pajol was swearing to himself. 'Well,
then -- go to the devil!' he shouted, exasperated. But
as I swung round he repented, for I heard him say
hurriedly, 'Shoot the fool's horse before he gets away.'
"He had good marksmen. Two shots rang out, and
in the very act of turning my horse staggered, fell
and lay still as if struck by lightning. I had my feet
out of the stirrups and rolled clear of him; but I did
not attempt to rise. Neither dared they rush out to
drag me in.
"The masses of Indians had begun to move upon the
fort. They rode up in squadrons, trailing their long
chusos; then dismounted out of musket-shot, and, throw-
ing off their fur mantles, advanced naked to the attack,
stamping their feet and shouting in cadence. A sheet of
flame ran three times along the face of the fort without
checking their steady march. They crowded right
up to the very stakes, flourishing their broad knives.
But this palisade was not fastened together with
hide lashings in the usual way, but with long iron
nails, which they could not cut. Dismayed at the
failure of their usual method of forcing an entrance,
the heathen, who had marched so steadily against the
musketry fire, broke and fled under the volleys of the
besieged.
"Directly they had passed me on their advance I
got up and rejoined Gaspar Ruiz on a low ridge which
jutted out upon the plain. The musketry of his own
men had covered the attack, but now at a sign from
him a trumpet sounded the 'Cease fire.' Together
we looked in silence at the hopeless rout of the savages.
"'It must be a siege, then,' he muttered. And I
detected him wringing his hands stealthily.
"But what sort of siege could it be? Without any
need for me to repeat my friend Pajol's message, he
dared not cut the water off from the besieged. They
had plenty of meat. And, indeed, if they had been short
he would have been too anxious to send food into the
stockade had he been able. But, as a matter of fact, it
was we on the plain who were beginning to feel the
pinch of hunger.
"Peneleo, the Indian chief, sat by our fire folded in
his ample mantle of guanaco skins. He was an athletic
savage, with an enormous square shock head of hair
resembling a straw beehive in shape and size, and with
grave, surly, much-lined features. In his broken Span-
ish he repeated, growling like a bad-tempered wild
beast, that if an opening ever so small were made in the
stockade his men would march in and get the senora --
not otherwise.
"Gaspar Ruiz, sitting opposite him, kept his eyes
fixed on the fort night and day as it were, in awful si-
lence and immobility. Meantime, by runners from
the lowlands that arrived nearly every day, we heard of
the defeat of one of his lieutenants in the Maipu valley.
Scouts sent afar brought news of a column of infantry
advancing through distant passes to the relief of the
fort. They were slow, but we could trace their toilful
progress up the lower valleys. I wondered why Ruiz
did not march to attack and destroy this threat-
ening force, in some wild gorge fit for an ambuscade,
in accordance with his genius for guerilla warfare.
But his genius seemed to have abandoned him to his
despair.
"It was obvious to me that he could not tear himself
away from the sight of the fort. I protest to you,
senores, that I was moved almost to pity by the sight of
this powerless strong man sitting on the ridge, indiffer-
ent to sun, to rain, to cold, to wind; with his hands
clasped round his legs and his chin resting on his knees,
gazing -- gazing -- gazing.
"And the fort he kept his eyes fastened on was as
still and silent as himself. The garrison gave no sign of
life. They did not even answer the desultory fire
directed at the loopholes.
"One night, as I strolled past him, he, without
changing his attitude, spoke to me unexpectedly. 'I
have sent for a gun,' he said. 'I shall have time to get
her back and retreat before your Robles manages to
crawl up here.'
"He had sent for a gun to the plains.
"It was long in coming, but at last it came. It was
a seven-pounder field gun. Dismounted and lashed
crosswise to two long poles, it had been carried up the
narrow paths between two mules with ease. His
wild cry of exultation at daybreak when he saw the
gun escort emerge from the valley rings in my ears
now.
"But, senores, I have no words to depict his amaze-
ment, his fury, his despair and distraction, when he
heard that the animal loaded with the gun-carriage had,
during the last night march, somehow or other tumbled
down a precipice. He broke into menaces of death and
torture against the escort. I kept out of his way all
that day, lying behind some bushes, and wondering
what he would do now. Retreat was left for him, but
he could not retreat.
"I saw below me his artillerist, Jorge, an old Spanish
soldier, building up a sort of structure with heaped-up
saddles. The gun, ready loaded, was lifted on to that,
but in the act of firing the whole thing collapsed and
the shot flew high above the stockade.
"Nothing more was attempted. One of the ammuni-
tion mules had been lost, too, and they had no more than
six shots to fire; ample enough to batter down the gate
providing the gun was well laid. This was impossible
without it being properly mounted. There was no time
nor means to construct a carriage. Already every
moment I expected to hear Robles' bugle-calls echo
amongst the crags.
"Peneleo, wandering about uneasily, draped in his
skins, sat down for a moment near me growling his usual
tale.
"'Make an entrada -- a hole. If make a hole, bueno.
If not make a hole, then vamos -- we must go away.'
"After sunset I observed with surprise the Indians
making preparations as if for another assault. Their
lines stood ranged in the shadows of the mountains.
On the plain in front of the fort gate I saw a group
of men swaying about in the same place.
"I walked down the ridge disregarded. The moon-
light in the clear air of the uplands was bright as day,
but the intense shadows confused my sight, and I could
not make out what they were doing. I heard the voice
of Jorge, the artillerist, say in a queer, doubtful tone,
'It is loaded, senor.'
"Then another voice in that group pronounced firmly
the words, 'Bring the riata here.' It was the voice of
Gaspar Ruiz.
"A silence fell, in which the popping shots of the
besieged garrison rang out sharply. They, too, had
observed the group. But the distance was too great
and in the spatter of spent musket-balls cutting up the
ground, the group opened, closed, swayed, giving me
a glimpse of busy stooping figures in its midst. I
drew nearer, doubting whether this was a weird vision,
a suggestive and insensate dream.
"A strangely stifled voice commanded, 'Haul the
hitches tighter.'
"'Si, senor,' several other voices answered in tones of
awed alacrity.
"Then the stifled voice said: 'Like this. I must
be free to breathe.'
"Then there was a concerned noise of many men
together. 'Help him up, hombres. Steady! Under the
other arm.'
"That deadened voice ordered: 'Bueno! Stand away
from me, men.'
"I pushed my way through the recoiling circle, and
heard once more that same oppressed voice saying
earnestly: 'Forget that I am a living man, Jorge.
Forget me altogether, and think of what you have to
do.'
"'Be without fear, senor. You are nothing to me
but a gun-carriage, and I shall not waste a shot.'
"I heard the spluttering of a port-fire, and smelt the
saltpetre of the match. I saw suddenly before me a
nondescript shape on all fours like a beast, but with a
man's head drooping below a tubular projection over the
nape of the neck, and the gleam of a rounded mass of
bronze on its back.
"In front of a silent semicircle of men it squatted
alone, with Jorge behind it and a trumpeter motionless,
his trumpet in his hand, by its side.
"Jorge, bent double, muttered, port-fire in hand:
'An inch to the left, senor. Too much. So. Now, if
you let yourself down a little by letting your elbows
bend, I will . . .'
"He leaped aside, lowering his port-fire, and a burst
of flame darted out of the muzzle of the gun lashed
on the man's back.
"Then Gaspar Ruiz lowered himself slowly. 'Good
shot?' he asked.
"'Full on, senor.'
"'Then load again.'
"He lay there before me on his breast under the
darkly glittering bronze of his monstrous burden, such
as no love or strength of man had ever had to bear in
the lamentable history of the world. His arms were
spread out, and he resembled a prostrate penitent on
the moonlit ground.
"Again I saw him raised to his hands and knees
and the men stand away from him, and old Jorge stoop
glancing along the gun.
'"Left a little. Right an inch. Por Dios, senor,
stop this trembling. Where is your strength?'
"The old gunner's voice was cracked with emotion.
He stepped aside, and quick as lightning brought the
spark to the touch-hole.
"'Excellent!' he cried, tearfully; but Gaspar Ruiz
lay for a long time silent, flattened on the ground.
"'I am tired,' he murmured at last. 'Will another
shot do it?'
"'Without doubt,' said Jorge, bending down to his
ear.
"'Then -- load,' I heard him utter distinctly.
'Trumpeter!'
"'I am here, senor, ready for your word.'
"'Blow a blast at this word that shall be heard
from one end of Chile to the other,' he said, in an
extraordinarily strong voice. 'And you others stand
ready to cut this accursed riata, for then will be the
time for me to lead you in your rush. Now raise
me up, and you, Jorge -- be quick with your aim.'
"The rattle of musketry from the fort nearly drowned
his voice. The palisade was wreathed in smoke and
flame.
"'Exert your force forward against the recoil, mi
amo,' said the old gunner, shakily. 'Dig your fingers
into the ground. So. Now!'
"A cry of exultation escaped him after the shot.
The trumpeter raised his trumpet nearly to his lips
and waited. But no word came from the prostrate
man. I fell on one knee, and heard all he had to say
then.
"'Something broken,' he whispered, lifting his head
a little, and turning his eyes towards me in his hope-
lessly crushed attitude.
"'The gate hangs only by the splinters,' yelled Jorge.
"Gaspar Ruiz tried to speak, but his voice died out
in his throat, and I helped to roll the gun off his broken
back. He was insensible.
"I kept my lips shut, of course. The signal for the
Indians to attack was never given. Instead, the bugle-
calls of the relieving force for which my ears had thirsted
so long, burst out, terrifying like the call of the Last Day
to our surprised enemies.
"A tornado, senores, a real hurricane of stampeded
men, wild horses, mounted Indians, swept over me as I
cowered on the ground by the side of Gaspar Ruiz, still
stretched out on his face in the shape of a cross. Pe-
neleo, galloping for life, jabbed at me with his long
chuso in passing -- for the sake of old acquaintance, I
suppose. How I escaped the flying lead is more difficult
to explain. Venturing to rise on my knees too soon
some soldiers of the 17th Taltal regiment, in their hurry
to get at something alive, nearly bayoneted me on the
spot. They looked very disappointed, too, when, some
officers galloping up drove them away with the flat of
their swords.
"It was General Robles with his staff. He wanted
badly to make some prisoners. He, too, seemed dis-
appointed for a moment. 'What! Is it you?' he cried.
But he dismounted at once to embrace me, for he was
an old friend of my family. I pointed to the body at
our feet, and said only these two words:
"'Gaspar Ruiz.'
"He threw his arms up in astonishment.
"'Aha! Your strong man! Always to the last
with your strong man. No matter. He saved our lives
when the earth trembled enough to make the bravest
faint with fear. I was frightened out of my wits. But
he -- no! Que guape! Where's the hero who got the
best of him? ha! ha! ha! What killed him, chico?'
"'His own strength, General,' I answered.
XII
"BUT Gaspar Ruiz breathed yet. I had him carried
in his poncho under the shelter of some bushes on the
very ridge from which he had been gazing so fixedly
at the fort while unseen death was hovering already
over his head.
"Our troops had bivouacked round the fort. Towards
daybreak I was not surprised to hear that I was desig-
nated to command the escort of a prisoner who was to
be sent down at once to Santiago. Of course the
prisoner was Gaspar Ruiz' wife.
"'I have named you out of regard for your feelings,'
General Robles remarked. 'Though the woman really
ought to be shot for all the harm she has done to the
Republic.'
"And as I made a movement of shocked protest, he
continued:
"'Now he is as well as dead, she is of no importance.
Nobody will know what to do with her. However,
the Government wants her.' He shrugged his shoulders.
'I suppose he must have buried large quantities of his
loot in places that she alone knows of.'
"At dawn I saw her coming up the ridge, guarded by
two soldiers, and carrying her child on her arm.
"I walked to meet her.
"'Is he living yet?' she asked, confronting me with
that white, impassive face he used to look at in an ador-
ing way.
"I bent my head, and led her round a clump of
bushes without a word. His eyes were open. He
breathed with difficulty, and uttered her name with a
great effort.
"'Erminia!'
"She knelt at his head. The little girl, unconscious
of him, and with her big eyes looking about, began to
chatter suddenly, in a joyous, thin voice. She pointed
a tiny finger at the rosy glow of sunrise behind the black
shapes of the peaks. And while that child-talk, incom-
prehensible and sweet to the ear, lasted, those two,
the dying man and the kneeling woman, remained
silent, looking into each other's eyes, listening to the
frail sound. Then the prattle stopped. The child
laid its head against its mother's breast and was
still.
"'It was for you,' he began. 'Forgive.' His voice
failed him. Presently I heard a mutter and caught
the pitiful words: 'Not strong enough.'
"She looked at him with an extraordinary intensity.
He tried to smile, and in a humble tone, 'Forgive me,'
he repeated. 'Leaving you . . .'
"She bent down, dry-eyed and in a steady voice:
'On all the earth I have loved nothing but you, Gaspar,'
she said.
"His head made a movement. His eyes revived.
'At last!' he sighed out. Then, anxiously, 'But is this
true . . . is this true?'
'"As true as that there is no mercy and justice in
this world,' she answered him, passionately. She stooped
over his face. He tried to raise his head, but it fell
back, and when she kissed his lips he was already dead.
His glazed eyes stared at the sky, on which pink clouds
floated very high. But I noticed the eyelids of the child,
pressed to its mother's breast, droop and close slowly.
She had gone to sleep.
"The widow of Gaspar Ruiz, the strong man, allowed
me to lead her away without shedding a tear.
"For travelling we had arranged for her a side-
saddle very much like a chair, with a board swung
beneath to rest her feet on. And the first day she rode
without uttering a word, and hardly for one moment
turning her eyes away from the little girl, whom she
held on her knees. At our first camp I saw her during
the night walking about, rocking the child in her arms
and gazing down at it by the light of the moon. After
we had started on our second day's march she asked
me how soon we should come to the first village of
the inhabited country.
"I said we should be there about noon.
"'And will there be women there?' she inquired.
"I told her that it was a large village. 'There will
be men and women there, senora,' I said, 'whose hearts
shall be made glad by the news that all the unrest and
war is over now.'
"'Yes, it is all over now,' she repeated. Then, after
a time: 'Senor officer, what will your Government do
with me?'
"'I do not know, senora,' I said. 'They will treat
you well, no doubt. We republicans are not savages
and take no vengeance on women.'
"She gave me a look at the word 'republicans' which
I imagined full of undying hate. But an hour or so
afterwards, as we drew up to let the baggage mules go
first along a narrow path skirting a precipice, she looked
at me with such a white, troubled face that I felt a great
pity for her.
"'Senor officer,' she said, 'I am weak, I tremble. It
is an insensate fear.' And indeed her lips did tremble
while she tried to smile, glancing at the beginning of the
narrow path which was not so dangerous after all. 'I am
afraid I shall drop the child. Gaspar saved your life,
you remember. . . . Take her from me.'
"I took the child out of her extended arms. 'Shut
your eyes, senora, and trust to your mule,' I recom-
mended.
"She did so, and with her pallor and her wasted,
thin face she looked deathlike. At a turn of the
path where a great crag of purple porphyry closes the
view of the lowlands, I saw her open her eyes. I
rode just behind her holding the little girl with my
right arm. 'The child is all right,' I cried encourag-
ingly.
"'Yes,' she answered, faintly; and then, to my
intense terror, I saw her stand up on the foot-rest,
staring horribly, and throw herself forward into the
chasm on our right.
"I cannot describe to you the sudden and abject
fear that came over me at that dreadful sight. It was
a dread of the abyss, the dread of the crags which
seemed to nod upon me. My head swam. I pressed
the child to my side and sat my horse as still as a
statue. I was speechless and cold all over. Her mule
staggered, sidling close to the rock, and then went
on. My horse only pricked up his ears with a slight
snort. My heart stood still, and from the depths
of the precipice the stones rattling in the bed of
the furious stream made me almost insane with their
sound.
"Next moment we were round the turn and on
a broad and grassy slope. And then I yelled. My
men came running back to me in great alarm. It
seems that at first I did nothing but shout, 'She has
given the child into my hands! She has given the
child into my hands!' The escort thought I had gone
mad."
General Santierra ceased and got up from the table.
"And that is all, senores," he concluded, with a courte-
ous glance at his rising guests.
"But what became of the child. General?" we asked.
"Ah, the child, the child."
He walked to one of the windows opening on his
beautiful garden, the refuge of his old days. Its fame
was great in the land. Keeping us back with a raised
arm, he called out, "Erminia, Erminia!" and waited.
Then his cautioning arm dropped, and we crowded to
the windows.
From a clump of trees a woman had come upon the
broad walk bordered with flowers. We could hear the
rustle of her starched petticoats and observed the
ample spread of her old-fashioned black silk skirt. She
looked up, and seeing all these eyes staring at her
stopped, frowned, smiled, shook her finger at the Gen-
eral, who was laughing boisterously, and drawing the
black lace on her head so as to partly conceal her
haughty profile, passed out of our sight, walking with
stiff dignity.
"You have beheld the guardian angel of the old man
-- and her to whom you owe all that is seemly and
comfortable in my hospitality. Somehow, senores,
though the flame of love has been kindled early in my
breast, I have never married. And because of that
perhaps the sparks of the sacred fire are not yet ex-
tinct here." He struck his broad chest. "Still alive,
still alive," he said, with serio-comic emphasis. "But
I shall not marry now. She is General Santierra's
adopted daughter and heiress."
One of our fellow-guests, a young naval officer,
described her afterwards as a "short, stout, old girl of
forty or thereabouts." We had all noticed that her hair
was turning grey, and that she had very fine black eyes.
"And," General Santierra continued, "neither would
she ever hear of marrying any one. A real calamity!
Good, patient, devoted to the old man. A simple soul.
But I would not advise any of you to ask for her hand,
for if she took yours into hers it would be only to
crush your bones. Ah! she does not jest on that
subject. And she is the own daughter of her father,
the strong man who perished through his own strength:
the strength of his body, of his simplicity -- of his love!"
AN IRONIC TALE
THE INFORMER
MR. X came to me, preceded by a letter of intro-
duction from a good friend of mine in Paris, spe-
cifically to see my collection of Chinese bronzes and
porcelain.
My friend in Paris is a collector, too. He collects
neither porcelain, nor bronzes, nor pictures, nor medals,
nor stamps, nor anything that could be profitably dis-
persed under an auctioneer's hammer. He would reject,
with genuine surprise, the name of a collector. Never-
theless, that's what he is by temperament. He collects
acquaintances. It is delicate work. He brings to it the
patience, the passion, the determination of a true col-
lector of curiosities. His collection does not contain
any royal personages. I don't think he considers them
sufficiently rare and interesting; but, with that excep-
tion, he has met with and talked to everyone worth
knowing on any conceivable ground. He observes
them, listens to them, penetrates them, measures them,
and puts the memory away in the galleries of his mind.
He has schemed, plotted, and travelled all over Europe
in order to add to his collection of distinguished personal
acquaintances.
As he is wealthy, well connected, and unprejudiced,
his collection is pretty complete, including objects (or
should I say subjects?) whose value is unappreciated by
the vulgar, and often unknown to popular fame. Of
trevolte) of modern times. The world knows him as a
revolutionary writer whose savage irony has laid bare
the rottenness of the most respectable institutions. He
has scalped every venerated head, and has mangled
at the stake of his wit every received opinion and every
recognized principle of conduct and policy. Who does
not remember his flaming red revolutionary pamph-
lets? Their sudden swarmings used to overwhelm the
powers of every Continental police like a plague of
crimson gadflies. But this extreme writer has been
also the active inspirer of secret societies, the mysterious
unknown Number One of desperate conspiracies sus-
pected and unsuspected, matured or baffled. And the
world at large has never had an inkling of that fact!
This accounts for him going about amongst us to this
day, a veteran of many subterranean campaigns, stand-
ing aside now, safe within his reputation of merely the
greatest destructive publicist that ever lived."
Thus wrote my friend, adding that Mr. X was an en-
lightened connoisseur of bronzes and china, and asking
me to show him my collection.
X turned up in due course. My treasures are dis-
posed in three large rooms without carpets and curtains.
There is no other furniture than the etagres and the
glass cases whose contents shall be worth a fortune to
my heirs. I allow no fires to be lighted, for fear of
accidents, and a fire-proof door separates them from
the rest of the house.
It was a bitter cold day. We kept on our overcoats
and hats. Middle-sized and spare, his eyes alert in a
long, Roman-nosed countenance, X walked on his neat
little feet, with short steps, and looked at my collection
intelligently. I hope I looked at him intelligently, too.
A snow-white moustache and imperial made his nut-
brown complexion appear darker than it really was. In
his fur coat and shiny tall hat that terrible man looked
fashionable. I believe he belonged to a noble family,
and could have called himself Vicomte X de la Z if he
chose. We talked nothing but bronzes and porcelain.
He was remarkably appreciative. We parted on cordial
terms.
Where he was staying I don't know. I imagine he
must have been a lonely man. Anarchists, I suppose,
have no families -- not, at any rate, as we understand
that social relation. Organization into families may
answer to a need of human nature, but in the last in-
stance it is based on law, and therefore must be some-
thing odious and impossible to an anarchist. But, in-
deed, I don't understand anarchists. Does a man of
that -- of that -- persuasion still remain an anarchist
when alone, quite alone and going to bed, for instance?
Does he lay his head on the pillow, pull his bedclothes
over him, and go to sleep with the necessity of the
chambardement general, as the French slang has it, of the
general blow-up, always present to his mind? And if so
how can he? I am sure that if such a faith (or such a
fanaticism) once mastered my thoughts I would never
be able to compose myself sufficiently to sleep or eat or
perform any of the routine acts of daily life. I would
want no wife, no children; I could have no friends, it
seems to me; and as to collecting bronzes or china, that,
I should say, would be quite out of the question. But
I don't know. All I know is that Mr. X took his meals
in a very good restaurant which I frequented also.
With his head uncovered, the silver top-knot of his
brushed-up hair completed the character of his physi-
ognomy, all bony ridges and sunken hollows, clothed in
a perfect impassiveness of expression. His meagre
brown hands emerging from large white cuffs came and
went breaking bread, pouring wine, and so on, with
quiet mechanical precision. His head and body above
the tablecloth had a rigid immobility. This firebrand,
this great agitator, exhibited the least possible amount
of warmth and animation. His voice was rasping, cold,
and monotonous in a low key. He could not be called a
talkative personality; but with his detached calm
manner he appeared as ready to keep the conversation
going as to drop it at any moment.
And his conversation was by no means common-
place. To me, I own, there was some excitement in
talking quietly across a dinner-table with a man
whose venomous pen-stabs had sapped the vitality of at
least one monarchy. That much was a matter of
public knowledge. But I knew more. I knew of him --
from my friend -- as a certainty what the guardians of
social order in Europe had at most only suspected, or
dimly guessed at.
He had had what I may call his underground life.
And as I sat, evening after evening, facing him at
dinner, a curiosity in that direction would naturally
arise in my mind. I am a quiet and peaceable product
of civilization, and know no passion other than the
passion for collecting things which are rare, and must
remain exquisite even if approaching to the monstrous.
Some Chinese bronzes are monstrously precious. And
here (out of my friend's collection), here I had before me
a kind of rare monster. It is true that this monster
was polished and in a sense even exquisite. His beauti-
ful unruffled manner was that. But then he was not of
bronze. He was not even Chinese, which would have
enabled one to contemplate him calmly across the gulf
of racial difference. He was alive and European; he
had the manner of good society, wore a coat and hat
like mine, and had pretty near the same taste in cook-
ing. It was too frightful to think of.
One evening he remarked, casually, in the course of
conversation, "There's no amendment to be got out of
mankind except by terror and violence."
You can imagine the effect of such a phrase out of
such a man's mouth upon a person like myself, whose
whole scheme of life had been based upon a suave and
delicate discrimination of social and artistic values.
Just imagine! Upon me, to whom all sorts and forms
of violence appeared as unreal as the giants, ogres, and
seven-headed hydras whose activities affect, fantasti-
cally, the course of legends and fairy-tales!
I seemed suddenly to hear above the festive bustle
and clatter of the brilliant restaurant the mutter of a
hungry and seditious multitude.
I suppose I am impressionable and imaginative. I
had a disturbing vision of darkness, full of lean jaws and
wild eyes, amongst the hundred electric lights of the
place. But somehow this vision made me angry, too.
The sight of that man, so calm, breaking bits of white
bread, exasperated me. And I had the audacity to ask
him how it was that the starving proletariat of Europe
to whom he had been preaching revolt and violence had
not been made indignant by his openly luxurious life.
"At all this," I said, pointedly, with a glance round the
room and at the bottle of champagne we generally
shared between us at dinner.
He remained unmoved.
"Do I feed on their toil and their heart's blood?
Am I a speculator or a capitalist? Did I steal my
fortune from a starving people? No! They know this
very well. And they envy me nothing. The miserable
mass of the people is generous to its leaders. What I
have acquired has come to me through my writings; not
from the millions of pamphlets distributed gratis to the
hungry and the oppressed, but from the hundreds of
thousands of copies sold to the well-fed bourgeoisie. You
know that my writings were at one time the rage, the
fashion -- the thing to read with wonder and horror,
to turn your eyes up at my pathos . . . or else,
to laugh in ecstasies at my wit."
"Yes," I admitted. "I remember, of course; and I
confess frankly that I could never understand that
infatuation."
"Don't you know yet," he said, "that an idle and
selfish class loves to see mischief being made, even if
it is made at its own expense? Its own life being all a
matter of pose and gesture, it is unable to realize the
power and the danger of a real movement and of words
that have no sham meaning. It is all fun and senti-
ment. It is sufficient, for instance, to point out the
attitude of the old French aristocracy towards the
philosophers whose words were preparing the Great
Revolution. Even in England, where you have some
common-sense, a demagogue has only to shout loud
enough and long enough to find some backing in the
very class he is shouting at. You, too, like to see mis-
chief being made. The demagogue carries the amateurs
of emotion with him. Amateurism in this, that, and
the other thing is a delightfully easy way of killing
time, and feeding one's own vanity -- the silly vanity of
being abreast with the ideas of the day after to-morrow.
Just as good and otherwise harmless people will join you
in ecstasies over your collection without having the
slightest notion in what its marvellousness really con-
sists."
I hung my head. It was a crushing illustration of
the sad truth he advanced. The world is full of such
people. And that instance of the French aristocracy
before the Revolution was extremely telling, too. I
could not traverse his statement, though its cynicism
-- always a distasteful trait -- took off much of its value
to my mind. However, I admit I was impressed. I
felt the need to say something which would not be in
the nature of assent and yet would not invite discussion.
"You don't mean to say," I observed, airily, "that
extreme revolutionists have ever been actively assisted
by the infatuation of such people?"
"I did not mean exactly that by what I said just
now. I generalized. But since you ask me, I may tell
you that such help has been given to revolutionary
activities, more or less consciously, in various countries.
And even in this country."
"Impossible!" I protested with firmness. "We
don't play with fire to that extent."
"And yet you can better afford it than others,
perhaps. But let me observe that most women, if not
always ready to play with fire, are generally eager to
play with a loose spark or so."
"Is this a joke?" I asked, smiling.
"If it is, I am not aware of it," he said, woodenly.
"I was thinking of an instance. Oh! mild enough in a
way . . ."
I became all expectation at this. I had tried many
times to approach him on his underground side, so to
speak. The very word had been pronounced between
us. But he had always met me with his impenetrable
calm.
"And at the same time," Mr. X continued, "it will
give you a notion of the difficulties that may arise in
what you are pleased to call underground work. It is
sometimes difficult to deal with them. Of course there
is no hierarchy amongst the affiliated. No rigid
system."
My surprise was great, but short-lived. Clearly,
amongst extreme anarchists there could be no hier-
archy; nothing in the nature of a law of precedence.
The idea of anarchy ruling among anarchists was
comforting, too. It could not possibly make for
efficiency.
Mr. X startled me by asking, abruptly, "You know
Hermione Street?"
I nodded doubtful assent. Hermione Street has
been, within the last three years, improved out of any
man's knowledge. The name exists still, but not one
brick or stone of the old Hermione Street is left now.
It was the old street he meant, for he said:
"There was a row of two-storied brick houses on the
left, with their backs against the wing of a great public
building -- you remember. Would it surprise you very
much to hear that one of these houses was for a time
the centre of anarchist propaganda and of what you
would call underground action?"
"Not at all," I declared. Hermione Street had
never been particularly respectable, as I remembered it.
"The house was the property of a distinguished
government official," he added, sipping his champagne.
"Oh, indeed!" I said, this time not believing a word
of it.
"Of course he was not living there," Mr. X continued.
"But from ten till four he sat next door to it, the dear
man, in his well-appointed private room in the wing of
the public building I've mentioned. To be strictly
accurate, I must explain that the house in Hermione
Street did not really belong to him. It belonged to
his grown-up children -- a daughter and a son. The
girl, a fine figure, was by no means vulgarly pretty. To
more personal charm than mere youth could account
for, she added the seductive appearance of enthusiasm,
of independence, of courageous thought. I suppose she
put on these appearances as she put on her picturesque
dresses and for the same reason: to assert her individu-
ality at any cost. You know, women would go to any
length almost for such a purpose. She went to a great
length. She had acquired all the appropriate gestures of
revolutionary convictions -- the gestures of pity, of
anger, of indignation against the anti-humanitarian
vices of the social class to which she belonged herself.
All this sat on her striking personality as well as her
slightly original costumes. Very slightly original; just
enough to mark a protest against the philistinism of the
overfed taskmasters of the poor. Just enough, and no
more. It would not have done to go too far in that
direction -- you understand. But she was of age, and
nothing stood in the way of her offering her house to the
revolutionary workers."
"You don't mean it!" I cried.
"I assure you," he affirmed, "that she made that very
practical gesture. How else could they have got hold
of it? The cause is not rich. And, moreover, there
would have been difficulties with any ordinary house-
agent, who would have wanted references and so on.
The group she came in contact with while exploring
the poor quarters of the town (you know the gesture of
charity and personal service which was so fashionable
some years ago) accepted with gratitude. The first
advantage was that Hermione Street is, as you know,
well away from the suspect part of the town, specially
watched by the police.
"The ground floor consisted of a little Italian restau-
rant, of the flyblown sort. There was no difficulty
in buying the proprietor out. A woman and a man
belonging to the group took it on. The man had been
a cook. The comrades could get their meals there,
unnoticed amongst the other customers. This was
another advantage. The first floor was occupied by a
shabby Variety Artists' Agency -- an agency for per-
formers in inferior music-halls, you know. A fellow-
called Bomm, I remember. He was not disturbed. It
was rather favourable than otherwise to have a lot of
foreign-looking people, jugglers, acrobats, singers of
both sexes, and so on, going in and out all day long.
The police paid no attention to new faces, you see. The
top floor happened, most conveniently, to stand empty
then."
X interrupted himself to attack impassively, with
measured movements, a bombe glacee which the
waiter had just set down on the table. He swallowed
carefully a few spoonfuls of the iced sweet, and asked
me, "Did you ever hear of Stone's Dried Soup?"
"Hear of what?"
"It was," X pursued, evenly, "a comestible article
once rather prominently advertised in the dailies, but
which never, somehow, gained the favour of the public.
The enterprise fizzled out, as you say here. Parcels of
their stock could be picked up at auctions at consider-
ably less than a penny a pound. The group bought
some of it, and an agency for Stone's Dried Soup was
started on the top floor. A perfectly respectable busi-
ness. The stuff, a yellow powder of extremely unappe-
tizing aspect, was put up in large square tins, of which
six went to a case. If anybody ever came to give an
order, it was, of course, executed. But the advantage
of the powder was this, that things could be concealed in
it very conveniently. Now and then a special case got
put on a van and sent off to be exported abroad under
the very nose of the policeman on duty at the corner.
You understand?"
"I think I do," I said, with an expressive nod at the
remnants of the bombe melting slowly in the dish.
"Exactly. But the cases were useful in another
way, too. In the basement, or in the cellar at the back,
rather, two printing-presses were established. A lot of
revolutionary literature of the most inflammatory kind
was got away from the house in Stone's Dried Soup
cases. The brother of our anarchist young lady found
some occupation there. He wrote articles, helped to
set up type and pull off the sheets, and generally as-
sisted the man in charge, a very able young fellow called
Sevrin.
"The guiding spirit of that group was a fanatic of
social revolution. He is dead now. He was an
engraver and etcher of genius. You must have seen his
work. It is much sought after by certain amateurs
now. He began by being revolutionary in his art, and
ended by becoming a revolutionist, after his wife and
child had died in want and misery. He used to say that
the bourgeoisie, the smug, overfed lot, had killed them.
That was his real belief. He still worked at his art and
led a double life. He was tall, gaunt, and swarthy, with
a long, brown beard and deep-set eyes. You must have
seen him. His name was Horne."
At this I was really startled. Of course years ago I
used to meet Horne about. He looked like a powerful,
rough gipsy, in an old top hat, with a red muffler round
his throat and buttoned up in a long, shabby overcoat.
He talked of his art with exaltation, and gave one the
impression of being strung up to the verge of insanity.
A small group of connoisseurs appreciated his work.
Who would have thought that this man. . . .
Amazing! And yet it was not, after all, so difficult to
believe.
"As you see," X went on, "this group was in a posi-
tion to pursue its work of propaganda, and the other
kind of work, too, under very advantageous conditions.
They were all resolute, experienced men of a superior
stamp. And yet we became struck at length by the
fact that plans prepared in Hermione Street almost
invariably failed."
"Who were 'we'?" I asked, pointedly.
"Some of us in Brussels -- at the centre," he said,
hastily. "Whatever vigorous action originated in
Hermione Street seemed doomed to failure. Something
always happened to baffle the best planned manifesta-
tions in every part of Europe. It was a time of general
activity. You must not imagine that all our failures
are of a loud sort, with arrests and trials. That is not
so. Often the police work quietly, almost secretly,
defeating our combinations by clever counter-plotting.
No arrests, no noise, no alarming of the public mind
and inflaming the passions. It is a wise procedure.
But at that time the police were too uniformly successful
from the Mediterranean to the Baltic. It was annoying
and began to look dangerous. At last we came to the
conclusion that there must be some untrustworthy
elements amongst the London groups. And I came
over to see what could be done quietly.
"My first step was to call upon our young Lady
Amateur of anarchism at her private house. She re-
ceived me in a flattering way. I judged that she knew
nothing of the chemical and other operations going on
at the top of the house in Hermione Street. The print-
ing of anarchist literature was the only 'activity' she
seemed to be aware of there. She was displaying very
strikingly the usual signs of severe enthusiasm, and had
already written many sentimental articles with ferocious
conclusions. I could see she was enjoying herself
hugely, with all the gestures and grimaces of deadly
earnestness. They suited her big-eyed, broad-browed
face and the good carriage of her shapely head, crowned
by a magnificent lot of brown hair done in an unusual
and becoming style. Her brother was in the room, too,
a serious youth, with arched eyebrows and wearing a red
necktie, who struck me as being absolutely in the dark
about everything in the world, including himself. By
and by a tall young man came in. He was clean-shaved
with a strong bluish jaw and something of the air of a
taciturn actor or of a fanatical priest: the type with
thick black eyebrows -- you know. But he was very pre-
sentable indeed. He shook hands at once vigorously
with each of us. The young lady came up to me and
murmured sweetly, 'Comrade Sevrin.'
"I had never seen him before. He had little to say
to us, but sat down by the side of the girl, and they fell
at once into earnest conversation. She leaned forward
in her deep armchair, and took her nicely rounded chin
in her beautiful white hand. He looked attentively into
her eyes. It was the attitude of love-making, serious,
intense, as if on the brink of the grave. I suppose she
felt it necessary to round and complete her assumption
of advanced ideas, of revolutionary lawlessness, by
making believe to be in love with an anarchist. And
this one, I repeat, was extremely presentable, notwith-
standing his fanatical black-browed aspect. After a
few stolen glances in their direction, I had no doubt that
he was in earnest. As to the lady, her gestures were
unapproachable, better than the very thing itself in the
blended suggestion of dignity, sweetness, condescension,
fascination, surrender, and reserve. She interpreted
her conception of what that precise sort of love-making
should be with consummate art. And so far, she, too,
no doubt, was in earnest. Gestures -- but so perfect!
"After I had been left alone with our Lady Amateur
I informed her guardedly of the object of my visit. I
hinted at our suspicions. I wanted to hear what she
would have to say, and half expected some perhaps un-
conscious revelation. All she said was, 'That's serious,'
looking delightfully concerned and grave. But there
was a sparkle in her eyes which meant plainly, 'How
exciting!' After all, she knew little of anything except
of words. Still, she undertook to put me in com-
munication with Horne, who was not easy to find unless
in Hermione Street, where I did not wish to show myself
just then.
"I met Horne. This was another kind of a fanatic
altogether. I exposed to him the conclusion we in
Brussels had arrived at, and pointed out the significant
series of failures. To this he answered with irrelevant
exaltation:
"'I have something in hand that shall strike terror
into the heart of these gorged brutes.'
"And then I learned that, by excavating in one of
the cellars of the house, he and some companions had
made their way into the vaults under the great public
building I have mentioned before. The blowing up of a
whole wing was a certainty as soon as the materials were
ready.
"I was not so appalled at the stupidity of that move
as I might have been had not the usefulness of our
centre in Hermione Street become already very prob-
lematical. In fact, in my opinion it was much more
of a police trap by this time than anything else.
"What was necessary now was to discover what, or
rather who, was wrong, and I managed at last to get
that idea into Horne's head. He glared, perplexed, his
nostrils working as if he were sniffing treachery in the
air.
"And here comes a piece of work which will no doubt
strike you as a sort of theatrical expedient. And yet
what else could have been done? The problem was
to find out the untrustworthy member of the group.
But no suspicion could be fastened on one more than
another. To set a watch upon them all was not very
practicable. Besides, that proceeding often fails. In
any case, it takes time, and the danger was pressing. I
felt certain that the premises in Hermione Street would
be ultimately raided, though the police had evidently
such confidence in the informer that the house, for the
time being, was not even watched. Horne was positive
on that point. Under the circumstances it was an
unfavourable symptom. Something had to be done
quickly.
"I decided to organize a raid myself upon the group.
Do you understand? A raid of other trusty comrades
personating the police. A conspiracy within a con-
spiracy. You see the object of it, of course. When
apparently about to be arrested I hoped the informer
would betray himself in some way or other; either by
some unguarded act or simply by his unconcerned de-
meanour, for instance. Of coarse there was the risk of
complete failure and the no lesser risk of some fatal
accident in the course of resistance, perhaps, or in the
efforts at escape. For, as you will easily see, the Her-
mione Street group had to be actually and completely
taken unawares, as I was sure they would be by the real
police before very long. The informer was amongst
them, and Horne alone could be let into the secret of
my plan.
"I will not enter into the detail of my preparations.
It was not very easy to arrange, but it was done very
well, with a really convincing effect. The sham police
invaded the restaurant, whose shutters were immedi-
ately put up. The surprise was perfect. Most of the
Hermione Street party were found in the second cellar,
enlarging the hole communicating with the vaults
of the great public building. At the first alarm, several
comrades bolted through impulsively into the aforesaid
vault, where, of course, had this been a genuine raid,
they would have been hopelessly trapped. We did not
bother about them for the moment. They were harm-
less enough. The top floor caused considerable anxiety
to Horne and myself. There, surrounded by tins of
Stone's Dried Soup, a comrade, nick-named the Pro-
fessor (he was an ex-science student) was engaged in
perfecting some new detonators. He was an ab-
stracted, self-confident, sallow little man, armed with
large round spectacles, and we were afraid that under a
mistaken impression he would blow himself up and
wreck the house about our ears. I rushed upstairs and
found him already at the door, on the alert, listening, as
he said, to 'suspicious noises down below.' Before I
had quite finished explaining to him what was going on
he shrugged his shoulders disdainfully and turned away
to his balances and test-tubes. His was the true spirit
of an extreme revolutionist. Explosives were his faith,
his hope, his weapon, and his shield. He perished
a couple of years afterwards in a secret laboratory
through the premature explosion of one of his improved
detonators.
"Hurrying down again, I found an impressive scene
in the gloom of the big cellar. The man who personated
the inspector (he was no stranger to the part) was
speaking harshly, and giving bogus orders to his bogus
subordinates for the removal of his prisoners. Evi-
dently nothing enlightening had happened so far.
Horne, saturnine and swarthy, waited with folded arms,
and his patient, moody expectation had an air of stoi-
cism well in keeping with the situation. I detected in
the shadows one of the Hermione Street group surrep-
titiously chewing up and swallowing a small piece of
paper. Some compromising scrap, I suppose; perhaps
just a note of a few names and addresses. He was a
true and faithful 'companion.' But the fund of secret
malice which lurks at the bottom of our sympathies
caused me to feel amused at that perfectly uncalled-
for performance.
In every other respect the risky experiment, the
theatrical coup, if you like to call it so, seemed to have
failed. The deception could not be kept up much
longer; the explanation would bring about a very
embarrassing and even grave situation. The man who
had eaten the paper would be furious. The fellows who
had bolted away would be angry, too.
"To add to my vexation, the door communicating
with the other cellar, where the printing-presses were,
flew open, and our young lady revolutionist appeared,
a black silhouette in a close-fitting dress and a large
hat, with the blaze of gas flaring in there at her back.
Over her shoulder I perceived the arched eyebrows and
the red necktie of her brother.
"The last people in the world I wanted to see then!
They had gone that evening to some amateur concert
for the delectation of the poor people, you know; but
she had insisted on leaving early, on purpose to call in
Hermione Street on the way home, under the pretext of
having some work to do. Her usual task was to correct
the proofs of the Italian and French editions of the
Alarm Bell and the Firebrand." . . .
"Heavens!" I murmured. I had been shown once a
few copies of these publications. Nothing, in my
opinion, could have been less fit for the eyes of a young
lady. They were the most advanced things of the sort;
advanced, I mean, beyond all bounds of reason and
decency. One of them preached the dissolution of all
social and domestic ties; the other advocated systematic
murder. To think of a young girl calmly tracking
printers' errors all along the sort of abominable sen-
tences I remembered was intolerable to my sentiment
of womanhood. Mr. X, after giving me a glance,
pursued steadily.
"I think, however, that she came mostly to exercise
her fascinations upon Sevrin, and to receive his homage
in her queenly and condescending way. She was aware
of both -- her power and his homage -- and enjoyed them
with, I dare say, complete innocence. We have no
ground in expediency or morals to quarrel with her on
that account. Charm in woman and exceptional
intelligence in man are a law unto themselves. Is it
not so?"
I refrained from expressing my abhorrence of that
licentious doctrine because of my curiosity.
"But what happened then?" I hastened to ask.
X went on crumbling slowly a small piece of bread
with a careless left hand.
"What happened, in effect," he confessed, "is that
she saved the situation."
"She gave you an opportunity to end your rather
sinister farce," I suggested.
"Yes," he said, preserving his impassive bearing.
" The farce was bound to end soon. And it ended in a
very few minutes. And it ended well. Had she not
come in, it might have ended badly. Her brother, of
course, did not count. They had slipped into the
house quietly some time before. The printing-cellar
had an entrance of its own. Not finding any one
there, she sat down to her proofs, expecting Sevrin to
return to his work at any moment. He did not do so.
She grew impatient, heard through the door the sounds
of a disturbance in the other cellar and naturally came
in to see what was the matter.
Sevrin had been with us. At first he had seemed
to me the most amazed of the whole raided lot. He
appeared for an instant as if paralyzed with astonish-
ment. He stood rooted to the spot. He never moved
a limb. A solitary gas-jet flared near his head; all
the other lights had been put out at the first alarm.
And presently, from my dark corner, I observed on his
shaven actor's face an expression of puzzled, vexed
watchfulness. He knitted his heavy eyebrows. The
corners of his mouth dropped scornfully. He was
angry. Most likely he had seen through the game, and
I regretted I had not taken him from the first into my
complete confidence.
"But with the appearance of the girl he became
obviously alarmed. It was plain. I could see it
grow. The change of his expression was swift and
startling. And I did not know why. The reason
never occurred to me. I was merely astonished at the
extreme alteration of the man's face. Of course he had
not been aware of her presence in the other cellar; but
that did not explain the shock her advent had given him.
For a moment he seemed to have been reduced to
imbecility. He opened his mouth as if to shout, or
perhaps only to gasp. At any rate, it was somebody
else who shouted. This somebody else was the heroic
comrade whom I had detected swallowing a piece of
paper. With laudable presence of mind he let out a
warning yell.
"'It's the police! Back! Back! Run back, and
bolt the door behind you.'
"It was an excellent hint; but instead of retreating
the girl continued to advance, followed by her long-
faced brother in his knickerbocker suit, in which he had
been singing comic songs for the entertainment of a
joyless proletariat. She advanced not as if she had
failed to understand -- the word 'police' has an un-
mistakable sound -- but rather as if she could not help
herself. She did not advance with the free gait and
expanding presence of a distinguished amateur anarchist
amongst poor, struggling professionals, but with
slightly raised shoulders, and her elbows pressed
close to her body, as if trying to shrink within herself.
Her eyes were fixed immovably upon Sevrin. Sevrin
the man, I fancy; not Sevrin the anarchist. But she
advanced. And that was natural. For all their
assumption of independence, girls of that class are used
to the feeling of being specially protected, as, in fact,
they are. This feeling accounts for nine tenths of
their audacious gestures. Her face had gone com-
pletely colourless. Ghastly. Fancy having it brought
home to her so brutally that she was the sort of person
who must run away from the police! I believe she was
pale with indignation, mostly, though there was, of
course, also the concern for her intact personality, a
vague dread of some sort of rudeness. And, naturally,
she turned to a man, to the man on whom she had a
claim of fascination and homage -- the man who could
not conceivably fail her at any juncture."
"But," I cried, amazed at this analysis, "if it had
been serious, real, I mean -- as she thought it was -- what
could she expect him to do for her?"
X never moved a muscle of his face.
"Goodness knows. I imagine that this charming,
generous, and independent creature had never known
in her life a single genuine thought; I mean a single
thought detached from small human vanities, or whose
source was not in some conventional perception. All I
know is that after advancing a few steps she extended
her hand towards the motionless Sevrin. And that at
least was no gesture. It was a natural movement. As
to what she expected him to do, who can tell? The
impossible. But whatever she expected, it could not
have come up, I am safe to say, to what he had made
up his mind to do, even before that entreating hand had
appealed to him so directly. It had not been necessary.
From the moment he had seen her enter that cellar, he
had made up his mind to sacrifice his future usefulness,
to throw off the impenetrable, solidly fastened mask it
had been his pride to wear --"
"What do you mean?" I interrupted, puzzled.
"Was it Sevrin, then, who was --"
"He was. The most persistent, the most dangerous,
the craftiest, the most systematic of informers. A
genius amongst betrayers. Fortunately for us, he was
unique. The man was a fanatic, I have told you.
Fortunately, again, for us, he had fallen in love with the
accomplished and innocent gestures of that girl. An
actor in desperate earnest himself, he must have be-
lieved in the absolute value of conventional signs. As
to the grossness of the trap into which he fell, the
explanation must be that two sentiments of such ab-
sorbing magnitude cannot exist simultaneously in one
heart. The danger of that other and unconscious
comedian robbed him of his vision, of his perspicacity,
of his judgment. Indeed, it did at first rob him of his
self-possession. But he regained that through the
necessity -- as it appeared to him imperiously -- to do
something at once. To do what? Why, to get her
out of the house as quickly as possible. He was
desperately anxious to do that. I have told you he
was terrified. It could not be about himself. He had
been surprised and annoyed at a move quite unforeseen
and premature. I may even say he had been furious.
He was accustomed to arrange the last scene of his
betrayals with a deep, subtle art which left his revolu-
tionist reputation untouched. But it seems clear to
me that at the same time he had resolved to make the
best of it, to keep his mask resolutely on. It was only
with the discovery of her being in the house that every-
thing -- the forced calm, the restraint of his fanaticism,
the mask -- all came off together in a kind of panic.
Why panic, do you ask? The answer is very simple.
He remembered -- or, I dare say, he had never forgotten
-- the Professor alone at the top of the house, pursuing
his researches, surrounded by tins upon tins of Stone's
Dried Soup. There was enough in some few of them to
bury us all where we stood under a heap of bricks.
Sevrin, of course, was aware of that. And we must
believe, also, that he knew the exact character of the
man. He had gauged so many such characters! Or
perhaps he only gave the Professor credit for what he
himself was capable of. But, in any case, the effect
was produced. And suddenly he raised his voice in
authority.
"'Get the lady away at once.'
"It turned out that he was as hoarse as a crow;
result, no doubt, of the intense emotion. It passed off
in a moment. But these fateful words issued forth from
his contracted throat in a discordant, ridiculous croak.
They required no answer. The thing was done. How-
ever, the man personating the inspector judged it ex-
pedient to say roughly:
"'She shall go soon enough, together with the rest of
you.'
"These were the last words belonging to the comedy
part of this affair.
"Oblivious of everything and everybody, Sevrin
strode towards him and seized the lapels of his coat.
Under his thin bluish cheeks one could see his jaws
working with passion.
"'You have men posted outside. Get the lady taken
home at once. Do you hear? Now. Before you try to
get hold of the man upstairs.'
"'Oh! There is a man upstairs,' scoffed the other,
openly. 'Well, he shall be brought down in time to see
the end of this.'
"But Sevrin, beside himself, took no heed of the
tone.
'"Who's the imbecile meddler who sent you blunder-
ing here? Didn't you understand your instructions?
Don't you know anything? It's incredible. Here --'
"He dropped the lapels of the coat and, plunging
his hand into his breast, jerked feverishly at some-
thing under his shirt. At last he produced a small
square pocket of soft leather, which must have been
hanging like a scapulary from his neck by the tape
whose broken ends dangled from his fist.
"'Look inside,' he spluttered, flinging it in the other's
face. And instantly he turned round towards the girl.
She stood just behind him, perfectly still and silent.
Her set, white face gave an illusion of placidity. Only
her staring eyes seemed bigger and darker.
"He spoke rapidly, with nervous assurance. I heard
him distinctly promise her to make everything as clear
as daylight presently. But that was all I caught. He
stood close to her, never attempting to touch her even
with the tip of his little finger -- and she stared at him
stupidly. For a moment, however, her eyelids de-
scended slowly, pathetically, and then, with the
long black eyelashes lying on her white cheeks, she
looked ready to fall down in a swoon. But she never
even swayed where she stood. He urged her loudly to
follow him at once, and walked towards the door at the
bottom of the cellar stairs without looking behind him.
And, as a matter of fact, she did move after him a pace
or two. But, of course, he was not allowed to reach the
door. There were angry exclamations, a short, fierce
scuffle. Flung away violently, he came flying back-
wards upon her, and fell. She threw out her arms in a
gesture of dismay and stepped aside, just clear of his
head, which struck the ground heavily near her shoe.
"He grunted with the shock. By the time he had
picked himself up, slowly, dazedly, he was awake to the
reality of things. The man into whose hands he had
thrust the leather case had extracted therefrom a
narrow strip of bluish paper. He held it up above his
head, and, as after the scuffle an expectant uneasy still-
ness reigned once more, he threw it down disdainfully
with the words, 'I think, comrades, that this proof was
hardly necessary.'
"Quick as thought, the girl stooped after the flutter-
ing slip. Holding it spread out in both hands, she
looked at it; then, without raising her eyes, opened her
fingers slowly and let it fall.
"I examined that curious document afterwards. It
was signed by a very high personage, and stamped and
countersigned by other high officials in various countries
of Europe. In his trade -- or shall I say, in his mission?
-- that sort of talisman might have been necessary, no
doubt. Even to the police itself -- all but the heads --
he had been known only as Sevrin the noted anarchist.
"He hung his head, biting his lower lip. A change
had come over him, a sort of thoughtful, absorbed calm-
ness. Nevertheless, he panted. His sides worked visi-
bly, and his nostrils expanded and collapsed in weird
contrast with his sombre aspect of a fanatical monk in a
meditative attitude, but with something, too, in his
face of an actor intent upon the terrible exigencies of his
part. Before him Horne declaimed, haggard and
bearded, like an inspired denunciatory prophet from a
wilderness. Two fanatics. They were made to under-
stand each other. Does this surprise you? I sup-
pose you think that such people would be foaming at the
mouth and snarling at each other?"
I protested hastily that I was not surprised in the
least; that I thought nothing of the kind; that anarchists
in general were simply inconceivable to me mentally,
morally, logically, sentimentally, and even physically.
X received this declaration with his usual woodenness
and went on.
"Horne had burst out into eloquence. While pour-
ing out scornful invective, he let tears escape from his
eyes and roll down his black beard unheeded. Sevrin
panted quicker and quicker. When he opened his
mouth to speak, everyone hung on his words.
"'Don't be a fool, Horne,' he began. 'You know
very well that I have done this for none of the reasons
you are throwing at me.' And in a moment he became
outwardly as steady as a rock under the other's lurid
stare. 'I have been thwarting, deceiving, and betraying
you -- from conviction.'
"He turned his back on Horne, and addressing the
girl, repeated the words: 'From conviction.'
"It's extraordinary how cold she looked. I suppose
she could not think of any appropriate gesture. There
can have been few precedents indeed for such a situ-
ation.
"'Clear as daylight,' he added. 'Do you understand
what that means? From conviction.'
"And still she did not stir. She did not know what
to do. But the luckless wretch was about to give
her the opportunity for a beautiful and correct gesture.
"'I have felt in me the power to make you share
this conviction,' he protested, ardently. He had for-
gotten himself; he made a step towards her -- perhaps
he stumbled. To me he seemed to be stooping low as
if to touch the hem of her garment. And then the
appropriate gesture came. She snatched her skirt
away from his polluting contact and averted her head
with an upward tilt. It was magnificently done, this
gesture of conventionally unstained honour, of an un-
blemished high-minded amateur.
"Nothing could have been better. And he seemed
to think so, too, for once more he turned away. But
this time he faced no one. He was again panting fright-
fully, while he fumbled hurriedly in his waistcoat
pocket, and then raised his hand to his lips. There was
something furtive in this movement, but directly after-
wards his bearing changed. His laboured breathing
gave him a resemblance to a man who had just run a
desperate race; but a curious air of detachment, of sud-
den and profound indifference, replaced the strain of the
striving effort. The race was over. I did not want to
see what would happen next. I was only too well
aware. I tucked the young lady's arm under mine
without a word, and made my way with her to the
stairs.
"Her brother walked behind us. Half-way up the
short flight she seemed unable to lift her feet high
enough for the steps, and we had to pull and push to get
her to the top. In the passage she dragged herself
along, hanging on my arm, helplessly bent like an old
woman. We issued into an empty street through a
half-open door, staggering like besotted revellers. At
the corner we stopped a four-wheeler, and the ancient
driver looked round from his box with morose scorn at
our efforts to get her in. Twice during the drive I felt
her collapse on my shoulder in a half faint. Facing us,
the youth in knickerbockers remained as mute as a
fish, and, till he jumped out with the latch-key, sat
more still than I would have believed it possible.
"At the door of their drawing-room she left my arm
and walked in first, catching at the chairs and tables.
She unpinned her hat, then, exhausted with the effort,
her cloak still hanging from her shoulders, flung her-
self into a deep armchair, sideways, her face half
buried in a cushion. The good brother appeared
silently before her with a glass of water. She motioned
it away. He drank it himself and walked off to a dis-
tant corner -- behind the grand piano, somewhere. All
was still in this room where I had seen, for the first
time, Sevrin, the anti-anarchist, captivated and spell-
bound by the consummate and hereditary grimaces
that in a certain sphere of life take the place of feelings
with an excellent effect. I suppose her thoughts were
busy with the same memory. Her shoulders shook
violently. A pure attack of nerves. When it quieted
down she affected firmness, 'What is done to a man of
that sort? What will they do to him?'
"'Nothing. They can do nothing to him,' I assured
her, with perfect truth. I was pretty certain he had
died in less than twenty minutes from the moment his
hand had gone to his lips. For if his fanatical anti-
anarchism went even as far as carrying poison in his
pocket, only to rob his adversaries of legitimate ven-
geance, I knew he would take care to provide something
that would not fail him when required.
"She drew an angry breath. There were red spots
on her cheeks and a feverish brilliance in her eyes.
"'Has ever any one been exposed to such a terrible
experience? To think that he had held my hand!
That man!' Her face twitched, she gulped down a
pathetic sob. 'If I ever felt sure of anything, it was of
Sevrin's high-minded motives.'
"Then she began to weep quietly, which was good
for her. Then through her flood of tears, half resentful,
'What was it he said to me? -- "From conviction!"
It seemed a vile mockery. What could he mean by
it?'
"'That, my dear young lady,' I said, gently, 'is more
than I or anybody else can ever explain to you.'"
Mr. X flicked a crumb off the front of his coat.
"And that was strictly true as to her. Though
Horne, for instance, understood very well; and so did I,
especially after we had been to Sevrin's lodging in a
dismal back street of an intensely respectable quarter.
Horne was known there as a friend, and we had no
difficulty in being admitted, the slatternly maid merely
remarking, as she let us in, that 'Mr Sevrin had not been
home that night.' We forced open a couple of drawers
in the way of duty, and found a little useful information.
The most interesting part was his diary; for this man,
engaged in such deadly work, had the weakness to keep
a record of the most damnatory kind. There were his
acts and also his thoughts laid bare to us. But the dead
don't mind that. They don't mind anything.
"'From conviction.' Yes. A vague but ardent
humanitarianism had urged him in his first youth into
the bitterest extremity of negation and revolt. After-
wards his optimism flinched. He doubted and became
lost. You have heard of converted atheists. These
turn often into dangerous fanatics, but the soul remains
the same. After he had got acquainted with the girl,
there are to be met in that diary of his very queer
politico-amorous rhapsodies. He took her sovereign
grimaces with deadly seriousness. He longed to con-
vert her. But all this cannot interest you. For the
rest, I don't know if you remember -- it is a good many
years ago now -- the journalistic sensation of the 'Hermi-
one Street Mystery'; the finding of a man's body in the
cellar of an empty house; the inquest; some arrests;
many surmises -- then silence -- the usual end for many
obscure martyrs and confessors. The fact is, he was
not enough of an optimist. You must be a savage,
tyrannical, pitiless, thick-and-thin optimist, like Horne,
for instance, to make a good social rebel of the extreme
type.
He rose from the table. A waiter hurried up with
his overcoat; another held his hat in readiness.
"But what became of the young lady?" I asked.
"Do you really want to know?" he said, buttoning
himself in his fur coat carefully. "I confess to the small
malice of sending her Sevrin's diary. She went into
retirement; then she went to Florence; then she went
into retreat in a convent. I can't tell where she will
go next. What does it matter? Gestures! Gestures!
Mere gestures of her class."
He fitted on his glossy high hat with extreme pre-
cision, and casting a rapid glance round the room, full
of well-dressed people, innocently dining, muttered
between his teeth:
"And nothing else! That is why their kind is fated
to perish."
I never met Mr. X again after that evening. I took
to dining at my club. On my next visit to Paris I found
my friend all impatience to hear of the effect produced
on me by this rare item of his collection. I told him all
the story, and he beamed on me with the pride of his
distinguished specimen.
"Isn't X well worth knowing?" he bubbled over
in great delight. "He's unique, amazing, absolutely
terrific."
His enthusiasm grated upon my finer feelings. I
told him curtly that the man's cynicism was simply
abominable.
"Oh, abominable! abominable!" assented my friend,
effusively. "And then, you know, he likes to have his
little joke sometimes," he added in a confidential tone.
I fail to understand the connection of this last re-
mark. I have been utterly unable to discover where in
all this the joke comes in.
AN INDIGNANT TALE
THE BRUTE
DODGING in from the rain-swept street, I exchanged
a smile and a glance with Miss Blank in the bar of the
Three Crows. This exchange was effected with ex-
treme propriety. It is a shock to think that, if still
alive, Miss Blank must be something over sixty now.
How time passes!
Noticing my gaze directed inquiringly at the parti-
tion of glass and varnished wood, Miss Blank was good
enough to say, encouragingly:
"Only Mr. Jermyn and Mr. Stonor in the parlour with
another gentleman I've never seen before."
I moved towards the parlour door. A voice dis-
coursing on the other side (it was but a matchboard
partition), rose so loudly that the concluding words
became quite plain in all their atrocity.
"That fellow Wilmot fairly dashed her brains out,
and a good job, too!"
This inhuman sentiment, since there was nothing
profane or improper in it, failed to do as much as to
check the slight yawn Miss Blank was achieving behind
her hand. And she remained gazing fixedly at the
window-panes, which streamed with rain.
As I opened the parlour door the same voice went on
in the same cruel strain:
"I was glad when I heard she got the knock from
somebody at last. Sorry enough for poor Wilmot,
though. That man and I used to be chums at one
time. Of course that was the end of him. A clear
case if there ever was one. No way out of it. None
at all."
The voice belonged to the gentleman Miss Blank had
never seen before. He straddled his long legs on the
hearthrug. Jermyn, leaning forward, held his pocket-
handkerchief spread out before the grate. He looked
back dismally over his shoulder, and as I slipped behind
one of the little wooden tables, I nodded to him. On
the other side of the fire, imposingly calm and large,
sat Mr. Stonor, jammed tight into a capacious Windsor
armchair. There was nothing small about him but
his short, white side-whiskers. Yards and yards of
extra superfine blue cloth (made up into an overcoat)
reposed on a chair by his side. And he must just
have brought some liner from sea, because another
chair was smothered under his black waterproof,
ample as a pall, and made of three-fold oiled silk,
double-stitched throughout. A man's hand-bag of the
usual size looked like a child's toy on the floor near
his feet.
I did not nod to him. He was too big to be nodded
to in that parlour. He was a senior Trinity pilot and
condescended to take his turn in the cutter only during
the summer months. He had been many times in
charge of royal yachts in and out of Port Victoria.
Besides, it's no use nodding to a monument. And he
was like one. He didn't speak, he didn't budge. He
just sat there, holding his handsome old head up,
immovable, and almost bigger than life. It was ex-
tremely fine. Mr. Stonor's presence reduced poor old
Jermyn to a mere shabby wisp of a man, and made the
talkative stranger in tweeds on the hearthrug look
absurdly boyish. The latter must have been a few
years over thirty, and was certainly not the sort of
individual that gets abashed at the sound of his own
voice, because gathering me in, as it were, by a friendly
glance, he kept it going without a check.
"I was glad of it," he repeated, emphatically. "You
may be surprised at it, but then you haven't gone
through the experience I've had of her. I can tell you,
it was something to remember. Of course, I got off scot
free myself -- as you can see. She did her best to break
up my pluck for me tho'. She jolly near drove as fine a
fellow as ever lived into a madhouse. What do you say
to that -- eh?"
Not an eyelid twitched in Mr. Stonor's enormous face.
Monumental! The speaker looked straight into my
eyes.
"It used to make me sick to think of her going
about the world murdering people."
Jermyn approached the handkerchief a little nearer
to the grate and groaned. It was simply a habit he had.
"I've seen her once," he declared, with mournful in-
difference. "She had a house --"
The stranger in tweeds turned to stare down at him,
surprised.
"She had three houses," he corrected, authoritatively.
But Jermyn was not to be contradicted.
"She had a house, I say," he repeated, with dismal
obstinacy. "A great, big, ugly, white thing. You could
see it from miles away -- sticking up."
"So you could," assented the other readily. "It was
old Colchester's notion, though he was always threaten-
ing to give her up. He couldn't stand her racket any
more, he declared; it was too much of a good thing for
him; he would wash his hands of her, if he never got
hold of another -- and so on. I daresay he would have
chucked her, only -- it may surprise you -- his missus
wouldn't hear of it. Funny, eh? But with women,
you never know how they will take a thing, and Mrs.
Colchester, with her moustaches and big eyebrows, set
up for being as strong-minded as they make them. She
used to walk about in a brown silk dress, with a great
gold cable flopping about her bosom. You should have
heard her snapping out: 'Rubbish!' or 'Stuff and non-
sense!' I daresay she knew when she was well off.
They had no children, and had never set up a home any-
where. When in England she just made shift to hang
out anyhow in some cheap hotel or boarding-house. I
daresay she liked to get back to the comforts she was
used to. She knew very well she couldn't gain by any
change. And, moreover, Colchester, though a first-
rate man, was not what you may call in his first youth,
and, perhaps, she may have thought that he wouldn't
be able to get hold of another (as he used to say) so
easily. Anyhow, for one reason or another, it was
'Rubbish' and 'Stuff and nonsense' for the good lady.
I overheard once young Mr. Apse himself say to her
confidentially: 'I assure you, Mrs. Colchester, I am
beginning to feel quite unhappy about the name she's
getting for herself.' 'Oh,' says she, with her deep little
hoarse laugh, 'if one took notice of all the silly talk,'
and she showed Apse all her ugly false teeth at once.
'It would take more than that to make me lose my
confidence in her, I assure you,' says she."
At this point, without any change of facial expression,
Mr. Stonor emitted a short, sardonic laugh. It was
very impressive, but I didn't see the fun. I looked from
one to another. The stranger on the hearthrug had an
ugly smile.
"And Mr. Apse shook both Mrs. Colchester's hands,
he was so pleased to hear a good word said for their
favourite. All these Apses, young and old you know,
were perfectly infatuated with that abominable, dan-
gerous --"
"I beg your pardon," I interrupted, for he seemed
to be addressing himself exclusively to me; "but who
on earth are you talking about?"
"I am talking of the Apse family," he answered,
courteously.
I nearly let out a damn at this. But just then the
respected Miss Blank put her head in, and said that the
cab was at the door, if Mr. Stonor wanted to catch the
eleven three up.
At once the senior pilot arose in his mighty bulk and
began to struggle into his coat, with awe-inspiring up-
heavals. The stranger and I hurried impulsively to his
assistance, and directly we laid our hands on him he
became perfectly quiescent. We had to raise our arms
very high, and to make efforts. It was like caparisoning
a docile elephant. With a "Thanks, gentlemen," he
dived under and squeezed himself through the door in a
great hurry.
We smiled at each other in a friendly way.
"I wonder how he manages to hoist himself up a
ship's side-ladder," said the man in tweeds; and poor
Jermyn, who was a mere North Sea pilot, without official
status or recognition of any sort, pilot only by courtesy,
groaned.
"He makes eight hundred a year."
"Are you a sailor?" I asked the stranger, who had
gone back to his position on the rug.
"I used to be till a couple of years ago, when I got
married," answered this communicative individual. "I
even went to sea first in that very ship we were speak-
ing of when you came in."
"What ship?" I asked, puzzled. "I never heard
you mention a ship."
"I've just told you her name, my dear sir," he replied.
"The Apse Family. Surely you've heard of the great
firm of Apse & Sons, shipowners. They had a pretty
big fleet. There was the Lucy Apse, and the Harold
Apse, and Anne, John, Malcolm, Clara, Juliet, and so on
-- no end of Apses. Every brother, sister, aunt, cousin,
wife -- and grandmother, too, for all I know -- of the firm
had a ship named after them. Good, solid, old-fashioned
craft they were, too, built to carry and to last. None
of your new-fangled, labour-saving appliances in them,
but plenty of men and plenty of good salt beef and hard
tack put aboard -- and off you go to fight your way out
and home again."
The miserable Jermyn made a sound of approval,
which sounded like a groan of pain. Those were the
ships for him. He pointed out in doleful tones that
you couldn't say to labour-saving appliances: "Jump
lively now, my hearties." No labour-saving appliance
would go aloft on a dirty night with the sands under
your lee.
"No," assented the stranger, with a wink at me.
"The Apses didn't believe in them either, apparently.
They treated their people well -- as people don't get
treated nowadays, and they were awfully proud of their
ships. Nothing ever happened to them. This last one,
the Apse Family, was to be like the others, only she was
to be still stronger, still safer, still more roomy and com-
fortable. I believe they meant her to last for ever.
They had her built composite -- iron, teak-wood, and
greenheart, and her scantling was something fabulous.
If ever an order was given for a ship in a spirit of pride
this one was. Everything of the best. The commodore
captain of the employ was to command her, and they
planned the accommodation for him like a house on
shore under a big, tall poop that went nearly to the
mainmast. No wonder Mrs. Colchester wouldn't let
the old man give her up. Why, it was the best home
she ever had in all her married days. She had a nerve,
that woman.
"The fuss that was made while that ship was build-
ing! Let's have this a little stronger, and that a little
heavier; and hadn't that other thing better be changed
for something a little thicker. The builders entered
into the spirit of the game, and there she was, growing
into the clumsiest, heaviest ship of her size right before
all their eyes, without anybody becoming aware of it
somehow. She was to be 2,000 tons register, or a little
over; no less on any account. But see what happens.
When they came to measure her she turned out 1,999
tons and a fraction. General consternation! And they
say old Mr. Apse was so annoyed when they told him
that he took to his bed and died. The old gentleman
had retired from the firm twenty-five years before, and
was ninety-six years old if a day, so his death wasn't,
perhaps, so surprising. Still Mr. Lucian Apse was con-
vinced that his father would have lived to a hundred.
So we may put him at the head of the list. Next
comes the poor devil of a shipwright that brute caught
and squashed as she went off the ways. They called
it the launch of a ship, but I've heard people say that,
from the wailing and yelling and scrambling out of the
way, it was more like letting a devil loose upon the
river. She snapped all her checks like pack-thread, and
went for the tugs in attendance like a fury. Before
anybody could see what she was up to she sent one
of them to the bottom, and laid up another for three
months' repairs. One of her cables parted, and then,
suddenly -- you couldn't tell why -- she let herself be
brought up with the other as quiet as a lamb.
"That's how she was. You could never be sure
what she would be up to next. There are ships difficult
to handle, but generally you can depend on them behav-
ing rationally. With that ship, whatever you did with
her you never knew how it would end. She was
a wicked beast. Or, perhaps, she was only just in-
sane."
He uttered this supposition in so earnest a tone that
I could not refrain from smiling. He left off biting his
lower lip to apostrophize me.
"Eh! Why not? Why couldn't there be something
in her build, in her lines corresponding to -- What's
madness? Only something just a tiny bit wrong in the
make of your brain. Why shouldn't there be a mad
ship -- I mean mad in a ship-like way, so that under no
circumstances could you be sure she would do what any
other sensible ship would naturally do for you. There
are ships that steer wildly, and ships that can't be quite
trusted always to stay; others want careful watching
when running in a gale; and, again, there may be
a ship that will make heavy weather of it in every
little blow. But then you expect her to be always
so. You take it as part of her character, as a ship,
just as you take account of a man's peculiarities of
temper when you deal with him. But with her you
couldn't. She was unaccountable. If she wasn't mad,
then she was the most evil-minded, underhand, savage
brute that ever went afloat. I've seen her run in a heavy
gale beautifully for two days, and on the third broach
to twice in the same afternoon. The first time she
flung the helmsman clean over the wheel, but as she
didn't quite manage to kill him she had another try
about three hours afterwards. She swamped herself
fore and aft, burst all the canvas we had set, scared all
hands into a panic, and even frightened Mrs. Colchester
down there in these beautiful stern cabins that she was
so proud of. When we mustered the crew there was
one man missing. Swept overboard, of course, without
being either seen or heard, poor devil! and I only wonder
more of us didn't go.
"Always something like that. Always. I heard an
old mate tell Captain Colchester once that it had come
to this with him, that he was afraid to open his mouth
to give any sort of order. She was as much of a terror
in harbour as at sea. You could never be certain what
would hold her. On the slightest provocation she would
start snapping ropes, cables, wire hawsers, like carrots.
She was heavy, clumsy, unhandy -- but that does not
quite explain that power for mischief she had. You
know, somehow, when I think of her I can't help re-
membering what we hear of incurable lunatics breaking
loose now and then."
He looked at me inquisitively. But, of course,
I couldn't admit that a ship could be mad.
"In the ports where she was known," he went on,'
"they dreaded the sight of her. She thought nothing of
knocking away twenty feet or so of solid stone facing off
a quay or wiping off the end of a wooden wharf. She
must have lost miles of chain and hundreds of tons of
anchors in her time. When she fell aboard some poor
unoffending ship it was the very devil of a job to haul her
off again. And she never got hurt herself -- just a few
scratches or so, perhaps. They had wanted to have
her strong. And so she was. Strong enough to ram
Polar ice with. And as she began so she went on.
From the day she was launched she never let a year pass
without murdering somebody. I think the owners got
very worried about it. But they were a stiff-necked
generation all these Apses; they wouldn't admit there
could be anything wrong with the Apse Family. They
wouldn't even change her name. 'Stuff and nonsense,'
as Mrs. Colchester used to say. They ought at least to
have shut her up for life in some dry dock or other, away
up the river, and never let her smell salt water again. I
assure you, my dear sir, that she invariably did kill
someone every voyage she made. It was perfectly
well-known. She got a name for it, far and wide."
I expressed my surprise that a ship with such a
deadly reputation could ever get a crew.
"Then, you don't know what sailors are, my dear sir.
Let me just show you by an instance. One day in dock
at home, while loafing on the forecastle head, I noticed
two respectable salts come along, one a middle-aged,
competent, steady man, evidently, the other a smart,
youngish chap. They read the name on the bows and
stopped to look at her. Says the elder man: 'Apse
Family. That's the sanguinary female dog' (I'm
putting it in that way) 'of a ship, Jack, that kills a
man every voyage. I wouldn't sign in her -- not for
Joe, I wouldn't.' And the other says: 'If she were
mine, I'd have her towed on the mud and set on fire,
blamme if I wouldn't.' Then the first man chimes in:
'Much do they care! Men are cheap, God knows.'
The younger one spat in the water alongside. 'They
won't have me -- not for double wages.'
"They hung about for some time and then walked up
the dock. Half an hour later I saw them both on our
deck looking about for the mate, and apparently very
anxious to be taken on. And they were."
"How do you account for this?" I asked.
"What would you say?" he retorted. "Reckless-
ness ! The vanity of boasting in the evening to all their
chums: 'We've just shipped in that there Apse Family.
Blow her. She ain't going to scare us.' Sheer sailor-
like perversity! A sort of curiosity. Well -- a little of
all that, no doubt. I put the question to them in the
course of the voyage. The answer of the elderly chap
was:
"'A man can die but once.' The younger assured
me in a mocking tone that he wanted to see 'how she
would do it this time.' But I tell you what; there was
a sort of fascination about the brute."
Jermyn, who seemed to have seen every ship in the
world, broke in sulkily:
"I saw her once out of this very window towing up
the river; a great black ugly thing, going along like a
big hearse."
"Something sinister about her looks, wasn't there?"
said the man in tweeds, looking down at old Jermyn
with a friendly eye. "I always had a sort of horror of
her. She gave me a beastly shock when I was no more
than fourteen, the very first day -- nay, hour -- I joined
her. Father came up to see me off, and was to go down
to Gravesend with us. I was his second boy to go to
sea. My big brother was already an officer then. We.
got on board about eleven in the morning, and found the
ship ready to drop out of the basin, stern first. She
had not moved three times her own length when, at
a little pluck the tug gave her to enter the dock gates,
she made one of her rampaging starts, and put such
a weight on the check rope -- a new six-inch hawser
-- that forward there they had no chance to ease it
round in time, and it parted. I saw the broken end
fly up high in the air, and the next moment that brute
brought her quarter against the pier-head with a jar
that staggered everybody about her decks. She didn't
hurt herself. Not she! But one of the boys the mate
had sent aloft on the mizzen to do something, came
down on the poop-deck -- thump -- right in front of me.
He was not much older than myself. We had been
grinning at each other only a few minutes before. He
must have been handling himself carelessly, not expect-
ing to get such a jerk. I heard his startled cry -- Oh! --
in a high treble as he felt himself going, and looked up
in time to see him go limp all over as he fell. Ough!
Poor father was remarkably white about the gills when
we shook hands in Gravesend. 'Are you all right?' he
says, looking hard at me. 'Yes, father.' 'Quite sure?'
'Yes, father.' 'Well, then good-bye, my boy.' He told
me afterwards that for half a word he would have carried
me off home with him there and then. I am the baby
of the family -- you know," added the man in tweeds,
stroking his moustache with an ingenuous smile.
I acknowledged this interesting communication by a
sympathetic murmur. He waved his hand carelessly.
"This might have utterly spoiled a chap's nerve for
going aloft, you know -- utterly. He fell within two
feet of me, cracking his head on a mooring-bitt. Never
moved. Stone dead. Nice looking little fellow, he was.
I had just been thinking we would be great chums.
However, that wasn't yet the worst that brute of a ship
could do. I served in her three years of my time, and
then I got transferred to the Lucy Apse, for a year. The
sailmaker we had in the Apse Family turned up there,
too, and I remember him saying to me one evening, after
we had been a week at sea: Isn't she a meek little
ship?' No wonder we thought the Lucy Apse a dear,
meek, little ship after getting clear of that big, rampag-
ing savage brute. It was like heaven. Her officers
seemed to me the restfullest lot of men on earth. To me
who had known no ship but the Apse Family, the Lucy
was like a sort of magic craft that did what you wanted
her to do of her own accord. One evening we got
caught aback pretty sharply from right ahead. In about
ten minutes we had her full again, sheets aft, tacks down,
decks cleared, and the officer of the watch leaning
against the weather rail peacefully. It seemed simply
marvellous to me. The other would have stuck for half-
an-hour in irons, rolling her decks full of water, knock-
ing the men about -- spars cracking, braces snapping,
yards taking charge, and a confounded scare going on
aft because of her beastly rudder, which she had a way
of flapping about fit to raise your hair on end. I could-
n't get over my wonder for days.
"Well, I finished my last year of apprenticeship in
that jolly little ship -- she wasn't so little either, but
after that other heavy devil she seemed but a plaything
to handle. I finished my time and passed; and then
just as I was thinking of having three weeks of real
good time on shore I got at breakfast a letter asking me
the earliest day I could be ready to join the Apse Family
as third mate. I gave my plate a shove that shot it
into the middle of the table; dad looked up over his
paper; mother raised her hands in astonishment, and I
went out bare-headed into our bit of garden, where I
walked round and round for an hour.
"When I came in again mother was out of the
dining-room, and dad had shifted berth into his big
armchair. The letter was lying on the mantelpiece.
"'It's very creditable to you to get the offer, and
very kind of them to make it,' he said. 'And I see also
that Charles has been appointed chief mate of that ship
for one voyage.'
"There was, over leaf, a P.S. to that effect in Mr.
Apse's own handwriting, which I had overlooked.
Charley was my big brother.
"I don't like very much to have two of my boys
together in one ship,' father goes on, in his deliberate,
solemn way. 'And I may tell you that I would not
mind writing Mr. Apse a letter to that effect.'
"Dear old dad! He was a wonderful father. What
would you have done? The mere notion of going back
(and as an officer, too), to be worried and bothered,
and kept on the jump night and day by that brute, made
me feel sick. But she wasn't a ship you could afford to
fight shy of. Besides, the most genuine excuse could
not be given without mortally offending Apse & Sons.
The firm, and I believe the whole family down to the
old unmarried aunts in Lancashire, had grown desper-
ately touchy about that accursed ship's character. This
was the case for answering 'Ready now' from your
very death-bed if you wished to die in their good graces.
And that's precisely what I did answer -- by wire, to
have it over and done with at once.
"The prospect of being shipmates with my big brother
cheered me up considerably, though it made me a bit
anxious, too. Ever since I remember myself as a little
chap he had been very good to me, and I looked upon
him as the finest fellow in the world. And so he was.
No better officer ever walked the deck of a merchant
ship. And that's a fact. He was a fine, strong, up-
standing, sun-tanned, young fellow, with his brown hair
curling a little, and an eye like a hawk. He was just
splendid. We hadn't seen each other for many years,
and even this time, though he had been in England
three weeks already, he hadn't showed up at home yet,
but had spent his spare time in Surrey somewhere mak-
ing up to Maggie Colchester, old Captain Colchester's
niece. Her father, a great friend of dad's, was in the
sugar-broking business, and Charley made a sort of
second home of their house. I wondered what my big
brother would think of me. There was a sort of stern-
ness about Charley's face which never left it, not even
when he was larking in his rather wild fashion.
"He received me with a great shout of laughter.
He seemed to think my joining as an officer the greatest
joke in the world. There was a difference of ten years
between us, and I suppose he remembered me best in
pinafores. I was a kid of four when he first went to sea.
It surprised me to find how boisterous he could be.
"'Now we shall see what you are made of,' he cried.
And he held me off by the shoulders, and punched my
ribs, and hustled me into his berth. 'Sit down, Ned. I
am glad of the chance of having you with me. I'll put
the finishing touch to you, my young officer, providing
you're worth the trouble. And, first of all, get it well
into your head that we are not going to let this brute
kill anybody this voyage. We'll stop her racket.'
"I perceived he was in dead earnest about it. He
talked grimly of the ship, and how we must be careful
and never allow this ugly beast to catch us napping
with any of her damned tricks.
"He gave me a regular lecture on special seamanship
for the use of the Apse Family; then changing his tone,
he began to talk at large, rattling off the wildest,
funniest nonsense, till my sides ached with laughing. I
could see very well he was a bit above himself with high
spirits. It couldn't be because of my coming. Not to
that extent. But, of course, I wouldn't have dreamt of
asking what was the matter. I had a proper respect
for my big brother, I can tell you. But it was all made
plain enough a day or two afterwards, when I heard
that Miss Maggie Colchester was coming for the voy-
age. Uncle was giving her a sea-trip for the benefit of
her health.
"I don't know what could have been wrong with her
health. She had a beautiful colour, and a deuce of a
lot of fair hair. She didn't care a rap for wind, or rain,
or spray, or sun, or green seas, or anything. She was a
blue-eyed, jolly girl of the very best sort, but the way
she cheeked my big brother used to frighten me. I
always expected it to end in an awful row. However,
nothing decisive happened till after we had been in
Sydney for a week. One day, in the men's dinner hour,
Charley sticks his head into my cabin. I was stretched
out on my back on the settee, smoking in peace.
"'Come ashore with me, Ned,' he says, in his curt
way.
"I jumped up, of course, and away after him down
the gangway and up George Street. He strode along
like a giant, and I at his elbow, panting. It was con-
foundedly hot. 'Where on earth are you rushing me
to, Charley?' I made bold to ask.
"'Here,' he says.
"'Here' was a jeweller's shop. I couldn't imagine
what he could want there. It seemed a sort of mad
freak. He thrusts under my nose three rings, which
looked very tiny on his big, brown palm, growling out --
"'For Maggie! Which?'
"I got a kind of scare at this. I couldn't make a
sound, but I pointed at the one that sparkled white and
blue. He put it in his waistcoat pocket, paid for it with
a lot of sovereigns, and bolted out. When we got on
board I was quite out of breath. 'Shake hands, old
chap,' I gasped out. He gave me a thump on the back.
'Give what orders you like to the boatswain when the
hands turn-to,' says he; 'I am off duty this afternoon.'
"Then he vanished from the deck for a while, but
presently he came out of the cabin with Maggie, and
these two went over the gangway publicly, before all
hands, going for a walk together on that awful, blazing
hot day, with clouds of dust flying about. They came
back after a few hours looking very staid, but didn't
seem to have the slightest idea where they had been.
Anyway, that's the answer they both made to Mrs.
Colchester's question at tea-time.
"And didn't she turn on Charley, with her voice
like an old night cabman's! 'Rubbish. Don't know
where you've been! Stuff and nonsense. You've
walked the girl off her legs. Don't do it again.'
"It's surprising how meek Charley could be with
that old woman. Only on one occasion he whispered to
me, 'I'm jolly glad she isn't Maggie's aunt, except by
marriage. That's no sort of relationship.' But I
think he let Maggie have too much of her own way.
She was hopping all over that ship in her yachting skirt
and a red tam o' shanter like a bright bird on a dead
black tree. The old salts used to grin to themselves
when they saw her coming along, and offered to teach
her knots or splices. I believe she liked the men, for
Charley's sake, I suppose.
"As you may imagine, the fiendish propensities of
that cursed ship were never spoken of on board. Not
in the cabin, at any rate. Only once on the home-
ward passage Charley said, incautiously, something
about bringing all her crew home this time. Captain
Colchester began to look uncomfortable at once, and
that silly, hard-bitten old woman flew out at Charley as
though he had said something indecent. I was quite
confounded myself; as to Maggie, she sat completely
mystified, opening her blue eyes very wide. Of course,
before she was a day older she wormed it all out of me.
She was a very difficult person to lie to.
"'How awful,' she said, quite solemn. 'So many
poor fellows. I am glad the voyage is nearly over. I
won't have a moment's peace about Charley now.'
"I assured her Charley was all right. It took more
than that ship knew to get over a seaman like Charley.
And she agreed with me.
"Next day we got the tug off Dungeness; and when
the tow-rope was fast Charley rubbed his hands and
said to me in an undertone --
"'We've baffled her, Ned.'
'"Looks like it,' I said, with a grin at him. It was
beautiful weather, and the sea as smooth as a millpond.
We went up the river without a shadow of trouble
except once, when off Hole Haven, the brute took a
sudden sheer and nearly had a barge anchored just clear
of the fairway. But I was aft, looking after the steer-
ing, and she did not catch me napping that time.
Charley came up on the poop, looking very concerned.
'Close shave,' says he.
"'Never mind, Charley,' I answered, cheerily.
'You've tamed her.'
"We were to tow right up to the dock. The river
pilot boarded us below Gravesend, and the first words
I heard him say were: 'You may just as well take your
port anchor inboard at once, Mr. Mate.'
"This had been done when I went forward. I saw
Maggie on the forecastle head enjoying the bustle
and I begged her to go aft, but she took no notice of me,
of course. Then Charley, who was very busy with the
head gear, caught sight of her and shouted in his biggest
voice: 'Get off the forecastle head, Maggie. You're in
the way here.' For all answer she made a funny face at
him, and I saw poor Charley turn away, hiding a smile.
She was flushed with the excitement of getting home
again, and her blue eyes seemed to snap electric sparks
as she looked at the river. A collier brig had gone
round just ahead of us, and our tug had to stop her
engines in a hurry to avoid running into her.
"In a moment, as is usually the case, all the shipping
in the reach seemed to get into a hopeless tangle. A
schooner and a ketch got up a small collision all to
themselves right in the middle of the river. It was
exciting to watch, and, meantime, our tug remained
stopped. Any other ship than that brute could have
been coaxed to keep straight for a couple of minutes --
but not she! Her head fell off at once, and she began
to drift down, taking her tug along with her. I noticed
a cluster of coasters at anchor within a quarter of a mile
of us, and I thought I had better speak to the pilot.
'If you let her get amongst that lot,' I said, quietly, 'she
will grind some of them to bits before we get her out
again.'
"'Don't I know her!' cries he, stamping his foot
in a perfect fury. And he out with his whistle to
make that bothered tug get the ship's head up again
as quick as possible. He blew like mad, waving his
arm to port, and presently we could see that the tug's
engines had been set going ahead. Her paddles
churned the water, but it was as if she had been trying
to tow a rock -- she couldn't get an inch out of that ship.
Again the pilot blew his whistle, and waved his arm to
port. We could see the tug's paddles turning faster and
faster away, broad on our bow.
"For a moment tug and ship hung motionless in a
crowd of moving shipping, and then the terrific strain
that evil, stony-hearted brute would always put on
everything, tore the towing-chock clean out. The
tow-rope surged over, snapping the iron stanchions of
the head-rail one after another as if they had been
sticks of sealing-wax. It was only then I noticed that
in order to have a better view over our heads, Maggie
had stepped upon the port anchor as it lay flat on the
forecastle deck.
"It had been lowered properly into its hardwood
beds, but there had been no time to take a turn with
it. Anyway, it was quite secure as it was, for going
into dock; but I could see directly that the tow-rope
would sweep under the fluke in another second. My
heart flew up right into my throat, but not before I had
time to yell out: 'Jump clear of that anchor!'
"But I hadn't time to shriek out her name. I don't
suppose she heard me at all. The first touch of the
hawser against the fluke threw her down; she was up
on her feet again quick as lightning, but she was up on
the wrong side. I heard a horrid, scraping sound, and
then that anchor, tipping over, rose up like something
alive; its great, rough iron arm caught Maggie round
the waist, seemed to clasp her close with a dreadful
hug, and flung itself with her over and down in a
terrific clang of iron, followed by heavy ringing blows
that shook the ship from stem to stern -- because the
ring stopper held!"
"How horrible!" I exclaimed.
"I used to dream for years afterwards of anchors
catching hold of girls," said the man in tweeds, a
little wildly. He shuddered. "With a most pitiful
howl Charley was over after her almost on the instant.
But, Lord! he didn't see as much as a gleam of her red
tam o' shanter in the water. Nothing! nothing what-
ever! In a moment there were half-a-dozen boats
around us, and he got pulled into one. I, with the
boatswain and the carpenter, let go the other anchor in
a hurry and brought the ship up somehow. The pilot
had gone silly. He walked up and down the forecastle
head wringing his hands and muttering to himself:
'Killing women, now! Killing women, now!' Not
another word could you get out of him.
"Dusk fell, then a night black as pitch; and peering
upon the river I heard a low, mournful hail, 'Ship,
ahoy!' Two Gravesend watermen came alongside.
They had a lantern in their wherry, and looked up the
ship's side, holding on to the ladder without a word. I
saw in the patch of light a lot of loose, fair hair down
there."
He shuddered again.
"After the tide turned poor Maggie's body had
floated clear of one of them big mooring buoys," he
explained. "I crept aft, feeling half-dead, and managed
to send a rocket up -- to let the other searchers know,
on the river. And then I slunk away forward like
a cur, and spent the night sitting on the heel of the
bowsprit so as to be as far as possible out of Charley's
way."
"Poor fellow!" I murmured.
"Yes. Poor fellow," he repeated, musingly. "That
brute wouldn't let him -- not even him -- cheat her of
her prey. But he made her fast in dock next morning.
He did. We hadn't exchanged a word -- not a single
look for that matter. I didn't want to look at him.
When the last rope was fast he put his hands to his
head and stood gazing down at his feet as if trying to
remember something. The men waited on the main
deck for the words that end the voyage. Perhaps that
is what he was trying to remember. I spoke for him.
'That'll do, men.'
"I never saw a crew leave a ship so quietly. They
sneaked over the rail one after another, taking care not
to bang their sea chests too heavily. They looked our
way, but not one had the stomach to come up and offer
to shake hands with the mate as is usual.
"I followed him all over the empty ship to and fro,
here and there, with no living soul about but the two of
us, because the old ship-keeper had locked himself up
in the galley -- both doors. Suddenly poor Charley
mutters, in a crazy voice: 'I'm done here,' and strides
down the gangway with me at his heels, up the dock,
out at the gate, on towards Tower Hill. He used to
take rooms with a decent old landlady in America
Square, to be near his work.
"All at once he stops short, turns round, and comes
back straight at me. 'Ned,' says he, I am going home.'
I had the good luck to sight a four-wheeler and got him
in just in time. His legs were beginning to give way.
In our hall he fell down on a chair, and I'll never forget
father's and mother's amazed, perfectly still faces as
they stood over him. They couldn't understand what
had happened to him till I blubbered out, 'Maggie got
drowned, yesterday, in the river.'
"Mother let out a little cry. Father looks from him
to me, and from me to him, as if comparing our faces --
for, upon my soul, Charley did not resemble himself at
all. Nobody moved; and the poor fellow raises his big
brown hands slowly to his throat, and with one single
tug rips everything open -- collar, shirt, waistcoat -- a
perfect wreck and ruin of a man. Father and I got him
upstairs somehow, and mother pretty nearly killed her-
self nursing him through a brain fever."
The man in tweeds nodded at me significantly.
"Ah! there was nothing that could be done with that
brute. She had a devil in her."
"Where's your brother?" I asked, expecting to
hear he was dead. But he was commanding a smart
steamer on the China coast, and never came home now.
Jermyn fetched a heavy sigh, and the handkerchief
being now sufficiently dry, put it up tenderly to his red
and lamentable nose.
"She was a ravening beast," the man in tweeds
started again. "Old Colchester put his foot down and
resigned. And would you believe it? Apse & Sons
wrote to ask whether he wouldn't reconsider his de-
cision! Anything to save the good name of the Apse
Family.' Old Colchester went to the office then and
said that he would take charge again but only to sail her
out into the North Sea and scuttle her there. He was
nearly off his chump. He used to be darkish iron-grey,
but his hair went snow-white in a fortnight. And Mr.
Lucian Apse (they had known each other as young men)
pretended not to notice it. Eh? Here's infatuation
if you like! Here's pride for you!
"They jumped at the first man they could get to
take her, for fear of the scandal of the Apse Family not
being able to find a skipper. He was a festive soul, I
believe, but he stuck to her grim and hard. Wilmot
was his second mate. A harum-scarum fellow, and
pretending to a great scorn for all the girls. The fact is
he was really timid. But let only one of them do as
much as lift her little finger in encouragement, and there
was nothing that could hold the beggar. As apprentice,
once, he deserted abroad after a petticoat, and would
have gone to the dogs then, if his skipper hadn't taken
the trouble to find him and lug him by the ears out of
some house of perdition or other.
"It was said that one of the firm had been heard once
to express a hope that this brute of a ship would get
lost soon. I can hardly credit the tale, unless it might
have been Mr. Alfred Apse, whom the family didn't
think much of. They had him in the office, but he was
considered a bad egg altogether, always flying off to
race meetings and coming home drunk. You would
have thought that a ship so full of deadly tricks would
run herself ashore some day out of sheer cussedness.
But not she! She was going to last for ever. She had
a nose to keep off the bottom."
Jermyn made a grunt of approval.
"A ship after a pilot's own heart, eh?" jeered the
man in tweeds. "Well, Wilmot managed it. He was
the man for it, but even he, perhaps, couldn't have done
the trick without the green-eyed governess, or nurse, or
whatever she was to the children of Mr. and Mrs.
Pamphilius.
"Those people were passengers in her from Port
Adelaide to the Cape. Well, the ship went out and
anchored outside for the day. The skipper -- hospitable
soul -- had a lot of guests from town to a farewell lunch --
as usual with him. It was five in the evening before
the last shore boat left the side, and the weather looked
ugly and dark in the gulf. There was no reason for him
to get under way. However, as he had told everybody
he was going that day, he imagined it was proper to do
so anyhow. But as he had no mind after all these
festivities to tackle the straits in the dark, with a scant
wind, he gave orders to keep the ship under lower
topsails and foresail as close as she would lie, dodging
along the land till the morning. Then he sought his
virtuous couch. The mate was on deck, having his
face washed very clean with hard rain squalls. Wilmot
relieved him at midnight.
"The Apse Family had, as you observed, a house on
her poop . . ."
"A big, ugly white thing, sticking up," Jermyn mur-
mured, sadly, at the fire.
"That's it: a companion for the cabin stairs and a
sort of chart-room combined. The rain drove in gusts
on the sleepy Wilmot. The ship was then surging
slowly to the southward, close hauled, with the coast
within three miles or so to windward. There was noth-
ing to look out for in that part of the gulf, and Wilmot
went round to dodge the squalls under the lee of that
chart-room, whose door on that side was open. The
night was black, like a barrel of coal-tar. And then
he heard a woman's voice whispering to him.
"That confounded green-eyed girl of the Pamphilius
people had put the kids to bed a long time ago, of
course, but it seems couldn't get to sleep herself. She
heard eight bells struck, and the chief mate come below
to turn in. She waited a bit, then got into her dressing-
gown and stole across the empty saloon and up the
stairs into the chart-room. She sat down on the settee
near the open door to cool herself, I daresay.
"I suppose when she whispered to Wilmot it was as
if somebody had struck a match in the fellow's brain.
I don't know how it was they had got so very thick.
I fancy he had met her ashore a few times before. I
couldn't make it out, because, when telling the story,
Wilmot would break off to swear something awful at
every second word. We had met on the quay in Sydney,
and he had an apron of sacking up to his chin, a big
whip in his hand. A wagon-driver. Glad to do any-
thing not to starve. That's what he had come down to.
"However, there he was, with his head inside the
door, on the girl's shoulder as likely as not -- officer of
the watch! The helmsman, on giving his evidence
afterwards, said that he shouted several times that the
binnacle lamp had gone out. It didn't matter to him,
because his orders were to 'sail her close.' 'I thought
it funny,' he said, 'that the ship should keep on falling
off in squalls, but I luffed her up every time as close
as I was able. It was so dark I couldn't see my hand
before my face, and the rain came in bucketfuls on my
head.'
"The truth was that at every squall the wind hauled
aft a little, till gradually the ship came to be heading
straight for the coast, without a single soul in her being
aware of it. Wilmot himself confessed that he had not
been near the standard compass for an hour. He might
well have confessed! The first thing he knew was the
man on the look-out shouting blue murder forward
there.
"He tore his neck free, he says, and yelled back at
him: 'What do you say?'
"'I think I hear breakers ahead, sir,' howled the man,
and came rushing aft with the rest of the watch, in the
'awfullest blinding deluge that ever fell from the sky,'
Wilmot says. For a second or so he was so scared and
bewildered that he could not remember on which side of
the gulf the ship was. He wasn't a good officer, but he
was a seaman all the same. He pulled himself together
in a second, and the right orders sprang to his lips
without thinking. They were to hard up with the helm
and shiver the main and mizzen-topsails.
"It seems that the sails actually fluttered. He
couldn't see them, but he heard them rattling and bang-
ing above his head. 'No use! She was too slow in
going off,' he went on, his dirty face twitching, and the
damn'd carter's whip shaking in his hand. 'She seemed
to stick fast.' And then the flutter of the canvas above
his head ceased. At this critical moment the wind
hauled aft again with a gust, filling the sails and send-
ing the ship with a great way upon the rocks on her
lee bow. She had overreached herself in her last little
game. Her time had come -- the hour, the man, the
black night, the treacherous gust of wind -- the right
woman to put an end to her. The brute deserved
nothing better. Strange are the instruments of Provi-
dence. There's a sort of poetical justice --"
The man in tweeds looked hard at me.
"The first ledge she went over stripped the false keel
off her. Rip! The skipper, rushing out of his berth,
found a crazy woman, in a red flannel dressing-gown,
flying round and round the cuddy, screeching like a
cockatoo.
"The next bump knocked her clean under the cabin
table. It also started the stern-post and carried away
the rudder, and then that brute ran up a shelving,
rocky shore, tearing her bottom out, till she stopped.
short, and the foremast dropped over the bows like a
gangway."
"Anybody lost?" I asked.
"No one, unless that fellow, Wilmot," answered the
gentleman, unknown to Miss Blank, looking round for
his cap. "And his case was worse than drowning for a
man. Everybody got ashore all right. Gale didn't
come on till next day, dead from the West, and broke up
that brute in a surprisingly short time. It was as
though she had been rotten at heart." . . . He
changed his tone, "Rain left off? I must get my bike
and rush home to dinner. I live in Herne Bay -- came
out for a spin this morning."
He nodded at me in a friendly way, and went out
with a swagger.
"Do you know who he is, Jermyn?" I asked.
The North Sea pilot shook his head, dismally.
"Fancy losing a ship in that silly fashion! Oh, dear!
oh dear!" he groaned in lugubrious tones, spreading
his damp handkerchief again like a curtain before the
glowing grate.
On going out I exchanged a glance and a smile
(strictly proper) with the respectable Miss Blank, bar-
maid of the Three Crows.
A DESPERATE TALE
AN ANARCHIST
THAT year I spent the best two months of the dry
season on one of the estates -- in fact, on the principal
cattle estate -- of a famous meat-extract manufacturing
company.
B.O.S. Bos. You have seen the three magic letters
on the advertisement pages of magazines and news-
papers, in the windows of provision merchants, and on
calendars for next year you receive by post in the month
of November. They scatter pamphlets also, written in
a sickly enthusiastic style and in several languages,
giving statistics of slaughter and bloodshed enough
to make a Turk turn faint. The "art" illustrating that
"literature" represents in vivid and shining colours a
large and enraged black bull stamping upon a yellow
snake writhing in emerald-green grass, with a cobalt-
blue sky for a background. It is atrocious and it is an
allegory. The snake symbolizes disease, weakness --
perhaps mere hunger, which last is the chronic disease
of the majority of mankind. Of course everybody
knows the B. 0. S. Ltd., with its unrivalled products:
Vinobos, Jellybos, and the latest unequalled perfection,
Tribos, whose nourishment is offered to you not only
highly concentrated, but already half digested. Such
apparently is the love that Limited Company bears to
its fellowmen -- even as the love of the father and mother
penguin for their hungry fledglings.
Of course the capital of a country must be pro-
ductively employed. I have nothing to say against the
company. But being myself animated by feelings of
affection towards my fellow-men, I am saddened by the
modern system of advertising. Whatever evidence it
offers of enterprise, ingenuity, impudence, and resource
in certain individuals, it proves to my mind the wide
prevalence of that form of mental degradation which is
called gullibility.
In various parts of the civilized and uncivilized world
I have had to swallow B. 0. S. with more or less benefit
to myself, though without great pleasure. Prepared
with hot water and abundantly peppered to bring out
the taste, this extract is not really unpalatable. But I
have never swallowed its advertisements. Perhaps
they have not gone far enough. As far as I can re-
member they make no promise of everlasting youth to
the users of B. 0. S., nor yet have they claimed the
power of raising the dead for their estimable products.
Why this austere reserve, I wonder? But I don't think
they would have had me even on these terms. What-
ever form of mental degradation I may (being but hu-
man) be suffering from, it is not the popular form. I
am not gullible.
I have been at some pains to bring out distinctly this
statement about myself in view of the story which
follows. I have checked the facts as far as possible.
I have turned up the files of French newspapers, and I
have also talked with the officer who commands the
military guard on the Ile Royale, when in the course of
my travels I reached Cayenne. I believe the story to be
in the main true. It is the sort of story that no man, I
think, would ever invent about himself, for it is neither
grandiose nor flattering, nor yet funny enough to
gratify a perverted vanity.
It concerns the engineer of the steam-launch belong-
ing to the Maranon cattle estate of the B. 0. S. Co., Ltd.
This estate is also an island -- an island as big as a small
province, lying in the estuary of a great South American
river. It is wild and not beautiful, but the grass grow-
ing on its low plains seems to possess exceptionally
nourishing and flavouring qualities. It resounds with
the lowing of innumerable herds -- a deep and distress-
ing sound under the open sky, rising like a monstrous
protest of prisoners condemned to death. On the
mainland, across twenty miles of discoloured muddy
water, there stands a city whose name, let us say, is
Horta.
But the most interesting characteristic of this island
(which seems like a sort of penal settlement for con-
demned cattle) consists in its being the only known
habitat of an extremely rare and gorgeous butterfly.
The species is even more rare than it is beautiful, which
is not saying little. I have already alluded to my
travels. I travelled at that time, but strictly for my-
self and with a moderation unknown in our days of
round-the-world tickets. I even travelled with a pur-
pose. As a matter of fact, I am -- "Ha, ha, ha! -- a
desperate butterfly-slayer. Ha, ha, ha!"
This was the tone in which Mr. Harry Gee, the
manager of the cattle station, alluded to my pursuits.
He seemed to consider me the greatest absurdity in the
world. On the other hand, the B. 0. S. Co., Ltd.,
represented to him the acme of the nineteenth century's
achievement. I believe that he slept in his leggings and
spurs. His days he spent in the saddle flying over the
plains, followed by a train of half-wild horsemen, who
called him Don Enrique, and who had no definite idea of
the B. 0. S. Co., Ltd., which paid their wages. He was
an excellent manager, but I don't see why, when we met
at meals, he should have thumped me on the back, with
loud, derisive inquiries: "How's the deadly sport
to-day? Butterflies going strong? Ha, ha, ha!" --
especially as he charged me two dollars per diem for the
hospitality of the B. 0. S. Co., Ltd., (capital L1,500,000,
fully paid up), in whose balance-sheet for that year
those monies are no doubt included. "I don't think I
can make it anything less in justice to my company,"
he had remarked, with extreme gravity, when I was
arranging with him the terms of my stay on the island.
His chaff would have been harmless enough if
intimacy of intercourse in the absence of all friendly
feeling were not a thing detestable in itself. Moreover,
his facetiousness was not very amusing. It consisted
in the wearisome repetition of descriptive phrases
applied to people with a burst of laughter. "Desperate
butterfly-slayer. Ha, ha, ha!" was one sample of his
peculiar wit which he himself enjoyed so much. And in
the same vein of exquisite humour he called my at-
tention to the engineer of the steam-launch, one day, as
we strolled on the path by the side of the creek.
The man's head and shoulders emerged above the
deck, over which were scattered various tools of his
trade and a few pieces of machinery. He was doing
some repairs to the engines. At the sound of our foot-
steps he raised anxiously a grimy face with a pointed
chin and a tiny fair moustache. What could be seen of
his delicate features under the black smudges appeared
to me wasted and livid in the greenish shade of the
enormous tree spreading its foliage over the launch
moored close to the bank.
To my great surprise, Harry Gee addressed him as
"Crocodile," in that half-jeering, half-bullying tone
which is characteristic of self-satisfaction in his delect-
able kind:
"How does the work get on, Crocodile?"
I should have said before that the amiable Harry had
picked up French of a sort somewhere -- in some colony
or other -- and that he pronounced it with a disagreeable
forced precision as though he meant to guy the lan-
guage. The man in the launch answered him quickly in
a pleasant voice. His eyes had a liquid softness and
his teeth flashed dazzlingly white between his thin,
drooping lips. The manager turned to me, very cheer-
ful and loud, explaining:
"I call him Crocodile because he lives half in, half
out of the creek. Amphibious -- see? There's nothing
else amphibious living on the island except crocodiles;
so he must belong to the species -- eh? But in reality
he's nothing less than un citoyen anarchiste de Bar-
celone."
"A citizen anarchist from Barcelona?" I repeated,
stupidly, looking down at the man. He had turned to
his work in the engine-well of the launch and presented
his bowed back to us. In that attitude I heard him
protest, very audibly:
"I do not even know Spanish."
"Hey? What? You dare to deny you come from
over there?" the accomplished manager was down on
him truculently.
At this the man straightened himself up, dropping a
spanner he had been using, and faced us; but he trem-
bled in all his limbs.
"I deny nothing, nothing, nothing!" he said, ex-
citedly.
He picked up the spanner and went to work again
without paying any further attention to us. After
looking at him for a minute or so, we went away.
"Is he really an anarchist?" I asked, when out of
ear-shot.
"I don't care a hang what he is," answered the
humorous official of the B. 0. S. Co. "I gave him the
name because it suited me to label him in that way,
It's good for the company."
"For the company!" I exclaimed, stopping short.
"Aha!" he triumphed, tilting up his hairless pug
face and straddling his thin, long legs. "That sur-
prises you. I am bound to do my best for my company.
They have enormous expenses. Why -- our agent in
Horta tells me they spend fifty thousand pounds every
year in advertising all over the world! One can't be
too economical in working the show. Well, just you
listen. When I took charge here the estate had no
steam-launch. I asked for one, and kept on asking
by every mail till I got it; but the man they sent out
with it chucked his job at the end of two months, leav-
ing the launch moored at the pontoon in Horta. Got a
better screw at a sawmill up the river -- blast him! And
ever since it has been the same thing. Any Scotch or
Yankee vagabond that likes to call himself a mechanic
out here gets eighteen pounds a month, and the next
you know he's cleared out, after smashing something
as likely as not. I give you my word that some of the
objects I've had for engine-drivers couldn't tell the
boiler from the funnel. But this fellow understands his
trade, and I don't mean him to clear out. See?"
And he struck me lightly on the chest for emphasis.
Disregarding his peculiarities of manner, I wanted to
know what all this had to do with the man being an
anarchist.
"Come!" jeered the manager. "If you saw suddenly
a barefooted, unkempt chap slinking amongst the
bushes on the sea face of the island, and at the same
time observed less than a mile from the beach, a small
schooner full of niggers hauling off in a hurry, you
wouldn't think the man fell there from the sky, would
you? And it could be nothing else but either that or
Cayenne. I've got my wits about me. Directly I
sighted this queer game I said to myself -- 'Escaped
Convict.' I was as certain of it as I am of seeing you
standing here this minute. So I spurred on straight at
him. He stood his ground for a bit on a sand hillock
crying out: 'Monsieur! Monsieur! Arretez!' then at
the last moment broke and ran for life. Says I to
myself, 'I'll tame you before I'm done with you.' So
without a single word I kept on, heading him off here
and there. I rounded him up towards the shore, and at
last I had him corralled on a spit, his heels in the water
and nothing but sea and sky at his back, with my horse
pawing the sand and shaking his head within a yard
of him.
"He folded his arms on his breast then and stuck his
chin up in a sort of desperate way; but I wasn't to be
impressed by the beggar's posturing.
"Says I, 'You're a runaway convict.'
"When he heard French, his chin went down and
his face changed.
"'I deny nothing,' says he, panting yet, for I had
kept him skipping about in front of my horse pretty
smartly. I asked him what he was doing there. He
had got his breath by then, and explained that he had
meant to make his way to a farm which he understood
(from the schooner's people, I suppose) was to be found
in the neighbourhood. At that I laughed aloud and he
got uneasy. Had he been deceived? Was there no
farm within walking distance?
"I laughed more and more. He was on foot, and of
course the first bunch of cattle he came across would
have stamped him to rags under their hoofs. A dis-
mounted man caught on the feeding-grounds hasn't got
the ghost of a chance.
"'My coming upon you like this has certainly saved
your life,' I said. He remarked that perhaps it was so;
but that for his part he had imagined I had wanted to
kill him under the hoofs of my horse. I assured him
that nothing would have been easier had I meant it.
And then we came to a sort of dead stop. For the life
of me I didn't know what to do with this convict, unless
I chucked him into the sea. It occurred to me to ask
him what he had been transported for. He hung his
head.
"'What is it?' says I. 'Theft, murder, rape, or
what?' I wanted to hear what he would have to say
for himself, though of course I expected it would be some
sort of lie. But all he said was --
"'Make it what you like. I deny nothing. It is no
good denying anything.'
"I looked him over carefully and a thought struck
me.
"'They've got anarchists there, too,' I said. 'Per-
haps you're one of them.'
"'I deny nothing whatever, monsieur,' he repeats.
"This answer made me think that perhaps he was not
an anarchist. I believe those damned lunatics are
rather proud of themselves. If he had been one, he
would have probably confessed straight out.
"'What were you before you became a convict?'
"'Ouvrier,' he says. 'And a good workman, too.'
"At that I began to think he must be an anarchist,
after all. That's the class they come mostly from, isn't
it? I hate the cowardly bomb-throwing brutes. I
almost made up my mind to turn my horse short round
and leave him to starve or drown where he was, which-
ever he liked best. As to crossing the island to bother
me again, the cattle would see to that. I don't know
what induced me to ask --
"'What sort of workman?'
"I didn't care a hang whether he answered me or
not. But when he said at once, 'Mecanicien, monsieur,'
I nearly jumped out of the saddle with excitement. The
launch had been lying disabled and idle in the creek for
three weeks. My duty to the company was clear. He
noticed my start, too, and there we were for a minute or
so staring at each other as if bewitched.
"'Get up on my horse behind me,' I told him. 'You
shall put my steam-launch to rights.'"
These are the words in which the worthy manager
of the Maranon estate related to me the coming of the
supposed anarchist. He meant to keep him -- out of a
sense of duty to the company -- and the name he had
given him would prevent the fellow from obtaining
employment anywhere in Horta. The vaqueros of the
estate, when they went on leave, spread it all over the
town. They did not know what an anarchist was, nor
yet what Barcelona meant. They called him Anarchisto
de Barcelona, as if it were his Christian name and sur-
name. But the people in town had been reading in
their papers about the anarchists in Europe and were
very much impressed. Over the jocular addition of
"de Barcelona" Mr. Harry Gee chuckled with immense
satisfaction. "That breed is particularly murderous,
isn't it? It makes the sawmills crowd still more afraid
of having anything to do with him -- see?" he exulted,
candidly. "I hold him by that name better than if I
had him chained up by the leg to the deck of the steam-
launch.
"And mark," he added, after a pause, "he does not
deny it. I am not wronging him in any way. He is a
convict of some sort, anyhow."
"But I suppose you pay him some wages, don't you?"
I asked.
"Wages! What does he want with money here?
He gets his food from my kitchen and his clothing from
the store. Of course I'll give him something at the end
of the year, but you don't think I'd employ a convict
and give him the same money I would give an honest
man? I am looking after the interests of my company
first and last."
I admitted that, for a company spending fifty
thousand pounds every year in advertising, the strictest
economy was obviously necessary. The manager of
the Maranon Estancia grunted approvingly.
"And I'll tell you what," he continued: "if I were
certain he's an anarchist and he had the cheek to ask me
for money, I would give him the toe of my boot. How-
ever, let him have the benefit of the doubt. I am per-
fectly willing to take it that he has done nothing worse
than to stick a knife into somebody -- with extenuating
circumstances -- French fashion, don't you know. But
that subversive sanguinary rot of doing away with all
law and order in the world makes my blood boil. It's
simply cutting the ground from under the feet of every
decent, respectable, hard-working person. I tell you
that the consciences of people who have them, like you
or I, must be protected in some way; or else the first
low scoundrel that came along would in every respect be
just as good as myself. Wouldn't he, now? And that's
absurd!"
He glared at me. I nodded slightly and murmured
that doubtless there was much subtle truth in his view.
The principal truth discoverable in the views of Paul
the engineer was that a little thing may bring about the
undoing of a man.
"Il ne faut pas beaucoup pour perdre un homme," he
said to me, thoughtfully, one evening.
report this reflection in French, since the man was
of Paris, not of Barcelona at all. At the Maranon he
lived apart from the station, in a small shed with a metal
roof and straw walls, which he called mon atelier. He
had a work-bench there. They had given him several
horse-blankets and a saddle -- not that he ever had
occasion to ride, but because no other bedding was
used by the working-hands, who were all vaqueros --
cattlemen. And on this horseman's gear, like a son of
the plains, he used to sleep amongst the tools of his
trade, in a litter of rusty scrap-iron, with a portable
forge at his head, under the work-bench sustaining his
grimy mosquito-net.
Now and then I would bring him a few candle ends
saved from the scant supply of the manager's house.
He was very thankful for these. He did not like to lie
awake in the dark, he confessed. He complained that
sleep fled from him. "Le sommeil me fuit," he declared,
with his habitual air of subdued stoicism, which made
him sympathetic and touching. I made it clear to him
that I did not attach undue importance to the fact of his
having been a convict.
Thus it came about that one evening he was led to
talk about himself. As one of the bits of candle on the
edge of the bench burned down to the end, he hastened
to light another.
He had done his military service in a provincial
garrison and returned to Paris to follow his trade. It
was a well-paid one. He told me with some pride that
in a short time he was earning no less than ten francs a
day. He was thinking of setting up for himself by
and by and of getting married.
Here he sighed deeply and paused. Then with a
return to his stoical note:
"It seems I did not know enough about myself."
On his twenty-fifth birthday two of his friends in the
repairing shop where he worked proposed to stand him
a dinner. He was immensely touched by this attention.
"I was a steady man," he remarked, "but I am not
less sociable than any other body."
The entertainment came off in a little cafe on the
Boulevard de la Chapelle. At dinner they drank some
special wine. It was excellent. Everything was excel-
lent; and the world -- in his own words -- seemed a very
good place to live in. He had good prospects, some
little money laid by, and the affection of two excellent
friends. He offered to pay for all the drinks after
dinner, which was only proper on his part.
They drank more wine; they drank liqueurs, cognac,
beer, then more liqueurs and more cognac. Two
strangers sitting at the next table looked at him, he said,
with so much friendliness, that he invited them to join
the party.
He had never drunk so much in his life. His elation
was extreme, and so pleasurable that whenever it
flagged he hastened to order more drinks.
"It seemed to me," he said, in his quiet tone and
looking on the ground in the gloomy shed full of shad-
ows, "that I was on the point of just attaining a great
and wonderful felicity. Another drink, I felt, would do
it. The others were holding out well with me, glass for
glass."
But an extraordinary thing happened. At something
the strangers said his elation fell. Gloomy ideas-- des
idees noires -- rushed into his head. All the world out-
side the cafe; appeared to him as a dismal evil place
where a multitude of poor wretches had to work and
slave to the sole end that a few individuals should ride in
carriages and live riotously in palaces. He became
ashamed of his happiness. The pity of mankind's cruel
lot wrung his heart. In a voice choked with sorrow he
tried to express these sentiments. He thinks he wept
and swore in turns.
The two new acquaintances hastened to applaud his
humane indignation. Yes. The amount of injustice
in the world was indeed scandalous. There was only
one way of dealing with the rotten state of society.
Demolish the whole sacree boutique. Blow up the whole
iniquitous show.
Their heads hovered over the table. They whis-
pered to him eloquently; I don't think they quite
expected the result. He was extremely drunk -- mad
drunk. With a howl of rage he leaped suddenly upon
the table. Kicking over the bottles and glasses, he
yelled: "Vive l'anarchie! Death to the capitalists!"
He yelled this again and again. All round him broken
glass was falling, chairs were being swung in the air,
people were taking each other by the throat. The
police dashed in. He hit, bit, scratched and struggled,
till something crashed down upon his head. . . .
He came to himself in a police cell, locked up on
a charge of assault, seditious cries, and anarchist
propaganda.
He looked at me fixedly with his liquid, shining
eyes, that seemed very big in the dim light.
"That was bad. But even then I might have got off
somehow, perhaps," he said, slowly.
I doubt it. But whatever chance he had was done
away with by a young socialist lawyer who volunteered
to undertake his defence. In vain he assured him that
he was no anarchist; that he was a quiet, respectable
mechanic, only too anxious to work ten hours per day at
his trade. He was represented at the trial as the victim
of society and his drunken shoutings as the expression
of infinite suffering. The young lawyer had his way to
make, and this case was just what he wanted for a
start. The speech for the defence was pronounced
magnificent.
The poor fellow paused, swallowed, and brought out
the statement:
"I got the maximum penalty applicable to a first
offence."
I made an appropriate murmur. He hung his head
and folded his arms.
"When they let me out of prison," he began, gently,
"I made tracks, of course, for my old workshop. My
patron had a particular liking for me before; but when
he saw me he turned green with fright and showed me
the door with a shaking hand."
While he stood in the street, uneasy and discon-
certed, he was accosted by a middle-aged man who
introduced himself as an engineer's fitter, too. "I know
who you are," he said. "I have attended your trial.
You are a good comrade and your ideas are sound.
But the devil of it is that you won't be able to get work
anywhere now. These bourgeois'll conspire to starve
you. That's their way. Expect no mercy from the
rich."
To be spoken to so kindly in the street had com-
forted him very much. His seemed to be the sort of
nature needing support and sympathy. The idea of
not being able to find work had knocked him over
completely. If his patron, who knew him so well for a
quiet, orderly, competent workman, would have noth-
ing to do with him now -- then surely nobody else would.
That was clear. The police, keeping their eye on him,
would hasten to warn every employer inclined to give
him a chance. He felt suddenly very helpless, alarmed
and idle; and he followed the middle-aged man to the
estaminet round the corner where he met some other
good companions. They assured him that he would
not be allowed to starve, work or no work. They had
drinks all round to the discomfiture of all employers of
labour and to the destruction of society.
He sat biting his lower lip.
"That is, monsieur, how I became a compagnon," he
said. The hand he passed over his forehead was
trembling. "All the same, there's something wrong in
a world where a man can get lost for a glass more or
less."
He never looked up, though I could see he was
getting excited under his dejection. He slapped the
bench with his open palm.
"No!" he cried. "It was an impossible existence!
Watched by the police, watched by the comrades, I
did not belong to myself any more! Why, I could not
even go to draw a few francs from my savings-bank
without a comrade hanging about the door to see that
I didn't bolt! And most of them were neither more
nor less than housebreakers. The intelligent, I mean.
They robbed the rich; they were only getting back
their own, they said. When I had had some drink I
believed them. There were also the fools and the mad.
Des exaltes -- quoi! When I was drunk I loved them.
When I got more drink I was angry with the world.
That was the best time. I found refuge from misery in
rage. But one can't be always drunk -- n'est-ce pas,
monsieur? And when I was sober I was afraid to break
away. They would have stuck me like a pig."
He folded his arms again and raised his sharp chin
with a bitter smile.
"By and by they told me it was time to go to work.
The work was to rob a bank. Afterwards a bomb
would be thrown to wreck the place. My beginner's
part would be to keep watch in a street at the back and
to take care of a black bag with the bomb inside till it
was wanted. After the meeting at which the affair was
arranged a trusty comrade did not leave me an inch.
I had not dared to protest; I was afraid of being done
away with quietly in that room; only, as we were
walking together I wondered whether it would not
be better for me to throw myself suddenly into the
Seine. But while I was turning it over in my mind
we had crossed the bridge, and afterwards I had not
the opportunity."
In the light of the candle end, with his sharp features,
fluffy little moustache, and oval face, he looked at
times delicately and gaily young, and then appeared
quite old, decrepit, full of sorrow, pressing his folded
arms to his breast.
As he remained silent I felt bound to ask:
"Well! And how did it end?"
"Deportation to Cayenne," he answered.
He seemed to think that somebody had given the
plot away. As he was keeping watch in the back
street, bag in hand, he was set upon by the police.
"These imbeciles," had knocked him down without
noticing what he had in his hand. He wondered how the
bomb failed to explode as he fell. But it didn't explode.
"I tried to tell my story in court," he continued.
"The president was amused. There were in the
audience some idiots who laughed."
I expressed the hope that some of his companions
had been caught, too. He shuddered slightly before he
told me that there were two -- Simon, called also Biscuit,
the middle-aged fitter who spoke to him in the street,
and a fellow of the name of Mafile, one of the sym-
pathetic strangers who had applauded his sentiments
and consoled his humanitarian sorrows when he got
drunk in the cafe.
"Yes," he went on, with an effort, "I had the ad-
vantage of their company over there on St. Joseph's
Island, amongst some eighty or ninety other convicts.
We were all classed as dangerous."
St. Joseph's Island is the prettiest of the Iles de
Salut. It is rocky and green, with shallow ravines,
bushes, thickets, groves of mango-trees, and many
feathery palms. Six warders armed with revolvers and
carbines are in charge of the convicts kept there.
An eight-oared galley keeps up the communication
in the daytime, across a channel a quarter of a mile
wide, with the Ile Royale, where there is a military post.
She makes the first trip at six in the morning. At four
in the afternoon her service is over, and she is then
hauled up into a little dock on the Ile Royale and a
sentry put over her and a few smaller boats. From that
time till next morning the island of St. Joseph remains
cut off from the rest of the world, with the warders
patrolling in turn the path from the warders' house to
the convict huts, and a multitude of sharks patrolling
the waters all round.
Under these circumstances the convicts planned a
mutiny. Such a thing had never been known in the
penitentiary's history before. But their plan was not
without some possibility of success. The warders were
to be taken by surprise and murdered during the night.
Their arms would enable the convicts to shoot down
the people in the galley as she came alongside in the
morning. The galley once in their possession, other
boats were to be captured, and the whole company was
to row away up the coast.
At dusk the two warders on duty mustered the con-
victs as usual. Then they proceeded to inspect the
huts to ascertain that everything was in order. In the
second they entered they were set upon and absolutely
smothered under the numbers of their assailants. The
twilight faded rapidly. It was a new moon; and a heavy
black squall gathering over the coast increased the pro-
found darkness of the night. The convicts assembled in
the open space, deliberating upon the next step to be
taken, argued amongst themselves in low voices.
"You took part in all this?" I asked.
"No. I knew what was going to be done, of course.
But why should I kill these warders? I had nothing
against them. But I was afraid of the others. What-
ever happened, I could not escape from them. I sat
alone on the stump of a tree with my head in my hands,
sick at heart at the thought of a freedom that could be
nothing but a mockery to me. Suddenly I was startled
to perceive the shape of a man on the path near by.
He stood perfectly still, then his form became effaced in
the night. It must have been the chief warder coming
to see what had become of his two men. No one
noticed him. The convicts kept on quarrelling over
their plans. The leaders could not get themselves
obeyed. The fierce whispering of that dark mass of
men was very horrible.
"At last they divided into two parties and moved off.
When they had passed me I rose, weary and hopeless.
The path to the warders' house was dark and silent,
but on each side the bushes rustled slightly. Presently
I saw a faint thread of light before me. The chief
warder, followed by his three men, was approaching
cautiously. But he had failed to close his dark lantern
properly. The convicts had seen that faint gleam, too.
There was an awful savage yell, a turmoil on the dark
path, shots fired, blows, groans: and with the sound of
smashed bushes, the shouts of the pursuers and the
screams of the pursued, the man-hunt, the warder-hunt,
passed by me into the interior of the island. I was
alone. And I assure you, monsieur, I was indifferent
to everything. After standing still for a while, I walked
on along the path till I kicked something hard. I
stooped and picked up a warder's revolver. I felt with
my fingers that it was loaded in five chambers. In
the gusts of wind I heard the convicts calling to each
other far away, and then a roll of thunder would cover
the soughing and rustling of the trees. Suddenly, a big
light ran across my path very low along the ground.
And it showed a woman's skirt with the edge of an
apron.
"I knew that the person who carried it must be the
wife of the head warder. They had forgotten all about
her, it seems. A shot rang out in the interior of the
island, and she cried out to herself as she ran. She
passed on. I followed, and presently I saw her again.
She was pulling at the cord of the big bell which hangs
at the end of the landing-pier, with one hand, and with
the other she was swinging the heavy lantern to and
fro. This is the agreed signal for the Ile Royale should
assistance be required at night. The wind carried the
sound away from our island and the light she swung
was hidden on the shore side by the few trees that grow
near the warders' house.
"I came up quite close to her from behind. She
went on without stopping, without looking aside, as
though she had been all alone on the island. A brave
woman, monsieur. I put the revolver inside the breast
of my blue blouse and waited. A flash of lightning and
a clap of thunder destroyed both the sound and the
light of the signal for an instant, but she never faltered,
pulling at the cord and swinging the lantern as regularly
as a machine. She was a comely woman of thirty -- no
more. I thought to myself, 'All that's no good on a
night like this.' And I made up my mind that if a
body of my fellow-convicts came down to the pier --
which was sure to happen soon -- I would shoot her
through the head before I shot myself. I knew the
'comrades' well. This idea of mine gave me quite an.
interest in life, monsieur; and at once, instead of re-
maining stupidly exposed on the pier, I retreated a
little way and crouched behind a bush. I did not in-
tend to let myself be pounced upon unawares and be
prevented perhaps from rendering a supreme service
to at least one human creature before I died myself.
"But we must believe the signal was seen, for the
galley from Ile Royale came over in an astonishingly
short time. The woman kept right on till the light of
her lantern flashed upon the officer in command and
the bayonets of the soldiers in the boat. Then she sat
down and began to cry.
"She didn't need me any more. I did not budge.
Some soldiers were only in their shirt-sleeves, others
without boots, just as the call to arms had found them.
They passed by my bush at the double. The galley had
been sent away for more; and the woman sat all alone
crying at the end of the pier, with the lantern standing
on the ground near her.
"Then suddenly I saw in the light at the end of the
pier the red pantaloons of two more men. I was over-
come with astonishment. They, too, started off at a
run. Their tunics flapped unbuttoned and they were
bare-headed. One of them panted out to the other,
'Straight on, straight on!'
"Where on earth did they spring from, I wondered.
Slowly I walked down the short pier. I saw the
woman's form shaken by sobs and heard her moaning
more and more distinctly, 'Oh, my man! my poor man!
my poor man!' I stole on quietly. She could neither
hear nor see anything. She had thrown her apron over
her head and was rocking herself to and fro in her grief.
But I remarked a small boat fastened to the end of the
pier.
"Those two men -- they looked like sous-officiers --
must have come in it, after being too late, I suppose, for
the galley. It is incredible that they should have thus
broken the regulations from a sense of duty. And it
was a stupid thing to do. I could not believe my eyes
in the very moment I was stepping into that boat.
"I pulled along the shore slowly. A black cloud
hung over the Iles de Salut. I heard firing, shouts.
Another hunt had begun -- the convict-hunt. The
oars were too long to pull comfortably. I managed
them with difficulty, though the boat herself was light.
But when I got round to the other side of the island the
squall broke in rain and wind. I was unable to make
head against it. I let the boat drift ashore and secured
her.
"I knew the spot. There was a tumbledown old
hovel standing near the water. Cowering in there I
heard through the noises of the wind and the falling
downpour some people tearing through the bushes.
They came out on the strand. Soldiers perhaps. A
flash of lightning threw everything near me into violent
relief. Two convicts!
"And directly an amazed voice exclaimed. 'It's a
miracle!' It was the voice of Simon, otherwise Biscuit.
"And another voice growled, 'What's a miracle?'
"'Why, there's a boat lying here!'
"'You must be mad, Simon! But there is, after all.
. . . A boat.'
"They seemed awed into complete silence. The
other man was Mafile. He spoke again, cautiously.
"'It is fastened up. There must be somebody here.'
"I spoke to them from within the hovel: 'I am here.'
"They came in then, and soon gave me to understand
that the boat was theirs, not mine. 'There are two of
us,' said Mafile, 'against you alone.'
"I got out into the open to keep clear of them for
fear of getting a treacherous blow on the head. I could
have shot them both where they stood. But I said
nothing. I kept down the laughter rising in my throat.
I made myself very humble and begged to be allowed to
go. They consulted in low tones about my fate, while
with my hand on the revolver in the bosom of my blouse
I had their lives in my power. I let them live. I
meant them to pull that boat. I represented to them
with abject humility that I understood the management
of a boat, and that, being three to pull, we could get a
rest in turns. That decided them at last. It was time.
A little more and I would have gone into screaming fits
at the drollness of it."
At this point his excitement broke out. He jumped
off the bench and gesticulated. The great shadows of
his arms darting over roof and walls made the shed
appear too small to contain his agitation.
"I deny nothing," he burst out. "I was elated,
monsieur. I tasted a sort of felicity. But I kept very
quiet. I took my turns at pulling all through the
night. We made for the open sea, putting our trust in a
passing ship. It was a foolhardy action. I persuaded
them to it. When the sun rose the immensity of water
was calm, and the Iles de Salut appeared only like dark
specks from the top of each swell. I was steering then.
Mafile, who was pulling bow, let out an oath and said,
'We must rest.'
'The time to laugh had come at last. And I took
my fill of it, I can tell you. I held my sides and rolled
in my seat, they had such startled faces. 'What's got
into him, the animal?' cries Mafile.
"And Simon, who was nearest to me, says over his
shoulder to him, 'Devil take me if I don't think he's
gone mad!'
"Then I produced the revolver. Aha! In a mo-
ment they both got the stoniest eyes you can imagine.
Ha, ha! They were frightened. But they pulled.
Oh, yes, they pulled all day, sometimes looking wild and
sometimes looking faint. I lost nothing of it because I
had to keep my eyes on them all the time, or else --
crack! -- they would have been on top of me in a second.
I rested my revolver hand on my knee all ready and
steered with the other. Their faces began to blister.
Sky and sea seemed on fire round us and the sea steamed
in the sun. The boat made a sizzling sound as she went
through the water. Sometimes Mafile foamed at the
mouth and sometimes he groaned. But he pulled. He
dared not stop. His eyes became blood-shot all over,
and he had bitten his lower lip to pieces. Simon was as
hoarse as a crow.
"'Comrade --' he begins.
'"There are no comrades here. I am your pa-
tron.'
"'Patron, then,' he says, 'in the name of humanity
let us rest.'
"I let them. There was a little rainwater washing
about the bottom of the boat. I permitted them to
snatch some of it in the hollow of their palms. But as I
gave the command, 'En route!' I caught them exchang-
ing significant glances. They thought I would have to
go to sleep sometime! Aha! But I did not want to go
to sleep. I was more awake than ever. It is they who
went to sleep as they pulled, tumbling off the thwarts
head over heels suddenly, one after another. I let them
lie. All the stars were out. It was a quiet world. The
sun rose. Another day. Allez! En route!
"They pulled badly. Their eyes rolled about and
their tongues hung out. In the middle of the forenoon
Mafile croaks out: 'Let us make a rush at him, Simon.
I would just as soon be shot at once as to die of thirst,
hunger, and fatigue at the oar.'
"But while he spoke he pulled; and Simon kept on
pulling too. It made me smile. Ah! They loved
their life these two, in this evil world of theirs, just
as I used to love my life, too, before they spoiled it
for me with their phrases. I let them go on to the
point of exhaustion, and only then I pointed at the
sails of a ship on the horizon.
"Aha! You should have seen them revive and
buckle to their work! For I kept them at it to pull
right across that ship's path. They were changed.
The sort of pity I had felt for them left me. They
looked more like themselves every minute. They
looked at me with the glances I remembered so well.
They were happy. They smiled.
"'Well,' says Simon, 'the energy of that youngster
has saved our lives. If he hadn't made us, we could
never have pulled so far out into the track of ships.
Comrade, I forgive you. I admire you.'
"And Mafile growls from forward: 'We owe you a
famous debt of gratitude, comrade. You are cut out
for a chief.'
"Comrade! Monsieur! Ah, what a good word!
And they, such men as these two, had made it accursed.
I looked at them. I remembered their lies, their
promises, their menaces, and all my days of misery.
Why could they not have left me alone after I came out
of prison? I looked at them and thought that while
they lived I could never be free. Never. Neither I nor
others like me with warm hearts and weak heads. For
I know I have not a strong head, monsieur. A black
rage came upon me -- the rage of extreme intoxication --
but not against the injustice of society. Oh, no!
"'I must be free!' I cried, furiously.
"'Vive la liberte!" yells that ruffian Mafile. 'Mort
aux bourgeois who send us to Cayenne! They shall
soon know that we are free.'
"The sky, the sea, the whole horizon, seemed to turn
red, blood red all round the boat. My temples were
beating so loud that I wondered they did not hear.
How is it that they did not? How is it they did not
understand?
"I heard Simon ask, 'Have we not pulled far enough
out now?'
"'Yes. Far enough,' I said. I was sorry for him;
it was the other I hated. He hauled in his oar with a
loud sigh, and as he was raising his hand to wipe his
forehead with the air of a man who has done his work, I
pulled the trigger of my revolver and shot him like this
off the knee, right through the heart.
"He tumbled down, with his head hanging over the
side of the boat. I did not give him a second glance.
The other cried out piercingly. Only one shriek of
horror. Then all was still.
"He slipped off the thwart on to his knees and raised
his clasped hands before his face in an attitude of suppli-
cation. 'Mercy,' he whispered, faintly. 'Mercy for
me! -- comrade.'
"'Ah, comrade,' I said, in a low tone. 'Yes, comrade,
of course. Well, then, shout Vive l'anarchie.'
"He flung up his arms, his face up to the sky and
his mouth wide open in a great yell of despair. 'Vive
l'anarchie! Vive --'
"He collapsed all in a heap, with a bullet through
his head.
"I flung them both overboard. I threw away the
revolver, too. Then I sat down quietly. I was free at
last! At last. I did not even look towards the ship;
I did not care; indeed, I think I must have gone to
sleep, because all of a sudden there were shouts and I
found the ship almost on top of me. They hauled me
on board and secured the boat astern. They were all
blacks, except the captain, who was a mulatto. He
alone knew a few words of French. I could not find
out where they were going nor who they were. They
gave me something to eat every day; but I did not like
the way they used to discuss me in their language.
Perhaps they were deliberating about throwing me over-
board in order to keep possession of the boat. How do
I know? As we were passing this island I asked
whether it was inhabited. I understood from the
mulatto that there was a house on it. A farm, I
fancied, they meant. So I asked them to put me ashore
on the beach and keep the boat for their trouble. This,
I imagine, was just what they wanted. The rest you
know."
After pronouncing these words he lost suddenly all
control over himself. He paced to and fro rapidly, till
at last he broke into a run; his arms went like a windmill
and his ejaculations became very much like raving.
The burden of them was that he "denied nothing,
nothing!" I could only let him go on, and sat out of his
way, repeating, "Calmez vous, calmez vous," at intervals,
till his agitation exhausted itself.
I must confess, too, that I remained there long after
he had crawled under his mosquito-net. He had en-
treated me not to leave him; so, as one sits up with a
nervous child, I sat up with him -- in the name of
humanity -- till he fell asleep.
On the whole, my idea is that he was much more of
an anarchist than he confessed to me or to himself; and
that, the special features of his case apart, he was very
much like many other anarchists. Warm heart and
weak head -- that is the word of the riddle; and it is a
fact that the bitterest contradictions and the deadliest
conflicts of the world are carried on in every individual
breast capable of feeling and passion.
From personal inquiry I can vouch that the story of
the convict mutiny was in every particular as stated by
him.
When I got back to Horta from Cayenne and saw
the "Anarchist" again, he did not look well. He was
more worn, still more frail, and very livid indeed under
the grimy smudges of his calling. Evidently the meat
of the company's main herd (in its unconcentrated
form) did not agree with him at all.
It was on the pontoon in Horta that we met; and I
tried to induce him to leave the launch moored where
she was and follow me to Europe there and then. It
would have been delightful to think of the excellent
manager's surprise and disgust at the poor fellow's
escape. But he refused with unconquerable obstinacy.
"Surely you don't mean to live always here!" I
cried. He shook his head.
"I shall die here," he said. Then added moodily,
"Away from them."
Sometimes I think of him lying open-eyed on his
horseman's gear in the low shed full of tools and scraps
of iron -- the anarchist slave of the Maranon estate,
waiting with resignation for that sleep which "fled"
from him, as he used to say, in such an unaccountable
manner.
A MILITARY TALE
THE DUEL
I
NAPOLEON I., whose career had the quality of a
duel against the whole of Europe, disliked duelling
between the officers of his army. The great military
emperor was not a swashbuckler, and had little respect
for tradition.
Nevertheless, a story of duelling, which became a
legend in the army, runs through the epic of imperial
wars. To the surprise and admiration of their fellows,
two officers, like insane artists trying to gild refined gold
or paint the lily, pursued a private contest through the
years of universal carnage. They were officers of
cavalry, and their connection with the high-spirited but
fanciful animal which carries men into battle seems
particularly appropriate. It would be difficult to
imagine for heroes of this legend two officers of infantry
of the line, for example, whose fantasy is tamed by
much walking exercise, and whose valour necessarily
must be of a more plodding kind. As to gunners or
engineers, whose heads are kept cool on a diet of
mathematics, it is simply unthinkable.
The names of the two officers were Feraud and
D'Hubert, and they were both lieutenants in a regiment
of hussars, but not in the same regiment.
Feraud was doing regimental work, but Lieut.
D'Hubert had the good fortune to be attached to the
person of the general commanding the division, as
officier d'ordonnance. It was in Strasbourg, and in this
agreeable and important garrison they were enjoying
greatly a short interval of peace. They were enjoying
it, though both intensely warlike, because it was a
sword-sharpening, firelock-cleaning peace, dear to a
military heart and undamaging to military prestige,
inasmuch that no one believed in its sincerity or
duration.
Under those historical circumstances, so favourable
to the proper appreciation of military leisure, Lieut.
D'Hubert, one fine afternoon, made his way along a
quiet street of a cheerful suburb towards Lieut. Feraud's
quarters, which were in a private house with a garden
at the back, belonging to an old maiden lady.
His knock at the door was answered instantly by a
young maid in Alsatian costume. Her fresh complexion
and her long eyelashes, lowered demurely at the sight
of the tall officer, caused Lieut. D'Hubert, who was
accessible to esthetic impressions, to relax the cold,
severe gravity of his face. At the same time he ob-
served that the girl had over her arm a pair of hussar's
breeches, blue with a red stripe.
"Lieut. Feraud in?" he inquired, benevolently.
"Oh, no, sir! He went out at six this morning."
The pretty maid tried to close the door. Lieut.
D'Hubert, opposing this move with gentle firmness,
stepped into the ante-room, jingling his spurs.
"Come, my dear! You don't mean to say he has
not been home since six o'clock this morning?"
Saying these words, Lieut. D'Hubert opened with-
out ceremony the door of a room so comfortably and
neatly ordered that only from internal evidence in the
shape of boots, uniforms, and military accoutrements
did he acquire the conviction that it was Lieut. Feraud's
room. And he saw also that Lieut. Feraud was not at
home. The truthful maid had followed him, and raised
her candid eyes to his face.
"H'm!" said Lieut. D'Hubert, greatly disappointed,
for he had already visited all the haunts where a lieu-
tenant of hussars could be found of a fine afternoon.
"So he's out? And do you happen to know, my dear,
why he went out at six this morning?"
"No," she answered, readily. "He came home late
last night, and snored. I heard him when I got up at
five. Then he dressed himself in his oldest uniform and
went out. Service, I suppose."
"Service? Not a bit of it!" cried Lieut. D'Hubert.
"Learn, my angel, that he went out thus early to fight a
duel with a civilian."
She heard this news without a quiver of her dark
eyelashes. It was very obvious that the actions of
Lieut. Feraud were generally above criticism. She only
looked up for a moment in mute surprise, and Lieut.
D'Hubert concluded from this absence of emotion that
she must have seen Lieut. Feraud since the morning.
He looked around the room.
"Come!" he insisted, with confidential familiarity.
"He's perhaps somewhere in the house now?"
She shook her head.
"So much the worse for him!" continued Lieut.
D'Hubert, in a tone of anxious conviction. "But he
has been home this morning."
This time the pretty maid nodded slightly.
"He has!" cried Lieut. D'Hubert. "And went out
again? What for? Couldn't he keep quietly indoors!
What a lunatic! My dear girl --"
Lieut. D'Hubert's natural kindness of disposition
and strong sense of comradeship helped his powers of
observation. He changed his tone to a most insinuating
softness, and, gazing at the hussar's breeches hanging
over the arm of the girl, he appealed to the interest she
took in Lieut. Feraud's comfort and happiness. He
was pressing and persuasive. He used his eyes, which
were kind and fine, with excellent effect. His anxiety
to get hold at once of Lieut. Feraud, for Lieut. Feraud's
own good, seemed so genuine that at last it overcame
the girl's unwillingness to speak. Unluckily she had
not much to tell. Lieut. Feraud had returned home
shortly before ten, had walked straight into his room,
and had thrown himself on his bed to resume his
slumbers. She had heard him snore rather louder than
before far into the afternoon. Then he got up, put on
his best uniform, and went out. That was all she knew.
She raised her eyes, and Lieut. D'Hubert stared into
them incredulously.
"It's incredible. Gone parading the town in his
best uniform! My dear child, don't you know he ran
that civilian through this morning? Clean through, as
you spit a hare."
The pretty maid heard the gruesome intelligence
without any signs of distress. But she pressed her lips
together thoughtfully.
"He isn't parading the town," she remarked in a low
tone. "Far from it."
"The civilian's family is making an awful row,"
continued Lieut. D'Hubert, pursuing his train of
thought. "And the general is very angry. It's one
of the best families in the town. Feraud ought to have
kept close at least --"
"What will the general do to him?" inquired the girl,
anxiously.
"He won't have his head cut off, to be sure," grum-
bled Lieut. D'Hubert. "His conduct is positively in-
decent. He's making no end of trouble for himself by
this sort of bravado."
"But he isn't parading the town," the maid insisted
in a shy murmur.
"Why, yes! Now I think of it, I haven't seen him
anywhere about. What on earth has he done with
himself?"
"He's gone to pay a call," suggested the maid, after
a moment of silence.
Lieut. D'Hubert started.
"A call! Do you mean a call on a lady? The cheek
of the man! And how do you know this, my dear?"
Without concealing her woman's scorn for the dense-
ness of the masculine mind, the pretty maid reminded
him that Lieut. Feraud had arrayed himself in his best
uniform before going out. He had also put on his
newest dolman, she added, in a tone as if this conver-
sation were getting on her nerves, and turned away
brusquely.
Lieut. D'Hubert, without questioning the accuracy
of the deduction, did not see that it advanced him much
on his official quest. For his quest after Lieut. Feraud
had an official character. He did not know any of the
women this fellow, who had run a man through in the
morning, was likely to visit in the afternoon. The two
young men knew each other but slightly. He bit his
gloved finger in perplexity.
"Call!" he exclaimed. "Call on the devil!"
The girl, with her back to him, and folding the
hussars breeches on a chair, protested with a vexed
little laugh:
"Oh, dear, no! On Madame de Lionne."
Lieut. D'Hubert whistled softly. Madame de Lionne
was the wife of a high official who had a well-known
salon and some pretensions to sensibility and elegance.
The husband was a civilian, and old; but the society of
the salon was young and military. Lieut. D'Hubert
had whistled, not because the idea of pursuing Lieut.
Feraud into that very salon was disagreeable to him, but
because, having arrived in Strasbourg only lately, he
had not had the time as yet to get an introduction to
Madame de Lionne. And what was that swashbuckler
Feraud doing there, he wondered. He did not seem the
sort of man who --
"Are you certain of what you say?" asked Lieut.
D'Hubert.
The girl was perfectly certain. Without turning
round to look at him, she explained that the coachman
of their next door neighbours knew the maitre-d'hotel
of Madame de Lionne. In this way she had her in-
formation. And she was perfectly certain. In giving
this assurance she sighed. Lieut. Feraud called there
nearly every afternoon, she added.
"Ah, bah!" exclaimed D'Hubert, ironically. His
opinion of Madame de Lionne went down several de-
grees. Lieut. Feraud did not seem to him specially
worthy of attention on the part of a woman with a repu-
tation for sensibility and elegance. But there was no
saying. At bottom they were all alike -- very practi-
cal rather than idealistic. Lieut. D'Hubert, however,
did not allow his mind to dwell on these considerations.
"By thunder!" he reflected aloud. "The general
goes there sometimes. If he happens to find the fellow
making eyes at the lady there will be the devil to pay!
Our general is not a very accommodating person, I can
tell you."
"Go quickly, then! Don't stand here now I've told
you where he is!" cried the girl, colouring to the eyes.
"Thanks, my dear! I don't know what I would
have done without you."
After manifesting his gratitude in an aggressive way,
which at first was repulsed violently, and then sub-
mitted to with a sudden and still more repellent in-
difference, Lieut. D'Hubert took his departure.
He clanked and jingled along the streets with a
martial swagger. To run a comrade to earth in a
drawing-room where he was not known did not trouble
him in the least. A uniform is a passport. His
position as officier d'ordonnance of the general added
to his assurance. Moreover, now that he knew where
to find Lieut. Feraud, he had no option. It was a ser-
vice matter.
Madame de Lionne's house had an excellent appear-
ance. A man in livery, opening the door of a large
drawing-room with a waxed floor, shouted his name
and stood aside to let him pass. It was a reception day.
The ladies wore big hats surcharged with a profusion of
feathers; their bodies sheathed in clinging white gowns,
from the armpits to the tips of the low satin shoes,
looked sylph-like and cool in a great display of bare
necks and arms. The men who talked with them, on
the contrary, were arrayed heavily in multi-coloured
garments with collars up to their ears and thick sashes
round their waists. Lieut. D'Hubert made his un-
abashed way across the room and, bowing low before a
sylph-like form reclining on a couch, offered his
apologies for this intrusion, which nothing could excuse
but the extreme urgency of the service order he had to
communicate to his comrade Feraud. He proposed to
himself to return presently in a more regular manner
and beg forgiveness for interrupting the interesting
conversation . . .
A bare arm was extended towards him with gracious
nonchalance even before he had finished speaking. He
pressed the hand respectfully to his lips, and made the
mental remark that it was bony. Madame de Lionne
was a blonde, with too fine a skin and a long face.
"C'est ca!" she said, with an ethereal smile, disclosing
a set of large teeth. "Come this evening to plead for
your forgiveness."
"I will not fail, madame."
Meantime, Lieut. Feraud, splendid in his new dolman
and the extremely polished boots of his calling, sat on a
chair within a foot of the couch, one hand resting on his
thigh, the other twirling his moustache to a point. At
a significant glance from D'Hubert he rose without
alacrity, and followed him into the recess of a window.
"What is it you want with me?" he asked, with
astonishing indifference. Lieut. D'Hubert could not
imagine that in the innocence of his heart and simplicity
of his conscience Lieut. Feraud took a view of his duel
in which neither remorse nor yet a rational apprehension
of consequences had any place. Though he had no
clear recollection how the quarrel had originated (it was
begun in an establishment where beer and wine are
drunk late at night), he had not the slightest doubt of
being himself the outraged party. He had had two
experienced friends for his seconds. Everything had
been done according to the rules governing that sort of
adventures. And a duel is obviously fought for the
purpose of someone being at least hurt, if not killed
outright. The civilian got hurt. That also was in
order. Lieut. Feraud was perfectly tranquil; but
Lieut. D'Hubert took it for affectation, and spoke with
a certain vivacity.
"I am directed by the general to give you the order
to go at once to your quarters, and remain there under
close arrest."
It was now the turn of Lieut. Feraud to be aston-
ished. "What the devil are you telling me there?" he
murmured, faintly, and fell into such profound wonder
that he could only follow mechanically the motions of
Lieut. D'Hubert. The two officers, one tall, with an
interesting face and a moustache the colour of ripe corn,
the other, short and sturdy, with a hooked nose and a
thick crop of black curly hair, approached the mistress
of the house to take their leave. Madame de Lionne,
a woman of eclectic taste, smiled upon these armed
young men with impartial sensibility and an equal share
of interest. Madame de Lionne took her delight in the
infinite variety of the human species. All the other
eyes in the drawing-room followed the departing
officers; and when they had gone out one or two men,
who had already heard of the duel, imparted the in-
formation to the sylph-like ladies, who received it with
faint shrieks of humane concern.
Meantime, the two hussars walked side by side, Lieut.
Feraud trying to master the hidden reason of things
which in this instance eluded the grasp of his intellect,
Lieut. D'Hubert feeling annoyed at the part he had to
play, because the general's instructions were that he
should see personally that Lieut. Feraud carried out his
orders to the letter, and at once.
"The chief seems to know this animal," he thought,
eyeing his companion, whose round face, the round
eyes, and even the twisted-up jet black little moustache
seemed animated by a mental exasperation against the
incomprehensible. And aloud he observed rather re-
proachfully, "The general is in a devilish fury with you!"
Lieut. Feraud stopped short on the edge of the pave-
ment, and cried in accents of unmistakable sincerity,
"What on earth for?" The innocence of the fiery
Gascon soul was depicted in the manner in which he
seized his head in both hands as if to prevent it bursting
with perplexity.
"For the duel," said Lieut. D'Hubert, curtly. He
was annoyed greatly by this sort of perverse fooling.
"The duel! The . . ."
Lieut. Feraud passed from one paroxysm of astonish-
ment into another. He dropped his hands and walked
on slowly, trying to reconcile this information with the
state of his own feelings. It was impossible. He burst
out indignantly, "Was I to let that sauerkraut-eating
civilian wipe his boots on the uniform of the 7th Hus-
sars?"
Lieut. D'Hubert could not remain altogether un-
moved by that simple sentiment. This little fellow was
a lunatic, he thought to himself, but there was some-
thing in what he said.
"Of course, I don't know how far you were justified,"
he began, soothingly. "And the general himself may
not be exactly informed. Those people have been
deafening him with their lamentations."
"Ah! the general is not exactly informed," mumbled
Lieut. Feraud, walking faster and faster as his choler at
the injustice of his fate began to rise. "He is not
exactly . . . And he orders me under close arrest,
with God knows what afterwards!"
"Don't excite yourself like this," remonstrated the
other. "Your adversary's people are very influential,
you know, and it looks bad enough on the face of it.
The general had to take notice of their complaint at
once. I don't think he means to be over-severe with
you. It's the best thing for you to be kept out of sight
for a while."
"I am very much obliged to the general," muttered
Lieut. Feraud through his teeth. "And perhaps you
would say I ought to be grateful to you, too, for the
trouble you have taken to hunt me up in the drawing-
room of a lady who --"
"Frankly," interrupted Lieut. D'Hubert, with an
innocent laugh, "I think you ought to be. I had no
end of trouble to find out where you were. It wasn't
exactly the place for you to disport yourself in under
the circumstances. If the general had caught you
there making eyes at the goddess of the temple . . .
oh, my word! . . . He hates to be bothered with
complaints against his officers, you know. And it
looked uncommonly like sheer bravado."
The two officers had arrived now at the street door of
Lieut. Feraud's lodgings. The latter turned towards
his companion. "Lieut. D'Hubert," he said, "I have
something to say to you, which can't be said very well
in the street. You can't refuse to come up."
The pretty maid had opened the door. Lieut.
Feraud brushed past her brusquely, and she raised her
scared and questioning eyes to Lieut. D'Hubert, who
could do nothing but shrug his shoulders slightly as he
followed with marked reluctance.
In his room Lieut. Feraud unhooked the clasp, flung
his new dolman on the bed, and, folding his arms across
his chest, turned to the other hussar.
"Do you imagine I am a man to submit tamely to
injustice?" he inquired, in a boisterous voice.
"Oh, do be reasonable!" remonstrated Lieut. D'Hu-
bert.
"I am reasonable! I am perfectly reasonable!"
retorted the other with ominous restraint. "I can't
call the general to account for his behaviour, but you are
going to answer me for yours."
"I can't listen to this nonsense," murmured Lieut.
D'Hubert, making a slightly contemptuous grimace.
"You call this nonsense? It seems to me a per-
fectly plain statement. Unless you don't understand
French."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"I mean," screamed suddenly Lieut. Feraud, "to cut
off your ears to teach you to disturb me with the
general's orders when I am talking to a lady!"
A profound silence followed this mad declaration;
and through the open window Lieut. D'Hubert heard
the little birds singing sanely in the garden. He said,
preserving his calm, "Why! If you take that tone, of
course I shall hold myself at your disposition whenever
you are at liberty to attend to this affair; but I don't
think you will cut my ears off."
"I am going to attend to it at once," declared Lieut.
Feraud, with extreme truculence. "If you are thinking
of displaying your airs and graces to-night in Madame
de Lionne's salon you are very much mistaken."
"Really!" said Lieut. D'Hubert, who was beginning
to feel irritated, "you are an impracticable sort of
fellow. The general's orders to me were to put you
under arrest, not to carve you into small pieces. Good-
morning!" And turning his back on the little Gascon,
who, always sober in his potations, was as though born
intoxicated with the sunshine of his vine-ripening coun-
try, the Northman, who could drink hard on occasion,
but was born sober under the watery skies of Picardy,
made for the door. Hearing, however, the unmistak-
able sound behind his back of a sword drawn from the
scabbard, he had no option but to stop.
"Devil take this mad Southerner!" he thought, spin-
ning round and surveying with composure the warlike
posture of Lieut. Feraud, with a bare sword in his hand.
"At once! -- at once!" stuttered Feraud, beside himself.
"You had my answer," said the other, keeping his
temper very well.
At first he had been only vexed, and somewhat
amused; but now his face got clouded. He was asking
himself seriously how he could manage to get away.
It was impossible to run from a man with a sword, and
as to fighting him, it seemed completely out of the
question. He waited awhile, then said exactly what
was in his heart.
"Drop this! I won't fight with you. I won't be
made ridiculous."
"Ah, you won't?" hissed the Gascon. "I suppose
you prefer to be made infamous. Do you hear what I
say? . . . Infamous! Infamous! Infamous!" he
shrieked, rising and falling on his toes and getting very
red in the face.
Lieut. D'Hubert, on the contrary, became very pale at
the sound of the unsavoury word for a moment, then
flushed pink to the roots of his fair hair. "But you
can't go out to fight; you are under arrest, you lunatic!"
he objected, with angry scorn.
"There's the garden: it's big enough to lay out your
long carcass in," spluttered the other with such ardour
that somehow the anger of the cooler man subsided.
"This is perfectly absurd," he said, glad enough to
think he had found a way out of it for the moment.
"We shall never get any of our comrades to serve as
seconds. It's preposterous."
"Seconds! Damn the seconds! We don't want
any seconds. Don't you worry about any seconds. I
shall send word to your friends to come and bury you
when I am done. And if you want any witnesses,
I'll send word to the old girl to put her head out of
a window at the back. Stay! There's the gardener.
He'll do. He's as deaf as a post, but he has two eyes
in his head. Come along! I will teach you, my staff
officer, that the carrying about of a general's orders is
not always child's play."
While thus discoursing he had unbuckled his empty
scabbard. He sent it flying under the bed, and, lower-
ing the point of the sword, brushed past the perplexed
Lieut. D'Hubert, exclaiming, "Follow me!" Directly
he had flung open the door a faint shriek was heard and
the pretty maid, who had been listening at the keyhole,
staggered away, putting the backs of her hands over her
eyes. Feraud did not seem to see her, but she ran after
him and seized his left arm. He shook her off, and
then she rushed towards Lieut. D'Hubert and clawed
at the sleeve of his uniform.
"Wretched man!" she sobbed. "Is this what you
wanted to find him for?"
"Let me go," entreated Lieut. D'Hubert, trying to
disengage himself gently. "It's like being in a mad-
house," he protested, with exasperation. "Do let me
go! I won't do him any harm."
A fiendish laugh from Lieut. Feraud commented that
assurance. "Come along!" he shouted, with a stamp of
his foot.
And Lieut. D'Hubert did follow. He could do noth-
ing else. Yet in vindication of his sanity it must be
recorded that as he passed through the ante-room the
notion of opening the street door and bolting out pre-
sented itself to this brave youth, only of course to be
instantly dismissed, for he felt sure that the other would
pursue him without shame or compunction. And the
prospect of an officer of hussars being chased along the
street by another officer of hussars with a naked sword
could not be for a moment entertained. Therefore
he followed into the garden. Behind them the girl
tottered out, too. With ashy lips and wild, scared
eyes, she surrendered herself to a dreadful curiosity.
She had also the notion of rushing if need be between
Lieut. Feraud and death.
The deaf gardener, utterly unconscious of approach-
ing footsteps, went on watering his flowers till Lieut.
Feraud thumped him on the back. Beholding suddenly
an enraged man flourishing a big sabre, the old chap
trembling in all his limbs dropped the watering-pot. At
once Lieut. Feraud kicked it away with great animosity,
and, seizing the gardener by the throat, backed him
against a tree. He held him there, shouting in his ear,
"Stay here, and look on! You understand? You've
got to look on! Don't dare budge from the spot!"
Lieut. D'Hubert came slowly down the walk, un-
clasping his dolman with unconcealed disgust. Even
then, with his hand already on the hilt of his sword, he
hesitated to draw till a roar, "En garde, fichtre! What
do you think you came here for?" and the rush of his
adversary forced him to put himself as quickly as pos-
sible in a posture of defence.
The clash of arms filled that prim garden, which
hitherto had known no more warlike sound than the
click of clipping shears; and presently the upper part of
an old lady's body was projected out of a window up-
stairs. She tossed her arms above her white cap,
scolding in a cracked voice. The gardener remained
glued to the tree, his toothless mouth open in idiotic
astonishment, and a little farther up the path the pretty
girl, as if spellbound to a small grass plot, ran a few
steps this way and that, wringing her hands and mutter-
ing crazily. She did not rush between the combatants:
the onslaughts of Lieut. Feraud were so fierce that her
heart failed her. Lieut. D'Hubert, his faculties concen-
trated upon defence, needed all his skill and science of
the sword to stop the rushes of his adversary. Twice
already he had to break ground. It bothered him to
feel his foothold made insecure by the round, dry gravel
of the path rolling under the hard soles of his boots.
This was most unsuitable ground, he thought, keeping
a watchful, narrowed gaze, shaded by long eyelashes,
upon the fiery stare of his thick-set adversary. This
absurd affair would ruin his reputation of a sensible,
well-behaved, promising young officer. It would
damage, at any rate, his immediate prospects, and lose
him the good-will of his general. These worldly pre-
occupations were no doubt misplaced in view of the
solemnity of the moment. A duel, whether regarded as
a ceremony in the cult of honour, or even when reduced
in its moral essence to a form of manly sport, demands a
perfect singleness of intention, a homicidal austerity of
mood. On the other hand, this vivid concern for his
future had not a bad effect inasmuch as it began to
rouse the anger of Lieut. D'Hubert. Some seventy
seconds had elapsed since they had crossed blades, and
Lieut. D'Hubert had to break ground again in order to
avoid impaling his reckless adversary like a beetle for a
cabinet of specimens. The result was that misappre-
hending the motive, Lieut. Feraud with a triumphant
sort of snarl pressed his attack.
"This enraged animal will have me against the wall
directly," thought Lieut. D'Hubert. He imagined him-
self much closer to the house than he was, and he dared
not turn his head; it seemed to him that he was keeping
his adversary off with his eyes rather more than with his
point. Lieut. Feraud crouched and bounded with a
fierce tigerish agility fit to trouble the stoutest heart.
But what was more appalling than the fury of a wild
beast, accomplishing in all innocence of heart a natural
function, was the fixity of savage purpose man alone is
capable of displaying. Lieut. D 'Hubert in the midst of
his worldly preoccupations perceived it at last. It was
an absurd and damaging affair to be drawn into, but
whatever silly intention the fellow had started with, it
was clear enough that by this time he meant to kill --
nothing less. He meant it with an intensity of will
utterly beyond the inferior faculties of a tiger.
As is the case with constitutionally brave men, the
full view of the danger interested Lieut. D'Hubert.
And directly he got properly interested, the length of his
arm and the coolness of his head told in his favour. It
was the turn of Lieut. Feraud to recoil, with a blood-
curdling grunt of baffled rage. He made a swift feint,
and then rushed straight forward.
"Ah! you would, would you?" Lieut. D'Hubert
exclaimed, mentally. The combat had lasted nearly
two minutes, time enough for any man to get em-
bittered, apart from the merits of the quarrel. And
all at once it was over. Trying to close breast to breast
under his adversary's guard Lieut. Feraud received a
slash on his shortened arm. He did not feel it in the
least, but it checked his rush, and his feet slipping on
the gravel he fell backwards with great violence. The
shock jarred his boiling brain into the perfect quietude
of insensibility. Simultaneously with his fall the pretty
servant-girl shrieked; but the old maiden lady at the
window ceased her scolding, and began to cross her-
self piously.
Beholding his adversary stretched out perfectly still,
his face to the sky, Lieut. D'Hubert thought he had
killed him outright. The impression of having slashed
hard enough to cut his man clean in two abode with
him for a while in an exaggerated memory of the right
good-will he had put into the blow. He dropped on
his knees hastily by the side of the prostrate body.
Discovering that not even the arm was severed, a
slight sense of disappointment mingled with the feeling
of relief. The fellow deserved the worst. But truly he
did not want the death of that sinner. The affair was
ugly enough as it stood, and Lieut. D'Hubert addressed
himself at once to the task of stopping the bleeding. In
this task it was his fate to be ridiculously impeded by
the pretty maid. Rending the air with screams of
horror, she attacked him from behind and, twining her
fingers in his hair, tugged back at his head. Why she
should choose to hinder him at this precise moment
he could not in the least understand. He did not try.
It was all like a very wicked and harassing dream.
Twice to save himself from being pulled over he had to
rise and fling her off. He did this stoically, without a
word, kneeling down again at once to go on with his
work. But the third time, his work being done, he
seized her and held her arms pinned to her body. Her
cap was half off, her face was red, her eyes blazed with
crazy boldness. He looked mildly into them while she
called him a wretch, a traitor, and a murderer many
times in succession. This did not annoy him so much as
the conviction that she had managed to scratch his face
abundantly. Ridicule would be added to the scandal of
the story. He imagined the adorned tale making its
way through the garrison of the town, through the whole
army on the frontier, with every possible distortion of
motive and sentiment and circumstance, spreading a
doubt upon the sanity of his conduct and the distinction
of his taste even to the very ears of his honourable
family. It was all very well for that fellow Feraud, who
had no connections, no family to speak of, and no
quality but courage, which, anyhow, was a matter of
course, and possessed by every single trooper in the
whole mass of French cavalry. Still holding down the
arms of the girl in a strong grip, Lieut. D'Hubert
glanced over his shoulder. Lieut. Feraud had opened
his eyes. He did not move. Like a man just waking
from a deep sleep he stared without any expression at
the evening sky.
Lieut. D'Hubert's urgent shouts to the old gardener
produced no effect -- not so much as to make him shut
his toothless mouth. Then he remembered that the
man was stone deaf. All that time the girl struggled,
not with maidenly coyness, but like a pretty, dumb fury,
kicking his shins now and then. He continued to hold
her as if in a vice, his instinct telling him that were he
to let her go she would fly at his eyes. But he was
greatly humiliated by his position. At last she gave up.
She was more exhausted than appeased, he feared.
Nevertheless, he attempted to get out of this wicked
dream by way of negotiation.
"Listen to me," he said, as calmly as he could.
"Will you promise to run for a surgeon if I let you go?"
With real affliction he heard her declare that she
would do nothing of the kind. On the contrary, her
sobbed out intention was to remain in the garden, and
fight tooth and nail for the protection of the vanquished
man. This was shocking.
"My dear child!" he cried in despair, "is it possible
that you think me capable of murdering a wounded
adversary? Is it. . . . Be quiet, you little wild
cat, you!"
They struggled. A thick, drowsy voice said behind
him, "What are you after with that girl?"
Lieut. Feraud had raised himself on his good arm.
He was looking sleepily at his other arm, at the mess of
blood on his uniform, at a small red pool on the ground,
at his sabre lying a foot away on the path. Then he
laid himself down gently again to think it all out, as
far as a thundering headache would permit of mental
operations.
Lieut. D'Hubert released the girl who crouched at
once by the side of the other lieutenant. The shades
of night were falling on the little trim garden with this
touching group, whence proceeded low murmurs of
sorrow and compassion, with other feeble sounds of a
different character, as if an imperfectly awake invalid
were trying to swear. Lieut. D'Hubert went away.
He passed through the silent house, and congratu-
lated himself upon the dusk concealing his gory hands
and scratched face from the passers-by. But this story
could by no means be concealed. He dreaded the
discredit and ridicule above everything, and was pain-
fully aware of sneaking through the back streets in
the manner of a murderer. Presently the sounds of
a flute coming out of the open window of a lighted
upstairs room in a modest house interrupted his dismal
reflections. It was being played with a persevering
virtuosity, and through the fioritures of the tune one
could hear the regular thumping of the foot beating
time on the floor.
Lieut. D'Hubert shouted a name, which was that of
an army surgeon whom he knew fairly well. The
sounds of the flute ceased, and the musician appeared at
the window, his instrument still in his hand, peering into
the street.
"Who calls? You, D'Hubert? What brings you
this way?"
He did not like to be disturbed at the hour when he
was playing the flute. He was a man whose hair had
turned grey already in the thankless task of tying up
wounds on battlefields where others reaped advance-
ment and glory.
"I want you to go at once and see Feraud. You
know Lieut. Feraud? He lives down the second street.
It's but a step from here."
"What's the matter with him?"
"Wounded."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure!" cried D'Hubert. "I come from there."
"That's amusing," said the elderly surgeon. Amus-
ing was his favourite word; but the expression of his
face when he pronounced it never corresponded. He
was a stolid man. "Come in," he added. "I'll get
ready in a moment."
"Thanks! I will. I want to wash my hands in
your room."
Lieut. D'Hubert found the surgeon occupied in un-
screwing his flute, and packing the pieces methodically
in a case. He turned his head.
"Water there -- in the corner. Your hands do want
washing."
"I've stopped the bleeding," said Lieut. D'Hubert.
"But you had better make haste. It's rather more
than ten minutes ago, you know."
The surgeon did not hurry his movements.
"What's the matter? Dressing came off? That's
amusing. I've been at work in the hospital all day
but I've been told this morning by somebody that he
had come off without a scratch."
"Not the same duel probably," growled moodily
Lieut. D'Hubert, wiping his hands on a coarse towel.
"Not the same. . . . What? Another. It
would take the very devil to make me go out twice in
one day." The surgeon looked narrowly at Lieut.
D'Hubert. "How did you come by that scratched
face? Both sides, too -- and symmetrical. It's amus-
ing."
"Very!" snarled Lieut. D'Hubert. "And you will
find his slashed arm amusing, too. It will keep both of
you amused for quite a long time."
The doctor was mystified and impressed by the
brusque bitterness of Lieut. D'Hubert's tone. They
left the house together, and in the street he was still
more mystified by his conduct.
"Aren't you coming with me?" he asked.
"No," said Lieut. D'Hubert. "You can find the
house by yourself. The front door will be standing
open very likely."
"All right. Where's his room?"
"Ground floor. But you had better go right through
and look in the garden first."
This astonishing piece of information made the
surgeon go off without further parley. Lieut. D'Hu-
bert regained his quarters nursing a hot and uneasy
indignation. He dreaded the chaff of his comrades al-
most as much as the anger of his superiors. The truth
was confoundedly grotesque and embarrassing, even
putting aside the irregularity of the combat itself, which
made it come abominably near a criminal offence. Like
all men without much imagination, a faculty which
helps the process of reflective thought, Lieut. D'Hubert
became frightfully harassed by the obvious aspects of
his predicament. He was certainly glad that he had not
killed Lieut. Feraud outside all rules, and without the
regular witnesses proper to such a transaction. Un-
commonly glad. At the same time he felt as though he
would have liked to wring his neck for him without
ceremony.
He was still under the sway of these contradictory
sentiments when the surgeon amateur of the flute came
to see him. More than three days had elapsed. Lieut.
D'Hubert was no longer officier d'ordonnance to the
general commanding the division. He had been sent
back to his regiment. And he was resuming his con-
nection with the soldiers' military family by being shut
up in close confinement, not at his own quarters in town,
but in a room in the barracks. Owing to the gravity of
the incident, he was forbidden to see any one. He
did not know what had happened, what was being
said, or what was being thought. The arrival of the
surgeon was a most unexpected thing to the worried
captive. The amateur of the flute began by explaining
that he was there only by a special favour of the colonel.
"I represented to him that it would be only fair to let
you have some authentic news of your adversary," he
continued. "You'll be glad to hear he's getting better
fast."
Lieut. D'Hubert's face exhibited no conventional
signs of gladness. He continued to walk the floor of
the dusty bare room.
"Take this chair, doctor," he mumbled.
The doctor sat down.
"This affair is variously appreciated -- in town and in
the army. In fact, the diversity of opinions is amus-
ing."
"Is it!" mumbled Lieut. D'Hubert, tramping steadily
from wall to wall. But within himself he marvelled
that there could be two opinions on the matter. The
surgeon continued.
"Of course, as the real facts are not known --"
"I should have thought," interrupted D'Hubert, "that
the fellow would have put you in possession of facts."
"He said something," admitted the other, "the first
time I saw him. And, by the by, I did find him in the
garden. The thump on the back of his head had made
him a little incoherent then. Afterwards he was rather
reticent than otherwise."
"Didn't think he would have the grace to be
ashamed!" mumbled D'Hubert, resuming his pacing
while the doctor murmured, "It's very amusing.
Ashamed! Shame was not exactly his frame of mind.
However, you may look at the matter otherwise."
"What are you talking about? What matter?"
asked D'Hubert, with a sidelong look at the heavy-
faced, grey-haired figure seated on a wooden chair.
"Whatever it is," said the surgeon a little im-
patiently, "I don't want to pronounce any opinion on
your conduct --"
"By heavens, you had better not!" burst out D'Hu-
bert.
"There! -- there! Don't be so quick in flourishing
the sword. It doesn't pay in the long run. Under-
stand once for all that I would not carve any of you
youngsters except with the tools of my trade. But my
advice is good. If you go on like this you will make for
yourself an ugly reputation."
"Go on like what?" demanded Lieut. D'Hubert,
stopping short, quite startled. "I! -- I! -- make for my-
self a reputation. . . . What do you imagine?"
"I told you I don't wish to judge of the rights and
wrongs of this incident. It's not my business. Never-
theless --"
"What on earth has he been telling you?" interrupted
Lieut. D'Hubert, in a sort of awed scare.
"I told you already, that at first, when I picked him
up in the garden, he was incoherent. Afterwards he
was naturally reticent. But I gather at least that he
could not help himself."
"He couldn't?" shouted Lieut. D'Hubert in a great
voice. Then, lowering his tone impressively, "And
what about me? Could I help myself?"
The surgeon stood up. His thoughts were running
upon the flute, his constant companion with a consoling
voice. In the vicinity of field ambulances, after twenty-
four hours' hard work, he had been known to trouble
with its sweet sounds the horrible stillness of battle-
fields, given over to silence and the dead. The solacing
hour of his daily life was approaching, and in peace time
he held on to the minutes as a miser to his hoard.
"Of course! -- of course!" he said, perfunctorily.
"You would think so. It's amusing. However, being
perfectly neutral and friendly to you both, I have con-
sented to deliver his message to you. Say that I am
humouring an invalid if you like. He wants you to
know that this affair is by no means at an end. He
intends to send you his seconds directly he has regained
his strength -- providing, of course, the army is not in
the field at that time."
"He intends, does he? Why, certainly," spluttered
Lieut. D'Hubert in a passion.
The secret of his exasperation was not apparent to
the visitor; but this passion confirmed the surgeon in
the belief which was gaining ground outside that some
very serious difference had arisen between these two
young men, something serious enough to wear an air of
mystery, some fact of the utmost gravity. To settle
their urgent difference about that fact, those two young
men had risked being broken and disgraced at the out-
set almost of their career. The surgeon feared that the
forthcoming inquiry would fail to satisfy the public
curiosity. They would not take the public into their
confidence as to that something which had passed
between them of a nature so outrageous as to make
them face a charge of murder -- neither more nor less.
But what could it be?
The surgeon was not very curious by temperament;
but that question haunting his mind caused him twice
that evening to hold the instrument off his lips and
sit silent for a whole minute -- right in the middle of a
tune -- trying to form a plausible conjecture.
II
He succeeded in this object no better than the rest
of the garrison and the whole of society. The two
young officers, of no especial consequence till then, be-
came distinguished by the universal curiosity as to the
origin of their quarrel. Madame de Lionne's salon was
the centre of ingenious surmises; that lady herself was
for a time assailed by inquiries as being the last person
known to have spoken to these unhappy and reckless
young men before they went out together from her
house to a savage encounter with swords, at dusk, in a
private garden. She protested she had not observed
anything unusual in their demeanour. Lieut. Feraud
had been visibly annoyed at being called away. That
was natural enough; no man likes to be disturbed in a
conversation with a lady famed for her elegance and
sensibility. But in truth the subject bored Madame
de Lionne, since her personality could by no stretch of
reckless gossip be connected with this affair. And it
irritated her to hear it advanced that there might have
been some woman in the case. This irritation arose,
not from her elegance or sensibility, but from a more
instinctive side of her nature. It became so great at
last that she peremptorily forbade the subject to be
mentioned under her roof. Near her couch the pro-
hibition was obeyed, but farther off in the salon the pall
of the imposed silence continued to be lifted more or
less. A personage with a long, pale face, resembling
the countenance of a sheep, opined, shaking his head,
that it was a quarrel of long standing envenomed by
time. It was objected to him that the men themselves
were too young for such a theory. They belonged also
to different and distant parts of France. There were
other physical impossibilities, too. A sub-commissary
of the Intendence, an agreeable and cultivated bachelor
in kerseymere breeches, Hessian boots, and a blue coat
embroidered with silver lace, who affected to believe in
the transmigration of souls, suggested that the two had
met perhaps in some previous existence. The feud was
in the forgotten past. It might have been something
quite inconceivable in the present state of their being;
but their souls remembered the animosity, and mani-
fested an instinctive antagonism. He developed this
theme jocularly. Yet the affair was so absurd from the
worldly, the military, the honourable, or the prudential
point of view, that this weird explanation seemed
rather more reasonable than any other.
The two officers had confided nothing definite to
any one. Humiliation at having been worsted arms
in hand, and an uneasy feeling of having been involved
in a scrape by the injustice of fate, kept Lieut. Feraud
savagely dumb. He mistrusted the sympathy of man-
kind. That would, of course, go to that dandified
staff officer. Lying in bed, he raved aloud to the pretty
maid who administered to his needs with devotion, and
listened to his horrible imprecations with alarm. That
Lieut. D'Hubert should be made to "pay for it," seemed
to her just and natural. Her principal care was that
Lieut. Feraud should not excite himself. He appeared
so wholly admirable and fascinating to the humility of
her heart that her only concern was to see him get well
quickly, even if it were only to resume his visits to
Madame de Lionne's salon.
Lieut. D'Hubert kept silent for the immediate reason
that there was no one, except a stupid young soldier
servant, to speak to. Further, he was aware that the
episode, so grave professionally, had its comic side.
When reflecting upon it, he still felt that he would like
to wring Lieut. Feraud's neck for him. But this formula
was figurative rather than precise, and expressed more
a state of mind than an actual physical impulse. At
the same time, there was in that young man a feeling of
comradeship and kindness which made him unwilling to
make the position of Lieut. Feraud worse than it was.
He did not want to talk at large about this wretched
affair. At the inquiry he would have, of course, to speak
the truth in self-defence. This prospect vexed him.
But no inquiry took place. The army took the field
instead. Lieut. D'Hubert, liberated without remark,
took up his regimental duties; and Lieut. Feraud, his
arm just out of the sling, rode unquestioned with his
squadron to complete his convalescence in the smoke of
battlefields and the fresh air of night bivouacs. This
bracing treatment suited him so well, that at the first
rumour of an armistice being signed he could turn with-
out misgivings to the thoughts of his private warfare.
This time it was to be regular warfare. He sent
two friends to Lieut. D'Hubert, whose regiment was
stationed only a few miles away. Those friends had
asked no questions of their principal. "I owe him one,
that pretty staff officer," he had said, grimly, and they
went away quite contentedly on their mission. Lieut.
D'Hubert had no difficulty in finding two friends
equally discreet and devoted to their principal.
"There's a crazy fellow to whom I must give a lesson,"
he had declared curtly; and they asked for no better
reasons.
On these grounds an encounter with duelling-swords
was arranged one early morning in a convenient field.
At the third set-to Lieut. D'Hubert found himself lying
on his back on the dewy grass with a hole in his side.
A serene sun rising over a landscape of meadows and
woods hung on his left. A surgeon -- not the flute
player, but another -- was bending over him, feeling
around the wound.
"Narrow squeak. But it will be nothing," he pro-
nounced.
Lieut. D'Hubert heard these words with pleasure.
One of his seconds, sitting on the wet grass, and sus-
taining his head on his lap, said, "The fortune of war,
mon pauvre vieux. What will you have? You had better
make it up like two good fellows. Do!"
"You don't know what you ask," murmured Lieut.
D'Hubert, in a feeble voice. "However, if he . . ."
In another part of the meadow the seconds of Lieut.
Feraud were urging him to go over and shake hands
with his adversary.
"You have paid him off now -- que diable. It's the
proper thing to do. This D'Hubert is a decent fellow."
"I know the decency of these generals' pets,"
muttered Lieut. Feraud through his teeth, and the
sombre expression of his face discouraged further
efforts at reconciliation. The seconds, bowing from a
distance, took their men off the field. In the afternoon
Lieut. D'Hubert, very popular as a good comrade
uniting great bravery with a frank and equable temper,
had many visitors. It was remarked that Lieut.
Feraud did not, as is customary, show himself much
abroad to receive the felicitations of his friends. They
would not have failed him, because he, too, was liked for
the exuberance of his southern nature and the sim-
plicity of his character. In all the places where officers
were in the habit of assembling at the end of the day the
duel of the morning was talked over from every point
of view. Though Lieut. D'Hubert had got worsted
this time, his sword play was commended. No one
could deny that it was very close, very scientific. It
was even whispered that if he got touched it was be-
cause he wished to spare his adversary. But by many
the vigour and dash of Lieut. Feraud's attack were pro-
nounced irresistible.
The merits of the two officers as combatants were
frankly discussed; but their attitude to each other after
the duel was criticised lightly and with caution. It
was irreconcilable, and that was to be regretted. But
after all they knew best what the care of their honour
dictated. It was not a matter for their comrades
to pry into over-much. As to the origin of the quarrel,
the general impression was that it dated from the time
they were holding garrison in Strasbourg. The musical
surgeon shook his head at that. It went much farther
back, he thought.
"Why, of course! You must know the whole story,"
cried several voices, eager with curiosity. "What
was it?"
He raised his eyes from his glass deliberately. "Even
if I knew ever so well, you can't expect me to tell you,
since both the principals choose to say nothing."
He got up and went out, leaving the sense of mystery
behind him. He could not stay any longer, because the
witching hour of flute-playing was drawing near.
After he had gone a very young officer observed
solemnly, "Obviously, his lips are sealed!"
Nobody questioned the high correctness of that
remark. Somehow it added to the impressiveness of
the affair. Several older officers of both regiments,
prompted by nothing but sheer kindness and love of
harmony, proposed to form a Court of Honour, to
which the two young men would leave the task of their
reconciliation. Unfortunately they began by approach-
ing Lieut. Feraud, on the assumption that, having just
scored heavily, he would be found placable and disposed
to moderation.
The reasoning was sound enough. Nevertheless, the
move turned out unfortunate. In that relaxation of
moral fibre, which is brought about by the ease of
soothed vanity, Lieut. Feraud had condescended in the
secret of his heart to review the case, and even had come
to doubt not the justice of his cause, but the absolute
sagacity of his conduct. This being so, he was dis-
inclined to talk about it. The suggestion of the regi-
mental wise men put him in a difficult position. He
was disgusted at it, and this disgust, by a paradoxical
logic, reawakened his animosity against Lieut. D'Hu-
bert. Was he to be pestered with this fellow for ever --
the fellow who had an infernal knack of getting round
people somehow? And yet it was difficult to refuse
point blank that mediation sanctioned by the code of
honour.
He met the difficulty by an attitude of grim reserve.
He twisted his moustache and used vague words. His
case was perfectly clear. He was not ashamed to
state it before a proper Court of Honour, neither was
he afraid to defend it on the ground. He did not see
any reason to jump at the suggestion before ascertain-
ing how his adversary was likely to take it.
Later in the day, his exasperation growing upon him,
he was heard in a public place saying sardonically, "that
it would be the very luckiest thing for Lieut. D'Hubert,
because the next time of meeting he need not hope to
get off with the mere trifle of three weeks in bed."
This boastful phrase might have been prompted by
the most profound Machiavellism. Southern natures
often hide, under the outward impulsiveness of action
and speech, a certain amount of astuteness.
Lieut. Feraud, mistrusting the justice of men, by no
means desired a Court of Honour; and the above words,
according so well with his temperament, had also the
merit of serving his turn. Whether meant so or not,
they found their way in less than four-and-twenty hours
into Lieut. D'Hubert's bedroom. In consequence
Lieut. D'Hubert, sitting propped up with pillows, re-
ceived the overtures made to him next day by the state-
ment that the affair was of a nature which could not
bear discussion.
The pale face of the wounded officer, his weak voice
which he had yet to use cautiously, and the courteous
dignity of his tone had a great effect on his hearers.
Reported outside all this did more for deepening the
mystery than the vapourings of Lieut. Feraud. This
last was greatly relieved at the issue. He began to
enjoy the state of general wonder, and was pleased to
add to it by assuming an attitude of fierce discretion.
The colonel of Lieut. D'Hubert's regiment was a
grey-haired, weather-beaten warrior, who took a simple
view of his responsibilities. "I can't," he said to him-
self, "let the best of my subalterns get damaged like this
for nothing. I must get to the bottom of this affair
privately. He must speak out if the devil were in it.
The colonel should be more than a father to these
youngsters." And indeed he loved all his men with as
much affection as a father of a large family can feel for
every individual member of it. If human beings by an
oversight of Providence came into the world as mere
civilians, they were born again into a regiment as in-
fants are born into a family, and it was that military
birth alone which counted.
At the sight of Lieut. D'Hubert standing before him
very bleached and hollow-eyed the heart of the old
warrior felt a pang of genuine compassion. All his
affection for the regiment -- that body of men which he
held in his hand to launch forward and draw back, who
ministered to his pride and commanded all his thoughts
-- seemed centred for a moment on the person of the
most promising subaltern. He cleared his throat in a
threatening manner, and frowned terribly. "You must
understand," he began, "that I don't care a rap for the
life of a single man in the regiment. I would send the
eight hundred and forty-three of you men and horses
galloping into the pit of perdition with no more com-
punction than I would kill a fly!"
"Yes, Colonel. You would be riding at our head,"
said Lieut. D'Hubert with a wan smile.
The colonel, who felt the need of being very diplo-
matic, fairly roared at this. "I want you to know,
Lieut. D'Hubert, that I could stand aside and see you
all riding to Hades if need be. I am a man to do even
that if the good of the service and my duty to my
country required it from me. But that's unthinkable,
so don't you even hint at such a thing." He glared
awfully, but his tone softened. "There's some milk
yet about that moustache of yours, my boy. You don't
know what a man like me is capable of. I would hide
behind a haystack if . . . Don't grin at me, sir!
How dare you? If this were not a private conversation
I would . . . Look here! I am responsible for the
proper expenditure of lives under my command for the
glory of our country and the honour of the regiment.
Do you understand that? Well, then, what the devil do
you mean by letting yourself be spitted like this by that
fellow of the 7th Hussars? It's simply disgraceful!"
Lieut. D'Hubert felt vexed beyond measure. His
shoulders moved slightly. He made no other answer.
He could not ignore his responsibility.
The colonel veiled his glance and lowered his voice
still more. "It's deplorable!" he murmured. And
again he changed his tone. "Come!" he went on,
persuasively, but with that note of authority which
dwells in the throat of a good leader of men, "this affair
must be settled. I desire to be told plainly what it is
all about. I demand, as your best friend, to know."
The compelling power of authority, the persuasive
influence of kindness, affected powerfully a man just
risen from a bed of sickness. Lieut. D'Hubert's hand,
which grasped the knob of a stick, trembled slightly.
But his northern temperament, sentimental yet cautious
and clear-sighted, too, in its idealistic way, checked his
impulse to make a clean breast of the whole deadly
absurdity. According to the precept of transcendental
wisdom, he turned his tongue seven times in his mouth
before he spoke. He made then only a speech of
thanks.
The colonel listened, interested at first, then looked
mystified. At last he frowned. "You hesitate? --
mille tonnerres! Haven't I told you that I will con-
descend to argue with you -- as a friend?"
"Yes, Colonel!" answered Lieut. D'Hubert, gently.
"But I am afraid that after you have heard me out as a
friend you will take action as my superior officer."
The attentive colonel snapped his jaws. "Well,
what of that?" he said, frankly. "Is it so damnably
disgraceful?"
"It is not," negatived Lieut. D'Hubert, in a faint but
firm voice.
"Of course, I shall act for the good of the service.
Nothing can prevent me doing that. What do you
think I want to be told for?"
"I know it is not from idle curiosity," protested
Lieut. D'Hubert. "I know you will act wisely. But
what about the good fame of the regiment?"
"It cannot be affected by any youthful folly of a
lieutenant," said the colonel, severely.
"No. It cannot be. But it can be by evil tongues.
It will be said that a lieutenant of the 4th Hussars,
afraid of meeting his adversary, is hiding behind his
colonel. And that would be worse than hiding behind
a haystack -- for the good of the service. I cannot
afford to do that, Colonel."
"Nobody would dare to say anything of the kind,"
began the colonel very fiercely, but ended the phrase on
an uncertain note. The bravery of Lieut. D'Hubert
was well known. But the colonel was well aware that
the duelling courage, the single combat courage, is
rightly or wrongly supposed to be courage of a special
sort. And it was eminently necessary that an officer of
his regiment should possess every kind of courage -- and
prove it, too. The colonel stuck out his lower lip, and
looked far away with a peculiar glazed stare. This was
the expression of his perplexity -- an expression practi-
cally unknown to his regiment; for perplexity is a senti-
ment which is incompatible with the rank of colonel of
cavalry. The colonel himself was overcome by the
unpleasant novelty of the sensation. As he was not
accustomed to think except on professional matters
connected with the welfare of men and horses, and the
proper use thereof on the field of glory, his intellectual
efforts degenerated into mere mental repetitions of pro-
fane language. "Mille tonnerres! . . . Sacre nom
de nom . . ." he thought.
Lieut. D'Hubert coughed painfully, and added in a
weary voice: "There will be plenty of evil tongues to
say that I've been cowed. And I am sure you will not
expect me to pass that over. I may find myself
suddenly with a dozen duels on my hands instead of
this one affair."
The direct simplicity of this argument came home to
the colonel's understanding. He looked at his subordi-
nate fixedly. "Sit down, Lieutenant!" he said, gruffly.
"This is the very devil of a . . . Sit down!"
"Mon Colonel," D'Hubert began again, "I am not
afraid of evil tongues. There's a way of silencing them.
But there's my peace of mind, too. I wouldn't be able
to shake off the notion that I've ruined a brother officer.
Whatever action you take, it is bound to go farther.
The inquiry has been dropped -- let it rest now. It
would have been absolutely fatal to Feraud."
"Hey! What! Did he behave so badly?"
"Yes. It was pretty bad," muttered Lieut. D'Hubert.
Being still very weak, he felt a disposition to cry.
As the other man did not belong to his own regiment
the colonel had no difficulty in believing this. He began
to pace up and down the room. He was a good chief, a
man capable of discreet sympathy. But he was human
in other ways, too, and this became apparent because he
was not capable of artifice.
"The very devil, Lieutenant," he blurted out, in the
innocence of his heart, "is that I have declared my in-
tention to get to the bottom of this affair. And when a
colonel says something . . . you see . . ."
Lieut. D'Hubert broke in earnestly: "Let me en-
treat you, Colonel, to be satisfied with taking my word
of honour that I was put into a damnable position where
I had no option; I had no choice whatever, consistent
with my dignity as a man and an officer. . . . After
all, Colonel, this fact is the very bottom of this affair.
Here you've got it. The rest is mere detail. . . ."
The colonel stopped short. The reputation of Lieut.
D'Hubert for good sense and good temper weighed in
the balance. A cool head, a warm heart, open as the
day. Always correct in his behaviour. One had to
trust him. The colonel repressed manfully an im-
mense curiosity. "H'm! You affirm that as a man
and an officer. . . . No option? Eh?"
"As an officer -- an officer of the 4th Hussars, too,"
insisted Lieut. D'Hubert, "I had not. And that is the
bottom of the affair, Colonel."
"Yes. But still I don't see why, to one's colonel. . . .
A colonel is a father -- que diable!"
Lieut. D'Hubert ought not to have been allowed out
as yet. He was becoming aware of his physical in-
sufficiency with humiliation and despair. But the
morbid obstinacy of an invalid possessed him, and at
the same time he felt with dismay his eyes filling with
water. This trouble seemed too big to handle. A tear
fell down the thin, pale cheek of Lieut. D'Hubert.
The colonel turned his back on him hastily. You
could have heard a pin drop. "This is some silly
woman story -- is it not?"
Saying these words the chief spun round to seize the
truth, which is not a beautiful shape living in a well, but
a shy bird best caught by stratagem. This was the last
move of the colonel's diplomacy. He saw the truth
shining unmistakably in the gesture of Lieut. D'Hubert
raising his weak arms and his eyes to heaven in supreme
protest.
"Not a woman affair -- eh?" growled the colonel,
staring hard. "I don't ask you who or where. All I
want to know is whether there is a woman in it?"
Lieut. D'Hubert's arms dropped, and his weak voice
was pathetically broken.
"Nothing of the kind, mon Colonel."
"On your honour?" insisted the old warrior.
"On my honour."
"Very well," said the colonel, thoughtfully, and bit
his lip. The arguments of Lieut. D'Hubert, helped by
his liking for the man, had convinced him. On the
other hand, it was highly improper that his intervention,
of which he had made no secret, should produce no
visible effect. He kept Lieut. D'Hubert a few minutes
longer, and dismissed him kindly.
"Take a few days more in bed. Lieutenant. What
the devil does the surgeon mean by reporting you fit for
duty?"
On coming out of the colonel's quarters, Lieut.
D'Hubert said nothing to the friend who was waiting
outside to take him home. He said nothing to anybody.
Lieut. D'Hubert made no confidences. But on the
evening of that day the colonel, strolling under the elms
growing near his quarters, in the company of his second
in command, opened his lips.
"I've got to the bottom of this affair," he remarked.
The lieut.-colonel, a dry, brown chip of a man with
short side-whiskers, pricked up his ears at that without
letting a sign of curiosity escape him.
"It's no trifle," added the colonel, oracularly. The
other waited for a long while before he murmured:
"Indeed, sir!"
"No trifle," repeated the colonel, looking straight
before him. "I've, however, forbidden D'Hubert either
to send to or receive a challenge from Feraud for the
next twelve months."
He had imagined this prohibition to save the prestige
a colonel should have. The result of it was to give an
official seal to the mystery surrounding this deadly
quarrel. Lieut. D'Hubert repelled by an impassive
silence all attempts to worm the truth out of him. Lieut.
Feraud, secretly uneasy at first, regained his assurance
as time went on. He disguised his ignorance of the
meaning of the imposed truce by slight sardonic laughs,
as though he were amused by what he intended to keep
to himself. "But what will you do?" his chums used
to ask him. He contented himself by replying "Qui
vivra verra" with a little truculent air. And everybody
admired his discretion.
Before the end of the truce Lieut. D'Hubert got his
troop. The promotion was well earned, but somehow
no one seemed to expect the event. When Lieut.
Feraud heard of it at a gathering of officers, he muttered
through his teeth, "Is that so?" At once he unhooked
his sabre from a peg near the door, buckled it on care-
fully, and left the company without another word. He
walked home with measured steps, struck a light with
his flint and steel, and lit his tallow candle. Then
snatching an unlucky glass tumbler off the mantelpiece
he dashed it violently on the floor.
Now that D'Hubert was an officer of superior rank
there could be no question of a duel. Neither of them
could send or receive a challenge without rendering
himself amenable to a court-martial. It was not to be
thought of. Lieut. Feraud, who for many days now had
experienced no real desire to meet Lieut. D'Hubert arms
in hand, chafed again at the systematic injustice of fate.
"Does he think he will escape me in that way?" he
thought, indignantly. He saw in this promotion an
intrigue, a conspiracy, a cowardly manoeuvre. That
colonel knew what he was doing. He had hastened to
recommend his favourite for a step. It was outrageous
that a man should be able to avoid the consequences of
his acts in such a dark and tortuous manner.
Of a happy-go-lucky disposition, of a temperament
more pugnacious than military, Lieut. Feraud had been
content to give and receive blows for sheer love of
armed strife, and without much thought of advance-
ment; but now an urgent desire to get on sprang up in
his breast. This fighter by vocation resolved in his
mind to seize showy occasions and to court the favour-
able opinion of his chiefs like a mere worldling. He
knew he was as brave as any one, and never doubted his
personal charm. Nevertheless, neither the bravery nor
the charm seemed to work very swiftly. Lieut. Feraud's
engaging, careless truculence of a beau sabreur under-
went a change. He began to make bitter allusions to
"clever fellows who stick at nothing to get on." The
army was full of them, he would say; you had only to
look round. But all the time he had in view one person
only, his adversary, D'Hubert. Once he confided to an
appreciative friend: "You see, I don't know how to
fawn on the right sort of people. It isn't in my charac-
ter."
He did not get his step till a week after Austerlitz.
The Light Cavalry of the Grand Army had its hands
very full of interesting work for a little while. Directly
the pressure of professional occupation had been eased
Captain Feraud took measures to arrange a meeting
without loss of time. "I know my bird," he observed,
grimly. "If I don't look sharp he will take care to
get himself promoted over the heads of a dozen better
men than himself. He's got the knack for that sort of
thing."
This duel was fought in Silesia. If not fought
to a finish, it was, at any rate, fought to a standstill.
The weapon was the cavalry sabre, and the skill, the
science, the vigour, and the determination displayed by
the adversaries compelled the admiration of the be-
holders. It became the subject of talk on both shores
of the Danube, and as far as the garrisons of Gratz and
Laybach. They crossed blades seven times. Both had
many cuts which bled profusely. Both refused to have
the combat stopped, time after time, with what ap-
peared the most deadly animosity. This appearance was
caused on the part of Captain D'Hubert by a rational
desire to be done once for all with this worry; on the
part of Captain Feraud by a tremendous exaltation of
his pugnacious instincts and the incitement of wounded
vanity. At last, dishevelled, their shirts in rags, covered
with gore and hardly able to stand, they were led away
forcibly by their marvelling and horrified seconds.
Later on, besieged by comrades avid of details, these
gentlemen declared that they could not have allowed
that sort of hacking to go on indefinitely. Asked
whether the quarrel was settled this time, they gave it
out as their conviction that it was a difference which
could only be settled by one of the parties remaining
lifeless on the ground. The sensation spread from army
corps to army corps, and penetrated at last to the
smallest detachments of the troops cantoned be-
tween the Rhine and the Save. In the cafes in Vienna
it was generally estimated, from details to hand,
that the adversaries would be able to meet again in
three weeks' time on the outside. Something really
transcendent in the way of duelling was expected.
These expectations were brought to naught by the
necessities of the service which separated the two
officers. No official notice had been taken of their
quarrel. It was now the property of the army, and not
to be meddled with lightly. But the story of the duel,
or rather their duelling propensities, must have stood
somewhat in the way of their advancement, because
they were still captains when they came together again
during the war with Prussia. Detached north after
Jena, with the army commanded by Marshal Berna-
dotte, Prince of Ponte Corvo, they entered Lubeck
together.
It was only after the occupation of that town that
Captain Feraud found leisure to consider his future con-
duct in view of the fact that Captain D'Hubert had
been given the position of third aide-de-camp to the
marshal. He considered it a great part of a night, and
in the morning summoned two sympathetic friends.
"I've been thinking it over calmly," he said, gazing
at them with blood-shot, tired eyes. "I see that I must
get rid of that intriguing personage. Here he's managed
to sneak on to the personal staff of the marshal. It's a
direct provocation to me. I can't tolerate a situation in
which I am exposed any day to receive an order through
him. And God knows what order, too! That sort of
thing has happened once before -- and that's once too
often. He understands this perfectly, never fear. I
can't tell you any more. Now you know what it is you
have to do."
This encounter took place outside the town of
Lubeck, on very open ground, selected with special
care in deference to the general sentiment of the cavalry
division belonging to the army corps, that this time the
two officers should meet on horseback. After all, this
duel was a cavalry affair, and to persist in fighting on
foot would look like a slight on one's own arm of the
service. The seconds, startled by the unusual nature of
the suggestion, hastened to refer to their principals.
Captain Feraud jumped at it with alacrity. For some
obscure reason, depending, no doubt, on his psychology,
he imagined himself invincible on horseback. All alone
within the four walls of his room he rubbed his hands
and muttered triumphantly, "Aha! my pretty staff
officer, I've got you now."
Captain D'Hubert on his side, after staring hard for
a considerable time at his friends, shrugged his shoulders
slightly. This affair had hopelessly and unreasonably
complicated his existence for him. One absurdity more
or less in the development did not matter -- all absurdity
was distasteful to him; but, urbane as ever, he produced
a faintly ironical smile, and said in his calm voice, "It
certainly will do away to some extent with the monot-
ony of the thing."
When left alone, he sat down at a table and took his
head into his hands. He had not spared himself of late
and the marshal had been working all his aides-de-
camp particularly hard. The last three weeks of
campaigning in horrible weather had affected his health.
When over-tired he suffered from a stitch in his
wounded side, and that uncomfortable sensation always
depressed him. "It's that brute's doing, too," he
thought bitterly.
The day before he had received a letter from home,
announcing that his only sister was going to be married.
He reflected that from the time she was nineteen and he
twenty-six, when he went away to garrison life in Stras-
bourg, he had had but two short glimpses of her. They
had been great friends and confidants; and now she was
going to be given away to a man whom he did not know
-- a very worthy fellow no doubt, but not half good
enough for her. He would never see his old Leonie
again. She had a capable little head, and plenty of
tact; she would know how to manage the fellow, to be
sure. He was easy in his mind about her happiness
but he felt ousted from the first place in her thoughts
which had been his ever since the girl could speak. A
melancholy regret of the days of his childhood settled
upon Captain D'Hubert, third aide-de-camp to the
Prince of Ponte Corvo.
He threw aside the letter of congratulation he had
begun to write as in duty bound, but without enthusi-
asm. He took a fresh piece of paper, and traced on it
the words: "This is my last will and testament." Look-
ing at these words he gave himself up to unpleasant re-
flection; a presentiment that he would never see the
scenes of his childhood weighed down the equable
spirits of Captain D'Hubert. He jumped up, pushing
his chair back, yawned elaborately in sign that he didn't
care anything for presentiments, and throwing himself
on the bed went to sleep. During the night he shivered
from time to time without waking up. In the morning
he rode out of town between his two seconds, talking of
indifferent things, and looking right and left with ap-
parent detachment into the heavy morning mists
shrouding the flat green fields bordered by hedges. He
leaped a ditch, and saw the forms of many mounted men
moving in the fog. "We are to fight before a gallery, it
seems," he muttered to himself, bitterly.
His seconds were rather concerned at the state of
the atmosphere, but presently a pale, sickly sun
struggled out of the low vapours, and Captain D'Hubert
made out, in the distance, three horsemen riding a little
apart from the others. It was Captain Feraud and
his seconds. He drew his sabre, and assured himself
that it was properly fastened to his wrist. And now the
seconds, who had been standing in close group with
the heads of their horses together, separated at an easy
canter, leaving a large, clear field between him and his
adversary. Captain D'Hubert looked at the pale sun,
at the dismal fields, and the imbecility of the impending
fight filled him with desolation. From a distant part of
the field a stentorian voice shouted commands at proper
intervals: Au pas -- Au trot -- Charrrgez! . . . Pre-
sentiments of death don't come to a man for nothing, he
thought at the very moment he put spurs to his horse.
And therefore he was more than surprised when, at
the very first set-to, Captain Feraud laid himself open
to a cut over the forehead, which blinding him with
blood, ended the combat almost before it had fairly
begun. It was impossible to go on. Captain D'Hubert,
leaving his enemy swearing horribly and reeling in the
saddle between his two appalled friends, leaped the
ditch again into the road and trotted home with his two
seconds, who seemed rather awestruck at the speedy
issue of that encounter. In the evening Captain
D'Hubert finished the congratulatory letter on his
sister's marriage.
He finished it late. It was a long letter. Captain
D'Hubert gave reins to his fancy. He told his sister
that he would feel rather lonely after this great change
in her life; but then the day would come for him, too, to
get married. In fact, he was thinking already of the
time when there would be no one left to fight with in
Europe and the epoch of wars would be over. "I
expect then," he wrote, "to be within measurable dis-
tance of a marshal's baton, and you will be an ex-
perienced married woman. You shall look out a wife for
me. I will be, probably, bald by then, and a little
blase. I shall require a young girl, pretty of course, and
with a large fortune, which should help me to close my
glorious career in the splendour befitting my exalted
rank." He ended with the information that he had
just given a lesson to a worrying, quarrelsome fellow
who imagined he had a grievance against him. "But
if you, in the depths of your province," he continued,
"ever hear it said that your brother is of a quarrelsome
disposition, don't you believe it on any account. There
is no saying what gossip from the army may reach your
innocent ears. Whatever you hear you may rest assured
that your ever-loving brother is not a duellist." Then
Captain D'Hubert crumpled up the blank sheet of paper
headed with the words "This is my last will and testa-
ment," and threw it in the fire with a great laugh at
himself. He didn't care a snap for what that lunatic
could do. He had suddenly acquired the conviction
that his adversary was utterly powerless to affect his
life in any sort of way; except, perhaps, in the way of
putting a special excitement into the delightful, gay
intervals between the campaigns.
From this on there were, however, to be no peaceful
intervals in the career of Captain D'Hubert. He saw
the fields of Eylau and Friedland, marched and counter-
marched in the snow, in the mud, in the dust of Polish
plains, picking up distinction and advancement on all
the roads of North-eastern Europe. Meantime, Cap-
tain Feraud, despatched southwards with his regiment,
made unsatisfactory war in Spain. It was only when
the preparations for the Russian campaign began that
he was ordered north again. He left the country of
mantillas and oranges without regret.
The first signs of a not unbecoming baldness added
to the lofty aspect of Colonel D'Hubert's forehead.
This feature was no longer white and smooth as in the
days of his youth; the kindly open glance of his blue
eyes had grown a little hard as if from much peering
through the smoke of battles. The ebony crop on
Colonel Feraud's head, coarse and crinkly like a cap of
horsehair, showed many silver threads about the
temples. A detestable warfare of ambushes and in-
glorious surprises had not improved his temper. The
beak-like curve of his nose was unpleasantly set off by a
deep fold on each side of his mouth. The round orbits
of his eyes radiated wrinkles. More than ever he re-
called an irritable and staring bird -- something like a
cross between a parrot and an owl. He was still ex-
tremely outspoken in his dislike of "intriguing fellows."
He seized every opportunity to state that he did not
pick up his rank in the ante-rooms of marshals. The
unlucky persons, civil or military, who, with an in-
tention of being pleasant, begged Colonel Feraud to tell
them how he came by that very apparent scar on the
forehead, were astonished to find themselves snubbed
in various ways, some of which were simply rude and
others mysteriously sardonic. Young officers were
warned kindly by their more experienced comrades not
to stare openly at the colonel's scar. But indeed an
officer need have been very young in his profession not
to have heard the legendary tale of that duel originating
in a mysterious, unforgivable offence.
III
The retreat from Moscow submerged all private
feelings in a sea of disaster and misery. Colonels
without regiments, D'Hubert and Feraud carried the
musket in the ranks of the so-called sacred battalion -- a
battalion recruited from officers of all arms who had no
longer any troops to lead.
In that battalion promoted colonels did duty as
sergeants; the generals captained the companies; a
marshal of France, Prince of the Empire, commanded
the whole. All had provided themselves with muskets
picked up on the road, and with cartridges taken from
the dead. In the general destruction of the bonds of
discipline and duty holding together the companies, the
battalions, the regiments, the brigades, and divisions of
an armed host, this body of men put its pride in pre-
serving some semblance of order and formation. The
only stragglers were those who fell out to give up to the
frost their exhausted souls. They plodded on, and
their passage did not disturb the mortal silence of the
plains, shining with the livid light of snows under a sky
the colour of ashes. Whirlwinds ran along the fields,
broke against the dark column, enveloped it in a tur-
moil of flying icicles, and subsided, disclosing it creeping
on its tragic way without the swing and rhythm of
the military pace. It struggled onwards, the men ex-
changing neither words nor looks; whole ranks marched
touching elbow, day after day and never raising their
eyes from the ground, as if lost in despairing reflections.
In the dumb, black forests of pines the cracking of over-
loaded branches was the only sound they heard. Often
from daybreak to dusk no one spoke in the whole
column. It was like a macabre march of struggling
corpses towards a distant grave. Only an alarm of
Cossacks could restore to their eyes a semblance of
martial resolution. The battalion faced about and
deployed, or formed square under the endless fluttering
of snowflakes. A cloud of horsemen with fur caps on
their heads, levelled long lances, and yelled "Hurrah!
Hurrah!" around their menacing immobility whence,
with muffled detonations, hundreds of dark red flames
darted through the air thick with falling snow. In a
very few moments the horsemen would disappear, as
if carried off yelling in the gale, and the sacred battalion
standing still, alone in the blizzard, heard only the
howling of the wind, whose blasts searched their very
hearts. Then, with a cry or two of "Vive l'Empereur!"
it would resume its march, leaving behind a few life-
less bodies lying huddled up, tiny black specks on the
white immensity of the snows.
Though often marching in the ranks, or skirmishing
in the woods side by side, the two officers ignored each
other; this not so much from inimical intention as from
a very real indifference. All their store of moral energy
was expended in resisting the terrific enmity of nature
and the crushing sense of irretrievable disaster. To the
last they counted among the most active, the least
demoralized of the battalion; their vigorous vitality
invested them both with the appearance of an heroic
pair in the eyes of their comrades. And they never
exchanged more than a casual word or two, except one
day, when skirmishing in front of the battalion against
a worrying attack of cavalry, they found themselves cut
off in the woods by a small party of Cossacks. A score
of fur-capped, hairy horsemen rode to and fro, brandish-
ing their lances in ominous silence; but the two officers
had no mind to lay down their arms, and Colonel
Feraud suddenly spoke up in a hoarse, growling voice,
bringing his firelock to the shoulder. "You take the
nearest brute, Colonel D'Hubert; I'll settle the next
one. I am a better shot than you are."
Colonel D'Hubert nodded over his levelled musket.
Their shoulders were pressed against the trunk of a
large tree; on their front enormous snowdrifts protected
them from a direct charge. Two carefully aimed shots
rang out in the frosty air, two Cossacks reeled in their
saddles. The rest, not thinking the game good enough,
closed round their wounded comrades and galloped
away out of range. The two officers managed to rejoin
their battalion halted for the night. During that after-
noon they had leaned upon each other more than once,
and towards the end, Colonel D'Hubert, whose long legs
gave him an advantage in walking through soft snow,
peremptorily took the musket of Colonel Feraud from
him and carried it on his shoulder, using his own as a
staff.
On the outskirts of a village half buried in the snow
an old wooden barn burned with a clear and an im-
mense flame. The sacred battalion of skeletons,
muffled in rags, crowded greedily the windward side,
stretching hundreds of numbed, bony hands to the
blaze. Nobody had noted their approach. Before
entering the circle of light playing on the sunken, glassy-
eyed, starved faces, Colonel D'Hubert spoke in his turn:
"Here's your musket, Colonel Feraud. I can walk
better than you."
Colonel Feraud nodded, and pushed on towards the
warmth of the fierce flames. Colonel D'Hubert was
more deliberate, but not the less bent on getting a place
in the front rank. Those they shouldered aside tried to
greet with a faint cheer the reappearance of the two
indomitable companions in activity and endurance.
Those manly qualities had never perhaps received a
higher tribute than this feeble acclamation.
This is the faithful record of speeches exchanged
during the retreat from Moscow by Colonels Feraud and
D'Hubert. Colonel Feraud's taciturnity was the out-
come of concentrated rage. Short, hairy, black faced,
with layers of grime and the thick sprouting of a wiry
beard, a frost-bitten hand wrapped up in filthy rags
carried in a sling, he accused fate of unparalleled
perfidy towards the sublime Man of Destiny. Colonel
D'Hubert, his long moustaches pendent in icicles on
each side of his cracked blue lips, his eyelids inflamed
with the glare of snows, the principal part of his costume
consisting of a sheepskin coat looted with difficulty
from the frozen corpse of a camp follower found in an
abandoned cart, took a more thoughtful view of events.
His regularly handsome features, now reduced to mere
bony lines and fleshless hollows, looked out of a woman's
black velvet hood, over which was rammed forcibly a
cocked hat picked up under the wheels of an empty
army fourgon, which must have contained at one time
some general officer's luggage. The sheepskin coat
being short for a man of his inches ended very high up,
and the skin of his legs, blue with the cold, showed
through the tatters of his nether garments. This
under the circumstances provoked neither jeers nor
pity. No one cared how the next man felt or looked.
Colonel D'Hubert himself, hardened to exposure, suf-
fered mainly in his self-respect from the lamentable in-
decency of his costume. A thoughtless person may
think that with a whole host of inanimate bodies be-
strewing the path of retreat there could not have been
much difficulty in supplying the deficiency. But to
loot a pair of breeches from a frozen corpse is not so easy
as it may appear to a mere theorist. It requires time
and labour. You must remain behind while your
companions march on. Colonel D'Hubert had his
scruples as to falling out. Once he had stepped aside
he could not be sure of ever rejoining his battalion; and
the ghastly intimacy of a wrestling match with the
frozen dead opposing the unyielding rigidity of iron to
your violence was repugnant to the delicacy of his
feelings. Luckily, one day, grubbing in a mound of
snow between the huts of a village in the hope of
finding there a frozen potato or some vegetable garbage
he could put between his long and shaky teeth, Colonel
D'Hubert uncovered a couple of mats of the sort
Russian peasants use to line the sides of their carts with.
These, beaten free of frozen snow, bent about his
elegant person and fastened solidly round his waist,
made a bell-shaped nether garment, a sort of stiff petti-
coat, which rendered Colonel D'Hubert a perfectly
decent, but a much more noticeable figure than before.
Thus accoutred, he continued to retreat, never doubt-
ing of his personal escape, but full of other misgivings.
The early buoyancy of his belief in the future was
destroyed. If the road of glory led through such unfore-
seen passages, he asked himself -- for he was reflective --
whether the guide was altogether trustworthy. It was
a patriotic sadness, not unmingled with some personal
concern, and quite unlike the unreasoning indignation
against men and things nursed by Colonel Feraud.
Recruiting his strength in a little German town for three
weeks, Colonel D'Hubert was surprised to discover
within himself a love of repose. His returning vigour
was strangely pacific in its aspirations. He meditated
silently upon this bizarre change of mood. No doubt
many of his brother officers of field rank went through
the same moral experience. But these were not the
times to talk of it. In one of his letters home Colonel
D'Hubert wrote, "All your plans, my dear Leonie, for
marrying me to the charming girl you have discovered
in your neighbourhood, seem farther off than ever.
Peace is not yet. Europe wants another lesson. It
will be a hard task for us, but it shall be done, because
the Emperor is invincible."
Thus wrote Colonel D 'Hubert from Pomerania to
his married sister Leonie, settled in the south of France.
And so far the sentiments expressed would not have
been disowned by Colonel Feraud, who wrote no letters
to anybody, whose father had been in life an illiterate
blacksmith, who had no sister or brother, and whom no
one desired ardently to pair off for a life of peace with a
charming young girl. But Colonel D 'Hubert's letter
contained also some philosophical generalities upon the
uncertainty of all personal hopes, when bound up
entirely with the prestigious fortune of one incompar-
ably great it is true, yet still remaining but a man in
his greatness. This view would have appeared rank
heresy to Colonel Feraud. Some melancholy fore-
bodings of a military kind, expressed cautiously, would
have been pronounced as nothing short of high treason
by Colonel Feraud. But Leonie, the sister of Colonel
D'Hubert, read them with profound satisfaction, and,
folding the letter thoughtfully, remarked to herself that
"Armand was likely to prove eventually a sensible
fellow." Since her marriage into a Southern family she
had become a convinced believer in the return of the
legitimate king. Hopeful and anxious she offered
prayers night and morning, and burnt candles in
churches for the safety and prosperity of her brother.
She had every reason to suppose that her prayers
were heard. Colonel D'Hubert passed through Lutzen,
Bautzen, and Leipsic losing no limb, and acquiring
additional reputation. Adapting his conduct to the
needs of that desperate time, he had never voiced his
misgivings. He concealed them under a cheerful
courtesy of such pleasant character that people were
inclined to ask themselves with wonder whether Colonel
D'Hubert was aware of any disasters. Not only his
manners, but even his glances remained untroubled.
The steady amenity of his blue eyes disconcerted all
grumblers, and made despair itself pause.
This bearing was remarked favourably by the
Emperor himself; for Colonel D'Hubert, attached now
to the Major-General's staff, came on several occasions
under the imperial eye. But it exasperated the higher
strung nature of Colonel Feraud. Passing through
Magdeburg on service, this last allowed himself, while
seated gloomily at dinner with the Commandant de
Place, to say of his life-long adversary: "This man does
not love the Emperor," and his words were received by
the other guests in profound silence. Colonel Feraud,
troubled in his conscience at the atrocity of the asper-
sion, felt the need to back it up by a good argument.
"I ought to know him," he cried, adding some oaths.
"One studies one's adversary. I have met him on the
ground half a dozen times, as all the army knows.
What more do you want? If that isn't opportunity
enough for any fool to size up his man, may the devil
take me if I can tell what is." And he looked around
the table, obstinate and sombre.
Later on in Paris, while extremely busy reorganizing
his regiment, Colonel Feraud learned that Colonel
D'Hubert had been made a general. He glared at his
informant incredulously, then folded his arms and
turned away muttering, "Nothing surprises me on the
part of that man."
And aloud he added, speaking over his shoulder,
"You would oblige me greatly by telling General
D'Hubert at the first opportunity that his advancement
saves him for a time from a pretty hot encounter. I
was only waiting for him to turn up here."
The other officer remonstrated.
"Could you think of it, Colonel Feraud, at this time,
when every life should be consecrated to the glory and
safety of France?"
But the strain of unhappiness caused by military re-
verses had spoiled Colonel Feraud's character. Like
many other men, he was rendered wicked by misfortune.
"I cannot consider General D'Hubert's existence of
any account either for the glory or safety of France,"
he snapped viciously. "You don't pretend, perhaps, to
know him better than I do -- I who have met him half a
dozen times on the ground -- do you?"
His interlocutor, a young man, was silenced. Colonel
Feraud walked up and down the room.
"This is not the time to mince matters," he said. "I
can't believe that that man ever loved the Emperor.
He picked up his general's stars under the boots of
Marshal Berthier. Very well. I'll get mine in another
fashion, and then we shall settle this business which has
been dragging on too long."
General D'Hubert, informed indirectly of Colonel
Feraud's attitude, made a gesture as if to put aside an
importunate person. His thoughts were solicited by
graver cares. He had had no time to go and see his
family. His sister, whose royalist hopes were rising
higher every day, though proud of her brother, re-
gretted his recent advancement in a measure, because it
put on him a prominent mark of the usurper's favour,
which later on could have an adverse influence upon his
career. He wrote to her that no one but an inveterate
enemy could say he had got his promotion by favour.
As to his career, he assured her that he looked no farther
forward into the future than the next battlefield.
Beginning the campaign of France in this dogged
spirit, General D'Hubert was wounded on the second
day of the battle under Laon. While being carried off
the field he heard that Colonel Feraud, promoted this
moment to general, had been sent to replace him at the
head of his brigade. He cursed his luck impulsively,
not being able at the first glance to discern all the ad-
vantages of a nasty wound. And yet it was by this
heroic method that Providence was shaping his future.
Travelling slowly south to his sister's country home
under the care of a trusty old servant, General D'Hu-
bert was spared the humiliating contacts and the per-
plexities of conduct which assailed the men of Napole-
onic empire at the moment of its downfall. Lying in
his bed, with the windows of his room open wide to the
sunshine of Provence, he perceived the undisguised
aspect of the blessing conveyed by that jagged frag-
ment of a Prussian shell, which, killing his horse and
ripping open his thigh, saved him from an active con-
flict with his conscience. After the last fourteen years
spent sword in hand in the saddle, and with the sense of
his duty done to the very end, General D'Hubert found
resignation an easy virtue. His sister was delighted
with his reasonableness. "I leave myself altogether in
your hands, my dear Leonie," he had said to her.
He was still laid up when, the credit of his brother-
in-law's family being exerted on his behalf, he received
from the royal government not only the confirmation of
his rank, but the assurance of being retained on the
active list. To this was added an unlimited conva-
lescent leave. The unfavourable opinion entertained
of him in Bonapartist circles, though it rested on noth-
ing more solid than the unsupported pronouncement of
General Feraud, was directly responsible for General
D'Hubert's retention on the active list. As to General
Feraud, his rank was confirmed, too. It was more than
he dared to expect; but Marshal Soult, then Minister
of War to the restored king, was partial to officers who
had served in Spain. Only not even the marshal's
protection could secure for him active employment.
He remained irreconcilable, idle, and sinister. He
sought in obscure restaurants the company of other
half-pay officers who cherished dingy but glorious old
tricolour cockades in their breast-pockets, and buttoned
with the forbidden eagle buttons their shabby uniforms,
declaring themselves too poor to afford the expense of
the prescribed change.
The triumphant return from Elba, an historical fact
as marvellous and incredible as the exploits of some
mythological demi-god, found General D'Hubert still
quite unable to sit a horse. Neither could he walk
very well. These disabilities, which Madame Leonie
accounted most lucky, helped to keep her brother out of
all possible mischief. His frame of mind at that time,
she noted with dismay, became very far from reason-
able. This general officer, still menaced by the loss of
a limb, was discovered one night in the stables of the
chateau by a groom, who, seeing a light, raised an
alarm of thieves. His crutch was lying half-buried in
the straw of the litter, and the general was hopping on
one leg in a loose box around a snorting horse he was
trying to saddle. Such were the effects of imperial
magic upon a calm temperament and a pondered mind.
Beset in the light of stable lanterns, by the tears, en-
treaties, indignation, remonstrances and reproaches
of his family, he got out of the difficult situation by
fainting away there and then in the arms of his nearest
relatives, and was carried off to bed. Before he got
out of it again, the second reign of Napoleon, the
Hundred Days of feverish agitation and supreme
effort, passed away like a terrifying dream. The
tragic year 1815, begun in the trouble and unrest of
consciences, was ending in vengeful proscriptions.
How General Feraud escaped the clutches of the
Special Commission and the last offices of a firing squad
he never knew himself. It was partly due to the
subordinate position he was assigned during the Hun-
dred Days. The Emperor had never given him active
command, but had kept him busy at the cavalry
depot in Paris, mounting and despatching hastily
drilled troopers into the field. Considering this task
as unworthy of his abilities, he had discharged it with
no offensively noticeable zeal; but for the greater part
he was saved from the excesses of Royalist reaction by
the interference of General D'Hubert.
This last, still on convalescent leave, but able now to
travel, had been despatched by his sister to Paris to
present himself to his legitimate sovereign. As no one
in the capital could possibly know anything of the
episode in the stable he was received there with distinc-
tion. Military to the very bottom of his soul, the pros-
pect of rising in his profession consoled him from
finding himself the butt of Bonapartist malevolence,
which pursued him with a persistence he could not
account for. All the rancour of that embittered and
persecuted party pointed to him as the man who had
never loved the Emperor -- a sort of monster essentially
worse than a mere betrayer.
General D'Hubert shrugged his shoulders without
anger at this ferocious prejudice. Rejected by his old
friends, and mistrusting profoundly the advances of
Royalist society, the young and handsome general (he
was barely forty) adopted a manner of cold, punctilious
courtesy, which at the merest shadow of an intended
slight passed easily into harsh haughtiness. Thus pre-
pared, General D'Hubert went about his affairs in Paris
feeling inwardly very happy with the peculiar up-
lifting happiness of a man very much in love. The
charming girl looked out by his sister had come upon
the scene, and had conquered him in the thorough
manner in which a young girl by merely existing in his
sight can make a man of forty her own. They were go-
ing to be married as soon as General D'Hubert had
obtained his official nomination to a promised com-
mand.
One afternoon, sitting on the terrasse of the Cafe
Tortoni, General D'Hubert learned from the con-
versation of two strangers occupying a table near his
own, that General Feraud, included in the batch of
superior officers arrested after the second return of the
king, was in danger of passing before the Special Com-
mission. Living all his spare moments, as is frequently
the case with expectant lovers, a day in advance of
reality, and in a state of bestarred hallucination, it
required nothing less than the name of his perpetual
antagonist pronounced in a loud voice to call the
youngest of Napoleon's generals away from the
mental contemplation of his betrothed. He looked
round. The strangers wore civilian clothes. Lean and
weather-beaten, lolling back in their chairs, they
scowled at people with moody and defiant abstraction
from under their hats pulled low over their eyes. It
was not difficult to recognize them for two of the
compulsorily retired officers of the Old Guard. As
from bravado or carelessness they chose to speak in loud
tones, General D'Hubert, who saw no reason why he
should change his seat, heard every word. They did
not seem to be the personal friends of General Feraud.
His name came up amongst others. Hearing it
repeated, General D'Hubert's tender anticipations of a
domestic future adorned with a woman's grace were
traversed by the harsh regret of his warlike past, of
that one long, intoxicating clash of arms, unique in the
magnitude of its glory and disaster -- the marvellous
work and the special possession of his own generation.
He felt an irrational tenderness towards his old adver-
sary and appreciated emotionally the murderous ab-
surdity their encounter had introduced into his life. It
was like an additional pinch of spice in a hot dish. He
remembered the flavour with sudden melancholy. He
would never taste it again. It was all over. "I fancy it
was being left lying in the garden that had exasperated
him so against me from the first," he thought, indul-
gently.
The two strangers at the next table had fallen silent
after the third mention of General Feraud's name. Pres-
ently the elder of the two, speaking again in a bitter
tone, affirmed that General Feraud's account was set-
tled. And why? Simply because he was not like some
bigwigs who loved only themselves. The Royalists
knew they could never make anything of him. He
loved The Other too well.
The Other was the Man of St. Helena. The two
officers nodded and touched glasses before they drank
to an impossible return. Then the same who had
spoken before, remarked with a sardonic laugh, "His
adversary showed more cleverness."
"What adversary?" asked the younger, as if puzzled.
"Don't you know? They were two hussars. At
each promotion they fought a duel. Haven't you heard
of the duel going on ever since 1801?"
The other had heard of the duel, of course. Now he
understood the allusion. General Baron D'Hubert
would be able now to enjoy his fat king's favour in
peace.
"Much good may it do to him," mumbled the elder.
"They were both brave men. I never saw this D'Hu-
bert -- a sort of intriguing dandy, I am told. But I can
well believe what I've heard Feraud say of him -- that
he never loved the Emperor."
They rose and went away.
General D'Hubert experienced the horror of a som-
nambulist who wakes up from a complacent dream of
activity to find himself walking on a quagmire. A
profound disgust of the ground on which he was making
his way overcame him. Even the image of the charm-
ing girl was swept from his view in the flood of moral
distress. Everything he had ever been or hoped to be
would taste of bitter ignominy unless he could manage
to save General Feraud from the fate which threatened
so many braves. Under the impulse of this almost
morbid need to attend to the safety of his adversary,
General D'Hubert worked so well with hands and feet
(as the French saying is), that in less than twenty-four
hours he found means of obtaining an extraordinary
private audience from the Minister of Police.
General Baron D'Hubert was shown in suddenly
without preliminaries. In the dusk of the Minister's
cabinet, behind the forms of writing-desk, chairs, and
tables, between two bunches of wax candles blazing in
sconces, he beheld a figure in a gorgeous coat posturing
before a tall mirror. The old conventionnel Fouche;,
Senator of the Empire, traitor to every man, to every
principle and motive of human conduct. Duke of Otran-
to, and the wily artizan of the second Restoration, was
trying the fit of a court suit in which his young and
accomplished fiancee had declared her intention to have
his portrait painted on porcelain. It was a caprice, a
charming fancy which the first Minister of Police of the
second Restoration was anxious to gratify. For that
man, often compared in wiliness of conduct to a fox,
but whose ethical side could be worthily symbolized
by nothing less emphatic than a skunk, was as much
possessed by his love as General D'Hubert himself.
Startled to be discovered thus by the blunder of a
servant, he met this little vexation with the characteris-
tic impudence which had served his turn so well in the
endless intrigues of his self-seeking career. Without
altering his attitude a hair's-breadth, one leg in a silk
stocking advanced, his head twisted over his left
shoulder, he called out calmly, "This way, General.
Pray approach. Well? I am all attention."
While General D'Hubert, ill at ease as if one of his
own little weaknesses had been exposed, presented his
request as shortly as possible, the Duke of Otranto went
on feeling the fit of his collar, settling the lapels before
the glass, and buckling his back in an effort to behold
the set of the gold embroidered coat-skirts behind. His
still face, his attentive eyes, could not have expressed a
more complete interest in those matters if he had been
alone.
"Exclude from the operations of the Special Court
a certain Feraud, Gabriel Florian, General of brigade
of the promotion of 1814?" he repeated, in a slightly
wondering tone, and then turned away from the glass.
"Why exclude him precisely?"
"I am surprised that your Excellency, so competent
in the evaluation of men of his time, should have
thought worth while to have that name put down on
the list."
"A rabid Bonapartist!"
"So is every grenadier and every trooper of the army,
as your Excellency well knows. And the individuality
of General Feraud can have no more weight than that
of any casual grenadier. He is a man of no mental
grasp, of no capacity whatever. It is inconceivable
that he should ever have any influence."
"He has a well-hung tongue, though," interjected
Fouche.
"Noisy, I admit, but not dangerous."
"I will not dispute with you. I know next to noth-
ing of him. Hardly his name, in fact."
"And yet your Excellency has the presidency of the
Commission charged by the king to point out those who
were to be tried," said General D'Hubert, with an
emphasis which did not miss the minister's ear.
"Yes, General," he said, walking away into the dark
part of the vast room, and throwing himself into a deep
armchair that swallowed him up, all but the soft gleam
of gold embroideries and the pallid patch of the face --
"yes, General. Take this chair there."
General D'Hubert sat down.
"Yes, General," continued the arch-master in the
arts of intrigue and betrayals, whose duplicity, as if at
times intolerable to his self-knowledge, found relief in
bursts of cynical openness. "I did hurry on the forma-
tion of the proscribing Commission, and I took its presi-
dency. And do you know why? Simply from fear
that if I did not take it quickly into my hands my own
name would head the list of the proscribed. Such are
the times in which we live. But I am minister of the
king yet, and I ask you plainly why I should take the
name of this obscure Feraud off the list? You wonder
how his name got there! Is it possible that you should
know men so little? My dear General, at the very
first sitting of the Commission names poured on us like
rain off the roof of the Tuileries. Names! We had our
choice of thousands. How do you know that the name
of this Feraud, whose life or death don't matter to
France, does not keep out some other name?"
The voice out of the armchair stopped. Opposite
General D'Hubert sat still, shadowy and silent. Only
his sabre clinked slightly. The voice in the armchair
began again. "And we must try to satisfy the exigencies
of the Allied Sovereigns, too. The Prince de Talleyrand
told me only yesterday that Nesselrode had informed
him officially of His Majesty the Emperor Alexander's
dissatisfaction at the small number of examples the
Government of the king intends to make -- especially
amongst military men. I tell you this confidentially."
"Upon my word!" broke out General D'Hubert,
speaking through his teeth, "if your Excellency deigns
to favour me with any more confidential information I
don't know what I will do. It's enough to break one's
sword over one's knee, and fling the pieces. . . ."
"What government you imagined yourself to be
serving?" interrupted the minister, sharply.
After a short pause the crestfallen voice of General
D'Hubert answered, "The Government of France."
"That's paying your conscience off with mere words,
General. The truth is that you are serving a govern-
ment of returned exiles, of men who have been without
country for twenty years. Of men also who have just
got over a very bad and humiliating fright. . . .
Have no illusions on that score."
The Duke of Otranto ceased. He had relieved him-
self, and had attained his object of stripping some self-
respect off that man who had inconveniently discovered
him posturing in a gold-embroidered court costume
before a mirror. But they were a hot-headed lot in the
army; it occurred to him that it would be inconvenient
if a well-disposed general officer, received in audience
on the recommendation of one of the Princes, were to
do something rashly scandalous directly after a pri-
vate interview with the minister. In a changed tone
he put a question to the point: "Your relation -- this
Feraud?"
"No. No relation at all."
"Intimate friend?"
"Intimate . . . yes. There is between us an
intimate connection of a nature which makes it a point
of honour with me to try . . ."
The minister rang a bell without waiting for the end
of the phrase. When the servant had gone out, after
bringing in a pair of heavy silver candelabra for the
writing-desk, the Duke of Otranto rose, his breast glis-
tening all over with gold in the strong light, and taking a
piece of paper out of a drawer, held it in his hand osten-
tatiously while he said with persuasive gentleness:
"You must not speak of breaking your sword across
your knee, General. Perhaps you would never get
another. The Emperor will not return this time. . . .
Diable d'homme! There was just a moment, here in
Paris, soon after Waterloo, when he frightened me.
It looked as though he were ready to begin all over
again. Luckily one never does begin all over again,
really. You must not think of breaking your sword,
General."
General D'Hubert, looking on the ground, moved
slightly his hand in a hopeless gesture of renunciation.
The Minister of Police turned his eyes away from him,
and scanned deliberately the paper he had been holding
up all the time.
"There are only twenty general officers selected to
be made an example of. Twenty. A round number.
And let's see, Feraud. . . . Ah, he's there. Ga-
briel Florian. Parfaitement. That's your man. Well,
there will be only nineteen examples made now."
General D'Hubert stood up feeling as though he had
gone through an infectious illness. "I must beg your
Excellency to keep my interference a profound secret.
I attach the greatest importance to his never learn-
ing . . ."
"Who is going to inform him, I should like to know?"
said Fouche, raising his eyes curiously to General
D'Hubert's tense, set face. "Take one of these pens,
and run it through the name yourself. This is the
only list in existence. If you are careful to take up
enough ink no one will be able to tell what was the
name struck out. But, par exemple, I am not responsi-
ble for what Clarke will do with him afterwards. If he
persists in being rabid he will be ordered by the Minister
of War to reside in some provincial town under the
supervision of the police."
A few days later General D'Hubert was saying to his
sister, after the first greetings had been got over: "Ah,
my dear Leonie! it seemed to me I couldn't get away
from Paris quick enough."
"Effect of love," she suggested, with a malicious
smile.
"And horror," added General D'Hubert, with pro-
found seriousness. "I have nearly died there of . . .
of nausea."
His face was contracted with disgust. And as his
sister looked at him attentively he continued, "I have
had to see Fouche. I have had an audience. I have
been in his cabinet. There remains with one, who had
the misfortune to breathe the air of the same room with
that man, a sense of diminished dignity, an uneasy feel-
ing of being not so clean, after all, as one hoped one
was. . . . But you can't understand."
She nodded quickly several times. She understood
very well, on the contrary. She knew her brother
thoroughly, and liked him as he was. Moreover, the
scorn and loathing of mankind were the lot of the
Jacobin Fouche, who, exploiting for his own advantage
every weakness, every virtue, every generous illusion of
mankind, made dupes of his whole generation, and died
obscurely as Duke of Otranto.
"My dear Armand," she said, compassionately, "what
could you want from that man?"
"Nothing less than a life," answered General
D'Hubert. "And I've got it. It had to be done. But
I feel yet as if I could never forgive the necessity to the
man I had to save."
General Feraud, totally unable (as is the case with
most of us) to comprehend what was happening to him,
received the Minister of War's order to proceed at once
to a small town of Central France with feelings whose
natural expression consisted in a fierce rolling of the eye
and savage grinding of the teeth. The passing away of
the state of war, the only condition of society he had
ever known, the horrible view of a world at peace,
frightened him. He went away to his little town firmly
convinced that this could not last. There he was in-
formed of his retirement from the army, and that his
pension (calculated on the scale of a colonel's rank) was
made dependent on the correctness of his conduct, and
on the good reports of the police. No longer in the
army! He felt suddenly strange to the earth, like a
disembodied spirit. It was impossible to exist. But
at first he reacted from sheer incredulity. This could
not be. He waited for thunder, earthquakes, natural
cataclysms; but nothing happened. The leaden weight
of an irremediable idleness descended upon General
Feraud, who having no resources within himself sank
into a state of awe-inspiring hebetude. He haunted the
streets of the little town, gazing before him with lack-
lustre eyes, disregarding the hats raised on his passage;
and people, nudging each other as he went by, whispered,
"That's poor General Feraud. His heart is broken.
Behold how he loved the Emperor."
The other living wreckage of Napoleonic tempest
clustered round General Feraud with infinite respect.
He, himself, imagined his soul to be crushed by grief.
He suffered from quickly succeeding impulses to weep,
to howl, to bite his fists till blood came, to spend days on
his bed with his head thrust under the pillow; but these
arose from sheer ennui, from the anguish of an immense,
indescribable, inconceivable boredom. His mental in-
ability to grasp the hopeless nature of his case as a
whole saved him from suicide. He never even thought
of it once. He thought of nothing. But his appetite
abandoned him, and the difficulty he experienced to
express the overwhelming nature of his feelings (the
most furious swearing could do no justice to it) induced
gradually a habit of silence -- a sort of death to a
southern temperament.
Great, therefore, was the sensation amongst the an-
ciens militaires frequenting a certain little cafe; full of flies
when one stuffy afternoon "that poor General Feraud"
let out suddenly a volley of formidable curses.
He had been sitting quietly in his own privileged
corner looking through the Paris gazettes with just as
much interest as a condemned man on the eve of exe-
cution could be expected to show in the news of the day.
Aill find out presently that I am alive yet," he declared,
in a dogmatic tone. "However, this is a private affair.
An old affair of honour. Bah! Our honour does not
matter. Here we are driven off with a split ear like a
lot of cast troop horses -- good only for a knacker's
yard. But it would be like striking a blow for the
Emperor. . . . Messieurs, I shall require the assis-
tance of two of you."
Every man moved forward. General Feraud, deeply
touched by this demonstration, called with visible
emotion upon the one-eyed veteran cuirassier and the
officer of the Chasseurs a Cheval who had left the tip of
his nose in Russia. He excused his choice to the others.
"A cavalry affair this -- you know."
He was answered with a varied chorus of "Parfaite-
ment, mon General. . . . C'est juste. . . . Par-
bleu, c'est connu. . . ." Everybody was satisfied.
The three left the cafe together, followed by cries of
"Bonne chance."
Outside they linked arms, the general in the middle.
The three rusty cocked hats worn en bataille with a
sinister forward slant barred the narrow street nearly
right across. The overheated little town of grey stones
and red tiles was drowsing away its provincial afternoon
under a blue sky. The loud blows of a cooper hooping
a cask reverberated regularly between the houses. The
general dragged his left foot a little in the shade of the
walls.
"This damned winter of 1813 has got into my bones
for good. Never mind. We must take pistols, that's
all. A little lumbago. We must have pistols. He's
game for my bag. My eyes are as keen as ever. You
should have seen me in Russia picking off the dodging
Cossacks with a beastly old infantry musket. I have a
natural gift for firearms."
In this strain General Feraud ran on, holding up his
head, with owlish eyes and rapacious beak. A mere
fighter all his life, a cavalry man, a sabreur, he conceived
war with the utmost simplicity, as, in the main, a massed
lot of personal contests, a sort of gregarious duelling.
And here he had in hand a war of his own. He revived.
The shadow of peace passed away from him like the
shadow of death. It was the marvellous resurrection of
the named Feraud, Gabriel Florian, engage volontaire
of 1793, General of 1814, buried without ceremony by
means of a service order signed by the War Minister
of the Second Restoration.
IV
No man succeeds in everything he undertakes. In
that sense we are all failures. The great point is not
to fail in ordering and sustaining the effort of our life.
In this matter vanity is what leads us astray. It hurries
us into situations from which we must come out dam-
aged; whereas pride is our safeguard, by the reserve it
imposes on the choice of our endeavour as much as by
the virtue of its sustaining power.
General D'Hubert was proud and reserved. He had
not been damaged by his casual love affairs, successful
or otherwise. In his war-scarred body his heart at forty
remained unscratched. Entering with reserve into his
sister's matrimonial plans, he had felt himself falling
irremediably in love as one falls off a roof. He was too
proud to be frightened. Indeed, the sensation was too
delightful to be alarming.
The inexperience of a man of forty is a much more
serious thing than the inexperience of a youth of twenty,
for it is not helped out by the rashness of hot blood.
The girl was mysterious, as young girls are by the
mere effect of their guarded ingenuity; and to him the
mysteriousness of that young girl appeared exceptional
and fascinating. But there was nothing mysterious
about the arrangements of the match which Madame
Leonie had promoted. There was nothing peculiar,
either. It was a very appropriate match, commending
itself extremely to the young lady's mother (the father
was dead) and tolerable to the young lady's uncle -- an
old emigre lately returned from Germany, and pervad-
ing, cane in hand, a lean ghost of the ancien regime, the
garden walks of the young lady's ancestral home.
General D'Hubert was not the man to be satisfied
merely with the woman and the fortune -- when it came
to the point. His pride (and pride aims always at true
success) would be satisfied with nothing short of love.
But as true pride excludes vanity, he could not imagine
any reason why this mysterious creature with deep and
brilliant eyes of a violet colour should have any feeling
for him warmer than indifference. The young lady (her
name was Adele) baffled every attempt at a clear under-
standing on that point. It is true that the attempts
were clumsy and made timidly, because by then General
D'Hubert had become acutely aware of the number of
his years, of his wounds, of his many moral imperfec-
tions, of his secret unworthiness -- and had incidentally
learned by experience the meaning of the word funk.
As far as he could make out she seemed to imply that,
with an unbounded confidence in her mother's affection
and sagacity, she felt no unsurmountable dislike for the
person of General D'Hubert; and that this was quite
sufficient for a well-brought-up young lady to begin
married life upon. This view hurt and tormented the
pride of General D'Hubert. And yet he asked himself,
with a sort of sweet despair, what more could he expect?
She had a quiet and luminous forehead. Her violet eyes
laughed while the lines of her lips and chin remained
composed in admirable gravity. All this was set off by
such a glorious mass of fair hair, by a complexion so
marvellous, by such a grace of expression, that General
D'Hubert really never found the opportunity to examine
with sufficient detachment the lofty exigencies of his
pride. In fact, he became shy of that line of inquiry
since it had led once or twice to a crisis of solitary pas-
sion in which it was borne upon him that he loved her
enough to kill her rather than lose her. From such
passages, not unknown to men of forty, he would come
out broken, exhausted, remorseful, a little dismayed.
He derived, however, considerable comfort from the
quietist practice of sitting now and then half the night
by an open window and meditating upon the wonder
of her existence, like a believer lost in the mystic con-
templation of his faith.
It must not be supposed that all these variations of
his inward state were made manifest to the world.
General D 'Hubert found no difficulty in appearing
wreathed in smiles. Because, in fact, he was very
happy. He followed the established rules of his condi-
tion, sending over flowers (from his sister's garden and
hot-houses) early every morning, and a little later fol-
lowing himself to lunch with his intended, her mother,
and her emigre uncle. The middle of the day was spent
in strolling or sitting in the shade. A watchful defer-
ence, trembling on the verge of tenderness was the note
of their intercourse on his side -- with a playful turn of
the phrase concealing the profound trouble of his whole
being caused by her inaccessible nearness. Late in the
afternoon General D 'Hubert walked home between the
fields of vines, sometimes intensely miserable, some-
times supremely happy, sometimes pensively sad; but
always feeling a special intensity of existence, that ela-
tion common to artists, poets, and lovers -- to men
haunted by a great passion, a noble thought, or a new
vision of plastic beauty.
The outward world at that time did not exist with
any special distinctness for General D'Hubert. One
evening, however, crossing a ridge from which he could
see both houses, General D'Hubert became aware of two
figures far down the road. The day had been divine.
The festal decoration of the inflamed sky lent a gentle
glow to the sober tints of the southern land. The grey
rocks, the brown fields, the purple, undulating distances
harmonized in luminous accord, exhaled already the
scents of the evening. The two figures down the road
presented themselves like two rigid and wooden sil-
houettes all black on the ribbon of white dust. General
D'Hubert made out the long, straight, military capotes
buttoned closely right up to the black stocks, the cocked
hats, the lean, carven, brown countenances -- old soldiers
-- vieilles moustaches! The taller of the two had a
black patch over one eye; the other's hard, dry coun-
tenance presented some bizarre, disquieting peculiarity,
which on nearer approach proved to be the absence of
the tip of the nose. Lifting their hands with one move-
ment to salute the slightly lame civilian walking with a
thick stick, they inquired for the house where the Gen-
eral Baron D'Hubert lived, and what was the best way
to get speech with him quietly.
"If you think this quiet enough," said General
D'Hubert, looking round at the vine-fields, framed in
purple lines, and dominated by the nest of grey and
drab walls of a village clustering around the top of a
conical hill, so that the blunt church tower seemed but
the shape of a crowning rock -- "if you think this spot
quiet enough, you can speak to him at once. And I
beg you, comrades, to speak openly, with perfect con-
fidence."
They stepped back at this, and raised again their
hands to their hats with marked ceremoniousness.
Then the one with the chipped nose, speaking for both,
remarked that the matter was confidential enough, and
to be arranged discreetly. Their general quarters were
established in that village over there, where the infernal
clodhoppers -- damn their false, Royalist hearts! -- looked
remarkably cross-eyed at three unassuming military
men. For the present he should only ask for the name
of General D'Hubert's friends.
"What friends?" said the astonished General D'Hu-
bert, completely off the track. "I am staying with my
brother-in-law over there."
"Well, he will do for one," said the chipped veteran.
"We're the friends of General Feraud," interjected
the other, who had kept silent till then, only glowering
with his one eye at the man who had never loved the
Emperor. That was something to look at. For even
the gold-laced Judases who had sold him to the English,
the marshals and princes, had loved him at some time or
other. But this man had never loved the Emperor.
General Feraud had said so distinctly.
General D'Hubert felt an inward blow in his chest.
For an infinitesimal fraction of a second it was as if
the spinning of the earth had become perceptible with
an awful, slight rustle in the eternal stillness of space.
But this noise of blood in his ears passed off at once.
Involuntarily he murmured, "Feraud! I had forgotten
his existence."
"He's existing at present, very uncomfortably, it is
true, in the infamous inn of that nest of savages up
there," said the one-eyed cuirassier, drily. "We arrived
in your parts an hour ago on post horses. He's awaiting
our return with impatience. There is hurry, you know.
The General has broken the ministerial order to obtain
from you the satisfaction he's entitled to by the laws of
honour, and naturally he's anxious to have it all over
before the gendarmerie gets on his scent."
The other elucidated the idea a little further. "Get
back on the quiet -- you understand? Phitt! No one
the wiser. We have broken out, too. Your friend the
king would be glad to cut off our scurvy pittances at the
first chance. It's a risk. But honour before every-
thing."
General D'Hubert had recovered his powers of
speech. "So you come here like this along the road
to invite me to a throat-cutting match with that --
that . . ." A laughing sort of rage took possession
of him. "Ha! ha! ha! ha!"
His fists on his hips, he roared without restraint, while
they stood before him lank and straight, as though they
had been shot up with a snap through a trap door in the
ground. Only four-and-twenty months ago the mas-
ters of Europe, they had already the air of antique
ghosts, they seemed less substantial in their faded coats
than their own narrow shadows falling so black across
the white road: the military and grotesque shadows of
twenty years of war and conquests. They had an out-
landish appearance of two imperturbable bonzes of the
religion of the sword. And General D'Hubert, also one
of the ex-masters of Europe, laughed at these serious
phantoms standing in his way.
Said one, indicating the laughing General with a jerk
of the head: "A merry companion, that."
"There are some of us that haven't smiled from the
day The Other went away," remarked his comrade.
A violent impulse to set upon and beat those unsub-
stantial wraiths to the ground frightened General
D'Hubert. He ceased laughing suddenly. His desire
now was to get rid of them, to get them away from his
sight quickly before he lost control of himself. He
wondered at the fury he felt rising in his breast. But
he had no time to look into that peculiarity just then.
"I understand your wish to be done with me as
quickly as possible. Don't let us waste time in empty
ceremonies. Do you see that wood there at the foot of
that slope? Yes, the wood of pines. Let us meet there
to-morrow at sunrise. I will bring with me my sword
or my pistols, or both if you like."
The seconds of General Feraud looked at each other.
"Pistols, General," said the cuirassier.
"So be it. Au revoir -- to-morrow morning. Till
then let me advise you to keep close if you don't want
the gendarmerie making inquiries about you before it
gets dark. Strangers are rare in this part of the coun-
try."
They saluted in silence. General D'Hubert, turning
his back on their retreating forms, stood still in the
middle of the road for a long time, biting his lower lip
and looking on the ground. Then he began to walk
straight before him, thus retracing his steps till he found
himself before the park gate of his intended's house.
Dusk had fallen. Motionless he stared through the
bars at the front of the house, gleaming clear beyond the
thickets and trees. Footsteps scrunched on the gravel,
and presently a tall stooping shape emerged from the
lateral alley following the inner side of the park wall.
Le Chevalier de Valmassigue, uncle of the adorable
Adele, ex-brigadier in the army of the Princes, book-
binder in Altona, afterwards shoemaker (with a great
reputation for elegance in the fit of ladies' shoes) in
another small German town, wore silk stockings on his
lean shanks, low shoes with silver buckles, a brocaded
waistcoat. A long-skirted coat, a la francaise, covered
loosely his thin, bowed back. A small three-cornered
hat rested on a lot of powdered hair, tied in a queue.
"Monsieur le Chevalier," called General D'Hubert,
softly.
"What? You here again, mon ami? Have you
forgotten something?"
"By heavens! that's just it. I have forgotten some-
thing. I am come to tell you of it. No -- outside.
Behind this wall. It's too ghastly a thing to be let in
at all where she lives."
The Chevalier came out at once with that benevolent
resignation some old people display towards the fugue
of youth. Older by a quarter of a century than General
D'Hubert, he looked upon him in the secret of his heart
as a rather troublesome youngster in love. He had
heard his enigmatical words very well, but attached no
undue importance to what a mere man of forty so hard
hit was likely to do or say. The turn of mind of the
generation of Frenchmen grown up during the years of
his exile was almost unintelligible to him. Their senti-
ments appeared to him unduly violent, lacking fineness
and measure, their language needlessly exaggerated.
He joined calmly the General on the road, and they
made a few steps in silence, the General trying to master
his agitation, and get proper control of his voice.
"It is perfectly true; I forgot something. I forgot
till half an hour ago that I had an urgent affair of honour
on my hands. It's incredible, but it is so!"
All was still for a moment. Then in the profound
evening silence of the countryside the clear, aged voice
of the Chevalier was heard trembling slightly: "Mon-
sieur! That's an indignity."
It was his first thought. The girl born during his
exile, the posthumous daughter of his poor brother mur-
dered by a band of Jacobins, had grown since his return
very dear to his old heart, which had been starving on
mere memories of affection for so many years. "It is
an inconceivable thing, I say! A man settles such af-
fairs before he thinks of asking for a young girl's hand.
Why! If you had forgotten for ten days longer, you
would have been married before your memory returned
to you. In my time men did not forget such things --
nor yet what is due to the feelings of an innocent young
woman. If I did not respect them myself, I would
qualify your conduct in a way which you would not
like."
General D'Hubert relieved himself frankly by a
groan. "Don't let that consideration prevent you.
You run no risk of offending her mortally."
But the old man paid no attention to this lover's
nonsense. It's doubtful whether he even heard.
"What is it? "he asked. "What's the nature of . . . ?"
"Call it a youthful folly, Monsieur le Chevalier. An
inconceivable, incredible result of . . ." He stopped
short. "He will never believe the story," he thought.
"He will only think I am taking him for a fool, and get
offended." General D'Hubert spoke up again: "Yes,
originating in youthful folly, it has become . . ."
The Chevalier interrupted: "Well, then it must be
arranged."
"Arranged?"
"Yes, no matter at what cost to your amour propre.
You should have remembered you were engaged. You
forgot that, too, I suppose. And then you go and forget
your quarrel. It's the most hopeless exhibition of levity
I ever heard of."
"Good heavens, Monsieur! You don't imagine I
have been picking up this quarrel last time I was in
Paris, or anything of the sort, do you?"
"Eh! What matters the precise date of your insane
conduct," exclaimed the Chevalier, testily. "The prin-
cipal thing is to arrange it."
Noticing General D'Hubert getting restive and try-
ing to place a word, the old emigre raised his hand, and
added with dignity, "I've been a soldier, too. I would
never dare suggest a doubtful step to the man whose
name my niece is to bear. I tell you that entre galants
hommes an affair can always be arranged."
"But saperiotte, Monsieur le Chevalier, it's fifteen or
sixteen years ago. I was a lieutenant of hussars then."
The old Chevalier seemed confounded by the vehe-
mently despairing tone of this information. "You
were a lieutenant of hussars sixteen years ago," he mum-
bled in a dazed manner.
"Why, yes! You did not suppose I was made a
general in my cradle like a royal prince."
In the deepening purple twilight of the fields spread
with vine leaves, backed by a low band of sombre crim-
son in the west, the voice of the old ex-officer in the army
of the Princes sounded collected, punctiliously civil.
"Do I dream? Is this a pleasantry? Or am I to
understand that you have been hatching an affair of
honour for sixteen years?"
"It has clung to me for that length of time. That is
my precise meaning. The quarrel itself is not to be
explained easily. We met on the ground several times
during that time, of course."
"What manners! What horrible perversion of man-
liness! Nothing can account for such inhumanity but
the sanguinary madness of the Revolution which has
tainted a whole generation," mused the returned emigre
in a low tone. "Who's your adversary?" he asked a
little louder.
"My adversary? His name is Feraud."
Shadowy in his tricorne and old-fashioned clothes,
like a bowed, thin ghost of the ancien regime, the Cheva-
lier voiced a ghostly memory. "I can remember the
feud about little Sophie Derval, between Monsieur
de Brissac, Captain in the Bodyguards, and d'Anjorrant
(not the pock-marked one, the other -- the Beau
d'Anjorrant, as they called him). They met three times
in eighteen months in a most gallant manner. It was
the fault of that little Sophie, too, who would keep on
playing . . ."
"This is nothing of the kind," interrupted General
D'Hubert. He laughed a little sardonically. "Not at
all so simple," he added. "Nor yet half so reasonable,"
he finished, inaudibly, between his teeth, and ground
them with rage.
After this sound nothing troubled the silence for a
long time, till the Chevalier asked, without animation:
"What is he -- this Feraud?"
"Lieutenant of hussars, too -- I mean, he's a general.
A Gascon. Son of a blacksmith, I believe."
"There! I thought so. That Bonaparte had a
special predilection for the canaille. I don't mean this
for you, D'Hubert. You are one of us, though you have
served this usurper, who . . ."
"Let's leave him out of this," broke in General D'Hu-
bert.
The Chevalier shrugged his peaked shoulders. "Fe-
raud of sorts. Offspring of a blacksmith and some
village troll. See what comes of mixing yourself up
with that sort of people."
"You have made shoes yourself, Chevalier."
"Yes. But I am not the son of a shoemaker. Neither
are you, Monsieur D'Hubert. You and I have some-
thing that your Bonaparte's princes, dukes, and mar-
shals have not, because there's no power on earth that
could give it to them," retorted the emigre, with the
rising animation of a man who has got hold of a hopeful
argument. "Those people don't exist -- all these Fe-
rauds. Feraud! What is Feraud? A va-nu-pieds dis-
guised into a general by a Corsican adventurer mas-
querading as an emperor. There is no earthly reason
for a D'Hubert to s'encanailler by a duel with a person
of that sort. You can make your excuses to him per-
fectly well. And if the manant takes into his head to
decline them, you may simply refuse to meet him."
"You say I may do that?"
"I do. With the clearest conscience."
"Monsieur le Chevalier! To what do you think you
have returned from your emigration?"
This was said in such a startling tone that the old
man raised sharply his bowed head, glimmering silvery
white under the points of the little tricorne. For a time
he made no sound.
"God knows!" he said at last, pointing with a slow
and grave gesture at a tall roadside cross mounted on a
block of stone, and stretching its arms of forged iron all
black against the darkening red band in the sky -- "God
knows! If it were not for this emblem, which I remem-
ber seeing on this spot as a child, I would wonder to
what we who remained faithful to God and our king
have returned. The very voices of the people have
changed."
"Yes, it is a changed France," said General D'Hu-
bert. He seemed to have regained his calm. His tone
was slightly ironic. "Therefore I cannot take your
advice. Besides, how is one to refuse to be bitten by a
dog that means to bite? It's impracticable. Take my
word for it -- Feraud isn't a man to be stayed by apolo-
gies or refusals. But there are other ways. I could,
for instance, send a messenger with a word to the briga-
dier of the gendarmerie in Senlac. He and his two
friends are liable to arrest on my simple order. It
would make some talk in the army, both the organized
and the disbanded -- especially the disbanded. All
canaille! All once upon a time the companions in
arms of Armand D'Hubert. But what need a D'Hu-
bert care what people that don't exist may think? Or,
better still, I might get my brother-in-law to send for
the mayor of the village and give him a hint. No more
would be needed to get the three 'brigands' set upon
with flails and pitchforks and hunted into some nice,
deep, wet ditch -- and nobody the wiser! It has been
done only ten miles from here to three poor devils of the
disbanded Red Lancers of the Guard going to their
homes. What says your conscience, Chevalier? Can
a D'Hubert do that thing to three men who do not
exist?"
A few stars had come out on the blue obscurity,
clear as crystal, of the sky. The dry, thin voice of the
Chevalier spoke harshly: "Why are you telling me all
this?"
The General seized the withered old hand with a
strong grip. "Because I owe you my fullest confidence.
Who could tell Adele but you? You understand why I
dare not trust my brother-in-law nor yet my own sister.
Chevalier! I have been so near doing these things that
I tremble yet. You don't know how terrible this duel
appears to me. And there's no escape from it."
He murmured after a pause, "It's a fatality,"
dropped the Chevalier's passive hand, and said in his
ordinary conversational voice, "I shall have to go with-
out seconds. If it is my lot to remain on the ground,
you at least will know all that can be made known of
this affair."
The shadowy ghost of the ancien regime seemed to
have become more bowed during the conversation.
"How am I to keep an indifferent face this evening
before these two women?" he groaned. "General! I
find it very difficult to forgive you."
General D 'Hubert made no answer.
"Is your cause good, at least?"
"I am innocent."
This time he seized the Chevalier's ghostly arm
above the elbow, and gave it a mighty squeeze. "I
must kill him!" he hissed, and opening his hand strode
away down the road.
The delicate attentions of his adoring sister had
secured for the General perfect liberty of movement in
the house where he was a guest. He had even his own
entrance through a small door in one corner of the
orangery. Thus he was not exposed that evening to
the necessity of dissembling his agitation before the
calm ignorance of the other inmates. He was glad of
it. It seemed to him that if he had to open his lips he
would break out into horrible and aimless imprecations,
start breaking furniture, smashing china and glass.
From the moment he opened the private door and
while ascending the twenty-eight steps of a winding
staircase, giving access to the corridor on which his room
opened, he went through a horrible and humiliating
scene in which an infuriated madman with blood-shot
eyes and a foaming mouth played inconceivable havoc
with everything inanimate that may be found in a well-
appointed dining-room. When he opened the door of
his apartment the fit was over, and his bodily fatigue
was so great that he had to catch at the backs of the
chairs while crossing the room to reach a low and broad
divan on which he let himself fall heavily. His moral
prostration was still greater. That brutality of feeling
which he had known only when charging the enemy,
sabre in hand, amazed this man of forty, who did not
recognize in it the instinctive fury of his menaced
passion. But in his mental and bodily exhaustion this
passion got cleared, distilled, refined into a sentiment of
melancholy despair at having, perhaps, to die before he
had taught this beautiful girl to love him.
That night, General D'Hubert stretched out on his
back with his hands over his eyes, or lying on his breast
with his face buried in a cushion, made the full pil-
grimage of emotions. Nauseating disgust at the absur-
dity of the situation, doubt of his own fitness to conduct
his existence, and mistrust of his best sentiments (for
what the devil did he want to go to Fouche for?) -- he
knew them all in turn. "I am an idiot, neither more
nor less," he thought -- "A sensitive idiot. Because I
overheard two men talking in a cafe. . . . I am an
idiot afraid of lies -- whereas in life it is only truth that
matters."
Several times he got up and, walking in his socks in
order not to be heard by anybody downstairs, drank all
the water he could find in the dark. And he tasted the
torments of jealousy, too. She would marry somebody
else. His very soul writhed. The tenacity of that
Feraud, the awful persistence of that imbecile brute,
came to him with the tremendous force of a relentless
destiny. General D'Hubert trembled as he put down
the empty water ewer. "He will have me," he thought.
General D'Hubert was tasting every emotion that life
has to give. He had in his dry mouth the faint sickly
flavour of fear, not the excusable fear before a young
girl's candid and amused glance, but the fear of death
and the honourable man's fear of cowardice.
But if true courage consists in going out to meet an
odious danger from which our body, soul, and heart
recoil together, General D'Hubert had the opportunity
to practise it for the first time in his life. He had
charged exultingly at batteries and at infantry squares,
and ridden with messages through a hail of bullets with-
out thinking anything about it. His business now was
to sneak out unheard, at break of day, to an obscure
and revolting death. General D'Hubert never hesi-
tated. He carried two pistols in a leather bag which he
slung over his shoulder. Before he had crossed the
garden his mouth was dry again. He picked two
oranges. It was only after shutting the gate after him
that he felt a slight faintness.
He staggered on, disregarding it, and after going a
few yards regained the command of his legs. In the
colourless and pellucid dawn the wood of pines de-
tached its columns of trunks and its dark green canopy
very clearly against the rocks of the grey hillside. He
kept his eyes fixed on it steadily, and sucked at an
orange as he walked. That temperamental good-
humoured coolness in the face of danger which had
made him an officer liked by his men and appreciated
by his superiors was gradually asserting itself. It was
like going into battle. Arriving at the edge of the
wood he sat down on a boulder, holding the other orange
in his hand, and reproached himself for coming so
ridiculously early on the ground. Before very long,
however, he heard the swishing of bushes, footsteps on
the hard ground, and the sounds of a disjointed, loud
conversation. A voice somewhere behind him said
boastfully, "He's game for my bag."
He thought to himself, "Here they are. What's this
about game? Are they talking of me?" And becom-
ing aware of the other orange in his hand, he thought
further, "These are very good oranges. Leonie's own
tree. I may just as well eat this orange now instead of
flinging it away."
Emerging from a wilderness of rocks and bushes,
General Feraud and his seconds discovered General
D'Hubert engaged in peeling the orange. They stood
still, waiting till he looked up. Then the seconds
raised their hats, while General Feraud, putting his
hands behind his back, walked aside a little way.
"I am compelled to ask one of you, messieurs, to act
for me. I have brought no friends. Will you?"
The one-eyed cuirassier said judicially, "That cannot
be refused."
The other veteran remarked, "It's awkward all the
same."
"Owing to the state of the people's minds in this
part of the country there was no one I could trust safely
with the object of your presence here," explained
General D'Hubert, urbanely.
They saluted, looked round, and remarked both
together:
"Poor ground."
"It's unfit."
"Why bother about ground, measurements, and so
on? Let us simplify matters. Load the two pairs of
pistols. I will take those of General Feraud, and let
him take mine. Or, better still, let us take a mixed
pair. One of each pair. Then let us go into the wood
and shoot at sight, while you remain outside. We did
not come here for ceremonies, but for war -- war to the
death. Any ground is good enough for that. If I fall,
you must leave me where I lie and clear out. It
wouldn't be healthy for you to be found hanging about
here after that."
It appeared after a short parley that General Feraud
was willing to accept these conditions. While the
seconds were loading the pistols, he could be heard
whistling, and was seen to rub his hands with perfect
contentment. He flung off his coat briskly, and
General D 'Hubert took off his own and folded it care-
fully on a stone.
"Suppose you take your principal to the other side
of the wood and let him enter exactly in ten minutes
from now," suggested General D'Hubert, calmly, but
feeling as if he were giving directions for his own execu-
tion. This, however, was his last moment of weakness.
"Wait. Let us compare watches first."
He pulled out his own. The officer with the chipped
nose went over to borrow the watch of General Feraud.
They bent their heads over them for a time.
"That's it. At four minutes to six by yours. Seven
to by mine."
It was the cuirassier who remained by the side of
General D'Hubert, keeping his one eye fixed immovably
on the white face of the watch he held in the palm of
his hand. He opened his mouth, waiting for the beat
of the last second long before he snapped out the word,
"Avancez."
General D'Hubert moved on, passing from the glaring
sunshine of the Provencal morning into the cool and
aromatic shade of the pines. The ground was clear
between the reddish trunks, whose multitude, leaning
at slightly different angles, confused his eye at first. It
was like going into battle. The commanding quality
of confidence in himself woke up in his breast. He was
all to his affair. The problem was how to kill the
adversary. Nothing short of that would free him
from this imbecile nightmare. "It's no use wounding
that brute," thought General D'Hubert. He was
known as a resourceful officer. His comrades years ago
used also to call him The Strategist. And it was a fact
that he could think in the presence of the enemy.
Whereas Feraud had been always a mere fighter -- but a
dead shot, unluckily.
"I must draw his fire at the greatest possible range,"
said General D'Hubert to himself.
At that moment he saw something white moving far
off between the trees -- the shirt of his adversary. He
stepped out at once between the trunks, exposing him-
self freely; then, quick as lightning, leaped back. It
had been a risky move but it succeeded in its object.
Almost simultaneously with the pop of a shot a small
piece of bark chipped off by the bullet stung his ear
painfully.
General Feraud, with one shot expended, was getting
cautious. Peeping round the tree, General D'Hubert
could not see him at all. This ignorance of the foe's
whereabouts carried with it a sense of insecurity.
General D'Hubert felt himself abominably exposed on
his flank and rear. Again something white fluttered
in his sight. Ha! The enemy was still on his front,
then. He had feared a turning movement. But
apparently General Feraud was not thinking of it.
General D'Hubert saw him pass without special haste
from one tree to another in the straight line of approach.
With great firmness of mind General D'Hubert stayed
his hand. Too far yet. He knew he was no marksman.
His must be a waiting game -- to kill.
Wishing to take advantage of the greater thickness
of the trunk, he sank down to the ground. Extended
at full length, head on to his enemy, he had his person
completely protected. Exposing himself would not
do now, because the other was too near by this time.
A conviction that Feraud would presently do something
rash was like balm to General D'Hubert's soul. But
to keep his chin raised off the ground was irksome,
and not much use either. He peeped round, exposing
a fraction of his head with dread, but really with
little risk. His enemy, as a matter of fact, did not
expect to see anything of him so far down as that.
General D'Hubert caught a fleeting view of General
Feraud shifting trees again with deliberate cau-
tion. "He despises my shooting," he thought, dis-
playing that insight into the mind of his antagonist
which is of such great help in winning battles. He was
confirmed in his tactics of immobility. "If I could only
watch my rear as well as my front!" he thought anx-
iously, longing for the impossible.
It required some force of character to lay his pistols
down; but, on a sudden impulse, General D'Hubert did
this very gently -- one on each side of him. In the army
he had been looked upon as a bit of a dandy because he
used to shave and put on a clean shirt on the days of
battle. As a matter of fact, he had always been very
careful of his personal appearance. In a man of nearly
forty, in love with a young and charming girl, this
praiseworthy self-respect may run to such little weak-
nesses as, for instance, being provided with an elegant
little leather folding-case containing a small ivory
comb, and fitted with a piece of looking-glass on
the outside. General D'Hubert, his hands being free,
felt in his breeches' pockets for that implement of
innocent vanity excusable in the possessor of long, silky
moustaches. He drew it out, and then with the ut-
most coolness and promptitude turned himself over on
his back. In this new attitude, his head a little raised,
holding the little looking-glass just clear of his tree, he
squinted into it with his left eye, while the right kept a
direct watch on the rear of his position. Thus was
proved Napoleon's saying, that "for a French soldier,
the word impossible does not exist." He had the right
tree nearly filling the field of his little mirror.
"If he moves from behind it," he reflected with
satisfaction, "I am bound to see his legs. But in any
case he can't come upon me unawares."
And sure enough he saw the boots of General Feraud
flash in and out, eclipsing for an instant everything else
reflected in the little mirror. He shifted its position
accordingly. But having to form his judgment of the
change from that indirect view he did not realize that
now his feet and a portion of his legs were in plain sight
of General Feraud.
General Feraud had been getting gradually impressed
by the amazing cleverness with which his enemy was
keeping cover. He had spotted the right tree with
bloodthirsty precision. He was absolutely certain of it.
And yet he had not been able to glimpse as much as
the tip of an ear. As he had been looking for it at the
height of about five feet ten inches from the ground it
was no great wonder -- but it seemed very wonderful to
General Feraud.
The first view of these feet and legs determined a rush
of blood to his head. He literally staggered behind
his tree, and had to steady himself against it with his
hand. The other was lying on the ground, then! On
the ground! Perfectly still, too! Exposed! What could
it mean? . . . The notion that he had knocked
over his adversary at the first shot entered then
General Feraud's head. Once there it grew with
every second of attentive gazing, overshadowing every
other supposition -- irresistible, triumphant, ferocious.
"What an ass I was to think I could have missed
him," he muttered to himself. "He was exposed en
plein -- the fool! -- for quite a couple of seconds."
General Feraud gazed at the motionless limbs, the
last vestiges of surprise fading before an unbounded
admiration of his own deadly skill with the pistol.
"Turned up his toes! By the god of war, that was
a shot!" he exulted mentally. "Got it through the
head, no doubt, just where I aimed, staggered behind
that tree, rolled over on his back, and died."
And he stared! He stared, forgetting to move,
almost awed, almost sorry. But for nothing in the
world would he have had it undone. Such a shot! --
such a shot! Rolled over on his back and died!
For it was this helpless position, lying on the back,
that shouted its direct evidence at General Feraud!
It never occurred to him that it might have been
deliberately assumed by a living man. It was in-
conceivable. It was beyond the range of sane sup-
position. There was no possibility to guess the reason
for it. And it must be said, too, that General D'Hu-
bert's turned-up feet looked thoroughly dead. General
Feraud expanded his lungs for a stentorian shout to his
seconds, but, from what he felt to be an excessive
scrupulousness, refrained for a while.
"I will just go and see first whether he breathes
yet," he mumbled to himself, leaving carelessly the
shelter of his tree. This move was immediately per-
ceived by the resourceful General D'Hubert. He
concluded it to be another shift, but when he lost the
boots out of the field of the mirror he became uneasy.
General Feraud had only stepped a little out of the line,
but his adversary could not possibly have supposed him
walking up with perfect unconcern. General D'Hubert,
beginning to wonder at what had become of the other,
was taken unawares so completely that the first warning
of danger consisted in the long, early-morning shadow
of his enemy falling aslant on his outstretched legs.
He had not even heard a footfall on the soft ground
between the trees!
It was too much even for his coolness. He jumped
up thoughtlessly, leaving the pistols on the ground. The
irresistible instinct of an average man (unless totally
paralyzed by discomfiture) would have been to stoop
for his weapons, exposing himself to the risk of being
shot down in that position. Instinct, of course, is irre-
flective. It is its very definition. But it may be an
inquiry worth pursuing whether in reflective mankind
the mechanical promptings of instinct are not affected
by the customary mode of thought. In his young days,
Armand D'Hubert, the reflective, promising officer, had
emitted the opinion that in warfare one should "never
cast back on the lines of a mistake." This idea, de-
fended and developed in many discussions, had settled
into one of the stock notions of his brain, had become a
part of his mental individuality. Whether it had gone
so inconceivably deep as to affect the dictates of his
instinct, or simply because, as he himself declared after-
wards, he was "too scared to remember the confounded
pistols," the fact is that General D'Hubert never at-
tempted to stoop for them. Instead of going back on
his mistake, he seized the rough trunk with both hands,
and swung himself behind it with such impetuosity
that, going right round in the very flash and report of
the pistol-shot, he reappeared on the other side of the
tree face to face with General Feraud. This last, com-
pletely unstrung by such a show of agility on the part
of a dead man, was trembling yet. A very faint mist of
smoke hung before his face which had an extraordinary
aspect, as if the lower jaw had come unhinged.
"Not missed!" he croaked, hoarsely, from the depths
of a dry throat.
This sinister sound loosened the spell that had fallen
on General D'Hubert's senses. "Yes, missed -- a bout
portant," he heard himself saying, almost before he had
recovered the full command of his faculties. The re-
vulsion of feeling was accompanied by a gust of homi-
cidal fury, resuming in its violence the accumulated
resentment of a lifetime. For years General D 'Hubert
had been exasperated and humiliated by an atrocious
absurdity imposed upon him by this man's savage
caprice. Besides, General D'Hubert had been in this
last instance too unwilling to confront death for the
reaction of his anguish not to take the shape of a desire
to kill. "And I have my two shots to fire yet," he
added, pitilessly.
General Feraud snapped-to his teeth, and his face
assumed an irate, undaunted expression. "Go on!" he
said, grimly.
These would have been his last words if General
D'Hubert had been holding the pistols in his hands.
But the pistols were lying on the ground at the foot
of a pine. General D'Hubert had the second of
leisure necessary to remember that he had dreaded
death not as a man, but as a lover; not as a danger, but
as a rival; not as a foe to life, but as an obstacle to
marriage. And behold! there was the rival defeated! --
utterly defeated, crushed, done for!
He picked up the weapons mechanically, and, instead
of firing them into General Feraud's breast, he gave
expression to the thoughts uppermost in his mind, "You
will fight no more duels now."
His tone of leisurely, ineffable satisfaction was too
much for General Feraud's stoicism. "Don't dawdle,
then, damn you for a cold-blooded staff-coxcomb!" he
roared out, suddenly, out of an impassive face held erect
on a rigidly still body.
General D'Hubert uncocked the pistols carefully.
This proceeding was observed with mixed feelings by
the other general. "You missed me twice," the victor
said, coolly, shifting both pistols to one hand; "the last
time within a foot or so. By every rule of single com-
bat your life belongs to me. That does not mean that I
want to take it now."
"I have no use for your forbearance," muttered
General Feraud, gloomily.
"Allow me to point out that this is no concern of
mine," said General D'Hubert, whose every word was
dictated by a consummate delicacy of feeling. In anger
he could have killed that man, but in cold blood he
recoiled from humiliating by a show of generosity this
unreasonable being -- a fellow-soldier of the Grande
Armee, a companion in the wonders and terrors of the
great military epic. "You don't set up the pretension of
dictating to me what I am to do with what's my own."
General Feraud looked startled, and the other con-
tinued, "You've forced me on a point of honour to keep
my life at your disposal, as it were, for fifteen years.
Very well. Now that the matter is decided to my ad-
vantage, I am going to do what I like with your life
on the same principle. You shall keep it at my dis-
posal as long as I choose. Neither more nor less. You
are on your honour till I say the word."
"I am! But, sacrebleu! This is an absurd position
for a General of the Empire to be placed in!" cried
General Feraud, in accents of profound and dismayed
conviction. "It amounts to sitting all the rest of my
life with a loaded pistol in a drawer waiting for your
word. It's -- it's idiotic; I shall be an object of -- of --
derision."
"Absurd? -- idiotic? Do you think so?" queried
General D'Hubert with sly gravity. "Perhaps. But I
don't see how that can be helped. However, I am not
likely to talk at large of this adventure. Nobody need
ever know anything about it. Just as no one to this day,
I believe, knows the origin of our quarrel. . . .
Not a word more," he added, hastily. "I can't really
discuss this question with a man who, as far as I am
concerned, does not exist."
When the two duellists came out into the open, Gen-
eral Feraud walking a little behind, and rather with the
air of walking in a trance, the two seconds hurried
towards them, each from his station at the edge of the
wood. General D'Hubert addressed them, speaking
loud and distinctly, "Messieurs, I make it a point of
declaring to you solemnly, in the presence of General
Feraud, that our difference is at last settled for good.
You may inform all the world of that fact."
"A reconciliation, after all!" they exclaimed to-
gether.
"Reconciliation? Not that exactly. It is some-
thing much more binding. Is it not so, General?"
General Feraud only lowered his head in sign of
assent. The two veterans looked at each other. Later
in the day, when they found themselves alone out of
their moody friend's earshot, the cuirassier remarked
suddenly, "Generally speaking, I can see with my one
eye as far as most people; but this beats me. He won't
say anything."
"In this affair of honour I understand there has been
from first to last always something that no one in the
army could quite make out," declared the chasseur with
the imperfect nose. "In mystery it began, in mystery
it went on, in mystery it is to end, apparently."
General D'Hubert walked home with long, hasty
strides, by no means uplifted by a sense of triumph.
He had conquered, yet it did not seem to him that
he had gained very much by his conquest. The
night before he had grudged the risk of his life which
appeared to him magnificent, worthy of preservation as
an opportunity to win a girl's love. He had known
moments when, by a marvellous illusion, this love
seemed to be already his, and his threatened life a still
more magnificent opportunity of devotion. Now that
his life was safe it had suddenly lost its special mag-
nificence. It had acquired instead a specially alarming
aspect as a snare for the exposure of unworthiness. As
to the marvellous illusion of conquered love that had
visited him for a moment in the agitated watches of the
night, which might have been his last on earth, he com-
prehended now its true nature. It had been merely
a paroxysm of delirious conceit. Thus to this man,
sobered by the victorious issue of a duel, life appeared
robbed of its charm, simply because it was no longer
menaced.
Approaching the house from the back, through the
orchard and the kitchen garden, he could not notice the
agitation which reigned in front. He never met a single
soul. Only while walking softly along the corridor, he
became aware that the house was awake and more
noisy than usual. Names of servants were being called
out down below in a confused noise of coming and going.
With some concern he noticed that the door of his own
room stood ajar, though the shutters had not been
opened yet. He had hoped that his early excursion
would have passed unperceived. He expected to find
some servant just gone in; but the sunshine filtering
through the usual cracks enabled him to see lying on
the low divan something bulky, which had the appear-
ance of two women clasped in each other's arms. Tear-
ful and desolate murmurs issued mysteriously from that
appearance. General D'Hubert pulled open the near-
est pair of shutters violently. One of the women then
jumped up. It was his sister. She stood for a moment
with her hair hanging down and her arms raised straight
up above her head, and then flung herself with a stifled
cry into his arms. He returned her embrace, trying at
the same time to disengage himself from it. The other
woman had not risen. She seemed, on the contrary, to
cling closer to the divan, hiding her face in the cushions.
Her hair was also loose; it was admirably fair. Gen-
eral D'Hubert recognized it with staggering emotion.
Mademoiselle de Valmassigue! Adele! In distress!
He became greatly alarmed, and got rid of his sis-
ter's hug definitely. Madame Leonie then extended
her shapely bare arm out of her peignoir, pointing
dramatically at the divan. "This poor, terrified child
has rushed here from home, on foot, two miles -- running
all the way."
"What on earth has happened?" asked General
D'Hubert in a low, agitated voice.
But Madame Leonie was speaking loudly. "She
rang the great bell at the gate and roused all the house-
hold -- we were all asleep yet. You may imagine what
a terrible shock. . . . Adele, my dear child, sit up."
General D'Hubert's expression was not that of a
man who "imagines" with facility. He did, however,
fish out of the chaos of surmises the notion that his
prospective mother-in-law had died suddenly, but only
to dismiss it at once. He could not conceive the nature
of the event or the catastrophe which would induce
Mademoiselle de Valmassigue, living in a house full of
servants, to bring the news over the fields herself, two
miles, running all the way.
"But why are you in this room?" he whispered, full
of awe.
"Of course, I ran up to see, and this child . . . I
did not notice it . . . she followed me. It's that
absurd Chevalier," went on Madame Leonie, looking
towards the divan. . . . "Her hair is all come down.
You may imagine she did not stop to call her maid to
dress it before she started. . . Adele, my dear, sit
up. . . . He blurted it all out to her at half-past five
in the morning. She woke up early and opened her
shutters to breathe the fresh air, and saw him sitting col-
lapsed on a garden bench at the end of the great alley.
At that hour -- you may imagine! And the evening
before he had declared himself indisposed. She hurried
on some clothes and flew down to him. One would be
anxious for less. He loves her, but not very intelli-
gently. He had been up all night, fully dressed, the
poor old man, perfectly exhausted. He wasn't in a
state to invent a plausible story. . . . What a con-
fidant you chose there! My husband was furious. He
said, 'We can't interfere now.' So we sat down to wait.
It was awful. And this poor child running with her
hair loose over here publicly! She has been seen by
some people in the fields. She has roused the whole
household, too. It's awkward for her. Luckily you
are to be married next week. . . . Adele, sit up. He
has come home on his own legs. . . . We expected
to see you coming on a stretcher, perhaps -- what do
I know? Go and see if the carriage is ready. I must
take this child home at once. It isn't proper for her to
stay here a minute longer."
General D'Hubert did not move. It was as though
he had heard nothing. Madame Leonie changed her
mind. "I will go and see myself," she cried. "I want
also my cloak. -- Adele --" she began, but did not add
"sit up." She went out saying, in a very loud and
cheerful tone: "I leave the door open."
General D'Hubert made a movement towards the
divan, but then Adele sat up, and that checked him
dead. He thought, "I haven't washed this morning. I
must look like an old tramp. There's earth on the back
of my coat and pine-needles in my hair." It occurred
to him that the situation required a good deal of circum-
spection on his part.
"I am greatly concerned, mademoiselle," he began,
vaguely, and abandoned that line. She was sitting up
on the divan with her cheeks unusually pink and her
hair, brilliantly fair, falling all over her shoulders --
which was a very novel sight to the general. He walked
away up the room, and looking out of the window for
safety said, "I fear you must think I behaved like a
madman," in accents of sincere despair. Then he spun
round, and noticed that she had followed him with
her eyes. They were not cast down on meeting his
glance. And the expression of her face was novel to
him also. It was, one might have said, reversed.
Those eyes looked at him with grave thoughtful-
ness, while the exquisite lines of her mouth seemed
to suggest a restrained smile. This change made her
transcendental beauty much less mysterious, much more
accessible to a man's comprehension. An amazing ease
of mind came to the general -- and even some ease of
manner. He walked down the room with as much
pleasurable excitement as he would have found in walk-
ing up to a battery vomiting death, fire, and smoke;
then stood looking down with smiling eyes at the girl
whose marriage with him (next week) had been so
carefully arranged by the wise, the good, the admirable
Leonie.
"Ah! mademoiselle," he said, in a tone of courtly
regret, "if only I could be certain that you did not
come here this morning, two miles, running all the way,
merely from affection for your mother!"
He waited for an answer imperturbable but inwardly
elated. It came in a demure murmur, eyelashes low-
ered with fascinating effect. "You must not be me-
chant as well as mad."
And then General D'Hubert made an aggressive
movement towards the divan which nothing could
check. That piece of furniture was not exactly in the
line of the open door. But Madame Leonie, coming
back wrapped up in a light cloak and carrying a lace
shawl on her arm for Adele to hide her incriminating
hair under, had a swift impression of her brother getting
up from his knees.
"Come along, my dear child," she cried from the
doorway.
The general, now himself again in the fullest sense,
showed the readiness of a resourceful cavalry officer and
the peremptoriness of a leader of men. "You don't
expect her to walk to the carriage," he said, indignantly.
"She isn't fit. I shall carry her downstairs."
This he did slowly, followed by his awed and re-
spectful sister; but he rushed back like a whirlwind to
wash off all the signs of the night of anguish and the
morning of war, and to put on the festive garments of
a conqueror before hurrying over to the other house.
Had it not been for that, General D 'Hubert felt capable
of mounting a horse and pursuing his late adversary in
order simply to embrace him from excess of happiness.
"I owe it all to this stupid brute," he thought. "He
has made plain in a morning what might have taken me
years to find out -- for I am a timid fool. No self-confi-
dence whatever. Perfect coward. And the Chevalier!
Delightful old man!" General D'Hubert longed to
embrace him also.
The Chevalier was in bed. For several days he
was very unwell. The men of the Empire and the
post-revolution young ladies were too much for him.
He got up the day before the wedding, and, being curi-
ous by nature, took his niece aside for a quiet talk. He
advised her to find out from her husband the true story
of the affair of honour, whose claim, so imperative and
so persistent, had led her to within an ace of tragedy.
"It is right that his wife should be told. And next
month or so will be your time to learn from him any-
thing you want to know, my dear child."
Later on, when the married couple came on a visit to
the mother of the bride, Madame la Generale D'Hubert
communicated to her beloved old uncle the true story
she had obtained without any difficulty from her hus-
band.
The Chevalier listened with deep attention to the
end, took a pinch of snuff, flicked the grains of tobacco
from the frilled front of his shirt, and asked, calmly, "And
that's all it was?"
"Yes, uncle," replied Madame la Generale, opening
her pretty eyes very wide. "Isn't it funny? C'est
insense -- to think what men are capable of!"
"H'm!" commented the old emigre. "It depends
what sort of men. That Bonaparte's soldiers were
savages. It is insense. As a wife, my dear, you must
believe implicitly what your husband says."
But to Leonie's husband the Chevalier confided his
true opinion. "If that's the tale the fellow made up
for his wife, and during the honeymoon, too, you may
depend on it that no one will ever know now the secret
of this affair."
Considerably later still, General D'Hubert judged
the time come, and the opportunity propitious to write
a letter to General Feraud. This letter began by dis-
claiming all animosity. "I've never," wrote the
General Baron D'Hubert, "wished for your death dur-
ing all the time of our deplorable quarrel. Allow me,"
he continued, "to give you back in all form your for-
feited life. It is proper that we two, who have been
partners in so much military glory, should be friendly to
each other publicly."
The same letter contained also an item of domestic
information. It was in reference to this last that
General Feraud answered from a little village on the
banks of the Garonne, in the following words:
"If one of your boy's names had been Napoleon -- or
Joseph -- or even Joachim, I could congratulate you on
the event with a better heart. As you have thought
proper to give him the names of Charles Henri Armand,
I am confirmed in my conviction that you never
loved the Emperor. The thought of that sublime hero
chained to a rock in the middle of a savage ocean makes
life of so little value that I would receive with positive
joy your instructions to blow my brains out. From
suicide I consider myself in honour debarred. But I
keep a loaded pistol in my drawer."
Madame la Generale D'Hubert lifted up her hands
in despair after perusing that answer.
"You see? He won't be reconciled," said her hus-
band. "He must never, by any chance, be allowed to
guess where the money comes from. It wouldn't do.
He couldn't bear it."
"You are a brave homme, Armand,"said Madame la
Generale, appreciatively.
"My dear, I had the right to blow his brains out;
but as I didn't, we can't let him starve. He has lost
his pension and he is utterly incapable of doing any-
thing in the world for himself. We must take care of
him, secretly, to the end of his days. Don't I owe him
the most ecstatic moment of my life? . . . Ha! ha!
ha! Over the fields, two miles, running all the way!
I couldn't believe my ears! . . . But for his stupid
ferocity, it would have taken me years to find you out.
It's extraordinary how in one way or another this man
has managed to fasten himself on my deeper feelings."
A PATHETIC TALE
IL CONDE
"Vedi Napoli e poi mori."
THE first time we got into conversation was in the
National Museum in Naples, in the rooms on the
ground floor containing the famous collection of bronzes
from Herculaneum and Pompeii: that marvellous legacy
of antique art whose delicate perfection has been pre-
served for us by the catastrophic fury of a volcano.
He addressed me first, over the celebrated Resting
Hermes which we had been looking at side by side. He
said the right things about that wholly admirable piece.
Nothing profound. His taste was natural rather than
cultivated. He had obviously seen many fine things in
his life and appreciated them: but he had no jargon of a
dilettante or the connoisseur. A hateful tribe. He
spoke like a fairly intelligent man of the world, a per-
fectly unaffected gentleman.
We had known each other by sight for some few
days past. Staying in the same hotel -- good, but not
extravagantly up to date -- I had noticed him in the
vestibule going in and out. I judged he was an old
and valued client. The bow of the hotel-keeper was
cordial in its deference, and he acknowledged it with
familiar courtesy. For the servants he was Il Conde.
There was some squabble over a man's parasol -- yellow
silk with white lining sort of thing -- the waiters had dis-
covered abandoned outside the dining-room door. Our
gold-laced door-keeper recognized it and I heard him
directing one of the lift boys to run after Il Conde with
it. Perhaps he was the only Count staying in the hotel,
or perhaps he had the distinction of being the Count par
excellence, conferred upon him because of his tried
fidelity to the house.
Having conversed at the Museo -- (and by the by he
had expressed his dislike of the busts and statues of
Roman emperors in the gallery of marbles: their faces
were too vigorous, too pronounced for him) -- having
conversed already in the morning I did not think I was
intruding when in the evening, finding the dining-room
very full, I proposed to share his little table. Judging
by the quiet urbanity of his consent he did not think so
either. His smile was very attractive.
He dined in an evening waistcoat and a "smoking"
(he called it so) with a black tie. All this of very good
cut, not new -- just as these things should be. He was,
morning or evening, very correct in his dress. I have
no doubt that his whole existence had been correct,
well ordered and conventional, undisturbed by startling
events. His white hair brushed upwards off a lofty
forehead gave him the air of an idealist, of an
imaginative man. His white moustache, heavy but
carefully trimmed and arranged, was not unpleasantly
tinted a golden yellow in the middle. The faint scent
of some very good perfume, and of good cigars (that
last an odour quite remarkable to come upon in Italy)
reached me across the table. It was in his eyes that
his age showed most. They were a little weary with
creased eyelids. He must have been sixty or a couple
of years more. And he was communicative. I would
not go so far as to call it garrulous -- but distinctly
communicative.
He had tried various climates, of Abbazia, of the
Riviera, of other places, too, he told me, but the only
one which suited him was the climate of the Gulf of
Naples. The ancient Romans, who, he pointed out to
me, were men expert in the art of living, knew very well
what they were doing when they built their villas on
these shores, in Baiae, in Vico, in Capri. They came
down to this seaside in search of health, bringing with
them their trains of mimes and flute-players to amuse
their leisure. He thought it extremely probable that the
Romans of the higher classes were specially predisposed
to painful rheumatic affections.
This was the only personal opinion I heard him
express. It was based on no special erudition. He
knew no more of the Romans than an average informed
man of the world is expected to know. He argued from
personal experience. He had suffered himself from a
painful and dangerous rheumatic affection till he found
relief in this particular spot of Southern Europe.
This was three years ago, and ever since he had
taken up his quarters on the shores of the gulf, either in
one of the hotels in Sorrento or hiring a small villa in
Capri. He had a piano, a few books: picked up transient
acquaintances of a day, week, or month in the stream of
travellers from all Europe. One can imagine him going
out for his walks in the streets and lanes, becoming
known to beggars, shopkeepers, children, country
people; talking amiably over the walls to the contadini
-- and coming back to his rooms or his villa to sit before
the piano, with his white hair brushed up and his thick
orderly moustache, "to make a little music for myself."
And, of course, for a change there was Naples near by
-- life, movement, animation, opera. A little amuse-
ment, as he said, is necessary for health. Mimes and
flute-players, in fact. Only unlike the magnates of an-
cient Rome, he had no affairs of the city to call him
away from these moderate delights. He had no affairs
at all. Probably he had never had any grave affairs to
attend to in his life. It was a kindly existence, with its
joys and sorrows regulated by the course of Nature --
marriages, births, deaths -- ruled by the prescribed
usages of good society and protected by the State.
He was a widower; but in the months of July and
August he ventured to cross the Alps for six weeks on a
visit to his married daughter. He told me her name.
It was that of a very aristocratic family. She had a
castle -- in Bohemia, I think. This is as near as I ever
came to ascertaining his nationality. His own name,
strangely enough, he never mentioned. Perhaps he
thought I had seen it on the published list. Truth to
say, I never looked. At any rate, he was a good Eu-
ropean -- he spoke four languages to my certain knowl-
edge -- and a man of fortune. Not of great fortune
evidently and appropriately. I imagine that to be ex-
tremely rich would have appeared to him improper,
outre -- too blatant altogether. And obviously, too, the
fortune was not of his making. The making of a for-
tune cannot be achieved without some roughness.
It is a matter of temperament. His nature was too
kindly for strife. In the course of conversation he
mentioned his estate quite by the way, in reference to
that painful and alarming rheumatic affection. One
year, staying incautiously beyond the Alps as late as the
middle of September, he had been laid up for three
months in that lonely country house with no one but his
valet and the caretaking couple to attend to him.
Because, as he expressed it, he "kept no establishment
there." He had only gone for a couple of days to con-
fer with his land agent. He promised himself never to be
so imprudent in the future. The first weeks of Sep-
tember would find him on the shores of his beloved
gulf.
Sometimes in travelling one comes upon such lonely
men, whose only business is to wait for the unavoidable.
Deaths and marriages have made a solitude round them,
and one really cannot blame their endeavours to make
the waiting as easy as possible. As he remarked to me,
"At my time of life freedom from physical pain is a
very important matter."
It must not be imagined that he was a wearisome
hypochondriac. He was really much too well-bred to
be a nuisance. He had an eye for the small weaknesses
of humanity. But it was a good-natured eye. He
made a restful, easy, pleasant companion for the hours
between dinner and bedtime. We spent three evenings
together, and then I had to leave Naples in a hurry to
look after a friend who had fallen seriously ill in Taor-
mina. Having nothing to do, Il Conde came to see me
off at the station. I was somewhat upset, and his idle-
ness was always ready to take a kindly form. He was
by no means an indolent man.
He went along the train peering into the carriages
for a good seat for me, and then remained talking
cheerily from below. He declared he would miss me
that evening very much and announced his intention of
going after dinner to listen to the band in the public
garden, the Villa Nazionale. He would amuse himself
by hearing excellent music and looking at the best
society. There would be a lot of people, as usual.
I seem to see him yet -- his raised face with a friendly
smile under the thick moustaches, and his kind, fatigued
eyes. As the train began to move, he addressed me in
two languages: first in French, saying, "Bon voyage";
then, in his very good, somewhat emphatic English,
encouragingly, because he could see my concern: "All
will -- be -- well -- yet!"
My friend's illness having taken a decidedly favour-
able turn, I returned to Naples on the tenth day. I
cannot say I had given much thought to Il Conde during
my absence, but entering the dining-room I looked for
him in his habitual place. I had an idea he might have
gone back to Sorrento to his piano and his books and
his fishing. He was great friends with all the boatmen,
and fished a good deal with lines from a boat. But I
made out his white head in the crowd of heads, and even
from a distance noticed something unusual in his atti-
tude. Instead of sitting erect, gazing all round with
alert urbanity, he drooped over his plate. I stood
opposite him for some time before he looked up, a little
wildly, if such a strong word can be used in connection
with his correct appearance.
"Ah, my dear sir! Is it you?" he greeted me. "I
hope all is well."
He was very nice about my friend. Indeed, he was
always nice, with the niceness of people whose hearts are
genuinely humane. But this time it cost him an effort.
His attempts at general conversation broke down into
dullness. It occurred to me he might have been indis-
posed. But before I could frame the inquiry he
muttered:
"You find me here very sad."
"I am sorry for that," I said. "You haven't had bad
news, I hope?"
It was very kind of me to take an interest. No. It
was not that. No bad news, thank God. And he
became very still as if holding his breath. Then, lean-
ing forward a little, and in an odd tone of awed embar-
rassment, he took me into his confidence.
"The truth is that I have had a very -- a very -- how
shall I say? -- abominable adventure happen to me."
The energy of the epithet was sufficiently startling in
that man of moderate feelings and toned-down vocabu-
lary. The word unpleasant I should have thought
would have fitted amply the worst experience likely to
befall a man of his stamp. And an adventure, too. In-
credible! But it is in human nature to believe the worst;
and I confess I eyed him stealthily, wondering what he
had been up to. In a moment, however, my unworthy
suspicions vanished. There was a fundamental refine-
ment of nature about the man which made me dismiss
all idea of some more or less disreputable scrape.
"It is very serious. Very serious." He went on,
nervously. "I will tell you after dinner, if you will
allow me."
I expressed my perfect acquiescence by a little bow,
nothing more. I wished him to understand that I was
not likely to hold him to that offer, if he thought better
of it later on. We talked of indifferent things, but with
a sense of difficulty quite unlike our former easy, gos-
sipy intercourse. The hand raising a piece of bread to
his lips, I noticed, trembled slightly. This symptom,
in regard to my reading of the man, was no less than
startling.
In the smoking-room he did not hang back at all.
Directly we had taken our usual seats he leaned side-
ways over the arm of his chair and looked straight into
my eyes earnestly.
"You remember," he began, "that day you went
away? I told you then I would go to the Villa Nazion-
ale to hear some music in the evening."
I remembered. His handsome old face, so fresh for
his age, unmarked by any trying experience, appeared
haggard for an instant. It was like the passing of a
shadow. Returning his steadfast gaze, I took a sip of
my black coffee. He was systematically minute in his
narrative, simply in order, I think, not to let his ex-
citement get the better of him.
After leaving the railway station, he had an ice, and
read the paper in a cafe. Then he went back to the
hotel, dressed for dinner, and dined with a good appetite.
After dinner he lingered in the hall (there were chairs
and tables there) smoking his cigar; talked to the
little girl of the Primo Tenore of the San Carlo the-
atre, and exchanged a few words with that "ami-
able lady," the wife of the Primo Tenore. There was
no performance that evening, and these people were
going to the Villa also. They went out of the hotel.
Very well.
At the moment of following their example -- it was
half-past nine already -- he remembered he had a rather
large sum of money in his pocket-book. He entered,
therefore, the office and deposited the greater part of it
with the book-keeper of the hotel. This done, he took
a carozella and drove to the seashore. He got out of the
cab and entered the Villa on foot from the Largo di
Vittoria end.
He stared at me very hard. And I understood then
how really impressionable he was. Every small fact and
event of that evening stood out in his memory as if
endowed with mystic significance. If he did not mention
to me the colour of the pony which drew the carozella,
and the aspect of the man who drove, it was a mere
oversight arising from his agitation, which he repressed
manfully.
He had then entered the Villa Nazionale from the
Largo di Vittoria end. The Villa Nazionale is a public
pleasure-ground laid out in grass plots, bushes, and
flower-beds between the houses of the Riviera di Chiaja
and the waters of the bay. Alleys of trees, more or less
parallel, stretch its whole length -- which is considerable.
On the Riviera di Chiaja side the electric tramcars run
close to the railings. Between the garden and the sea is
the fashionable drive, a broad road bordered by a low
wall, beyond which the Mediterranean splashes with
gentle murmurs when the weather is fine.
As life goes on late at night in Naples, the broad
drive was all astir with a brilliant swarm of carriage
lamps moving in pairs, some creeping slowly, others
running rapidly under the thin, motionless line of electric
lamps defining the shore. And a brilliant swarm
of stars hung above the land humming with voices,
piled up with houses, glittering with lights -- and over
the silent flat shadows of the sea.
The gardens themselves are not very well lit. Our
friend went forward in the warm gloom, his eyes
fixed upon a distant luminous region extending nearly
across the whole width of the Villa, as if the air had
glowed there with its own cold, bluish, and dazzling
light. This magic spot, behind the black trunks of trees
and masses of inky foliage, breathed out sweet sounds
mingled with bursts of brassy roar, sudden clashes of
metal, and grave, vibrating thuds.
As he walked on, all these noises combined together
into a piece of elaborate music whose harmonious phrases
came persuasively through a great disorderly murmur of
voices and shuffling of feet on the gravel of that open
space. An enormous crowd immersed in the electric
light, as if in a bath of some radiant and tenuous fluid
shed upon their heads by luminous globes, drifted in its
hundreds round the band. Hundreds more sat on chairs
in more or less concentric circles, receiving unflinchingly
the great waves of sonority that ebbed out into the dark-
ness. The Count penetrated the throng, drifted with it
in tranquil enjoyment, listening and looking at the
faces. All people of good society: mothers with their
daughters, parents and children, young men and young
women all talking, smiling, nodding to each other. Very
many pretty faces, and very many pretty toilettes.
There was, of course, a quantity of diverse types: showy
old fellows with white moustaches, fat men, thin
men, officers in uniform; but what predominated, he
told me, was the South Italian type of young man,
with a colourless, clear complexion, red lips, jet-black
little moustache and liquid black eyes so wonderfully
effective in leering or scowling.
Withdrawing from the throng, the Count shared a
little table in front of the caf‚ with a young man of just
such a type. Our friend had some lemonade. The
young man was sitting moodily before an empty glass.
He looked up once, and then looked down again. He
also tilted his hat forward. Like this --
The Count made the gesture of a man pulling his
hat down over his brow, and went on:
"I think to myself: he is sad; something is wrong
with him; young men have their troubles. I take no
notice of him, of course. I pay for my lemonade, and
go away."
Strolling about in the neighbourhood of the band,
the Count thinks he saw twice that young man wander-
ing alone in the crowd. Once their eyes met. It must
have been the same young man, but there were so many
there of that type that he could not be certain. More-
over, he was not very much concerned except in so far
that he had been struck by the marked, peevish discon-
tent of that face.
Presently, tired of the feeling of confinement one ex-
periences in a crowd, the Count edged away from the
band. An alley, very sombre by contrast, presented
itself invitingly with its promise of solitude and coolness.
He entered it, walking slowly on till the sound of the
orchestra became distinctly deadened. Then he walked
back and turned about once more. He did this several
times before he noticed that there was somebody oc-
cupying one of the benches.
The spot being midway between two lamp-posts the
light was faint.
The man lolled back in the corner of the seat, his
legs stretched out, his arms folded and his head drooping
on his breast. He never stirred, as though he had fallen
asleep there, but when the Count passed by next time he
had changed his attitude. He sat leaning forward. His
elbows were propped on his knees, and his hands were
rolling a cigarette. He never looked up from that
occupation.
The Count continued his stroll away from the band.
He returned slowly, he said. I can imagine him
enjoying to the full, but with his usual tranquillity, the
balminess of this southern night and the sounds of music
softened delightfully by the distance.
Presently, he approached for the third time the man
on the garden seat, still leaning forward with his elbows
on his knees. It was a dejected pose. In the semi-
obscurity of the alley his high shirt collar and his cuffs
made small patches of vivid whiteness. The Count
said that he had noticed him getting up brusquely as
if to walk away, but almost before he was aware of
it the man stood before him asking in a low, gentle tone
whether the signore would have the kindness to oblige
him with a light.
The Count answered this request by a polite "Cer-
tainly," and dropped his hands with the intention of
exploring both pockets of his trousers for the matches.
"I dropped my hands," he said, "but I never put
them in my pockets. I felt a pressure there --"
He put the tip of his finger on a spot close under his
breastbone, the very spot of the human body where a
Japanese gentleman begins the operations of the Hara-
kiri, which is a form of suicide following upon dishonour,
upon an intolerable outrage to the delicacy of one's
feelings.
"I glance down," the Count continued in an awe-
struck voice, "and what do I see? A knife! A long
knife --"
"You don't mean to say," I exclaimed, amazed,
"that you have been held up like this in the Villa at
half-past ten o'clock, within a stone's throw of a thou-
sand people!"
He nodded several times, staring at me with all his
might.
"The clarionet," he declared, solemnly, "was finishing
his solo, and I assure you I could hear every note. Then
the band crashed fortissimo, and that creature rolled
its eyes and gnashed its teeth hissing at me with the
greatest ferocity, 'Be silent! No noise or --'"
I could not get over my astonishment.
"What sort of knife was it?" I asked, stupidly.
"A long blade. A stiletto -- perhaps a kitchen knife.
A long narrow blade. It gleamed. And his eyes
gleamed. His white teeth, too. I could see them.
He was very ferocious. I thought to myself: 'If I hit
him he will kill me.' How could I fight with him?
He had the knife and I had nothing. I am nearly
seventy, you know, and that was a young man. I
seemed even to recognize him. The moody young man
of the cafe. The young man I met in the crowd. But
I could not tell. There are so many like him in this
country."
The distress of that moment was reflected in his face.
I should think that physically he must have been
paralyzed by surprise. His thoughts, however, re-
mained extremely active. They ranged over every alarm-
ing possibility. The idea of setting up a vigorous shout-
ing for help occurred to him, too. But he did nothing of
the kind, and the reason why he refrained gave me a
good opinion of his mental self-possession. He saw in a
flash that nothing prevented the other from shouting,
too.
"That young man might in an instant have thrown
away his knife and pretended I was the aggressor. Why
not? He might have said I attacked him. Why not?
It was one incredible story against another! He might
have said anything -- bring some dishonouring charge
against me -- what do I know? By his dress he was no
common robber. He seemed to belong to the better
classes. What could I say? He was an Italian -- I am
a foreigner. Of course, I have my passport, and there
is our consul -- but to be arrested, dragged at night to
the police office like a criminal!"
He shuddered. It was in his character to shrink
from scandal, much more than from mere death. And
certainly for many people this would have always re-
mained -- considering certain peculiarities of Neapolitan
manners -- a deucedly queer story. The Count was no
fool. His belief in the respectable placidity of life
having received this rude shock, he thought that now
anything might happen. But also a notion came into
his head that this young man was perhaps merely an
infuriated lunatic.
This was for me the first hint of his attitude towards
this adventure. In his exaggerated delicacy of senti-
ment he felt that nobody's self-esteem need be affected
by what a madman may choose to do to one. It be-
came apparent, however, that the Count was to be
denied that consolation. He enlarged upon the abom-
inably savage way in which that young man rolled his
glistening eyes and gnashed his white teeth. The band
was going now through a slow movement of solemn
braying by all the trombones, with deliberately re-
peated bangs of the big drum.
"But what did you do?" I asked, greatly excited.
"Nothing," answered the Count. "I let my hands
hang down very still. I told him quietly I did not
intend making a noise. He snarled like a dog, then said
in an ordinary voice:
"'Vostro portofolio.'"
"So I naturally," continued the Count -- and from
this point acted the whole thing in pantomime. Hold-
ing me with his eyes, he went through all the motions
of reaching into his inside breast pocket, taking out a
pocket-book, and handing it over. But that young man,
still bearing steadily on the knife, refused to touch it.
He directed the Count to take the money out him-
self, received it into his left hand, motioned the pocket-
book to be returned to the pocket, all this being done to
the sweet thrilling of flutes and clarionets sustained by
the emotional drone of the hautboys. And the "young
man," as the Count called him, said: "This seems very
little."
"It was, indeed, only 340 or 360 lire," the Count
pursued. "I had left my money in the hotel, as you
know. I told him this was all I had on me. He shook
his head impatiently and said:
"'Vostro orologio.'"
The Count gave me the dumb show of pulling out
his watch, detaching it. But, as it happened, the valu-
able gold half-chronometer he possessed had been left
at a watch-maker's for cleaning. He wore that evening
(on a leather guard) the Waterbury fifty-franc thing he
used to take with him on his fishing expeditions. Per-
ceiving the nature of this booty, the well-dressed robber
made a contemptuous clicking sound with his tongue
like this, "Tse-Ah!" and waved it away hastily. Then,
as the Count was returning the disdained object to his
pocket, he demanded with a threateningly increased
pressure of the knife on the epigastrium, by way of re-
minder:
"'Vostri anelli.'"
"One of the rings," went on the Count, "was given
me many years ago by my wife; the other is the signet
ring of my father. I said, 'No. That you shall not
have!'"
Here the Count reproduced the gesture corresponding
to that declaration by clapping one hand upon the
other, and pressing both thus against his chest. It
was touching in its resignation. "That you shall not
have," he repeated, firmly, and closed his eyes, fully
expecting -- I don't know whether I am right in record-
ing that such an unpleasant word had passed his lips --
fully expecting to feel himself being -- I really hesitate
to say -- being disembowelled by the push of the long,
sharp blade resting murderously against the pit of
his stomach -- the very seat, in all human beings, of
anguishing sensations.
Great waves of harmony went on flowing from the
band.
Suddenly the Count felt the nightmarish pressure
removed from the sensitive spot. He opened his eyes.
He was alone. He had heard nothing. It is probable
that "the young man" had departed, with light steps,
some time before, but the sense of the horrid pressure
had lingered even after the knife had gone. A feeling
of weakness came over him. He had just time to
stagger to the garden seat. He felt as though he had
held his breath for a long time. He sat all in a heap,
panting with the shock of the reaction.
The band was executing, with immense bravura, the
complicated finale. It ended with a tremendous crash.
He heard it unreal and remote, as if his ears had been
stopped, and then the hard clapping of a thousand,
more or less, pairs of hands, like a sudden hail-shower
passing away. The profound silence which succeeded
recalled him to himself.
A tramcar resembling a long glass box wherein people
sat with their heads strongly lighted, ran along swiftly
within sixty yards of the spot where he had been robbed.
Then another rustled by, and yet another going the
other way. The audience about the band had broken
up, and were entering the alley in small conversing
groups. The Count sat up straight and tried to think
calmly of what had happened to him. The vileness of
it took his breath away again. As far as I can make
it out he was disgusted with himself. I do not mean
to say with his behaviour. Indeed, if his pantomimic
rendering of it for my information was to be trusted, it
was simply perfect. No, it was not that. He was not
ashamed. He was shocked at being the selected victim,
not of robbery so much as of contempt. His tranquillity
had been wantonly desecrated. His lifelong, kindly
nicety of outlook had been defaced.
Nevertheless, at that stage, before the iron had time
to sink deep, he was able to argue himself into com-
parative equanimity. As his agitation calmed down
somewhat, he became aware that he was frightfully
hungry. Yes, hungry. The sheer emotion had made
him simply ravenous. He left the seat and, after walk-
ing for some time, found himself outside the gardens
and before an arrested tramcar, without knowing very
well how he came there. He got in as if in a dream, by
a sort of instinct. Fortunately he found in his trouser
pocket a copper to satisfy the conductor. Then the car
stopped, and as everybody was getting out he got out,
too. He recognized the Piazza San Ferdinando, but
apparently it did not occur to him to take a cab and
drive to the hotel. He remained in distress on the
Piazza like a lost dog, thinking vaguely of the best way
of getting something to eat at once.
Suddenly he remembered his twenty-franc piece.
He explained to me that he had that piece of French
gold for something like three years. He used to carry
it about with him as a sort of reserve in case of ac-
cident. Anybody is liable to have his pocket picked
-- a quite different thing from a brazen and insulting
robbery.
The monumental arch of the Galleria Umberto faced
him at the top of a noble flight of stairs. He climbed
these without loss of time, and directed his steps towards
the Cafe Umberto. All the tables outside were occupied
by a lot of people who were drinking. But as he wanted
something to eat, he went inside into the cafe, which is
divided into aisles by square pillars set all round with
long looking-glasses. The Count sat down on a red
plush bench against one of these pillars, waiting for
his risotto. And his mind reverted to his abominable
adventure.
He thought of the moody, well-dressed young man,
with whom he had exchanged glances in the crowd
around the bandstand, and who, he felt confident, was
the robber. Would he recognize him again? Doubt-
less. But he did not want ever to see him again. The
best thing was to forget this humiliating episode.
The Count looked round anxiously for the coming of
his risotto, and, behold! to the left against the wall --
there sat the young man. He was alone at a table, with
a bottle of some sort of wine or syrup and a carafe of
iced water before him. The smooth olive cheeks, the
red lips, the little jet-black moustache turned up gal-
lantly, the fine black eyes a little heavy and shaded
by long eyelashes, that peculiar expression of cruel dis-
content to be seen only in the busts of some Roman
emperors -- it was he, no doubt at all. But that was a
type. The Count looked away hastily. The young
officer over there reading a paper was like that, too.
Same type. Two young men farther away playing
draughts also resembled --
The Count lowered his head with the fear in his heart
of being everlastingly haunted by the vision of that
young man. He began to eat his risotto. Presently
he heard the young man on his left call the waiter in a
bad-tempered tone.
At the call, not only his own waiter, but two other
idle waiters belonging to a quite different row of tables,
rushed towards him with obsequious alacrity, which is
not the general characteristic of the waiters in the Cafe
Umberto. The young man muttered something and
one of the waiters walking rapidly to the nearest door
called out into the Galleria: "Pasquale! O! Pas-
quale!"
Everybody knows Pasquale, the shabby old fellow
who, shuffling between the tables, offers for sale cigars,
cigarettes, picture postcards, and matches to the clients
of the cafe;. He is in many respects an engaging
scoundrel. The Count saw the grey-haired, unshaven
ruffian enter the cafe, the glass case hanging from his
neck by a leather strap, and, at a word from the waiter,
make his shuffling way with a sudden spurt to the young
man's table. The young man was in need of a cigar
with which Pasquale served him fawningly. The old
pedlar was going out, when the Count, on a sudden
impulse, beckoned to him.
Pasquale approached, the smile of deferential recog-
nition combining oddly with the cynical searching ex-
pression of his eyes. Leaning his case on the table, he
lifted the glass lid without a word. The Count took a
box of cigarettes and urged by a fearful curiosity, asked
as casually as he could --
"Tell me, Pasquale, who is that young signore sitting
over there?"
The other bent over his box confidentially.
"That, Signor Conde,"he said, beginning to rearrange
his wares busily and without looking up, "that is a
young Cavaliere of a very good family from Bari. He
studies in the University here, and is the chief, capo, of
an association of young men -- of very nice young men."
He paused, and then, with mingled discretion and
pride of knowledge, murmured the explanatory word
"Camorra" and shut down the lid. "A very powerful
Camorra," he breathed out. "The professors them-
selves respect it greatly . . . una lira e cinquanti
centesimi, Signor Conde."
Our friend paid with the gold piece. While Pasquale
was making up the change, he observed that the young
man, of whom he had heard so much in a few words,
was watching the transaction covertly. After the
old vagabond had withdrawn with a bow, the Count
settled with the waiter and sat still. A numbness, he
told me, had come over him.
The young man paid, too, got up, and crossed over,
apparently for the purpose of looking at himself in the
mirror set in the pillar nearest to the Count's seat. He
was dressed all in black with a dark green bow tie.
The Count looked round, and was startled by meeting
a vicious glance out of the corners of the other's eyes.
The young Cavaliere from Bari (according to Pasquale;
but Pasquale is, of course, an accomplished liar) went
on arranging his tie, settling his hat before the glass,
and meantime he spoke just loud enough to be heard
by the Count. He spoke through his teeth with the
most insulting venom of contempt and gazing straight
into the mirror.
"Ah! So you had some gold on you -- you old liar --
you old birba -- you furfante! But you are not done
with me yet."
The fiendishness of his expression vanished like light-
ning, and he lounged out of the cafe with a moody,
impassive face.
The poor Count, after telling me this last episode,
fell back trembling in his chair. His forehead broke
into perspiration. There was a wanton insolence in
the spirit of this outrage which appalled even me.
What it was to the Count's delicacy I won't attempt to
guess. I am sure that if he had been not too refined
to do such a blatantly vulgar thing as dying from
apoplexy in a cafe;, he would have had a fatal stroke
there and then. All irony apart, my difficulty was to
keep him from seeing the full extent of my commisera-
tion. He shrank from every excessive sentiment, and
my commiseration was practically unbounded. It did
not surprise me to hear that he had been in bed a week.
He had got up to make his arrangements for leaving
Southern Italy for good and all.
And the man was convinced that he could not live
through a whole year in any other climate!
No argument of mine had any effect. It was not
timidity, though he did say to me once: "You do not
know what a Camorra is, my dear sir. I am a marked
man." He was not afraid of what could be done to
him. His delicate conception of his dignity was defiled
by a degrading experience. He couldn't stand that.
No Japanese gentleman, outraged in his exaggerated
sense of honour, could have gone about his preparations
for Hara-kiri with greater resolution. To go home
really amounted to suicide for the poor Count.
There is a saying of Neapolitan patriotism, intended
for the information of foreigners, I presume: "See
Naples and then die." Vedi Napoli e poi mori. It is a
saying of excessive vanity, and everything excessive
was abhorrent to the nice moderation of the poor Count.
Yet, as I was seeing him off at the railway station, I
thought he was behaving with singular fidelity to its
conceited spirit. Vedi Napoli! . . . He had seen
it! He had seen it with startling thoroughness -- and
now he was going to his grave. He was going to it by
the train de luxe of the International Sleeping Car Com-
pany, via Trieste and Vienna. As the four long, sombre
coaches pulled out of the station I raised my hat with
the solemn feeling of paying the last tribute of respect
to a funeral cortege. Il Conde's profile, much aged al-
ready, glided away from me in stony immobility, behind
the lighted pane of glass -- Vedi Napoli e poi mori!
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of A Set of Six, by Joseph Conrad