Gabriela stopped speaking. The judge had buried his face in his hands, as if he were thinking, but I could see he was shaking like an epileptic.
“Your honor,” repeated Gabriela, “grant my request that I may die soon.”
The judge made a sign to the guards to remove the prisoner.
Before she followed them, she gave me a terrible look in which there was more of pride than of repentance.
* * *
—
I do not wish to enter into details of the condition of the judge during the following day. In the great emotional struggle which took place, the officer of the law conquered the man, and he confirmed the sentence of death.
On the following day the papers were sent to the Court of Appeals, and then Zarco came to me and said: “Wait here until I return. Take care of this unfortunate woman, but do not visit her, for your presence would humiliate instead of consoling her. Do not ask me whither I am going, and do not think that I am going to commit the very foolish act of taking my own life. Farewell, and forgive me all the worry I have caused you.”
Twenty days later the Court of Appeals confirmed the sentence, and Gabriela Zahara was placed in the death cell.
* * *
—
The morning of the day fixed for the execution came, and still the judge had not returned. The scaffold had been erected in the center of the square, and an enormous crowd had gathered. I stood by the door of the prison, for, while I had obeyed the wish of my friend that I should not call on Gabriela in her prison, I believed it my duty to represent him in that supreme moment and accompany the woman he had loved to the foot of the scaffold.
When she appeared, surrounded by her guards, I hardly recognized her. She had grown very thin and seemed hardly to have the strength to lift to her lips the small crucifix she carried in her hand.
“I am here, señora. Can I be of service to you?” I asked her as she passed by me.
She raised her deep, sunken eyes to mine, and, when she recognized me, she exclaimed:
“Oh, thanks, thanks! This is a great consolation for me, in my last hour of life. Father,” she added, turning to the priest who stood beside her, “may I speak a few words to this generous friend?”
“Yes, my daughter,” answered the venerable minister.
Then Gabriela asked me: “Where is he?”
“He is absent——”
“May God bless him and make him happy! When you see him, ask him to forgive me even as I believe God has already forgiven me. Tell him I love him yet, although this love is the cause of my death.”
We had arrived at the foot of the scaffold stairway, where I was compelled to leave her. A tear, perhaps the last one there was in that suffering heart, rolled down her cheek. Once more she said: “Tell him that I died blessing him.”
Suddenly there came a roar like that of thunder. The mass of people swayed, shouted, danced, laughed like maniacs, and above all this tumult one word rang out clearly:
“Pardoned! Pardoned!”
At the entrance to the square appeared a man on horseback, galloping madly toward the scaffold. In his hand he waved a white handkerchief, and his voice rang high above the clamor of the crowd: “Pardoned! Pardoned!”
It was the judge. Reining up his foaming horse at the foot of the scaffold, he extended a paper to the chief of police.
Gabriela, who had already mounted some of the steps, turned and gave the judge a look of infinite love and gratitude.
“God bless you!” she exclaimed, and then fell senseless.
As soon as the signatures and seals upon the document had been verified by the authorities, the priest and the judge rushed to the accused to undo the cords which bound her hands and arms and to revive her.
All their efforts were useless, however. Gabriela Zahara was dead.
The Invisible Eye
ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN
Émile Erckmann (1822–1899) and Alexandre Chatrian (1826–1890) met as students, became close friends, and begin to write collaboratively in 1847. Their coauthorship methodology was probably unique in that Erckmann, clearly the creative genius behind the numerous works of fiction, wrote everything, while Chatrian took care of editing and polishing, as well as handling the messy business of publishing and dramatizations. Surviving manuscripts and papers provide evidence of their collaborative technique.
Both men were natives of Alsace-Lorraine and, while Erckmann remained there, Chatrian moved to Paris to handle their business affairs. Although their major works are unread today, their Alsatian novels provide valuable and accurate information about the events, ideas, and folklore of the time and region. Written in clear and direct prose aimed at the general reader, eschewing literary movements, styles, and fads, they were enormously popular though largely ignored by critics. Often featuring military backgrounds, the novels were appealing to readers for their republican slant and their repudiation of imperialism and Germany.
They produced many supernatural stories that were influenced by Poe and Hoffmann and it is these tales for which they are remembered today. A long, successful, and loving relationship came to a sad and somewhat bizarre close when Chatrian became ill in 1887 and ended the collaboration soon after. As he lay dying, he brought a lawsuit, claiming full credit and ownership of all their works. He lost the suit and, although a disappointed and newly pessimistic Erckmann continued to write for several years, it was without distinction or success.
“The Invisible Eye” was orginally published in French in 1857; the first English-language edition was in the December 1870 issue of Temple Bar.
THE INVISIBLE EYE
Erckmann-Chatrian
About this time (said Christian), poor as a church mouse, I took refuge in the roof of an old house in Minnesänger Street, Nuremberg, and made my nest in the corner of the garret.
I was compelled to work over my straw bed to reach the window, but this window was in the gable end, and the view from it was magnificent, both town and country being spread out before me.
I could see the cats walking gravely in the gutters; the storks, their beaks filled with frogs, carrying nourishment to their ravenous brood; the pigeons, springing from their cotes, their tails spread like fans, hovering over the streets.
In the evening, when the bells called the world to the Angelus, with my elbows upon the edge of the roof, I listened to their melancholy chimes; I watched the windows as, one by one, they were lighted up; the good burghers smoking their pipes on the sidewalks; the young girls in their red skirts, with their pitchers under their arms, laughing and chatting around the fountain “Saint Sebalt.” Insensibly all this faded away, the bats commenced their rapid course, and I retired to my mattress in sweet peace and tranquility.
The old curiosity seller, Toubac, knew the way to my little lodging as well as I did, and was not afraid to climb the ladder. Every week his ugly head, adorned with a reddish cap, raised the trapdoor, his fingers grasped the ledge, and he cried out in a nasal tone:
“Well, well, Master Christian, have you anything?”
To which I replied:
“Come in. Why in the devil don’t you come in? I am just finishing a little landscape, and you must tell me what you think of it.”
Then his great back, seeming to elongate, grew up, even to the roof, and the good man laughed silently.
I must do justice to Toubac: he never haggled with me about prices; he bought all my paintings at fifteen florins, one with the other, and sold them again for forty each. “This was an honest Jew!”
I began to grow fond of this mode of existence, and to find new charms in it day by day.
Just at this time the city of Nuremberg was agitated by a strange and mysterious event. Not far from my dormer window, a little to the left, stood the Inn Bœuf-Gras, an old auberge much patronized throughout the country. Three
or four wagons, filled with sacks or casks, were always drawn up before the door, where the rustic drivers were in the habit of stopping, on their way to the market, to take their morning draught of wine.
The gable end of the inn was distinguished by its peculiar form. It was very narrow, pointed, and, on two sides, cutin teeth, like a saw. The carvings were strangely grotesque, interwoven and ornamenting the cornices and surrounding the windows; but the most remarkable fact was that the house opposite reproduced exactly the same sculptures, the same ornaments; even the signboard, with its post and spiral of iron, was exactly copied.
One might have thought that these two ancient houses reflected each other. Behind the inn, however, was a grand old oak, whose somber leaves darkened the stones of the roof, while the other house stood out in bold relief against the sky. To complete the description, this old building was as silent and dreary as the Inn Bœuf-Gras was noisy and animated.
On one side, a crowd of merry drinkers were continually entering in and going out, singing, tripping, cracking their whips; on the other, profound silence reigned.
Perhaps, once or twice during the day, the heavy door seemed to open of itself, to allow a little old woman to go out, with her back almost in a semicircle, her dress fitting tight about her hips, an enormous basket on her arm, and her hand contracted against her breast.
It seemed to me that I saw at a glance, as I looked upon her, a whole existence of good works and pious meditations.
The physiognomy of this old woman had struck me more than once: her little green eyes, long, thin nose, the immense bouquets of flowers on her shawl, which must have been at least a hundred years old, the withered smile which puckered her cheeks into a cockade, the lace of her bonnet falling down to her eyebrows—all this was fantastic, and interested me much. Why did this old woman live in this great deserted house? I wished to explore the mystery.
One day as I paused in the street and followed her with my eyes, she turned suddenly and gave me a look, the horrible expression of which I know not how to paint; made three or four hideous grimaces, and then, letting her palsied head fall upon her breast, drew her great shawl closely around her, and advanced slowly to the heavy door, behind which I saw her disappear.
“She’s an old fool!” I said to myself, in a sort of stupor. My faith, it was the height of folly in me to be interested in her!
However, I would like to see her grimace again; old Toubac would willingly give me fifteen florins if I could paint it for him.
I must confess that these pleasantries of mine did not entirely reassure me.
The hideous glance which the old shrew had given me pursued me everywhere. More than once, while climbing the almost perpendicular ladder to my loft, feeling my clothing caught on some point, I trembled from head to foot, imagining that the old wretch was hanging to the tails of my coat in order to destroy me.
Toubac, to whom I related this adventure, was far from laughing at it; indeed, he assumed a grave and solemn air.
“Master Christian,” said he, “if the old woman wants you, take care! Her teeth are small, pointed, and of marvelous whiteness, and that is not natural at her age. She has an ‘evil eye.’ Children flee from her, and the people of Nuremberg call her ‘Fledermausse.’ ”
I admired the clear, sagacious intellect of the Jew, and his words gave me cause for reflection.
Several weeks passed away, during which I often encountered Fledermausse without any alarming consequences. My fears were dissipated, and I thought of her no more.
But an evening came, during which, while sleeping very soundly, I was awakened by a strange harmony. It was a kind of vibration, so sweet, so melodious, that the whispering of the breeze among the leaves can give but a faint idea of its charm.
For a long time I listened intently, with my eyes wide open, and holding my breath, so as not to lose a note. At last I looked toward the window, and saw two wings fluttering against the glass. I thought, at first, that it was a bat, caught in my room; but, the moon rising at that instant, I saw the wings of a magnificent butterfly of the night delineated upon her shining disk. Their vibrations were often so rapid that they could not be distinguished; then they reposed, extended upon the glass, and their frail fibers were again brought to view.
This misty apparition, coming in the midst of the universal silence, opened my heart to all sweet emotions. It seemed to me that an airy sylph, touched with a sense of my solitude, had come to visit me, and this idea melted me almost to tears.
“Be tranquil, sweet captive, be tranquil,” said I; “your confidence shall not be abused. I will not keep you against your will. Return to heaven and to liberty.” I then opened my little window. The night was calm, and millions of stars were glittering in the sky. For a moment I contemplated this sublime spectacle, and words of prayer and praise came naturally to my lips; but, judge of my amazement, when, lowering my eyes, I saw a man hanging from the crossbeam of the sign of the Bœuf-Gras, the hair disheveled, the arms stiff, the legs elongated to a point, and casting their gigantic shadows down to the street!
The immobility of this figure under the moon’s rays was terrible. I felt my tongue freezing, my teeth clinched. I was about to cry out in terror when, by some incomprehensible mysterious attraction, my glance fell below, and I distinguished, confusedly, the old woman crouched at her window in the midst of dark shadows, and contemplating the dead man with an air of diabolic satisfaction.
Then I had a vertigo of terror. All my strength abandoned me, and, retreating to the wall of my loft, I sank down and became insensible.
I do not know how long this sleep of death continued. When restored to consciousness, I saw that it was broad day. The mists of the night had penetrated to my garret, and deposited their fresh dew upon my hair, and the confused murmurs of the street ascended to my little lodging. I looked without. The burgomaster and his secretary were stationed at the door of the inn, and remained there a long time; crowds of people came and went, and paused to look in; then recommenced their course. The good women of the neighborhood, who were sweeping before their doors, looked on from afar, and talked gravely with each other.
At last a litter, and upon this litter a body, covered with a linen cloth, issued from the inn, carried by two men. They descended to the street, and the children, on their way to school, ran behind them.
All the people drew back as they advanced.
The window opposite was still open; the end of a rope floated from the crossbeam.
I had not dreamed. I had, indeed, seen the butterfly of the night; I had seen the man hanging, and I had seen Fledermausse.
That day Toubac made me a visit, and, as his great nose appeared on a level with the floor, he exclaimed:
“Master Christian, have you nothing to sell?”
I did not hear him. I was seated upon my one chair, my hands clasped upon my knees, and my eyes fixed before me.
Toubac, surprised at my inattention, repeated in a louder voice:
“Master Christian, Master Christian!” Then, striding over the sill, he advanced and struck me on the shoulder.
“Well, well, what is the matter now?”
“Ah, is that you, Toubac?”
“Eh, parbleu! I rather think so; are you ill?”
“No, I am only thinking.”
“What in the devil are you thinking about?”
“Of the man who was hanged.”
“Oh, oh!” cried the curiosity vender. “You have seen him, then? The poor boy! What a singular history! The third in the same place.”
“How—the third?”
“Ah, yes! I ought to have warned you; but it is not too late. There will certainly be a fourth, who will follow the example of the others. Il n’y a que le premier pas qui coûte.”
Saying this, Toubac took a seat on the corner of my trunk, struck his match-box, lighted his pipe,
and blew three or four powerful whiffs of smoke with a meditative air.
“My faith,” said he, “I am not fearful; but, if I had full permission to pass the night in that chamber, I should much prefer to sleep elsewhere.
“Listen, Master Christian. Nine or ten months ago a good man of Tübingen, wholesale dealer in furs, dismounted at the Inn Bœuf-Gras. He called for supper; he ate well; he drank well; and was finally conducted to that room in the third story—it is called the Green Room. Well, the next morning he was found hanging to the crossbeam of the signboard.
“Well, that might do for once; nothing could be said.
“Every proper investigation was made, and the stranger was buried at the bottom of the garden. But, look you, about six months afterwards a brave soldier from Neustadt arrived; he had received his final discharge, and was rejoicing in the thought of returning to his native village. During the whole evening, while emptying his wine cups, he spoke fondly of his little cousin who was waiting to marry him. At last this big monsieur was conducted to his room—the Green Room—and, the same night, the watchman, passing down the street Minnesänger, perceived something hanging to the crossbeam; he raised his lantern, and lo! it was the soldier, with his final discharge in a bow on his left hip, and his hands gathered up to the seam of his pantaloons, as if on parade.
“ ‘Truth to say, this is extraordinary!’ cried the burgomaster; ‘the devil’s to pay.’ Well, the chamber was much visited; the walls were replastered, and the dead man was sent to Neustadt.
“The registrar wrote this marginal note:
“ ‘Died of apoplexy.’
“All Nuremberg was enraged against the innkeeper. There were many, indeed, who wished to force him to take down his iron crossbeam, under the pretext that it inspired people with dangerous ideas; but you may well believe that old Michael Schmidt would not lend his ear to this proposition.
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 88