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

by Émile Erckmann

  “It is strange!” muttered the bailiff; “this greatly modifies the position of the accused. But how do you explain the presence of the robber in the cellar?”

  “That robber was myself.” I now related briefly everything that had taken place from the time of my comrades’ arrest until the moment of my flight from the inn. “That will do,” said the bailiff; and, turning toward the chief of police, he added: “I must admit, Madoc, that the depositions of these musicians never seemed to me very conclusive of their guilt; moreover, their passports established an alibi difficult to controvert. Nevertheless, young man,” turning to me, “in spite of the plausibility of the proofs you have given us, you must remain in our power until they are verified. Keep him in sight, Madoc, and take your measures accordingly.” The bailiff descended the stairs thoughtfully, and, refolding his papers, he said, without continuing the examination: “Let the accused be taken back to the prison!” And with a scornful glance at the landlady, he departed, followed by the secretary. Madoc alone remained with two officials.

  “Madame,” he said to Dame Grédel, “maintain the strictest secrecy about what has happened, and give this brave young man the same room he occupied night before last.” Madoc’s look and emphasis admitted of no reply. Dame Grédel swore she would do whatever was required of her if she could only be rid of the robbers! Madoc replied: “We shall stay here all day and to-night to protect you. Go about your work in peace, and begin by giving us some breakfast. My good fellow, you will give us the pleasure of dining with us?” My situation did not permit me to decline. I accepted accordingly, and we soon found ourselves seated before a leg of ham and a jug of Rhine wine. Other people arrived from time to time, and endeavored to elicit the confidence of Dame Grédel and Annette, but they maintained a discreet silence, for which they deserve no little credit. We spent the afternoon smoking our pipes and emptying our mugs; no one paid any attention to us.

  The chief of police, in spite of his sallow face, piercing glance, pale lips, and sharp nose, was excellent company after a bottle or two; he told us some excellent stories, and at every word of his the other two burst out laughing. I remained gloomy and silent. “Come, young fellow!” he said with a smile, “forget for a little the death of your respectable grandmother. Take a drop, and put your troublesome thoughts to flight.”

  Others joined in the conversation, and the time passed in the midst of tobacco smoke, the clinking of glasses, and the ringing of mugs. But at nine o’clock, after the watchman’s visit, the expression of things changed. Madoc rose and said: “Well, my friends, let us proceed to business. Fasten the doors and shutters quietly! You, ladies, may go to bed!” His two tattered followers looked more like robbers themselves than like props of law and order. Each drew a club with a knob of lead attached to one end, from his trousers’ leg, and Madoc tapped his breast pocket to make sure that his pistol was there. This done, he bid me lead them to the loft. We climbed the stairs. Having reached the little room, where thoughtful little Annette had taken care to light a fire, Madoc, cursing between his teeth, hastened to throw water on the coals; then motioning to the pile of straw, he said to me: “You may go to sleep if you like.”

  He sat down, together with his two acolytes, at the end of the room close to the wall, and they put out the light. I lay down on the straw, breathing a prayer to the Almighty to send hither the assassin. After midnight the silence became so profound that you would never have suspected three men were there with wide-open eyes, on the alert for the slightest sound. The hours wore slowly away. I could not sleep. A thousand terrible ideas teemed in my brain. One o’clock—two o’clock—three o’clock struck, and nothing appeared. At three o’clock one of the officials stirred slightly. I thought the man had come at last. But again all was still. I began to think that Madoc would take me for an impostor, and that in the morning things would fare badly with me; thus, instead of helping my companions, I should only be fettered with them.

  The time seemed to me to pass very rapidly after three o’clock. I wished the night might last forever, that the only ray of hope might not be gone. I was starting to go over all these thoughts for the fiftieth time, when, suddenly, without my having heard a sound, the window opened and two eyes glistened in the opening. Nothing stirred in the loft. “The others are asleep,” I thought. The head remained in the opening, listening. The wretch seemed to suspect something. My heart galloped and the blood coursed through my veins. I dared not even breathe. A few moments passed thus. Then, suddenly, the man seemed to make up his mind. He let himself down into the loft with the same caution as on the preceding night. On the instant a terrible cry, short, piercing, blood-curdling, resounded through the house. “We’ve got him!”

  The whole house shook from cellar to attic; cries, struggles, and hoarse shouts, coupled with muttered oaths, filled the loft. The man roared like, a wild beast, and his opponents breathed painfully as they battled with his terrible strength. Then there was a crash that made the flooring creak, and I heard nothing more but a gritting of teeth and a rattle of chains. “A light here!” cried the formidable Madoc. And as the sulphur burned, illuminating the place with its bluish light, I vaguely distinguished the forms of the three officials kneeling above the prostrate man. One of them was holding him by the throat, another had sunk his knees into his chest, and Madoc encircled his wrists with handcuffs hard enough to crush them. The man, in his shirt sleeves as before, seemed inert, save that one of his powerful legs, naked from the knee to the ankle, raised up from time to time and struck the floor with a convulsive movement. His eyes were literally starting from his head, and his lips were covered with a bloody foam. Scarcely had I lighted the taper when the officials exclaimed, thunderstruck: “Our Dean!” All three got up and stood staring at each other, white with astonishment. The bloodshot eyes of the murderer turned on Madoc. He tried to speak, and after a moment I heard him murmur: “What a terrible dream! My God, what a terrible dream!” Then he sighed and became motionless.

  I approached to take a look at him. It was indeed the man who had given us advice on the road to Heidelberg. Perhaps he had had a presentiment that we would be the means of his destruction, for people do sometimes have these terrible borebodings. As he did not stir, and a tiny stream of blood flowed on the dusty floor, Madoc, rousing himself from his stupor, bent over him and tore away his shirt; we then saw that he had stabbed himself to the heart with his great knife. “Ho! ho!” cried Madoc, with a sinister smile, “our Dean has cheated the gallows. You others stay here while I go and notify the bailiff.” He picked up his hat, that had fallen off during the mêlée, and left without another word. I remained opposite the corpse, with the two others.

  The news spread like wildfire. It was a sensation for the neighborhood. Dean Daniel Van den Berg enjoyed a fortune and a reputation so well established that many people refused to believe in the abominable instincts which dominated him. The matter was discussed from every conceivable point of view. Some held that he was a somnambulist and irresponsible for his acts; others that he was a murderer through love of blood, having no other possible motive for committing these crimes. Perhaps both were right, for it is an undeniable fact that moral being, will, soul, whatever name you choose to call it by, is wanting in the somnambulist. The animal nature left to itself naturally yields to the dictates of its pacific or sanguinary instincts. Be that as it may, my comrades were at once restored to liberty. Little Annette was quoted for a long time after as a model of devotion. She was even sought in marriage by the son of the burgomaster Trungott, a youth, who will one day disgrace his family.

  As for me, I lost no time in returning to the Black Forest, where, since that time I have officiated as leader of the orchestra at the Sabre Vert Tavern, on the road to Tubingen. If you should ever happen to pass that way, and my story has interested you, come in and see me. We will drink a bottle or two together, and I will relate to you certain details that will make your hair stand on end.

  THE OWL’S EAR
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  On the 29th of July, 1835, Kasper Boeck, a shepherd of the little village of Hirschwiller, with his large felt hat tipped back, his wallet of stringy sackcloth hanging at his hip, and his great tawny dog at his heels, presented himself at about nine o’clock in the evening at the house of the burgomaster, Petrus Mauerer, who had just finished supper and was taking a little glass of kirchwasser to facilitate digestion.

  This burgomaster was a tall, thin man, and wore a bushy gray mustache. He had seen service in the armies of the Archduke Charles. He had a jovial disposition, and ruled the village, it is said, with his finger and with the rod.

  “Mr. Burgomaster,” cried the shepherd in evident excitement.

  But Petrus Mauerer, without awaiting the end of his speech, frowned and said:

  “Kasper Boeck, begin by taking off your hat, put your dog out of the room, and then speak distinctly, intelligibly, without stammering, so that I may understand you.”

  Hereupon the burgomaster, standing near the table, tranquilly emptied his little glass and wiped his great gray mustachios indifferently.

  Kasper put his dog out, and came back with his hat off.

  “Well!” said Petrus, seeing that he was silent, “what has happened?”

  “It happens that the spirit has appeared again in the ruins of Geierstein!”

  “Ha! I doubt it. You’ve seen it yourself?”

  “Very clearly, Mr. Burgomaster.”

  “Without closing your eyes?”

  “Yes, Mr. Burgomaster—my eyes were wide open. There was plenty of moonlight.”

  “What form did it have?”

  “The form of a small man.”

  “Good!”

  And turning toward a glass door at the left:

  “Katel!” cried the burgomaster.

  An old serving woman opened the door.

  “Sir?”

  “I am going out for a walk—on the hillside—sit up for me until ten o’clock. Here’s the key.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then the old soldier took down his gun from the hook over the door, examined the priming, and slung it over his shoulder; then he addressed Kasper Boeck:

  “Go and tell the rural guard to meet me in the holly path, and tell him behind the mill. Your spirit must be some marauder. But if it’s a fox, I’ll make a fine hood of it, with long earlaps.”

  Master Petrus Mauerer and humble Kasper then went out. The weather was superb, the stars innumerable. While the shepherd went to knock at the rural guard’s door, the burgomaster plunged among the elder bushes, in a little lane that wound around behind the old church.

  Two minutes later Kasper and Hans Goerner, whinger at his side, by running overtook Master Petrus in the holly path.

  All three made their way together toward the ruins of Geierstein.

  These ruins, which are twenty minutes’ walk from the village, seem to be insignificant enough; they consist of the ridges of a few decrepit walls, from four to six feet high, which extend among the brier bushes. Archaeologists call them the aqueducts of Seranus, the Roman camp of Holderlock, or vestiges of Theodoric, according to their fantasy. The only thing about these ruins which could be considered remarkable is a stairway to a cistern cut in the rock. Inside of this spiral staircase, instead of concentric circles which twist around with each complete turn, the involutions become wider as they proceed, in such a way that the bottom of the pit is three times as large as the opening. Is it an architectural freak, or did some reasonable cause determine such an odd construction? It matters little to us. The result was to cause in the cistern that vague reverberation which anyone may hear upon placing a shell at his ear, and to make you aware of steps on the gravel path, murmurs of the air, rustling of the leaves, and even distant words spoken by people passing the foot of the hill.

  Our three personages then followed the pathway between the vineyards and gardens of Hirschwiller.

  “I see nothing,” the burgomaster would say, turning up his nose derisively.

  “Nor I either,” the rural guard would repeat, imitating the other’s tone.

  “It’s down in the hole,” muttered the shepherd.

  “We shall see, we shall see,” returned the burgomaster.

  It was in this fashion, after a quarter of an hour, that they came upon the opening of the cistern. As I have said, the night was clear, limpid, and perfectly still.

  The moon portrayed, as far as the eye could reach, one of those nocturnal landscapes in bluish lines, studded with slim trees, the shadows of which seemed to have been drawn with a black crayon. The blooming brier and broom perfumed the air with a rather sharp odor, and the frogs of a neighboring swamp sang their oily anthem, interspersed with silences. But all these details escaped the notice of our good rustics; they thought of nothing but laying hands on the spirit.

  When they had reached the stairway, all three stopped and listened, then gazed into the dark shadows. Nothing appeared—nothing stirred.

  “The devil!” said the burgomaster, “we forgot to bring a bit of candle. Descend, Kasper, you know the way better than I—I’ll follow you.”

  At this proposition the shepherd recoiled promptly. If he had consulted his inclinations the poor man would have taken to flight; his pitiful expression made the burgomaster burst out laughing.

  “Well, Hans, since he doesn’t want to go down, show me the way,” he said to the game warden.

  “But, Mr. Burgomaster,” said the latter, “you know very well that steps are missing; we should risk breaking our necks.”

  “Then what’s to be done?”

  “Yes, what’s to be done?”

  “Send your dog,” replied Petrus.

  The shepherd whistled to his dog, showed him the stairway, urged him—but he did not wish to take the chances any more than the others.

  At this moment, a bright idea struck the rural guardsman.

  “Ha! Mr. Burgomaster,” said he, “if you should fire your gun inside.”

  “Faith,” cried the other, “you’re right, we shall catch a glimpse at least.”

  And without hesitating the worthy man approached the stairway and leveled his gun.

  But, by the acoustic effect which I have already pointed out, the spirit, the marauder, the individual who chanced to be actually in the cistern, had heard everything. The idea of stopping a gunshot did not strike him as amusing, for in a shrill, piercing voice he cried:

  “Stop! Don’t fire—I’m coming.”

  Then the three functionaries looked at each other and laughed softly, and the burgomaster, leaning over the opening again, cried rudely:

  “Be quick about it, you varlet, or I’ll shoot! Be quick about it!”

  He cocked his gun, and the click seemed to hasten the ascent of the mysterious person; they heard him rolling down some stones. Nevertheless it still took him another minute before he appeared, the cistern being at a depth of sixty feet.

  What was this man doing in such deep darkness? He must be some great criminal! So at least thought Petrus Mauerer and his acolytes.

  At last a vague form could be discerned in the dark, then slowly, by degrees, a little man, four and a half feet high at the most, frail, ragged, his face withered and yellow, his eye gleaming like a magpie’s, and his hair tangled, came out shouting:

  “By what right do you come to disturb my studies, wretched creatures?”

  This grandiose apostrophe was scarcely in accord with his costume and physiognomy. Accordingly the burgomaster indignantly replied:

  “Try to show that you’re honest, you knave, or I’ll begin by administering a correction.”

  “A correction!” said the little man, leaping with anger, and drawing himself up under the nose of the burgomaster.

  “Yes,” replied the other, who, nevertheless, did not fail to admire the pygmy’s courage; “if you do not answer the questions satisfactorily I am going to put to you. I am the burgomaster of Hirschwiller; here are the rural guard, the shepherd and his dog. We are stronge
r than you—be wise and tell me peaceably who you are, what you are doing here, and why you do not dare to appear in broad daylight. Then we shall see what’s to be done with you.”

  “All that’s none of your business,” replied the little man in his cracked voice. “I shall not answer.”

  “In that case, forward, march,” ordered the burgomaster, who grasped him firmly by the nape of the neck; “you are going to sleep in prison.”

  The little man writhed like a weasel; he even tried to bite, and the dog was sniffing at the calves of his legs, when, quite exhausted, he said, not without a certain dignity:

  “Let go, sir, I surrender to superior force—I’m yours!”

  The burgomaster, who was not entirely lacking in good breeding, became calmer.

  “Do you promise?” said he.

  “I promise!”

  “Very well—walk in front.”

  And that is how, on the night of the 29th of July, 1835, the burgomaster took captive a little red-haired man, issuing from the cavern of Geierstein.

  Upon arriving at Hirschwiller the rural guard ran to find the key of the prison and the vagabond was locked in and double-locked, not to forget the outside bolt and padlock.

  Everyone then could repose after his fatigues, and Petrus Mauerer went to bed and dreamed till midnight of this singular adventure.

  On the morrow, toward nine o’clock, Hans Goerner, the rural guard, having been ordered to bring the prisoner to the town house for another examination, repaired to the cooler with four husky daredevils. They opened the door, all of them curious to look upon the Will-o’-the-wisp. But imagine their astonishment upon seeing him hanging from the bars of the window by his necktie! Some said that he was still writhing; others that he was already stiff. However that may be, they ran to Petrus Mauerer’s house to inform him of the fact, and what is certain is that upon the latter’s arrival the little man had breathed his last.