The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories

by Émile Erckmann

  At once I was struck with a strangeness in the physiognomy of the Count of Nideck, and in spite of all the admiration which his lovely daughter had at once obtained from me, my first conclusion was, “What an old wolf!”

  And such he seemed to be indeed. A grey head, covered with short, close hair, strangely full behind the ears, and drawn out in the face to a portentous length, the narrowness of his forehead up to its summit widening over the eyebrows, which were shaggy and met, pointing downwards over the bridge of the nose, imperfectly shading with their sable outline the cold and inexpressive eyes; the short, rough beard, irregularly spread over the angular and bony outline of the mouth—every feature of this man’s dreadful countenance made me shudder, and strange notions crossed my mind about the mysterious affinities between man and the lower creation.

  But I resisted my first impressions and took the sick man’s hand. It was dry and wiry, yet small and strong; I found the pulse quick, feverish, and denoting great irritability.

  What was I to do?

  I stood considering; on the one side stood the young lady, anxiously trying to read a little hope in my face; on the other Sperver, equally anxious and watching my every movement. A painful constraint lay, therefore, upon me, yet I saw that there was nothing definite that could be attempted yet.

  I dropped the arm and listened to the breathing. From time to time a convulsive sob heaved the sick man’s heart, after which followed a succession of quick, short respirations. A kind of nightmare was evidently weighing him down—epilepsy, perhaps, or tetanus. But what could be the cause or origin?

  I turned round full of painful thoughts.

  “Is there any hope, sir?” asked the young countess.

  “Yesterday’s crisis is drawing to its close,” I answered; “we must see if we can prevent its recurrence.”

  “Is there any possibility of it, sir?”

  I was about to answer in general medical terms, not daring to venture any positive assertions, when the distant sound of the bell at the gate fell upon our ears.

  “Visitors,” said Sperver.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Go and see who it is,” said Odile, whose brow was for a minute shaded with anxiety. “How can one be hospitable to strangers at such a time? It is hardly possible!”

  But the door opened, and a rosy face, with golden hair, appeared in the shadow, and said in a whisper—

  “It is the Baron of Zimmer-Bluderich, with a servant, and he asks for shelter in the Nideck. He has lost his way among the mountains.”

  “Very well, Gretchen,” answered the young countess, kindly; “go and tell the steward to attend to the Baron de Zimmer. Inform him that the count is very ill, and that this alone prevents him from doing the honours as he would wish. Wake up some of our people to wait on him, and let everything be done properly.”

  Nothing could exceed the sweet and noble simplicity of the young châtelaine in giving her orders. If an air of distinction seems hereditary in some families it is surely because the exercise of the duties conferred by the possession of wealth has a natural tendency to ennoble the whole character and bearing.

  These thoughts passed through my mind whilst admiring the grace and gentleness in every movement of Odile of Nideck, and that clearness and purity of outline which is only found marked in the features of the higher aristocracy, and I could recall nothing to my recollection equal to this ideal beauty.

  “Go now, Gretchen,” said the young countess, “and make haste.”

  The attendant went out, and I stood a few seconds under the influence of the charm of her manner.

  Odile turned round, and addressing me, “You see, sir,” said she with a sad smile, “one may not indulge in grief without a pause; we must divide ourselves between our affection within and the world without.”

  “True, madam,” I replied; “souls of the highest order are for the common property and advantage of the unhappy—the lost wayfarer, the sick, the hungry poor—each has his claim for a share, for God has made them like the stars of heaven to give light and pleasure to all.”

  The deep-fringed eyelids veiled the blue eyes for a moment, while Sperver pressed my hand.

  Presently she pursued—

  “Ah, if you could but restore my father’s health!”

  “As I have had the pleasure to inform you, madam, the crisis is past; the return must be anticipated, if possible.”

  “Do you hope that it may?”

  “With God’s help, madam, it is not impossible; I will think carefully over it.”

  Odile, much moved, came with me to the door. Sperver and I crossed the ante-room, where a few servants were waiting for the orders of their mistress. We had just entered the corridor when Gideon, who was walking first, turned quickly round, and, placing both his hands on my shoulders, said—

  “Come, Fritz; I am to be depended upon for keeping a secret; what is your opinion?”

  “I think there is no cause of apprehension for to-night.”

  “I know that—so you told the countess—but how about to-morrow?”

  “To-morrow?”

  “Yes; don’t turn round. I suppose you cannot prevent the return of the complaint; do you think, Fritz, he will die of it?”

  “It is possible, but hardly probable.”

  “Well done!” cried the good man, springing from the ground with joy; “if you don’t think so, that means that you are sure.”

  And taking my arm, he drew me into the gallery. We had just reached it when the Baron of Zimmer-Bluderich and his groom appeared there also, marshalled by Sébalt with a lighted torch in his hand. They were on their way to their chambers, and those two figures, with their cloaks flung over their shoulders, their loose Hungarian boots up to the knees, the body closely girt with long dark-green laced and frogged tunics, and the bear-skin cap closely and warmly covering the head, were very picturesque objects by the flickering light of the pine-torch.

  “There,” whispered Sperver, “if I am not very much mistaken, those are our Fribourg friends; they have followed very close upon our heels.”

  “You are quite right: they are the men; I recognise the younger by his tall, slender figure, his aquiline nose, and his long, drooping moustache.”

  They disappeared through a side passage.

  Gideon took a torch from the wall, and guided me through quite a maze of corridors, aisles, narrow and wide passages, under high vaulted roofs and under low-built arches; who could remember? There seemed no end.

  “Here is the hall of the margraves,” said he; “here is the portrait-gallery, and this is the chapel, where no mass has been said since Louis the Bold became a Protestant.”

  All these particulars had very little interest for me.

  After reaching the end we had again to go down steps; at last we happily came to the end of our journey before a low massive door. Sperver took a huge key out of his pocket, and handing me the torch, said—

  “Mind the light—look out!”

  At the same time he pushed open the door, and the cold outside air rushed into the narrow passage. The torch flared and sent out a volley of sparks in all directions. I thought I saw a dark abyss before me, and recoiled with fear.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” cried the huntsman, opening his mouth from ear to ear, “you are surely not afraid, Fritz? Come on; don’t be frightened! We are upon the parapet between the castle and the old tower.”

  And my friend advanced to set me the example.

  The narrow granite-walled platform was deep in snow, swept in swirling banks by the angry winds. Any one who had seen our flaring torch from below would have asked, “What are they doing up there in the clouds? what can they want at this time of the night?”

  Perhaps, I thought within myself, the witch is looking up at us, and that idea gave me a fit of shuddering. I drew closer together the folds of my horseman’s cloak, and with my hand upon my hat, I set off after Sperver at a run; he was raising the light above his head to show me t
he road, and was moving forward rapidly.

  We rushed into the tower and then into Hugh Lupus’s chamber. A bright fire saluted us here with its cheerful rays; how delightful to be once more sheltered by thick walls!

  I had stopped while Sperver closed the door, and contemplating this ancient abode, I cried—

  “Thank God! we shall rest now!”

  “With a well-furnished table before us,” added Gideon. “Don’t stand there with your nose in the air, but rather consider what is before you—a leg of a kid, a couple of roast fowls, a pike fresh caught, with parsley sauce; cold meats and hot wines, that’s what I like. Kasper has attended to my orders like a real good fellow.”

  Gideon spoke the truth. The meats were cold and the wines were warm, for in front of the fire stood a row of small bottles under the gentle influence of the heat.

  At the sight of these good things my appetite rose in me wonderfully. But Sperver, who understood what is comfortable, stopped me.

  “Fritz,” said he, “don’t let us be in too great a hurry; we have plenty of time; the fowls won’t fly away. Your boots must hurt you. After eight hours on horseback it is pleasant to take off one’s boots, that’s my principle. Now sit down, put your boot between my knees; there goes one off, now the other, that’s the way; now put your feet into these slippers, take off your cloak and throw this lighter coat over your shoulders. Now we are ready.”

  And with his cheery summons I sat down with him to work, one on each side of the table, remembering the German proverb—“Thirst comes from the evil one, but good wine from the Powers above.”

  CHAPTER III

  We ate with the vigorous appetite which ten hours in the snows of the Black Forest would be sure to provoke.

  Sperver making indiscriminate attacks upon the kid, the fowls, and the fish, murmured with his mouth full—

  “The woods, the lakes and rivers, and the heathery hills are full of good things!”

  Then he leaned over the back of his chair, and laying his hand on the first bottle that came to hand, he added—

  “And we have hills green in spring, purple in autumn when the grapes ripen. Your health, Fritz!”

  “Yours, Gideon!”

  We were a wonder to behold. We reciprocally admired each other.

  The fire crackled, the forks rattled, teeth were in full activity, bottles gurgled, glasses jingled, while outside the wintry blast, the high moaning mountain winds, were mournfully chanting the dirge of the year, that strange wailing hymn with which they accompany the shock of the tempest and the swift rush of the grey clouds charged with snow and hail, while the pale moon lights up the grim and ghastly battle scene.

  But we were snug under cover, and our appetite was fading away into history. Sperver had filled the “wieder komm,” the “come again,” with old wine of Brumberg; the sparkling froth fringed its ample borders; he presented it to me, saying—

  “Drink the health of Yeri-Hans, lord of Nideck. Drink to the last drop, and show them that you mean it!”

  Which was done.

  Then he filled it again, and repeating with a voice that re-echoed among the old walls, “To the recovery of my noble master, the high and mighty lord of Nideck,” he drained it also.

  Then a feeling of satisfied repletion stole gently over us, and we felt pleased with everything.

  I fell back in my chair, with my face directed to the ceiling, and my arms hanging lazily down. I began dreamily to consider what sort of a place I had got into.

  It was a low vaulted ceiling cut out of the live rock, almost oven-shaped, and hardly twelve feet high at the highest point. At the farther end I saw a sort of deep recess where lay my bed on the ground, and consisting, as I thought I could see, of a huge bear-skin above, and I could not tell what below, and within this yet another smaller niche with a figure of the Virgin Mary carved out of the same granite, and crowned with a bunch of withered grass.

  “You are looking over your room,” said Spencer. “Parbleu! it is none of the biggest or grandest, not quite like the rooms in the castle. We are now in Hugh Lupus’s tower, a place as old as the mountain itself, going as far back as the days of Charlemagne. In those days, as you see, people had not yet learned to build arches high, round, or pointed. They worked right into the rock.”

  “Well, for all that, you have put me in strange lodgings.”

  “Don’t be mistaken, Fritz; it is the place of honour. It is here that the count put all his most distinguished friends. Mind that: Hugh Lupus’s tower is the most honourable accommodation we have.”

  “And who was Hugh Lupus?”

  “Why, Hugh the Wolf, to be sure. He was the head of the family of Nideck, a rough-and-ready warrior, I can tell you. He came to settle up here with a score of horsemen and halberdiers of his following. They climbed up this rock—the highest rock amongst these mountains. You will see this to-morrow. They constructed this tower, and proclaimed, ‘Now we are the masters! Woe befall the miserable wretches who shall pass without paying toll to us! We will tear the wool off their backs, and their hide too, if need be. From this watch-tower we shall command a view of the far distance all round. The passes of the Rhéthal, of Steinbach, Koche Plate, and of the whole line of the Black Forest are under our eye. Let the Jew pedlars and the dealers beware!’ And the noble fellows did what they promised. Hugh the Wolf was at their head. Knapwurst told me all about it sitting up one night.”

  “Who is Knapwurst?”

  “That little humpback who opened the gate for us. He is an odd fellow, Fritz, and almost lives in the library.”

  “So you have a man of learning at Nideck?”

  “Yes, we have, the rascal! Instead of confining himself to the porter’s lodge, his proper place, all the day over he is amongst the dusty books and parchments belonging to the family. He comes and goes along the shelves of the library just like a big cat. Knapwurst knows our story better than we know it ourselves. He would tell you the longest tales, Fritz, if you would only let him. He calls them chronicles—ha, ha!”

  And Sperver, with the wine mounting a little into his head, began to laugh, he could hardly say why.

  “So then, Gideon, you call this tower, Hugh’s tower the Hugh Lupus tower?”

  “Haven’t I told you so already? What are you so astonished at?”

  “Nothing particular.”

  “But you are. I can see it in your face. You are thinking of something strange. What is it?”

  “Oh, never mind! It is not the name of the tower which surprises me. What I am wondering at is, how it is that you, an old poacher, who had never lived anywhere since you were a boy but amongst the fir forests, between the snowy summits of the Wald Horn and the passes of the Rhéthal—you who, during all your prime of life, thought it the finest of fun to laugh at the count’s gamekeepers, and to scour the mountain paths of the Schwartzwald, and boat the bushes there, and breathe the free air, and bask in the bright sunshine amongst the hills and valleys—here I find you, at the end of sixteen years of such a life, shut up in this red granite hole. That is what surprises me and what I cannot understand. Come, Sperver, light your pipe, and tell me all about it.”

  The old poacher took out of his leathern jacket a bit of a blackened pipe; he filled it at his leisure, gathered up in the hollow of his hand a live ember, which he placed upon the bowl of his pipe; then with his eyes dreamily cast up to the ceiling he answered meditatively—

  “Old falcons, gerfalcons, and hawks, when they have long swept the plains, end their lives in a hole in a rock. Sure enough I am fond of the wide expanse of sky and land. I always was fond of it; but instead of perching by night upon a high branch of a tall tree, rocked by the wind, I now prefer to return to my cavern, to drink a glass, to pick a bone of venison, and dry my plumage before a warm fire. The Count of Nideck does not disdain Sperver, the old hawk, the true man of the woods. One evening, meeting me by moonlight, he frankly said to me, ‘Old comrade, you hunt only by night. Come and hunt by day with me. Y
ou have a sharp beak and strong claws. Well, hunt away, if such is your nature; but hunt by my licence, for I am the eagle upon these mountains, and my name is Nideck!’”

  Sperver was silent a few minutes; then he resumed—

  “That was just what suited me, and now I hunt as I used to do, and I quietly drink along with a friend my bottle of Affenthal or—”

  At that moment there was a shock that made the door vibrate; Sperver stopped and listened.

  “It is a gust of wind,” I said.

  “No, it is something else. Don’t you hear the scratching of claws? It is a dog that has escaped. Open, Lieverlé, open, Blitzen!” cried the huntsman, rising; but he had not gone a couple of steps when a formidable-looking hound of the Danish breed broke into the tower, and ran to lay his heavy paws on his master’s shoulders, licking his beard and his cheeks with his long rose-coloured tongue, uttering all the while short barks and yelps expressive of his joy.

  Sperver had passed his arm round the dog’s neck, and, turning to me, said—

  “Fritz, what man could love me as this dog does? Do look at this head, these eyes, these teeth!”

  He uncovered the animal’s teeth, displaying a set of fangs that would have pulled down and rent a buffalo. Then repelling him with difficulty, for the dog was re-doubling his caresses—

  “Down, Lieverlé. I know you love me. If you did not, who would?”

  Never had I seen so tremendous a dog as this Lieverlé. His height attained two feet and a half. He would have been a most formidable creature in an attack. His forehead was broad, flat, and covered with fine soft hair; his eye was keen, his paws of great length, his sides and legs a woven mass of muscles and nerves, broad over the back and shoulders, slender and tapering towards the hind legs. But he had no scent. If such monstrous and powerful hounds were endowed with the scent of the terrier there would soon be an end of game.

  Sperver had returned to his seat, and was passing his hand over Lieverlé’s massive head with pride, and enumerating to me his excellent qualities.

  Lieverlé seemed to understand him.

  “See, Fritz, that dog will throttle a wolf with one snap of his jaws. For courage and strength, he is perfection. He is not five years old, but he is in his prime. I need not tell you that he is trained to hunt the boar. Every time we come across a herd of them I tremble for Lieverlé; his attack is too straightforward, he flies on the game as straight as an arrow. That is why I am afraid of the brutes’ tusks. Lie down, Lieverlé, lie on your back!”