by Paul Negri
“Rascal!” said Sergeant Gamba, taking him by the ear. “Do you realize it’s only up to me to make you change your tune? Maybe if I give you twenty blows with the flat of my saber, you’ll finally talk.”
And Fortunato kept on snickering.
“My father is Mateo Falcone!” he said, significantly.
“Little scamp, do you realize that I can take you to Corte or Bastia? I’ll stretch you out in a dungeon, on straw, with irons on your feet, and I’ll have you guillotined if you don’t tell me where Gianetto Sanpiero is.”
The child burst out laughing at that ridiculous threat. He repeated:
“My father is Mateo Falcone!”
“Sergeant,” one of the infantrymen said quietly, “let’s not get on the wrong side of Mateo.”
Gamba looked obviously embarrassed. He chatted in a low voice with his soldiers, who had already inspected the whole house. This wasn’t a very long procedure, because a Corsican’s hut consists of a single square room. The furniture is comprised of a table, benches, chests, and hunting and household utensils. Meanwhile, little Fortunato was petting his cat, seeming to take malicious satisfaction in the embarrassment of the infantrymen and his cousin.
A soldier approached the haystack. He saw the cat, and negligently stabbed the hay with his bayonet, shrugging his shoulders as if he felt his precaution was laughable. Nothing stirred: and the child’s face betrayed not the slightest emotion.
The sergeant and his troop were in despair: by this time they were looking seriously in the direction of the plain, as if disposed to go back where they had come from—when their leader, convinced that threats would have no effect on Falcone’s son, decided to make one last effort and try out the power of blandishments and presents.
“Little cousin,” he said, “you look to me like a really sharp fellow! You’ll go places. But the game you’re playing with me is a nasty one; and if I weren’t afraid of hurting my cousin Mateo, devil take me if I didn’t lead you away with me.”
“Bah!”
“But when my cousin is back, I’ll tell him what happened, and to punish you for lying, he’ll whip you till he draws blood.”
“How’s that?”
“You’ll see . . . But wait . . . Be a good boy and I’ll give you something.”
“As for me, cousin, I’ll give you a piece of advice: if you wait any longer, Gianetto will be in the maquis, and then it’ll take more than one strapping fellow like you to go get him there.”
The sergeant drew from his pocket a silver watch that was worth at least thirty francs; and, observing that little Fortunato’s eyes sparkled when he looked at it, he dangled the watch from the end of its steel chain, saying:
“Scalawag! You’d surely like to have a watch like this hanging from your neck while you promenaded through the streets of Porto-Vecchio, proud as a peacock, with people asking you, ‘What time is it?’ and you saying, ‘Look at my watch and see.’ ”
“When I grow up, my uncle the caporale will give me a watch.”
“Yes, but your uncle’s son already has one . . . not as beautiful as this one, it’s true . . . But he’s younger than you.”
The child sighed.
“Well, little cousin, do you want this watch?”
Fortunato, stealing sidelong glances at the watch from the corner of his eye, looked like a cat that was being offered a whole chicken. Since it feels it is being made fun of, it doesn’t dare put its claws on it, and from time to time it turns away its eyes to avoid succumbing to the temptation; but every moment it licks its chops, seeming to say to its master:
“How cruel your joke is!”
And yet Sergeant Gamba appeared to be acting in good faith in offering his watch. Fortunato didn’t reach out for it, but he said with a bitter smile:
“Why are you ribbing me?”7
“By God, I’m not ribbing you. Just tell me where Gianetto is, and this watch is yours.”
Fortunato emitted a sigh of disbelief, and, with his dark eyes staring directly into the sergeant’s, he strove to see how much trust he ought to repose in his words.
“May I lose my epaulets,” the sergeant exclaimed, “if I don’t give you the watch on those terms! My comrades are witnesses, and I can’t go back on my word.”
While saying this, he kept moving the watch nearer until it almost touched the child’s pale cheek. The boy’s face clearly showed the struggle being waged in his soul between greed and respect for the laws of hospitality. His bare chest was heaving mightily, and he seemed close to choking. Meanwhile the watch was swinging, turning, and at times striking the tip of his nose. Finally, little by little, his right hand rose in the direction of the watch; he touched it with his fingertips; and it was resting in his hand with its full weight, although the sergeant didn’t release the end of the chain . . . The dial was blue . . . the case newly polished . . . in the sunlight, it seemed to be all ablaze . . . The temptation was too strong.
Fortunato raised his left hand, too, and with his thumb pointed over his shoulder at the haystack on which he was leaning. The sergeant understood him at once. He let go of the end of the chain; Fortunato realized he was sole possessor of the watch. He rose with the agility of a deer and moved ten paces away from the haystack, which the infantrymen immediately began to knock over.
Before long they saw the hay moving, and a bleeding man, dagger in hand, came out; but, when he tried to stand up, his stiffened wound made it impossible to keep his feet any longer. He fell. The sergeant pounced on him and tore his stiletto from him. At once he was tightly bound hand and foot despite his resistance.
Gianetto, lying on the ground, trussed up like a bundle of firewood, turned his head toward Fortunato, who had come up to him.
“Son of a . . .!” he said, with more contempt than anger.
The child threw at him the silver coin he had received from him, feeling that he no longer deserved it; but the outlaw seemed to pay no heed to that action. As calmly as possible he said to the sergeant:
“My friend Gamba, I can’t walk; you’re going to have to carry me to town.”
“Just a while ago you were running faster than a roebuck,” the cruel victor retorted; “but relax: I’m so happy over catching you that I’d carry you a league on my back without getting tired. Anyway, comrade, we’re going to make you a litter out of branches and your cloak, and at the Crespoli farm we’ll find horses.”
“Good,” said the prisoner, “and put a little straw on your litter so I’ll be more comfortable.”
While the infantrymen were busy, some making a sort of stretcher out of chestnut branches, and the others dressing Gianetto’s wound, Mateo Falcone and his wife suddenly appeared at the bend of a path that led into the maquis. His wife was walking, painfully stooped under the weight of an enormous sack of chestnuts, while her husband was strutting at his ease, carrying nothing but a rifle in his hand and another slung across his back: because it’s beneath a man’s dignity to carry any burden other than his weapons.
At sight of the soldiers, Mateo’s first thought was that they had come to arrest him. But why did he have that idea? Had Mateo had any run-ins with the law, after all? No. He enjoyed a good reputation. He was what is called “an individual of good repute”; but he was a Corsican and a mountaineer, and there are few Corsican mountaineers who, if they racked their memory, wouldn’t discover some little peccadillo, in the nature of rifle shots, stiletto stabs, and other trifles. More than many another, Mateo had a clear conscience, because for over ten years he hadn’t pointed his rifle at a man; but nevertheless he was cautious, and he now prepared to defend himself bravely if it should prove necessary.
“Wife,” he said to Giuseppa, “put down your sack and be prepared.”
She obeyed at once. He gave her the rifle he had been carrying on his back; it might have hampered his movements. He cocked the one he had in his hands and proceeded slowly toward his house, keeping close to the trees that lined the road and ready, at the least sign
of hostility, to dash behind the thickest trunk and thus be able to fire from a position of cover. His wife was following at his heels, holding his spare rifle and his cartridge pouch. The duty of a good housewife, in times of combat, is to load her husband’s guns.
On the other side, the sergeant was most distressed to see Mateo advancing that way, with measured tread, his rifle pointed forward and his finger on the trigger.
“If by chance,” he thought, “Mateo was a relative of Gianetto, or if he was his friend, and wanted to defend him, the wads of his two rifles would reach two of us, just as sure as a letter in the mail, and if he aimed at me, despite our relationship . . . !”
In that perplexity, he made a very courageous decision: he advanced alone toward Mateo to tell him what was going on, greeting him like an old acquaintance; but the short space separating him from Mateo seemed terribly long to him.
“Hi there, old comrade!” he shouted. “How’s it going, friend? It’s me, it’s Gamba, your cousin.”
Without a word in reply, Mateo had stopped, and, while the other man was speaking, he gently raised the barrel of his rifle, so that, by the time the sergeant reached him, it was pointing to the sky.
“Hello, brother!”8 the sergeant said, offering his hand. “I haven’t seen you for quite a while.”
“Hello, brother!”
“I had come to say hello to you as I passed by, and to my cousin Pepa. We’ve covered a lot of ground today; but you mustn’t feel sorry for our being tired, because we’ve made a wonderful catch. We’ve just laid hands on Gianetto Sanpiero.”
“God be praised!” exclaimed Giuseppa. “He stole a milk goat from us last week.”
Those words delighted Gamba.
“Poor devil!” said Mateo. “He was hungry.”
“The scamp defended himself like a lion,” continued the sergeant, a little mortified. “He killed one of my infantrymen, and, as if that wasn’t enough, he broke Corporal Chardon’s arm; but there’s no great harm in that, he was only a Frenchman . . . After that, he hid so well that the devil couldn’t have detected him. Without my little cousin Fortunato, I would never have been able to find him.”
“Fortunato!” Mateo exclaimed.
“Fortunato!” Giuseppa repeated.
“Yes, Gianetto had concealed himself in that haystack over there; but my little cousin pointed out the trick to me. I’m also going to tell his uncle the caporale about it, so he’ll send him a fine gift for his trouble. And his name and yours will be in the report I’ll send to the public prosecutor.”
“Damnation!” said Mateo quietly.
They had come up to the detachment. Gianetto was already lying on his litter and ready to leave. When he saw Mateo in company with Gamba, he smiled a strange smile; then, turning toward the door to the house, he spat on the threshold, saying:
“House of a betrayer!”
Only a man determined to die would have dared pronounce the word “betrayer” with reference to Falcone. A firm stiletto stab, which wouldn’t need to be repeated, would have immediately repaid the insult. And yet Mateo made no other gesture than to raise his hand to his forehead like a man overwhelmed.
Fortunato had gone into the house on seeing his father arrive. He soon reappeared with a bowl of milk, which he offered to Gianetto with eyes cast down.
“Get away from me!” the outlaw shouted with a crushing voice.
Then, turning to one of the infantrymen, he said:
“Comrade, give me a drink.”
The soldier put his canteen in his hands, and the bandit drank the water given to him by a man with whom he had just been exchanging rifle shots. Then he requested to have his hands tied so that they would be crossed over his chest instead of having them tied behind his back.
“I like to lie comfortably,” he said.
They hastened to satisfy him; then the sergeant gave the signal for departure, said good-bye to Mateo, who didn’t reply, and descended to the plain in quick time.
Nearly ten minutes went by before Mateo opened his mouth. With nervous eyes, the child was looking now at his mother and now at his father, who, leaning on his rifle, was observing him with an expression of concentrated anger.
“You’re making a fine beginning!” Mateo finally said in a voice that was calm but frightening for anyone who knew him well.
“Father!” exclaimed the child, stepping forward with tears in his eyes, as if intending to go down on his knees to him.
But Mateo shouted to him:
“Stand back!”
And the child stopped, sobbing motionlessly a few paces away from his father.
Giuseppa approached. She had just caught sight of the watch chain, one end of which was protruding from Fortunato’s shirt.
“Who gave you that watch?” she asked with a severe expression.
“My cousin the sergeant.”
Falcone seized the watch and, hurling it violently against a rock, shattered it into bits.
“Wife,” he said, “is this child mine?”
Giuseppa’s brown cheeks turned brick-red.
“What are you saying, Mateo? And do you realize who you’re talking to?”
“Well, then, this child is the first of his line to betray anyone.”
Fortunato’s sobs and hiccups redoubled, and Falcone kept his lynx eyes fixed on him. Finally he struck the ground with his rifle butt, then threw the rifle over his shoulder, and went back onto the road to the maquis, calling to Fortunato to follow him. The child obeyed.
Giuseppa ran after Mateo and took hold of his arm.
“He’s your son,” she said, her voice trembling and her dark eyes staring into her husband’s, as if to detect what was going on in his soul.
“Let me go,” Mateo replied. “I’m his father.”
Giuseppa kissed her son and entered her hut, weeping. She fell on her knees in front of a statuette of the Virgin and prayed fervently. Meanwhile, Falcone walked some two hundred paces along the path, not stopping until he reached a small ravine, into which he descended. He tested the soil with his rifle butt and found it soft and easy to dig. The spot seemed suitable for his purpose.
“Fortunato, go over to that big rock.”
The child did what he was ordered to, then knelt down.
“Say your prayers.”
“Father, father, don’t kill me!”
“Say your prayers!” Mateo repeated in fearsome tones.
The child, stammering and sobbing, recited the Lord’s Prayer and the Apostles’ Creed. His father loudly replied “Amen!” at the end of each prayer.
“Are those all the prayers you know?”
“Father, I also know the ‘Hail, Mary’ and the litany my aunt taught me.”
“It’s pretty long, but go ahead.”
The child completed the litany in a toneless voice.
“Are you done?”
“Oh, father, mercy! Forgive me! I’ll never do it again! I’ll keep on begging my cousin the caporale until Gianetto is pardoned!”
He was still speaking; Mateo had cocked his rifle and was taking aim, saying:
“May God forgive you!”
The child made a desperate effort to get up and clasp his father’s knees, but he didn’t have the time. Mateo fired, and Fortunato fell down dead.
Without even glancing at the corpse, Mateo went back along the road to his house to fetch a spade so he could bury his son. He had scarcely taken a few steps when he met Giuseppa, who was running up, alarmed at the shot.
“What have you done?” she exclaimed.
“I’ve dealt out justice.”
“Where is he?”
“In the ravine. I’m going to bury him. He died like a Christian; I’ll have a Mass sung for him. Have my son-in-law Tiodoro Bianchi told to come and move in with us.”
André Gide
THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON
Le Retour de l’Enfant Prodigue
As was done in old triptychs, I have painted here, for my secret pl
easure, the parable told to us by Our Lord Jesus Christ. Leaving scattered and indistinct the double inspiration which moves me, I have not tried to prove the victory of any god over me—or my victory. And yet, if the reader demands of me some expression of piety, he will not perhaps look for it in vain in my painting, where, like a donor in the corner of the picture, I am kneeling, a pendant to the prodigal son, smiling like him and also like him, my face soaked with tears.
The Prodigal Son
When, after a long absence, tired of his fancies and as if fallen out of love with himself, the prodigal son, from the depths of that destitution he sought, thinks of his father’s face; of that not too small room where his mother used to bend over his bed; of that garden, watered with a running stream but enclosed and from which he had always wanted to escape; of his thrifty older brother whom he never loved, but who still holds, in the expectation of his return, that part of his fortune which, as a prodigal, he was not able to squander—the boy confesses to himself that he did not find happiness, nor even succeed in prolonging very much that disorderly excitement which he sought in place of happiness. “Ah!” he thinks, “if my father, after first being angry with me, believed me dead, perhaps, in spite of my sins, he would rejoice at seeing me again. Ah, if I go back to him very humbly, my head bowed and covered with ashes, and if, bending down before him and saying to him: ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before you,’ what shall I do if, raising me with his hand, he says, ‘Come into the house, my son’?” And already the boy is piously on his way.
When from the top of the hill he sees at last the smoking roofs of the house, it is evening. But he waits for the shadows of night in order to veil somewhat his poverty. In the distance he hears his father’s voice. His knees give way. He falls and covers his face with his hands because he is ashamed of his shame, and yet he knows that he is the lawful son. He is hungry. In a fold of his tattered cloak he has only one handful of those sweet acorns which were his food, as they were the food of the swine he herded. He sees the preparations for supper. He makes out his mother coming on to the doorstep. . . . He can hold back no longer. He runs down the hill and comes into the courtyard where his dog, failing to recognize him, barks. He tries to speak to the servants. But they are suspicious and move away in order to warn the master. Here he is!