by Eugène Sue
“‘ Ah, you only pay twenty-five sous! And you call me your bon ami! Aha! So it hurts you to go too fast, does it? Wait a bit! Wait a bit, old miser!’ said I, as I jumped a-straddle Devastator’s back. ‘I’ll give you your gentle trot, yes, a nice gentle little trot!’ And crack! off I go full blast, and I joggle the old gig as though I meant to shake it to pieces, but fast, ah, but so fast, that if the old fox had been paying a thousand francs to the guide (as they say the great Napoleon used to do), he could not have gone any faster. And let me tell you that I took in all the ruts and gullies on the way.
“Pretty soon I got the horse into a real gallop, — oh, something like a gallop! V’lan! You should have seen the jumps that the old berlingot took in flying over the ground; but to do justice to every one, I will say that the old berlingot must have been solidly built not to have gone all to pieces a thousand times.”
“Unhappy man,” said I to my guide, “you might have killed that poor sick man!”
“Kill him! Ah, well, yes! Kill him indeed, the old brigand! I had no such good luck as that; but we went at such a pace, monsieur, that in spite of these sandy roads, and with only one extra horse, I got him to — (and that is two posts and three-quarters) in an hour and a half.”
“The devil you did!” said I. “Well, that was a ride!”
“But hold on, monsieur. Wait till you hear the end. The voice in the berlingot told me not to go into the village; so when we got to a hill about two hundred yards from — we came to a halt, and I unhitched poor Devastator for the last time, for he was foundered and died afterwards, died from that race; so dead that my master put me on the retired list for fifteen days, and that same scamper cost me more than a hundred crowns; yes, me, poor devil as I am!
“But you must admit, monsieur, that it is hard lines to be made to take twenty-five cents, and then to be called ‘mon bon ami’ by such a scoundrel as that. One is apt to forget himself.”
“Continue,” said I.
“Well, monsieur, I unfasten my horse and open the door, expecting to see my old invalid lying fainting in the bottom of the old wagon, for I hadn’t heard a sound for the last hour. Thousand thunders! what do I see? A great strong fellow who was clacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and corking up a bottle of rum; and who says to me, in a great deep voice fit for a cathedral singer:
“‘Hey, stupid, now you have learned how one can travel like a prince at the lowest figure. Ever since leaving Paris I have made three leagues and a half every hour, without a courier, and never have paid more than twenty-five sous.’ And so saying, he jumps out of the carriage as lightly as a stag, the monster!”
I could not prevent myself from laughing at this strange way of getting over the ground swiftly and cheaply, and my guide continued:
“You understand, monsieur, how furious one was only to be paid twenty-five sous, and to be called mon bon ami? The more the sly old fox begged to be taken gently, the more one wished to get even with him by jolting him over the road at the devil’s own gait; while all the time the faster one went the better he was pleased, old miserable! Hey, monsieur, did you ever hear of such an old bandit? One must be without a heart to pretend to be ill when one is vigorous and solid as an old post-horse! But that is not all yet; I asked him where he was going. He replied:
“‘Wait for me here, and if I am not back in an hour you can go about your business.’
“‘And how about the carriage?’ said I.
“‘If I don’t return, you can take it back to the posthouse, and some one will come to get it.’
“‘And your baggage?’
“‘I take it with me.’
“And he showed me a long box, flat, square, and quite heavy, which he carried under his arm, and then he disappeared in the undergrowth, which is very thick in that place.
“In this cursed village there is no inn, so I fed my horses and waited; but poor Devastator was so blown that he couldn’t eat. I was hungry enough, however, and so I took a bite, and at the end of an hour my old deceiver had not got back. Well, I wait two hours and no one comes yet, so I start for the village which is in the distance, for say I to myself, he must be in the country house of the folks of the six horses and the courier. So I ring at the little door, and then at the big door, — nobody. I knock and pound as though I meant to break the door down, — nobody.
“Finally I got tired, and came back and waited another half hour; still nobody came. My faith! So then I went back to the post-house. We put the old berlingot under a shed, and from that time until now no one has been to claim it. So probably the old brigand finds himself well off where he is, and where you are going, monsieur; but all the same it is a curious kind of a town, — folks go there, but nobody ever comes back.”
Like my guide, I was much struck by this strange story, and became more and more curious.
“But that man,” said I, “the last one that you took to — , was he very old?”
“Pretty well on, about fifty years I should say, dry as a chip, hair perfectly white, but eyes and eyebrows black as charcoal. And now I think of it, when I asked him about his baggage, and he showed me the big box, he laughed, — ah, but such a laugh, he almost foamed at the mouth; and I noticed that his teeth were very pointed and wide apart, which they do say is a sign of wickedness; but that doesn’t surprise me when a man is infamous enough to offer the guide twenty-five sous, and then to call him his bon ami!”
“And what did he wear?” I asked, in spite of myself, more and more interested in the recital.
“Oh, he was well clothed: a great dark-coloured redingote, a black cravat, and the cross of honour. With all this a face the colour of copper and a large bony frame, quite in the style of my old commandant Calebasse, chief of squadron in the Ninth Hussars, — a great old tough, all muscles and bones.”
“And have you never heard him spoken of since?”
“Non, monsieur. Ah, I forgot to tell you that while I was waiting there I heard something like two or three shots. That is all; perhaps some one was shooting thrushes in the vineyards.”
The heavy square box had made such an impression on my mind that I shivered, thinking that here, perhaps, had taken place in this lonely spot some bloody and unwitnessed duel, had not the ruse resorted to by this personage, in order to be driven rapidly and at little expense, seemed to contradict all idea of a combat. Such a foolish idea seemed unnatural in such a solemn time. What struck me as extremely singular was that no one had returned from this strange village, where, as my guide said, “folks go, but never come back.”
However, the notary had assured me that the only important habitation was the one that was offered for sale. What, then, had become of the travellers in the first carriage? And where was he who went in the berlingot?
I puzzled about it all until my head felt dizzy, and I longed to be at — so as to clear up this strange mystery.
When my guide had told me about the carriage with the blinds pulled down, I had thought of a runaway match, but the courier and the servants seemed ill suited to the secrecy desired in an elopement.
However, this old man who arrived two years afterwards, his strange manners, the pistol-shots, and then the sudden disappearance of every one, — certainly these were extraordinary circumstances and my curiosity was at the highest pitch.
“Here we are at last at — , monsieur,” said the guide. “You will admit that there is a fine view. And, see, monsieur, it is right here near this dead plantain-tree that I set down the old fellow of the berlingot.”
We had, in fact, arrived on the heights which overlook the village of —
CHAPTER II.
THE COTTAGE.
SEEN FROM THE hilltop, the little village was beautiful to behold. Its few houses, all half-way up the hill, were built of a yellowish stone, over which grape-vines were climbing. Some of the houses were roofed with red tiles; others had thatched roofs, on which were growing every sort of beautiful green and velvety moss, mingled with tuf
ts of wall-flowers in bloom; while all this rustic picture was framed in great groups of plantains, live-oaks, and Lombardy poplars, from the midst of which rose the modest church tower of gray stone.
I descended by a steep, winding path, and very soon arrived in the little village square. On the left, I saw the gate of the cemetery; on the right was the church porch, and noticing very near the latter a house rather larger than the rest, and which only differed from them by its remarkable cleanliness, I decided that it must be the presbytery. I got off my horse and knocked. I had not been mistaken.
A woman, clothed in black, still young, but horribly misshapen, and very ugly, whose face, however, appeared to have an expression of extreme goodness, came to open the door for me. She asked, in a very pronounced Southern accent, what I wished.
“I have come, madame,” said I, “to see the country place that is for sale in the village. M. V — , the notary, sent me to see M. le curé, who, he tells me, has the property for sale.”
“My brother will be back in an instant,” replied the woman, with a sigh, “and if you would like to rest while waiting for his return, be pleased to follow me into the presbytery.”
I accepted her offer, and, leaving my guide and his horses, I entered the house.
Nothing could have been more simple, more cleanly, more barren, than the interior of this humble home; notwithstanding which one could not help noticing traces of thoughtful solicitude for the comfort of the master.
I accompanied the curé’s sister into a low hall, whose two white-curtained windows opened on a pretty little green garden.
The simple furniture of this room shone with cleanliness; a single armchair, covered with old embroidery, placed near a little table, on which stood a book-rack made of black wood, and an ivory crucifix, seemed to be the habitual seat of the priest. His sister’s chair and her spinning-wheel stood near the other window. She seated herself, and began to spin, without vouchsafing a word. Believing her to be silent out of reserve, or from shyness, and wishing, besides, to satisfy my curiosity which the guide had so roused, I asked the woman if the place had been for sale a long time. The priest’s sister answered me, with another sigh:
“It has been for sale for the last three months, monsieur.”
“But, madame, do not the owners live in it any longer?”
“The owners,” replied she, with a look of intense sadness, “non, monsieur, they do not live there any more.” And, seeing that I was about to continue my questions, she added, with tears in her eyes: “Excuse me, monsieur, my brother will tell you all about it.”
More and more astonished, but not daring to insist, I fell back on ordinary topics of conversation, the view, the beautiful situation, etc. In about half an hour some one knocked; it was the curé. His sister went to open the door for him, and informed him of the reason of my visit.
The priest, who was about thirty years old, wore the severe costume of his class. He was not misshapen, but in other respects was extremely like his sister. There was the same ugliness joined to the look of excessive goodness and sweetness, added to which was a frail and suffering appearance, for he was small, delicate, and pale. His Southern accent was less pronounced than that of his sister, and his manner, though reserved, was more polite than hers.
The abbé received me with a coldness which I attributed to his fear of finding me only another troublesome person come out of idle curiosity to inspect the place; for from the few words that his sister had let fall, I believed that some fatal event had taken place in this house, and that the curé might think that I, having heard some vague rumour, had come to find out some more circumstantial details.
Wishing to put him at ease, I told him frankly, and at once, that I was looking for a little country home, very isolated, very quiet, very lonely; that I had heard of this one as fulfilling all these requirements, and that I had been sent to him for full information on the subject. The glacial coolness of the abbé did not melt at my advances. After exchanging some insignificant remarks, he simply asked me if I would like to see the house.
I told him that I was absolutely at his orders, and we then rose to go out.
Then his sister took a bunch of keys from out of a closet, and gave them to him, saying, with tears in her eyes, “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Joseph, this will be a great trial to you, for you have not been there since—”
The young priest pressed her hand tenderly, and replied, with resignation, “It can’t be helped, Jeanne. It had to come sooner or later.”
So we went out.
The stubborn silence in which the curé persisted, as to the events which had excited my curiosity, was very distasteful to me; but, feeling that the least question on a subject which affected so profoundly these simple people would be unkind, and most probably useless, I decided to remain strictly in my role of a visitor and a prospective purchaser. We went out of the presbytery, and, climbing up a steep little street, arrived before a small door, on each side of which extended a long and very high wall.
The appearance of everything was quite primitive. This wall of undressed stone, joined together by firm cement, seemed half ruined; the door was worm-eaten, but when the abbé had once got it open, I entered upon a perfect paradise hidden by this same high wall, and I began truly to understand and admire more than ever the wise though selfish taste of the Orientals, who strive to make the outside of their habitations the most insignificant, and even dilapidated, in the world, while, on the contrary, they adorn the interior with the most dazzling and refined luxury.
This custom has always seemed to me charming, as a contrast firstly, and, secondly, because I admit that I have never understood this lavish decoration with painting and sculpture of the outside of homes, where it simply is done for the gratification of the passer-by, who usually returns his thanks by covering with filth these architectural and monumental beauties. This, too, is a contrast, but one that displeases me. In a word, does it not seem to be better taste to hide some delightful retreat, and there enjoy happiness in secret, than to make a vulgar display and pompous parade before the eyes of all the world, and only excite the envy and hatred of every one?
But to return to the paradise of which I was speaking. As soon as the little door was opened, I entered with the curé; he closed it carefully, and said, “This, monsieur, is the house.”
Then, doubtless overcome by some sad remembrances, and wishing to give me leisure to examine everything, he crossed his arms on his breast, and remained silent.
As I have said, I was overcome with astonishment, and the sight was so charming that I forgot all my curiosity in gazing on so lovely a scene. Of the high wall of which I have spoken not a stone was to be seen, so entirely was it hidden by a long clipped arbour of linden-trees and a high row of immense oaks.
And there in the centre of a vast velvety lawn stood a middle-sized house of the most irregular construction.
The main body of the building was of but one story in height; on the right was a rustic gallery which formed a greenhouse, and ended in a sort of pavilion which only seemed to be lighted from the roof; on the left, at right angles to the main house, and much higher than it, was a long gallery with four Gothic windows of stained glass. This gallery ended at a very high tower which overlooked the rest of the house.
Nothing could be more simple in appearance than the arrangement of this cottage; but these buildings were, so to speak, simply the framework, for all the elegance and beauty of the building came from an innumerable quantity of brilliant climbing plants, which — except the openings of the windows, where great branches of jasmine and honeysuckle waved before the tracery of the woodwork — had taken possession of the house, and covered it with a mantle of gay flowers of every colour, from the ground floor to the summit of the tower, which seemed like the trunk of some immense tree covered with vines. Then a large flower bed of red geraniums, tender lilac heliotropes, and oleanders ran all around the base of the walls, hiding with its thick leaves and brilliant blossoms t
he thin stalks of the climbing plants, which only display their variegated treasures at some height from the ground.
Scotch ivy, climbing roses, the Virginia creeper, gobeas with their blue bells, clematis with its white, starry flower, entwined themselves thickly around the rustic pillars of the greenhouse and the supports of the front porch, which was also of wood, and was reached by ten steps, carpeted with fine Lima matting. On each step was an immense vase of Japanese porcelain, white, red, and gold, each one containing a large purple flowering cactus, and, as the stems of these plants are always rough and straggling, the charming little Smyrna convolvulus with its orange-coloured bells hid in a yellow and green tracery the barrenness of the cactus plants. The porch led up to an oaken door of very simple design, on each side of which stood a large Chinese settee made of reeds and bamboo.
Such, then, was the aspect of this truly enchanting cottage, this fresh and sweet-smelling oasis, which bloomed like an unknown and magnificent flower in this provincial solitude. It is impossible to express in words all the splendour of the picture which drew from nature alone all its dazzling richness of colour. Who can describe the thousand caprices of the Southern sun, glittering on the bright enamel of so many shades of colouring? What can give an idea of the murmuring of the breeze, which seemed to caress with its kisses the undulating, expanding corollas? And this nameless perfume made up of all these different odours, and the sweet smell of moss and verdure, added to the penetrating aroma of the laurel, the thyme, and the green trees, who can express it in words?
But what would be harder still to describe, would be the thousand different and overpowering thoughts which came into my mind, as I contemplated this most adorable retreat that a man tired of the world’s pleasures could have imagined; for I was witness to the fact that this enchanting spot was sad, deserted, abandoned, in spite of so much sunshine, verdure, and flowers; that some frightful misfortune had without a doubt surprised and crushed those who had cherished such sweet dreams of happiness. The choice of such a solitary spot, so far from any great city, the luxury and good taste of everything, showed plainly that the resident of this lovely home expected to spend many long and happy years in serene meditation in this beautiful solitude, so dear to thoughtful or unhappy minds.