by Paul Busson
Chapter Twenty Two
I joined a group of gipsies. But the Romanies, as they called themselves, eventually wandered back over the frontier, and so I was obliged to part company with them, for I did not want to be married by the hangman to the rope-maker’s daughter. My misery was without end. From time to time I had luck enough to find a little work and food on the farms; I was able to procure some old clothes, a mild improvement on my rags; but for the most part I had to endure hunger and cold.
One day I was uncommonly fortunate. I found on the road half a loaf of bread, probably fallen from some passing cart. And when I came in sight of a ruined castle at the top of a mighty forest-clad eminence, I resolved to pass the icy winter’s night in some hidden recess of the ruins where I could make up a fire. After climbing here and there among the stones I found a tolerably-preserved vault, where the walls retained some traces of fresco painting. I recognised one of the subjects as the Wedding in Cana, and when I inspected the peeling painting more closely, I discovered that one of the jugs in the picture had an almost effaced inscription on it:
Hie jacet, meaning “Here lies.”
Perhaps it was intended only as a witticism of the painter’s, to convey that in these jugs and their wine lay the quiescent force that excites a man’s body with the wine and by degrees lets loose all the passions, eventually overpowering his reason. It might also have signified that mirth slumbered in the round belly of the jug and would express itself in the laughter, gladness and song of those who drank. I meditated on these and similar subjects, until the absence of a fire made itself felt, compelling me to stamp about the vaulted area in an endeavour to warm myself a little and render my stiff hands more supple for striking fire. As I passed the brown jug, only a painted one, unfortunately I could not refrain from tapping at it with my finger. I knew that its rotundity was only the result of the painter’s ability, and of his skilful way of distributing light and shade. And yet when I playfully tapped at the illusory roundness of the jug, it seemed to me that it gave out a hollow sound, as of wood and empty space. I rapped again two or three times at the spot where the Latin words stood. The sound was different from that produced by the solid masonry round it.
A sudden impulse led me to begin scraping off the paint and the plaster with my blunt knife. Very quickly I reached a lining of mouldy wood. I redoubled my efforts and the old wood crumbled to dust and moist splinters, giving access to a small niche where there lay a round ball, covered with greeny-white mildew. At first this object struck me as a decayed human head. After a moment’s meditation, however, I summoned up my spirits, thrust my hand towards it and drew out a leathern bag, all rotten and mouldy.
But it gave a clear ringing sound as I handled it. The bag was heavy and full of metal. Quickly I made a fire, partly to quiet my heart, that was hammering faster and faster. When the fire began to burn brightly I turned to inspect the contents of the leathern receptacle that I had so luckily discovered, thanks to the inscription on the painted jug. Long dead and gone were those to whom the sign was intended as a reminder: dead and buried, maybe, under the ruins of the castle. The bag offered little resistance. It fell to pieces as soon as I brought it near to the fire and its contents fell jingling to the stone floor.
Then joy overwhelmed me. Dubloons, crowns, guilders rolled out of this musty, dank covering and glistened in the light of the fire. I laughed, I shouted, I danced. I let the coins stream through my cramped fingers, poured them from one hand to the other, stroked them, turned them between finger and thumb to make them reflect the flame, paved the floor with them, and threw ducats into the air to catch them again. At last my reason prevailed. The blazing fire and my foolish shouting might easily have attracted passers-by and betrayed the treasure.
Hastily, and yet cautiously, I tore my sweaty shirt to pieces for a makeshift purse. I poured the gold coins into it, and concealed it under my rags. Then I stamped out the fire and stealthily climbed down the castle hill, hoping to reach the neighbouring town well before dark. This I succeeded in doing, and after some searching and cautious inquiries I came to the shop of a second-hand dealer.
I explained that I was a deserter and required clothes, linen and shoes, as well as a warm cloak. I was lucky that he chanced to be an honest man, for he supplied my needs at a price which, considering the circumstances, was reasonable. When I paid him ready cash he had a bath prepared for me also, and gave me an ointment that delivered me from the torture of vermin. But it spoilt my enjoyment to see with what haste all this had to be done, for the man grew more and more impatient as twilight came down. At last his importunity became so irritating that I asked him plainly if this was his usual way of offering hospitality. He had seemed to disregard the fact that I was paying him a handsome sum of money which meant much profit to him, for I was aware of the price at which second-hand clothes and linen were sold. Moreover, I had paid his price with as little murmuring as though the articles had come straight from the tailor’s and hosier’s workshops. He laughed at my question, and said:
“If I, sir, have received good money, the gentleman has also received a good service, in that you have been able to wash and change in all quietness and secrecy, so that the police won’t be attracted by the sight of you when you cross the street. Had you been a Ben Israel, sir, one of my own people, it would be a pleasure for me to house you. But as you are one of the others, it cannot be, for Friday night is nearly here, what we Jews call Eref Shabbes, and it is contrary to our custom to allow strangers in our houses on that day. Excuse me, sir, I see that you are a Purez, a man of birth, who has had some unpleasantness with the Balmochomim; therefore you will please go your way in peace, and excuse my behaviour, for it cannot be otherwise.”
And so with a deep bow he opened the iron-bound door of his shop and politely showed me out. Only when I was in the street did I realise that the man had dealt honourably with me. It would have been easy for him to have kept me in his house and betray me to the King’s troops who were quartered for the winter in the neighbourhood. In spite of the armistice then prevailing they could have kidnapped me, and with a little cunning the Jew might have gained not only a reward but also the money concealed on me, which could not possibly have escaped his quick eyes. Therefore I realised that I had escaped a great peril. Nor was it through any cleverness of my own that I escaped, but by a lucky chance.
Chapter Twenty Three
For the sake of safety I decided to go further into the country, and to use the mail coach only when I was at a sufficient distance from the frontier. So I plodded on in the thick snow, making for a village where I had planned to pass the night. The village was a fine-looking and genuinely well-to-do place, judging by its clean houses. At its entrance stood a statue of the afflicted Mother with Her Son in her arms. The pedestal below the rude sandstone figures was freshly scoured, and I caught sight of some figures and marks drawn with charcoal on the white ground, which I at once recognised to be the secret signs of tramps or wandering rogues.
During my wanderings with the gipsies I had acquired some knowledge of these signs. When I deciphered the figures and marks on the pedestal I shuddered, for they revealed murder and arson. Hesitating as to my course of action in these unexpected circumstances, and in no way inclined lightly to dismiss the dangerous revelation, I remained standing before the statue. Then, as I was about to walk on, I noticed a lean white-haired peasant, venerable-looking and upright, standing a few paces behind me and watching me with a piercing, not very friendly gaze.
“So you have come to our village, sir?” he said. “I will show you the way to the inn.”
And he walked beside me. The village dogs were ready to fly at me, but they slunk back under his stern look, with their tails between their legs. The people were standing before their houses, and they doffed their hats as he passed.
“Here is the inn,” said the peasant, and he pointed to the door of a large house.
Two lads were standing there, talking in an underto
ne.
“Step in,” he added, and his words sounded like an order. I was disturbed.
“Is it the only inn in this big village?” I mockingly asked my companion. “How do you know it is precisely this one that I want to stay at?”
He looked me straight in the face, with his cold blue eyes, and his answer was short.
“The best thing you can do, sir, is to go in.”
I yielded to the strange compulsion, and entering, sat down at a table under a row of deer’s antlers. The old man sat down also, ordered some wine, lighted a short pipe of bird’s-eye and silver-rimmed, and then said:
“In spite of your rather shabby clothes you seem to be a man of station. The point arises: what is the reason for this lonely wandering of yours?”
“You are not at all curious, Mr. Magistrate, are you?” I replied.
That was the way he had been addressed by the maid who brought in the wine.
“Curiosity, as you call it, is justified in a member of the community towards a stranger,” he said quietly. “Besides, I am in authority here. So will you please give me some information as to your standing, your name, and your antecedents. Two men can talk more easily over a glass of wine than in a court box, where one of the two is judge and the other is the accused.”
This sounded like a threat, and, hot-headed as ever, I would have doubtless given a sharp reply had not the whole bearing of the man, and especially his eyes, revealed something uncommon and commanding, to which I found myself unable to offer any resistance. Besides, the magistrate continued to put clever questions, so much to the point that I was drawn into telling him all about my life with the utmost candour, but without knowing why. I told him I had deserted from the Great King’s army, not on account of cowardice, but to escape the cruelty of a profession that had become repulsive to me, as necessitating subjection in the highest degree, and the annihilation of the individual will.
“Young sir,” said the old man thoughtfully when I had finished, “if this be so, you can still turn out well. As I gather from your words, you have had compassion for the poor men, and that, in a man of your haughty class, is a rare and valuable exception. I cannot say offhand how far your careless youth has driven you in the ways of perdition; but I trust that my suspicion, which threatens you seriously, will prove to be false.”
“What suspicion?” I asked.
“Have patience,” said the magistrate. “Tell me where you are travelling to?”
“To my home,” I replied.
“In that case,” he went on, and again he looked at me fixedly, “what need had you to stand so long in the
snow, looking at the statue?”
His commanding way of questioning me had gradually brought me to defiance, and I now asked him tersely whether he imagined he was a judge examining a poor wretch.
“Make up your mind about that,” he said.
“I certainly am.”
He put his hand on my arm firmly.
“You are aware that I am the magistrate here, and as such I ask you: have you anything to tell me that may bear on the welfare of this village?”
“Yes,” I answered calmly. “Your village is in imminent danger.”
It seemed to me as if a friendly light flashed over his weather-beaten face as I spoke. But then it became earnest and aloof again.
“So,” he said with feigned indifference. “Who told you that story?”
“It is no story,” I said quickly, eager to make up for my neglect. “Believe me, there is danger ahead.”
“Speak out, young gentleman.”
“There are certain signs,” I said, “by which incendiaries and professional criminals inform each other of their evil doings. I saw such signs on your statue. Perhaps this will help you to understand why I remained in the snow.”
He made a movement, as if he wanted to shake hands with me. But he changed his mind, and instead he asked dryly when had I acquired such suspicious-looking knowledge. I reminded him of what I had told him about my wanderings with the gipsies, who were well versed in this kind of lore. The old man gave a short laugh, and bent his wrinkled face towards mine.
“Does it seem to you,” he whispered, “as if I also knew something of such things?”
“You?” I answered, and shook my head doubtfully.
“Nay, nay, let us test it,” he said, pouring out some wine for me.
“First you will describe the signs you saw on the statue, and then we shall decipher them together, like the ancient Magi we read of in the Bible.”
“All right,” said I. “The signs were these:a full moon; the figure one; three houses of which the first two were crossed out but not the third; a comb; a snake or adder; two figures of five dots; three crosses each in a quadrangle, two of which are crossed out and the third is not; a knife; two shoes; a cock and the letter F.”
“Quite right,” said the old man, and he nodded thoughtfully and drank a gulp out of his glass. “Now let us divide the work. You, my good sir, please explain to me the rogues’ signs up to the fives, and from that point I will explain to you the meaning of the rest of the signs, which have been there since yesterday morning.”
“I think,” said I, “we might leave the explanation to another time. It’s better to think of taking measures.”
“Don’t trouble about that,” he retorted genially. “I am responsible, not you. It is my duty, as the village magistrate, to see to that, and not yours by any means! And now out with your gipsy-wisdom.”
“Well, then,” I began, “the signs are to be read in this way. On the first day of the full moon we gather... The house in question is the third in the village... All this is expressed by the moon, the figure one, and the third house left uncrossed. The comb means there is a dog on the watch. The snake means that the dog must be poisoned.”
“It is my house,” he nodded, “that they have singled out, and my dog Caesar, but he won’t take food from a strange hand. You have deciphered well. Now it is my turn.”
“Rather let me,” I said...
“Have patience,” replied the old man. “The two figures of five mean ten p.m., as there is a moon before them. The three crosses in quadrangles, two of them crossed out, mean: climb into the third window. A knife means be bold, swift and sure. The shoes mean: hurry off with the booty as soon as done, but do not forget to set fire. This is conveyed by the cock. But the F? What does the letter F mean?”
He looked at me, smiling.
“It is a name sign,” I replied quickly. “It is impossible to tell the name. Doubtless it is the name of the ringleader of the gang.”
“F stands for Frieder,” said the old man, “and that devil is the chief of five murderous knaves, who have come here from the Spessart, and call themselves the brotherhood of the Red Hat for Frieder likes to wear a fox-red hat. Now you know the name sign also.”
“Well guessed.” I said.
“Now,” said the white-haired magistrate, “I may well trust you, young gentleman.”
He stretched out his hand, a courtesy which, contrary to custom, he previously omitted to perform.
“When all is said and done,” he continued, “it looks rather suspicious that you should know the thieves’ alphabet. Let me tell you frankly that when you stood before the statue looking so attentively at the signs, I took you for one of their informers and spies.”
Then he called in a loud voice, “Hey there! Hannes, Matz, Kilian!”
At once the door was opened and three sturdy lads with guns and sabres, and two enormous grey shepherd dogs or bloodhounds at their heels, stepped in and walked straight up to me with ropes in their hands.
“No, no!” commanded the magistrate. “Let the gentleman alone. Go back to the others, and tell them that this is an innocent man. No one is to do him any ill. Dispose yourselves as I have planned:Veit and Leberecht by the sloe tree, old Knolb and Heger’s lad at the roof opening of the first house, four in the ditch, two behind the dungheap, ten in Heger’s stables, and
the others where convenient. Let the robbers come near before you surprise them, and don’t spare powder and shot except with Frieder. You can make Frieder’s men eat the snow, but Frieder, you’ll know him by his red cap, is to be taken alive.”
The sturdy fellows looked at me sympathetically and laughed.
“To think we might have sent the wrong man on his journey heavenwards,” commented one of them, and pushed the other two, who burst out into coarse peasant laughter.
But the dogs growled and bared white teeth.
“Off you go,” said the old man, and at once they stamped heavily out of doors, where the last rays of light lay blue and ghostly on the white snow.
The magistrate instructed me not to leave the inn for the time being. So I remained at the table. A little later the serving-maid, uncommunicative and parrying my questions with a “don’t know,” brought in a roasted fowl and a jug of red wine. If I made any movement one of the dogs started up on the other side of the door. So I was obliged to remain in my corner and wait till the affair was over. I was tired by my long journey and sleepy from eating and drinking, and eventually I fell into a doze. The report of a gun startled me out of my sleep. Then came a loud cry. A confused noise followed, and shots were fired in rapid succession; I heard men shouting and screaming, swearing and complaining aloud, and then imploring in piteous voices. Muffled blows and smothered whines followed, and the angry yelping and growling of dogs, worrying something... I jumped up in terror and strove to open the door. It was locked. But soon I heard a key turning, and a small boy broke in, panting heavily and greatly excited.