“Your father?”
“Yes. He has it in the next room now. Can you not see how it disappeared, Harold? Why, the cat swallowed it!”
“Do you mean to say that the white tabby swallowed the Crimson Diamond?”
“By mistake. She tried to get it out of the velvet bag, and, as the bag was also full of catnip, she could not resist a mouthful, and unfortunately just then you broke in the door and so startled the cat that she swallowed the Crimson Diamond.” There was a painful pause. At last I said; “Elsie, as you are able to vanish, I suppose you also are able to converse with cats.”
“I am,” she replied, trying to keep back the tears of mortification.
“And that cat told you this?”
“She did.”
“And my Crimson Diamond is inside that cat?”
“It is.”
“Then,” said I firmly, “I am going to chloroform the cat.”
“Harold!” she cried in terror, “that cat is your great-aunt!”
I don’t know to this day how I stood the shock of that announcement, or how I managed to listen, while Elsie tried to explain the transmigration theory, but it was all Chinese to me. I only knew that I was a blood relation of a cat, and the thought nearly drove me mad.
“Try, my darling, try to love her,” whispered Elsie, “she must be very precious to you—”
“Yes, with my diamond inside her,” I replied faintly.
“You must not neglect her,” said Elsie.
“Oh no, I’ll always have my eye on her — I mean I will surround her with luxury — er, milk and bones and catnip and books — er — does she read?”
“Not the books that human beings read. Now go and speak to your aunt, Harold.”
“Eh! How the deuce—”
“Go, for my sake try to be cordial.”
She rose and led me unresistingly to the door of my room.
“Good Heavens!” I groaned, “this is awful.”
“Courage, my darling!” she whispered, “be brave for love of me.”
I drew her to me and kissed her. Beads of cold perspiration started in the roots of my hair, but I clenched my teeth and entered the room alone. The room was dark and I stood silent, not knowing where to turn, fearful lest I step on the cat, my aunt! Then through the dreary silence I called; “Aunty!”
A faint noise broke upon my ear, and my heart grew sick, but I strode into the darkness calling hoarsely: —
“Aunt Tabby! it is your nephew!”
Again the faint sound. Something was stirring there among the shadows, — a shape moving softly along the wall, a shade which glided by me, paused, wavered, and darted under the bed. Then I threw myself on the floor, profoundly moved, begging, imploring my aunt to come to me.
“Aunty! Aunty!” I murmured, “your nephew is waiting to take you to his heart!” And at last I saw my great-aunt’s eyes, shining in the dark.
Close the door. That meeting is not for the eyes of the world! Close the door upon that sacred scene where great-aunt and nephew are united at last.
THE END
THE MYSTERY OF CHOICE
This short story collection, linked by the characters of an American in Brittany and a local young French woman whom he meets, was first published in 1897. As well as making full use of Chambers’ artistic eye for natural scenery, it contains a further four of Chambers’ weird tales: ‘The Messenger’, ‘The White Shadow’, Passeur’ and ‘The Key to Grief’).
Cover of the first edition
CONTENTS
THE PURPLE EMPEROR.
POMPE FUNÈBRE.
THE MESSENGER.
THE WHITE SHADOW.
PASSEUR.
THE KEY TO GRIEF.
A MATTER OF INTEREST.
ENVOI.
Most of the stories are set in the Breton countryside of France
DEDICATION.
There is a maid, demure as she is wise,
With all of April in her winsome eyes,
And to my tales she listens pensively,
With slender fingers clasped about her knee,
Watching the sparrows on the balcony.
Shy eyes that, lifted up to me,
Free all my heart of vanity;
Clear eyes, that speak all silently,
Sweet as the silence of a nunnery —
Read, for I write my rede for you alone,
Here where the city’s mighty monotone
Deepens the silence to a symphony —
Silence of Saints, and Seers, and Sorcery.
Arms and the Man! A noble theme, I ween!
Alas! I can not sing of these, Eileen —
Only of maids and men and meadow-grass,
Of sea and fields and woodlands, where I pass;
Nothing but these I know, Eileen, alas!
Clear eyes that, lifted up to me,
Free all my soul from vanity;
Gray eyes, that speak all wistfully —
Nothing but these I know, alas!
R. W. C.
April, 1896.
INTRODUCTION.
I.
Where two fair paths, deep flowered
And leaf-embowered,
Creep East and West across a World concealed,
Which shall he take who journeys far afield?
II.
Canst thou then say, “I go,”
Or “I forego”?
What turns thee East or West, as thistles blow?
Is fair more fair than fair — and dost thou know?
III.
Turn to the West, unblessed
And uncaressed;
Turn to the East, and, seated at the Feast
Thou shall find Life, or Death from Life released.
IV.
And thou who lovest best
A maid dark-tressed,
And passest others by with careless eye,
Canst thou tell why thou choosest? Tell, then; why?
V.
So whun thy kiss is given
Or half-forgiven,
Why should she tremble, with her face flame-hot,
Or laugh and whisper, “Love, I tremble not”?
VI.
Or when thy hand may catch
A half-drawn latch.
What draws thee from the door, to turn and pass
Through streets unknown, dim, still, and choked with grass?
VII.
What! Canst thou not foresee
The Mystery?
Heed! For a Voice commands thy every deed!
And it hath sounded. And thou needs must heed!
R. W. C.
1896.
THE PURPLE EMPEROR.
Un souvenir heureux est peut-être, sur terre,
Plus vrai que le bonheur.
A. DE MUSSET.
I.
THE Purple Emperor watched me in silence. I cast again, spinning out six feet more of waterproof silk, and, as the line hissed through the air far across the pool, I saw my three flies fall on the water like drifting thistledown. The Purple Emperor sneered.
“You see,” he said, “I am right. There is not a trout in Brittany that will rise to a tailed fly.”
“They do in America,” I replied.
“Zut! for America!” observed the Purple Emperor.
“And trout take a tailed fly in England,” I insisted sharply.
“Now do I care what things or people do in England?” demanded the Purple Emperor.
“You don’t care for anything except yourself and your wriggling caterpillars,” I said, more annoyed than I had yet been.
The Purple Emperor sniffed. His broad, hairless, sunburnt features bore that obstinate expression which always irritated me. Perhaps the manner in which he wore his hat intensified the irritation, for the flapping brim rested on both ears, and the two little velvet ribbons which hung from the silver buckle in front wiggled and fluttered with every trivial breeze. His cunning eyes and sharp-pointed nose were out of all keeping with
his fat red face. When he met my eye, he chuckled.
“I know more about insects than any man in Morbihan — or Finistère either, for that matter,” he said.
“The Red Admiral knows as much as you do,” I retorted.
“He doesn’t,” replied the Purple Emperor angrily.
“And his collection of butterflies is twice as large as yours,” I added, moving down the stream to a spot directly opposite him.
“It is, is it?” sneered the Purple Emperor.
“Well, let me tell you, Monsieur Barrel, in all his collection he hasn’t a specimen, a single specimen, of that magnificent butterfly, Apatura Iris, commonly known as the ‘Purple Emperor’.”
“Everybody in Brittany knows that,” I said, casting across the sparkling water; “but just because you happen to be the only man who ever captured a Purple Emperor in Morbihan, it doesn’t follow that you are an authority on sea-trout flies. Why do you say that a Breton sea-trout won’t touch a tailed fly?”
“It’s so,” he replied.
“Why? There are plenty of May-flies about the stream.”
“Let em fly!” snarled the Purple Emperor, “you won’t see a trout touch ‘em.”
My arm was aching, but I grasped my split bamboo more firmly, and, half turning, waded out into the stream and began to whip the ripples at the head of the pool. A great green dragon-fly came drifting by on the summer breeze and hung a moment above the pool, glittering like an emerald.
“There’s a chance! Where is your butterfly net?” I called across the stream.
“What for? That dragon-fly? I’ve got dozens — Anax Junius, Drury, characteristic, anal angle of posterior wings, in male, round; thorax marked with — —”
“That will do,” I said fiercely. “Can’t I point out an insect in the air without this burst of erudition? Can you tell me, in simple every day French, what this little fly is — this one, flitting over the eel grass here beside me? See, it has fallen on the water.”
“Huh!” sneered the Purple Emperor, “that’s a Linnobia annulus.”
“What’s that?” I demanded.
Before he could answer there came a heavy splash in the pool, and the fly disappeared.
“He! he! he!” tittered the Purple Emperor. “Didn’t I tell you the fish knew their business? That was a sea-trout. I hope you don’t get him.”
He gathered up his butterfly net, collecting box, chloroform bottle, and cyanide jar. Then he rose, swung the box over his shoulder, stuffed the poison bottles into the pockets of his silver-buttoned velvet coat, and lighted his pipe. This latter operation was a demoralizing spectacle, for the Purple Emperor, like all Breton peasants, smoked one of those microscopical Breton pipes which requires ten minutes to find, ten minutes to fill, ten minutes to light, and ten seconds to finish. With true Breton stolidity he went through this solemn rite, blew three puffs of smoke into the air, scratched his pointed nose reflectively, and waddled away, calling back an ironical “Au revoir, and bad luck to all Yankees!”
I watched him out of sight, thinking sadly of the young girl whose life he made a hell upon earth — Lys Trevec, his niece. She never admitted it, but we all knew what the black-and-blue marks meant on her soft, round arm, and it made me sick to see the look of fear come into her eyes when the Purple Emperor waddled into the café of the Groix Inn.
It was commonly said that he half-starved her. This she denied. Marie Joseph and ‘Fine Lelocard had seen him strike her the day after the Pardon of the Birds because she had liberated three bullfinches which he had limed the day before. I asked Lys if this were true, and she refused to speak to me for the rest of the week. There was nothing to do about it. If the Purple Emperor had not been avaricious, I should never have seen Lys at all, but he could not resist the thirty francs a week which I offered him; and Lys posed for me all day long, happy as a linnet in a pink thorn hedge. Nevertheless, the Purple Emperor hated me, and constantly threatened to send Lys back to her dreary flax-spinning. He was suspicious, too, and when he had gulped down the single glass of cider which proves fatal to the sobriety of most Bretons, he would pound the long, discoloured oaken table and roar curses on me, on Yves Terrec, and on the Red Admiral. We were the three objects in the world which he most hated: me, because I was a foreigner, and didn’t care a rap for him and his butterflies; and the Red Admiral, because he was a rival entomologist.
He had other reasons for hating Terrec.
The Red Admiral, a little wizened wretch, with a badly adjusted glass eye and a passion for brandy, took his name from a butterfly which predominated in his collection. This butterfly, commonly known to amateurs as the “Red Admiral,” and to entomologists as Vanessa Atalanta, had been the occasion of scandal among the entomologists of France and Brittany. For the Red Admiral had taken one of these common insects, dyed it a brilliant yellow by the aid of chemicals, and palmed it off on a credulous collector as a South African species, absolutely unique. The fifty francs which he gained by this rascality were, however, absorbed in a suit for damages brought by the outraged amateur a month later; and when he had sat in the Quimperlé jail for a month, he reappeared in the little village of St. Gildas soured, thirsty, and burning for revenge. Of course we named him the Red Admiral, and he accepted the name with suppressed fury.
The Purple Emperor, on the other hand, had gained his imperial title legitimately, for it was an undisputed fact that the only specimen of that beautiful butterfly, Apatura Iris, or the Purple Emperor, as it is called by amateurs — the only specimen that had ever been taken in Finistère or in Morbihan — was captured and brought home alive by Joseph Marie Gloanec, ever afterward to be known as the Purple Emperor.
When the capture of this rare butterfly became known the Red Admiral nearly went crazy. Every day for a week he trotted over to the Groix Inn, where the Purple Emperor lived with his niece, and brought his microscope to bear on the rare newly captured butterfly, in hopes of detecting a fraud. But this specimen was genuine, and he leered through his microscope in vain.
“No chemicals there, Admiral,” grinned the Purple Emperor; and the Red Admiral chattered with rage.
To the scientific world of Brittany and France the capture of an Apatura Iris in Morbihan was of great importance. The Museum of Quimper offered to purchase the butterfly, but the Purple Emperor, though a hoarder of gold, was a monomaniac on butterflies, and he jeered at the Curator of the Museum. From all parts of Brittany and France letters of inquiry and congratulation poured in upon him. The French Academy of Sciences awarded him a prize, and the Paris Entomological Society made him an honorary member. Being a Breton peasant, and a more than commonly pig-headed one at that, these honours did not disturb his equanimity; but when the little hamlet of St. Gildas elected him mayor, and, as is the custom in Brittany under such circumstances, he left his thatched house to take up an official life in the little Groix Inn, his head became completely turned. To be mayor in a village of nearly one hundred and fifty people! It was an empire! So he became unbearable, drinking himself viciously drunk every night of his life, maltreating his niece, Lys Trevec, like the barbarous old wretch that he was, and driving the Red Admiral nearly frantic with his eternal harping on the capture of Apatura Iris. Of course he refused to tell where he had caught the butterfly. The Red Admiral stalked his footsteps, but in vain.
“He! he! he!” nagged the Purple Emperor, cuddling his chin over a glass of cider; “I saw you sneaking about the St. Gildas spinny yesterday morning. So you think you can find another Apatura Iris by running after me? It won’t do, Admiral, it won’t do, d’ye see?”
The Red Admiral turned yellow with mortification and envy, but the next day he actually took to his bed, for the Purple Emperor had brought home not a butterfly but a live chrysalis, which, if successfully hatched, would become a perfect specimen of the invaluable Apatura Iris. This was the last straw. The Red Admiral shut himself up in his little stone cottage, and for weeks now he had been invisible to everybody except ‘Fine Lel
ocard who carried him a loaf of bread and a mullet or langouste every morning.
The withdrawal of the Red Admiral from the society of St. Gildas excited first the derision and finally the suspicion of the Purple Emperor. What deviltry could he be hatching? Was he experimenting with chemicals again, or was he engaged in some deeper plot, the object of which was to discredit the Purple Emperor? Roux, the postman, who carried the mail on foot once a day from Bannalec, a distance of fifteen miles each way, had brought several suspicious letters, bearing English stamps, to the Red Admiral, and the next day the Admiral had been observed at his window grinning up into the sky and rubbing his hands together. A night or two after this apparition the postman left two packages at the Groix Inn for a moment while he ran across the way to drink a glass of cider with me. The Purple Emperor, who was roaming about the café, snooping into everything that did not concern him, came upon the packages and examined the postmarks and addresses. One of the packages was square and heavy, and felt like a book. The other was also square, but very light, and felt like a pasteboard box. They were both addressed to the Red Admiral, and they bore English stamps.
When Roux, the postman, came back, the Purple Emperor tried to pump him, but the poor little postman knew nothing about the contents of the packages, and after he had taken them around the corner to the cottage of the Red Admiral the Purple Emperor ordered a glass of cider, and deliberately fuddled himself until Lys came in and tearfully supported him to his room. Here he became so abusive and brutal that Lys called to me, and I went and settled the trouble without wasting any words. This also the Purple Emperor remembered, and waited his chance to get even with me.
That had happened a week ago, and until to-day he had not deigned to speak to me.
Lys had posed for me all the week, and today being Saturday, and I lazy, we had decided to take a little relaxation, she to visit and gossip with her little black-eyed friend Yvette in the neighbouring hamlet of St. Julien, and I to try the appetites of the Breton trout with the contents of my American fly book.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 1079