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      A Set of Six, by Joseph Conrad
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Set of Six, by Joseph Conrad

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with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: A Set of Six

Author: Joseph Conrad

Release Date: January 9, 2006 [EBook #2305]
Last Updated: September 10, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SET OF SIX ***




Produced by Judy Boss and David Widger





</pre>

    <h1>
      A SET OF SIX
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Joseph Conrad
    </h2>
<div class="middle">
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <i>Les petites marionnettes<br /> Font, font, font, <br /> Trois
      petits tours <br /> Et puis s&rsquo;en vont</i>.<br /> &mdash;NURSERY RHYME <br />
      <br />
    </p>
</div>
    <h3>
      TO MISS M. H. M. CAPES
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      Contents
    </h2>
    <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto">
      <tr>
        <td>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> AUTHOR&rsquo;S NOTE </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> GASPAR RUIZ </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE INFORMER </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE BRUTE </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> AN ANARCHIST </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE DUEL </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> IL CONDE </a>
          </p>
          <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC">
          <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
        </td>
      </tr>
    </table>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      AUTHOR&rsquo;S NOTE
    </h2>
    <p>
      The six stories in this volume are the result of some three or four years
      of occasional work. The dates of their writing are far apart, their
      origins are various. None of them are connected directly with personal
      experiences. In all of them the facts are inherently true, by which I mean
      that they are not only possible but that they have actually happened. For
      instance, the last story in the volume, the one I call Pathetic, whose
      first title is Il Conde (misspelt by-the-by) is an almost verbatim
      transcript of the tale told me by a very charming old gentleman whom I met
      in Italy. I don&rsquo;t mean to say it is only that. Anybody can see that it is
      something more than a verbatim report, but where he left off and where I
      began must be left to the acute discrimination of the reader who may be
      interested in the problem. I don&rsquo;t mean to say that the problem is worth
      the trouble. What I am certain of, however, is that it is not to be
      solved, for I am not at all clear about it myself by this time. All I can
      say is that the personality of the narrator was extremely suggestive quite
      apart from the story he was telling me. I heard a few years ago that he
      had died far away from his beloved Naples where that &ldquo;abominable
      adventure&rdquo; did really happen to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus the genealogy of Il Conde is simple. It is not the case with the
      other stories. Various strains contributed to their composition, and the
      nature of many of those I have forgotten, not having the habit of making
      notes either before or after the fact. I mean the fact of writing a story.
      What I remember best about Gaspar Ruiz is that it was written, or at any
      rate begun, within a month of finishing Nostromo; but apart from the
      locality, and that a pretty wide one (all the South American Continent),
      the novel and the story have nothing in common, neither mood, nor
      intention and, certainly, not the style. The manner for the most part is
      that of General Santierra, and that old warrior, I note with satisfaction,
      is very true to himself all through. Looking now dispassionately at the
      various ways in which this story could have been presented I can&rsquo;t
      honestly think the General superfluous. It is he, an old man talking of
      the days of his youth, who characterizes the whole narrative and gives it
      an air of actuality which I doubt whether I could have achieved without
      his help. In the mere writing his existence of course was of no help at
      all, because the whole thing had to be carefully kept within the frame of
      his simple mind. But all this is but a laborious searching of memories. My
      present feeling is that the story could not have been told otherwise. The
      hint for Gaspar Ruiz the man I found in a book by Captain Basil Hall,
      R.N., who was for some time, between the years 1824 and 1828, senior
      officer of a small British Squadron on the West Coast of South America.
      His book published in the thirties obtained a certain celebrity and I
      suppose is to be found still in some libraries. The curious who may be
      mistrusting my imagination are referred to that printed document, Vol. II,
      I forget the page, but it is somewhere not far from the end. Another
      document connected with this story is a letter of a biting and ironic kind
      from a friend then in Burma, passing certain strictures upon &ldquo;the
      gentleman with the gun on his back&rdquo; which I do not intend to make
      accessible to the public. Yet the gun episode did really happen, or at
      least I am bound to believe it because I remember it, described in an
      extremely matter-of-fact tone, in some book I read in my boyhood; and I am
      not going to discard the beliefs of my boyhood for anybody on earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Brute, which is the only sea-story in the volume, is, like Il Conde,
      associated with a direct narrative and based on a suggestion gathered on
      warm human lips. I will not disclose the real name of the criminal ship
      but the first I heard of her homicidal habits was from the late Captain
      Blake, commanding a London ship in which I served in 1884 as Second
      Officer. Captain Blake was, of all my commanders, the one I remember with
      the greatest affection. I have sketched in his personality, without
      however mentioning his name, in the first paper of The Mirror of the Sea.
      In his young days he had had a personal experience of the brute and it is
      perhaps for that reason that I have put the story into the mouth of a
      young man and made of it what the reader will see. The existence of the
      brute was a fact. The end of the brute as related in the story is also a
      fact, well-known at the time though it really happened to another ship, of
      great beauty of form and of blameless character, which certainly deserved
      a better fate. I have unscrupulously adapted it to the needs of my story
      thinking that I had there something in the nature of poetical justice. I
      hope that little villainy will not cast a shadow upon the general honesty
      of my proceedings as a writer of tales.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of The Informer and An Anarchist I will say next to nothing. The pedigree
      of these tales is hopelessly complicated and not worth disentangling at
      this distance of time. I found them and here they are. The discriminating
      reader will guess that I have found them within my mind; but how they or
      their elements came in there I have forgotten for the most part; and for
      the rest I really don&rsquo;t see why I should give myself away more than I have
      done already.
    </p>
    <p>
      It remains for me only now to mention The Duel, the longest story in the
      book. That story attained the dignity of publication all by itself in a
      small illustrated volume, under the title, &ldquo;The Point of Honour.&rdquo; That was
      many years ago. It has been since reinstated in its proper place, which is
      the place it occupies in this volume, in all the subsequent editions of my
      work. Its pedigree is extremely simple. It springs from a ten-line
      paragraph in a small provincial paper published in the South of France.
      That paragraph, occasioned by a duel with a fatal ending between two
      well-known Parisian personalities, referred for some reason or other to
      the &ldquo;well-known fact&rdquo; of two officers in Napoleon&rsquo;s Grand Army having
      fought a series of duels in the midst of great wars and on some futile
      pretext. The pretext was never disclosed. I had therefore to invent it;
      and I think that, given the character of the two officers which I had to
      invent, too, I have made it sufficiently convincing by the mere force of
      its absurdity. The truth is that in my mind the story is nothing but a
      serious and even earnest attempt at a bit of historical fiction. I had
      heard in my boyhood a good deal of the great Napoleonic legend. I had a
      genuine feeling that I would find myself at home in it, and The Duel is
      the result of that feeling, or, if the reader prefers, of that
      presumption. Personally I have no qualms of conscience about this piece of
      work. The story might have been better told of course. All one&rsquo;s work
      might have been better done; but this is the sort of reflection a worker
      must put aside courageously if he doesn&rsquo;t mean every one of his
      conceptions to remain for ever a private vision, an evanescent reverie.
      How many of those visions have I seen vanish in my time! This one,
      however, has remained, a testimony, if you like, to my courage or a proof
      of my rashness. What I care to remember best is the testimony of some
      French readers who volunteered the opinion that in those hundred pages or
      so I had managed to render &ldquo;wonderfully&rdquo; the spirit of the whole epoch.
      Exaggeration of kindness no doubt; but even so I hug it still to my
      breast, because in truth that is exactly what I was trying to capture in
      my small net: the Spirit of the Epoch&mdash;never purely militarist in the
      long clash of arms, youthful, almost childlike in its exaltation of
      sentiment&mdash;naively heroic in its faith.
    </p>
    <p>
      1920. J. C. <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h1>
      A SET OF SIX
    </h1>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      GASPAR RUIZ
    </h2>
    <p>
      I
    </p>
    <p>
      A revolutionary war raises many strange characters out of the obscurity
      which is the common lot of humble lives in an undisturbed state of
      society.
    </p>
    <p>
      Certain individualities grow into fame through their vices and their
      virtues, or simply by their actions, which may have a temporary
      importance; and then they become forgotten. The names of a few leaders
      alone survive the end of armed strife and are further preserved in
      history; so that, vanishing from men&rsquo;s active memories, they still exist
      in books.
    </p>
    <p>
      The name of General Santierra attained that cold paper-and-ink
      immortality. He was a South American of good family, and the books
      published in his lifetime numbered him amongst the liberators of that
      continent from the oppressive rule of Spain.
    </p>
    <p>
      That long contest, waged for independence on one side and for dominion on
      the other, developed in the course of years and the vicissitudes of
      changing fortune the fierceness and inhumanity of a struggle for life. All
      feelings of pity and compassion disappeared in the growth of political
      hatred. And, as is usual in war, the mass of the people, who had the least
      to gain by the issue, suffered most in their obscure persons and their
      humble fortunes.
    </p>
    <p>
      General Santierra began his service as lieutenant in the patriot army
      raised and commanded by the famous San Martin, afterwards conqueror of
      Lima and liberator of Peru. A great battle had just been fought on the
      banks of the river Bio-Bio. Amongst the prisoners made upon the routed
      Royalist troops there was a soldier called Gaspar Ruiz. His powerful build
      and his big head rendered him remarkable amongst his fellow-captives. The
      personality of the man was unmistakable. Some months before he had been
      missed from the ranks of Republican troops after one of the many
      skirmishes which preceded the great battle. And now, having been captured
      arms in hand amongst Royalists, he could expect no other fate but to be
      shot as a deserter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gaspar Ruiz, however, was not a deserter; his mind was hardly active
      enough to take a discriminating view of the advantages or perils of
      treachery. Why should he change sides? He had really been made a prisoner,
      had suffered ill-usage and many privations. Neither side showed tenderness
      to its adversaries. There came a day when he was ordered, together with
      some other captured rebels, to march in the front rank of the Royal
      troops. A musket had been thrust into his hands. He had taken it. He had
      marched. He did not want to be killed with circumstances of peculiar
      atrocity for refusing to march. He did not understand heroism but it was
      his intention to throw his musket away at the first opportunity. Meantime
      he had gone on loading and firing, from fear of having his brains blown
      out at the first sign of unwillingness, by some non-commissioned officer
      of the King of Spain. He tried to set forth these elementary
      considerations before the sergeant of the guard set over him and some
      twenty other such deserters, who had been condemned summarily to be shot.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in the quadrangle of the fort at the back of the batteries which
      command the roadstead of Valparaiso. The officer who had identified him
      had gone on without listening to his protestations. His doom was sealed;
      his hands were tied very tightly together behind his back; his body was
      sore all over from the many blows with sticks and butts of muskets which
      had hurried him along on the painful road from the place of his capture to
      the gate of the fort. This was the only kind of systematic attention the
      prisoners had received from their escort during a four days&rsquo; journey
      across a scantily watered tract of country. At the crossings of rare
      streams they were permitted to quench their thirst by lapping hurriedly
      like dogs. In the evening a few scraps of meat were thrown amongst them as
      they dropped down dead-beat upon the stony ground of the halting-place.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he stood in the courtyard of the castle in the early morning, after
      having been driven hard all night, Gaspar Ruiz&rsquo;s throat was parched, and
      his tongue felt very large and dry in his mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Gaspar Ruiz, besides being very thirsty, was stirred by a feeling of
      sluggish anger, which he could not very well express, as though the vigour
      of his spirit were by no means equal to the strength of his body.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other prisoners in the batch of the condemned hung their heads,
      looking obstinately on the ground. But Gaspar Ruiz kept on repeating:
      &ldquo;What should I desert for to the Royalists? Why should I desert? Tell me,
      Estaban!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He addressed himself to the sergeant, who happened to belong to the same
      part of the country as himself. But the sergeant, after shrugging his
      meagre shoulders once, paid no further attention to the deep murmuring
      voice at his back. It was indeed strange that Gaspar Ruiz should desert.
      His people were in too humble a station to feel much the disadvantages of
      any form of government. There was no reason why Gaspar Ruiz should wish to
      uphold in his own person the rule of the King of Spain. Neither had he
      been anxious to exert himself for its subversion. He had joined the side
      of Independence in an extremely reasonable and natural manner. A band of
      patriots appeared one morning early, surrounding his father&rsquo;s ranche,
      spearing the watch-dogs and ham-stringing a fat cow all in the twinkling
      of an eye, to the cries of &ldquo;Viva la Libertad!&rdquo; Their officer discoursed of
      Liberty with enthusiasm and eloquence after a long and refreshing sleep.
      When they left in the evening, taking with them some of Ruiz, the
      father&rsquo;s, best horses to replace their own lamed animals, Gaspar Ruiz went
      away with them, having been invited pressingly to do so by the eloquent
      officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Shortly afterwards a detachment of Royalist troops coming to pacify the
      district, burnt the ranche, carried off the remaining horses and cattle,
      and having thus deprived the old people of all their worldly possessions,
      left them sitting under a bush in the enjoyment of the inestimable boon of
      life.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Gaspar Ruiz, condemned to death as a deserter, was not thinking either of
      his native place or of his parents, to whom he had been a good son on
      account of the mildness of his character and the great strength of his
      limbs. The practical advantage of this last was made still more valuable
      to his father by his obedient disposition. Gaspar Ruiz had an acquiescent
      soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was stirred now to a sort of dim revolt by his dislike to die the
      death of a traitor. He was not a traitor. He said again to the sergeant:
      &ldquo;You know I did not desert, Estaban. You know I remained behind amongst
      the trees with three others to keep the enemy back while the detachment
      was running away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieutenant Santierra, little more than a boy at the time, and unused as
      yet to the sanguinary imbecilities of a state of war, had lingered near
      by, as if fascinated by the sight of these men who were to be shot
      presently&mdash;&ldquo;for an example&rdquo;&mdash;as the Commandante had said.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sergeant, without deigning to look at the prisoner, addressed himself
      to the young officer with a superior smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten men would not have been enough to make him a prisoner, mi teniente.
      Moreover, the other three rejoined the detachment after dark. Why should
      he, unwounded and the strongest of them all, have failed to do so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My strength is as nothing against a mounted man with a lasso,&rdquo; Gaspar
      Ruiz protested, eagerly. &ldquo;He dragged me behind his horse for half a mile.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this excellent reason the sergeant only laughed contemptuously. The
      young officer hurried away after the Commandante.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently the adjutant of the castle came by. He was a truculent,
      raw-boned man in a ragged uniform. His spluttering voice issued out of a
      flat yellow face. The sergeant learned from him that the condemned men
      would not be shot till sunset. He begged then to know what he was to do
      with them meantime.
    </p>
    <p>
      The adjutant looked savagely round the courtyard and, pointing to the door
      of a small dungeon-like guardroom, receiving light and air through one
      heavily barred window, said: &ldquo;Drive the scoundrels in there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sergeant, tightening his grip upon the stick he carried in virtue of
      his rank, executed this order with alacrity and zeal. He hit Gaspar Ruiz,
      whose movements were slow, over his head and shoulders. Gaspar Ruiz stood
      still for a moment under the shower of blows, biting his lip thoughtfully
      as if absorbed by a perplexing mental process&mdash;then followed the
      others without haste. The door was locked, and the adjutant carried off
      the key.
    </p>
    <p>
      By noon the heat of that vaulted place crammed to suffocation had become
      unbearable. The prisoners crowded towards the window, begging their guards
      for a drop of water; but the soldiers remained lying in indolent attitudes
      wherever there was a little shade under a wall, while the sentry sat with
      his back against the door smoking a cigarette, and raising his eyebrows
      philosophically from time to time. Gaspar Ruiz had pushed his way to the
      window with irresistible force. His capacious chest needed more air than
      the others; his big face, resting with its chin on the ledge, pressed
      close to the bars, seemed to support the other faces crowding up for
      breath. From moaned entreaties they had passed to desperate cries, and the
      tumultuous howling of those thirsty men obliged a young officer who was
      just then crossing the courtyard to shout in order to make himself heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you give some water to these prisoners?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sergeant, with an air of surprised innocence, excused himself by the
      remark that all those men were condemned to die in a very few hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieutenant Santierra stamped his foot. &ldquo;They are condemned to death, not
      to torture,&rdquo; he shouted. &ldquo;Give them some water at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Impressed by this appearance of anger, the soldiers bestirred themselves,
      and the sentry, snatching up his musket, stood to attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when a couple of buckets were found and filled from the well, it was
      discovered that they could not be passed through the bars, which were set
      too close. At the prospect of quenching their thirst, the shrieks of those
      trampled down in the struggle to get near the opening became very
      heartrending. But when the soldiers who had lifted the buckets towards the
      window put them to the ground again helplessly, the yell of disappointment
      was still more terrible.
    </p>
    <p>
      The soldiers of the army of Independence were not equipped with canteens.
      A small tin cup was found, but its approach to the opening caused such a
      commotion, such yells of rage and pain in the vague mass of limbs behind
      the straining faces at the window, that Lieutenant Santierra cried out
      hurriedly, &ldquo;No, no&mdash;you must open the door, sergeant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sergeant, shrugging his shoulders, explained that he had no right to
      open the door even if he had had the key. But he had not the key. The
      adjutant of the garrison kept the key. Those men were giving much
      unnecessary trouble, since they had to die at sunset in any case. Why they
      had not been shot at once early in the morning he could not understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieutenant Santierra kept his back studiously to the window. It was at his
      earnest solicitations that the Commandante had delayed the execution. This
      favour had been granted to him in consideration of his distinguished
      family and of his father&rsquo;s high position amongst the chiefs of the
      Republican party. Lieutenant Santierra believed that the General
      commanding would visit the fort some time in the afternoon, and he
      ingenuously hoped that his naive intercession would induce that severe man
      to pardon some, at least, of those criminals. In the revulsion of his
      feeling his interference stood revealed now as guilty and futile meddling.
      It appeared to him obvious that the general would never even consent to
      listen to his petition. He could never save those men, and he had only
      made himself responsible for the sufferings added to the cruelty of their
      fate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then go at once and get the key from the adjutant,&rdquo; said Lieutenant
      Santierra.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sergeant shook his head with a sort of bashful smile, while his eyes
      glanced sideways at Gaspar Ruiz&rsquo;s face, motionless and silent, staring
      through the bars at the bottom of a heap of other haggard, distorted,
      yelling faces.
    </p>
    <p>
      His worship the adjutant de Plaza, the sergeant murmured, was having his
      siesta; and supposing that he, the sergeant, would be allowed access to
      him, the only result he expected would be to have his soul flogged out of
      his body for presuming to disturb his worship&rsquo;s repose. He made a
      deprecatory movement with his hands, and stood stock-still, looking down
      modestly upon his brown toes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieutenant Santierra glared with indignation, but hesitated. His handsome
      oval face, as smooth as a girl&rsquo;s, flushed with the shame of his
      perplexity. Its nature humiliated his spirit. His hairless upper lip
      trembled; he seemed on the point of either bursting into a fit of rage or
      into tears of dismay.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fifty years later, General Santierra, the venerable relic of revolutionary
      times, was well able to remember the feelings of the young lieutenant.
      Since he had given up riding altogether, and found it difficult to walk
      beyond the limits of his garden, the general&rsquo;s greatest delight was to
      entertain in his house the officers of the foreign men-of-war visiting the
      harbour. For Englishmen he had a preference, as for old companions in
      arms. English naval men of all ranks accepted his hospitality with
      curiosity, because he had known Lord Cochrane and had taken part, on board
      the patriot squadron commanded by that marvellous seaman, in the cutting
      out and blockading operations before Callao&mdash;an episode of unalloyed
      glory in the wars of Independence and of endless honour in the fighting
      tradition of Englishmen. He was a fair linguist, this ancient survivor of
      the Liberating armies. A trick of smoothing his long white beard whenever
      he was short of a word in French or English imparted an air of leisurely
      dignity to the tone of his reminiscences.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my friends,&rdquo; he used to say to his guests, &ldquo;what would you have? A
      youth of seventeen summers, without worldly experience, and owing my rank
      only to the glorious patriotism of my father, may God rest his soul. I
      suffered immense humiliation, not so much from the disobedience of that
      subordinate, who, after all, was responsible for those prisoners; but I
      suffered because, like the boy I was, I myself dreaded going to the
      adjutant for the key. I had felt, before, his rough and cutting tongue.
      Being quite a common fellow, with no merit except his savage valour, he
      made me feel his contempt and dislike from the first day I joined my
      battalion in garrison at the fort. It was only a fortnight before! I would
      have confronted him sword in hand, but I shrank from the mocking brutality
      of his sneers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t remember having been so miserable in my life before or since. The
      torment of my sensibility was so great that I wished the sergeant to fall
      dead at my feet, and the stupid soldiers who stared at me to turn into
      corpses; and even those wretches for whom my entreaties had procured a
      reprieve I wished dead also, because I could not face them without shame.
      A mephitic heat like a whiff of air from hell came out of that dark place
      in which they were confined. Those at the window who had heard what was
      going on jeered at me in very desperation: one of these fellows, gone mad
      no doubt, kept on urging me volubly to order the soldiers to fire through
      the window. His insane loquacity made my heart turn faint. And my feet
      were like lead. There was no higher officer to whom I could appeal. I had
      not even the firmness of spirit to simply go away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Benumbed by my remorse, I stood with my back to the window. You must not
      suppose that all this lasted a long time. How long could it have been? A
      minute? If you measured by mental suffering it was like a hundred years; a
      longer time than all my life has been since. No, certainly, it was not so
      much as a minute. The hoarse screaming of those miserable wretches died
      out in their dry throats, and then suddenly a voice spoke, a deep voice
      muttering calmly. It called upon me to turn round.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That voice, senores, proceeded from the head of Gaspar Ruiz. Of his body
      I could see nothing. Some of his fellow-captives had clambered upon his
      back. He was holding them up. His eyes blinked without looking at me. That
      and the moving of his lips was all he seemed able to manage in his
      overloaded state. And when I turned round, this head, that seemed more
      than human size resting on its chin under a multitude of other heads,
      asked me whether I really desired to quench the thirst of the captives.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said, &lsquo;Yes, yes!&rsquo; eagerly, and came up quite close to the window. I was
      like a child, and did not know what would happen. I was anxious to be
      comforted in my helplessness and remorse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Have you the authority, Senor teniente, to release my wrists from their
      bonds?&rsquo; Gaspar Ruiz&rsquo;s head asked me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His features expressed no anxiety, no hope; his heavy eyelids blinked
      upon his eyes that looked past me straight into the courtyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As if in an ugly dream, I spoke, stammering: &lsquo;What do you mean? And how
      can I reach the bonds on your wrists?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I will try what I can do,&rsquo; he said; and then that large staring head
      moved at last, and all the wild faces piled up in that window disappeared,
      tumbling down. He had shaken his load off with one movement, so strong he
      was.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he had not only shaken it off, but he got free of the crush and
      vanished from my sight. For a moment there was no one at all to be seen at
      the window. He had swung about, butting and shouldering, clearing a space
      for himself in the only way he could do it with his hands tied behind his
      back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Finally, backing to the opening, he pushed out to me between the bars his
      wrists, lashed with many turns of rope. His hands, very swollen, with
      knotted veins, looked enormous and unwieldy. I saw his bent back. It was
      very broad. His voice was like the muttering of a bull.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Cut, Senor teniente. Cut!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I drew my sword, my new unblunted sword that had seen no service as yet,
      and severed the many turns of the hide rope. I did this without knowing
      the why and the wherefore of my action, but as it were compelled by my
      faith in that man. The sergeant made as if to cry out, but astonishment
      deprived him of his voice, and he remained standing with his mouth open as
      if overtaken by sudden imbecility.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I sheathed my sword and faced the soldiers. An air of awestruck
      expectation had replaced their usual listless apathy. I heard the voice of
      Gaspar Ruiz shouting inside, but the words I could not make out plainly. I
      suppose that to see him with his arms free augmented the influence of his
      strength: I mean by this, the spiritual influence that with ignorant
      people attaches to an exceptional degree of bodily vigour. In fact, he was
      no more to be feared than before, on account of the numbness of his arms
      and hands, which lasted for some time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The sergeant had recovered his power of speech. &lsquo;By all the saints!&rsquo; he
      cried, &lsquo;we shall have to get a cavalry man with a lasso to secure him
      again, if he is to be led to the place of execution. Nothing less than a
      good enlazador on a good horse can subdue him. Your worship was pleased to
      perform a very mad thing.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had nothing to say. I was surprised myself, and I felt a childish
      curiosity to see what would happen next. But the sergeant was thinking of
      the difficulty of controlling Gaspar Ruiz when the time for making an
      example would come.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Or perhaps,&rsquo; the sergeant pursued, vexedly, &lsquo;we shall be obliged to
      shoot him down as he dashes out when the door is opened.&rsquo; He was going to
      give further vent to his anxieties as to the proper carrying out of the
      sentence; but he interrupted himself with a sudden exclamation, snatched a
      musket from a soldier, and stood watchful with his eyes fixed on the
      window.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gaspar Ruiz had clambered up on the sill, and sat down there with his
      feet against the thickness of the wall and his knees slightly bent. The
      window was not quite broad enough for the length of his legs. It appeared
      to my crestfallen perception that he meant to keep the window all to
      himself. He seemed to be taking up a comfortable position. Nobody inside
      dared to approach him now he could strike with his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Por Dios!&rsquo; I heard the sergeant muttering at my elbow, &lsquo;I shall shoot
      him through the head now, and get rid of that trouble. He is a condemned
      man.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At that I looked at him angrily. &lsquo;The general has not confirmed the
      sentence,&rsquo; I said&mdash;though I knew well in my heart that these were but
      vain words. The sentence required no confirmation. &lsquo;You have no right to
      shoot him unless he tries to escape,&rsquo; I added, firmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;But sangre de Dios!&rsquo; the sergeant yelled out, bringing his musket up to
      the shoulder, &lsquo;he is escaping now. Look!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I, as if that Gaspar Ruiz had cast a spell upon me, struck the musket
      upward, and the bullet flew over the roofs somewhere. The sergeant dashed
      his arm to the ground and stared. He might have commanded the soldiers to
      fire, but he did not. And if he had he would not have been obeyed, I
      think, just then.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With his feet against the thickness of the wall and his hairy hands
      grasping the iron bar, Gaspar sat still. It was an attitude. Nothing
      happened for a time. And suddenly it dawned upon us that he was
      straightening his bowed back and contracting his arms. His lips were
      twisted into a snarl. Next thing we perceived was that the bar of forged
      iron was being bent slowly by the mightiness of his pull. The sun was
      beating full upon his cramped, unquivering figure. A shower of sweat-drops
      burst out of his forehead. Watching the bar grow crooked, I saw a little
      blood ooze from under his finger-nails. Then he let go. For a moment he
      remained all huddled up, with a hanging head, looking drowsily into the
      upturned palms of his mighty hands. Indeed he seemed to have dozed off.
      Suddenly he flung himself backwards on the sill, and setting the soles of
      his bare feet against the other middle bar, he bent that one, too, but in
      the opposite direction from the first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such was his strength, which in this case relieved my painful feelings.
      And the man seemed to have done nothing. Except for the change of position
      in order to use his feet, which made us all start by its swiftness, my
      recollection is that of immobility. But he had bent the bars wide apart.
      And now he could get out if he liked; but he dropped his legs inwards, and
      looking over his shoulder beckoned to the soldiers. &lsquo;Hand up the water,&rsquo; 
      he said. &lsquo;I will give them all a drink.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was obeyed. For a moment I expected man and bucket to disappear,
      overwhelmed by the rush of eagerness; I thought they would pull him down
      with their teeth. There was a rush, but holding the bucket on his lap he
      repulsed the assault of those wretches by the mere swinging of his feet.
      They flew backwards at every kick, yelling with pain; and the soldiers
      laughed, gazing at the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They all laughed, holding their sides, except the sergeant, who was
      gloomy and morose. He was afraid the prisoners would rise and break out&mdash;which
      would have been a bad example. But there was no fear of that, and I stood
      myself before the window with my drawn sword. When sufficiently tamed by
      the strength of Gaspar Ruiz they came up one by one, stretching their
      necks and presenting their lips to the edge of the bucket which the strong
      man tilted towards them from his knees with an extraordinary air of
      charity, gentleness, and compassion. That benevolent appearance was of
      course the effect of his care in not spilling the water and of his
      attitude as he sat on the sill; for, if a man lingered with his lips glued
      to the rim of the bucket after Gaspar Ruiz had said &lsquo;You have had enough,&rsquo; 
      there would be no tenderness or mercy in the shove of the foot which would
      send him groaning and doubled up far into the interior of the prison,
      where he would knock down two or three others before he fell himself. They
      came up to him again and again; it looked as if they meant to drink the
      well dry before going to their death; but the soldiers were so amused by
      Gaspar Ruiz&rsquo;s systematic proceedings that they carried the water up to the
      window cheerfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When the adjutant came out after his siesta there was some trouble over
      this affair, I can assure you. And the worst of it was that the general
      whom we expected never came to the castle that day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The guests of General Santierra unanimously expressed their regret that
      the man of such strength and patience had not been saved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was not saved by my interference,&rdquo; said the General. &ldquo;The prisoners
      were led to execution half an hour before sunset. Gaspar Ruiz, contrary to
      the sergeant&rsquo;s apprehensions, gave no trouble. There was no necessity to
      get a cavalry man with a lasso in order to subdue him, as if he were a
      wild bull of the campo. I believe he marched out with his arms free
      amongst the others who were bound. I did not see. I was not there. I had
      been put under arrest for interfering with the prisoner&rsquo;s guard. About
      dusk, sitting dismally in my quarters, I heard three volleys fired, and
      thought that I should never hear of Gaspar Ruiz again. He fell with the
      others. But we were to hear of him nevertheless, though the sergeant
      boasted that as he lay on his face expiring or dead in the heap of the
      slain, he had slashed his neck with a sword. He had done this, he said, to
      make sure of ridding the world of a dangerous traitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I confess to you, senores, that I thought of that strong man with a sort
      of gratitude, and with some admiration. He had used his strength
      honourably. There dwelt, then, in his soul no fierceness corresponding to
      the vigour of his body.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      Gaspar Ruiz, who could with ease bend apart the heavy iron bars of the
      prison, was led out with others to summary execution. &ldquo;Every bullet has
      its billet,&rdquo; runs the proverb. All the merit of proverbs consists in the
      concise and picturesque expression. In the surprise of our minds is found
      their persuasiveness. In other words, we are struck and convinced by the
      shock.
    </p>
    <p>
      What surprises us is the form, not the substance. Proverbs are art&mdash;cheap
      art. As a general rule they are not true; unless indeed they happen to be
      mere platitudes, as for instance the proverb, &ldquo;Half a loaf is better than
      no bread,&rdquo; or &ldquo;A miss is as good as a mile.&rdquo; Some proverbs are simply
      imbecile, others are immoral. That one evolved out of the naive heart of
      the great Russian people, &ldquo;Man discharges the piece, but God carries the
      bullet,&rdquo; is piously atrocious, and at bitter variance with the accepted
      conception of a compassionate God. It would indeed be an inconsistent
      occupation for the Guardian of the poor, the innocent, and the helpless,
      to carry the bullet, for instance, into the heart of a father.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gaspar Ruiz was childless, he had no wife, he had never been in love. He
      had hardly ever spoken to a woman, beyond his mother and the ancient
      negress of the household, whose wrinkled skin was the colour of cinders,
      and whose lean body was bent double from age. If some bullets from those
      muskets fired off at fifteen paces were specifically destined for the
      heart of Gaspar Ruiz, they all missed their billet. One, however, carried
      away a small piece of his ear, and another a fragment of flesh from his
      shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      A red and unclouded sun setting into a purple ocean looked with a fiery
      stare upon the enormous wall of the Cordilleras, worthy witnesses of his
      glorious extinction. But it is inconceivable that it should have seen the
      ant-like men busy with their absurd and insignificant trials of killing
      and dying for reasons that, apart from being generally childish, were also
      imperfectly understood. It did light up, however, the backs of the firing
      party and the faces of the condemned men. Some of them had fallen on their
      knees, others remained standing, a few averted their heads from the
      levelled barrels of muskets. Gaspar Ruiz, upright, the burliest of them
      all, hung his big shock head. The low sun dazzled him a little, and he
      counted himself a dead man already.
    </p>
    <p>
      He fell at the first discharge. He fell because he thought he was a dead
      man. He struck the ground heavily. The jar of the fall surprised him. &ldquo;I
      am not dead apparently,&rdquo; he thought to himself, when he heard the
      execution platoon reloading its arms at the word of command. It was then
      that the hope of escape dawned upon him for the first time. He remained
      lying stretched out with rigid limbs under the weight of two bodies
      collapsed crosswise upon his back.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the time the soldiers had fired a third volley into the slightly
      stirring heaps of the slain, the sun had gone out of sight, and almost
      immediately with the darkening of the ocean dusk fell upon the coasts of
      the young Republic. Above the gloom of the lowlands the snowy peaks of the
      Cordilleras remained luminous and crimson for a long time. The soldiers
      before marching back to the fort sat down to smoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sergeant with a naked sword in his hand strolled away by himself along
      the heap of the dead. He was a humane man, and watched for any stir or
      twitch of limb in the merciful idea of plunging the point of his blade
      into any body giving the slightest sign of life. But none of the bodies
      afforded him an opportunity for the display of this charitable intention.
      Not a muscle twitched amongst them, not even the powerful muscles of
      Gaspar Ruiz, who, deluged with the blood of his neighbours and shamming
      death, strove to appear more lifeless than the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was lying face down. The sergeant recognized him by his stature, and
      being himself a very small man, looked with envy and contempt at the
      prostration of so much strength. He had always disliked that particular
      soldier. Moved by an obscure animosity, he inflicted a long gash across
      the neck of Gaspar Ruiz, with some vague notion of making sure of that
      strong man&rsquo;s death, as if a powerful physique were more able to resist the
      bullets. For the sergeant had no doubt that Gaspar Ruiz had been shot
      through in many places. Then he passed on, and shortly afterwards marched
      off with his men, leaving the bodies to the care of crows and vultures.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gaspar Ruiz had restrained a cry, though it had seemed to him that his
      head was cut off at a blow; and when darkness came, shaking off the dead,
      whose weight had oppressed him, he crawled away over the plain on his
      hands and knees. After drinking deeply, like a wounded beast, at a shallow
      stream, he assumed an upright posture, and staggered on light-headed and
      aimless, as if lost amongst the stars of the clear night. A small house
      seemed to rise out of the ground before him. He stumbled into the porch
      and struck at the door with his fist. There was not a gleam of light.
      Gaspar Ruiz might have thought that the inhabitants had fled from it, as
      from many others in the neighbourhood, had it not been for the shouts of
      abuse that answered his thumping. In his feverish and enfeebled state the
      angry screaming seemed to him part of a hallucination belonging to the
      weird, dreamlike feeling of his unexpected condemnation to death, of the
      thirst suffered, of the volleys fired at him within fifteen paces, of his
      head being cut off at a blow. &ldquo;Open the door!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Open in the name
      of God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      An infuriated voice from within jeered at him: &ldquo;Come in, come in. This
      house belongs to you. All this land belongs to you. Come and take it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the love of God,&rdquo; Gaspar Ruiz murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does not all the land belong to you patriots?&rdquo; the voice on the other
      side of the door screamed on. &ldquo;Are you not a patriot?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gaspar Ruiz did not know. &ldquo;I am a wounded man,&rdquo; he said, apathetically.
    </p>
    <p>
      All became still inside. Gaspar Ruiz lost the hope of being admitted, and
      lay down under the porch just outside the door. He was utterly careless of
      what was going to happen to him. All his consciousness seemed to be
      concentrated in his neck, where he felt a severe pain. His indifference as
      to his fate was genuine. The day was breaking when he awoke from a
      feverish doze; the door at which he had knocked in the dark stood wide
      open now, and a girl, steadying herself with her outspread arms, leaned
      over the threshold. Lying on his back, he stared up at her. Her face was
      pale and her eyes were very dark; her hair hung down black as ebony
      against her white cheeks; her lips were full and red. Beyond her he saw
      another head with long grey hair, and a thin old face with a pair of
      anxiously clasped hands under the chin.
    </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew those people by sight,&rdquo; General Santierra would tell his guests at
      the dining-table. &ldquo;I mean the people with whom Gaspar Ruiz found shelter.
      The father was an old Spaniard, a man of property ruined by the
      revolution. His estates, his house in town, his money, everything he had
      in the world had been confiscated by proclamation, for he was a bitter foe
      of our independence. From a position of great dignity and influence on the
      Viceroy&rsquo;s Council he became of less importance than his own negro slaves
      made free by our glorious revolution. He had not even the means to flee
      the country, as other Spaniards had managed to do. It may be that,
      wandering ruined and houseless, and burdened with nothing but his life,
      which was left to him by the clemency of the Provisional Government, he
      had simply walked under that broken roof of old tiles. It was a lonely
      spot. There did not seem to be even a dog belonging to the place. But
      though the roof had holes, as if a cannon-ball or two had dropped through
      it, the wooden shutters were thick and tight-closed all the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My way took me frequently along the path in front of that miserable
      rancho. I rode from the fort to the town almost every evening, to sigh at
      the window of a lady I was in love with, then. When one is young, you
      understand. . . . She was a good patriot, you may believe. Caballeros,
      credit me or not, political feeling ran so high in those days that I do
      not believe I could have been fascinated by the charms of a woman of
      Royalist opinions. . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Murmurs of amused incredulity all round the table interrupted the General;
      and while they lasted he stroked his white beard gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senores,&rdquo; he protested, &ldquo;a Royalist was a monster to our overwrought
      feelings. I am telling you this in order not to be suspected of the
      slightest tenderness towards that old Royalist&rsquo;s daughter. Moreover, as
      you know, my affections were engaged elsewhere. But I could not help
      noticing her on rare occasions when with the front door open she stood in
      the porch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must know that this old Royalist was as crazy as a man can be. His
      political misfortunes, his total downfall and ruin, had disordered his
      mind. To show his contempt for what we patriots could do, he affected to
      laugh at his imprisonment, at the confiscation of his lands, the burning
      of his houses, and at the misery to which he and his womenfolk were
      reduced. This habit of laughing had grown upon him, so that he would begin
      to laugh and shout directly he caught sight of any stranger. That was the
      form of his madness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I, of course, disregarded the noise of that madman with that feeling of
      superiority the success of our cause inspired in us Americans. I suppose I
      really despised him because he was an old Castilian, a Spaniard born, and
      a Royalist. Those were certainly no reasons to scorn a man; but for
      centuries Spaniards born had shown their contempt of us Americans, men as
      well descended as themselves, simply because we were what they called
      colonists. We had been kept in abasement and made to feel our inferiority
      in social intercourse. And now it was our turn. It was safe for us
      patriots to display the same sentiments; and I being a young patriot, son
      of a patriot, despised that old Spaniard, and despising him I naturally
      disregarded his abuse, though it was annoying to my feelings. Others
      perhaps would not have been so forbearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He would begin with a great yell&mdash;&lsquo;I see a patriot. Another of
      them!&rsquo; long before I came abreast of the house. The tone of his senseless
      revilings, mingled with bursts of laughter, was sometimes piercingly
      shrill and sometimes grave. It was all very mad; but I felt it incumbent
      upon my dignity to check my horse to a walk without even glancing towards
      the house, as if that man&rsquo;s abusive clamour in the porch were less than
      the barking of a cur. Always I rode by preserving an expression of haughty
      indifference on my face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was no doubt very dignified; but I should have done better if I had
      kept my eyes open. A military man in war time should never consider
      himself off duty; and especially so if the war is a revolutionary war,
      when the enemy is not at the door, but within your very house. At such
      times the heat of passionate convictions passing into hatred, removes the
      restraints of honour and humanity from many men and of delicacy and fear
      from some women. These last, when once they throw off the timidity and
      reserve of their sex, become by the vivacity of their intelligence and the
      violence of their merciless resentment more dangerous than so many armed
      giants.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The General&rsquo;s voice rose, but his big hand stroked his white beard twice
      with an effect of venerable calmness. &ldquo;Si, Senores! Women are ready to
      rise to the heights of devotion unattainable by us men, or to sink into
      the depths of abasement which amazes our masculine prejudices. I am
      speaking now of exceptional women, you understand. . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here one of the guests observed that he had never met a woman yet who was
      not capable of turning out quite exceptional under circumstances that
      would engage her feelings strongly. &ldquo;That sort of superiority in
      recklessness they have over us,&rdquo; he concluded, &ldquo;makes of them the more
      interesting half of mankind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The General, who bore the interruption with gravity, nodded courteous
      assent. &ldquo;Si. Si. Under circumstances. . . . Precisely. They can do an
      infinite deal of mischief sometimes in quite unexpected ways. For who
      could have imagined that a young girl, daughter of a ruined Royalist whose
      life was held only by the contempt of his enemies, would have had the
      power to bring death and devastation upon two flourishing provinces and
      cause serious anxiety to the leaders of the revolution in the very hour of
      its success!&rdquo; He paused to let the wonder of it penetrate our minds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Death and devastation,&rdquo; somebody murmured in surprise: &ldquo;how shocking!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old General gave a glance in the direction of the murmur and went on.
      &ldquo;Yes. That is, war&mdash;calamity. But the means by which she obtained the
      power to work this havoc on our southern frontier seem to me, who have
      seen her and spoken to her, still more shocking. That particular thing
      left on my mind a dreadful amazement which the further experience of life,
      of more than fifty years, has done nothing to diminish.&rdquo; He looked round
      as if to make sure of our attention, and, in a changed voice: &ldquo;I am, as
      you know, a republican, son of a Liberator,&rdquo; he declared. &ldquo;My incomparable
      mother, God rest her soul, was a Frenchwoman, the daughter of an ardent
      republican. As a boy I fought for liberty; I&rsquo;ve always believed in the
      equality of men; and as to their brotherhood, that, to my mind, is even
      more certain. Look at the fierce animosity they display in their
      differences. And what in the world do you know that is more bitterly
      fierce than brothers&rsquo; quarrels?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All absence of cynicism checked an inclination to smile at this view of
      human brotherhood. On the contrary, there was in the tone the melancholy
      natural to a man profoundly humane at heart who from duty, from
      conviction, and from necessity, had played his part in scenes of ruthless
      violence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The General had seen much of fratricidal strife. &ldquo;Certainly. There is no
      doubt of their brotherhood,&rdquo; he insisted. &ldquo;All men are brothers, and as
      such know almost too much of each other. But&rdquo;&mdash;and here in the old
      patriarchal head, white as silver, the black eyes humorously twinkled&mdash;&ldquo;if
      we are all brothers, all the women are not our sisters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One of the younger guests was heard murmuring his satisfaction at the
      fact. But the General continued, with deliberate earnestness: &ldquo;They are so
      different! The tale of a king who took a beggar-maid for a partner of his
      throne may be pretty enough as we men look upon ourselves and upon love.
      But that a young girl, famous for her haughty beauty and, only a short
      time before, the admired of all at the balls in the Viceroy&rsquo;s palace,
      should take by the hand a guasso, a common peasant, is intolerable to our
      sentiment of women and their love. It is madness. Nevertheless it
      happened. But it must be said that in her case it was the madness of hate&mdash;not
      of love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After presenting this excuse in a spirit of chivalrous justice, the
      General remained silent for a time. &ldquo;I rode past the house every day
      almost,&rdquo; he began again, &ldquo;and this was what was going on within. But how
      it was going on no mind of man can conceive. Her desperation must have
      been extreme, and Gaspar Ruiz was a docile fellow. He had been an obedient
      soldier. His strength was like an enormous stone lying on the ground,
      ready to be hurled this way or that by the hand that picks it up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is clear that he would tell his story to the people who gave him the
      shelter he needed. And he needed assistance badly. His wound was not
      dangerous, but his life was forfeited. The old Royalist being wrapped up
      in his laughing madness, the two women arranged a hiding-place for the
      wounded man in one of the huts amongst the fruit trees at the back of the
      house. That hovel, an abundance of clear water while the fever was on him,
      and some words of pity were all they could give. I suppose he had a share
      of what food there was. And it would be but little: a handful of roasted
      corn, perhaps a dish of beans, or a piece of bread with a few figs. To
      such misery were those proud and once wealthy people reduced.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VII
    </p>
    <p>
      General Santierra was right in his surmise. Such was the exact nature of
      the assistance which Gaspar Ruiz, peasant son of peasants, received from
      the Royalist family whose daughter had opened the door of their miserable
      refuge to his extreme distress. Her sombre resolution ruled the madness of
      her father and the trembling bewilderment of her mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had asked the strange man on the doorstep, &ldquo;Who wounded you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The soldiers, senora,&rdquo; Gaspar Ruiz had answered, in a faint voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Patriots?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Si.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deserter,&rdquo; he gasped, leaning against the wall under the scrutiny of her
      black eyes. &ldquo;I was left for dead over there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She led him through the house out to a small hut of clay and reeds, lost
      in the long grass of the overgrown orchard. He sank on a heap of maize
      straw in a corner, and sighed profoundly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one will look for you here,&rdquo; she said, looking down at him. &ldquo;Nobody
      comes near us. We, too, have been left for dead&mdash;here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stirred uneasily on his heap of dirty straw, and the pain in his neck
      made him groan deliriously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall show Estaban some day that I am alive yet,&rdquo; he mumbled.
    </p>
    <p>
      He accepted her assistance in silence, and the many days of pain went by.
      Her appearances in the hut brought him relief and became connected with
      the feverish dreams of angels which visited his couch; for Gaspar Ruiz was
      instructed in the mysteries of his religion, and had even been taught to
      read and write a little by the priest of his village. He waited for her
      with impatience, and saw her pass out of the dark hut and disappear in the
      brilliant sunshine with poignant regret. He discovered that, while he lay
      there feeling so very weak, he could, by closing his eyes, evoke her face
      with considerable distinctness. And this discovered faculty charmed the
      long, solitary hours of his convalescence. Later on, when he began to
      regain his strength, he would creep at dusk from his hut to the house and
      sit on the step of the garden door.
    </p>
    <p>
      In one of the rooms the mad father paced to and fro, muttering to himself
      with short, abrupt laughs. In the passage, sitting on a stool, the mother
      sighed and moaned. The daughter, in rough threadbare clothing, and her
      white haggard face half hidden by a coarse manta, stood leaning against
      the side of the door. Gaspar Ruiz, with his elbows propped on his knees
      and his head resting in his hands, talked to the two women in an
      undertone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The common misery of destitution would have made a bitter mockery of a
      marked insistence on social differences. Gaspar Ruiz understood this in
      his simplicity. From his captivity amongst the Royalists he could give
      them news of people they knew. He described their appearance; and when he
      related the story of the battle in which he was recaptured the two women
      lamented the blow to their cause and the ruin of their secret hopes.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had no feeling either way. But he felt a great devotion for that young
      girl. In his desire to appear worthy of her condescension, he boasted a
      little of his bodily strength. He had nothing else to boast of. Because of
      that quality his comrades treated him with as great a deference, he
      explained, as though he had been a sergeant, both in camp and in battle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could always get as many as I wanted to follow me anywhere, senorita. I
      ought to have been made an officer, because I can read and write.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Behind him the silent old lady fetched a moaning sigh from time to time;
      the distracted father muttered to himself, pacing the sala; and Gaspar
      Ruiz would raise his eyes now and then to look at the daughter of these
      people.
    </p>
    <p>
      He would look at her with curiosity because she was alive, and also with
      that feeling of familiarity and awe with which he had contemplated in
      churches the inanimate and powerful statues of the saints, whose
      protection is invoked in dangers and difficulties. His difficulty was very
      great.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could not remain hiding in an orchard for ever and ever. He knew also
      very well that before he had gone half a day&rsquo;s journey in any direction,
      he would be picked up by one of the cavalry patrols scouring the country,
      and brought into one or another of the camps where the patriot army
      destined for the liberation of Peru was collected. There he would in the
      end be recognized as Gaspar Ruiz&mdash;the deserter to the Royalists&mdash;and
      no doubt shot very effectually this time. There did not seem any place in
      the world for the innocent Gaspar Ruiz anywhere. And at this thought his
      simple soul surrendered itself to gloom and resentment as black as night.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had made him a soldier forcibly. He did not mind being a soldier. And
      he had been a good soldier as he had been a good son, because of his
      docility and his strength. But now there was no use for either. They had
      taken him from his parents, and he could no longer be a soldier&mdash;not
      a good soldier at any rate. Nobody would listen to his explanations. What
      injustice it was! What injustice!
    </p>
    <p>
      And in a mournful murmur he would go over the story of his capture and
      recapture for the twentieth time. Then, raising his eyes to the silent
      girl in the doorway, &ldquo;Si, senorita,&rdquo; he would say with a deep sigh,
      &ldquo;injustice has made this poor breath in my body quite worthless to me and
      to anybody else. And I do not care who robs me of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One evening, as he exhaled thus the plaint of his wounded soul, she
      condescended to say that, if she were a man, she would consider no life
      worthless which held the possibility of revenge.
    </p>
    <p>
      She seemed to be speaking to herself. Her voice was low. He drank in the
      gentle, as if dreamy sound with a consciousness of peculiar delight of
      something warming his breast like a draught of generous wine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, Senorita,&rdquo; he said, raising his face up to hers slowly: &ldquo;there is
      Estaban, who must be shown that I am not dead after all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mutterings of the mad father had ceased long before; the sighing
      mother had withdrawn somewhere into one of the empty rooms. All was still
      within as well as without, in the moonlight bright as day on the wild
      orchard full of inky shadows. Gaspar Ruiz saw the dark eyes of Dona
      Erminia look down at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! The sergeant,&rdquo; she muttered, disdainfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why! He has wounded me with his sword,&rdquo; he protested, bewildered by the
      contempt that seemed to shine livid on her pale face.
    </p>
    <p>
      She crushed him with her glance. The power of her will to be understood
      was so strong that it kindled in him the intelligence of unexpressed
      things.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What else did you expect me to do?&rdquo; he cried, as if suddenly driven to
      despair. &ldquo;Have I the power to do more? Am I a general with an army at my
      back?&mdash;miserable sinner that I am to be despised by you at last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VIII
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senores,&rdquo; related the General to his guests, &ldquo;though my thoughts were of
      love then, and therefore enchanting, the sight of that house always
      affected me disagreeably, especially in the moonlight, when its close
      shutters and its air of lonely neglect appeared sinister. Still I went on
      using the bridle-path by the ravine, because it was a short cut. The mad
      Royalist howled and laughed at me every evening to his complete
      satisfaction; but after a time, as if wearied with my indifference, he
      ceased to appear in the porch. How they persuaded him to leave off I do
      not know. However, with Gaspar Ruiz in the house there would have been no
      difficulty in restraining him by force. It was now part of their policy in
      there to avoid anything which could provoke me. At least, so I suppose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Notwithstanding my infatuation with the brightest pair of eyes in Chile,
      I noticed the absence of the old man after a week or so. A few more days
      passed. I began to think that perhaps these Royalists had gone away
      somewhere else. But one evening, as I was hastening towards the city, I
      saw again somebody in the porch. It was not the madman; it was the girl.
      She stood holding on to one of the wooden columns, tall and white-faced,
      her big eyes sunk deep with privation and sorrow. I looked hard at her,
      and she met my stare with a strange, inquisitive look. Then, as I turned
      my head after riding past, she seemed to gather courage for the act, and
      absolutely beckoned me back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I obeyed, senores, almost without thinking, so great was my astonishment.
      It was greater still when I heard what she had to say. She began by
      thanking me for my forbearance of her father&rsquo;s infirmity, so that I felt
      ashamed of myself. I had meant to show disdain, not forbearance! Every
      word must have burnt her lips, but she never departed from a gentle and
      melancholy dignity which filled me with respect against my will. Senores,
      we are no match for women. But I could hardly believe my ears when she
      began her tale. Providence, she concluded, seemed to have preserved the
      life of that wronged soldier, who now trusted to my honour as a caballero
      and to my compassion for his sufferings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Wronged man,&rsquo; I observed, coldly. &lsquo;Well, I think so, too: and you have
      been harbouring an enemy of your cause.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;He was a poor Christian crying for help at our door in the name of God,
      senor,&rsquo; she answered, simply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I began to admire her. &lsquo;Where is he now?&rsquo; I asked, stiffly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But she would not answer that question. With extreme cunning, and an
      almost fiendish delicacy, she managed to remind me of my failure in saving
      the lives of the prisoners in the guardroom, without wounding my pride.
      She knew, of course, the whole story. Gaspar Ruiz, she said, entreated me
      to procure for him a safe-conduct from General San Martin himself. He had
      an important communication to make to the commander-in-chief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Por Dios, senores, she made me swallow all that, pretending to be only
      the mouthpiece of that poor man. Overcome by injustice, he expected to
      find, she said, as much generosity in me as had been shown to him by the
      Royalist family which had given him a refuge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! It was well and nobly said to a youngster like me. I thought her
      great. Alas! she was only implacable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the end I rode away very enthusiastic about the business, without
      demanding even to see Gaspar Ruiz, who I was confident was in the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But on calm reflection I began to see some difficulties which I had not
      confidence enough in myself to encounter. It was not easy to approach a
      commander-in-chief with such a story. I feared failure. At last I thought
      it better to lay the matter before my general-of-division, Robles, a
      friend of my family, who had appointed me his aide-de-camp lately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He took it out of my hands at once without any ceremony.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;In the house! of course he is in the house,&rsquo; he said contemptuously.
      &lsquo;You ought to have gone sword in hand inside and demanded his surrender,
      instead of chatting with a Royalist girl in the porch. Those people should
      have been hunted out of that long ago. Who knows how many spies they have
      harboured right in the very midst of our camps? A safe-conduct from the
      Commander-in-Chief! The audacity of the fellow! Ha! ha! Now we shall catch
      him to-night, and then we shall find out, without any safe-conduct, what
      he has got to say, that is so very important. Ha! ha! ha!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;General Robles, peace to his soul, was a short, thick man, with round,
      staring eyes, fierce and jovial. Seeing my distress he added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Come, come, chico. I promise you his life if he does not resist. And
      that is not likely. We are not going to break up a good soldier if it can
      be helped. I tell you what! I am curious to see your strong man. Nothing
      but a general will do for the picaro&mdash;well, he shall have a general
      to talk to. Ha! ha! I shall go myself to the catching, and you are coming
      with me, of course.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it was done that same night. Early in the evening the house and the
      orchard were surrounded quietly. Later on the General and I left a ball we
      were attending in town and rode out at an easy gallop. At some little
      distance from the house we pulled up. A mounted orderly held our horses. A
      low whistle warned the men watching all along the ravine, and we walked up
      to the porch softly. The barricaded house in the moonlight seemed empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The General knocked at the door. After a time a woman&rsquo;s voice within
      asked who was there. My chief nudged me hard. I gasped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;It is I, Lieutenant Santierra,&rsquo; I stammered out, as if choked. &lsquo;Open the
      door.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It came open slowly. The girl, holding a thin taper in her hand, seeing
      another man with me, began to back away before us slowly, shading the
      light with her hand. Her impassive white face looked ghostly. I followed
      behind General Robles. Her eyes were fixed on mine. I made a gesture of
      helplessness behind my chief&rsquo;s back, trying at the same time to give a
      reassuring expression to my face. None of us three uttered a sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We found ourselves in a room with bare floor and walls. There was a rough
      table and a couple of stools in it, nothing else whatever. An old woman
      with her grey hair hanging loose wrung her hands when we appeared. A peal
      of loud laughter resounded through the empty house, very amazing and
      weird. At this the old woman tried to get past us.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Nobody to leave the room,&rsquo; said General Robles to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I swung the door to, heard the latch click, and the laughter became faint
      in our ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before another word could be spoken in that room I was amazed by hearing
      the sound of distant thunder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had carried in with me into the house a vivid impression of a beautiful
      clear moonlight night, without a speck of cloud in the sky. I could not
      believe my ears. Sent early abroad for my education, I was not familiar
      with the most dreaded natural phenomenon of my native land. I saw, with
      inexpressible astonishment, a look of terror in my chief&rsquo;s eyes. Suddenly
      I felt giddy. The General staggered against me heavily; the girl seemed to
      reel in the middle of the room, the taper fell out of her hand and the
      light went out; a shrill cry of &lsquo;Misericordia!&rsquo; from the old woman pierced
      my ears. In the pitchy darkness I heard the plaster off the walls falling
      on the floor. It is a mercy there was no ceiling. Holding on to the latch
      of the door, I heard the grinding of the roof-tiles cease above my head.
      The shock was over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Out of the house! The door! Fly, Santierra, fly!&rsquo; howled the General.
      You know, senores, in our country the bravest are not ashamed of the fear
      an earthquake strikes into all the senses of man. One never gets used to
      it. Repeated experience only augments the mastery of that nameless terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was my first earthquake, and I was the calmest of them all. I
      understood that the crash outside was caused by the porch, with its wooden
      pillars and tiled roof projection, falling down. The next shock would
      destroy the house, maybe. That rumble as of thunder was approaching again.
      The General was rushing round the room, to find the door perhaps. He made
      a noise as though he were trying to climb the walls, and I heard him
      distinctly invoke the names of several saints. &lsquo;Out, out, Santierra!&rsquo; he
      yelled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The girl&rsquo;s voice was the only one I did not hear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;General,&rsquo; I cried, I cannot move the door. We must be locked in.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not recognize his voice in the shout of malediction and despair he
      let out. Senores, I know many men in my country, especially in the
      provinces most subject to earthquakes, who will neither eat, sleep, pray,
      nor even sit down to cards with closed doors. The danger is not in the
      loss of time, but in this&mdash;that the movement of the walls may prevent
      a door being opened at all. This was what had happened to us. We were
      trapped, and we had no help to expect from anybody. There is no man in my
      country who will go into a house when the earth trembles. There never was&mdash;except
      one: Gaspar Ruiz.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had come out of whatever hole he had been hiding in outside, and had
      clambered over the timbers of the destroyed porch. Above the awful
      subterranean groan of coming destruction I heard a mighty voice shouting
      the word &lsquo;Erminia!&rsquo; with the lungs of a giant. An earthquake is a great
      leveller of distinctions. I collected all my resolution against the terror
      of the scene. &lsquo;She is here,&rsquo; I shouted back. A roar as of a furious wild
      beast answered me&mdash;while my head swam, my heart sank, and the sweat
      of anguish streamed like rain off my brow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had the strength to pick up one of the heavy posts of the porch.
      Holding it under his armpit like a lance, but with both hands, he charged
      madly the rocking house with the force of a battering-ram, bursting open
      the door and rushing in, headlong, over our prostrate bodies. I and the
      General picking ourselves up, bolted out together, without looking round
      once till we got across the road. Then, clinging to each other, we beheld
      the house change suddenly into a heap of formless rubbish behind the back
      of a man, who staggered towards us bearing the form of a woman clasped in
      his arms. Her long black hair hung nearly to his feet. He laid her down
      reverently on the heaving earth, and the moonlight shone on her closed
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senores, we mounted with difficulty. Our horses getting up plunged madly,
      held by the soldiers who had come running from all sides. Nobody thought
      of catching Gaspar Ruiz then. The eyes of men and animals shone with wild
      fear. My general approached Gaspar Ruiz, who stood motionless as a statue
      above the girl. He let himself be shaken by the shoulder without detaching
      his eyes from her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Que guape!&rsquo; shouted the General in his ear. &lsquo;You are the bravest man
      living. You have saved my life. I am General Robles. Come to my quarters
      to-morrow if God gives us the grace to see another day.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He never stirred&mdash;as if deaf, without feeling, insensible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We rode away for the town, full of our relations, of our friends, of
      whose fate we hardly dared to think. The soldiers ran by the side of our
      horses. Everything was forgotten in the immensity of the catastrophe
      overtaking a whole country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      . . . . . . .
    </p>
    <p>
      Gaspar Ruiz saw the girl open her eyes. The raising of her eyelids seemed
      to recall him from a trance. They were alone; the cries of terror and
      distress from homeless people filled the plains of the coast remote and
      immense, coming like a whisper into their loneliness.
    </p>
    <p>
      She rose swiftly to her feet, darting fearful glances on all sides. &ldquo;What
      is it?&rdquo; she cried out low, and peering into his face. &ldquo;Where am I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He bowed his head sadly, without a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;. . . Who are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He knelt down slowly before her, and touched the hem of her coarse black
      baize skirt. &ldquo;Your slave,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      She caught sight then of the heap of rubbish that had been the house, all
      misty in the cloud of dust. &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; she cried, pressing her hand to her
      forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I carried you out from there,&rdquo; he whispered at her feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And they?&rdquo; she asked in a great sob.
    </p>
    <p>
      He rose, and taking her by the arms, led her gently towards the shapeless
      ruin half overwhelmed by a landslide. &ldquo;Come and listen,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      The serene moon saw them clambering over that heap of stones, joists and
      tiles, which was a grave. They pressed their ears to the interstices,
      listening for the sound of a groan, for a sigh of pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last he said, &ldquo;They died swiftly. You are alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sat down on a piece of broken timber and put one arm across her face.
      He waited&mdash;then approaching his lips to her ear: &ldquo;Let us go,&rdquo; he
      whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never&mdash;never from here,&rdquo; she cried out, flinging her arms above her
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stooped over her, and her raised arms fell upon his shoulders. He
      lifted her up, steadied himself and began to walk, looking straight before
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you doing?&rdquo; she asked, feebly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am escaping from my enemies,&rdquo; he said, never once glancing at his light
      burden.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With me?&rdquo; she sighed, helplessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never without you,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You are my strength.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He pressed her close to him. His face was grave and his footsteps steady.
      The conflagrations bursting out in the ruins of destroyed villages dotted
      the plain with red fires; and the sounds of distant lamentations, the
      cries of Misericordia! Misericordia! made a desolate murmur in his ears.
      He walked on, solemn and collected, as if carrying something holy,
      fragile, and precious.
    </p>
    <p>
      The earth rocked at times under his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      IX
    </p>
    <p>
      With movements of mechanical care and an air of abstraction old General
      Santierra lighted a long and thick cigar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a good many hours before we could send a party back to the
      ravine,&rdquo; he said to his guests. &ldquo;We had found one-third of the town laid
      low, the rest shaken up; and the inhabitants, rich and poor, reduced to
      the same state of distraction by the universal disaster. The affected
      cheerfulness of some contrasted with the despair of others. In the general
      confusion a number of reckless thieves, without fear of God or man, became
      a danger to those who from the downfall of their homes had managed to save
      some valuables. Crying &lsquo;Misericordia&rsquo; louder than any at every tremor, and
      beating their breast with one hand, these scoundrels robbed the poor
      victims with the other, not even stopping short of murder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;General Robles&rsquo; division was occupied entirely in guarding the destroyed
      quarters of the town from the depredations of these inhuman monsters.
      Taken up with my duties of orderly officer, it was only in the morning
      that I could assure myself of the safety of my own family. My mother and
      my sisters had escaped with their lives from that ballroom, where I had
      left them early in the evening. I remember those two beautiful young women&mdash;God
      rest their souls&mdash;as if I saw them this moment, in the garden of our
      destroyed house, pale but active, assisting some of our poor neighbours,
      in their soiled ball-dresses and with the dust of fallen walls on their
      hair. As to my mother, she had a stoical soul in her frail body.
      Half-covered by a costly shawl, she was lying on a rustic seat by the side
      of an ornamental basin whose fountain had ceased to play for ever on that
      night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had hardly had time to embrace them all with transports of joy when my
      chief, coming along, dispatched me to the ravine with a few soldiers, to
      bring in my strong man, as he called him, and that pale girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there was no one for us to bring in. A landslide had covered the
      ruins of the house; and it was like a large mound of earth with only the
      ends of some timbers visible here and there&mdash;nothing more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thus were the tribulations of the old Royalist couple ended. An enormous
      and unconsecrated grave had swallowed them up alive, in their unhappy
      obstinacy against the will of a people to be free. And their daughter was
      gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That Gaspar Ruiz had carried her off I understood very well. But as the
      case was not foreseen, I had no instructions to pursue them. And certainly
      I had no desire to do so. I had grown mistrustful of my interference. It
      had never been successful, and had not even appeared creditable. He was
      gone. Well, let him go. And he had carried off the Royalist girl! Nothing
      better. Vaya con Dios. This was not the time to bother about a deserter
      who, justly or unjustly, ought to have been dead, and a girl for whom it
      would have been better to have never been born.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I marched my men back to the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After a few days, order having been re-established, all the principal
      families, including my own, left for Santiago. We had a fine house there.
      At the same time the division of Robles was moved to new cantonments near
      the capital. This change suited very well the state of my domestic and
      amorous feelings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One night, rather late, I was called to my chief. I found General Robles
      in his quarters, at ease, with his uniform off, drinking neat brandy out
      of a tumbler&mdash;as a precaution, he used to say, against the
      sleeplessness induced by the bites of mosquitoes. He was a good soldier,
      and he taught me the art and practice of war. No doubt God has been
      merciful to his soul; for his motives were never other than patriotic, if
      his character was irascible. As to the use of mosquito nets, he considered
      it effeminate, shameful&mdash;unworthy of a soldier. I noticed at the
      first glance that his face, already very red, wore an expression of high
      good-humour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Aha! Senor teniente,&rsquo; he cried, loudly, as I saluted at the door.
      &lsquo;Behold! Your strong man has turned up again.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He extended to me a folded letter, which I saw was superscribed &lsquo;To the
      Commander-in-Chief of the Republican Armies.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;This,&rsquo; General Robles went on in his loud voice, &lsquo;was thrust by a boy
      into the hand of a sentry at the Quartel General, while the fellow stood
      there thinking of his girl, no doubt&mdash;for before he could gather his
      wits together the boy had disappeared amongst the market people, and he
      protests he could not recognize him to save his life.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;My chief told me further that the soldier had given the letter to the
      sergeant of the guard, and that ultimately it had reached the hands of our
      generalissimo. His Excellency had deigned to take cognizance of it with
      his own eyes. After that he had referred the matter in confidence to
      General Robles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The letter, senores, I cannot now recollect textually. I saw the
      signature of Gaspar Ruiz. He was an audacious fellow. He had snatched a
      soul for himself out of a cataclysm, remember. And now it was that soul
      which had dictated the terms of his letter. Its tone was very independent.
      I remember it struck me at the time as noble&mdash;dignified. It was, no
      doubt, her letter. Now I shudder at the depth of its duplicity. Gaspar
      Ruiz was made to complain of the injustice of which he had been a victim.
      He invoked his previous record of fidelity and courage. Having been saved
      from death by the miraculous interposition of Providence, he could think
      of nothing but of retrieving his character. This, he wrote, he could not
      hope to do in the ranks as a discredited soldier still under suspicion. He
      had the means to give a striking proof of his fidelity. He had ended by
      proposing to the General-in-Chief a meeting at midnight in the middle of
      the Plaza before the Moneta. The signal would be to strike fire with flint
      and steel three times, which was not too conspicuous and yet distinctive
      enough for recognition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;San Martin, the great Liberator, loved men of audacity and courage.
      Besides, he was just and compassionate. I told him as much of the man&rsquo;s
      story as I knew, and was ordered to accompany him on the appointed night.
      The signals were duly exchanged. It was midnight, and the whole town was
      dark and silent. Their two cloaked figures came together in the centre of
      the vast Plaza, and, keeping discreetly at a distance, I listened for an
      hour or more to the murmur of their voices. Then the General motioned me
      to approach; and as I did so I heard San Martin, who was courteous to
      gentle and simple alike, offer Gaspar Ruiz the hospitality of the
      headquarters for the night. But the soldier refused, saying that he would
      be not worthy of that honour till he had done something.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You cannot have a common deserter for your guest, Excellency,&rsquo; he
      protested with a low laugh, and stepping backwards merged slowly into the
      night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Commander-in-Chief observed to me, as we turned away: &lsquo;He had
      somebody with him, our friend Ruiz. I saw two figures for a moment. It was
      an unobtrusive companion.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I, too, had observed another figure join the vanishing form of Gaspar
      Ruiz. It had the appearance of a short fellow in a poncho and a big hat.
      And I wondered stupidly who it could be he had dared take into his
      confidence. I might have guessed it could be no one but that fatal girl&mdash;alas!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where he kept her concealed I do not know. He had&mdash;it was known
      afterwards&mdash;an uncle, his mother&rsquo;s brother, a small shopkeeper in
      Santiago. Perhaps it was there that she found a roof and food. Whatever
      she found, it was poor enough to exasperate her pride and keep up her
      anger and hate. It is certain she did not accompany him on the feat he
      undertook to accomplish first of all. It was nothing less than the
      destruction of a store of war material collected secretly by the Spanish
      authorities in the south, in a town called Linares. Gaspar Ruiz was
      entrusted with a small party only, but they proved themselves worthy of
      San Martin&rsquo;s confidence. The season was not propitious. They had to swim
      swollen rivers. They seemed, however, to have galloped night and day
      out-riding the news of their foray, and holding straight for the town, a
      hundred miles into the enemy&rsquo;s country, till at break of day they rode
      into it sword in hand, surprising the little garrison. It fled without
      making a stand, leaving most of its officers in Gaspar Ruiz&rsquo; hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A great explosion of gunpowder ended the conflagration of the magazines
      the raiders had set on fire without loss of time. In less than six hours
      they were riding away at the same mad speed, without the loss of a single
      man. Good as they were, such an exploit is not performed without a still
      better leadership.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was dining at the headquarters when Gaspar Ruiz himself brought the
      news of his success. And it was a great blow to the Royalist troops. For a
      proof he displayed to us the garrison&rsquo;s flag. He took it from under his
      poncho and flung it on the table. The man was transfigured; there was
      something exulting and menacing in the expression of his face. He stood
      behind General San Martin&rsquo;s chair and looked proudly at us all. He had a
      round blue cap edged with silver braid on his head, and we all could see a
      large white scar on the nape of his sunburnt neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Somebody asked him what he had done with the captured Spanish officers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He shrugged his shoulders scornfully. &lsquo;What a question to ask! In a
      partisan war you do not burden yourself with prisoners. I let them go&mdash;and
      here are their sword-knots.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He flung a bunch of them on the table upon the flag. Then General Robles,
      whom I was attending there, spoke up in his loud, thick voice: &lsquo;You did!
      Then, my brave friend, you do not know yet how a war like ours ought to be
      conducted. You should have done&mdash;this.&rsquo; And he passed the edge of his
      hand across his own throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, senores! It was only too true that on both sides this contest, in
      its nature so heroic, was stained by ferocity. The murmurs that arose at
      General Robles&rsquo; words were by no means unanimous in tone. But the generous
      and brave San Martin praised the humane action, and pointed out to Ruiz a
      place on his right hand. Then rising with a full glass he proposed a
      toast: &lsquo;Caballeros and comrades-in-arms, let us drink the health of
      Captain Gaspar Ruiz.&rsquo; And when we had emptied our glasses: &lsquo;I intend,&rsquo; the
      Commander-in-Chief continued, &lsquo;to entrust him with the guardianship of our
      southern frontier, while we go afar to liberate our brethren in Peru. He
      whom the enemy could not stop from striking a blow at his very heart will
      know how to protect the peaceful populations we leave behind us to pursue
      our sacred task.&rsquo; And he embraced the silent Gaspar Ruiz by his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Later on, when we all rose from table, I approached the latest officer of
      the army with my congratulations. &lsquo;And, Captain Ruiz,&rsquo; I added, &lsquo;perhaps
      you do not mind telling a man who has always believed in the uprightness
      of your character what became of Dona Erminia on that night?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At this friendly question his aspect changed. He looked at me from under
      his eyebrows with the heavy, dull glance of a guasso&mdash;of a peasant.
      &lsquo;Senor teniente,&rsquo; he said, thickly, and as if very much cast down, &lsquo;do not
      ask me about the senorita, for I prefer not to think about her at all when
      I am amongst you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He looked, with a frown, all about the room, full of smoking and talking
      officers. Of course I did not insist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These, senores, were the last words I was to hear him utter for a long,
      long time. The very next day we embarked for our arduous expedition to
      Peru, and we only heard of Gaspar Ruiz&rsquo; doings in the midst of battles of
      our own. He had been appointed military guardian of our southern province.
      He raised a partida. But his leniency to the conquered foe displeased the
      Civil Governor, who was a formal, uneasy man, full of suspicions. He
      forwarded reports against Gaspar Ruiz to the Supreme Government; one of
      them being that he had married publicly, with great pomp, a woman of
      Royalist tendencies. Quarrels were sure to arise between these two men of
      very different character. At last the Civil Governor began to complain of
      his inactivity and to hint at treachery, which, he wrote, would be not
      surprising in a man of such antecedents. Gaspar Ruiz heard of it. His rage
      flamed up, and the woman ever by his side knew how to feed it with
      perfidious words. I do not know whether really the Supreme Government ever
      did&mdash;as he complained afterwards&mdash;send orders for his arrest. It
      seems certain that the Civil Governor began to tamper with his officers,
      and that Gaspar Ruiz discovered the fact.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One evening, when the Governor was giving a tertullia, Gaspar Ruiz,
      followed by six men he could trust, appeared riding through the town to
      the door of the Government House, and entered the sala armed, his hat on
      his head. As the Governor, displeased, advanced to meet him, he seized the
      wretched man round the body, carried him off from the midst of the
      appalled guests, as though he were a child, and flung him down the outer
      steps into the street. An angry hug from Gaspar Ruiz was enough to crush
      the life out of a giant; but in addition Gaspar Ruiz&rsquo; horsemen fired their
      pistols at the body of the Governor as it lay motionless at the bottom of
      the stairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      X
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After this&mdash;as he called it&mdash;act of justice, Ruiz crossed the
      Rio Blanco, followed by the greater part of his band, and entrenched
      himself upon a hill. A company of regular troops sent out foolishly
      against him was surrounded, and destroyed almost to a man. Other
      expeditions, though better organized, were equally unsuccessful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was during these sanguinary skirmishes that his wife first began to
      appear on horseback at his right hand. Rendered proud and self-confident
      by his successes, Ruiz no longer charged at the head of his partida, but
      presumptuously, like a general directing the movements of an army, he
      remained in the rear, well mounted and motionless on an eminence, sending
      out his orders. She was seen repeatedly at his side, and for a long time
      was mistaken for a man. There was much talk then of a mysterious
      white-faced chief, to whom the defeats of our troops were ascribed. She
      rode like an Indian woman, astride, wearing a broad-rimmed man&rsquo;s hat and a
      dark poncho. Afterwards, in the day of their greatest prosperity, this
      poncho was embroidered in gold, and she wore then, also, the sword of poor
      Don Antonio de Leyva. This veteran Chilian officer, having the misfortune
      to be surrounded with his small force, and running short of ammunition,
      found his death at the hands of the Arauco Indians, the allies and
      auxiliaries of Gaspar Ruiz. This was the fatal affair long remembered
      afterwards as the &lsquo;Massacre of the Island.&rsquo; The sword of the unhappy
      officer was presented to her by Peneleo, the Araucanian chief; for these
      Indians, struck by her aspect, the deathly pallor of her face, which no
      exposure to the weather seemed to affect, and her calm indifference under
      fire, looked upon her as a supernatural being, or at least as a witch. By
      this superstition the prestige and authority of Gaspar Ruiz amongst these
      ignorant people were greatly augmented. She must have savoured her
      vengeance to the full on that day when she buckled on the sword of Don
      Antonio de Leyva. It never left her side, unless she put on her woman&rsquo;s
      clothes&mdash;not that she would or could ever use it, but she loved to
      feel it beating upon her thigh as a perpetual reminder and symbol of the
      dishonour to the arms of the Republic. She was insatiable. Moreover, on
      the path she had led Gaspar Ruiz upon, there is no stopping. Escaped
      prisoners&mdash;and they were not many&mdash;used to relate how with a few
      whispered words she could change the expression of his face and revive his
      flagging animosity. They told how after every skirmish, after every raid,
      after every successful action, he would ride up to her and look into her
      face. Its haughty calm was never relaxed. Her embrace, senores, must have
      been as cold as the embrace of a statue. He tried to melt her icy heart in
      a stream of warm blood. Some English naval officers who visited him at
      that time noticed the strange character of his infatuation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the movement of surprise and curiosity in his audience General
      Santierra paused for a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;English naval officers,&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;Ruiz had consented to
      receive them to arrange for the liberation of some prisoners of your
      nationality. In the territory upon which he ranged, from sea coast to the
      Cordillera, there was a bay where the ships of that time, after rounding
      Cape Horn, used to resort for wood and water. There, decoying the crew on
      shore, he captured first the whaling brig Hersalia, and afterwards made
      himself master by surprise of two more ships, one English and one
      American.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was rumoured at the time that he dreamed of setting up a navy of his
      own. But that, of course, was impossible. Still, manning the brig with
      part of her own crew, and putting an officer and a good many men of his
      own on board, he sent her off to the Spanish Governor of the island of
      Chiloe with a report of his exploits, and a demand for assistance in the
      war against the rebels. The Governor could not do much for him; but he
      sent in return two light field-pieces, a letter of compliments, with a
      colonel&rsquo;s commission in the royal forces, and a great Spanish flag. This
      standard with much ceremony was hoisted over his house in the heart of the
      Arauco country. Surely on that day she may have smiled on her guasso
      husband with a less haughty reserve.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The senior officer of the English squadron on our coast made
      representations to our Government as to these captures. But Gaspar Ruiz
      refused to treat with us. Then an English frigate proceeded to the bay,
      and her captain, doctor, and two lieutenants travelled inland under a
      safe-conduct. They were well received, and spent three days as guests of
      the partisan chief. A sort of military barbaric state was kept up at the
      residence. It was furnished with the loot of frontier towns. When first
      admitted to the principal sala, they saw his wife lying down (she was not
      in good health then), with Gaspar Ruiz sitting at the foot of the couch.
      His hat was lying on the floor, and his hands reposed on the hilt of his
      sword.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;During that first conversation he never removed his big hands from the
      sword-hilt, except once, to arrange the coverings about her, with gentle,
      careful touches. They noticed that whenever she spoke he would fix his
      eyes upon her in a kind of expectant, breathless attention, and seemingly
      forget the existence of the world and his own existence, too. In the
      course of the farewell banquet, at which she was present reclining on her
      couch, he burst forth into complaints of the treatment he had received.
      After General San Martin&rsquo;s departure he had been beset by spies, slandered
      by civil officials, his services ignored, his liberty and even his life
      threatened by the Chilian Government. He got up from the table, thundered
      execrations pacing the room wildly, then sat down on the couch at his
      wife&rsquo;s feet, his breast heaving, his eyes fixed on the floor. She reclined
      on her back, her head on the cushions, her eyes nearly closed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;And now I am an honoured Spanish officer,&rsquo; he added in a calm voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The captain of the English frigate then took the opportunity to inform
      him gently that Lima had fallen, and that by the terms of a convention the
      Spaniards were withdrawing from the whole continent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gaspar Ruiz raised his head, and without hesitation, speaking with
      suppressed vehemence, declared that if not a single Spanish soldier were
      left in the whole of South America he would persist in carrying on the
      contest against Chile to the last drop of blood. When he finished that mad
      tirade his wife&rsquo;s long white hand was raised, and she just caressed his
      knee with the tips of her fingers for a fraction of a second.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the rest of the officers&rsquo; stay, which did not extend for more than
      half an hour after the banquet, that ferocious chieftain of a desperate
      partida overflowed with amiability and kindness. He had been hospitable
      before, but now it seemed as though he could not do enough for the comfort
      and safety of his visitors&rsquo; journey back to their ship.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, I have been told, could have presented a greater contrast to his
      late violence or the habitual taciturn reserve of his manner. Like a man
      elated beyond measure by an unexpected happiness, he overflowed with
      good-will, amiability, and attentions. He embraced the officers like
      brothers, almost with tears in his eyes. The released prisoners were
      presented each with a piece of gold. At the last moment, suddenly, he
      declared he could do no less than restore to the masters of the merchant
      vessels all their private property. This unexpected generosity caused some
      delay in the departure of the party, and their first march was very short.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Late in the evening Gaspar Ruiz rode up with an escort, to their camp
      fires, bringing along with him a mule loaded with cases of wine. He had
      come, he said, to drink a stirrup cup with his English friends, whom he
      would never see again. He was mellow and joyous in his temper. He told
      stories of his own exploits, laughed like a boy, borrowed a guitar from
      the Englishmen&rsquo;s chief muleteer, and sitting cross-legged on his superfine
      poncho spread before the glow of the embers, sang a guasso love-song in a
      tender voice. Then his head dropped on his breast, his hands fell to the
      ground; the guitar rolled off his knees&mdash;and a great hush fell over
      the camp after the love-song of the implacable partisan who had made so
      many of our people weep for destroyed homes and for loves cut short.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before anybody could make a sound he sprang up from the ground and called
      for his horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Adios, my friends!&rsquo; he cried. &lsquo;Go with God. I love you. And tell them
      well in Santiago that between Gaspar Ruiz, colonel of the King of Spain,
      and the republican carrion-crows of Chile there is war to the last breath&mdash;war!
      war! war!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With a great yell of &lsquo;War! war! war!&rsquo; which his escort took up, they rode
      away, and the sound of hoofs and of voices died out in the distance
      between the slopes of the hills.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The two young English officers were convinced that Ruiz was mad. How do
      you say that?&mdash;tile loose&mdash;eh? But the doctor, an observant
      Scotsman with much shrewdness and philosophy in his character, told me
      that it was a very curious case of possession. I met him many years
      afterwards, but he remembered the experience very well. He told me, too,
      that in his opinion that woman did not lead Gaspar Ruiz into the practice
      of sanguinary treachery by direct persuasion, but by the subtle way of
      awakening and keeping alive in his simple mind a burning sense of an
      irreparable wrong. Maybe, maybe. But I would say that she poured half of
      her vengeful soul into the strong clay of that man, as you may pour
      intoxication, madness, poison into an empty cup.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he wanted war he got it in earnest when our victorious army began to
      return from Peru. Systematic operations were planned against this blot on
      the honour and prosperity of our hardly won independence. General Robles
      commanded, with his well-known ruthless severity. Savage reprisals were
      exercised on both sides and no quarter was given in the field. Having won
      my promotion in the Peru campaign, I was a captain on the staff. Gaspar
      Ruiz found himself hard pressed; at the same time we heard by means of a
      fugitive priest who had been carried off from his village presbytery and
      galloped eighty miles into the hills to perform the christening ceremony,
      that a daughter was born to them. To celebrate the event, I suppose, Ruiz
      executed one or two brilliant forays clear away at the rear of our forces,
      and defeated the detachments sent out to cut off his retreat. General
      Robles nearly had a stroke of apoplexy from rage. He found another cause
      of insomnia than the bites of mosquitoes; but against this one, senores,
      tumblers of raw brandy had no more effect than so much water. He took to
      railing and storming at me about my strong man. And from our impatience to
      end this inglorious campaign I am afraid that all we young officers became
      reckless and apt to take undue risks on service.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nevertheless, slowly, inch by inch as it were, our columns were closing
      upon Gaspar Ruiz, though he had managed to raise all the Araucanian nation
      of wild Indians against us. Then a year or more later our Government
      became aware through its agents and spies that he had actually entered
      into alliance with Carreras, the so-called dictator of the so-called
      republic of Mendoza, on the other side of the mountains. Whether Gaspar
      Ruiz had a deep political intention, or whether he wished only to secure a
      safe retreat for his wife and child while he pursued remorselessly against
      us his war of surprises and massacres, I cannot tell. The alliance,
      however, was a fact. Defeated in his attempt to check our advance from the
      sea, he retreated with his usual swiftness, and preparing for another hard
      and hazardous tussle, began by sending his wife with the little girl
      across the Pequena range of mountains, on the frontier of Mendoza.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      XI
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now Carreras, under the guise of politics and liberalism, was a scoundrel
      of the deepest dye, and the unhappy state of Mendoza was the prey of
      thieves, robbers, traitors, and murderers, who formed his party. He was
      under a noble exterior a man without heart, pity, honour, or conscience.
      He aspired to nothing but tyranny, and though he would have made use of
      Gaspar Ruiz for his nefarious designs, yet he soon became aware that to
      propitiate the Chilian Government would answer his purpose better. I blush
      to say that he made proposals to our Government to deliver up on certain
      conditions the wife and child of the man who had trusted to his honour,
      and that this offer was accepted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;While on her way to Mendoza over the Pequena Pass she was betrayed by her
      escort of Carreras&rsquo; men, and given up to the officer in command of a
      Chilian fort on the upland at the foot of the main Cordillera range. This
      atrocious transaction might have cost me dear, for as a matter of fact I
      was a prisoner in Gaspar Ruiz&rsquo; camp when he received the news. I had been
      captured during a reconnaissance, my escort of a few troopers being
      speared by the Indians of his bodyguard. I was saved from the same fate
      because he recognized my features just in time. No doubt my friends
      thought I was dead, and I would not have given much for my life at any
      time. But the strong man treated me very well, because, he said, I had
      always believed in his innocence and had tried to serve him when he was a
      victim of injustice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;And now,&rsquo; was his speech to me, &lsquo;you shall see that I always speak the
      truth. You are safe.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not think I was very safe when I was called up to go to him one
      night. He paced up and down like a wild beast, exclaiming, &lsquo;Betrayed!
      Betrayed!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He walked up to me clenching his fists. &lsquo;I could cut your throat.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Will that give your wife back to you?&rsquo; I said as quietly as I could.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;And the child!&rsquo; he yelled out, as if mad. He fell into a chair and
      laughed in a frightful, boisterous manner. &lsquo;Oh, no, you are safe.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assured him that his wife&rsquo;s life was safe, too; but I did not say what
      I was convinced of&mdash;that he would never see her again. He wanted war
      to the death, and the war could only end with his death.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He gave me a strange, inexplicable look, and sat muttering blankly, &lsquo;In
      their hands. In their hands.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I kept as still as a mouse before a cat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suddenly he jumped up. &lsquo;What am I doing here?&rsquo; he cried; and opening the
      door, he yelled out orders to saddle and mount. &lsquo;What is it?&rsquo; he
      stammered, coming up to me. &lsquo;The Pequena fort; a fort of palisades!
      Nothing. I would get her back if she were hidden in the very heart of the
      mountain.&rsquo; He amazed me by adding, with an effort: &lsquo;I carried her off in
      my two arms while the earth trembled. And the child at least is mine. She
      at least is mine!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those were bizarre words; but I had no time for wonder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You shall go with me,&rsquo; he said, violently. &lsquo;I may want to parley, and
      any other messenger from Ruiz, the outlaw, would have his throat cut.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This was true enough. Between him and the rest of incensed mankind there
      could be no communication, according to the customs of honourable warfare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In less than half an hour we were in the saddle, flying wildly through
      the night. He had only an escort of twenty men at his quarters, but would
      not wait for more. He sent, however, messengers to Peneleo, the Indian
      chief then ranging in the foothills, directing him to bring his warriors
      to the uplands and meet him at the lake called the Eye of Water, near
      whose shores the frontier fort of Pequena was built.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We crossed the lowlands with that untired rapidity of movement which had
      made Gaspar Ruiz&rsquo; raids so famous. We followed the lower valleys up to
      their precipitous heads. The ride was not without its dangers. A cornice
      road on a perpendicular wall of basalt wound itself around a buttressing
      rock, and at last we emerged from the gloom of a deep gorge upon the
      upland of Pequena.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a plain of green wiry grass and thin flowering bushes; but high
      above our heads patches of snow hung in the folds and crevices of the
      great walls of rock. The little lake was as round as a staring eye. The
      garrison of the fort were just driving in their small herd of cattle when
      we appeared. Then the great wooden gates swung to, and that four-square
      enclosure of broad blackened stakes pointed at the top and barely hiding
      the grass roofs of the huts inside seemed deserted, empty, without a
      single soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But when summoned to surrender, by a man who at Gaspar Ruiz&rsquo; order rode
      fearlessly forward those inside answered by a volley which rolled him and
      his horse over. I heard Ruiz by my side grind his teeth. &lsquo;It does not
      matter,&rsquo; he said. &lsquo;Now you go.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Torn and faded as its rags were, the vestiges of my uniform were
      recognized, and I was allowed to approach within speaking distance; and
      then I had to wait, because a voice clamouring through a loophole with joy
      and astonishment would not allow me to place a word. It was the voice of
      Major Pajol, an old friend. He, like my other comrades, had thought me
      killed a long time ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Put spurs to your horse, man!&rsquo; he yelled, in the greatest excitement;
      &lsquo;we will swing the gate open for you.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I let the reins fall out of my hand and shook my head. &lsquo;I am on my
      honour,&rsquo; I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;To him!&rsquo; he shouted, with infinite disgust.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;He promises you your life.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Our life is our own. And do you, Santierra, advise us to surrender to
      that rastrero?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;No!&rsquo; I shouted. &lsquo;But he wants his wife and child, and he can cut you off
      from water.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Then she would be the first to suffer. You may tell him that. Look here&mdash;this
      is all nonsense: we shall dash out and capture you.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You shall not catch me alive,&rsquo; I said, firmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Imbecile!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;For God&rsquo;s sake,&rsquo; I continued, hastily, &lsquo;do not open the gate.&rsquo; And I
      pointed at the multitude of Peneleo&rsquo;s Indians who covered the shores of
      the lake.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had never seen so many of these savages together. Their lances seemed
      as numerous as stalks of grass. Their hoarse voices made a vast,
      inarticulate sound like the murmur of the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend Pajol was swearing to himself. &lsquo;Well, then&mdash;go to the
      devil!&rsquo; he shouted, exasperated. But as I swung round he repented, for I
      heard him say hurriedly, &lsquo;Shoot the fool&rsquo;s horse before he gets away.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had good marksmen. Two shots rang out, and in the very act of turning
      my horse staggered, fell and lay still as if struck by lightning. I had my
      feet out of the stirrups and rolled clear of him; but I did not attempt to
      rise. Neither dared they rush out to drag me in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The masses of Indians had begun to move upon the fort. They rode up in
      squadrons, trailing their long chusos; then dismounted out of musket-shot,
      and, throwing off their fur mantles, advanced naked to the attack,
      stamping their feet and shouting in cadence. A sheet of flame ran three
      times along the face of the fort without checking their steady march. They
      crowded right up to the very stakes, flourishing their broad knives. But
      this palisade was not fastened together with hide lashings in the usual
      way, but with long iron nails, which they could not cut. Dismayed at the
      failure of their usual method of forcing an entrance, the heathen, who had
      marched so steadily against the musketry fire, broke and fled under the
      volleys of the besieged.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Directly they had passed me on their advance I got up and rejoined Gaspar
      Ruiz on a low ridge which jutted out upon the plain. The musketry of his
      own men had covered the attack, but now at a sign from him a trumpet
      sounded the &lsquo;Cease fire.&rsquo; Together we looked in silence at the hopeless
      rout of the savages.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;It must be a siege, then,&rsquo; he muttered. And I detected him wringing his
      hands stealthily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what sort of siege could it be? Without any need for me to repeat my
      friend Pajol&rsquo;s message, he dared not cut the water off from the besieged.
      They had plenty of meat. And, indeed, if they had been short he would have
      been too anxious to send food into the stockade had he been able. But, as
      a matter of fact, it was we on the plain who were beginning to feel the
      pinch of hunger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peneleo, the Indian chief, sat by our fire folded in his ample mantle of
      guanaco skins. He was an athletic savage, with an enormous square shock
      head of hair resembling a straw beehive in shape and size, and with grave,
      surly, much-lined features. In his broken Spanish he repeated, growling
      like a bad-tempered wild beast, that if an opening ever so small were made
      in the stockade his men would march in and get the senora&mdash;not
      otherwise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gaspar Ruiz, sitting opposite him, kept his eyes fixed on the fort night
      and day as it were, in awful silence and immobility. Meantime, by runners
      from the lowlands that arrived nearly every day, we heard of the defeat of
      one of his lieutenants in the Maipu valley. Scouts sent afar brought news
      of a column of infantry advancing through distant passes to the relief of
      the fort. They were slow, but we could trace their toilful progress up the
      lower valleys. I wondered why Ruiz did not march to attack and destroy
      this threatening force, in some wild gorge fit for an ambuscade, in
      accordance with his genius for guerilla warfare. But his genius seemed to
      have abandoned him to his despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was obvious to me that he could not tear himself away from the sight
      of the fort. I protest to you, senores, that I was moved almost to pity by
      the sight of this powerless strong man sitting on the ridge, indifferent
      to sun, to rain, to cold, to wind; with his hands clasped round his legs
      and his chin resting on his knees, gazing&mdash;gazing&mdash;gazing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the fort he kept his eyes fastened on was as still and silent as
      himself. The garrison gave no sign of life. They did not even answer the
      desultory fire directed at the loopholes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One night, as I strolled past him, he, without changing his attitude,
      spoke to me unexpectedly. &lsquo;I have sent for a gun,&rsquo; he said. &lsquo;I shall have
      time to get her back and retreat before your Robles manages to crawl up
      here.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had sent for a gun to the plains.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was long in coming, but at last it came. It was a seven-pounder field
      gun. Dismounted and lashed crosswise to two long poles, it had been
      carried up the narrow paths between two mules with ease. His wild cry of
      exultation at daybreak when he saw the gun escort emerge from the valley
      rings in my ears now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, senores, I have no words to depict his amazement, his fury, his
      despair and distraction, when he heard that the animal loaded with the
      gun-carriage had, during the last night march, somehow or other tumbled
      down a precipice. He broke into menaces of death and torture against the
      escort. I kept out of his way all that day, lying behind some bushes, and
      wondering what he would do now. Retreat was left for him, but he could not
      retreat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw below me his artillerist, Jorge, an old Spanish soldier, building
      up a sort of structure with heaped-up saddles. The gun, ready loaded, was
      lifted on to that, but in the act of firing the whole thing collapsed and
      the shot flew high above the stockade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing more was attempted. One of the ammunition mules had been lost,
      too, and they had no more than six shots to fire; ample enough to batter
      down the gate providing the gun was well laid. This was impossible without
      it being properly mounted. There was no time nor means to construct a
      carriage. Already every moment I expected to hear Robles&rsquo; bugle-calls echo
      amongst the crags.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peneleo, wandering about uneasily, draped in his skins, sat down for a
      moment near me growling his usual tale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Make an entrada&mdash;a hole. If make a hole, bueno. If not make a hole,
      then vamos&mdash;we must go away.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After sunset I observed with surprise the Indians making preparations as
      if for another assault. Their lines stood ranged in the shadows of the
      mountains. On the plain in front of the fort gate I saw a group of men
      swaying about in the same place.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I walked down the ridge disregarded. The moonlight in the clear air of
      the uplands was bright as day, but the intense shadows confused my sight,
      and I could not make out what they were doing. I heard the voice of Jorge,
      the artillerist, say in a queer, doubtful tone, &lsquo;It is loaded, senor.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then another voice in that group pronounced firmly the words, &lsquo;Bring the
      riata here.&rsquo; It was the voice of Gaspar Ruiz.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A silence fell, in which the popping shots of the besieged garrison rang
      out sharply. They, too, had observed the group. But the distance was too
      great and in the spatter of spent musket-balls cutting up the ground, the
      group opened, closed, swayed, giving me a glimpse of busy stooping figures
      in its midst. I drew nearer, doubting whether this was a weird vision, a
      suggestive and insensate dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A strangely stifled voice commanded, &lsquo;Haul the hitches tighter.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Si, senor,&rsquo; several other voices answered in tones of awed alacrity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then the stifled voice said: &lsquo;Like this. I must be free to breathe.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then there was a concerned noise of many men together. &lsquo;Help him up,
      hombres. Steady! Under the other arm.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That deadened voice ordered: &lsquo;Bueno! Stand away from me, men.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I pushed my way through the recoiling circle, and heard once more that
      same oppressed voice saying earnestly: &lsquo;Forget that I am a living man,
      Jorge. Forget me altogether, and think of what you have to do.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Be without fear, senor. You are nothing to me but a gun-carriage, and I
      shall not waste a shot.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard the spluttering of a port-fire, and smelt the saltpetre of the
      match. I saw suddenly before me a nondescript shape on all fours like a
      beast, but with a man&rsquo;s head drooping below a tubular projection over the
      nape of the neck, and the gleam of a rounded mass of bronze on its back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In front of a silent semicircle of men it squatted alone, with Jorge
      behind it and a trumpeter motionless, his trumpet in his hand, by its
      side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jorge, bent double, muttered, port-fire in hand: &lsquo;An inch to the left,
      senor. Too much. So. Now, if you let yourself down a little by letting
      your elbows bend, I will . . .&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He leaped aside, lowering his port-fire, and a burst of flame darted out
      of the muzzle of the gun lashed on the man&rsquo;s back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then Gaspar Ruiz lowered himself slowly. &lsquo;Good shot?&rsquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Full on, senor.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Then load again.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He lay there before me on his breast under the darkly glittering bronze
      of his monstrous burden, such as no love or strength of man had ever had
      to bear in the lamentable history of the world. His arms were spread out,
      and he resembled a prostrate penitent on the moonlit ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Again I saw him raised to his hands and knees and the men stand away from
      him, and old Jorge stoop glancing along the gun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Left a little. Right an inch. Por Dios, senor, stop this trembling.
      Where is your strength?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The old gunner&rsquo;s voice was cracked with emotion. He stepped aside, and
      quick as lightning brought the spark to the touch-hole.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Excellent!&rsquo; he cried, tearfully; but Gaspar Ruiz lay for a long time
      silent, flattened on the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I am tired,&rsquo; he murmured at last. &lsquo;Will another shot do it?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Without doubt,&rsquo; said Jorge, bending down to his ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Then&mdash;load,&rsquo; I heard him utter distinctly. &lsquo;Trumpeter!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I am here, senor, ready for your word.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Blow a blast at this word that shall be heard from one end of Chile to
      the other,&rsquo; he said, in an extraordinarily strong voice. &lsquo;And you others
      stand ready to cut this accursed riata, for then will be the time for me
      to lead you in your rush. Now raise me up, and you, Jorge&mdash;be quick
      with your aim.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The rattle of musketry from the fort nearly drowned his voice. The
      palisade was wreathed in smoke and flame.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Exert your force forward against the recoil, mi amo,&rsquo; said the old
      gunner, shakily. &lsquo;Dig your fingers into the ground. So. Now!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A cry of exultation escaped him after the shot. The trumpeter raised his
      trumpet nearly to his lips and waited. But no word came from the prostrate
      man. I fell on one knee, and heard all he had to say then.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Something broken,&rsquo; he whispered, lifting his head a little, and turning
      his eyes towards me in his hopelessly crushed attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;The gate hangs only by the splinters,&rsquo; yelled Jorge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gaspar Ruiz tried to speak, but his voice died out in his throat, and I
      helped to roll the gun off his broken back. He was insensible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I kept my lips shut, of course. The signal for the Indians to attack was
      never given. Instead, the bugle-calls of the relieving force for which my
      ears had thirsted so long, burst out, terrifying like the call of the Last
      Day to our surprised enemies.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A tornado, senores, a real hurricane of stampeded men, wild horses,
      mounted Indians, swept over me as I cowered on the ground by the side of
      Gaspar Ruiz, still stretched out on his face in the shape of a cross.
      Peneleo, galloping for life, jabbed at me with his long chuso in passing&mdash;for
      the sake of old acquaintance, I suppose. How I escaped the flying lead is
      more difficult to explain. Venturing to rise on my knees too soon some
      soldiers of the 17th Taltal regiment, in their hurry to get at something
      alive, nearly bayoneted me on the spot. They looked very disappointed,
      too, when, some officers galloping up drove them away with the flat of
      their swords.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was General Robles with his staff. He wanted badly to make some
      prisoners. He, too, seemed disappointed for a moment. &lsquo;What! Is it you?&rsquo; 
      he cried. But he dismounted at once to embrace me, for he was an old
      friend of my family. I pointed to the body at our feet, and said only
      these two words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Gaspar Ruiz.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He threw his arms up in astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Aha! Your strong man! Always to the last with your strong man. No
      matter. He saved our lives when the earth trembled enough to make the
      bravest faint with fear. I was frightened out of my wits. But he&mdash;no!
      Que guape! Where&rsquo;s the hero who got the best of him? ha! ha! ha! What
      killed him, chico?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;His own strength, General,&rsquo; I answered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      XII
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Gaspar Ruiz breathed yet. I had him carried in his poncho under the
      shelter of some bushes on the very ridge from which he had been gazing so
      fixedly at the fort while unseen death was hovering already over his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our troops had bivouacked round the fort. Towards daybreak I was not
      surprised to hear that I was designated to command the escort of a
      prisoner who was to be sent down at once to Santiago. Of course the
      prisoner was Gaspar Ruiz&rsquo; wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I have named you out of regard for your feelings,&rsquo; General Robles
      remarked. &lsquo;Though the woman really ought to be shot for all the harm she
      has done to the Republic.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And as I made a movement of shocked protest, he continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Now he is as well as dead, she is of no importance. Nobody will know
      what to do with her. However, the Government wants her.&rsquo; He shrugged his
      shoulders. &lsquo;I suppose he must have buried large quantities of his loot in
      places that she alone knows of.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At dawn I saw her coming up the ridge, guarded by two soldiers, and
      carrying her child on her arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I walked to meet her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Is he living yet?&rsquo; she asked, confronting me with that white, impassive
      face he used to look at in an adoring way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I bent my head, and led her round a clump of bushes without a word. His
      eyes were open. He breathed with difficulty, and uttered her name with a
      great effort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Erminia!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She knelt at his head. The little girl, unconscious of him, and with her
      big eyes looking about, began to chatter suddenly, in a joyous, thin
      voice. She pointed a tiny finger at the rosy glow of sunrise behind the
      black shapes of the peaks. And while that child-talk, incomprehensible and
      sweet to the ear, lasted, those two, the dying man and the kneeling woman,
      remained silent, looking into each other&rsquo;s eyes, listening to the frail
      sound. Then the prattle stopped. The child laid its head against its
      mother&rsquo;s breast and was still.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;It was for you,&rsquo; he began. &lsquo;Forgive.&rsquo; His voice failed him. Presently I
      heard a mutter and caught the pitiful words: &lsquo;Not strong enough.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She looked at him with an extraordinary intensity. He tried to smile, and
      in a humble tone, &lsquo;Forgive me,&rsquo; he repeated. &lsquo;Leaving you . . .&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She bent down, dry-eyed and in a steady voice: &lsquo;On all the earth I have
      loved nothing but you, Gaspar,&rsquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His head made a movement. His eyes revived. &lsquo;At last!&rsquo; he sighed out.
      Then, anxiously, &lsquo;But is this true . . . is this true?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;As true as that there is no mercy and justice in this world,&rsquo; she
      answered him, passionately. She stooped over his face. He tried to raise
      his head, but it fell back, and when she kissed his lips he was already
      dead. His glazed eyes stared at the sky, on which pink clouds floated very
      high. But I noticed the eyelids of the child, pressed to its mother&rsquo;s
      breast, droop and close slowly. She had gone to sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The widow of Gaspar Ruiz, the strong man, allowed me to lead her away
      without shedding a tear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For travelling we had arranged for her a sidesaddle very much like a
      chair, with a board swung beneath to rest her feet on. And the first day
      she rode without uttering a word, and hardly for one moment turning her
      eyes away from the little girl, whom she held on her knees. At our first
      camp I saw her during the night walking about, rocking the child in her
      arms and gazing down at it by the light of the moon. After we had started
      on our second day&rsquo;s march she asked me how soon we should come to the
      first village of the inhabited country.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said we should be there about noon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;And will there be women there?&rsquo; she inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told her that it was a large village. &lsquo;There will be men and women
      there, senora,&rsquo; I said, &lsquo;whose hearts shall be made glad by the news that
      all the unrest and war is over now.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Yes, it is all over now,&rsquo; she repeated. Then, after a time: &lsquo;Senor
      officer, what will your Government do with me?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I do not know, senora,&rsquo; I said. &lsquo;They will treat you well, no doubt. We
      republicans are not savages and take no vengeance on women.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She gave me a look at the word &lsquo;republicans&rsquo; which I imagined full of
      undying hate. But an hour or so afterwards, as we drew up to let the
      baggage mules go first along a narrow path skirting a precipice, she
      looked at me with such a white, troubled face that I felt a great pity for
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Senor officer,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;I am weak, I tremble. It is an insensate
      fear.&rsquo; And indeed her lips did tremble while she tried to smile, glancing
      at the beginning of the narrow path which was not so dangerous after all.
      &lsquo;I am afraid I shall drop the child. Gaspar saved your life, you remember.
      . . . Take her from me.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I took the child out of her extended arms. &lsquo;Shut your eyes, senora, and
      trust to your mule,&rsquo; I recommended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She did so, and with her pallor and her wasted, thin face she looked
      deathlike. At a turn of the path where a great crag of purple porphyry
      closes the view of the lowlands, I saw her open her eyes. I rode just
      behind her holding the little girl with my right arm. &lsquo;The child is all
      right,&rsquo; I cried encouragingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Yes,&rsquo; she answered, faintly; and then, to my intense terror, I saw her
      stand up on the foot-rest, staring horribly, and throw herself forward
      into the chasm on our right.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot describe to you the sudden and abject fear that came over me at
      that dreadful sight. It was a dread of the abyss, the dread of the crags
      which seemed to nod upon me. My head swam. I pressed the child to my side
      and sat my horse as still as a statue. I was speechless and cold all over.
      Her mule staggered, sidling close to the rock, and then went on. My horse
      only pricked up his ears with a slight snort. My heart stood still, and
      from the depths of the precipice the stones rattling in the bed of the
      furious stream made me almost insane with their sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Next moment we were round the turn and on a broad and grassy slope. And
      then I yelled. My men came running back to me in great alarm. It seems
      that at first I did nothing but shout, &lsquo;She has given the child into my
      hands! She has given the child into my hands!&rsquo; The escort thought I had
      gone mad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General Santierra ceased and got up from the table. &ldquo;And that is all,
      senores,&rdquo; he concluded, with a courteous glance at his rising guests.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what became of the child. General?&rdquo; we asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, the child, the child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He walked to one of the windows opening on his beautiful garden, the
      refuge of his old days. Its fame was great in the land. Keeping us back
      with a raised arm, he called out, &ldquo;Erminia, Erminia!&rdquo; and waited. Then his
      cautioning arm dropped, and we crowded to the windows.
    </p>
    <p>
      From a clump of trees a woman had come upon the broad walk bordered with
      flowers. We could hear the rustle of her starched petticoats and observed
      the ample spread of her old-fashioned black silk skirt. She looked up, and
      seeing all these eyes staring at her stopped, frowned, smiled, shook her
      finger at the General, who was laughing boisterously, and drawing the
      black lace on her head so as to partly conceal her haughty profile, passed
      out of our sight, walking with stiff dignity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have beheld the guardian angel of the old man&mdash;and her to whom
      you owe all that is seemly and comfortable in my hospitality. Somehow,
      senores, though the flame of love has been kindled early in my breast, I
      have never married. And because of that perhaps the sparks of the sacred
      fire are not yet extinct here.&rdquo; He struck his broad chest. &ldquo;Still alive,
      still alive,&rdquo; he said, with serio-comic emphasis. &ldquo;But I shall not marry
      now. She is General Santierra&rsquo;s adopted daughter and heiress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One of our fellow-guests, a young naval officer, described her afterwards
      as a &ldquo;short, stout, old girl of forty or thereabouts.&rdquo; We had all noticed
      that her hair was turning grey, and that she had very fine black eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And,&rdquo; General Santierra continued, &ldquo;neither would she ever hear of
      marrying any one. A real calamity! Good, patient, devoted to the old man.
      A simple soul. But I would not advise any of you to ask for her hand, for
      if she took yours into hers it would be only to crush your bones. Ah! she
      does not jest on that subject. And she is the own daughter of her father,
      the strong man who perished through his own strength: the strength of his
      body, of his simplicity&mdash;of his love!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE INFORMER
    </h2>
    <h3>
      AN IRONIC TALE
    </h3>
    <p>
      Mr. X came to me, preceded by a letter of introduction from a good friend
      of mine in Paris, specifically to see my collection of Chinese bronzes and
      porcelain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend in Paris is a collector, too. He collects neither porcelain,
      nor bronzes, nor pictures, nor medals, nor stamps, nor anything that could
      be profitably dispersed under an auctioneer&rsquo;s hammer. He would reject,
      with genuine surprise, the name of a collector. Nevertheless, that&rsquo;s what
      he is by temperament. He collects acquaintances. It is delicate work. He
      brings to it the patience, the passion, the determination of a true
      collector of curiosities. His collection does not contain any royal
      personages. I don&rsquo;t think he considers them sufficiently rare and
      interesting; but, with that exception, he has met with and talked to
      everyone worth knowing on any conceivable ground. He observes them,
      listens to them, penetrates them, measures them, and puts the memory away
      in the galleries of his mind. He has schemed, plotted, and travelled all
      over Europe in order to add to his collection of distinguished personal
      acquaintances.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As he is wealthy, well connected, and unprejudiced, his collection is
      pretty complete, including objects (or should I say subjects?) whose value
      is unappreciated by the vulgar, and often unknown to popular fame. Of
      trevolte of modern times. The world knows him as a revolutionary writer
      whose savage irony has laid bare the rottenness of the most respectable
      institutions. He has scalped every venerated head, and has mangled at the
      stake of his wit every received opinion and every recognized principle of
      conduct and policy. Who does not remember his flaming red revolutionary
      pamphlets? Their sudden swarmings used to overwhelm the powers of every
      Continental police like a plague of crimson gadflies. But this extreme
      writer has been also the active inspirer of secret societies, the
      mysterious unknown Number One of desperate conspiracies suspected and
      unsuspected, matured or baffled. And the world at large has never had an
      inkling of that fact! This accounts for him going about amongst us to this
      day, a veteran of many subterranean campaigns, standing aside now, safe
      within his reputation of merely the greatest destructive publicist that
      ever lived.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus wrote my friend, adding that Mr. X was an enlightened connoisseur of
      bronzes and china, and asking me to show him my collection.
    </p>
    <p>
      X turned up in due course. My treasures are disposed in three large rooms
      without carpets and curtains. There is no other furniture than the etagres
      and the glass cases whose contents shall be worth a fortune to my heirs. I
      allow no fires to be lighted, for fear of accidents, and a fire-proof door
      separates them from the rest of the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a bitter cold day. We kept on our overcoats and hats. Middle-sized
      and spare, his eyes alert in a long, Roman-nosed countenance, X walked on
      his neat little feet, with short steps, and looked at my collection
      intelligently. I hope I looked at him intelligently, too. A snow-white
      moustache and imperial made his nutbrown complexion appear darker than it
      really was. In his fur coat and shiny tall hat that terrible man looked
      fashionable. I believe he belonged to a noble family, and could have
      called himself Vicomte X de la Z if he chose. We talked nothing but
      bronzes and porcelain. He was remarkably appreciative. We parted on
      cordial terms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Where he was staying I don&rsquo;t know. I imagine he must have been a lonely
      man. Anarchists, I suppose, have no families&mdash;not, at any rate, as we
      understand that social relation. Organization into families may answer to
      a need of human nature, but in the last instance it is based on law, and
      therefore must be something odious and impossible to an anarchist. But,
      indeed, I don&rsquo;t understand anarchists. Does a man of that&mdash;of that&mdash;persuasion
      still remain an anarchist when alone, quite alone and going to bed, for
      instance? Does he lay his head on the pillow, pull his bedclothes over
      him, and go to sleep with the necessity of the chambardement general, as
      the French slang has it, of the general blow-up, always present to his
      mind? And if so how can he? I am sure that if such a faith (or such a
      fanaticism) once mastered my thoughts I would never be able to compose
      myself sufficiently to sleep or eat or perform any of the routine acts of
      daily life. I would want no wife, no children; I could have no friends, it
      seems to me; and as to collecting bronzes or china, that, I should say,
      would be quite out of the question. But I don&rsquo;t know. All I know is that
      Mr. X took his meals in a very good restaurant which I frequented also.
    </p>
    <p>
      With his head uncovered, the silver top-knot of his brushed-up hair
      completed the character of his physiognomy, all bony ridges and sunken
      hollows, clothed in a perfect impassiveness of expression. His meagre
      brown hands emerging from large white cuffs came and went breaking bread,
      pouring wine, and so on, with quiet mechanical precision. His head and
      body above the tablecloth had a rigid immobility. This firebrand, this
      great agitator, exhibited the least possible amount of warmth and
      animation. His voice was rasping, cold, and monotonous in a low key. He
      could not be called a talkative personality; but with his detached calm
      manner he appeared as ready to keep the conversation going as to drop it
      at any moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      And his conversation was by no means commonplace. To me, I own, there was
      some excitement in talking quietly across a dinner-table with a man whose
      venomous pen-stabs had sapped the vitality of at least one monarchy. That
      much was a matter of public knowledge. But I knew more. I knew of him&mdash;from
      my friend&mdash;as a certainty what the guardians of social order in
      Europe had at most only suspected, or dimly guessed at.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had had what I may call his underground life. And as I sat, evening
      after evening, facing him at dinner, a curiosity in that direction would
      naturally arise in my mind. I am a quiet and peaceable product of
      civilization, and know no passion other than the passion for collecting
      things which are rare, and must remain exquisite even if approaching to
      the monstrous. Some Chinese bronzes are monstrously precious. And here
      (out of my friend&rsquo;s collection), here I had before me a kind of rare
      monster. It is true that this monster was polished and in a sense even
      exquisite. His beautiful unruffled manner was that. But then he was not of
      bronze. He was not even Chinese, which would have enabled one to
      contemplate him calmly across the gulf of racial difference. He was alive
      and European; he had the manner of good society, wore a coat and hat like
      mine, and had pretty near the same taste in cooking. It was too frightful
      to think of.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening he remarked, casually, in the course of conversation, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s
      no amendment to be got out of mankind except by terror and violence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      You can imagine the effect of such a phrase out of such a man&rsquo;s mouth upon
      a person like myself, whose whole scheme of life had been based upon a
      suave and delicate discrimination of social and artistic values. Just
      imagine! Upon me, to whom all sorts and forms of violence appeared as
      unreal as the giants, ogres, and seven-headed hydras whose activities
      affect, fantastically, the course of legends and fairy-tales!
    </p>
    <p>
      I seemed suddenly to hear above the festive bustle and clatter of the
      brilliant restaurant the mutter of a hungry and seditious multitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      I suppose I am impressionable and imaginative. I had a disturbing vision
      of darkness, full of lean jaws and wild eyes, amongst the hundred electric
      lights of the place. But somehow this vision made me angry, too. The sight
      of that man, so calm, breaking bits of white bread, exasperated me. And I
      had the audacity to ask him how it was that the starving proletariat of
      Europe to whom he had been preaching revolt and violence had not been made
      indignant by his openly luxurious life. &ldquo;At all this,&rdquo; I said, pointedly,
      with a glance round the room and at the bottle of champagne we generally
      shared between us at dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      He remained unmoved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I feed on their toil and their heart&rsquo;s blood? Am I a speculator or a
      capitalist? Did I steal my fortune from a starving people? No! They know
      this very well. And they envy me nothing. The miserable mass of the people
      is generous to its leaders. What I have acquired has come to me through my
      writings; not from the millions of pamphlets distributed gratis to the
      hungry and the oppressed, but from the hundreds of thousands of copies
      sold to the well-fed bourgeoisie. You know that my writings were at one
      time the rage, the fashion&mdash;the thing to read with wonder and horror,
      to turn your eyes up at my pathos . . . or else, to laugh in ecstasies at
      my wit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; I admitted. &ldquo;I remember, of course; and I confess frankly that I
      could never understand that infatuation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you know yet,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that an idle and selfish class loves to
      see mischief being made, even if it is made at its own expense? Its own
      life being all a matter of pose and gesture, it is unable to realize the
      power and the danger of a real movement and of words that have no sham
      meaning. It is all fun and sentiment. It is sufficient, for instance, to
      point out the attitude of the old French aristocracy towards the
      philosophers whose words were preparing the Great Revolution. Even in
      England, where you have some common-sense, a demagogue has only to shout
      loud enough and long enough to find some backing in the very class he is
      shouting at. You, too, like to see mischief being made. The demagogue
      carries the amateurs of emotion with him. Amateurism in this, that, and
      the other thing is a delightfully easy way of killing time, and feeding
      one&rsquo;s own vanity&mdash;the silly vanity of being abreast with the ideas of
      the day after to-morrow. Just as good and otherwise harmless people will
      join you in ecstasies over your collection without having the slightest
      notion in what its marvellousness really consists.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I hung my head. It was a crushing illustration of the sad truth he
      advanced. The world is full of such people. And that instance of the
      French aristocracy before the Revolution was extremely telling, too. I
      could not traverse his statement, though its cynicism&mdash;always a
      distasteful trait&mdash;took off much of its value to my mind. However, I
      admit I was impressed. I felt the need to say something which would not be
      in the nature of assent and yet would not invite discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mean to say,&rdquo; I observed, airily, &ldquo;that extreme revolutionists
      have ever been actively assisted by the infatuation of such people?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not mean exactly that by what I said just now. I generalized. But
      since you ask me, I may tell you that such help has been given to
      revolutionary activities, more or less consciously, in various countries.
      And even in this country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo; I protested with firmness. &ldquo;We don&rsquo;t play with fire to that
      extent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet you can better afford it than others, perhaps. But let me observe
      that most women, if not always ready to play with fire, are generally
      eager to play with a loose spark or so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is this a joke?&rdquo; I asked, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it is, I am not aware of it,&rdquo; he said, woodenly. &ldquo;I was thinking of an
      instance. Oh! mild enough in a way . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I became all expectation at this. I had tried many times to approach him
      on his underground side, so to speak. The very word had been pronounced
      between us. But he had always met me with his impenetrable calm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And at the same time,&rdquo; Mr. X continued, &ldquo;it will give you a notion of the
      difficulties that may arise in what you are pleased to call underground
      work. It is sometimes difficult to deal with them. Of course there is no
      hierarchy amongst the affiliated. No rigid system.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My surprise was great, but short-lived. Clearly, amongst extreme
      anarchists there could be no hierarchy; nothing in the nature of a law of
      precedence. The idea of anarchy ruling among anarchists was comforting,
      too. It could not possibly make for efficiency.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. X startled me by asking, abruptly, &ldquo;You know Hermione Street?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I nodded doubtful assent. Hermione Street has been, within the last three
      years, improved out of any man&rsquo;s knowledge. The name exists still, but not
      one brick or stone of the old Hermione Street is left now. It was the old
      street he meant, for he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was a row of two-storied brick houses on the left, with their backs
      against the wing of a great public building&mdash;you remember. Would it
      surprise you very much to hear that one of these houses was for a time the
      centre of anarchist propaganda and of what you would call underground
      action?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; I declared. Hermione Street had never been particularly
      respectable, as I remembered it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The house was the property of a distinguished government official,&rdquo; he
      added, sipping his champagne.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, indeed!&rdquo; I said, this time not believing a word of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course he was not living there,&rdquo; Mr. X continued. &ldquo;But from ten till
      four he sat next door to it, the dear man, in his well-appointed private
      room in the wing of the public building I&rsquo;ve mentioned. To be strictly
      accurate, I must explain that the house in Hermione Street did not really
      belong to him. It belonged to his grown-up children&mdash;a daughter and a
      son. The girl, a fine figure, was by no means vulgarly pretty. To more
      personal charm than mere youth could account for, she added the seductive
      appearance of enthusiasm, of independence, of courageous thought. I
      suppose she put on these appearances as she put on her picturesque dresses
      and for the same reason: to assert her individuality at any cost. You
      know, women would go to any length almost for such a purpose. She went to
      a great length. She had acquired all the appropriate gestures of
      revolutionary convictions&mdash;the gestures of pity, of anger, of
      indignation against the anti-humanitarian vices of the social class to
      which she belonged herself. All this sat on her striking personality as
      well as her slightly original costumes. Very slightly original; just
      enough to mark a protest against the philistinism of the overfed
      taskmasters of the poor. Just enough, and no more. It would not have done
      to go too far in that direction&mdash;you understand. But she was of age,
      and nothing stood in the way of her offering her house to the
      revolutionary workers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mean it!&rdquo; I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you,&rdquo; he affirmed, &ldquo;that she made that very practical gesture.
      How else could they have got hold of it? The cause is not rich. And,
      moreover, there would have been difficulties with any ordinary
      house-agent, who would have wanted references and so on. The group she
      came in contact with while exploring the poor quarters of the town (you
      know the gesture of charity and personal service which was so fashionable
      some years ago) accepted with gratitude. The first advantage was that
      Hermione Street is, as you know, well away from the suspect part of the
      town, specially watched by the police.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The ground floor consisted of a little Italian restaurant, of the
      flyblown sort. There was no difficulty in buying the proprietor out. A
      woman and a man belonging to the group took it on. The man had been a
      cook. The comrades could get their meals there, unnoticed amongst the
      other customers. This was another advantage. The first floor was occupied
      by a shabby Variety Artists&rsquo; Agency&mdash;an agency for performers in
      inferior music-halls, you know. A fellow called Bomm, I remember. He was
      not disturbed. It was rather favourable than otherwise to have a lot of
      foreign-looking people, jugglers, acrobats, singers of both sexes, and so
      on, going in and out all day long. The police paid no attention to new
      faces, you see. The top floor happened, most conveniently, to stand empty
      then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      X interrupted himself to attack impassively, with measured movements, a
      bombe glacee which the waiter had just set down on the table. He swallowed
      carefully a few spoonfuls of the iced sweet, and asked me, &ldquo;Did you ever
      hear of Stone&rsquo;s Dried Soup?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hear of what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was,&rdquo; X pursued, evenly, &ldquo;a comestible article once rather prominently
      advertised in the dailies, but which never, somehow, gained the favour of
      the public. The enterprise fizzled out, as you say here. Parcels of their
      stock could be picked up at auctions at considerably less than a penny a
      pound. The group bought some of it, and an agency for Stone&rsquo;s Dried Soup
      was started on the top floor. A perfectly respectable business. The stuff,
      a yellow powder of extremely unappetizing aspect, was put up in large
      square tins, of which six went to a case. If anybody ever came to give an
      order, it was, of course, executed. But the advantage of the powder was
      this, that things could be concealed in it very conveniently. Now and then
      a special case got put on a van and sent off to be exported abroad under
      the very nose of the policeman on duty at the corner. You understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I do,&rdquo; I said, with an expressive nod at the remnants of the
      bombe melting slowly in the dish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly. But the cases were useful in another way, too. In the basement,
      or in the cellar at the back, rather, two printing-presses were
      established. A lot of revolutionary literature of the most inflammatory
      kind was got away from the house in Stone&rsquo;s Dried Soup cases. The brother
      of our anarchist young lady found some occupation there. He wrote
      articles, helped to set up type and pull off the sheets, and generally
      assisted the man in charge, a very able young fellow called Sevrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The guiding spirit of that group was a fanatic of social revolution. He
      is dead now. He was an engraver and etcher of genius. You must have seen
      his work. It is much sought after by certain amateurs now. He began by
      being revolutionary in his art, and ended by becoming a revolutionist,
      after his wife and child had died in want and misery. He used to say that
      the bourgeoisie, the smug, overfed lot, had killed them. That was his real
      belief. He still worked at his art and led a double life. He was tall,
      gaunt, and swarthy, with a long, brown beard and deep-set eyes. You must
      have seen him. His name was Horne.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this I was really startled. Of course years ago I used to meet Horne
      about. He looked like a powerful, rough gipsy, in an old top hat, with a
      red muffler round his throat and buttoned up in a long, shabby overcoat.
      He talked of his art with exaltation, and gave one the impression of being
      strung up to the verge of insanity. A small group of connoisseurs
      appreciated his work. Who would have thought that this man. . . . Amazing!
      And yet it was not, after all, so difficult to believe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you see,&rdquo; X went on, &ldquo;this group was in a position to pursue its work
      of propaganda, and the other kind of work, too, under very advantageous
      conditions. They were all resolute, experienced men of a superior stamp.
      And yet we became struck at length by the fact that plans prepared in
      Hermione Street almost invariably failed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who were &lsquo;we&rsquo;?&rdquo; I asked, pointedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some of us in Brussels&mdash;at the centre,&rdquo; he said, hastily. &ldquo;Whatever
      vigorous action originated in Hermione Street seemed doomed to failure.
      Something always happened to baffle the best planned manifestations in
      every part of Europe. It was a time of general activity. You must not
      imagine that all our failures are of a loud sort, with arrests and trials.
      That is not so. Often the police work quietly, almost secretly, defeating
      our combinations by clever counter-plotting. No arrests, no noise, no
      alarming of the public mind and inflaming the passions. It is a wise
      procedure. But at that time the police were too uniformly successful from
      the Mediterranean to the Baltic. It was annoying and began to look
      dangerous. At last we came to the conclusion that there must be some
      untrustworthy elements amongst the London groups. And I came over to see
      what could be done quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My first step was to call upon our young Lady Amateur of anarchism at her
      private house. She received me in a flattering way. I judged that she knew
      nothing of the chemical and other operations going on at the top of the
      house in Hermione Street. The printing of anarchist literature was the
      only &lsquo;activity&rsquo; she seemed to be aware of there. She was displaying very
      strikingly the usual signs of severe enthusiasm, and had already written
      many sentimental articles with ferocious conclusions. I could see she was
      enjoying herself hugely, with all the gestures and grimaces of deadly
      earnestness. They suited her big-eyed, broad-browed face and the good
      carriage of her shapely head, crowned by a magnificent lot of brown hair
      done in an unusual and becoming style. Her brother was in the room, too, a
      serious youth, with arched eyebrows and wearing a red necktie, who struck
      me as being absolutely in the dark about everything in the world,
      including himself. By and by a tall young man came in. He was clean-shaved
      with a strong bluish jaw and something of the air of a taciturn actor or
      of a fanatical priest: the type with thick black eyebrows&mdash;you know.
      But he was very presentable indeed. He shook hands at once vigorously with
      each of us. The young lady came up to me and murmured sweetly, &lsquo;Comrade
      Sevrin.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had never seen him before. He had little to say to us, but sat down by
      the side of the girl, and they fell at once into earnest conversation. She
      leaned forward in her deep armchair, and took her nicely rounded chin in
      her beautiful white hand. He looked attentively into her eyes. It was the
      attitude of love-making, serious, intense, as if on the brink of the
      grave. I suppose she felt it necessary to round and complete her
      assumption of advanced ideas, of revolutionary lawlessness, by making
      believe to be in love with an anarchist. And this one, I repeat, was
      extremely presentable, notwithstanding his fanatical black-browed aspect.
      After a few stolen glances in their direction, I had no doubt that he was
      in earnest. As to the lady, her gestures were unapproachable, better than
      the very thing itself in the blended suggestion of dignity, sweetness,
      condescension, fascination, surrender, and reserve. She interpreted her
      conception of what that precise sort of love-making should be with
      consummate art. And so far, she, too, no doubt, was in earnest. Gestures&mdash;but
      so perfect!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After I had been left alone with our Lady Amateur I informed her
      guardedly of the object of my visit. I hinted at our suspicions. I wanted
      to hear what she would have to say, and half expected some perhaps
      unconscious revelation. All she said was, &lsquo;That&rsquo;s serious,&rsquo; looking
      delightfully concerned and grave. But there was a sparkle in her eyes
      which meant plainly, &lsquo;How exciting!&rsquo; After all, she knew little of
      anything except of words. Still, she undertook to put me in communication
      with Horne, who was not easy to find unless in Hermione Street, where I
      did not wish to show myself just then.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I met Horne. This was another kind of a fanatic altogether. I exposed to
      him the conclusion we in Brussels had arrived at, and pointed out the
      significant series of failures. To this he answered with irrelevant
      exaltation:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I have something in hand that shall strike terror into the heart of
      these gorged brutes.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then I learned that, by excavating in one of the cellars of the
      house, he and some companions had made their way into the vaults under the
      great public building I have mentioned before. The blowing up of a whole
      wing was a certainty as soon as the materials were ready.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was not so appalled at the stupidity of that move as I might have been
      had not the usefulness of our centre in Hermione Street become already
      very problematical. In fact, in my opinion it was much more of a police
      trap by this time than anything else.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was necessary now was to discover what, or rather who, was wrong,
      and I managed at last to get that idea into Horne&rsquo;s head. He glared,
      perplexed, his nostrils working as if he were sniffing treachery in the
      air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And here comes a piece of work which will no doubt strike you as a sort
      of theatrical expedient. And yet what else could have been done? The
      problem was to find out the untrustworthy member of the group. But no
      suspicion could be fastened on one more than another. To set a watch upon
      them all was not very practicable. Besides, that proceeding often fails.
      In any case, it takes time, and the danger was pressing. I felt certain
      that the premises in Hermione Street would be ultimately raided, though
      the police had evidently such confidence in the informer that the house,
      for the time being, was not even watched. Horne was positive on that
      point. Under the circumstances it was an unfavourable symptom. Something
      had to be done quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I decided to organize a raid myself upon the group. Do you understand? A
      raid of other trusty comrades personating the police. A conspiracy within
      a conspiracy. You see the object of it, of course. When apparently about
      to be arrested I hoped the informer would betray himself in some way or
      other; either by some unguarded act or simply by his unconcerned
      demeanour, for instance. Of coarse there was the risk of complete failure
      and the no lesser risk of some fatal accident in the course of resistance,
      perhaps, or in the efforts at escape. For, as you will easily see, the
      Hermione Street group had to be actually and completely taken unawares, as
      I was sure they would be by the real police before very long. The informer
      was amongst them, and Horne alone could be let into the secret of my plan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not enter into the detail of my preparations. It was not very easy
      to arrange, but it was done very well, with a really convincing effect.
      The sham police invaded the restaurant, whose shutters were immediately
      put up. The surprise was perfect. Most of the Hermione Street party were
      found in the second cellar, enlarging the hole communicating with the
      vaults of the great public building. At the first alarm, several comrades
      bolted through impulsively into the aforesaid vault, where, of course, had
      this been a genuine raid, they would have been hopelessly trapped. We did
      not bother about them for the moment. They were harmless enough. The top
      floor caused considerable anxiety to Horne and myself. There, surrounded
      by tins of Stone&rsquo;s Dried Soup, a comrade, nick-named the Professor (he was
      an ex-science student) was engaged in perfecting some new detonators. He
      was an abstracted, self-confident, sallow little man, armed with large
      round spectacles, and we were afraid that under a mistaken impression he
      would blow himself up and wreck the house about our ears. I rushed
      upstairs and found him already at the door, on the alert, listening, as he
      said, to &lsquo;suspicious noises down below.&rsquo; Before I had quite finished
      explaining to him what was going on he shrugged his shoulders disdainfully
      and turned away to his balances and test-tubes. His was the true spirit of
      an extreme revolutionist. Explosives were his faith, his hope, his weapon,
      and his shield. He perished a couple of years afterwards in a secret
      laboratory through the premature explosion of one of his improved
      detonators.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hurrying down again, I found an impressive scene in the gloom of the big
      cellar. The man who personated the inspector (he was no stranger to the
      part) was speaking harshly, and giving bogus orders to his bogus
      subordinates for the removal of his prisoners. Evidently nothing
      enlightening had happened so far. Horne, saturnine and swarthy, waited
      with folded arms, and his patient, moody expectation had an air of
      stoicism well in keeping with the situation. I detected in the shadows one
      of the Hermione Street group surreptitiously chewing up and swallowing a
      small piece of paper. Some compromising scrap, I suppose; perhaps just a
      note of a few names and addresses. He was a true and faithful &lsquo;companion.&rsquo; 
      But the fund of secret malice which lurks at the bottom of our sympathies
      caused me to feel amused at that perfectly uncalled-for performance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In every other respect the risky experiment, the theatrical coup, if you
      like to call it so, seemed to have failed. The deception could not be kept
      up much longer; the explanation would bring about a very embarrassing and
      even grave situation. The man who had eaten the paper would be furious.
      The fellows who had bolted away would be angry, too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To add to my vexation, the door communicating with the other cellar,
      where the printing-presses were, flew open, and our young lady
      revolutionist appeared, a black silhouette in a close-fitting dress and a
      large hat, with the blaze of gas flaring in there at her back. Over her
      shoulder I perceived the arched eyebrows and the red necktie of her
      brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The last people in the world I wanted to see then! They had gone that
      evening to some amateur concert for the delectation of the poor people,
      you know; but she had insisted on leaving early, on purpose to call in
      Hermione Street on the way home, under the pretext of having some work to
      do. Her usual task was to correct the proofs of the Italian and French
      editions of the Alarm Bell and the Firebrand.&rdquo; . . .
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens!&rdquo; I murmured. I had been shown once a few copies of these
      publications. Nothing, in my opinion, could have been less fit for the
      eyes of a young lady. They were the most advanced things of the sort;
      advanced, I mean, beyond all bounds of reason and decency. One of them
      preached the dissolution of all social and domestic ties; the other
      advocated systematic murder. To think of a young girl calmly tracking
      printers&rsquo; errors all along the sort of abominable sentences I remembered
      was intolerable to my sentiment of womanhood. Mr. X, after giving me a
      glance, pursued steadily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think, however, that she came mostly to exercise her fascinations upon
      Sevrin, and to receive his homage in her queenly and condescending way.
      She was aware of both&mdash;her power and his homage&mdash;and enjoyed
      them with, I dare say, complete innocence. We have no ground in expediency
      or morals to quarrel with her on that account. Charm in woman and
      exceptional intelligence in man are a law unto themselves. Is it not so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I refrained from expressing my abhorrence of that licentious doctrine
      because of my curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what happened then?&rdquo; I hastened to ask.
    </p>
    <p>
      X went on crumbling slowly a small piece of bread with a careless left
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What happened, in effect,&rdquo; he confessed, &ldquo;is that she saved the
      situation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She gave you an opportunity to end your rather sinister farce,&rdquo; I
      suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, preserving his impassive bearing. &ldquo;The farce was bound to
      end soon. And it ended in a very few minutes. And it ended well. Had she
      not come in, it might have ended badly. Her brother, of course, did not
      count. They had slipped into the house quietly some time before. The
      printing-cellar had an entrance of its own. Not finding any one there, she
      sat down to her proofs, expecting Sevrin to return to his work at any
      moment. He did not do so. She grew impatient, heard through the door the
      sounds of a disturbance in the other cellar and naturally came in to see
      what was the matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sevrin had been with us. At first he had seemed to me the most amazed of
      the whole raided lot. He appeared for an instant as if paralyzed with
      astonishment. He stood rooted to the spot. He never moved a limb. A
      solitary gas-jet flared near his head; all the other lights had been put
      out at the first alarm. And presently, from my dark corner, I observed on
      his shaven actor&rsquo;s face an expression of puzzled, vexed watchfulness. He
      knitted his heavy eyebrows. The corners of his mouth dropped scornfully.
      He was angry. Most likely he had seen through the game, and I regretted I
      had not taken him from the first into my complete confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But with the appearance of the girl he became obviously alarmed. It was
      plain. I could see it grow. The change of his expression was swift and
      startling. And I did not know why. The reason never occurred to me. I was
      merely astonished at the extreme alteration of the man&rsquo;s face. Of course
      he had not been aware of her presence in the other cellar; but that did
      not explain the shock her advent had given him. For a moment he seemed to
      have been reduced to imbecility. He opened his mouth as if to shout, or
      perhaps only to gasp. At any rate, it was somebody else who shouted. This
      somebody else was the heroic comrade whom I had detected swallowing a
      piece of paper. With laudable presence of mind he let out a warning yell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;It&rsquo;s the police! Back! Back! Run back, and bolt the door behind you.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was an excellent hint; but instead of retreating the girl continued to
      advance, followed by her long-faced brother in his knickerbocker suit, in
      which he had been singing comic songs for the entertainment of a joyless
      proletariat. She advanced not as if she had failed to understand&mdash;the
      word &lsquo;police&rsquo; has an unmistakable sound&mdash;but rather as if she could
      not help herself. She did not advance with the free gait and expanding
      presence of a distinguished amateur anarchist amongst poor, struggling
      professionals, but with slightly raised shoulders, and her elbows pressed
      close to her body, as if trying to shrink within herself. Her eyes were
      fixed immovably upon Sevrin. Sevrin the man, I fancy; not Sevrin the
      anarchist. But she advanced. And that was natural. For all their
      assumption of independence, girls of that class are used to the feeling of
      being specially protected, as, in fact, they are. This feeling accounts
      for nine tenths of their audacious gestures. Her face had gone completely
      colourless. Ghastly. Fancy having it brought home to her so brutally that
      she was the sort of person who must run away from the police! I believe
      she was pale with indignation, mostly, though there was, of course, also
      the concern for her intact personality, a vague dread of some sort of
      rudeness. And, naturally, she turned to a man, to the man on whom she had
      a claim of fascination and homage&mdash;the man who could not conceivably
      fail her at any juncture.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; I cried, amazed at this analysis, &ldquo;if it had been serious, real, I
      mean&mdash;as she thought it was&mdash;what could she expect him to do for
      her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      X never moved a muscle of his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Goodness knows. I imagine that this charming, generous, and independent
      creature had never known in her life a single genuine thought; I mean a
      single thought detached from small human vanities, or whose source was not
      in some conventional perception. All I know is that after advancing a few
      steps she extended her hand towards the motionless Sevrin. And that at
      least was no gesture. It was a natural movement. As to what she expected
      him to do, who can tell? The impossible. But whatever she expected, it
      could not have come up, I am safe to say, to what he had made up his mind
      to do, even before that entreating hand had appealed to him so directly.
      It had not been necessary. From the moment he had seen her enter that
      cellar, he had made up his mind to sacrifice his future usefulness, to
      throw off the impenetrable, solidly fastened mask it had been his pride to
      wear&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; I interrupted, puzzled. &ldquo;Was it Sevrin, then, who was&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was. The most persistent, the most dangerous, the craftiest, the most
      systematic of informers. A genius amongst betrayers. Fortunately for us,
      he was unique. The man was a fanatic, I have told you. Fortunately, again,
      for us, he had fallen in love with the accomplished and innocent gestures
      of that girl. An actor in desperate earnest himself, he must have believed
      in the absolute value of conventional signs. As to the grossness of the
      trap into which he fell, the explanation must be that two sentiments of
      such absorbing magnitude cannot exist simultaneously in one heart. The
      danger of that other and unconscious comedian robbed him of his vision, of
      his perspicacity, of his judgment. Indeed, it did at first rob him of his
      self-possession. But he regained that through the necessity&mdash;as it
      appeared to him imperiously&mdash;to do something at once. To do what?
      Why, to get her out of the house as quickly as possible. He was
      desperately anxious to do that. I have told you he was terrified. It could
      not be about himself. He had been surprised and annoyed at a move quite
      unforeseen and premature. I may even say he had been furious. He was
      accustomed to arrange the last scene of his betrayals with a deep, subtle
      art which left his revolutionist reputation untouched. But it seems clear
      to me that at the same time he had resolved to make the best of it, to
      keep his mask resolutely on. It was only with the discovery of her being
      in the house that everything&mdash;the forced calm, the restraint of his
      fanaticism, the mask&mdash;all came off together in a kind of panic. Why
      panic, do you ask? The answer is very simple. He remembered&mdash;or, I
      dare say, he had never forgotten&mdash;the Professor alone at the top of
      the house, pursuing his researches, surrounded by tins upon tins of
      Stone&rsquo;s Dried Soup. There was enough in some few of them to bury us all
      where we stood under a heap of bricks. Sevrin, of course, was aware of
      that. And we must believe, also, that he knew the exact character of the
      man. He had gauged so many such characters! Or perhaps he only gave the
      Professor credit for what he himself was capable of. But, in any case, the
      effect was produced. And suddenly he raised his voice in authority.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Get the lady away at once.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It turned out that he was as hoarse as a crow; result, no doubt, of the
      intense emotion. It passed off in a moment. But these fateful words issued
      forth from his contracted throat in a discordant, ridiculous croak. They
      required no answer. The thing was done. However, the man personating the
      inspector judged it expedient to say roughly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;She shall go soon enough, together with the rest of you.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These were the last words belonging to the comedy part of this affair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oblivious of everything and everybody, Sevrin strode towards him and
      seized the lapels of his coat. Under his thin bluish cheeks one could see
      his jaws working with passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You have men posted outside. Get the lady taken home at once. Do you
      hear? Now. Before you try to get hold of the man upstairs.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Oh! There is a man upstairs,&rsquo; scoffed the other, openly. &lsquo;Well, he shall
      be brought down in time to see the end of this.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Sevrin, beside himself, took no heed of the tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Who&rsquo;s the imbecile meddler who sent you blundering here? Didn&rsquo;t you
      understand your instructions? Don&rsquo;t you know anything? It&rsquo;s incredible.
      Here&mdash;&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He dropped the lapels of the coat and, plunging his hand into his breast,
      jerked feverishly at something under his shirt. At last he produced a
      small square pocket of soft leather, which must have been hanging like a
      scapulary from his neck by the tape whose broken ends dangled from his
      fist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Look inside,&rsquo; he spluttered, flinging it in the other&rsquo;s face. And
      instantly he turned round towards the girl. She stood just behind him,
      perfectly still and silent. Her set, white face gave an illusion of
      placidity. Only her staring eyes seemed bigger and darker.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He spoke rapidly, with nervous assurance. I heard him distinctly promise
      her to make everything as clear as daylight presently. But that was all I
      caught. He stood close to her, never attempting to touch her even with the
      tip of his little finger&mdash;and she stared at him stupidly. For a
      moment, however, her eyelids descended slowly, pathetically, and then,
      with the long black eyelashes lying on her white cheeks, she looked ready
      to fall down in a swoon. But she never even swayed where she stood. He
      urged her loudly to follow him at once, and walked towards the door at the
      bottom of the cellar stairs without looking behind him. And, as a matter
      of fact, she did move after him a pace or two. But, of course, he was not
      allowed to reach the door. There were angry exclamations, a short, fierce
      scuffle. Flung away violently, he came flying backwards upon her, and
      fell. She threw out her arms in a gesture of dismay and stepped aside,
      just clear of his head, which struck the ground heavily near her shoe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He grunted with the shock. By the time he had picked himself up, slowly,
      dazedly, he was awake to the reality of things. The man into whose hands
      he had thrust the leather case had extracted therefrom a narrow strip of
      bluish paper. He held it up above his head, and, as after the scuffle an
      expectant uneasy stillness reigned once more, he threw it down
      disdainfully with the words, &lsquo;I think, comrades, that this proof was
      hardly necessary.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quick as thought, the girl stooped after the fluttering slip. Holding it
      spread out in both hands, she looked at it; then, without raising her
      eyes, opened her fingers slowly and let it fall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I examined that curious document afterwards. It was signed by a very high
      personage, and stamped and countersigned by other high officials in
      various countries of Europe. In his trade&mdash;or shall I say, in his
      mission?&mdash;that sort of talisman might have been necessary, no doubt.
      Even to the police itself&mdash;all but the heads&mdash;he had been known
      only as Sevrin the noted anarchist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He hung his head, biting his lower lip. A change had come over him, a
      sort of thoughtful, absorbed calmness. Nevertheless, he panted. His sides
      worked visibly, and his nostrils expanded and collapsed in weird contrast
      with his sombre aspect of a fanatical monk in a meditative attitude, but
      with something, too, in his face of an actor intent upon the terrible
      exigencies of his part. Before him Horne declaimed, haggard and bearded,
      like an inspired denunciatory prophet from a wilderness. Two fanatics.
      They were made to understand each other. Does this surprise you? I suppose
      you think that such people would be foaming at the mouth and snarling at
      each other?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I protested hastily that I was not surprised in the least; that I thought
      nothing of the kind; that anarchists in general were simply inconceivable
      to me mentally, morally, logically, sentimentally, and even physically. X
      received this declaration with his usual woodenness and went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Horne had burst out into eloquence. While pouring out scornful invective,
      he let tears escape from his eyes and roll down his black beard unheeded.
      Sevrin panted quicker and quicker. When he opened his mouth to speak,
      everyone hung on his words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Don&rsquo;t be a fool, Horne,&rsquo; he began. &lsquo;You know very well that I have done
      this for none of the reasons you are throwing at me.&rsquo; And in a moment he
      became outwardly as steady as a rock under the other&rsquo;s lurid stare. &lsquo;I
      have been thwarting, deceiving, and betraying you&mdash;from conviction.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He turned his back on Horne, and addressing the girl, repeated the words:
      &lsquo;From conviction.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s extraordinary how cold she looked. I suppose she could not think of
      any appropriate gesture. There can have been few precedents indeed for
      such a situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Clear as daylight,&rsquo; he added. &lsquo;Do you understand what that means? From
      conviction.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And still she did not stir. She did not know what to do. But the luckless
      wretch was about to give her the opportunity for a beautiful and correct
      gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I have felt in me the power to make you share this conviction,&rsquo; he
      protested, ardently. He had forgotten himself; he made a step towards her&mdash;perhaps
      he stumbled. To me he seemed to be stooping low as if to touch the hem of
      her garment. And then the appropriate gesture came. She snatched her skirt
      away from his polluting contact and averted her head with an upward tilt.
      It was magnificently done, this gesture of conventionally unstained
      honour, of an unblemished high-minded amateur.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing could have been better. And he seemed to think so, too, for once
      more he turned away. But this time he faced no one. He was again panting
      frightfully, while he fumbled hurriedly in his waistcoat pocket, and then
      raised his hand to his lips. There was something furtive in this movement,
      but directly afterwards his bearing changed. His laboured breathing gave
      him a resemblance to a man who had just run a desperate race; but a
      curious air of detachment, of sudden and profound indifference, replaced
      the strain of the striving effort. The race was over. I did not want to
      see what would happen next. I was only too well aware. I tucked the young
      lady&rsquo;s arm under mine without a word, and made my way with her to the
      stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her brother walked behind us. Half-way up the short flight she seemed
      unable to lift her feet high enough for the steps, and we had to pull and
      push to get her to the top. In the passage she dragged herself along,
      hanging on my arm, helplessly bent like an old woman. We issued into an
      empty street through a half-open door, staggering like besotted revellers.
      At the corner we stopped a four-wheeler, and the ancient driver looked
      round from his box with morose scorn at our efforts to get her in. Twice
      during the drive I felt her collapse on my shoulder in a half faint.
      Facing us, the youth in knickerbockers remained as mute as a fish, and,
      till he jumped out with the latch-key, sat more still than I would have
      believed it possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At the door of their drawing-room she left my arm and walked in first,
      catching at the chairs and tables. She unpinned her hat, then, exhausted
      with the effort, her cloak still hanging from her shoulders, flung herself
      into a deep armchair, sideways, her face half buried in a cushion. The
      good brother appeared silently before her with a glass of water. She
      motioned it away. He drank it himself and walked off to a distant corner&mdash;behind
      the grand piano, somewhere. All was still in this room where I had seen,
      for the first time, Sevrin, the anti-anarchist, captivated and spellbound
      by the consummate and hereditary grimaces that in a certain sphere of life
      take the place of feelings with an excellent effect. I suppose her
      thoughts were busy with the same memory. Her shoulders shook violently. A
      pure attack of nerves. When it quieted down she affected firmness, &lsquo;What
      is done to a man of that sort? What will they do to him?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Nothing. They can do nothing to him,&rsquo; I assured her, with perfect truth.
      I was pretty certain he had died in less than twenty minutes from the
      moment his hand had gone to his lips. For if his fanatical anti-anarchism
      went even as far as carrying poison in his pocket, only to rob his
      adversaries of legitimate vengeance, I knew he would take care to provide
      something that would not fail him when required.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She drew an angry breath. There were red spots on her cheeks and a
      feverish brilliance in her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Has ever any one been exposed to such a terrible experience? To think
      that he had held my hand! That man!&rsquo; Her face twitched, she gulped down a
      pathetic sob. &lsquo;If I ever felt sure of anything, it was of Sevrin&rsquo;s
      high-minded motives.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then she began to weep quietly, which was good for her. Then through her
      flood of tears, half resentful, &lsquo;What was it he said to me?&mdash;&ldquo;From
      conviction!&rdquo; It seemed a vile mockery. What could he mean by it?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;That, my dear young lady,&rsquo; I said, gently, &lsquo;is more than I or anybody
      else can ever explain to you.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. X flicked a crumb off the front of his coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that was strictly true as to her. Though Horne, for instance,
      understood very well; and so did I, especially after we had been to
      Sevrin&rsquo;s lodging in a dismal back street of an intensely respectable
      quarter. Horne was known there as a friend, and we had no difficulty in
      being admitted, the slatternly maid merely remarking, as she let us in,
      that &lsquo;Mr Sevrin had not been home that night.&rsquo; We forced open a couple of
      drawers in the way of duty, and found a little useful information. The
      most interesting part was his diary; for this man, engaged in such deadly
      work, had the weakness to keep a record of the most damnatory kind. There
      were his acts and also his thoughts laid bare to us. But the dead don&rsquo;t
      mind that. They don&rsquo;t mind anything.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;From conviction.&rsquo; Yes. A vague but ardent humanitarianism had urged him
      in his first youth into the bitterest extremity of negation and revolt.
      Afterwards his optimism flinched. He doubted and became lost. You have
      heard of converted atheists. These turn often into dangerous fanatics, but
      the soul remains the same. After he had got acquainted with the girl,
      there are to be met in that diary of his very queer politico-amorous
      rhapsodies. He took her sovereign grimaces with deadly seriousness. He
      longed to convert her. But all this cannot interest you. For the rest, I
      don&rsquo;t know if you remember&mdash;it is a good many years ago now&mdash;the
      journalistic sensation of the &lsquo;Hermione Street Mystery&rsquo;; the finding of a
      man&rsquo;s body in the cellar of an empty house; the inquest; some arrests;
      many surmises&mdash;then silence&mdash;the usual end for many obscure
      martyrs and confessors. The fact is, he was not enough of an optimist. You
      must be a savage, tyrannical, pitiless, thick-and-thin optimist, like
      Horne, for instance, to make a good social rebel of the extreme type.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He rose from the table. A waiter hurried up with his overcoat; another
      held his hat in readiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what became of the young lady?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you really want to know?&rdquo; he said, buttoning himself in his fur coat
      carefully. &ldquo;I confess to the small malice of sending her Sevrin&rsquo;s diary.
      She went into retirement; then she went to Florence; then she went into
      retreat in a convent. I can&rsquo;t tell where she will go next. What does it
      matter? Gestures! Gestures! Mere gestures of her class.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He fitted on his glossy high hat with extreme precision, and casting a
      rapid glance round the room, full of well-dressed people, innocently
      dining, muttered between his teeth:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And nothing else! That is why their kind is fated to perish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never met Mr. X again after that evening. I took to dining at my club.
      On my next visit to Paris I found my friend all impatience to hear of the
      effect produced on me by this rare item of his collection. I told him all
      the story, and he beamed on me with the pride of his distinguished
      specimen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Isn&rsquo;t X well worth knowing?&rsquo; he bubbled over in great delight. &lsquo;He&rsquo;s
      unique, amazing, absolutely terrific.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His enthusiasm grated upon my finer feelings. I told him curtly that the
      man&rsquo;s cynicism was simply abominable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Oh, abominable! abominable!&rsquo; assented my friend, effusively. &lsquo;And then,
      you know, he likes to have his little joke sometimes,&rsquo; he added in a
      confidential tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fail to understand the connection of this last remark. I have been
      utterly unable to discover where in all this the joke comes in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE BRUTE
    </h2>
    <h3>
      AN INDIGNANT TALE
    </h3>
    <p>
      Dodging in from the rain-swept street, I exchanged a smile and a glance
      with Miss Blank in the bar of the Three Crows. This exchange was effected
      with extreme propriety. It is a shock to think that, if still alive, Miss
      Blank must be something over sixty now. How time passes!
    </p>
    <p>
      Noticing my gaze directed inquiringly at the partition of glass and
      varnished wood, Miss Blank was good enough to say, encouragingly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only Mr. Jermyn and Mr. Stonor in the parlour with another gentleman I&rsquo;ve
      never seen before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I moved towards the parlour door. A voice discoursing on the other side
      (it was but a matchboard partition), rose so loudly that the concluding
      words became quite plain in all their atrocity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That fellow Wilmot fairly dashed her brains out, and a good job, too!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This inhuman sentiment, since there was nothing profane or improper in it,
      failed to do as much as to check the slight yawn Miss Blank was achieving
      behind her hand. And she remained gazing fixedly at the window-panes,
      which streamed with rain.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I opened the parlour door the same voice went on in the same cruel
      strain:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was glad when I heard she got the knock from somebody at last. Sorry
      enough for poor Wilmot, though. That man and I used to be chums at one
      time. Of course that was the end of him. A clear case if there ever was
      one. No way out of it. None at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The voice belonged to the gentleman Miss Blank had never seen before. He
      straddled his long legs on the hearthrug. Jermyn, leaning forward, held
      his pocket-handkerchief spread out before the grate. He looked back
      dismally over his shoulder, and as I slipped behind one of the little
      wooden tables, I nodded to him. On the other side of the fire, imposingly
      calm and large, sat Mr. Stonor, jammed tight into a capacious Windsor
      armchair. There was nothing small about him but his short, white
      side-whiskers. Yards and yards of extra superfine blue cloth (made up into
      an overcoat) reposed on a chair by his side. And he must just have brought
      some liner from sea, because another chair was smothered under his black
      waterproof, ample as a pall, and made of three-fold oiled silk,
      double-stitched throughout. A man&rsquo;s hand-bag of the usual size looked like
      a child&rsquo;s toy on the floor near his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      I did not nod to him. He was too big to be nodded to in that parlour. He
      was a senior Trinity pilot and condescended to take his turn in the cutter
      only during the summer months. He had been many times in charge of royal
      yachts in and out of Port Victoria. Besides, it&rsquo;s no use nodding to a
      monument. And he was like one. He didn&rsquo;t speak, he didn&rsquo;t budge. He just
      sat there, holding his handsome old head up, immovable, and almost bigger
      than life. It was extremely fine. Mr. Stonor&rsquo;s presence reduced poor old
      Jermyn to a mere shabby wisp of a man, and made the talkative stranger in
      tweeds on the hearthrug look absurdly boyish. The latter must have been a
      few years over thirty, and was certainly not the sort of individual that
      gets abashed at the sound of his own voice, because gathering me in, as it
      were, by a friendly glance, he kept it going without a check.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was glad of it,&rdquo; he repeated, emphatically. &ldquo;You may be surprised at
      it, but then you haven&rsquo;t gone through the experience I&rsquo;ve had of her. I
      can tell you, it was something to remember. Of course, I got off scot free
      myself&mdash;as you can see. She did her best to break up my pluck for me
      tho&rsquo;. She jolly near drove as fine a fellow as ever lived into a madhouse.
      What do you say to that&mdash;eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Not an eyelid twitched in Mr. Stonor&rsquo;s enormous face. Monumental! The
      speaker looked straight into my eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It used to make me sick to think of her going about the world murdering
      people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jermyn approached the handkerchief a little nearer to the grate and
      groaned. It was simply a habit he had.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve seen her once,&rdquo; he declared, with mournful indifference. &ldquo;She had a
      house&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The stranger in tweeds turned to stare down at him, surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She had three houses,&rdquo; he corrected, authoritatively. But Jermyn was not
      to be contradicted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She had a house, I say,&rdquo; he repeated, with dismal obstinacy. &ldquo;A great,
      big, ugly, white thing. You could see it from miles away&mdash;sticking
      up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you could,&rdquo; assented the other readily. &ldquo;It was old Colchester&rsquo;s
      notion, though he was always threatening to give her up. He couldn&rsquo;t stand
      her racket any more, he declared; it was too much of a good thing for him;
      he would wash his hands of her, if he never got hold of another&mdash;and
      so on. I daresay he would have chucked her, only&mdash;it may surprise you&mdash;his
      missus wouldn&rsquo;t hear of it. Funny, eh? But with women, you never know how
      they will take a thing, and Mrs. Colchester, with her moustaches and big
      eyebrows, set up for being as strong-minded as they make them. She used to
      walk about in a brown silk dress, with a great gold cable flopping about
      her bosom. You should have heard her snapping out: &lsquo;Rubbish!&rsquo; or &lsquo;Stuff
      and nonsense!&rsquo; I daresay she knew when she was well off. They had no
      children, and had never set up a home anywhere. When in England she just
      made shift to hang out anyhow in some cheap hotel or boarding-house. I
      daresay she liked to get back to the comforts she was used to. She knew
      very well she couldn&rsquo;t gain by any change. And, moreover, Colchester,
      though a first-rate man, was not what you may call in his first youth,
      and, perhaps, she may have thought that he wouldn&rsquo;t be able to get hold of
      another (as he used to say) so easily. Anyhow, for one reason or another,
      it was &lsquo;Rubbish&rsquo; and &lsquo;Stuff and nonsense&rsquo; for the good lady. I overheard
      once young Mr. Apse himself say to her confidentially: &lsquo;I assure you, Mrs.
      Colchester, I am beginning to feel quite unhappy about the name she&rsquo;s
      getting for herself.&rsquo; &lsquo;Oh,&rsquo; says she, with her deep little hoarse laugh,
      &lsquo;if one took notice of all the silly talk,&rsquo; and she showed Apse all her
      ugly false teeth at once. &lsquo;It would take more than that to make me lose my
      confidence in her, I assure you,&rsquo; says she.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this point, without any change of facial expression, Mr. Stonor emitted
      a short, sardonic laugh. It was very impressive, but I didn&rsquo;t see the fun.
      I looked from one to another. The stranger on the hearthrug had an ugly
      smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Mr. Apse shook both Mrs. Colchester&rsquo;s hands, he was so pleased to
      hear a good word said for their favourite. All these Apses, young and old
      you know, were perfectly infatuated with that abominable, dangerous&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; I interrupted, for he seemed to be addressing himself
      exclusively to me; &ldquo;but who on earth are you talking about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am talking of the Apse family,&rdquo; he answered, courteously.
    </p>
    <p>
      I nearly let out a damn at this. But just then the respected Miss Blank
      put her head in, and said that the cab was at the door, if Mr. Stonor
      wanted to catch the eleven three up.
    </p>
    <p>
      At once the senior pilot arose in his mighty bulk and began to struggle
      into his coat, with awe-inspiring upheavals. The stranger and I hurried
      impulsively to his assistance, and directly we laid our hands on him he
      became perfectly quiescent. We had to raise our arms very high, and to
      make efforts. It was like caparisoning a docile elephant. With a &ldquo;Thanks,
      gentlemen,&rdquo; he dived under and squeezed himself through the door in a
      great hurry.
    </p>
    <p>
      We smiled at each other in a friendly way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder how he manages to hoist himself up a ship&rsquo;s side-ladder,&rdquo; said
      the man in tweeds; and poor Jermyn, who was a mere North Sea pilot,
      without official status or recognition of any sort, pilot only by
      courtesy, groaned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He makes eight hundred a year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you a sailor?&rdquo; I asked the stranger, who had gone back to his
      position on the rug.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I used to be till a couple of years ago, when I got married,&rdquo; answered
      this communicative individual. &ldquo;I even went to sea first in that very ship
      we were speaking of when you came in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What ship?&rdquo; I asked, puzzled. &ldquo;I never heard you mention a ship.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve just told you her name, my dear sir,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;The Apse Family.
      Surely you&rsquo;ve heard of the great firm of Apse &amp; Sons, shipowners. They
      had a pretty big fleet. There was the Lucy Apse, and the Harold Apse, and
      Anne, John, Malcolm, Clara, Juliet, and so on&mdash;no end of Apses. Every
      brother, sister, aunt, cousin, wife&mdash;and grandmother, too, for all I
      know&mdash;of the firm had a ship named after them. Good, solid,
      old-fashioned craft they were, too, built to carry and to last. None of
      your new-fangled, labour-saving appliances in them, but plenty of men and
      plenty of good salt beef and hard tack put aboard&mdash;and off you go to
      fight your way out and home again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The miserable Jermyn made a sound of approval, which sounded like a groan
      of pain. Those were the ships for him. He pointed out in doleful tones
      that you couldn&rsquo;t say to labour-saving appliances: &ldquo;Jump lively now, my
      hearties.&rdquo; No labour-saving appliance would go aloft on a dirty night with
      the sands under your lee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; assented the stranger, with a wink at me. &ldquo;The Apses didn&rsquo;t believe
      in them either, apparently. They treated their people well&mdash;as people
      don&rsquo;t get treated nowadays, and they were awfully proud of their ships.
      Nothing ever happened to them. This last one, the Apse Family, was to be
      like the others, only she was to be still stronger, still safer, still
      more roomy and comfortable. I believe they meant her to last for ever.
      They had her built composite&mdash;iron, teak-wood, and greenheart, and
      her scantling was something fabulous. If ever an order was given for a
      ship in a spirit of pride this one was. Everything of the best. The
      commodore captain of the employ was to command her, and they planned the
      accommodation for him like a house on shore under a big, tall poop that
      went nearly to the mainmast. No wonder Mrs. Colchester wouldn&rsquo;t let the
      old man give her up. Why, it was the best home she ever had in all her
      married days. She had a nerve, that woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fuss that was made while that ship was building! Let&rsquo;s have this a
      little stronger, and that a little heavier; and hadn&rsquo;t that other thing
      better be changed for something a little thicker. The builders entered
      into the spirit of the game, and there she was, growing into the
      clumsiest, heaviest ship of her size right before all their eyes, without
      anybody becoming aware of it somehow. She was to be 2,000 tons register,
      or a little over; no less on any account. But see what happens. When they
      came to measure her she turned out 1,999 tons and a fraction. General
      consternation! And they say old Mr. Apse was so annoyed when they told him
      that he took to his bed and died. The old gentleman had retired from the
      firm twenty-five years before, and was ninety-six years old if a day, so
      his death wasn&rsquo;t, perhaps, so surprising. Still Mr. Lucian Apse was
      convinced that his father would have lived to a hundred. So we may put him
      at the head of the list. Next comes the poor devil of a shipwright that
      brute caught and squashed as she went off the ways. They called it the
      launch of a ship, but I&rsquo;ve heard people say that, from the wailing and
      yelling and scrambling out of the way, it was more like letting a devil
      loose upon the river. She snapped all her checks like pack-thread, and
      went for the tugs in attendance like a fury. Before anybody could see what
      she was up to she sent one of them to the bottom, and laid up another for
      three months&rsquo; repairs. One of her cables parted, and then, suddenly&mdash;you
      couldn&rsquo;t tell why&mdash;she let herself be brought up with the other as
      quiet as a lamb.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s how she was. You could never be sure what she would be up to next.
      There are ships difficult to handle, but generally you can depend on them
      behaving rationally. With that ship, whatever you did with her you never
      knew how it would end. She was a wicked beast. Or, perhaps, she was only
      just insane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He uttered this supposition in so earnest a tone that I could not refrain
      from smiling. He left off biting his lower lip to apostrophize me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! Why not? Why couldn&rsquo;t there be something in her build, in her lines
      corresponding to&mdash;What&rsquo;s madness? Only something just a tiny bit
      wrong in the make of your brain. Why shouldn&rsquo;t there be a mad ship&mdash;I
      mean mad in a ship-like way, so that under no circumstances could you be
      sure she would do what any other sensible ship would naturally do for you.
      There are ships that steer wildly, and ships that can&rsquo;t be quite trusted
      always to stay; others want careful watching when running in a gale; and,
      again, there may be a ship that will make heavy weather of it in every
      little blow. But then you expect her to be always so. You take it as part
      of her character, as a ship, just as you take account of a man&rsquo;s
      peculiarities of temper when you deal with him. But with her you couldn&rsquo;t.
      She was unaccountable. If she wasn&rsquo;t mad, then she was the most
      evil-minded, underhand, savage brute that ever went afloat. I&rsquo;ve seen her
      run in a heavy gale beautifully for two days, and on the third broach to
      twice in the same afternoon. The first time she flung the helmsman clean
      over the wheel, but as she didn&rsquo;t quite manage to kill him she had another
      try about three hours afterwards. She swamped herself fore and aft, burst
      all the canvas we had set, scared all hands into a panic, and even
      frightened Mrs. Colchester down there in these beautiful stern cabins that
      she was so proud of. When we mustered the crew there was one man missing.
      Swept overboard, of course, without being either seen or heard, poor
      devil! and I only wonder more of us didn&rsquo;t go.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Always something like that. Always. I heard an old mate tell Captain
      Colchester once that it had come to this with him, that he was afraid to
      open his mouth to give any sort of order. She was as much of a terror in
      harbour as at sea. You could never be certain what would hold her. On the
      slightest provocation she would start snapping ropes, cables, wire
      hawsers, like carrots. She was heavy, clumsy, unhandy&mdash;but that does
      not quite explain that power for mischief she had. You know, somehow, when
      I think of her I can&rsquo;t help remembering what we hear of incurable lunatics
      breaking loose now and then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at me inquisitively. But, of course, I couldn&rsquo;t admit that a
      ship could be mad.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the ports where she was known,&rdquo; he went on,&rsquo; &ldquo;they dreaded the sight
      of her. She thought nothing of knocking away twenty feet or so of solid
      stone facing off a quay or wiping off the end of a wooden wharf. She must
      have lost miles of chain and hundreds of tons of anchors in her time. When
      she fell aboard some poor unoffending ship it was the very devil of a job
      to haul her off again. And she never got hurt herself&mdash;just a few
      scratches or so, perhaps. They had wanted to have her strong. And so she
      was. Strong enough to ram Polar ice with. And as she began so she went on.
      From the day she was launched she never let a year pass without murdering
      somebody. I think the owners got very worried about it. But they were a
      stiff-necked generation all these Apses; they wouldn&rsquo;t admit there could
      be anything wrong with the Apse Family. They wouldn&rsquo;t even change her
      name. &lsquo;Stuff and nonsense,&rsquo; as Mrs. Colchester used to say. They ought at
      least to have shut her up for life in some dry dock or other, away up the
      river, and never let her smell salt water again. I assure you, my dear
      sir, that she invariably did kill someone every voyage she made. It was
      perfectly well-known. She got a name for it, far and wide.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I expressed my surprise that a ship with such a deadly reputation could
      ever get a crew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, you don&rsquo;t know what sailors are, my dear sir. Let me just show you
      by an instance. One day in dock at home, while loafing on the forecastle
      head, I noticed two respectable salts come along, one a middle-aged,
      competent, steady man, evidently, the other a smart, youngish chap. They
      read the name on the bows and stopped to look at her. Says the elder man:
      &lsquo;Apse Family. That&rsquo;s the sanguinary female dog&rsquo; (I&rsquo;m putting it in that
      way) &lsquo;of a ship, Jack, that kills a man every voyage. I wouldn&rsquo;t sign in
      her&mdash;not for Joe, I wouldn&rsquo;t.&rsquo; And the other says: &lsquo;If she were mine,
      I&rsquo;d have her towed on the mud and set on fire, blame if I wouldn&rsquo;t.&rsquo; Then
      the first man chimes in: &lsquo;Much do they care! Men are cheap, God knows.&rsquo; 
      The younger one spat in the water alongside. &lsquo;They won&rsquo;t have me&mdash;not
      for double wages.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They hung about for some time and then walked up the dock. Half an hour
      later I saw them both on our deck looking about for the mate, and
      apparently very anxious to be taken on. And they were.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you account for this?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would you say?&rdquo; he retorted. &ldquo;Recklessness! The vanity of boasting
      in the evening to all their chums: &lsquo;We&rsquo;ve just shipped in that there Apse
      Family. Blow her. She ain&rsquo;t going to scare us.&rsquo; Sheer sailorlike
      perversity! A sort of curiosity. Well&mdash;a little of all that, no
      doubt. I put the question to them in the course of the voyage. The answer
      of the elderly chap was:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;A man can die but once.&rsquo; The younger assured me in a mocking tone that
      he wanted to see &lsquo;how she would do it this time.&rsquo; But I tell you what;
      there was a sort of fascination about the brute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jermyn, who seemed to have seen every ship in the world, broke in sulkily:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw her once out of this very window towing up the river; a great black
      ugly thing, going along like a big hearse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something sinister about her looks, wasn&rsquo;t there?&rdquo; said the man in
      tweeds, looking down at old Jermyn with a friendly eye. &ldquo;I always had a
      sort of horror of her. She gave me a beastly shock when I was no more than
      fourteen, the very first day&mdash;nay, hour&mdash;I joined her. Father
      came up to see me off, and was to go down to Gravesend with us. I was his
      second boy to go to sea. My big brother was already an officer then. We.
      got on board about eleven in the morning, and found the ship ready to drop
      out of the basin, stern first. She had not moved three times her own
      length when, at a little pluck the tug gave her to enter the dock gates,
      she made one of her rampaging starts, and put such a weight on the check
      rope&mdash;a new six-inch hawser&mdash;that forward there they had no
      chance to ease it round in time, and it parted. I saw the broken end fly
      up high in the air, and the next moment that brute brought her quarter
      against the pier-head with a jar that staggered everybody about her decks.
      She didn&rsquo;t hurt herself. Not she! But one of the boys the mate had sent
      aloft on the mizzen to do something, came down on the poop-deck&mdash;thump&mdash;right
      in front of me. He was not much older than myself. We had been grinning at
      each other only a few minutes before. He must have been handling himself
      carelessly, not expecting to get such a jerk. I heard his startled cry&mdash;Oh!&mdash;in
      a high treble as he felt himself going, and looked up in time to see him
      go limp all over as he fell. Ough! Poor father was remarkably white about
      the gills when we shook hands in Gravesend. &lsquo;Are you all right?&rsquo; he says,
      looking hard at me. &lsquo;Yes, father.&rsquo; &lsquo;Quite sure?&rsquo; &lsquo;Yes, father.&rsquo; &lsquo;Well,
      then good-bye, my boy.&rsquo; He told me afterwards that for half a word he
      would have carried me off home with him there and then. I am the baby of
      the family&mdash;you know,&rdquo; added the man in tweeds, stroking his
      moustache with an ingenuous smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      I acknowledged this interesting communication by a sympathetic murmur. He
      waved his hand carelessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This might have utterly spoiled a chap&rsquo;s nerve for going aloft, you know&mdash;utterly.
      He fell within two feet of me, cracking his head on a mooring-bitt. Never
      moved. Stone dead. Nice looking little fellow, he was. I had just been
      thinking we would be great chums. However, that wasn&rsquo;t yet the worst that
      brute of a ship could do. I served in her three years of my time, and then
      I got transferred to the Lucy Apse, for a year. The sailmaker we had in
      the Apse Family turned up there, too, and I remember him saying to me one
      evening, after we had been a week at sea: Isn&rsquo;t she a meek little ship?&rsquo; 
      No wonder we thought the Lucy Apse a dear, meek, little ship after getting
      clear of that big, rampaging savage brute. It was like heaven. Her
      officers seemed to me the restfullest lot of men on earth. To me who had
      known no ship but the Apse Family, the Lucy was like a sort of magic craft
      that did what you wanted her to do of her own accord. One evening we got
      caught aback pretty sharply from right ahead. In about ten minutes we had
      her full again, sheets aft, tacks down, decks cleared, and the officer of
      the watch leaning against the weather rail peacefully. It seemed simply
      marvellous to me. The other would have stuck for half-an-hour in irons,
      rolling her decks full of water, knocking the men about&mdash;spars
      cracking, braces snapping, yards taking charge, and a confounded scare
      going on aft because of her beastly rudder, which she had a way of
      flapping about fit to raise your hair on end. I couldn&rsquo;t get over my
      wonder for days.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I finished my last year of apprenticeship in that jolly little ship&mdash;she
      wasn&rsquo;t so little either, but after that other heavy devil she seemed but a
      plaything to handle. I finished my time and passed; and then just as I was
      thinking of having three weeks of real good time on shore I got at
      breakfast a letter asking me the earliest day I could be ready to join the
      Apse Family as third mate. I gave my plate a shove that shot it into the
      middle of the table; dad looked up over his paper; mother raised her hands
      in astonishment, and I went out bare-headed into our bit of garden, where
      I walked round and round for an hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I came in again mother was out of the dining-room, and dad had
      shifted berth into his big armchair. The letter was lying on the
      mantelpiece.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;It&rsquo;s very creditable to you to get the offer, and very kind of them to
      make it,&rsquo; he said. &lsquo;And I see also that Charles has been appointed chief
      mate of that ship for one voyage.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was, over leaf, a P.S. to that effect in Mr. Apse&rsquo;s own
      handwriting, which I had overlooked. Charley was my big brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like very much to have two of my boys together in one ship,&rsquo; 
      father goes on, in his deliberate, solemn way. &lsquo;And I may tell you that I
      would not mind writing Mr. Apse a letter to that effect.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear old dad! He was a wonderful father. What would you have done? The
      mere notion of going back (and as an officer, too), to be worried and
      bothered, and kept on the jump night and day by that brute, made me feel
      sick. But she wasn&rsquo;t a ship you could afford to fight shy of. Besides, the
      most genuine excuse could not be given without mortally offending Apse
      &amp; Sons. The firm, and I believe the whole family down to the old
      unmarried aunts in Lancashire, had grown desperately touchy about that
      accursed ship&rsquo;s character. This was the case for answering &lsquo;Ready now&rsquo; 
      from your very death-bed if you wished to die in their good graces. And
      that&rsquo;s precisely what I did answer&mdash;by wire, to have it over and done
      with at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The prospect of being shipmates with my big brother cheered me up
      considerably, though it made me a bit anxious, too. Ever since I remember
      myself as a little chap he had been very good to me, and I looked upon him
      as the finest fellow in the world. And so he was. No better officer ever
      walked the deck of a merchant ship. And that&rsquo;s a fact. He was a fine,
      strong, upstanding, sun-tanned, young fellow, with his brown hair curling
      a little, and an eye like a hawk. He was just splendid. We hadn&rsquo;t seen
      each other for many years, and even this time, though he had been in
      England three weeks already, he hadn&rsquo;t showed up at home yet, but had
      spent his spare time in Surrey somewhere making up to Maggie Colchester,
      old Captain Colchester&rsquo;s niece. Her father, a great friend of dad&rsquo;s, was
      in the sugar-broking business, and Charley made a sort of second home of
      their house. I wondered what my big brother would think of me. There was a
      sort of sternness about Charley&rsquo;s face which never left it, not even when
      he was larking in his rather wild fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He received me with a great shout of laughter. He seemed to think my
      joining as an officer the greatest joke in the world. There was a
      difference of ten years between us, and I suppose he remembered me best in
      pinafores. I was a kid of four when he first went to sea. It surprised me
      to find how boisterous he could be.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Now we shall see what you are made of,&rsquo; he cried. And he held me off by
      the shoulders, and punched my ribs, and hustled me into his berth. &lsquo;Sit
      down, Ned. I am glad of the chance of having you with me. I&rsquo;ll put the
      finishing touch to you, my young officer, providing you&rsquo;re worth the
      trouble. And, first of all, get it well into your head that we are not
      going to let this brute kill anybody this voyage. We&rsquo;ll stop her racket.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I perceived he was in dead earnest about it. He talked grimly of the
      ship, and how we must be careful and never allow this ugly beast to catch
      us napping with any of her damned tricks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He gave me a regular lecture on special seamanship for the use of the
      Apse Family; then changing his tone, he began to talk at large, rattling
      off the wildest, funniest nonsense, till my sides ached with laughing. I
      could see very well he was a bit above himself with high spirits. It
      couldn&rsquo;t be because of my coming. Not to that extent. But, of course, I
      wouldn&rsquo;t have dreamt of asking what was the matter. I had a proper respect
      for my big brother, I can tell you. But it was all made plain enough a day
      or two afterwards, when I heard that Miss Maggie Colchester was coming for
      the voyage. Uncle was giving her a sea-trip for the benefit of her health.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what could have been wrong with her health. She had a
      beautiful colour, and a deuce of a lot of fair hair. She didn&rsquo;t care a rap
      for wind, or rain, or spray, or sun, or green seas, or anything. She was a
      blue-eyed, jolly girl of the very best sort, but the way she cheeked my
      big brother used to frighten me. I always expected it to end in an awful
      row. However, nothing decisive happened till after we had been in Sydney
      for a week. One day, in the men&rsquo;s dinner hour, Charley sticks his head
      into my cabin. I was stretched out on my back on the settee, smoking in
      peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Come ashore with me, Ned,&rsquo; he says, in his curt way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I jumped up, of course, and away after him down the gangway and up George
      Street. He strode along like a giant, and I at his elbow, panting. It was
      confoundedly hot. &lsquo;Where on earth are you rushing me to, Charley?&rsquo; I made
      bold to ask.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Here,&rsquo; he says.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Here&rsquo; was a jeweller&rsquo;s shop. I couldn&rsquo;t imagine what he could want
      there. It seemed a sort of mad freak. He thrusts under my nose three
      rings, which looked very tiny on his big, brown palm, growling out&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;For Maggie! Which?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I got a kind of scare at this. I couldn&rsquo;t make a sound, but I pointed at
      the one that sparkled white and blue. He put it in his waistcoat pocket,
      paid for it with a lot of sovereigns, and bolted out. When we got on board
      I was quite out of breath. &lsquo;Shake hands, old chap,&rsquo; I gasped out. He gave
      me a thump on the back. &lsquo;Give what orders you like to the boatswain when
      the hands turn-to,&rsquo; says he; &lsquo;I am off duty this afternoon.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he vanished from the deck for a while, but presently he came out of
      the cabin with Maggie, and these two went over the gangway publicly,
      before all hands, going for a walk together on that awful, blazing hot
      day, with clouds of dust flying about. They came back after a few hours
      looking very staid, but didn&rsquo;t seem to have the slightest idea where they
      had been. Anyway, that&rsquo;s the answer they both made to Mrs. Colchester&rsquo;s
      question at tea-time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And didn&rsquo;t she turn on Charley, with her voice like an old night
      cabman&rsquo;s! &lsquo;Rubbish. Don&rsquo;t know where you&rsquo;ve been! Stuff and nonsense.
      You&rsquo;ve walked the girl off her legs. Don&rsquo;t do it again.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s surprising how meek Charley could be with that old woman. Only on
      one occasion he whispered to me, &lsquo;I&rsquo;m jolly glad she isn&rsquo;t Maggie&rsquo;s aunt,
      except by marriage. That&rsquo;s no sort of relationship.&rsquo; But I think he let
      Maggie have too much of her own way. She was hopping all over that ship in
      her yachting skirt and a red tam o&rsquo; shanter like a bright bird on a dead
      black tree. The old salts used to grin to themselves when they saw her
      coming along, and offered to teach her knots or splices. I believe she
      liked the men, for Charley&rsquo;s sake, I suppose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you may imagine, the fiendish propensities of that cursed ship were
      never spoken of on board. Not in the cabin, at any rate. Only once on the
      homeward passage Charley said, incautiously, something about bringing all
      her crew home this time. Captain Colchester began to look uncomfortable at
      once, and that silly, hard-bitten old woman flew out at Charley as though
      he had said something indecent. I was quite confounded myself; as to
      Maggie, she sat completely mystified, opening her blue eyes very wide. Of
      course, before she was a day older she wormed it all out of me. She was a
      very difficult person to lie to.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;How awful,&rsquo; she said, quite solemn. &lsquo;So many poor fellows. I am glad the
      voyage is nearly over. I won&rsquo;t have a moment&rsquo;s peace about Charley now.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assured her Charley was all right. It took more than that ship knew to
      get over a seaman like Charley. And she agreed with me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Next day we got the tug off Dungeness; and when the tow-rope was fast
      Charley rubbed his hands and said to me in an undertone&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;We&rsquo;ve baffled her, Ned.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Looks like it,&rsquo; I said, with a grin at him. It was beautiful weather,
      and the sea as smooth as a millpond. We went up the river without a shadow
      of trouble except once, when off Hole Haven, the brute took a sudden sheer
      and nearly had a barge anchored just clear of the fairway. But I was aft,
      looking after the steering, and she did not catch me napping that time.
      Charley came up on the poop, looking very concerned. &lsquo;Close shave,&rsquo; says
      he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Never mind, Charley,&rsquo; I answered, cheerily. &lsquo;You&rsquo;ve tamed her.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were to tow right up to the dock. The river pilot boarded us below
      Gravesend, and the first words I heard him say were: &lsquo;You may just as well
      take your port anchor inboard at once, Mr. Mate.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This had been done when I went forward. I saw Maggie on the forecastle
      head enjoying the bustle and I begged her to go aft, but she took no
      notice of me, of course. Then Charley, who was very busy with the head
      gear, caught sight of her and shouted in his biggest voice: &lsquo;Get off the
      forecastle head, Maggie. You&rsquo;re in the way here.&rsquo; For all answer she made
      a funny face at him, and I saw poor Charley turn away, hiding a smile. She
      was flushed with the excitement of getting home again, and her blue eyes
      seemed to snap electric sparks as she looked at the river. A collier brig
      had gone round just ahead of us, and our tug had to stop her engines in a
      hurry to avoid running into her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In a moment, as is usually the case, all the shipping in the reach seemed
      to get into a hopeless tangle. A schooner and a ketch got up a small
      collision all to themselves right in the middle of the river. It was
      exciting to watch, and, meantime, our tug remained stopped. Any other ship
      than that brute could have been coaxed to keep straight for a couple of
      minutes&mdash;but not she! Her head fell off at once, and she began to
      drift down, taking her tug along with her. I noticed a cluster of coasters
      at anchor within a quarter of a mile of us, and I thought I had better
      speak to the pilot. &lsquo;If you let her get amongst that lot,&rsquo; I said,
      quietly, &lsquo;she will grind some of them to bits before we get her out
      again.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Don&rsquo;t I know her!&rsquo; cries he, stamping his foot in a perfect fury. And he
      out with his whistle to make that bothered tug get the ship&rsquo;s head up
      again as quick as possible. He blew like mad, waving his arm to port, and
      presently we could see that the tug&rsquo;s engines had been set going ahead.
      Her paddles churned the water, but it was as if she had been trying to tow
      a rock&mdash;she couldn&rsquo;t get an inch out of that ship. Again the pilot
      blew his whistle, and waved his arm to port. We could see the tug&rsquo;s
      paddles turning faster and faster away, broad on our bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For a moment tug and ship hung motionless in a crowd of moving shipping,
      and then the terrific strain that evil, stony-hearted brute would always
      put on everything, tore the towing-chock clean out. The tow-rope surged
      over, snapping the iron stanchions of the head-rail one after another as
      if they had been sticks of sealing-wax. It was only then I noticed that in
      order to have a better view over our heads, Maggie had stepped upon the
      port anchor as it lay flat on the forecastle deck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It had been lowered properly into its hardwood beds, but there had been
      no time to take a turn with it. Anyway, it was quite secure as it was, for
      going into dock; but I could see directly that the tow-rope would sweep
      under the fluke in another second. My heart flew up right into my throat,
      but not before I had time to yell out: &lsquo;Jump clear of that anchor!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I hadn&rsquo;t time to shriek out her name. I don&rsquo;t suppose she heard me at
      all. The first touch of the hawser against the fluke threw her down; she
      was up on her feet again quick as lightning, but she was up on the wrong
      side. I heard a horrid, scraping sound, and then that anchor, tipping
      over, rose up like something alive; its great, rough iron arm caught
      Maggie round the waist, seemed to clasp her close with a dreadful hug, and
      flung itself with her over and down in a terrific clang of iron, followed
      by heavy ringing blows that shook the ship from stem to stern&mdash;because
      the ring stopper held!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How horrible!&rdquo; I exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I used to dream for years afterwards of anchors catching hold of girls,&rdquo;
       said the man in tweeds, a little wildly. He shuddered. &ldquo;With a most
      pitiful howl Charley was over after her almost on the instant. But, Lord!
      he didn&rsquo;t see as much as a gleam of her red tam o&rsquo; shanter in the water.
      Nothing! nothing whatever! In a moment there were half-a-dozen boats
      around us, and he got pulled into one. I, with the boatswain and the
      carpenter, let go the other anchor in a hurry and brought the ship up
      somehow. The pilot had gone silly. He walked up and down the forecastle
      head wringing his hands and muttering to himself: &lsquo;Killing women, now!
      Killing women, now!&rsquo; Not another word could you get out of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dusk fell, then a night black as pitch; and peering upon the river I
      heard a low, mournful hail, &lsquo;Ship, ahoy!&rsquo; Two Gravesend watermen came
      alongside. They had a lantern in their wherry, and looked up the ship&rsquo;s
      side, holding on to the ladder without a word. I saw in the patch of light
      a lot of loose, fair hair down there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shuddered again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After the tide turned poor Maggie&rsquo;s body had floated clear of one of them
      big mooring buoys,&rdquo; he explained. &ldquo;I crept aft, feeling half-dead, and
      managed to send a rocket up&mdash;to let the other searchers know, on the
      river. And then I slunk away forward like a cur, and spent the night
      sitting on the heel of the bowsprit so as to be as far as possible out of
      Charley&rsquo;s way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor fellow!&rdquo; I murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Poor fellow,&rdquo; he repeated, musingly. &ldquo;That brute wouldn&rsquo;t let him&mdash;not
      even him&mdash;cheat her of her prey. But he made her fast in dock next
      morning. He did. We hadn&rsquo;t exchanged a word&mdash;not a single look for
      that matter. I didn&rsquo;t want to look at him. When the last rope was fast he
      put his hands to his head and stood gazing down at his feet as if trying
      to remember something. The men waited on the main deck for the words that
      end the voyage. Perhaps that is what he was trying to remember. I spoke
      for him. &lsquo;That&rsquo;ll do, men.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never saw a crew leave a ship so quietly. They sneaked over the rail
      one after another, taking care not to bang their sea chests too heavily.
      They looked our way, but not one had the stomach to come up and offer to
      shake hands with the mate as is usual.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I followed him all over the empty ship to and fro, here and there, with
      no living soul about but the two of us, because the old ship-keeper had
      locked himself up in the galley&mdash;both doors. Suddenly poor Charley
      mutters, in a crazy voice: &lsquo;I&rsquo;m done here,&rsquo; and strides down the gangway
      with me at his heels, up the dock, out at the gate, on towards Tower Hill.
      He used to take rooms with a decent old landlady in America Square, to be
      near his work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All at once he stops short, turns round, and comes back straight at me.
      &lsquo;Ned,&rsquo; says he, I am going home.&rsquo; I had the good luck to sight a
      four-wheeler and got him in just in time. His legs were beginning to give
      way. In our hall he fell down on a chair, and I&rsquo;ll never forget father&rsquo;s
      and mother&rsquo;s amazed, perfectly still faces as they stood over him. They
      couldn&rsquo;t understand what had happened to him till I blubbered out, &lsquo;Maggie
      got drowned, yesterday, in the river.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother let out a little cry. Father looks from him to me, and from me to
      him, as if comparing our faces&mdash;for, upon my soul, Charley did not
      resemble himself at all. Nobody moved; and the poor fellow raises his big
      brown hands slowly to his throat, and with one single tug rips everything
      open&mdash;collar, shirt, waistcoat&mdash;a perfect wreck and ruin of a
      man. Father and I got him upstairs somehow, and mother pretty nearly
      killed herself nursing him through a brain fever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man in tweeds nodded at me significantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! there was nothing that could be done with that brute. She had a devil
      in her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where&rsquo;s your brother?&rdquo; I asked, expecting to hear he was dead. But he was
      commanding a smart steamer on the China coast, and never came home now.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jermyn fetched a heavy sigh, and the handkerchief being now sufficiently
      dry, put it up tenderly to his red and lamentable nose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was a ravening beast,&rdquo; the man in tweeds started again. &ldquo;Old
      Colchester put his foot down and resigned. And would you believe it? Apse
      &amp; Sons wrote to ask whether he wouldn&rsquo;t reconsider his decision!
      Anything to save the good name of the Apse Family.&rsquo; Old Colchester went to
      the office then and said that he would take charge again but only to sail
      her out into the North Sea and scuttle her there. He was nearly off his
      chump. He used to be darkish iron-grey, but his hair went snow-white in a
      fortnight. And Mr. Lucian Apse (they had known each other as young men)
      pretended not to notice it. Eh? Here&rsquo;s infatuation if you like! Here&rsquo;s
      pride for you!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They jumped at the first man they could get to take her, for fear of the
      scandal of the Apse Family not being able to find a skipper. He was a
      festive soul, I believe, but he stuck to her grim and hard. Wilmot was his
      second mate. A harum-scarum fellow, and pretending to a great scorn for
      all the girls. The fact is he was really timid. But let only one of them
      do as much as lift her little finger in encouragement, and there was
      nothing that could hold the beggar. As apprentice, once, he deserted
      abroad after a petticoat, and would have gone to the dogs then, if his
      skipper hadn&rsquo;t taken the trouble to find him and lug him by the ears out
      of some house of perdition or other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was said that one of the firm had been heard once to express a hope
      that this brute of a ship would get lost soon. I can hardly credit the
      tale, unless it might have been Mr. Alfred Apse, whom the family didn&rsquo;t
      think much of. They had him in the office, but he was considered a bad egg
      altogether, always flying off to race meetings and coming home drunk. You
      would have thought that a ship so full of deadly tricks would run herself
      ashore some day out of sheer cussedness. But not she! She was going to
      last for ever. She had a nose to keep off the bottom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jermyn made a grunt of approval.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A ship after a pilot&rsquo;s own heart, eh?&rdquo; jeered the man in tweeds. &ldquo;Well,
      Wilmot managed it. He was the man for it, but even he, perhaps, couldn&rsquo;t
      have done the trick without the green-eyed governess, or nurse, or
      whatever she was to the children of Mr. and Mrs. Pamphilius.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those people were passengers in her from Port Adelaide to the Cape. Well,
      the ship went out and anchored outside for the day. The skipper&mdash;hospitable
      soul&mdash;had a lot of guests from town to a farewell lunch&mdash;as
      usual with him. It was five in the evening before the last shore boat left
      the side, and the weather looked ugly and dark in the gulf. There was no
      reason for him to get under way. However, as he had told everybody he was
      going that day, he imagined it was proper to do so anyhow. But as he had
      no mind after all these festivities to tackle the straits in the dark,
      with a scant wind, he gave orders to keep the ship under lower topsails
      and foresail as close as she would lie, dodging along the land till the
      morning. Then he sought his virtuous couch. The mate was on deck, having
      his face washed very clean with hard rain squalls. Wilmot relieved him at
      midnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Apse Family had, as you observed, a house on her poop . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A big, ugly white thing, sticking up,&rdquo; Jermyn murmured, sadly, at the
      fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it: a companion for the cabin stairs and a sort of chart-room
      combined. The rain drove in gusts on the sleepy Wilmot. The ship was then
      surging slowly to the southward, close hauled, with the coast within three
      miles or so to windward. There was nothing to look out for in that part of
      the gulf, and Wilmot went round to dodge the squalls under the lee of that
      chart-room, whose door on that side was open. The night was black, like a
      barrel of coal-tar. And then he heard a woman&rsquo;s voice whispering to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That confounded green-eyed girl of the Pamphilius people had put the kids
      to bed a long time ago, of course, but it seems couldn&rsquo;t get to sleep
      herself. She heard eight bells struck, and the chief mate come below to
      turn in. She waited a bit, then got into her dressing-gown and stole
      across the empty saloon and up the stairs into the chart-room. She sat
      down on the settee near the open door to cool herself, I daresay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose when she whispered to Wilmot it was as if somebody had struck a
      match in the fellow&rsquo;s brain. I don&rsquo;t know how it was they had got so very
      thick. I fancy he had met her ashore a few times before. I couldn&rsquo;t make
      it out, because, when telling the story, Wilmot would break off to swear
      something awful at every second word. We had met on the quay in Sydney,
      and he had an apron of sacking up to his chin, a big whip in his hand. A
      wagon-driver. Glad to do anything not to starve. That&rsquo;s what he had come
      down to.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;However, there he was, with his head inside the door, on the girl&rsquo;s
      shoulder as likely as not&mdash;officer of the watch! The helmsman, on
      giving his evidence afterwards, said that he shouted several times that
      the binnacle lamp had gone out. It didn&rsquo;t matter to him, because his
      orders were to &lsquo;sail her close.&rsquo; &lsquo;I thought it funny,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;that the
      ship should keep on falling off in squalls, but I luffed her up every time
      as close as I was able. It was so dark I couldn&rsquo;t see my hand before my
      face, and the rain came in bucketfuls on my head.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The truth was that at every squall the wind hauled aft a little, till
      gradually the ship came to be heading straight for the coast, without a
      single soul in her being aware of it. Wilmot himself confessed that he had
      not been near the standard compass for an hour. He might well have
      confessed! The first thing he knew was the man on the look-out shouting
      blue murder forward there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He tore his neck free, he says, and yelled back at him: &lsquo;What do you
      say?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I think I hear breakers ahead, sir,&rsquo; howled the man, and came rushing
      aft with the rest of the watch, in the &lsquo;awfullest blinding deluge that
      ever fell from the sky,&rsquo; Wilmot says. For a second or so he was so scared
      and bewildered that he could not remember on which side of the gulf the
      ship was. He wasn&rsquo;t a good officer, but he was a seaman all the same. He
      pulled himself together in a second, and the right orders sprang to his
      lips without thinking. They were to hard up with the helm and shiver the
      main and mizzen-topsails.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems that the sails actually fluttered. He couldn&rsquo;t see them, but he
      heard them rattling and banging above his head. &lsquo;No use! She was too slow
      in going off,&rsquo; he went on, his dirty face twitching, and the damn&rsquo;d
      carter&rsquo;s whip shaking in his hand. &lsquo;She seemed to stick fast.&rsquo; And then
      the flutter of the canvas above his head ceased. At this critical moment
      the wind hauled aft again with a gust, filling the sails and sending the
      ship with a great way upon the rocks on her lee bow. She had overreached
      herself in her last little game. Her time had come&mdash;the hour, the
      man, the black night, the treacherous gust of wind&mdash;the right woman
      to put an end to her. The brute deserved nothing better. Strange are the
      instruments of Providence. There&rsquo;s a sort of poetical justice&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man in tweeds looked hard at me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The first ledge she went over stripped the false keel off her. Rip! The
      skipper, rushing out of his berth, found a crazy woman, in a red flannel
      dressing-gown, flying round and round the cuddy, screeching like a
      cockatoo.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The next bump knocked her clean under the cabin table. It also started
      the stern-post and carried away the rudder, and then that brute ran up a
      shelving, rocky shore, tearing her bottom out, till she stopped short, and
      the foremast dropped over the bows like a gangway.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anybody lost?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one, unless that fellow, Wilmot,&rdquo; answered the gentleman, unknown to
      Miss Blank, looking round for his cap. &ldquo;And his case was worse than
      drowning for a man. Everybody got ashore all right. Gale didn&rsquo;t come on
      till next day, dead from the West, and broke up that brute in a
      surprisingly short time. It was as though she had been rotten at heart.&rdquo; .
      . . He changed his tone, &ldquo;Rain left off? I must get my bike and rush home
      to dinner. I live in Herne Bay&mdash;came out for a spin this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He nodded at me in a friendly way, and went out with a swagger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know who he is, Jermyn?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      The North Sea pilot shook his head, dismally. &ldquo;Fancy losing a ship in that
      silly fashion! Oh, dear! oh dear!&rdquo; he groaned in lugubrious tones,
      spreading his damp handkerchief again like a curtain before the glowing
      grate.
    </p>
    <p>
      On going out I exchanged a glance and a smile (strictly proper) with the
      respectable Miss Blank, barmaid of the Three Crows.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      AN ANARCHIST
    </h2>
    <h3>
      A DESPERATE TALE
    </h3>
    <p>
      That year I spent the best two months of the dry season on one of the
      estates&mdash;in fact, on the principal cattle estate&mdash;of a famous
      meat-extract manufacturing company.
    </p>
    <p>
      B.O.S. Bos. You have seen the three magic letters on the advertisement
      pages of magazines and newspapers, in the windows of provision merchants,
      and on calendars for next year you receive by post in the month of
      November. They scatter pamphlets also, written in a sickly enthusiastic
      style and in several languages, giving statistics of slaughter and
      bloodshed enough to make a Turk turn faint. The &ldquo;art&rdquo; illustrating that
      &ldquo;literature&rdquo; represents in vivid and shining colours a large and enraged
      black bull stamping upon a yellow snake writhing in emerald-green grass,
      with a cobalt-blue sky for a background. It is atrocious and it is an
      allegory. The snake symbolizes disease, weakness&mdash;perhaps mere
      hunger, which last is the chronic disease of the majority of mankind. Of
      course everybody knows the B. O. S. Ltd., with its unrivalled products:
      Vinobos, Jellybos, and the latest unequalled perfection, Tribos, whose
      nourishment is offered to you not only highly concentrated, but already
      half digested. Such apparently is the love that Limited Company bears to
      its fellowmen&mdash;even as the love of the father and mother penguin for
      their hungry fledglings.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course the capital of a country must be productively employed. I have
      nothing to say against the company. But being myself animated by feelings
      of affection towards my fellow-men, I am saddened by the modern system of
      advertising. Whatever evidence it offers of enterprise, ingenuity,
      impudence, and resource in certain individuals, it proves to my mind the
      wide prevalence of that form of mental degradation which is called
      gullibility.
    </p>
    <p>
      In various parts of the civilized and uncivilized world I have had to
      swallow B. O. S. with more or less benefit to myself, though without great
      pleasure. Prepared with hot water and abundantly peppered to bring out the
      taste, this extract is not really unpalatable. But I have never swallowed
      its advertisements. Perhaps they have not gone far enough. As far as I can
      remember they make no promise of everlasting youth to the users of B. O.
      S., nor yet have they claimed the power of raising the dead for their
      estimable products. Why this austere reserve, I wonder? But I don&rsquo;t think
      they would have had me even on these terms. Whatever form of mental
      degradation I may (being but human) be suffering from, it is not the
      popular form. I am not gullible.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have been at some pains to bring out distinctly this statement about
      myself in view of the story which follows. I have checked the facts as far
      as possible. I have turned up the files of French newspapers, and I have
      also talked with the officer who commands the military guard on the Ile
      Royale, when in the course of my travels I reached Cayenne. I believe the
      story to be in the main true. It is the sort of story that no man, I
      think, would ever invent about himself, for it is neither grandiose nor
      flattering, nor yet funny enough to gratify a perverted vanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      It concerns the engineer of the steam-launch belonging to the Maranon
      cattle estate of the B. O. S. Co., Ltd. This estate is also an island&mdash;an
      island as big as a small province, lying in the estuary of a great South
      American river. It is wild and not beautiful, but the grass growing on its
      low plains seems to possess exceptionally nourishing and flavouring
      qualities. It resounds with the lowing of innumerable herds&mdash;a deep
      and distressing sound under the open sky, rising like a monstrous protest
      of prisoners condemned to death. On the mainland, across twenty miles of
      discoloured muddy water, there stands a city whose name, let us say, is
      Horta.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the most interesting characteristic of this island (which seems like a
      sort of penal settlement for condemned cattle) consists in its being the
      only known habitat of an extremely rare and gorgeous butterfly. The
      species is even more rare than it is beautiful, which is not saying
      little. I have already alluded to my travels. I travelled at that time,
      but strictly for myself and with a moderation unknown in our days of
      round-the-world tickets. I even travelled with a purpose. As a matter of
      fact, I am&mdash;&ldquo;Ha, ha, ha!&mdash;a desperate butterfly-slayer. Ha, ha,
      ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the tone in which Mr. Harry Gee, the manager of the cattle
      station, alluded to my pursuits. He seemed to consider me the greatest
      absurdity in the world. On the other hand, the B. O. S. Co., Ltd.,
      represented to him the acme of the nineteenth century&rsquo;s achievement. I
      believe that he slept in his leggings and spurs. His days he spent in the
      saddle flying over the plains, followed by a train of half-wild horsemen,
      who called him Don Enrique, and who had no definite idea of the B. O. S.
      Co., Ltd., which paid their wages. He was an excellent manager, but I
      don&rsquo;t see why, when we met at meals, he should have thumped me on the
      back, with loud, derisive inquiries: &ldquo;How&rsquo;s the deadly sport to-day?
      Butterflies going strong? Ha, ha, ha!&rdquo;&mdash;especially as he charged me
      two dollars per diem for the hospitality of the B. O. S. Co., Ltd.,
      (capital L1,500,000, fully paid up), in whose balance-sheet for that year
      those monies are no doubt included. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think I can make it anything
      less in justice to my company,&rdquo; he had remarked, with extreme gravity,
      when I was arranging with him the terms of my stay on the island.
    </p>
    <p>
      His chaff would have been harmless enough if intimacy of intercourse in
      the absence of all friendly feeling were not a thing detestable in itself.
      Moreover, his facetiousness was not very amusing. It consisted in the
      wearisome repetition of descriptive phrases applied to people with a burst
      of laughter. &ldquo;Desperate butterfly-slayer. Ha, ha, ha!&rdquo; was one sample of
      his peculiar wit which he himself enjoyed so much. And in the same vein of
      exquisite humour he called my attention to the engineer of the
      steam-launch, one day, as we strolled on the path by the side of the
      creek.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man&rsquo;s head and shoulders emerged above the deck, over which were
      scattered various tools of his trade and a few pieces of machinery. He was
      doing some repairs to the engines. At the sound of our footsteps he raised
      anxiously a grimy face with a pointed chin and a tiny fair moustache. What
      could be seen of his delicate features under the black smudges appeared to
      me wasted and livid in the greenish shade of the enormous tree spreading
      its foliage over the launch moored close to the bank.
    </p>
    <p>
      To my great surprise, Harry Gee addressed him as &ldquo;Crocodile,&rdquo; in that
      half-jeering, half-bullying tone which is characteristic of
      self-satisfaction in his delectable kind:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How does the work get on, Crocodile?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I should have said before that the amiable Harry had picked up French of a
      sort somewhere&mdash;in some colony or other&mdash;and that he pronounced
      it with a disagreeable forced precision as though he meant to guy the
      language. The man in the launch answered him quickly in a pleasant voice.
      His eyes had a liquid softness and his teeth flashed dazzlingly white
      between his thin, drooping lips. The manager turned to me, very cheerful
      and loud, explaining:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I call him Crocodile because he lives half in, half out of the creek.
      Amphibious&mdash;see? There&rsquo;s nothing else amphibious living on the island
      except crocodiles; so he must belong to the species&mdash;eh? But in
      reality he&rsquo;s nothing less than un citoyen anarchiste de Barcelone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A citizen anarchist from Barcelona?&rdquo; I repeated, stupidly, looking down
      at the man. He had turned to his work in the engine-well of the launch and
      presented his bowed back to us. In that attitude I heard him protest, very
      audibly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not even know Spanish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey? What? You dare to deny you come from over there?&rdquo; the accomplished
      manager was down on him truculently.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this the man straightened himself up, dropping a spanner he had been
      using, and faced us; but he trembled in all his limbs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I deny nothing, nothing, nothing!&rdquo; he said, excitedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He picked up the spanner and went to work again without paying any further
      attention to us. After looking at him for a minute or so, we went away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he really an anarchist?&rdquo; I asked, when out of ear-shot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t care a hang what he is,&rdquo; answered the humorous official of the B.
      O. S. Co. &ldquo;I gave him the name because it suited me to label him in that
      way, It&rsquo;s good for the company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the company!&rdquo; I exclaimed, stopping short.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha!&rdquo; he triumphed, tilting up his hairless pug face and straddling his
      thin, long legs. &ldquo;That surprises you. I am bound to do my best for my
      company. They have enormous expenses. Why&mdash;our agent in Horta tells
      me they spend fifty thousand pounds every year in advertising all over the
      world! One can&rsquo;t be too economical in working the show. Well, just you
      listen. When I took charge here the estate had no steam-launch. I asked
      for one, and kept on asking by every mail till I got it; but the man they
      sent out with it chucked his job at the end of two months, leaving the
      launch moored at the pontoon in Horta. Got a better screw at a sawmill up
      the river&mdash;blast him! And ever since it has been the same thing. Any
      Scotch or Yankee vagabond that likes to call himself a mechanic out here
      gets eighteen pounds a month, and the next you know he&rsquo;s cleared out,
      after smashing something as likely as not. I give you my word that some of
      the objects I&rsquo;ve had for engine-drivers couldn&rsquo;t tell the boiler from the
      funnel. But this fellow understands his trade, and I don&rsquo;t mean him to
      clear out. See?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he struck me lightly on the chest for emphasis. Disregarding his
      peculiarities of manner, I wanted to know what all this had to do with the
      man being an anarchist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come!&rdquo; jeered the manager. &ldquo;If you saw suddenly a barefooted, unkempt
      chap slinking amongst the bushes on the sea face of the island, and at the
      same time observed less than a mile from the beach, a small schooner full
      of niggers hauling off in a hurry, you wouldn&rsquo;t think the man fell there
      from the sky, would you? And it could be nothing else but either that or
      Cayenne. I&rsquo;ve got my wits about me. Directly I sighted this queer game I
      said to myself&mdash;&lsquo;Escaped Convict.&rsquo; I was as certain of it as I am of
      seeing you standing here this minute. So I spurred on straight at him. He
      stood his ground for a bit on a sand hillock crying out: &lsquo;Monsieur!
      Monsieur! Arretez!&rsquo; then at the last moment broke and ran for life. Says I
      to myself, &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll tame you before I&rsquo;m done with you.&rsquo; So without a single
      word I kept on, heading him off here and there. I rounded him up towards
      the shore, and at last I had him corralled on a spit, his heels in the
      water and nothing but sea and sky at his back, with my horse pawing the
      sand and shaking his head within a yard of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He folded his arms on his breast then and stuck his chin up in a sort of
      desperate way; but I wasn&rsquo;t to be impressed by the beggar&rsquo;s posturing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Says I, &lsquo;You&rsquo;re a runaway convict.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When he heard French, his chin went down and his face changed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I deny nothing,&rsquo; says he, panting yet, for I had kept him skipping about
      in front of my horse pretty smartly. I asked him what he was doing there.
      He had got his breath by then, and explained that he had meant to make his
      way to a farm which he understood (from the schooner&rsquo;s people, I suppose)
      was to be found in the neighbourhood. At that I laughed aloud and he got
      uneasy. Had he been deceived? Was there no farm within walking distance?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I laughed more and more. He was on foot, and of course the first bunch of
      cattle he came across would have stamped him to rags under their hoofs. A
      dismounted man caught on the feeding-grounds hasn&rsquo;t got the ghost of a
      chance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;My coming upon you like this has certainly saved your life,&rsquo; I said. He
      remarked that perhaps it was so; but that for his part he had imagined I
      had wanted to kill him under the hoofs of my horse. I assured him that
      nothing would have been easier had I meant it. And then we came to a sort
      of dead stop. For the life of me I didn&rsquo;t know what to do with this
      convict, unless I chucked him into the sea. It occurred to me to ask him
      what he had been transported for. He hung his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;What is it?&rsquo; says I. &lsquo;Theft, murder, rape, or what?&rsquo; I wanted to hear
      what he would have to say for himself, though of course I expected it
      would be some sort of lie. But all he said was&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Make it what you like. I deny nothing. It is no good denying anything.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I looked him over carefully and a thought struck me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;They&rsquo;ve got anarchists there, too,&rsquo; I said. &lsquo;Perhaps you&rsquo;re one of
      them.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I deny nothing whatever, monsieur,&rsquo; he repeats.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This answer made me think that perhaps he was not an anarchist. I believe
      those damned lunatics are rather proud of themselves. If he had been one,
      he would have probably confessed straight out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;What were you before you became a convict?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Ouvrier,&rsquo; he says. &lsquo;And a good workman, too.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At that I began to think he must be an anarchist, after all. That&rsquo;s the
      class they come mostly from, isn&rsquo;t it? I hate the cowardly bomb-throwing
      brutes. I almost made up my mind to turn my horse short round and leave
      him to starve or drown where he was, whichever he liked best. As to
      crossing the island to bother me again, the cattle would see to that. I
      don&rsquo;t know what induced me to ask&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;What sort of workman?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t care a hang whether he answered me or not. But when he said at
      once, &lsquo;Mecanicien, monsieur,&rsquo; I nearly jumped out of the saddle with
      excitement. The launch had been lying disabled and idle in the creek for
      three weeks. My duty to the company was clear. He noticed my start, too,
      and there we were for a minute or so staring at each other as if
      bewitched.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Get up on my horse behind me,&rsquo; I told him. &lsquo;You shall put my
      steam-launch to rights.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These are the words in which the worthy manager of the Maranon estate
      related to me the coming of the supposed anarchist. He meant to keep him&mdash;out
      of a sense of duty to the company&mdash;and the name he had given him
      would prevent the fellow from obtaining employment anywhere in Horta. The
      vaqueros of the estate, when they went on leave, spread it all over the
      town. They did not know what an anarchist was, nor yet what Barcelona
      meant. They called him Anarchisto de Barcelona, as if it were his
      Christian name and surname. But the people in town had been reading in
      their papers about the anarchists in Europe and were very much impressed.
      Over the jocular addition of &ldquo;de Barcelona&rdquo; Mr. Harry Gee chuckled with
      immense satisfaction. &ldquo;That breed is particularly murderous, isn&rsquo;t it? It
      makes the sawmills crowd still more afraid of having anything to do with
      him&mdash;see?&rdquo; he exulted, candidly. &ldquo;I hold him by that name better than
      if I had him chained up by the leg to the deck of the steam-launch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And mark,&rdquo; he added, after a pause, &ldquo;he does not deny it. I am not
      wronging him in any way. He is a convict of some sort, anyhow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I suppose you pay him some wages, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wages! What does he want with money here? He gets his food from my
      kitchen and his clothing from the store. Of course I&rsquo;ll give him something
      at the end of the year, but you don&rsquo;t think I&rsquo;d employ a convict and give
      him the same money I would give an honest man? I am looking after the
      interests of my company first and last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I admitted that, for a company spending fifty thousand pounds every year
      in advertising, the strictest economy was obviously necessary. The manager
      of the Maranon Estancia grunted approvingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I&rsquo;ll tell you what,&rdquo; he continued: &ldquo;if I were certain he&rsquo;s an
      anarchist and he had the cheek to ask me for money, I would give him the
      toe of my boot. However, let him have the benefit of the doubt. I am
      perfectly willing to take it that he has done nothing worse than to stick
      a knife into somebody&mdash;with extenuating circumstances&mdash;French
      fashion, don&rsquo;t you know. But that subversive sanguinary rot of doing away
      with all law and order in the world makes my blood boil. It&rsquo;s simply
      cutting the ground from under the feet of every decent, respectable,
      hard-working person. I tell you that the consciences of people who have
      them, like you or I, must be protected in some way; or else the first low
      scoundrel that came along would in every respect be just as good as
      myself. Wouldn&rsquo;t he, now? And that&rsquo;s absurd!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He glared at me. I nodded slightly and murmured that doubtless there was
      much subtle truth in his view.
    </p>
    <p>
      The principal truth discoverable in the views of Paul the engineer was
      that a little thing may bring about the undoing of a man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Il ne faut pas beaucoup pour perdre un homme</i>,&rdquo; he said to me,
      thoughtfully, one evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      I report this reflection in French, since the man was of Paris, not of
      Barcelona at all. At the Maranon he lived apart from the station, in a
      small shed with a metal roof and straw walls, which he called mon atelier.
      He had a work-bench there. They had given him several horse-blankets and a
      saddle&mdash;not that he ever had occasion to ride, but because no other
      bedding was used by the working-hands, who were all vaqueros&mdash;cattlemen.
      And on this horseman&rsquo;s gear, like a son of the plains, he used to sleep
      amongst the tools of his trade, in a litter of rusty scrap-iron, with a
      portable forge at his head, under the work-bench sustaining his grimy
      mosquito-net.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now and then I would bring him a few candle ends saved from the scant
      supply of the manager&rsquo;s house. He was very thankful for these. He did not
      like to lie awake in the dark, he confessed. He complained that sleep fled
      from him. &ldquo;Le sommeil me fuit,&rdquo; he declared, with his habitual air of
      subdued stoicism, which made him sympathetic and touching. I made it clear
      to him that I did not attach undue importance to the fact of his having
      been a convict.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus it came about that one evening he was led to talk about himself. As
      one of the bits of candle on the edge of the bench burned down to the end,
      he hastened to light another.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had done his military service in a provincial garrison and returned to
      Paris to follow his trade. It was a well-paid one. He told me with some
      pride that in a short time he was earning no less than ten francs a day.
      He was thinking of setting up for himself by and by and of getting
      married.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here he sighed deeply and paused. Then with a return to his stoical note:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems I did not know enough about myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On his twenty-fifth birthday two of his friends in the repairing shop
      where he worked proposed to stand him a dinner. He was immensely touched
      by this attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was a steady man,&rdquo; he remarked, &ldquo;but I am not less sociable than any
      other body.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The entertainment came off in a little cafe on the Boulevard de la
      Chapelle. At dinner they drank some special wine. It was excellent.
      Everything was excellent; and the world&mdash;in his own words&mdash;seemed
      a very good place to live in. He had good prospects, some little money
      laid by, and the affection of two excellent friends. He offered to pay for
      all the drinks after dinner, which was only proper on his part.
    </p>
    <p>
      They drank more wine; they drank liqueurs, cognac, beer, then more
      liqueurs and more cognac. Two strangers sitting at the next table looked
      at him, he said, with so much friendliness, that he invited them to join
      the party.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had never drunk so much in his life. His elation was extreme, and so
      pleasurable that whenever it flagged he hastened to order more drinks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seemed to me,&rdquo; he said, in his quiet tone and looking on the ground in
      the gloomy shed full of shadows, &ldquo;that I was on the point of just
      attaining a great and wonderful felicity. Another drink, I felt, would do
      it. The others were holding out well with me, glass for glass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But an extraordinary thing happened. At something the strangers said his
      elation fell. Gloomy ideas&mdash;des idees noires&mdash;rushed into his
      head. All the world outside the cafe; appeared to him as a dismal evil
      place where a multitude of poor wretches had to work and slave to the sole
      end that a few individuals should ride in carriages and live riotously in
      palaces. He became ashamed of his happiness. The pity of mankind&rsquo;s cruel
      lot wrung his heart. In a voice choked with sorrow he tried to express
      these sentiments. He thinks he wept and swore in turns.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two new acquaintances hastened to applaud his humane indignation. Yes.
      The amount of injustice in the world was indeed scandalous. There was only
      one way of dealing with the rotten state of society. Demolish the whole
      sacree boutique. Blow up the whole iniquitous show.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their heads hovered over the table. They whispered to him eloquently; I
      don&rsquo;t think they quite expected the result. He was extremely drunk&mdash;mad
      drunk. With a howl of rage he leaped suddenly upon the table. Kicking over
      the bottles and glasses, he yelled: &ldquo;Vive l&rsquo;anarchie! Death to the
      capitalists!&rdquo; He yelled this again and again. All round him broken glass
      was falling, chairs were being swung in the air, people were taking each
      other by the throat. The police dashed in. He hit, bit, scratched and
      struggled, till something crashed down upon his head. . . .
    </p>
    <p>
      He came to himself in a police cell, locked up on a charge of assault,
      seditious cries, and anarchist propaganda.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked at me fixedly with his liquid, shining eyes, that seemed very
      big in the dim light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was bad. But even then I might have got off somehow, perhaps,&rdquo; he
      said, slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      I doubt it. But whatever chance he had was done away with by a young
      socialist lawyer who volunteered to undertake his defence. In vain he
      assured him that he was no anarchist; that he was a quiet, respectable
      mechanic, only too anxious to work ten hours per day at his trade. He was
      represented at the trial as the victim of society and his drunken
      shoutings as the expression of infinite suffering. The young lawyer had
      his way to make, and this case was just what he wanted for a start. The
      speech for the defence was pronounced magnificent.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor fellow paused, swallowed, and brought out the statement:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I got the maximum penalty applicable to a first offence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I made an appropriate murmur. He hung his head and folded his arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When they let me out of prison,&rdquo; he began, gently, &ldquo;I made tracks, of
      course, for my old workshop. My patron had a particular liking for me
      before; but when he saw me he turned green with fright and showed me the
      door with a shaking hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While he stood in the street, uneasy and disconcerted, he was accosted by
      a middle-aged man who introduced himself as an engineer&rsquo;s fitter, too. &ldquo;I
      know who you are,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have attended your trial. You are a good
      comrade and your ideas are sound. But the devil of it is that you won&rsquo;t be
      able to get work anywhere now. These bourgeois&rsquo;ll conspire to starve you.
      That&rsquo;s their way. Expect no mercy from the rich.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To be spoken to so kindly in the street had comforted him very much. His
      seemed to be the sort of nature needing support and sympathy. The idea of
      not being able to find work had knocked him over completely. If his
      patron, who knew him so well for a quiet, orderly, competent workman,
      would have nothing to do with him now&mdash;then surely nobody else would.
      That was clear. The police, keeping their eye on him, would hasten to warn
      every employer inclined to give him a chance. He felt suddenly very
      helpless, alarmed and idle; and he followed the middle-aged man to the
      estaminet round the corner where he met some other good companions. They
      assured him that he would not be allowed to starve, work or no work. They
      had drinks all round to the discomfiture of all employers of labour and to
      the destruction of society.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sat biting his lower lip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is, monsieur, how I became a compagnon,&rdquo; he said. The hand he passed
      over his forehead was trembling. &ldquo;All the same, there&rsquo;s something wrong in
      a world where a man can get lost for a glass more or less.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He never looked up, though I could see he was getting excited under his
      dejection. He slapped the bench with his open palm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;It was an impossible existence! Watched by the police,
      watched by the comrades, I did not belong to myself any more! Why, I could
      not even go to draw a few francs from my savings-bank without a comrade
      hanging about the door to see that I didn&rsquo;t bolt! And most of them were
      neither more nor less than housebreakers. The intelligent, I mean. They
      robbed the rich; they were only getting back their own, they said. When I
      had had some drink I believed them. There were also the fools and the mad.
      Des exaltes&mdash;quoi! When I was drunk I loved them. When I got more
      drink I was angry with the world. That was the best time. I found refuge
      from misery in rage. But one can&rsquo;t be always drunk&mdash;n&rsquo;est-ce pas,
      monsieur? And when I was sober I was afraid to break away. They would have
      stuck me like a pig.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He folded his arms again and raised his sharp chin with a bitter smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By and by they told me it was time to go to work. The work was to rob a
      bank. Afterwards a bomb would be thrown to wreck the place. My beginner&rsquo;s
      part would be to keep watch in a street at the back and to take care of a
      black bag with the bomb inside till it was wanted. After the meeting at
      which the affair was arranged a trusty comrade did not leave me an inch. I
      had not dared to protest; I was afraid of being done away with quietly in
      that room; only, as we were walking together I wondered whether it would
      not be better for me to throw myself suddenly into the Seine. But while I
      was turning it over in my mind we had crossed the bridge, and afterwards I
      had not the opportunity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the light of the candle end, with his sharp features, fluffy little
      moustache, and oval face, he looked at times delicately and gaily young,
      and then appeared quite old, decrepit, full of sorrow, pressing his folded
      arms to his breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he remained silent I felt bound to ask:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! And how did it end?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deportation to Cayenne,&rdquo; he answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      He seemed to think that somebody had given the plot away. As he was
      keeping watch in the back street, bag in hand, he was set upon by the
      police. &ldquo;These imbeciles,&rdquo; had knocked him down without noticing what he
      had in his hand. He wondered how the bomb failed to explode as he fell.
      But it didn&rsquo;t explode.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tried to tell my story in court,&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;The president was
      amused. There were in the audience some idiots who laughed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I expressed the hope that some of his companions had been caught, too. He
      shuddered slightly before he told me that there were two&mdash;Simon,
      called also Biscuit, the middle-aged fitter who spoke to him in the
      street, and a fellow of the name of Mafile, one of the sympathetic
      strangers who had applauded his sentiments and consoled his humanitarian
      sorrows when he got drunk in the cafe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he went on, with an effort, &ldquo;I had the advantage of their company
      over there on St. Joseph&rsquo;s Island, amongst some eighty or ninety other
      convicts. We were all classed as dangerous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      St. Joseph&rsquo;s Island is the prettiest of the Iles de Salut. It is rocky and
      green, with shallow ravines, bushes, thickets, groves of mango-trees, and
      many feathery palms. Six warders armed with revolvers and carbines are in
      charge of the convicts kept there.
    </p>
    <p>
      An eight-oared galley keeps up the communication in the daytime, across a
      channel a quarter of a mile wide, with the Ile Royale, where there is a
      military post. She makes the first trip at six in the morning. At four in
      the afternoon her service is over, and she is then hauled up into a little
      dock on the Ile Royale and a sentry put over her and a few smaller boats.
      From that time till next morning the island of St. Joseph remains cut off
      from the rest of the world, with the warders patrolling in turn the path
      from the warders&rsquo; house to the convict huts, and a multitude of sharks
      patrolling the waters all round.
    </p>
    <p>
      Under these circumstances the convicts planned a mutiny. Such a thing had
      never been known in the penitentiary&rsquo;s history before. But their plan was
      not without some possibility of success. The warders were to be taken by
      surprise and murdered during the night. Their arms would enable the
      convicts to shoot down the people in the galley as she came alongside in
      the morning. The galley once in their possession, other boats were to be
      captured, and the whole company was to row away up the coast.
    </p>
    <p>
      At dusk the two warders on duty mustered the convicts as usual. Then they
      proceeded to inspect the huts to ascertain that everything was in order.
      In the second they entered they were set upon and absolutely smothered
      under the numbers of their assailants. The twilight faded rapidly. It was
      a new moon; and a heavy black squall gathering over the coast increased
      the profound darkness of the night. The convicts assembled in the open
      space, deliberating upon the next step to be taken, argued amongst
      themselves in low voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You took part in all this?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I knew what was going to be done, of course. But why should I kill
      these warders? I had nothing against them. But I was afraid of the others.
      Whatever happened, I could not escape from them. I sat alone on the stump
      of a tree with my head in my hands, sick at heart at the thought of a
      freedom that could be nothing but a mockery to me. Suddenly I was startled
      to perceive the shape of a man on the path near by. He stood perfectly
      still, then his form became effaced in the night. It must have been the
      chief warder coming to see what had become of his two men. No one noticed
      him. The convicts kept on quarrelling over their plans. The leaders could
      not get themselves obeyed. The fierce whispering of that dark mass of men
      was very horrible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At last they divided into two parties and moved off. When they had passed
      me I rose, weary and hopeless. The path to the warders&rsquo; house was dark and
      silent, but on each side the bushes rustled slightly. Presently I saw a
      faint thread of light before me. The chief warder, followed by his three
      men, was approaching cautiously. But he had failed to close his dark
      lantern properly. The convicts had seen that faint gleam, too. There was
      an awful savage yell, a turmoil on the dark path, shots fired, blows,
      groans: and with the sound of smashed bushes, the shouts of the pursuers
      and the screams of the pursued, the man-hunt, the warder-hunt, passed by
      me into the interior of the island. I was alone. And I assure you,
      monsieur, I was indifferent to everything. After standing still for a
      while, I walked on along the path till I kicked something hard. I stooped
      and picked up a warder&rsquo;s revolver. I felt with my fingers that it was
      loaded in five chambers. In the gusts of wind I heard the convicts calling
      to each other far away, and then a roll of thunder would cover the
      soughing and rustling of the trees. Suddenly, a big light ran across my
      path very low along the ground. And it showed a woman&rsquo;s skirt with the
      edge of an apron.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew that the person who carried it must be the wife of the head
      warder. They had forgotten all about her, it seems. A shot rang out in the
      interior of the island, and she cried out to herself as she ran. She
      passed on. I followed, and presently I saw her again. She was pulling at
      the cord of the big bell which hangs at the end of the landing-pier, with
      one hand, and with the other she was swinging the heavy lantern to and
      fro. This is the agreed signal for the Ile Royale should assistance be
      required at night. The wind carried the sound away from our island and the
      light she swung was hidden on the shore side by the few trees that grow
      near the warders&rsquo; house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came up quite close to her from behind. She went on without stopping,
      without looking aside, as though she had been all alone on the island. A
      brave woman, monsieur. I put the revolver inside the breast of my blue
      blouse and waited. A flash of lightning and a clap of thunder destroyed
      both the sound and the light of the signal for an instant, but she never
      faltered, pulling at the cord and swinging the lantern as regularly as a
      machine. She was a comely woman of thirty&mdash;no more. I thought to
      myself, &lsquo;All that&rsquo;s no good on a night like this.&rsquo; And I made up my mind
      that if a body of my fellow-convicts came down to the pier&mdash;which was
      sure to happen soon&mdash;I would shoot her through the head before I shot
      myself. I knew the &lsquo;comrades&rsquo; well. This idea of mine gave me quite an
      interest in life, monsieur; and at once, instead of remaining stupidly
      exposed on the pier, I retreated a little way and crouched behind a bush.
      I did not intend to let myself be pounced upon unawares and be prevented
      perhaps from rendering a supreme service to at least one human creature
      before I died myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we must believe the signal was seen, for the galley from Ile Royale
      came over in an astonishingly short time. The woman kept right on till the
      light of her lantern flashed upon the officer in command and the bayonets
      of the soldiers in the boat. Then she sat down and began to cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She didn&rsquo;t need me any more. I did not budge. Some soldiers were only in
      their shirt-sleeves, others without boots, just as the call to arms had
      found them. They passed by my bush at the double. The galley had been sent
      away for more; and the woman sat all alone crying at the end of the pier,
      with the lantern standing on the ground near her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then suddenly I saw in the light at the end of the pier the red
      pantaloons of two more men. I was overcome with astonishment. They, too,
      started off at a run. Their tunics flapped unbuttoned and they were
      bare-headed. One of them panted out to the other, &lsquo;Straight on, straight
      on!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where on earth did they spring from, I wondered. Slowly I walked down the
      short pier. I saw the woman&rsquo;s form shaken by sobs and heard her moaning
      more and more distinctly, &lsquo;Oh, my man! my poor man! my poor man!&rsquo; I stole
      on quietly. She could neither hear nor see anything. She had thrown her
      apron over her head and was rocking herself to and fro in her grief. But I
      remarked a small boat fastened to the end of the pier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those two men&mdash;they looked like sous-officiers&mdash;must have come
      in it, after being too late, I suppose, for the galley. It is incredible
      that they should have thus broken the regulations from a sense of duty.
      And it was a stupid thing to do. I could not believe my eyes in the very
      moment I was stepping into that boat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I pulled along the shore slowly. A black cloud hung over the Iles de
      Salut. I heard firing, shouts. Another hunt had begun&mdash;the
      convict-hunt. The oars were too long to pull comfortably. I managed them
      with difficulty, though the boat herself was light. But when I got round
      to the other side of the island the squall broke in rain and wind. I was
      unable to make head against it. I let the boat drift ashore and secured
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew the spot. There was a tumbledown old hovel standing near the
      water. Cowering in there I heard through the noises of the wind and the
      falling downpour some people tearing through the bushes. They came out on
      the strand. Soldiers perhaps. A flash of lightning threw everything near
      me into violent relief. Two convicts!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And directly an amazed voice exclaimed. &lsquo;It&rsquo;s a miracle!&rsquo; It was the
      voice of Simon, otherwise Biscuit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And another voice growled, &lsquo;What&rsquo;s a miracle?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Why, there&rsquo;s a boat lying here!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You must be mad, Simon! But there is, after all. . . . A boat.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They seemed awed into complete silence. The other man was Mafile. He
      spoke again, cautiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;It is fastened up. There must be somebody here.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I spoke to them from within the hovel: &lsquo;I am here.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They came in then, and soon gave me to understand that the boat was
      theirs, not mine. &lsquo;There are two of us,&rsquo; said Mafile, &lsquo;against you alone.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I got out into the open to keep clear of them for fear of getting a
      treacherous blow on the head. I could have shot them both where they
      stood. But I said nothing. I kept down the laughter rising in my throat. I
      made myself very humble and begged to be allowed to go. They consulted in
      low tones about my fate, while with my hand on the revolver in the bosom
      of my blouse I had their lives in my power. I let them live. I meant them
      to pull that boat. I represented to them with abject humility that I
      understood the management of a boat, and that, being three to pull, we
      could get a rest in turns. That decided them at last. It was time. A
      little more and I would have gone into screaming fits at the drollness of
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this point his excitement broke out. He jumped off the bench and
      gesticulated. The great shadows of his arms darting over roof and walls
      made the shed appear too small to contain his agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I deny nothing,&rdquo; he burst out. &ldquo;I was elated, monsieur. I tasted a sort
      of felicity. But I kept very quiet. I took my turns at pulling all through
      the night. We made for the open sea, putting our trust in a passing ship.
      It was a foolhardy action. I persuaded them to it. When the sun rose the
      immensity of water was calm, and the Iles de Salut appeared only like dark
      specks from the top of each swell. I was steering then. Mafile, who was
      pulling bow, let out an oath and said, &lsquo;We must rest.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The time to laugh had come at last. And I took my fill of it, I can tell
      you. I held my sides and rolled in my seat, they had such startled faces.
      &lsquo;What&rsquo;s got into him, the animal?&rsquo; cries Mafile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Simon, who was nearest to me, says over his shoulder to him, &lsquo;Devil
      take me if I don&rsquo;t think he&rsquo;s gone mad!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I produced the revolver. Aha! In a moment they both got the stoniest
      eyes you can imagine. Ha, ha! They were frightened. But they pulled. Oh,
      yes, they pulled all day, sometimes looking wild and sometimes looking
      faint. I lost nothing of it because I had to keep my eyes on them all the
      time, or else&mdash;crack!&mdash;they would have been on top of me in a
      second. I rested my revolver hand on my knee all ready and steered with
      the other. Their faces began to blister. Sky and sea seemed on fire round
      us and the sea steamed in the sun. The boat made a sizzling sound as she
      went through the water. Sometimes Mafile foamed at the mouth and sometimes
      he groaned. But he pulled. He dared not stop. His eyes became blood-shot
      all over, and he had bitten his lower lip to pieces. Simon was as hoarse
      as a crow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Comrade&mdash;&rsquo; he begins.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;There are no comrades here. I am your patron.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Patron, then,&rsquo; he says, &lsquo;in the name of humanity let us rest.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I let them. There was a little rainwater washing about the bottom of the
      boat. I permitted them to snatch some of it in the hollow of their palms.
      But as I gave the command, &lsquo;En route!&rsquo; I caught them exchanging
      significant glances. They thought I would have to go to sleep sometime!
      Aha! But I did not want to go to sleep. I was more awake than ever. It is
      they who went to sleep as they pulled, tumbling off the thwarts head over
      heels suddenly, one after another. I let them lie. All the stars were out.
      It was a quiet world. The sun rose. Another day. Allez! En route!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They pulled badly. Their eyes rolled about and their tongues hung out. In
      the middle of the forenoon Mafile croaks out: &lsquo;Let us make a rush at him,
      Simon. I would just as soon be shot at once as to die of thirst, hunger,
      and fatigue at the oar.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But while he spoke he pulled; and Simon kept on pulling too. It made me
      smile. Ah! They loved their life these two, in this evil world of theirs,
      just as I used to love my life, too, before they spoiled it for me with
      their phrases. I let them go on to the point of exhaustion, and only then
      I pointed at the sails of a ship on the horizon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! You should have seen them revive and buckle to their work! For I
      kept them at it to pull right across that ship&rsquo;s path. They were changed.
      The sort of pity I had felt for them left me. They looked more like
      themselves every minute. They looked at me with the glances I remembered
      so well. They were happy. They smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Well,&rsquo; says Simon, &lsquo;the energy of that youngster has saved our lives. If
      he hadn&rsquo;t made us, we could never have pulled so far out into the track of
      ships. Comrade, I forgive you. I admire you.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Mafile growls from forward: &lsquo;We owe you a famous debt of gratitude,
      comrade. You are cut out for a chief.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Comrade! Monsieur! Ah, what a good word! And they, such men as these two,
      had made it accursed. I looked at them. I remembered their lies, their
      promises, their menaces, and all my days of misery. Why could they not
      have left me alone after I came out of prison? I looked at them and
      thought that while they lived I could never be free. Never. Neither I nor
      others like me with warm hearts and weak heads. For I know I have not a
      strong head, monsieur. A black rage came upon me&mdash;the rage of extreme
      intoxication&mdash;but not against the injustice of society. Oh, no!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I must be free!&rsquo; I cried, furiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Vive la liberte!&rdquo; yells that ruffian Mafile. &lsquo;Mort aux bourgeois who
      send us to Cayenne! They shall soon know that we are free.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The sky, the sea, the whole horizon, seemed to turn red, blood red all
      round the boat. My temples were beating so loud that I wondered they did
      not hear. How is it that they did not? How is it they did not understand?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard Simon ask, &lsquo;Have we not pulled far enough out now?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Yes. Far enough,&rsquo; I said. I was sorry for him; it was the other I hated.
      He hauled in his oar with a loud sigh, and as he was raising his hand to
      wipe his forehead with the air of a man who has done his work, I pulled
      the trigger of my revolver and shot him like this off the knee, right
      through the heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He tumbled down, with his head hanging over the side of the boat. I did
      not give him a second glance. The other cried out piercingly. Only one
      shriek of horror. Then all was still.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He slipped off the thwart on to his knees and raised his clasped hands
      before his face in an attitude of supplication. &lsquo;Mercy,&rsquo; he whispered,
      faintly. &lsquo;Mercy for me!&mdash;comrade.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Ah, comrade,&rsquo; I said, in a low tone. &lsquo;Yes, comrade, of course. Well,
      then, shout Vive l&rsquo;anarchie.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He flung up his arms, his face up to the sky and his mouth wide open in a
      great yell of despair. &lsquo;Vive l&rsquo;anarchie! Vive&mdash;&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He collapsed all in a heap, with a bullet through his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I flung them both overboard. I threw away the revolver, too. Then I sat
      down quietly. I was free at last! At last. I did not even look towards the
      ship; I did not care; indeed, I think I must have gone to sleep, because
      all of a sudden there were shouts and I found the ship almost on top of
      me. They hauled me on board and secured the boat astern. They were all
      blacks, except the captain, who was a mulatto. He alone knew a few words
      of French. I could not find out where they were going nor who they were.
      They gave me something to eat every day; but I did not like the way they
      used to discuss me in their language. Perhaps they were deliberating about
      throwing me overboard in order to keep possession of the boat. How do I
      know? As we were passing this island I asked whether it was inhabited. I
      understood from the mulatto that there was a house on it. A farm, I
      fancied, they meant. So I asked them to put me ashore on the beach and
      keep the boat for their trouble. This, I imagine, was just what they
      wanted. The rest you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After pronouncing these words he lost suddenly all control over himself.
      He paced to and fro rapidly, till at last he broke into a run; his arms
      went like a windmill and his ejaculations became very much like raving.
      The burden of them was that he &ldquo;denied nothing, nothing!&rdquo; I could only let
      him go on, and sat out of his way, repeating, &ldquo;Calmez vous, calmez vous,&rdquo;
       at intervals, till his agitation exhausted itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      I must confess, too, that I remained there long after he had crawled under
      his mosquito-net. He had entreated me not to leave him; so, as one sits up
      with a nervous child, I sat up with him&mdash;in the name of humanity&mdash;till
      he fell asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the whole, my idea is that he was much more of an anarchist than he
      confessed to me or to himself; and that, the special features of his case
      apart, he was very much like many other anarchists. Warm heart and weak
      head&mdash;that is the word of the riddle; and it is a fact that the
      bitterest contradictions and the deadliest conflicts of the world are
      carried on in every individual breast capable of feeling and passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      From personal inquiry I can vouch that the story of the convict mutiny was
      in every particular as stated by him.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I got back to Horta from Cayenne and saw the &ldquo;Anarchist&rdquo; again, he
      did not look well. He was more worn, still more frail, and very livid
      indeed under the grimy smudges of his calling. Evidently the meat of the
      company&rsquo;s main herd (in its unconcentrated form) did not agree with him at
      all.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was on the pontoon in Horta that we met; and I tried to induce him to
      leave the launch moored where she was and follow me to Europe there and
      then. It would have been delightful to think of the excellent manager&rsquo;s
      surprise and disgust at the poor fellow&rsquo;s escape. But he refused with
      unconquerable obstinacy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely you don&rsquo;t mean to live always here!&rdquo; I cried. He shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall die here,&rdquo; he said. Then added moodily, &ldquo;Away from them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes I think of him lying open-eyed on his horseman&rsquo;s gear in the low
      shed full of tools and scraps of iron&mdash;the anarchist slave of the
      Maranon estate, waiting with resignation for that sleep which &ldquo;fled&rdquo; from
      him, as he used to say, in such an unaccountable manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE DUEL
    </h2>
    <h3>
      A MILITARY TALE
    </h3>
    <p>
      I
    </p>
    <p>
      Napoleon I., whose career had the quality of a duel against the whole of
      Europe, disliked duelling between the officers of his army. The great
      military emperor was not a swashbuckler, and had little respect for
      tradition.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nevertheless, a story of duelling, which became a legend in the army, runs
      through the epic of imperial wars. To the surprise and admiration of their
      fellows, two officers, like insane artists trying to gild refined gold or
      paint the lily, pursued a private contest through the years of universal
      carnage. They were officers of cavalry, and their connection with the
      high-spirited but fanciful animal which carries men into battle seems
      particularly appropriate. It would be difficult to imagine for heroes of
      this legend two officers of infantry of the line, for example, whose
      fantasy is tamed by much walking exercise, and whose valour necessarily
      must be of a more plodding kind. As to gunners or engineers, whose heads
      are kept cool on a diet of mathematics, it is simply unthinkable.
    </p>
    <p>
      The names of the two officers were Feraud and D&rsquo;Hubert, and they were both
      lieutenants in a regiment of hussars, but not in the same regiment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Feraud was doing regimental work, but Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert had the good fortune
      to be attached to the person of the general commanding the division, as
      officier d&rsquo;ordonnance. It was in Strasbourg, and in this agreeable and
      important garrison they were enjoying greatly a short interval of peace.
      They were enjoying it, though both intensely warlike, because it was a
      sword-sharpening, firelock-cleaning peace, dear to a military heart and
      undamaging to military prestige, inasmuch that no one believed in its
      sincerity or duration.
    </p>
    <p>
      Under those historical circumstances, so favourable to the proper
      appreciation of military leisure, Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, one fine afternoon,
      made his way along a quiet street of a cheerful suburb towards Lieut.
      Feraud&rsquo;s quarters, which were in a private house with a garden at the
      back, belonging to an old maiden lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      His knock at the door was answered instantly by a young maid in Alsatian
      costume. Her fresh complexion and her long eyelashes, lowered demurely at
      the sight of the tall officer, caused Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, who was accessible
      to esthetic impressions, to relax the cold, severe gravity of his face. At
      the same time he observed that the girl had over her arm a pair of
      hussar&rsquo;s breeches, blue with a red stripe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lieut. Feraud in?&rdquo; he inquired, benevolently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, sir! He went out at six this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The pretty maid tried to close the door. Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, opposing this
      move with gentle firmness, stepped into the ante-room, jingling his spurs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, my dear! You don&rsquo;t mean to say he has not been home since six
      o&rsquo;clock this morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Saying these words, Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert opened without ceremony the door of a
      room so comfortably and neatly ordered that only from internal evidence in
      the shape of boots, uniforms, and military accoutrements did he acquire
      the conviction that it was Lieut. Feraud&rsquo;s room. And he saw also that
      Lieut. Feraud was not at home. The truthful maid had followed him, and
      raised her candid eyes to his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;H&rsquo;m!&rdquo; said Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, greatly disappointed, for he had already
      visited all the haunts where a lieutenant of hussars could be found of a
      fine afternoon. &ldquo;So he&rsquo;s out? And do you happen to know, my dear, why he
      went out at six this morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she answered, readily. &ldquo;He came home late last night, and snored. I
      heard him when I got up at five. Then he dressed himself in his oldest
      uniform and went out. Service, I suppose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Service? Not a bit of it!&rdquo; cried Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert. &ldquo;Learn, my angel, that
      he went out thus early to fight a duel with a civilian.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She heard this news without a quiver of her dark eyelashes. It was very
      obvious that the actions of Lieut. Feraud were generally above criticism.
      She only looked up for a moment in mute surprise, and Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert
      concluded from this absence of emotion that she must have seen Lieut.
      Feraud since the morning. He looked around the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come!&rdquo; he insisted, with confidential familiarity. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s perhaps
      somewhere in the house now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the worse for him!&rdquo; continued Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, in a tone of
      anxious conviction. &ldquo;But he has been home this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This time the pretty maid nodded slightly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has!&rdquo; cried Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert. &ldquo;And went out again? What for? Couldn&rsquo;t
      he keep quietly indoors! What a lunatic! My dear girl&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s natural kindness of disposition and strong sense of
      comradeship helped his powers of observation. He changed his tone to a
      most insinuating softness, and, gazing at the hussar&rsquo;s breeches hanging
      over the arm of the girl, he appealed to the interest she took in Lieut.
      Feraud&rsquo;s comfort and happiness. He was pressing and persuasive. He used
      his eyes, which were kind and fine, with excellent effect. His anxiety to
      get hold at once of Lieut. Feraud, for Lieut. Feraud&rsquo;s own good, seemed so
      genuine that at last it overcame the girl&rsquo;s unwillingness to speak.
      Unluckily she had not much to tell. Lieut. Feraud had returned home
      shortly before ten, had walked straight into his room, and had thrown
      himself on his bed to resume his slumbers. She had heard him snore rather
      louder than before far into the afternoon. Then he got up, put on his best
      uniform, and went out. That was all she knew.
    </p>
    <p>
      She raised her eyes, and Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert stared into them incredulously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s incredible. Gone parading the town in his best uniform! My dear
      child, don&rsquo;t you know he ran that civilian through this morning? Clean
      through, as you spit a hare.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The pretty maid heard the gruesome intelligence without any signs of
      distress. But she pressed her lips together thoughtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He isn&rsquo;t parading the town,&rdquo; she remarked in a low tone. &ldquo;Far from it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The civilian&rsquo;s family is making an awful row,&rdquo; continued Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert,
      pursuing his train of thought. &ldquo;And the general is very angry. It&rsquo;s one of
      the best families in the town. Feraud ought to have kept close at least&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What will the general do to him?&rdquo; inquired the girl, anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He won&rsquo;t have his head cut off, to be sure,&rdquo; grumbled Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert.
      &ldquo;His conduct is positively indecent. He&rsquo;s making no end of trouble for
      himself by this sort of bravado.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he isn&rsquo;t parading the town,&rdquo; the maid insisted in a shy murmur.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes! Now I think of it, I haven&rsquo;t seen him anywhere about. What on
      earth has he done with himself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s gone to pay a call,&rdquo; suggested the maid, after a moment of silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert started.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A call! Do you mean a call on a lady? The cheek of the man! And how do
      you know this, my dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without concealing her woman&rsquo;s scorn for the denseness of the masculine
      mind, the pretty maid reminded him that Lieut. Feraud had arrayed himself
      in his best uniform before going out. He had also put on his newest
      dolman, she added, in a tone as if this conversation were getting on her
      nerves, and turned away brusquely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, without questioning the accuracy of the deduction, did
      not see that it advanced him much on his official quest. For his quest
      after Lieut. Feraud had an official character. He did not know any of the
      women this fellow, who had run a man through in the morning, was likely to
      visit in the afternoon. The two young men knew each other but slightly. He
      bit his gloved finger in perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Call!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Call on the devil!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The girl, with her back to him, and folding the hussars breeches on a
      chair, protested with a vexed little laugh:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear, no! On Madame de Lionne.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert whistled softly. Madame de Lionne was the wife of a high
      official who had a well-known salon and some pretensions to sensibility
      and elegance. The husband was a civilian, and old; but the society of the
      salon was young and military. Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert had whistled, not because
      the idea of pursuing Lieut. Feraud into that very salon was disagreeable
      to him, but because, having arrived in Strasbourg only lately, he had not
      had the time as yet to get an introduction to Madame de Lionne. And what
      was that swashbuckler Feraud doing there, he wondered. He did not seem the
      sort of man who&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you certain of what you say?&rdquo; asked Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert.
    </p>
    <p>
      The girl was perfectly certain. Without turning round to look at him, she
      explained that the coachman of their next door neighbours knew the
      maitre-d&rsquo;hotel of Madame de Lionne. In this way she had her information.
      And she was perfectly certain. In giving this assurance she sighed. Lieut.
      Feraud called there nearly every afternoon, she added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, bah!&rdquo; exclaimed D&rsquo;Hubert, ironically. His opinion of Madame de Lionne
      went down several degrees. Lieut. Feraud did not seem to him specially
      worthy of attention on the part of a woman with a reputation for
      sensibility and elegance. But there was no saying. At bottom they were all
      alike&mdash;very practical rather than idealistic. Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert,
      however, did not allow his mind to dwell on these considerations.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By thunder!&rdquo; he reflected aloud. &ldquo;The general goes there sometimes. If he
      happens to find the fellow making eyes at the lady there will be the devil
      to pay! Our general is not a very accommodating person, I can tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go quickly, then! Don&rsquo;t stand here now I&rsquo;ve told you where he is!&rdquo; cried
      the girl, colouring to the eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks, my dear! I don&rsquo;t know what I would have done without you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After manifesting his gratitude in an aggressive way, which at first was
      repulsed violently, and then submitted to with a sudden and still more
      repellent indifference, Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert took his departure.
    </p>
    <p>
      He clanked and jingled along the streets with a martial swagger. To run a
      comrade to earth in a drawing-room where he was not known did not trouble
      him in the least. A uniform is a passport. His position as officier
      d&rsquo;ordonnance of the general added to his assurance. Moreover, now that he
      knew where to find Lieut. Feraud, he had no option. It was a service
      matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Lionne&rsquo;s house had an excellent appearance. A man in livery,
      opening the door of a large drawing-room with a waxed floor, shouted his
      name and stood aside to let him pass. It was a reception day. The ladies
      wore big hats surcharged with a profusion of feathers; their bodies
      sheathed in clinging white gowns, from the armpits to the tips of the low
      satin shoes, looked sylph-like and cool in a great display of bare necks
      and arms. The men who talked with them, on the contrary, were arrayed
      heavily in multi-coloured garments with collars up to their ears and thick
      sashes round their waists. Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert made his unabashed way across
      the room and, bowing low before a sylph-like form reclining on a couch,
      offered his apologies for this intrusion, which nothing could excuse but
      the extreme urgency of the service order he had to communicate to his
      comrade Feraud. He proposed to himself to return presently in a more
      regular manner and beg forgiveness for interrupting the interesting
      conversation . . .
    </p>
    <p>
      A bare arm was extended towards him with gracious nonchalance even before
      he had finished speaking. He pressed the hand respectfully to his lips,
      and made the mental remark that it was bony. Madame de Lionne was a
      blonde, with too fine a skin and a long face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;C&rsquo;est ca!&rdquo; she said, with an ethereal smile, disclosing a set of large
      teeth. &ldquo;Come this evening to plead for your forgiveness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not fail, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, Lieut. Feraud, splendid in his new dolman and the extremely
      polished boots of his calling, sat on a chair within a foot of the couch,
      one hand resting on his thigh, the other twirling his moustache to a
      point. At a significant glance from D&rsquo;Hubert he rose without alacrity, and
      followed him into the recess of a window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it you want with me?&rdquo; he asked, with astonishing indifference.
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert could not imagine that in the innocence of his heart and
      simplicity of his conscience Lieut. Feraud took a view of his duel in
      which neither remorse nor yet a rational apprehension of consequences had
      any place. Though he had no clear recollection how the quarrel had
      originated (it was begun in an establishment where beer and wine are drunk
      late at night), he had not the slightest doubt of being himself the
      outraged party. He had had two experienced friends for his seconds.
      Everything had been done according to the rules governing that sort of
      adventures. And a duel is obviously fought for the purpose of someone
      being at least hurt, if not killed outright. The civilian got hurt. That
      also was in order. Lieut. Feraud was perfectly tranquil; but Lieut.
      D&rsquo;Hubert took it for affectation, and spoke with a certain vivacity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am directed by the general to give you the order to go at once to your
      quarters, and remain there under close arrest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was now the turn of Lieut. Feraud to be astonished. &ldquo;What the devil are
      you telling me there?&rdquo; he murmured, faintly, and fell into such profound
      wonder that he could only follow mechanically the motions of Lieut.
      D&rsquo;Hubert. The two officers, one tall, with an interesting face and a
      moustache the colour of ripe corn, the other, short and sturdy, with a
      hooked nose and a thick crop of black curly hair, approached the mistress
      of the house to take their leave. Madame de Lionne, a woman of eclectic
      taste, smiled upon these armed young men with impartial sensibility and an
      equal share of interest. Madame de Lionne took her delight in the infinite
      variety of the human species. All the other eyes in the drawing-room
      followed the departing officers; and when they had gone out one or two
      men, who had already heard of the duel, imparted the information to the
      sylph-like ladies, who received it with faint shrieks of humane concern.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, the two hussars walked side by side, Lieut. Feraud trying to
      master the hidden reason of things which in this instance eluded the grasp
      of his intellect, Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert feeling annoyed at the part he had to
      play, because the general&rsquo;s instructions were that he should see
      personally that Lieut. Feraud carried out his orders to the letter, and at
      once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The chief seems to know this animal,&rdquo; he thought, eyeing his companion,
      whose round face, the round eyes, and even the twisted-up jet black little
      moustache seemed animated by a mental exasperation against the
      incomprehensible. And aloud he observed rather reproachfully, &ldquo;The general
      is in a devilish fury with you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. Feraud stopped short on the edge of the pavement, and cried in
      accents of unmistakable sincerity, &ldquo;What on earth for?&rdquo; The innocence of
      the fiery Gascon soul was depicted in the manner in which he seized his
      head in both hands as if to prevent it bursting with perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the duel,&rdquo; said Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, curtly. He was annoyed greatly by
      this sort of perverse fooling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The duel! The . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. Feraud passed from one paroxysm of astonishment into another. He
      dropped his hands and walked on slowly, trying to reconcile this
      information with the state of his own feelings. It was impossible. He
      burst out indignantly, &ldquo;Was I to let that sauerkraut-eating civilian wipe
      his boots on the uniform of the 7th Hussars?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert could not remain altogether unmoved by that simple
      sentiment. This little fellow was a lunatic, he thought to himself, but
      there was something in what he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, I don&rsquo;t know how far you were justified,&rdquo; he began,
      soothingly. &ldquo;And the general himself may not be exactly informed. Those
      people have been deafening him with their lamentations.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! the general is not exactly informed,&rdquo; mumbled Lieut. Feraud, walking
      faster and faster as his choler at the injustice of his fate began to
      rise. &ldquo;He is not exactly . . . And he orders me under close arrest, with
      God knows what afterwards!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t excite yourself like this,&rdquo; remonstrated the other. &ldquo;Your
      adversary&rsquo;s people are very influential, you know, and it looks bad enough
      on the face of it. The general had to take notice of their complaint at
      once. I don&rsquo;t think he means to be over-severe with you. It&rsquo;s the best
      thing for you to be kept out of sight for a while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am very much obliged to the general,&rdquo; muttered Lieut. Feraud through
      his teeth. &ldquo;And perhaps you would say I ought to be grateful to you, too,
      for the trouble you have taken to hunt me up in the drawing-room of a lady
      who&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Frankly,&rdquo; interrupted Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, with an innocent laugh, &ldquo;I think
      you ought to be. I had no end of trouble to find out where you were. It
      wasn&rsquo;t exactly the place for you to disport yourself in under the
      circumstances. If the general had caught you there making eyes at the
      goddess of the temple . . . oh, my word! . . . He hates to be bothered
      with complaints against his officers, you know. And it looked uncommonly
      like sheer bravado.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two officers had arrived now at the street door of Lieut. Feraud&rsquo;s
      lodgings. The latter turned towards his companion. &ldquo;Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert,&rdquo; he
      said, &ldquo;I have something to say to you, which can&rsquo;t be said very well in
      the street. You can&rsquo;t refuse to come up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The pretty maid had opened the door. Lieut. Feraud brushed past her
      brusquely, and she raised her scared and questioning eyes to Lieut.
      D&rsquo;Hubert, who could do nothing but shrug his shoulders slightly as he
      followed with marked reluctance.
    </p>
    <p>
      In his room Lieut. Feraud unhooked the clasp, flung his new dolman on the
      bed, and, folding his arms across his chest, turned to the other hussar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you imagine I am a man to submit tamely to injustice?&rdquo; he inquired, in
      a boisterous voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, do be reasonable!&rdquo; remonstrated Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am reasonable! I am perfectly reasonable!&rdquo; retorted the other with
      ominous restraint. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t call the general to account for his behaviour,
      but you are going to answer me for yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t listen to this nonsense,&rdquo; murmured Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, making a
      slightly contemptuous grimace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You call this nonsense? It seems to me a perfectly plain statement.
      Unless you don&rsquo;t understand French.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What on earth do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean,&rdquo; screamed suddenly Lieut. Feraud, &ldquo;to cut off your ears to teach
      you to disturb me with the general&rsquo;s orders when I am talking to a lady!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A profound silence followed this mad declaration; and through the open
      window Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert heard the little birds singing sanely in the
      garden. He said, preserving his calm, &ldquo;Why! If you take that tone, of
      course I shall hold myself at your disposition whenever you are at liberty
      to attend to this affair; but I don&rsquo;t think you will cut my ears off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to attend to it at once,&rdquo; declared Lieut. Feraud, with extreme
      truculence. &ldquo;If you are thinking of displaying your airs and graces
      to-night in Madame de Lionne&rsquo;s salon you are very much mistaken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really!&rdquo; said Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, who was beginning to feel irritated, &ldquo;you
      are an impracticable sort of fellow. The general&rsquo;s orders to me were to
      put you under arrest, not to carve you into small pieces. Good-morning!&rdquo;
       And turning his back on the little Gascon, who, always sober in his
      potations, was as though born intoxicated with the sunshine of his
      vine-ripening country, the Northman, who could drink hard on occasion, but
      was born sober under the watery skies of Picardy, made for the door.
      Hearing, however, the unmistakable sound behind his back of a sword drawn
      from the scabbard, he had no option but to stop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Devil take this mad Southerner!&rdquo; he thought, spinning round and surveying
      with composure the warlike posture of Lieut. Feraud, with a bare sword in
      his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At once!&mdash;at once!&rdquo; stuttered Feraud, beside himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had my answer,&rdquo; said the other, keeping his temper very well.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first he had been only vexed, and somewhat amused; but now his face got
      clouded. He was asking himself seriously how he could manage to get away.
      It was impossible to run from a man with a sword, and as to fighting him,
      it seemed completely out of the question. He waited awhile, then said
      exactly what was in his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drop this! I won&rsquo;t fight with you. I won&rsquo;t be made ridiculous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you won&rsquo;t?&rdquo; hissed the Gascon. &ldquo;I suppose you prefer to be made
      infamous. Do you hear what I say? . . . Infamous! Infamous! Infamous!&rdquo; he
      shrieked, rising and falling on his toes and getting very red in the face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, on the contrary, became very pale at the sound of the
      unsavoury word for a moment, then flushed pink to the roots of his fair
      hair. &ldquo;But you can&rsquo;t go out to fight; you are under arrest, you lunatic!&rdquo;
       he objected, with angry scorn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s the garden: it&rsquo;s big enough to lay out your long carcass in,&rdquo;
       spluttered the other with such ardour that somehow the anger of the cooler
      man subsided.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is perfectly absurd,&rdquo; he said, glad enough to think he had found a
      way out of it for the moment. &ldquo;We shall never get any of our comrades to
      serve as seconds. It&rsquo;s preposterous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seconds! Damn the seconds! We don&rsquo;t want any seconds. Don&rsquo;t you worry
      about any seconds. I shall send word to your friends to come and bury you
      when I am done. And if you want any witnesses, I&rsquo;ll send word to the old
      girl to put her head out of a window at the back. Stay! There&rsquo;s the
      gardener. He&rsquo;ll do. He&rsquo;s as deaf as a post, but he has two eyes in his
      head. Come along! I will teach you, my staff officer, that the carrying
      about of a general&rsquo;s orders is not always child&rsquo;s play.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While thus discoursing he had unbuckled his empty scabbard. He sent it
      flying under the bed, and, lowering the point of the sword, brushed past
      the perplexed Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, exclaiming, &ldquo;Follow me!&rdquo; Directly he had
      flung open the door a faint shriek was heard and the pretty maid, who had
      been listening at the keyhole, staggered away, putting the backs of her
      hands over her eyes. Feraud did not seem to see her, but she ran after him
      and seized his left arm. He shook her off, and then she rushed towards
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert and clawed at the sleeve of his uniform.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wretched man!&rdquo; she sobbed. &ldquo;Is this what you wanted to find him for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me go,&rdquo; entreated Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, trying to disengage himself
      gently. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s like being in a madhouse,&rdquo; he protested, with exasperation.
      &ldquo;Do let me go! I won&rsquo;t do him any harm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A fiendish laugh from Lieut. Feraud commented that assurance. &ldquo;Come
      along!&rdquo; he shouted, with a stamp of his foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert did follow. He could do nothing else. Yet in
      vindication of his sanity it must be recorded that as he passed through
      the ante-room the notion of opening the street door and bolting out
      presented itself to this brave youth, only of course to be instantly
      dismissed, for he felt sure that the other would pursue him without shame
      or compunction. And the prospect of an officer of hussars being chased
      along the street by another officer of hussars with a naked sword could
      not be for a moment entertained. Therefore he followed into the garden.
      Behind them the girl tottered out, too. With ashy lips and wild, scared
      eyes, she surrendered herself to a dreadful curiosity. She had also the
      notion of rushing if need be between Lieut. Feraud and death.
    </p>
    <p>
      The deaf gardener, utterly unconscious of approaching footsteps, went on
      watering his flowers till Lieut. Feraud thumped him on the back. Beholding
      suddenly an enraged man flourishing a big sabre, the old chap trembling in
      all his limbs dropped the watering-pot. At once Lieut. Feraud kicked it
      away with great animosity, and, seizing the gardener by the throat, backed
      him against a tree. He held him there, shouting in his ear, &ldquo;Stay here,
      and look on! You understand? You&rsquo;ve got to look on! Don&rsquo;t dare budge from
      the spot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert came slowly down the walk, unclasping his dolman with
      unconcealed disgust. Even then, with his hand already on the hilt of his
      sword, he hesitated to draw till a roar, &ldquo;En garde, fichtre! What do you
      think you came here for?&rdquo; and the rush of his adversary forced him to put
      himself as quickly as possible in a posture of defence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clash of arms filled that prim garden, which hitherto had known no
      more warlike sound than the click of clipping shears; and presently the
      upper part of an old lady&rsquo;s body was projected out of a window upstairs.
      She tossed her arms above her white cap, scolding in a cracked voice. The
      gardener remained glued to the tree, his toothless mouth open in idiotic
      astonishment, and a little farther up the path the pretty girl, as if
      spellbound to a small grass plot, ran a few steps this way and that,
      wringing her hands and muttering crazily. She did not rush between the
      combatants: the onslaughts of Lieut. Feraud were so fierce that her heart
      failed her. Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, his faculties concentrated upon defence,
      needed all his skill and science of the sword to stop the rushes of his
      adversary. Twice already he had to break ground. It bothered him to feel
      his foothold made insecure by the round, dry gravel of the path rolling
      under the hard soles of his boots. This was most unsuitable ground, he
      thought, keeping a watchful, narrowed gaze, shaded by long eyelashes, upon
      the fiery stare of his thick-set adversary. This absurd affair would ruin
      his reputation of a sensible, well-behaved, promising young officer. It
      would damage, at any rate, his immediate prospects, and lose him the
      good-will of his general. These worldly preoccupations were no doubt
      misplaced in view of the solemnity of the moment. A duel, whether regarded
      as a ceremony in the cult of honour, or even when reduced in its moral
      essence to a form of manly sport, demands a perfect singleness of
      intention, a homicidal austerity of mood. On the other hand, this vivid
      concern for his future had not a bad effect inasmuch as it began to rouse
      the anger of Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert. Some seventy seconds had elapsed since they
      had crossed blades, and Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert had to break ground again in order
      to avoid impaling his reckless adversary like a beetle for a cabinet of
      specimens. The result was that misapprehending the motive, Lieut. Feraud
      with a triumphant sort of snarl pressed his attack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This enraged animal will have me against the wall directly,&rdquo; thought
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert. He imagined himself much closer to the house than he was,
      and he dared not turn his head; it seemed to him that he was keeping his
      adversary off with his eyes rather more than with his point. Lieut. Feraud
      crouched and bounded with a fierce tigerish agility fit to trouble the
      stoutest heart. But what was more appalling than the fury of a wild beast,
      accomplishing in all innocence of heart a natural function, was the fixity
      of savage purpose man alone is capable of displaying. Lieut. D &lsquo;Hubert in
      the midst of his worldly preoccupations perceived it at last. It was an
      absurd and damaging affair to be drawn into, but whatever silly intention
      the fellow had started with, it was clear enough that by this time he
      meant to kill&mdash;nothing less. He meant it with an intensity of will
      utterly beyond the inferior faculties of a tiger.
    </p>
    <p>
      As is the case with constitutionally brave men, the full view of the
      danger interested Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert. And directly he got properly
      interested, the length of his arm and the coolness of his head told in his
      favour. It was the turn of Lieut. Feraud to recoil, with a bloodcurdling
      grunt of baffled rage. He made a swift feint, and then rushed straight
      forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you would, would you?&rdquo; Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert exclaimed, mentally. The
      combat had lasted nearly two minutes, time enough for any man to get
      embittered, apart from the merits of the quarrel. And all at once it was
      over. Trying to close breast to breast under his adversary&rsquo;s guard Lieut.
      Feraud received a slash on his shortened arm. He did not feel it in the
      least, but it checked his rush, and his feet slipping on the gravel he
      fell backwards with great violence. The shock jarred his boiling brain
      into the perfect quietude of insensibility. Simultaneously with his fall
      the pretty servant-girl shrieked; but the old maiden lady at the window
      ceased her scolding, and began to cross herself piously.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beholding his adversary stretched out perfectly still, his face to the
      sky, Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert thought he had killed him outright. The impression of
      having slashed hard enough to cut his man clean in two abode with him for
      a while in an exaggerated memory of the right good-will he had put into
      the blow. He dropped on his knees hastily by the side of the prostrate
      body. Discovering that not even the arm was severed, a slight sense of
      disappointment mingled with the feeling of relief. The fellow deserved the
      worst. But truly he did not want the death of that sinner. The affair was
      ugly enough as it stood, and Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert addressed himself at once to
      the task of stopping the bleeding. In this task it was his fate to be
      ridiculously impeded by the pretty maid. Rending the air with screams of
      horror, she attacked him from behind and, twining her fingers in his hair,
      tugged back at his head. Why she should choose to hinder him at this
      precise moment he could not in the least understand. He did not try. It
      was all like a very wicked and harassing dream. Twice to save himself from
      being pulled over he had to rise and fling her off. He did this stoically,
      without a word, kneeling down again at once to go on with his work. But
      the third time, his work being done, he seized her and held her arms
      pinned to her body. Her cap was half off, her face was red, her eyes
      blazed with crazy boldness. He looked mildly into them while she called
      him a wretch, a traitor, and a murderer many times in succession. This did
      not annoy him so much as the conviction that she had managed to scratch
      his face abundantly. Ridicule would be added to the scandal of the story.
      He imagined the adorned tale making its way through the garrison of the
      town, through the whole army on the frontier, with every possible
      distortion of motive and sentiment and circumstance, spreading a doubt
      upon the sanity of his conduct and the distinction of his taste even to
      the very ears of his honourable family. It was all very well for that
      fellow Feraud, who had no connections, no family to speak of, and no
      quality but courage, which, anyhow, was a matter of course, and possessed
      by every single trooper in the whole mass of French cavalry. Still holding
      down the arms of the girl in a strong grip, Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert glanced over
      his shoulder. Lieut. Feraud had opened his eyes. He did not move. Like a
      man just waking from a deep sleep he stared without any expression at the
      evening sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s urgent shouts to the old gardener produced no effect&mdash;not
      so much as to make him shut his toothless mouth. Then he remembered that
      the man was stone deaf. All that time the girl struggled, not with
      maidenly coyness, but like a pretty, dumb fury, kicking his shins now and
      then. He continued to hold her as if in a vice, his instinct telling him
      that were he to let her go she would fly at his eyes. But he was greatly
      humiliated by his position. At last she gave up. She was more exhausted
      than appeased, he feared. Nevertheless, he attempted to get out of this
      wicked dream by way of negotiation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me,&rdquo; he said, as calmly as he could. &ldquo;Will you promise to run
      for a surgeon if I let you go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With real affliction he heard her declare that she would do nothing of the
      kind. On the contrary, her sobbed out intention was to remain in the
      garden, and fight tooth and nail for the protection of the vanquished man.
      This was shocking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear child!&rdquo; he cried in despair, &ldquo;is it possible that you think me
      capable of murdering a wounded adversary? Is it. . . . Be quiet, you
      little wild cat, you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They struggled. A thick, drowsy voice said behind him, &ldquo;What are you after
      with that girl?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. Feraud had raised himself on his good arm. He was looking sleepily
      at his other arm, at the mess of blood on his uniform, at a small red pool
      on the ground, at his sabre lying a foot away on the path. Then he laid
      himself down gently again to think it all out, as far as a thundering
      headache would permit of mental operations.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert released the girl who crouched at once by the side of the
      other lieutenant. The shades of night were falling on the little trim
      garden with this touching group, whence proceeded low murmurs of sorrow
      and compassion, with other feeble sounds of a different character, as if
      an imperfectly awake invalid were trying to swear. Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert went
      away.
    </p>
    <p>
      He passed through the silent house, and congratulated himself upon the
      dusk concealing his gory hands and scratched face from the passers-by. But
      this story could by no means be concealed. He dreaded the discredit and
      ridicule above everything, and was painfully aware of sneaking through the
      back streets in the manner of a murderer. Presently the sounds of a flute
      coming out of the open window of a lighted upstairs room in a modest house
      interrupted his dismal reflections. It was being played with a persevering
      virtuosity, and through the fioritures of the tune one could hear the
      regular thumping of the foot beating time on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert shouted a name, which was that of an army surgeon whom he
      knew fairly well. The sounds of the flute ceased, and the musician
      appeared at the window, his instrument still in his hand, peering into the
      street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who calls? You, D&rsquo;Hubert? What brings you this way?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not like to be disturbed at the hour when he was playing the flute.
      He was a man whose hair had turned grey already in the thankless task of
      tying up wounds on battlefields where others reaped advancement and glory.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want you to go at once and see Feraud. You know Lieut. Feraud? He lives
      down the second street. It&rsquo;s but a step from here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wounded.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you sure?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure!&rdquo; cried D&rsquo;Hubert. &ldquo;I come from there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s amusing,&rdquo; said the elderly surgeon. Amusing was his favourite
      word; but the expression of his face when he pronounced it never
      corresponded. He was a stolid man. &ldquo;Come in,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll get ready in
      a moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks! I will. I want to wash my hands in your room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert found the surgeon occupied in unscrewing his flute, and
      packing the pieces methodically in a case. He turned his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Water there&mdash;in the corner. Your hands do want washing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve stopped the bleeding,&rdquo; said Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert. &ldquo;But you had better
      make haste. It&rsquo;s rather more than ten minutes ago, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The surgeon did not hurry his movements.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter? Dressing came off? That&rsquo;s amusing. I&rsquo;ve been at work
      in the hospital all day but I&rsquo;ve been told this morning by somebody that
      he had come off without a scratch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not the same duel probably,&rdquo; growled moodily Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, wiping his
      hands on a coarse towel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not the same. . . . What? Another. It would take the very devil to make
      me go out twice in one day.&rdquo; The surgeon looked narrowly at Lieut.
      D&rsquo;Hubert. &ldquo;How did you come by that scratched face? Both sides, too&mdash;and
      symmetrical. It&rsquo;s amusing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very!&rdquo; snarled Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert. &ldquo;And you will find his slashed arm
      amusing, too. It will keep both of you amused for quite a long time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor was mystified and impressed by the brusque bitterness of Lieut.
      D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s tone. They left the house together, and in the street he was
      still more mystified by his conduct.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you coming with me?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert. &ldquo;You can find the house by yourself. The front
      door will be standing open very likely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right. Where&rsquo;s his room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ground floor. But you had better go right through and look in the garden
      first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This astonishing piece of information made the surgeon go off without
      further parley. Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert regained his quarters nursing a hot and
      uneasy indignation. He dreaded the chaff of his comrades almost as much as
      the anger of his superiors. The truth was confoundedly grotesque and
      embarrassing, even putting aside the irregularity of the combat itself,
      which made it come abominably near a criminal offence. Like all men
      without much imagination, a faculty which helps the process of reflective
      thought, Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert became frightfully harassed by the obvious
      aspects of his predicament. He was certainly glad that he had not killed
      Lieut. Feraud outside all rules, and without the regular witnesses proper
      to such a transaction. Uncommonly glad. At the same time he felt as though
      he would have liked to wring his neck for him without ceremony.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was still under the sway of these contradictory sentiments when the
      surgeon amateur of the flute came to see him. More than three days had
      elapsed. Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert was no longer officier d&rsquo;ordonnance to the
      general commanding the division. He had been sent back to his regiment.
      And he was resuming his connection with the soldiers&rsquo; military family by
      being shut up in close confinement, not at his own quarters in town, but
      in a room in the barracks. Owing to the gravity of the incident, he was
      forbidden to see any one. He did not know what had happened, what was
      being said, or what was being thought. The arrival of the surgeon was a
      most unexpected thing to the worried captive. The amateur of the flute
      began by explaining that he was there only by a special favour of the
      colonel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I represented to him that it would be only fair to let you have some
      authentic news of your adversary,&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll be glad to hear
      he&rsquo;s getting better fast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s face exhibited no conventional signs of gladness. He
      continued to walk the floor of the dusty bare room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take this chair, doctor,&rdquo; he mumbled.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor sat down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This affair is variously appreciated&mdash;in town and in the army. In
      fact, the diversity of opinions is amusing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it!&rdquo; mumbled Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, tramping steadily from wall to wall. But
      within himself he marvelled that there could be two opinions on the
      matter. The surgeon continued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, as the real facts are not known&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should have thought,&rdquo; interrupted D&rsquo;Hubert, &ldquo;that the fellow would have
      put you in possession of facts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He said something,&rdquo; admitted the other, &ldquo;the first time I saw him. And,
      by the by, I did find him in the garden. The thump on the back of his head
      had made him a little incoherent then. Afterwards he was rather reticent
      than otherwise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t think he would have the grace to be ashamed!&rdquo; mumbled D&rsquo;Hubert,
      resuming his pacing while the doctor murmured, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s very amusing.
      Ashamed! Shame was not exactly his frame of mind. However, you may look at
      the matter otherwise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you talking about? What matter?&rdquo; asked D&rsquo;Hubert, with a sidelong
      look at the heavy-faced, grey-haired figure seated on a wooden chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whatever it is,&rdquo; said the surgeon a little impatiently, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to
      pronounce any opinion on your conduct&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By heavens, you had better not!&rdquo; burst out D&rsquo;Hubert.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There!&mdash;there! Don&rsquo;t be so quick in flourishing the sword. It
      doesn&rsquo;t pay in the long run. Understand once for all that I would not
      carve any of you youngsters except with the tools of my trade. But my
      advice is good. If you go on like this you will make for yourself an ugly
      reputation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on like what?&rdquo; demanded Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, stopping short, quite
      startled. &ldquo;I!&mdash;I!&mdash;make for myself a reputation. . . . What do
      you imagine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you I don&rsquo;t wish to judge of the rights and wrongs of this
      incident. It&rsquo;s not my business. Nevertheless&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What on earth has he been telling you?&rdquo; interrupted Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, in a
      sort of awed scare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you already, that at first, when I picked him up in the garden, he
      was incoherent. Afterwards he was naturally reticent. But I gather at
      least that he could not help himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He couldn&rsquo;t?&rdquo; shouted Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert in a great voice. Then, lowering
      his tone impressively, &ldquo;And what about me? Could I help myself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The surgeon stood up. His thoughts were running upon the flute, his
      constant companion with a consoling voice. In the vicinity of field
      ambulances, after twenty-four hours&rsquo; hard work, he had been known to
      trouble with its sweet sounds the horrible stillness of battlefields,
      given over to silence and the dead. The solacing hour of his daily life
      was approaching, and in peace time he held on to the minutes as a miser to
      his hoard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course!&mdash;of course!&rdquo; he said, perfunctorily. &ldquo;You would think so.
      It&rsquo;s amusing. However, being perfectly neutral and friendly to you both, I
      have consented to deliver his message to you. Say that I am humouring an
      invalid if you like. He wants you to know that this affair is by no means
      at an end. He intends to send you his seconds directly he has regained his
      strength&mdash;providing, of course, the army is not in the field at that
      time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He intends, does he? Why, certainly,&rdquo; spluttered Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert in a
      passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The secret of his exasperation was not apparent to the visitor; but this
      passion confirmed the surgeon in the belief which was gaining ground
      outside that some very serious difference had arisen between these two
      young men, something serious enough to wear an air of mystery, some fact
      of the utmost gravity. To settle their urgent difference about that fact,
      those two young men had risked being broken and disgraced at the outset
      almost of their career. The surgeon feared that the forthcoming inquiry
      would fail to satisfy the public curiosity. They would not take the public
      into their confidence as to that something which had passed between them
      of a nature so outrageous as to make them face a charge of murder&mdash;neither
      more nor less. But what could it be?
    </p>
    <p>
      The surgeon was not very curious by temperament; but that question
      haunting his mind caused him twice that evening to hold the instrument off
      his lips and sit silent for a whole minute&mdash;right in the middle of a
      tune&mdash;trying to form a plausible conjecture.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      He succeeded in this object no better than the rest of the garrison and
      the whole of society. The two young officers, of no especial consequence
      till then, became distinguished by the universal curiosity as to the
      origin of their quarrel. Madame de Lionne&rsquo;s salon was the centre of
      ingenious surmises; that lady herself was for a time assailed by inquiries
      as being the last person known to have spoken to these unhappy and
      reckless young men before they went out together from her house to a
      savage encounter with swords, at dusk, in a private garden. She protested
      she had not observed anything unusual in their demeanour. Lieut. Feraud
      had been visibly annoyed at being called away. That was natural enough; no
      man likes to be disturbed in a conversation with a lady famed for her
      elegance and sensibility. But in truth the subject bored Madame de Lionne,
      since her personality could by no stretch of reckless gossip be connected
      with this affair. And it irritated her to hear it advanced that there
      might have been some woman in the case. This irritation arose, not from
      her elegance or sensibility, but from a more instinctive side of her
      nature. It became so great at last that she peremptorily forbade the
      subject to be mentioned under her roof. Near her couch the prohibition was
      obeyed, but farther off in the salon the pall of the imposed silence
      continued to be lifted more or less. A personage with a long, pale face,
      resembling the countenance of a sheep, opined, shaking his head, that it
      was a quarrel of long standing envenomed by time. It was objected to him
      that the men themselves were too young for such a theory. They belonged
      also to different and distant parts of France. There were other physical
      impossibilities, too. A sub-commissary of the Intendence, an agreeable and
      cultivated bachelor in kerseymere breeches, Hessian boots, and a blue coat
      embroidered with silver lace, who affected to believe in the
      transmigration of souls, suggested that the two had met perhaps in some
      previous existence. The feud was in the forgotten past. It might have been
      something quite inconceivable in the present state of their being; but
      their souls remembered the animosity, and manifested an instinctive
      antagonism. He developed this theme jocularly. Yet the affair was so
      absurd from the worldly, the military, the honourable, or the prudential
      point of view, that this weird explanation seemed rather more reasonable
      than any other.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two officers had confided nothing definite to any one. Humiliation at
      having been worsted arms in hand, and an uneasy feeling of having been
      involved in a scrape by the injustice of fate, kept Lieut. Feraud savagely
      dumb. He mistrusted the sympathy of mankind. That would, of course, go to
      that dandified staff officer. Lying in bed, he raved aloud to the pretty
      maid who administered to his needs with devotion, and listened to his
      horrible imprecations with alarm. That Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert should be made to
      &ldquo;pay for it,&rdquo; seemed to her just and natural. Her principal care was that
      Lieut. Feraud should not excite himself. He appeared so wholly admirable
      and fascinating to the humility of her heart that her only concern was to
      see him get well quickly, even if it were only to resume his visits to
      Madame de Lionne&rsquo;s salon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert kept silent for the immediate reason that there was no
      one, except a stupid young soldier servant, to speak to. Further, he was
      aware that the episode, so grave professionally, had its comic side. When
      reflecting upon it, he still felt that he would like to wring Lieut.
      Feraud&rsquo;s neck for him. But this formula was figurative rather than
      precise, and expressed more a state of mind than an actual physical
      impulse. At the same time, there was in that young man a feeling of
      comradeship and kindness which made him unwilling to make the position of
      Lieut. Feraud worse than it was. He did not want to talk at large about
      this wretched affair. At the inquiry he would have, of course, to speak
      the truth in self-defence. This prospect vexed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      But no inquiry took place. The army took the field instead. Lieut.
      D&rsquo;Hubert, liberated without remark, took up his regimental duties; and
      Lieut. Feraud, his arm just out of the sling, rode unquestioned with his
      squadron to complete his convalescence in the smoke of battlefields and
      the fresh air of night bivouacs. This bracing treatment suited him so
      well, that at the first rumour of an armistice being signed he could turn
      without misgivings to the thoughts of his private warfare.
    </p>
    <p>
      This time it was to be regular warfare. He sent two friends to Lieut.
      D&rsquo;Hubert, whose regiment was stationed only a few miles away. Those
      friends had asked no questions of their principal. &ldquo;I owe him one, that
      pretty staff officer,&rdquo; he had said, grimly, and they went away quite
      contentedly on their mission. Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert had no difficulty in finding
      two friends equally discreet and devoted to their principal. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a
      crazy fellow to whom I must give a lesson,&rdquo; he had declared curtly; and
      they asked for no better reasons.
    </p>
    <p>
      On these grounds an encounter with duelling-swords was arranged one early
      morning in a convenient field. At the third set-to Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert found
      himself lying on his back on the dewy grass with a hole in his side. A
      serene sun rising over a landscape of meadows and woods hung on his left.
      A surgeon&mdash;not the flute player, but another&mdash;was bending over
      him, feeling around the wound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Narrow squeak. But it will be nothing,&rdquo; he pronounced.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert heard these words with pleasure. One of his seconds,
      sitting on the wet grass, and sustaining his head on his lap, said, &ldquo;The
      fortune of war, mon pauvre vieux. What will you have? You had better make
      it up like two good fellows. Do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know what you ask,&rdquo; murmured Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, in a feeble
      voice. &ldquo;However, if he . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In another part of the meadow the seconds of Lieut. Feraud were urging him
      to go over and shake hands with his adversary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have paid him off now&mdash;que diable. It&rsquo;s the proper thing to do.
      This D&rsquo;Hubert is a decent fellow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know the decency of these generals&rsquo; pets,&rdquo; muttered Lieut. Feraud
      through his teeth, and the sombre expression of his face discouraged
      further efforts at reconciliation. The seconds, bowing from a distance,
      took their men off the field. In the afternoon Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, very
      popular as a good comrade uniting great bravery with a frank and equable
      temper, had many visitors. It was remarked that Lieut. Feraud did not, as
      is customary, show himself much abroad to receive the felicitations of his
      friends. They would not have failed him, because he, too, was liked for
      the exuberance of his southern nature and the simplicity of his character.
      In all the places where officers were in the habit of assembling at the
      end of the day the duel of the morning was talked over from every point of
      view. Though Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert had got worsted this time, his sword play was
      commended. No one could deny that it was very close, very scientific. It
      was even whispered that if he got touched it was because he wished to
      spare his adversary. But by many the vigour and dash of Lieut. Feraud&rsquo;s
      attack were pronounced irresistible.
    </p>
    <p>
      The merits of the two officers as combatants were frankly discussed; but
      their attitude to each other after the duel was criticised lightly and
      with caution. It was irreconcilable, and that was to be regretted. But
      after all they knew best what the care of their honour dictated. It was
      not a matter for their comrades to pry into over-much. As to the origin of
      the quarrel, the general impression was that it dated from the time they
      were holding garrison in Strasbourg. The musical surgeon shook his head at
      that. It went much farther back, he thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, of course! You must know the whole story,&rdquo; cried several voices,
      eager with curiosity. &ldquo;What was it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He raised his eyes from his glass deliberately. &ldquo;Even if I knew ever so
      well, you can&rsquo;t expect me to tell you, since both the principals choose to
      say nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He got up and went out, leaving the sense of mystery behind him. He could
      not stay any longer, because the witching hour of flute-playing was
      drawing near.
    </p>
    <p>
      After he had gone a very young officer observed solemnly, &ldquo;Obviously, his
      lips are sealed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nobody questioned the high correctness of that remark. Somehow it added to
      the impressiveness of the affair. Several older officers of both
      regiments, prompted by nothing but sheer kindness and love of harmony,
      proposed to form a Court of Honour, to which the two young men would leave
      the task of their reconciliation. Unfortunately they began by approaching
      Lieut. Feraud, on the assumption that, having just scored heavily, he
      would be found placable and disposed to moderation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reasoning was sound enough. Nevertheless, the move turned out
      unfortunate. In that relaxation of moral fibre, which is brought about by
      the ease of soothed vanity, Lieut. Feraud had condescended in the secret
      of his heart to review the case, and even had come to doubt not the
      justice of his cause, but the absolute sagacity of his conduct. This being
      so, he was disinclined to talk about it. The suggestion of the regimental
      wise men put him in a difficult position. He was disgusted at it, and this
      disgust, by a paradoxical logic, reawakened his animosity against Lieut.
      D&rsquo;Hubert. Was he to be pestered with this fellow for ever&mdash;the fellow
      who had an infernal knack of getting round people somehow? And yet it was
      difficult to refuse point blank that mediation sanctioned by the code of
      honour.
    </p>
    <p>
      He met the difficulty by an attitude of grim reserve. He twisted his
      moustache and used vague words. His case was perfectly clear. He was not
      ashamed to state it before a proper Court of Honour, neither was he afraid
      to defend it on the ground. He did not see any reason to jump at the
      suggestion before ascertaining how his adversary was likely to take it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Later in the day, his exasperation growing upon him, he was heard in a
      public place saying sardonically, &ldquo;that it would be the very luckiest
      thing for Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, because the next time of meeting he need not
      hope to get off with the mere trifle of three weeks in bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This boastful phrase might have been prompted by the most profound
      Machiavellism. Southern natures often hide, under the outward
      impulsiveness of action and speech, a certain amount of astuteness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. Feraud, mistrusting the justice of men, by no means desired a Court
      of Honour; and the above words, according so well with his temperament,
      had also the merit of serving his turn. Whether meant so or not, they
      found their way in less than four-and-twenty hours into Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s
      bedroom. In consequence Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, sitting propped up with pillows,
      received the overtures made to him next day by the statement that the
      affair was of a nature which could not bear discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pale face of the wounded officer, his weak voice which he had yet to
      use cautiously, and the courteous dignity of his tone had a great effect
      on his hearers. Reported outside all this did more for deepening the
      mystery than the vapourings of Lieut. Feraud. This last was greatly
      relieved at the issue. He began to enjoy the state of general wonder, and
      was pleased to add to it by assuming an attitude of fierce discretion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The colonel of Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s regiment was a grey-haired,
      weather-beaten warrior, who took a simple view of his responsibilities. &ldquo;I
      can&rsquo;t,&rdquo; he said to himself, &ldquo;let the best of my subalterns get damaged
      like this for nothing. I must get to the bottom of this affair privately.
      He must speak out if the devil were in it. The colonel should be more than
      a father to these youngsters.&rdquo; And indeed he loved all his men with as
      much affection as a father of a large family can feel for every individual
      member of it. If human beings by an oversight of Providence came into the
      world as mere civilians, they were born again into a regiment as infants
      are born into a family, and it was that military birth alone which
      counted.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the sight of Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert standing before him very bleached and
      hollow-eyed the heart of the old warrior felt a pang of genuine
      compassion. All his affection for the regiment&mdash;that body of men
      which he held in his hand to launch forward and draw back, who ministered
      to his pride and commanded all his thoughts&mdash;seemed centred for a
      moment on the person of the most promising subaltern. He cleared his
      throat in a threatening manner, and frowned terribly. &ldquo;You must
      understand,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;that I don&rsquo;t care a rap for the life of a single
      man in the regiment. I would send the eight hundred and forty-three of you
      men and horses galloping into the pit of perdition with no more
      compunction than I would kill a fly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Colonel. You would be riding at our head,&rdquo; said Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert with
      a wan smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      The colonel, who felt the need of being very diplomatic, fairly roared at
      this. &ldquo;I want you to know, Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, that I could stand aside and
      see you all riding to Hades if need be. I am a man to do even that if the
      good of the service and my duty to my country required it from me. But
      that&rsquo;s unthinkable, so don&rsquo;t you even hint at such a thing.&rdquo; He glared
      awfully, but his tone softened. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s some milk yet about that
      moustache of yours, my boy. You don&rsquo;t know what a man like me is capable
      of. I would hide behind a haystack if . . . Don&rsquo;t grin at me, sir! How
      dare you? If this were not a private conversation I would . . . Look here!
      I am responsible for the proper expenditure of lives under my command for
      the glory of our country and the honour of the regiment. Do you understand
      that? Well, then, what the devil do you mean by letting yourself be
      spitted like this by that fellow of the 7th Hussars? It&rsquo;s simply
      disgraceful!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert felt vexed beyond measure. His shoulders moved slightly.
      He made no other answer. He could not ignore his responsibility.
    </p>
    <p>
      The colonel veiled his glance and lowered his voice still more. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s
      deplorable!&rdquo; he murmured. And again he changed his tone. &ldquo;Come!&rdquo; he went
      on, persuasively, but with that note of authority which dwells in the
      throat of a good leader of men, &ldquo;this affair must be settled. I desire to
      be told plainly what it is all about. I demand, as your best friend, to
      know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The compelling power of authority, the persuasive influence of kindness,
      affected powerfully a man just risen from a bed of sickness. Lieut.
      D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s hand, which grasped the knob of a stick, trembled slightly. But
      his northern temperament, sentimental yet cautious and clear-sighted, too,
      in its idealistic way, checked his impulse to make a clean breast of the
      whole deadly absurdity. According to the precept of transcendental wisdom,
      he turned his tongue seven times in his mouth before he spoke. He made
      then only a speech of thanks.
    </p>
    <p>
      The colonel listened, interested at first, then looked mystified. At last
      he frowned. &ldquo;You hesitate?&mdash;mille tonnerres! Haven&rsquo;t I told you that
      I will condescend to argue with you&mdash;as a friend?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Colonel!&rdquo; answered Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, gently. &ldquo;But I am afraid that
      after you have heard me out as a friend you will take action as my
      superior officer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The attentive colonel snapped his jaws. &ldquo;Well, what of that?&rdquo; he said,
      frankly. &ldquo;Is it so damnably disgraceful?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not,&rdquo; negatived Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, in a faint but firm voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, I shall act for the good of the service. Nothing can prevent
      me doing that. What do you think I want to be told for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it is not from idle curiosity,&rdquo; protested Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert. &ldquo;I know
      you will act wisely. But what about the good fame of the regiment?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It cannot be affected by any youthful folly of a lieutenant,&rdquo; said the
      colonel, severely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. It cannot be. But it can be by evil tongues. It will be said that a
      lieutenant of the 4th Hussars, afraid of meeting his adversary, is hiding
      behind his colonel. And that would be worse than hiding behind a haystack&mdash;for
      the good of the service. I cannot afford to do that, Colonel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody would dare to say anything of the kind,&rdquo; began the colonel very
      fiercely, but ended the phrase on an uncertain note. The bravery of Lieut.
      D&rsquo;Hubert was well known. But the colonel was well aware that the duelling
      courage, the single combat courage, is rightly or wrongly supposed to be
      courage of a special sort. And it was eminently necessary that an officer
      of his regiment should possess every kind of courage&mdash;and prove it,
      too. The colonel stuck out his lower lip, and looked far away with a
      peculiar glazed stare. This was the expression of his perplexity&mdash;an
      expression practically unknown to his regiment; for perplexity is a
      sentiment which is incompatible with the rank of colonel of cavalry. The
      colonel himself was overcome by the unpleasant novelty of the sensation.
      As he was not accustomed to think except on professional matters connected
      with the welfare of men and horses, and the proper use thereof on the
      field of glory, his intellectual efforts degenerated into mere mental
      repetitions of profane language. &ldquo;Mille tonnerres! . . . Sacre nom de nom
      . . .&rdquo; he thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert coughed painfully, and added in a weary voice: &ldquo;There will
      be plenty of evil tongues to say that I&rsquo;ve been cowed. And I am sure you
      will not expect me to pass that over. I may find myself suddenly with a
      dozen duels on my hands instead of this one affair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The direct simplicity of this argument came home to the colonel&rsquo;s
      understanding. He looked at his subordinate fixedly. &ldquo;Sit down,
      Lieutenant!&rdquo; he said, gruffly. &ldquo;This is the very devil of a . . . Sit
      down!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mon Colonel,&rdquo; D&rsquo;Hubert began again, &ldquo;I am not afraid of evil tongues.
      There&rsquo;s a way of silencing them. But there&rsquo;s my peace of mind, too. I
      wouldn&rsquo;t be able to shake off the notion that I&rsquo;ve ruined a brother
      officer. Whatever action you take, it is bound to go farther. The inquiry
      has been dropped&mdash;let it rest now. It would have been absolutely
      fatal to Feraud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey! What! Did he behave so badly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. It was pretty bad,&rdquo; muttered Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert. Being still very weak,
      he felt a disposition to cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the other man did not belong to his own regiment the colonel had no
      difficulty in believing this. He began to pace up and down the room. He
      was a good chief, a man capable of discreet sympathy. But he was human in
      other ways, too, and this became apparent because he was not capable of
      artifice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The very devil, Lieutenant,&rdquo; he blurted out, in the innocence of his
      heart, &ldquo;is that I have declared my intention to get to the bottom of this
      affair. And when a colonel says something . . . you see . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert broke in earnestly: &ldquo;Let me entreat you, Colonel, to be
      satisfied with taking my word of honour that I was put into a damnable
      position where I had no option; I had no choice whatever, consistent with
      my dignity as a man and an officer. . . . After all, Colonel, this fact is
      the very bottom of this affair. Here you&rsquo;ve got it. The rest is mere
      detail. . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The colonel stopped short. The reputation of Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert for good
      sense and good temper weighed in the balance. A cool head, a warm heart,
      open as the day. Always correct in his behaviour. One had to trust him.
      The colonel repressed manfully an immense curiosity. &ldquo;H&rsquo;m! You affirm that
      as a man and an officer. . . . No option? Eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As an officer&mdash;an officer of the 4th Hussars, too,&rdquo; insisted Lieut.
      D&rsquo;Hubert, &ldquo;I had not. And that is the bottom of the affair, Colonel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. But still I don&rsquo;t see why, to one&rsquo;s colonel. . . . A colonel is a
      father&mdash;que diable!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert ought not to have been allowed out as yet. He was becoming
      aware of his physical insufficiency with humiliation and despair. But the
      morbid obstinacy of an invalid possessed him, and at the same time he felt
      with dismay his eyes filling with water. This trouble seemed too big to
      handle. A tear fell down the thin, pale cheek of Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert.
    </p>
    <p>
      The colonel turned his back on him hastily. You could have heard a pin
      drop. &ldquo;This is some silly woman story&mdash;is it not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Saying these words the chief spun round to seize the truth, which is not a
      beautiful shape living in a well, but a shy bird best caught by stratagem.
      This was the last move of the colonel&rsquo;s diplomacy. He saw the truth
      shining unmistakably in the gesture of Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert raising his weak
      arms and his eyes to heaven in supreme protest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a woman affair&mdash;eh?&rdquo; growled the colonel, staring hard. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t
      ask you who or where. All I want to know is whether there is a woman in
      it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s arms dropped, and his weak voice was pathetically
      broken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing of the kind, mon Colonel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On your honour?&rdquo; insisted the old warrior.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On my honour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said the colonel, thoughtfully, and bit his lip. The
      arguments of Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert, helped by his liking for the man, had
      convinced him. On the other hand, it was highly improper that his
      intervention, of which he had made no secret, should produce no visible
      effect. He kept Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert a few minutes longer, and dismissed him
      kindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take a few days more in bed. Lieutenant. What the devil does the surgeon
      mean by reporting you fit for duty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On coming out of the colonel&rsquo;s quarters, Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert said nothing to
      the friend who was waiting outside to take him home. He said nothing to
      anybody. Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert made no confidences. But on the evening of that
      day the colonel, strolling under the elms growing near his quarters, in
      the company of his second in command, opened his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got to the bottom of this affair,&rdquo; he remarked. The lieut.-colonel,
      a dry, brown chip of a man with short side-whiskers, pricked up his ears
      at that without letting a sign of curiosity escape him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s no trifle,&rdquo; added the colonel, oracularly. The other waited for a
      long while before he murmured:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No trifle,&rdquo; repeated the colonel, looking straight before him. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve,
      however, forbidden D&rsquo;Hubert either to send to or receive a challenge from
      Feraud for the next twelve months.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had imagined this prohibition to save the prestige a colonel should
      have. The result of it was to give an official seal to the mystery
      surrounding this deadly quarrel. Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert repelled by an impassive
      silence all attempts to worm the truth out of him. Lieut. Feraud, secretly
      uneasy at first, regained his assurance as time went on. He disguised his
      ignorance of the meaning of the imposed truce by slight sardonic laughs,
      as though he were amused by what he intended to keep to himself. &ldquo;But what
      will you do?&rdquo; his chums used to ask him. He contented himself by replying
      &ldquo;Qui vivra verra&rdquo; with a little truculent air. And everybody admired his
      discretion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the end of the truce Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert got his troop. The promotion
      was well earned, but somehow no one seemed to expect the event. When
      Lieut. Feraud heard of it at a gathering of officers, he muttered through
      his teeth, &ldquo;Is that so?&rdquo; At once he unhooked his sabre from a peg near the
      door, buckled it on carefully, and left the company without another word.
      He walked home with measured steps, struck a light with his flint and
      steel, and lit his tallow candle. Then snatching an unlucky glass tumbler
      off the mantelpiece he dashed it violently on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now that D&rsquo;Hubert was an officer of superior rank there could be no
      question of a duel. Neither of them could send or receive a challenge
      without rendering himself amenable to a court-martial. It was not to be
      thought of. Lieut. Feraud, who for many days now had experienced no real
      desire to meet Lieut. D&rsquo;Hubert arms in hand, chafed again at the
      systematic injustice of fate. &ldquo;Does he think he will escape me in that
      way?&rdquo; he thought, indignantly. He saw in this promotion an intrigue, a
      conspiracy, a cowardly manoeuvre. That colonel knew what he was doing. He
      had hastened to recommend his favourite for a step. It was outrageous that
      a man should be able to avoid the consequences of his acts in such a dark
      and tortuous manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of a happy-go-lucky disposition, of a temperament more pugnacious than
      military, Lieut. Feraud had been content to give and receive blows for
      sheer love of armed strife, and without much thought of advancement; but
      now an urgent desire to get on sprang up in his breast. This fighter by
      vocation resolved in his mind to seize showy occasions and to court the
      favourable opinion of his chiefs like a mere worldling. He knew he was as
      brave as any one, and never doubted his personal charm. Nevertheless,
      neither the bravery nor the charm seemed to work very swiftly. Lieut.
      Feraud&rsquo;s engaging, careless truculence of a beau sabreur underwent a
      change. He began to make bitter allusions to &ldquo;clever fellows who stick at
      nothing to get on.&rdquo; The army was full of them, he would say; you had only
      to look round. But all the time he had in view one person only, his
      adversary, D&rsquo;Hubert. Once he confided to an appreciative friend: &ldquo;You see,
      I don&rsquo;t know how to fawn on the right sort of people. It isn&rsquo;t in my
      character.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not get his step till a week after Austerlitz. The Light Cavalry of
      the Grand Army had its hands very full of interesting work for a little
      while. Directly the pressure of professional occupation had been eased
      Captain Feraud took measures to arrange a meeting without loss of time. &ldquo;I
      know my bird,&rdquo; he observed, grimly. &ldquo;If I don&rsquo;t look sharp he will take
      care to get himself promoted over the heads of a dozen better men than
      himself. He&rsquo;s got the knack for that sort of thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This duel was fought in Silesia. If not fought to a finish, it was, at any
      rate, fought to a standstill. The weapon was the cavalry sabre, and the
      skill, the science, the vigour, and the determination displayed by the
      adversaries compelled the admiration of the beholders. It became the
      subject of talk on both shores of the Danube, and as far as the garrisons
      of Gratz and Laybach. They crossed blades seven times. Both had many cuts
      which bled profusely. Both refused to have the combat stopped, time after
      time, with what appeared the most deadly animosity. This appearance was
      caused on the part of Captain D&rsquo;Hubert by a rational desire to be done
      once for all with this worry; on the part of Captain Feraud by a
      tremendous exaltation of his pugnacious instincts and the incitement of
      wounded vanity. At last, dishevelled, their shirts in rags, covered with
      gore and hardly able to stand, they were led away forcibly by their
      marvelling and horrified seconds. Later on, besieged by comrades avid of
      details, these gentlemen declared that they could not have allowed that
      sort of hacking to go on indefinitely. Asked whether the quarrel was
      settled this time, they gave it out as their conviction that it was a
      difference which could only be settled by one of the parties remaining
      lifeless on the ground. The sensation spread from army corps to army
      corps, and penetrated at last to the smallest detachments of the troops
      cantoned between the Rhine and the Save. In the cafes in Vienna it was
      generally estimated, from details to hand, that the adversaries would be
      able to meet again in three weeks&rsquo; time on the outside. Something really
      transcendent in the way of duelling was expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      These expectations were brought to naught by the necessities of the
      service which separated the two officers. No official notice had been
      taken of their quarrel. It was now the property of the army, and not to be
      meddled with lightly. But the story of the duel, or rather their duelling
      propensities, must have stood somewhat in the way of their advancement,
      because they were still captains when they came together again during the
      war with Prussia. Detached north after Jena, with the army commanded by
      Marshal Bernadotte, Prince of Ponte Corvo, they entered Lubeck together.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was only after the occupation of that town that Captain Feraud found
      leisure to consider his future conduct in view of the fact that Captain
      D&rsquo;Hubert had been given the position of third aide-de-camp to the marshal.
      He considered it a great part of a night, and in the morning summoned two
      sympathetic friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been thinking it over calmly,&rdquo; he said, gazing at them with
      blood-shot, tired eyes. &ldquo;I see that I must get rid of that intriguing
      personage. Here he&rsquo;s managed to sneak on to the personal staff of the
      marshal. It&rsquo;s a direct provocation to me. I can&rsquo;t tolerate a situation in
      which I am exposed any day to receive an order through him. And God knows
      what order, too! That sort of thing has happened once before&mdash;and
      that&rsquo;s once too often. He understands this perfectly, never fear. I can&rsquo;t
      tell you any more. Now you know what it is you have to do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This encounter took place outside the town of Lubeck, on very open ground,
      selected with special care in deference to the general sentiment of the
      cavalry division belonging to the army corps, that this time the two
      officers should meet on horseback. After all, this duel was a cavalry
      affair, and to persist in fighting on foot would look like a slight on
      one&rsquo;s own arm of the service. The seconds, startled by the unusual nature
      of the suggestion, hastened to refer to their principals. Captain Feraud
      jumped at it with alacrity. For some obscure reason, depending, no doubt,
      on his psychology, he imagined himself invincible on horseback. All alone
      within the four walls of his room he rubbed his hands and muttered
      triumphantly, &ldquo;Aha! my pretty staff officer, I&rsquo;ve got you now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain D&rsquo;Hubert on his side, after staring hard for a considerable time
      at his friends, shrugged his shoulders slightly. This affair had
      hopelessly and unreasonably complicated his existence for him. One
      absurdity more or less in the development did not matter&mdash;all
      absurdity was distasteful to him; but, urbane as ever, he produced a
      faintly ironical smile, and said in his calm voice, &ldquo;It certainly will do
      away to some extent with the monotony of the thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When left alone, he sat down at a table and took his head into his hands.
      He had not spared himself of late and the marshal had been working all his
      aides-decamp particularly hard. The last three weeks of campaigning in
      horrible weather had affected his health. When over-tired he suffered from
      a stitch in his wounded side, and that uncomfortable sensation always
      depressed him. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s that brute&rsquo;s doing, too,&rdquo; he thought bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The day before he had received a letter from home, announcing that his
      only sister was going to be married. He reflected that from the time she
      was nineteen and he twenty-six, when he went away to garrison life in
      Strasbourg, he had had but two short glimpses of her. They had been great
      friends and confidants; and now she was going to be given away to a man
      whom he did not know&mdash;a very worthy fellow no doubt, but not half
      good enough for her. He would never see his old Leonie again. She had a
      capable little head, and plenty of tact; she would know how to manage the
      fellow, to be sure. He was easy in his mind about her happiness but he
      felt ousted from the first place in her thoughts which had been his ever
      since the girl could speak. A melancholy regret of the days of his
      childhood settled upon Captain D&rsquo;Hubert, third aide-de-camp to the Prince
      of Ponte Corvo.
    </p>
    <p>
      He threw aside the letter of congratulation he had begun to write as in
      duty bound, but without enthusiasm. He took a fresh piece of paper, and
      traced on it the words: &ldquo;This is my last will and testament.&rdquo; Looking at
      these words he gave himself up to unpleasant reflection; a presentiment
      that he would never see the scenes of his childhood weighed down the
      equable spirits of Captain D&rsquo;Hubert. He jumped up, pushing his chair back,
      yawned elaborately in sign that he didn&rsquo;t care anything for presentiments,
      and throwing himself on the bed went to sleep. During the night he
      shivered from time to time without waking up. In the morning he rode out
      of town between his two seconds, talking of indifferent things, and
      looking right and left with apparent detachment into the heavy morning
      mists shrouding the flat green fields bordered by hedges. He leaped a
      ditch, and saw the forms of many mounted men moving in the fog. &ldquo;We are to
      fight before a gallery, it seems,&rdquo; he muttered to himself, bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      His seconds were rather concerned at the state of the atmosphere, but
      presently a pale, sickly sun struggled out of the low vapours, and Captain
      D&rsquo;Hubert made out, in the distance, three horsemen riding a little apart
      from the others. It was Captain Feraud and his seconds. He drew his sabre,
      and assured himself that it was properly fastened to his wrist. And now
      the seconds, who had been standing in close group with the heads of their
      horses together, separated at an easy canter, leaving a large, clear field
      between him and his adversary. Captain D&rsquo;Hubert looked at the pale sun, at
      the dismal fields, and the imbecility of the impending fight filled him
      with desolation. From a distant part of the field a stentorian voice
      shouted commands at proper intervals: Au pas&mdash;Au trot&mdash;Charrrgez!
      . . . Presentiments of death don&rsquo;t come to a man for nothing, he thought
      at the very moment he put spurs to his horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      And therefore he was more than surprised when, at the very first set-to,
      Captain Feraud laid himself open to a cut over the forehead, which
      blinding him with blood, ended the combat almost before it had fairly
      begun. It was impossible to go on. Captain D&rsquo;Hubert, leaving his enemy
      swearing horribly and reeling in the saddle between his two appalled
      friends, leaped the ditch again into the road and trotted home with his
      two seconds, who seemed rather awestruck at the speedy issue of that
      encounter. In the evening Captain D&rsquo;Hubert finished the congratulatory
      letter on his sister&rsquo;s marriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      He finished it late. It was a long letter. Captain D&rsquo;Hubert gave reins to
      his fancy. He told his sister that he would feel rather lonely after this
      great change in her life; but then the day would come for him, too, to get
      married. In fact, he was thinking already of the time when there would be
      no one left to fight with in Europe and the epoch of wars would be over.
      &ldquo;I expect then,&rdquo; he wrote, &ldquo;to be within measurable distance of a
      marshal&rsquo;s baton, and you will be an experienced married woman. You shall
      look out a wife for me. I will be, probably, bald by then, and a little
      blase. I shall require a young girl, pretty of course, and with a large
      fortune, which should help me to close my glorious career in the splendour
      befitting my exalted rank.&rdquo; He ended with the information that he had just
      given a lesson to a worrying, quarrelsome fellow who imagined he had a
      grievance against him. &ldquo;But if you, in the depths of your province,&rdquo; he
      continued, &ldquo;ever hear it said that your brother is of a quarrelsome
      disposition, don&rsquo;t you believe it on any account. There is no saying what
      gossip from the army may reach your innocent ears. Whatever you hear you
      may rest assured that your ever-loving brother is not a duellist.&rdquo; Then
      Captain D&rsquo;Hubert crumpled up the blank sheet of paper headed with the
      words &ldquo;This is my last will and testament,&rdquo; and threw it in the fire with
      a great laugh at himself. He didn&rsquo;t care a snap for what that lunatic
      could do. He had suddenly acquired the conviction that his adversary was
      utterly powerless to affect his life in any sort of way; except, perhaps,
      in the way of putting a special excitement into the delightful, gay
      intervals between the campaigns.
    </p>
    <p>
      From this on there were, however, to be no peaceful intervals in the
      career of Captain D&rsquo;Hubert. He saw the fields of Eylau and Friedland,
      marched and countermarched in the snow, in the mud, in the dust of Polish
      plains, picking up distinction and advancement on all the roads of
      North-eastern Europe. Meantime, Captain Feraud, despatched southwards with
      his regiment, made unsatisfactory war in Spain. It was only when the
      preparations for the Russian campaign began that he was ordered north
      again. He left the country of mantillas and oranges without regret.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first signs of a not unbecoming baldness added to the lofty aspect of
      Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s forehead. This feature was no longer white and smooth
      as in the days of his youth; the kindly open glance of his blue eyes had
      grown a little hard as if from much peering through the smoke of battles.
      The ebony crop on Colonel Feraud&rsquo;s head, coarse and crinkly like a cap of
      horsehair, showed many silver threads about the temples. A detestable
      warfare of ambushes and inglorious surprises had not improved his temper.
      The beak-like curve of his nose was unpleasantly set off by a deep fold on
      each side of his mouth. The round orbits of his eyes radiated wrinkles.
      More than ever he recalled an irritable and staring bird&mdash;something
      like a cross between a parrot and an owl. He was still extremely outspoken
      in his dislike of &ldquo;intriguing fellows.&rdquo; He seized every opportunity to
      state that he did not pick up his rank in the ante-rooms of marshals. The
      unlucky persons, civil or military, who, with an intention of being
      pleasant, begged Colonel Feraud to tell them how he came by that very
      apparent scar on the forehead, were astonished to find themselves snubbed
      in various ways, some of which were simply rude and others mysteriously
      sardonic. Young officers were warned kindly by their more experienced
      comrades not to stare openly at the colonel&rsquo;s scar. But indeed an officer
      need have been very young in his profession not to have heard the
      legendary tale of that duel originating in a mysterious, unforgivable
      offence.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      The retreat from Moscow submerged all private feelings in a sea of
      disaster and misery. Colonels without regiments, D&rsquo;Hubert and Feraud
      carried the musket in the ranks of the so-called sacred battalion&mdash;a
      battalion recruited from officers of all arms who had no longer any troops
      to lead.
    </p>
    <p>
      In that battalion promoted colonels did duty as sergeants; the generals
      captained the companies; a marshal of France, Prince of the Empire,
      commanded the whole. All had provided themselves with muskets picked up on
      the road, and with cartridges taken from the dead. In the general
      destruction of the bonds of discipline and duty holding together the
      companies, the battalions, the regiments, the brigades, and divisions of
      an armed host, this body of men put its pride in preserving some semblance
      of order and formation. The only stragglers were those who fell out to
      give up to the frost their exhausted souls. They plodded on, and their
      passage did not disturb the mortal silence of the plains, shining with the
      livid light of snows under a sky the colour of ashes. Whirlwinds ran along
      the fields, broke against the dark column, enveloped it in a turmoil of
      flying icicles, and subsided, disclosing it creeping on its tragic way
      without the swing and rhythm of the military pace. It struggled onwards,
      the men exchanging neither words nor looks; whole ranks marched touching
      elbow, day after day and never raising their eyes from the ground, as if
      lost in despairing reflections. In the dumb, black forests of pines the
      cracking of overloaded branches was the only sound they heard. Often from
      daybreak to dusk no one spoke in the whole column. It was like a macabre
      march of struggling corpses towards a distant grave. Only an alarm of
      Cossacks could restore to their eyes a semblance of martial resolution.
      The battalion faced about and deployed, or formed square under the endless
      fluttering of snowflakes. A cloud of horsemen with fur caps on their
      heads, levelled long lances, and yelled &ldquo;Hurrah! Hurrah!&rdquo; around their
      menacing immobility whence, with muffled detonations, hundreds of dark red
      flames darted through the air thick with falling snow. In a very few
      moments the horsemen would disappear, as if carried off yelling in the
      gale, and the sacred battalion standing still, alone in the blizzard,
      heard only the howling of the wind, whose blasts searched their very
      hearts. Then, with a cry or two of &ldquo;Vive l&rsquo;Empereur!&rdquo; it would resume its
      march, leaving behind a few lifeless bodies lying huddled up, tiny black
      specks on the white immensity of the snows.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though often marching in the ranks, or skirmishing in the woods side by
      side, the two officers ignored each other; this not so much from inimical
      intention as from a very real indifference. All their store of moral
      energy was expended in resisting the terrific enmity of nature and the
      crushing sense of irretrievable disaster. To the last they counted among
      the most active, the least demoralized of the battalion; their vigorous
      vitality invested them both with the appearance of an heroic pair in the
      eyes of their comrades. And they never exchanged more than a casual word
      or two, except one day, when skirmishing in front of the battalion against
      a worrying attack of cavalry, they found themselves cut off in the woods
      by a small party of Cossacks. A score of fur-capped, hairy horsemen rode
      to and fro, brandishing their lances in ominous silence; but the two
      officers had no mind to lay down their arms, and Colonel Feraud suddenly
      spoke up in a hoarse, growling voice, bringing his firelock to the
      shoulder. &ldquo;You take the nearest brute, Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert; I&rsquo;ll settle the
      next one. I am a better shot than you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert nodded over his levelled musket. Their shoulders were
      pressed against the trunk of a large tree; on their front enormous
      snowdrifts protected them from a direct charge. Two carefully aimed shots
      rang out in the frosty air, two Cossacks reeled in their saddles. The
      rest, not thinking the game good enough, closed round their wounded
      comrades and galloped away out of range. The two officers managed to
      rejoin their battalion halted for the night. During that afternoon they
      had leaned upon each other more than once, and towards the end, Colonel
      D&rsquo;Hubert, whose long legs gave him an advantage in walking through soft
      snow, peremptorily took the musket of Colonel Feraud from him and carried
      it on his shoulder, using his own as a staff.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the outskirts of a village half buried in the snow an old wooden barn
      burned with a clear and an immense flame. The sacred battalion of
      skeletons, muffled in rags, crowded greedily the windward side, stretching
      hundreds of numbed, bony hands to the blaze. Nobody had noted their
      approach. Before entering the circle of light playing on the sunken,
      glassy-eyed, starved faces, Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert spoke in his turn:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s your musket, Colonel Feraud. I can walk better than you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Colonel Feraud nodded, and pushed on towards the warmth of the fierce
      flames. Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert was more deliberate, but not the less bent on
      getting a place in the front rank. Those they shouldered aside tried to
      greet with a faint cheer the reappearance of the two indomitable
      companions in activity and endurance. Those manly qualities had never
      perhaps received a higher tribute than this feeble acclamation.
    </p>
    <p>
      This is the faithful record of speeches exchanged during the retreat from
      Moscow by Colonels Feraud and D&rsquo;Hubert. Colonel Feraud&rsquo;s taciturnity was
      the outcome of concentrated rage. Short, hairy, black faced, with layers
      of grime and the thick sprouting of a wiry beard, a frost-bitten hand
      wrapped up in filthy rags carried in a sling, he accused fate of
      unparalleled perfidy towards the sublime Man of Destiny. Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert,
      his long moustaches pendent in icicles on each side of his cracked blue
      lips, his eyelids inflamed with the glare of snows, the principal part of
      his costume consisting of a sheepskin coat looted with difficulty from the
      frozen corpse of a camp follower found in an abandoned cart, took a more
      thoughtful view of events. His regularly handsome features, now reduced to
      mere bony lines and fleshless hollows, looked out of a woman&rsquo;s black
      velvet hood, over which was rammed forcibly a cocked hat picked up under
      the wheels of an empty army fourgon, which must have contained at one time
      some general officer&rsquo;s luggage. The sheepskin coat being short for a man
      of his inches ended very high up, and the skin of his legs, blue with the
      cold, showed through the tatters of his nether garments. This under the
      circumstances provoked neither jeers nor pity. No one cared how the next
      man felt or looked. Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert himself, hardened to exposure,
      suffered mainly in his self-respect from the lamentable indecency of his
      costume. A thoughtless person may think that with a whole host of
      inanimate bodies bestrewing the path of retreat there could not have been
      much difficulty in supplying the deficiency. But to loot a pair of
      breeches from a frozen corpse is not so easy as it may appear to a mere
      theorist. It requires time and labour. You must remain behind while your
      companions march on. Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert had his scruples as to falling out.
      Once he had stepped aside he could not be sure of ever rejoining his
      battalion; and the ghastly intimacy of a wrestling match with the frozen
      dead opposing the unyielding rigidity of iron to your violence was
      repugnant to the delicacy of his feelings. Luckily, one day, grubbing in a
      mound of snow between the huts of a village in the hope of finding there a
      frozen potato or some vegetable garbage he could put between his long and
      shaky teeth, Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert uncovered a couple of mats of the sort
      Russian peasants use to line the sides of their carts with. These, beaten
      free of frozen snow, bent about his elegant person and fastened solidly
      round his waist, made a bell-shaped nether garment, a sort of stiff
      petticoat, which rendered Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert a perfectly decent, but a much
      more noticeable figure than before.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus accoutred, he continued to retreat, never doubting of his personal
      escape, but full of other misgivings. The early buoyancy of his belief in
      the future was destroyed. If the road of glory led through such unforeseen
      passages, he asked himself&mdash;for he was reflective&mdash;whether the
      guide was altogether trustworthy. It was a patriotic sadness, not
      unmingled with some personal concern, and quite unlike the unreasoning
      indignation against men and things nursed by Colonel Feraud. Recruiting
      his strength in a little German town for three weeks, Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert was
      surprised to discover within himself a love of repose. His returning
      vigour was strangely pacific in its aspirations. He meditated silently
      upon this bizarre change of mood. No doubt many of his brother officers of
      field rank went through the same moral experience. But these were not the
      times to talk of it. In one of his letters home Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert wrote,
      &ldquo;All your plans, my dear Leonie, for marrying me to the charming girl you
      have discovered in your neighbourhood, seem farther off than ever. Peace
      is not yet. Europe wants another lesson. It will be a hard task for us,
      but it shall be done, because the Emperor is invincible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus wrote Colonel D &lsquo;Hubert from Pomerania to his married sister Leonie,
      settled in the south of France. And so far the sentiments expressed would
      not have been disowned by Colonel Feraud, who wrote no letters to anybody,
      whose father had been in life an illiterate blacksmith, who had no sister
      or brother, and whom no one desired ardently to pair off for a life of
      peace with a charming young girl. But Colonel D &lsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s letter contained
      also some philosophical generalities upon the uncertainty of all personal
      hopes, when bound up entirely with the prestigious fortune of one
      incomparably great it is true, yet still remaining but a man in his
      greatness. This view would have appeared rank heresy to Colonel Feraud.
      Some melancholy forebodings of a military kind, expressed cautiously,
      would have been pronounced as nothing short of high treason by Colonel
      Feraud. But Leonie, the sister of Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert, read them with
      profound satisfaction, and, folding the letter thoughtfully, remarked to
      herself that &ldquo;Armand was likely to prove eventually a sensible fellow.&rdquo;
       Since her marriage into a Southern family she had become a convinced
      believer in the return of the legitimate king. Hopeful and anxious she
      offered prayers night and morning, and burnt candles in churches for the
      safety and prosperity of her brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had every reason to suppose that her prayers were heard. Colonel
      D&rsquo;Hubert passed through Lutzen, Bautzen, and Leipsic losing no limb, and
      acquiring additional reputation. Adapting his conduct to the needs of that
      desperate time, he had never voiced his misgivings. He concealed them
      under a cheerful courtesy of such pleasant character that people were
      inclined to ask themselves with wonder whether Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert was aware
      of any disasters. Not only his manners, but even his glances remained
      untroubled. The steady amenity of his blue eyes disconcerted all
      grumblers, and made despair itself pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      This bearing was remarked favourably by the Emperor himself; for Colonel
      D&rsquo;Hubert, attached now to the Major-General&rsquo;s staff, came on several
      occasions under the imperial eye. But it exasperated the higher strung
      nature of Colonel Feraud. Passing through Magdeburg on service, this last
      allowed himself, while seated gloomily at dinner with the Commandant de
      Place, to say of his life-long adversary: &ldquo;This man does not love the
      Emperor,&rdquo; and his words were received by the other guests in profound
      silence. Colonel Feraud, troubled in his conscience at the atrocity of the
      aspersion, felt the need to back it up by a good argument. &ldquo;I ought to
      know him,&rdquo; he cried, adding some oaths. &ldquo;One studies one&rsquo;s adversary. I
      have met him on the ground half a dozen times, as all the army knows. What
      more do you want? If that isn&rsquo;t opportunity enough for any fool to size up
      his man, may the devil take me if I can tell what is.&rdquo; And he looked
      around the table, obstinate and sombre.
    </p>
    <p>
      Later on in Paris, while extremely busy reorganizing his regiment, Colonel
      Feraud learned that Colonel D&rsquo;Hubert had been made a general. He glared at
      his informant incredulously, then folded his arms and turned away
      muttering, &ldquo;Nothing surprises me on the part of that man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And aloud he added, speaking over his shoulder, &ldquo;You would oblige me
      greatly by telling General D&rsquo;Hubert at the first opportunity that his
      advancement saves him for a time from a pretty hot encounter. I was only
      waiting for him to turn up here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other officer remonstrated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Could you think of it, Colonel Feraud, at this time, when every life
      should be consecrated to the glory and safety of France?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the strain of unhappiness caused by military reverses had spoiled
      Colonel Feraud&rsquo;s character. Like many other men, he was rendered wicked by
      misfortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot consider General D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s existence of any account either for
      the glory or safety of France,&rdquo; he snapped viciously. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t pretend,
      perhaps, to know him better than I do&mdash;I who have met him half a
      dozen times on the ground&mdash;do you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His interlocutor, a young man, was silenced. Colonel Feraud walked up and
      down the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is not the time to mince matters,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t believe that
      that man ever loved the Emperor. He picked up his general&rsquo;s stars under
      the boots of Marshal Berthier. Very well. I&rsquo;ll get mine in another
      fashion, and then we shall settle this business which has been dragging on
      too long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert, informed indirectly of Colonel Feraud&rsquo;s attitude, made a
      gesture as if to put aside an importunate person. His thoughts were
      solicited by graver cares. He had had no time to go and see his family.
      His sister, whose royalist hopes were rising higher every day, though
      proud of her brother, regretted his recent advancement in a measure,
      because it put on him a prominent mark of the usurper&rsquo;s favour, which
      later on could have an adverse influence upon his career. He wrote to her
      that no one but an inveterate enemy could say he had got his promotion by
      favour. As to his career, he assured her that he looked no farther forward
      into the future than the next battlefield.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beginning the campaign of France in this dogged spirit, General D&rsquo;Hubert
      was wounded on the second day of the battle under Laon. While being
      carried off the field he heard that Colonel Feraud, promoted this moment
      to general, had been sent to replace him at the head of his brigade. He
      cursed his luck impulsively, not being able at the first glance to discern
      all the advantages of a nasty wound. And yet it was by this heroic method
      that Providence was shaping his future. Travelling slowly south to his
      sister&rsquo;s country home under the care of a trusty old servant, General
      D&rsquo;Hubert was spared the humiliating contacts and the perplexities of
      conduct which assailed the men of Napoleonic empire at the moment of its
      downfall. Lying in his bed, with the windows of his room open wide to the
      sunshine of Provence, he perceived the undisguised aspect of the blessing
      conveyed by that jagged fragment of a Prussian shell, which, killing his
      horse and ripping open his thigh, saved him from an active conflict with
      his conscience. After the last fourteen years spent sword in hand in the
      saddle, and with the sense of his duty done to the very end, General
      D&rsquo;Hubert found resignation an easy virtue. His sister was delighted with
      his reasonableness. &ldquo;I leave myself altogether in your hands, my dear
      Leonie,&rdquo; he had said to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was still laid up when, the credit of his brother-in-law&rsquo;s family being
      exerted on his behalf, he received from the royal government not only the
      confirmation of his rank, but the assurance of being retained on the
      active list. To this was added an unlimited convalescent leave. The
      unfavourable opinion entertained of him in Bonapartist circles, though it
      rested on nothing more solid than the unsupported pronouncement of General
      Feraud, was directly responsible for General D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s retention on the
      active list. As to General Feraud, his rank was confirmed, too. It was
      more than he dared to expect; but Marshal Soult, then Minister of War to
      the restored king, was partial to officers who had served in Spain. Only
      not even the marshal&rsquo;s protection could secure for him active employment.
      He remained irreconcilable, idle, and sinister. He sought in obscure
      restaurants the company of other half-pay officers who cherished dingy but
      glorious old tricolour cockades in their breast-pockets, and buttoned with
      the forbidden eagle buttons their shabby uniforms, declaring themselves
      too poor to afford the expense of the prescribed change.
    </p>
    <p>
      The triumphant return from Elba, an historical fact as marvellous and
      incredible as the exploits of some mythological demi-god, found General
      D&rsquo;Hubert still quite unable to sit a horse. Neither could he walk very
      well. These disabilities, which Madame Leonie accounted most lucky, helped
      to keep her brother out of all possible mischief. His frame of mind at
      that time, she noted with dismay, became very far from reasonable. This
      general officer, still menaced by the loss of a limb, was discovered one
      night in the stables of the chateau by a groom, who, seeing a light,
      raised an alarm of thieves. His crutch was lying half-buried in the straw
      of the litter, and the general was hopping on one leg in a loose box
      around a snorting horse he was trying to saddle. Such were the effects of
      imperial magic upon a calm temperament and a pondered mind. Beset in the
      light of stable lanterns, by the tears, entreaties, indignation,
      remonstrances and reproaches of his family, he got out of the difficult
      situation by fainting away there and then in the arms of his nearest
      relatives, and was carried off to bed. Before he got out of it again, the
      second reign of Napoleon, the Hundred Days of feverish agitation and
      supreme effort, passed away like a terrifying dream. The tragic year 1815,
      begun in the trouble and unrest of consciences, was ending in vengeful
      proscriptions.
    </p>
    <p>
      How General Feraud escaped the clutches of the Special Commission and the
      last offices of a firing squad he never knew himself. It was partly due to
      the subordinate position he was assigned during the Hundred Days. The
      Emperor had never given him active command, but had kept him busy at the
      cavalry depot in Paris, mounting and despatching hastily drilled troopers
      into the field. Considering this task as unworthy of his abilities, he had
      discharged it with no offensively noticeable zeal; but for the greater
      part he was saved from the excesses of Royalist reaction by the
      interference of General D&rsquo;Hubert.
    </p>
    <p>
      This last, still on convalescent leave, but able now to travel, had been
      despatched by his sister to Paris to present himself to his legitimate
      sovereign. As no one in the capital could possibly know anything of the
      episode in the stable he was received there with distinction. Military to
      the very bottom of his soul, the prospect of rising in his profession
      consoled him from finding himself the butt of Bonapartist malevolence,
      which pursued him with a persistence he could not account for. All the
      rancour of that embittered and persecuted party pointed to him as the man
      who had never loved the Emperor&mdash;a sort of monster essentially worse
      than a mere betrayer.
    </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert shrugged his shoulders without anger at this ferocious
      prejudice. Rejected by his old friends, and mistrusting profoundly the
      advances of Royalist society, the young and handsome general (he was
      barely forty) adopted a manner of cold, punctilious courtesy, which at the
      merest shadow of an intended slight passed easily into harsh haughtiness.
      Thus prepared, General D&rsquo;Hubert went about his affairs in Paris feeling
      inwardly very happy with the peculiar uplifting happiness of a man very
      much in love. The charming girl looked out by his sister had come upon the
      scene, and had conquered him in the thorough manner in which a young girl
      by merely existing in his sight can make a man of forty her own. They were
      going to be married as soon as General D&rsquo;Hubert had obtained his official
      nomination to a promised command.
    </p>
    <p>
      One afternoon, sitting on the terrasse of the Cafe Tortoni, General
      D&rsquo;Hubert learned from the conversation of two strangers occupying a table
      near his own, that General Feraud, included in the batch of superior
      officers arrested after the second return of the king, was in danger of
      passing before the Special Commission. Living all his spare moments, as is
      frequently the case with expectant lovers, a day in advance of reality,
      and in a state of bestarred hallucination, it required nothing less than
      the name of his perpetual antagonist pronounced in a loud voice to call
      the youngest of Napoleon&rsquo;s generals away from the mental contemplation of
      his betrothed. He looked round. The strangers wore civilian clothes. Lean
      and weather-beaten, lolling back in their chairs, they scowled at people
      with moody and defiant abstraction from under their hats pulled low over
      their eyes. It was not difficult to recognize them for two of the
      compulsorily retired officers of the Old Guard. As from bravado or
      carelessness they chose to speak in loud tones, General D&rsquo;Hubert, who saw
      no reason why he should change his seat, heard every word. They did not
      seem to be the personal friends of General Feraud. His name came up
      amongst others. Hearing it repeated, General D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s tender
      anticipations of a domestic future adorned with a woman&rsquo;s grace were
      traversed by the harsh regret of his warlike past, of that one long,
      intoxicating clash of arms, unique in the magnitude of its glory and
      disaster&mdash;the marvellous work and the special possession of his own
      generation. He felt an irrational tenderness towards his old adversary and
      appreciated emotionally the murderous absurdity their encounter had
      introduced into his life. It was like an additional pinch of spice in a
      hot dish. He remembered the flavour with sudden melancholy. He would never
      taste it again. It was all over. &ldquo;I fancy it was being left lying in the
      garden that had exasperated him so against me from the first,&rdquo; he thought,
      indulgently.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two strangers at the next table had fallen silent after the third
      mention of General Feraud&rsquo;s name. Presently the elder of the two, speaking
      again in a bitter tone, affirmed that General Feraud&rsquo;s account was
      settled. And why? Simply because he was not like some bigwigs who loved
      only themselves. The Royalists knew they could never make anything of him.
      He loved The Other too well.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Other was the Man of St. Helena. The two officers nodded and touched
      glasses before they drank to an impossible return. Then the same who had
      spoken before, remarked with a sardonic laugh, &ldquo;His adversary showed more
      cleverness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What adversary?&rdquo; asked the younger, as if puzzled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you know? They were two hussars. At each promotion they fought a
      duel. Haven&rsquo;t you heard of the duel going on ever since 1801?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other had heard of the duel, of course. Now he understood the
      allusion. General Baron D&rsquo;Hubert would be able now to enjoy his fat king&rsquo;s
      favour in peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Much good may it do to him,&rdquo; mumbled the elder. &ldquo;They were both brave
      men. I never saw this D&rsquo;Hubert&mdash;a sort of intriguing dandy, I am
      told. But I can well believe what I&rsquo;ve heard Feraud say of him&mdash;that
      he never loved the Emperor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They rose and went away.
    </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert experienced the horror of a somnambulist who wakes up
      from a complacent dream of activity to find himself walking on a quagmire.
      A profound disgust of the ground on which he was making his way overcame
      him. Even the image of the charming girl was swept from his view in the
      flood of moral distress. Everything he had ever been or hoped to be would
      taste of bitter ignominy unless he could manage to save General Feraud
      from the fate which threatened so many braves. Under the impulse of this
      almost morbid need to attend to the safety of his adversary, General
      D&rsquo;Hubert worked so well with hands and feet (as the French saying is),
      that in less than twenty-four hours he found means of obtaining an
      extraordinary private audience from the Minister of Police.
    </p>
    <p>
      General Baron D&rsquo;Hubert was shown in suddenly without preliminaries. In the
      dusk of the Minister&rsquo;s cabinet, behind the forms of writing-desk, chairs,
      and tables, between two bunches of wax candles blazing in sconces, he
      beheld a figure in a gorgeous coat posturing before a tall mirror. The old
      conventionnel Fouche, Senator of the Empire, traitor to every man, to
      every principle and motive of human conduct. Duke of Otranto, and the wily
      artizan of the second Restoration, was trying the fit of a court suit in
      which his young and accomplished fiancee had declared her intention to
      have his portrait painted on porcelain. It was a caprice, a charming fancy
      which the first Minister of Police of the second Restoration was anxious
      to gratify. For that man, often compared in wiliness of conduct to a fox,
      but whose ethical side could be worthily symbolized by nothing less
      emphatic than a skunk, was as much possessed by his love as General
      D&rsquo;Hubert himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Startled to be discovered thus by the blunder of a servant, he met this
      little vexation with the characteristic impudence which had served his
      turn so well in the endless intrigues of his self-seeking career. Without
      altering his attitude a hair&rsquo;s-breadth, one leg in a silk stocking
      advanced, his head twisted over his left shoulder, he called out calmly,
      &ldquo;This way, General. Pray approach. Well? I am all attention.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While General D&rsquo;Hubert, ill at ease as if one of his own little weaknesses
      had been exposed, presented his request as shortly as possible, the Duke
      of Otranto went on feeling the fit of his collar, settling the lapels
      before the glass, and buckling his back in an effort to behold the set of
      the gold embroidered coat-skirts behind. His still face, his attentive
      eyes, could not have expressed a more complete interest in those matters
      if he had been alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exclude from the operations of the Special Court a certain Feraud,
      Gabriel Florian, General of brigade of the promotion of 1814?&rdquo; he
      repeated, in a slightly wondering tone, and then turned away from the
      glass. &ldquo;Why exclude him precisely?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am surprised that your Excellency, so competent in the evaluation of
      men of his time, should have thought worth while to have that name put
      down on the list.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A rabid Bonapartist!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So is every grenadier and every trooper of the army, as your Excellency
      well knows. And the individuality of General Feraud can have no more
      weight than that of any casual grenadier. He is a man of no mental grasp,
      of no capacity whatever. It is inconceivable that he should ever have any
      influence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has a well-hung tongue, though,&rdquo; interjected Fouche.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noisy, I admit, but not dangerous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not dispute with you. I know next to nothing of him. Hardly his
      name, in fact.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet your Excellency has the presidency of the Commission charged by
      the king to point out those who were to be tried,&rdquo; said General D&rsquo;Hubert,
      with an emphasis which did not miss the minister&rsquo;s ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, General,&rdquo; he said, walking away into the dark part of the vast room,
      and throwing himself into a deep armchair that swallowed him up, all but
      the soft gleam of gold embroideries and the pallid patch of the face&mdash;&ldquo;yes,
      General. Take this chair there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert sat down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, General,&rdquo; continued the arch-master in the arts of intrigue and
      betrayals, whose duplicity, as if at times intolerable to his
      self-knowledge, found relief in bursts of cynical openness. &ldquo;I did hurry
      on the formation of the proscribing Commission, and I took its presidency.
      And do you know why? Simply from fear that if I did not take it quickly
      into my hands my own name would head the list of the proscribed. Such are
      the times in which we live. But I am minister of the king yet, and I ask
      you plainly why I should take the name of this obscure Feraud off the
      list? You wonder how his name got there! Is it possible that you should
      know men so little? My dear General, at the very first sitting of the
      Commission names poured on us like rain off the roof of the Tuileries.
      Names! We had our choice of thousands. How do you know that the name of
      this Feraud, whose life or death don&rsquo;t matter to France, does not keep out
      some other name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The voice out of the armchair stopped. Opposite General D&rsquo;Hubert sat
      still, shadowy and silent. Only his sabre clinked slightly. The voice in
      the armchair began again. &ldquo;And we must try to satisfy the exigencies of
      the Allied Sovereigns, too. The Prince de Talleyrand told me only
      yesterday that Nesselrode had informed him officially of His Majesty the
      Emperor Alexander&rsquo;s dissatisfaction at the small number of examples the
      Government of the king intends to make&mdash;especially amongst military
      men. I tell you this confidentially.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word!&rdquo; broke out General D&rsquo;Hubert, speaking through his teeth,
      &ldquo;if your Excellency deigns to favour me with any more confidential
      information I don&rsquo;t know what I will do. It&rsquo;s enough to break one&rsquo;s sword
      over one&rsquo;s knee, and fling the pieces. . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What government you imagined yourself to be serving?&rdquo; interrupted the
      minister, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a short pause the crestfallen voice of General D&rsquo;Hubert answered,
      &ldquo;The Government of France.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s paying your conscience off with mere words, General. The truth is
      that you are serving a government of returned exiles, of men who have been
      without country for twenty years. Of men also who have just got over a
      very bad and humiliating fright. . . . Have no illusions on that score.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Duke of Otranto ceased. He had relieved himself, and had attained his
      object of stripping some self-respect off that man who had inconveniently
      discovered him posturing in a gold-embroidered court costume before a
      mirror. But they were a hot-headed lot in the army; it occurred to him
      that it would be inconvenient if a well-disposed general officer, received
      in audience on the recommendation of one of the Princes, were to do
      something rashly scandalous directly after a private interview with the
      minister. In a changed tone he put a question to the point: &ldquo;Your relation&mdash;this
      Feraud?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. No relation at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Intimate friend?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Intimate . . . yes. There is between us an intimate connection of a
      nature which makes it a point of honour with me to try . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The minister rang a bell without waiting for the end of the phrase. When
      the servant had gone out, after bringing in a pair of heavy silver
      candelabra for the writing-desk, the Duke of Otranto rose, his breast
      glistening all over with gold in the strong light, and taking a piece of
      paper out of a drawer, held it in his hand ostentatiously while he said
      with persuasive gentleness: &ldquo;You must not speak of breaking your sword
      across your knee, General. Perhaps you would never get another. The
      Emperor will not return this time. . . . Diable d&rsquo;homme! There was just a
      moment, here in Paris, soon after Waterloo, when he frightened me. It
      looked as though he were ready to begin all over again. Luckily one never
      does begin all over again, really. You must not think of breaking your
      sword, General.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert, looking on the ground, moved slightly his hand in a
      hopeless gesture of renunciation. The Minister of Police turned his eyes
      away from him, and scanned deliberately the paper he had been holding up
      all the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are only twenty general officers selected to be made an example of.
      Twenty. A round number. And let&rsquo;s see, Feraud. . . . Ah, he&rsquo;s there.
      Gabriel Florian. Parfaitement. That&rsquo;s your man. Well, there will be only
      nineteen examples made now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert stood up feeling as though he had gone through an
      infectious illness. &ldquo;I must beg your Excellency to keep my interference a
      profound secret. I attach the greatest importance to his never learning .
      . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is going to inform him, I should like to know?&rdquo; said Fouche, raising
      his eyes curiously to General D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s tense, set face. &ldquo;Take one of
      these pens, and run it through the name yourself. This is the only list in
      existence. If you are careful to take up enough ink no one will be able to
      tell what was the name struck out. But, par exemple, I am not responsible
      for what Clarke will do with him afterwards. If he persists in being rabid
      he will be ordered by the Minister of War to reside in some provincial
      town under the supervision of the police.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A few days later General D&rsquo;Hubert was saying to his sister, after the
      first greetings had been got over: &ldquo;Ah, my dear Leonie! it seemed to me I
      couldn&rsquo;t get away from Paris quick enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Effect of love,&rdquo; she suggested, with a malicious smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And horror,&rdquo; added General D&rsquo;Hubert, with profound seriousness. &ldquo;I have
      nearly died there of . . . of nausea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His face was contracted with disgust. And as his sister looked at him
      attentively he continued, &ldquo;I have had to see Fouche. I have had an
      audience. I have been in his cabinet. There remains with one, who had the
      misfortune to breathe the air of the same room with that man, a sense of
      diminished dignity, an uneasy feeling of being not so clean, after all, as
      one hoped one was. . . . But you can&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She nodded quickly several times. She understood very well, on the
      contrary. She knew her brother thoroughly, and liked him as he was.
      Moreover, the scorn and loathing of mankind were the lot of the Jacobin
      Fouche, who, exploiting for his own advantage every weakness, every
      virtue, every generous illusion of mankind, made dupes of his whole
      generation, and died obscurely as Duke of Otranto.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Armand,&rdquo; she said, compassionately, &ldquo;what could you want from
      that man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing less than a life,&rdquo; answered General D&rsquo;Hubert. &ldquo;And I&rsquo;ve got it.
      It had to be done. But I feel yet as if I could never forgive the
      necessity to the man I had to save.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General Feraud, totally unable (as is the case with most of us) to
      comprehend what was happening to him, received the Minister of War&rsquo;s order
      to proceed at once to a small town of Central France with feelings whose
      natural expression consisted in a fierce rolling of the eye and savage
      grinding of the teeth. The passing away of the state of war, the only
      condition of society he had ever known, the horrible view of a world at
      peace, frightened him. He went away to his little town firmly convinced
      that this could not last. There he was informed of his retirement from the
      army, and that his pension (calculated on the scale of a colonel&rsquo;s rank)
      was made dependent on the correctness of his conduct, and on the good
      reports of the police. No longer in the army! He felt suddenly strange to
      the earth, like a disembodied spirit. It was impossible to exist. But at
      first he reacted from sheer incredulity. This could not be. He waited for
      thunder, earthquakes, natural cataclysms; but nothing happened. The leaden
      weight of an irremediable idleness descended upon General Feraud, who
      having no resources within himself sank into a state of awe-inspiring
      hebetude. He haunted the streets of the little town, gazing before him
      with lacklustre eyes, disregarding the hats raised on his passage; and
      people, nudging each other as he went by, whispered, &ldquo;That&rsquo;s poor General
      Feraud. His heart is broken. Behold how he loved the Emperor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other living wreckage of Napoleonic tempest clustered round General
      Feraud with infinite respect. He, himself, imagined his soul to be crushed
      by grief. He suffered from quickly succeeding impulses to weep, to howl,
      to bite his fists till blood came, to spend days on his bed with his head
      thrust under the pillow; but these arose from sheer ennui, from the
      anguish of an immense, indescribable, inconceivable boredom. His mental
      inability to grasp the hopeless nature of his case as a whole saved him
      from suicide. He never even thought of it once. He thought of nothing. But
      his appetite abandoned him, and the difficulty he experienced to express
      the overwhelming nature of his feelings (the most furious swearing could
      do no justice to it) induced gradually a habit of silence&mdash;a sort of
      death to a southern temperament.
    </p>
    <p>
      Great, therefore, was the sensation amongst the anciens militaires
      frequenting a certain little cafe; full of flies when one stuffy afternoon
      &ldquo;that poor General Feraud&rdquo; let out suddenly a volley of formidable curses.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been sitting quietly in his own privileged corner looking through
      the Paris gazettes with just as much interest as a condemned man on the
      eve of execution could be expected to show in the news of the day. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
      find out presently that I am alive yet,&rdquo; he declared, in a dogmatic tone.
      &ldquo;However, this is a private affair. An old affair of honour. Bah! Our
      honour does not matter. Here we are driven off with a split ear like a lot
      of cast troop horses&mdash;good only for a knacker&rsquo;s yard. But it would be
      like striking a blow for the Emperor. . . . Messieurs, I shall require the
      assistance of two of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Every man moved forward. General Feraud, deeply touched by this
      demonstration, called with visible emotion upon the one-eyed veteran
      cuirassier and the officer of the Chasseurs a Cheval who had left the tip
      of his nose in Russia. He excused his choice to the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A cavalry affair this&mdash;you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was answered with a varied chorus of &ldquo;Parfaitement, mon General . . . .
      C&rsquo;est juste. . . . Parbleu, c&rsquo;est connu. . . .&rdquo; Everybody was satisfied.
      The three left the cafe together, followed by cries of &ldquo;Bonne chance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Outside they linked arms, the general in the middle. The three rusty
      cocked hats worn en bataille with a sinister forward slant barred the
      narrow street nearly right across. The overheated little town of grey
      stones and red tiles was drowsing away its provincial afternoon under a
      blue sky. The loud blows of a cooper hooping a cask reverberated regularly
      between the houses. The general dragged his left foot a little in the
      shade of the walls.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This damned winter of 1813 has got into my bones for good. Never mind. We
      must take pistols, that&rsquo;s all. A little lumbago. We must have pistols.
      He&rsquo;s game for my bag. My eyes are as keen as ever. You should have seen me
      in Russia picking off the dodging Cossacks with a beastly old infantry
      musket. I have a natural gift for firearms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In this strain General Feraud ran on, holding up his head, with owlish
      eyes and rapacious beak. A mere fighter all his life, a cavalry man, a
      sabreur, he conceived war with the utmost simplicity, as, in the main, a
      massed lot of personal contests, a sort of gregarious duelling. And here
      he had in hand a war of his own. He revived. The shadow of peace passed
      away from him like the shadow of death. It was the marvellous resurrection
      of the named Feraud, Gabriel Florian, engage volontaire of 1793, General
      of 1814, buried without ceremony by means of a service order signed by the
      War Minister of the Second Restoration.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      No man succeeds in everything he undertakes. In that sense we are all
      failures. The great point is not to fail in ordering and sustaining the
      effort of our life. In this matter vanity is what leads us astray. It
      hurries us into situations from which we must come out damaged; whereas
      pride is our safeguard, by the reserve it imposes on the choice of our
      endeavour as much as by the virtue of its sustaining power.
    </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert was proud and reserved. He had not been damaged by his
      casual love affairs, successful or otherwise. In his war-scarred body his
      heart at forty remained unscratched. Entering with reserve into his
      sister&rsquo;s matrimonial plans, he had felt himself falling irremediably in
      love as one falls off a roof. He was too proud to be frightened. Indeed,
      the sensation was too delightful to be alarming.
    </p>
    <p>
      The inexperience of a man of forty is a much more serious thing than the
      inexperience of a youth of twenty, for it is not helped out by the
      rashness of hot blood. The girl was mysterious, as young girls are by the
      mere effect of their guarded ingenuity; and to him the mysteriousness of
      that young girl appeared exceptional and fascinating. But there was
      nothing mysterious about the arrangements of the match which Madame Leonie
      had promoted. There was nothing peculiar, either. It was a very
      appropriate match, commending itself extremely to the young lady&rsquo;s mother
      (the father was dead) and tolerable to the young lady&rsquo;s uncle&mdash;an old
      emigre lately returned from Germany, and pervading, cane in hand, a lean
      ghost of the ancien regime, the garden walks of the young lady&rsquo;s ancestral
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert was not the man to be satisfied merely with the woman and
      the fortune&mdash;when it came to the point. His pride (and pride aims
      always at true success) would be satisfied with nothing short of love. But
      as true pride excludes vanity, he could not imagine any reason why this
      mysterious creature with deep and brilliant eyes of a violet colour should
      have any feeling for him warmer than indifference. The young lady (her
      name was Adele) baffled every attempt at a clear understanding on that
      point. It is true that the attempts were clumsy and made timidly, because
      by then General D&rsquo;Hubert had become acutely aware of the number of his
      years, of his wounds, of his many moral imperfections, of his secret
      unworthiness&mdash;and had incidentally learned by experience the meaning
      of the word funk. As far as he could make out she seemed to imply that,
      with an unbounded confidence in her mother&rsquo;s affection and sagacity, she
      felt no unsurmountable dislike for the person of General D&rsquo;Hubert; and
      that this was quite sufficient for a well-brought-up young lady to begin
      married life upon. This view hurt and tormented the pride of General
      D&rsquo;Hubert. And yet he asked himself, with a sort of sweet despair, what
      more could he expect? She had a quiet and luminous forehead. Her violet
      eyes laughed while the lines of her lips and chin remained composed in
      admirable gravity. All this was set off by such a glorious mass of fair
      hair, by a complexion so marvellous, by such a grace of expression, that
      General D&rsquo;Hubert really never found the opportunity to examine with
      sufficient detachment the lofty exigencies of his pride. In fact, he
      became shy of that line of inquiry since it had led once or twice to a
      crisis of solitary passion in which it was borne upon him that he loved
      her enough to kill her rather than lose her. From such passages, not
      unknown to men of forty, he would come out broken, exhausted, remorseful,
      a little dismayed. He derived, however, considerable comfort from the
      quietist practice of sitting now and then half the night by an open window
      and meditating upon the wonder of her existence, like a believer lost in
      the mystic contemplation of his faith.
    </p>
    <p>
      It must not be supposed that all these variations of his inward state were
      made manifest to the world. General D &lsquo;Hubert found no difficulty in
      appearing wreathed in smiles. Because, in fact, he was very happy. He
      followed the established rules of his condition, sending over flowers
      (from his sister&rsquo;s garden and hot-houses) early every morning, and a
      little later following himself to lunch with his intended, her mother, and
      her emigre uncle. The middle of the day was spent in strolling or sitting
      in the shade. A watchful deference, trembling on the verge of tenderness
      was the note of their intercourse on his side&mdash;with a playful turn of
      the phrase concealing the profound trouble of his whole being caused by
      her inaccessible nearness. Late in the afternoon General D &lsquo;Hubert walked
      home between the fields of vines, sometimes intensely miserable, sometimes
      supremely happy, sometimes pensively sad; but always feeling a special
      intensity of existence, that elation common to artists, poets, and lovers&mdash;to
      men haunted by a great passion, a noble thought, or a new vision of
      plastic beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      The outward world at that time did not exist with any special distinctness
      for General D&rsquo;Hubert. One evening, however, crossing a ridge from which he
      could see both houses, General D&rsquo;Hubert became aware of two figures far
      down the road. The day had been divine. The festal decoration of the
      inflamed sky lent a gentle glow to the sober tints of the southern land.
      The grey rocks, the brown fields, the purple, undulating distances
      harmonized in luminous accord, exhaled already the scents of the evening.
      The two figures down the road presented themselves like two rigid and
      wooden silhouettes all black on the ribbon of white dust. General D&rsquo;Hubert
      made out the long, straight, military capotes buttoned closely right up to
      the black stocks, the cocked hats, the lean, carven, brown countenances&mdash;old
      soldiers&mdash;vieilles moustaches! The taller of the two had a black
      patch over one eye; the other&rsquo;s hard, dry countenance presented some
      bizarre, disquieting peculiarity, which on nearer approach proved to be
      the absence of the tip of the nose. Lifting their hands with one movement
      to salute the slightly lame civilian walking with a thick stick, they
      inquired for the house where the General Baron D&rsquo;Hubert lived, and what
      was the best way to get speech with him quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you think this quiet enough,&rdquo; said General D&rsquo;Hubert, looking round at
      the vine-fields, framed in purple lines, and dominated by the nest of grey
      and drab walls of a village clustering around the top of a conical hill,
      so that the blunt church tower seemed but the shape of a crowning rock&mdash;&ldquo;if
      you think this spot quiet enough, you can speak to him at once. And I beg
      you, comrades, to speak openly, with perfect confidence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They stepped back at this, and raised again their hands to their hats with
      marked ceremoniousness. Then the one with the chipped nose, speaking for
      both, remarked that the matter was confidential enough, and to be arranged
      discreetly. Their general quarters were established in that village over
      there, where the infernal clodhoppers&mdash;damn their false, Royalist
      hearts!&mdash;looked remarkably cross-eyed at three unassuming military
      men. For the present he should only ask for the name of General D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s
      friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What friends?&rdquo; said the astonished General D&rsquo;Hubert, completely off the
      track. &ldquo;I am staying with my brother-in-law over there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he will do for one,&rdquo; said the chipped veteran.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We&rsquo;re the friends of General Feraud,&rdquo; interjected the other, who had kept
      silent till then, only glowering with his one eye at the man who had never
      loved the Emperor. That was something to look at. For even the gold-laced
      Judases who had sold him to the English, the marshals and princes, had
      loved him at some time or other. But this man had never loved the Emperor.
      General Feraud had said so distinctly.
    </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert felt an inward blow in his chest. For an infinitesimal
      fraction of a second it was as if the spinning of the earth had become
      perceptible with an awful, slight rustle in the eternal stillness of
      space. But this noise of blood in his ears passed off at once.
      Involuntarily he murmured, &ldquo;Feraud! I had forgotten his existence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s existing at present, very uncomfortably, it is true, in the infamous
      inn of that nest of savages up there,&rdquo; said the one-eyed cuirassier,
      drily. &ldquo;We arrived in your parts an hour ago on post horses. He&rsquo;s awaiting
      our return with impatience. There is hurry, you know. The General has
      broken the ministerial order to obtain from you the satisfaction he&rsquo;s
      entitled to by the laws of honour, and naturally he&rsquo;s anxious to have it
      all over before the gendarmerie gets on his scent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other elucidated the idea a little further. &ldquo;Get back on the quiet&mdash;you
      understand? Phitt! No one the wiser. We have broken out, too. Your friend
      the king would be glad to cut off our scurvy pittances at the first
      chance. It&rsquo;s a risk. But honour before everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert had recovered his powers of speech. &ldquo;So you come here
      like this along the road to invite me to a throat-cutting match with that&mdash;that
      . . .&rdquo; A laughing sort of rage took possession of him. &ldquo;Ha! ha! ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His fists on his hips, he roared without restraint, while they stood
      before him lank and straight, as though they had been shot up with a snap
      through a trap door in the ground. Only four-and-twenty months ago the
      masters of Europe, they had already the air of antique ghosts, they seemed
      less substantial in their faded coats than their own narrow shadows
      falling so black across the white road: the military and grotesque shadows
      of twenty years of war and conquests. They had an outlandish appearance of
      two imperturbable bonzes of the religion of the sword. And General
      D&rsquo;Hubert, also one of the ex-masters of Europe, laughed at these serious
      phantoms standing in his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      Said one, indicating the laughing General with a jerk of the head: &ldquo;A
      merry companion, that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are some of us that haven&rsquo;t smiled from the day The Other went
      away,&rdquo; remarked his comrade.
    </p>
    <p>
      A violent impulse to set upon and beat those unsubstantial wraiths to the
      ground frightened General D&rsquo;Hubert. He ceased laughing suddenly. His
      desire now was to get rid of them, to get them away from his sight quickly
      before he lost control of himself. He wondered at the fury he felt rising
      in his breast. But he had no time to look into that peculiarity just then.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand your wish to be done with me as quickly as possible. Don&rsquo;t
      let us waste time in empty ceremonies. Do you see that wood there at the
      foot of that slope? Yes, the wood of pines. Let us meet there to-morrow at
      sunrise. I will bring with me my sword or my pistols, or both if you
      like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The seconds of General Feraud looked at each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pistols, General,&rdquo; said the cuirassier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So be it. Au revoir&mdash;to-morrow morning. Till then let me advise you
      to keep close if you don&rsquo;t want the gendarmerie making inquiries about you
      before it gets dark. Strangers are rare in this part of the country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They saluted in silence. General D&rsquo;Hubert, turning his back on their
      retreating forms, stood still in the middle of the road for a long time,
      biting his lower lip and looking on the ground. Then he began to walk
      straight before him, thus retracing his steps till he found himself before
      the park gate of his intended&rsquo;s house. Dusk had fallen. Motionless he
      stared through the bars at the front of the house, gleaming clear beyond
      the thickets and trees. Footsteps scrunched on the gravel, and presently a
      tall stooping shape emerged from the lateral alley following the inner
      side of the park wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Le Chevalier de Valmassigue, uncle of the adorable Adele, ex-brigadier in
      the army of the Princes, bookbinder in Altona, afterwards shoemaker (with
      a great reputation for elegance in the fit of ladies&rsquo; shoes) in another
      small German town, wore silk stockings on his lean shanks, low shoes with
      silver buckles, a brocaded waistcoat. A long-skirted coat, a la francaise,
      covered loosely his thin, bowed back. A small three-cornered hat rested on
      a lot of powdered hair, tied in a queue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur le Chevalier,&rdquo; called General D&rsquo;Hubert, softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? You here again, mon ami? Have you forgotten something?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By heavens! that&rsquo;s just it. I have forgotten something. I am come to tell
      you of it. No&mdash;outside. Behind this wall. It&rsquo;s too ghastly a thing to
      be let in at all where she lives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Chevalier came out at once with that benevolent resignation some old
      people display towards the fugue of youth. Older by a quarter of a century
      than General D&rsquo;Hubert, he looked upon him in the secret of his heart as a
      rather troublesome youngster in love. He had heard his enigmatical words
      very well, but attached no undue importance to what a mere man of forty so
      hard hit was likely to do or say. The turn of mind of the generation of
      Frenchmen grown up during the years of his exile was almost unintelligible
      to him. Their sentiments appeared to him unduly violent, lacking fineness
      and measure, their language needlessly exaggerated. He joined calmly the
      General on the road, and they made a few steps in silence, the General
      trying to master his agitation, and get proper control of his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is perfectly true; I forgot something. I forgot till half an hour ago
      that I had an urgent affair of honour on my hands. It&rsquo;s incredible, but it
      is so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All was still for a moment. Then in the profound evening silence of the
      countryside the clear, aged voice of the Chevalier was heard trembling
      slightly: &ldquo;Monsieur! That&rsquo;s an indignity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was his first thought. The girl born during his exile, the posthumous
      daughter of his poor brother murdered by a band of Jacobins, had grown
      since his return very dear to his old heart, which had been starving on
      mere memories of affection for so many years. &ldquo;It is an inconceivable
      thing, I say! A man settles such affairs before he thinks of asking for a
      young girl&rsquo;s hand. Why! If you had forgotten for ten days longer, you
      would have been married before your memory returned to you. In my time men
      did not forget such things&mdash;nor yet what is due to the feelings of an
      innocent young woman. If I did not respect them myself, I would qualify
      your conduct in a way which you would not like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert relieved himself frankly by a groan. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t let that
      consideration prevent you. You run no risk of offending her mortally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the old man paid no attention to this lover&rsquo;s nonsense. It&rsquo;s doubtful
      whether he even heard. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the nature of . . .
      ?&rdquo; &ldquo;Call it a youthful folly, Monsieur le Chevalier. An inconceivable,
      incredible result of . . .&rdquo; He stopped short. &ldquo;He will never believe the
      story,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;He will only think I am taking him for a fool, and
      get offended.&rdquo; General D&rsquo;Hubert spoke up again: &ldquo;Yes, originating in
      youthful folly, it has become . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Chevalier interrupted: &ldquo;Well, then it must be arranged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Arranged?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, no matter at what cost to your amour propre. You should have
      remembered you were engaged. You forgot that, too, I suppose. And then you
      go and forget your quarrel. It&rsquo;s the most hopeless exhibition of levity I
      ever heard of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens, Monsieur! You don&rsquo;t imagine I have been picking up this
      quarrel last time I was in Paris, or anything of the sort, do you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! What matters the precise date of your insane conduct,&rdquo; exclaimed the
      Chevalier, testily. &ldquo;The principal thing is to arrange it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Noticing General D&rsquo;Hubert getting restive and trying to place a word, the
      old emigre raised his hand, and added with dignity, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been a soldier,
      too. I would never dare suggest a doubtful step to the man whose name my
      niece is to bear. I tell you that entre galants hommes an affair can
      always be arranged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But saperiotte, Monsieur le Chevalier, it&rsquo;s fifteen or sixteen years ago.
      I was a lieutenant of hussars then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old Chevalier seemed confounded by the vehemently despairing tone of
      this information. &ldquo;You were a lieutenant of hussars sixteen years ago,&rdquo; he
      mumbled in a dazed manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes! You did not suppose I was made a general in my cradle like a
      royal prince.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the deepening purple twilight of the fields spread with vine leaves,
      backed by a low band of sombre crimson in the west, the voice of the old
      ex-officer in the army of the Princes sounded collected, punctiliously
      civil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I dream? Is this a pleasantry? Or am I to understand that you have
      been hatching an affair of honour for sixteen years?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It has clung to me for that length of time. That is my precise meaning.
      The quarrel itself is not to be explained easily. We met on the ground
      several times during that time, of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What manners! What horrible perversion of manliness! Nothing can account
      for such inhumanity but the sanguinary madness of the Revolution which has
      tainted a whole generation,&rdquo; mused the returned emigre in a low tone.
      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s your adversary?&rdquo; he asked a little louder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My adversary? His name is Feraud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Shadowy in his tricorne and old-fashioned clothes, like a bowed, thin
      ghost of the ancien regime, the Chevalier voiced a ghostly memory. &ldquo;I can
      remember the feud about little Sophie Derval, between Monsieur de Brissac,
      Captain in the Bodyguards, and d&rsquo;Anjorrant (not the pock-marked one, the
      other&mdash;the Beau d&rsquo;Anjorrant, as they called him). They met three
      times in eighteen months in a most gallant manner. It was the fault of
      that little Sophie, too, who would keep on playing . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is nothing of the kind,&rdquo; interrupted General D&rsquo;Hubert. He laughed a
      little sardonically. &ldquo;Not at all so simple,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;Nor yet half so
      reasonable,&rdquo; he finished, inaudibly, between his teeth, and ground them
      with rage.
    </p>
    <p>
      After this sound nothing troubled the silence for a long time, till the
      Chevalier asked, without animation: &ldquo;What is he&mdash;this Feraud?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lieutenant of hussars, too&mdash;I mean, he&rsquo;s a general. A Gascon. Son of
      a blacksmith, I believe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! I thought so. That Bonaparte had a special predilection for the
      canaille. I don&rsquo;t mean this for you, D&rsquo;Hubert. You are one of us, though
      you have served this usurper, who . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s leave him out of this,&rdquo; broke in General D&rsquo;Hubert.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Chevalier shrugged his peaked shoulders. &ldquo;Feraud of sorts. Offspring
      of a blacksmith and some village troll. See what comes of mixing yourself
      up with that sort of people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have made shoes yourself, Chevalier.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. But I am not the son of a shoemaker. Neither are you, Monsieur
      D&rsquo;Hubert. You and I have something that your Bonaparte&rsquo;s princes, dukes,
      and marshals have not, because there&rsquo;s no power on earth that could give
      it to them,&rdquo; retorted the emigre, with the rising animation of a man who
      has got hold of a hopeful argument. &ldquo;Those people don&rsquo;t exist&mdash;all
      these Ferauds. Feraud! What is Feraud? A va-nu-pieds disguised into a
      general by a Corsican adventurer masquerading as an emperor. There is no
      earthly reason for a D&rsquo;Hubert to s&rsquo;encanailler by a duel with a person of
      that sort. You can make your excuses to him perfectly well. And if the
      manant takes into his head to decline them, you may simply refuse to meet
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say I may do that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do. With the clearest conscience.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur le Chevalier! To what do you think you have returned from your
      emigration?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was said in such a startling tone that the old man raised sharply his
      bowed head, glimmering silvery white under the points of the little
      tricorne. For a time he made no sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God knows!&rdquo; he said at last, pointing with a slow and grave gesture at a
      tall roadside cross mounted on a block of stone, and stretching its arms
      of forged iron all black against the darkening red band in the sky&mdash;&ldquo;God
      knows! If it were not for this emblem, which I remember seeing on this
      spot as a child, I would wonder to what we who remained faithful to God
      and our king have returned. The very voices of the people have changed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it is a changed France,&rdquo; said General D&rsquo;Hubert. He seemed to have
      regained his calm. His tone was slightly ironic. &ldquo;Therefore I cannot take
      your advice. Besides, how is one to refuse to be bitten by a dog that
      means to bite? It&rsquo;s impracticable. Take my word for it&mdash;Feraud isn&rsquo;t
      a man to be stayed by apologies or refusals. But there are other ways. I
      could, for instance, send a messenger with a word to the brigadier of the
      gendarmerie in Senlac. He and his two friends are liable to arrest on my
      simple order. It would make some talk in the army, both the organized and
      the disbanded&mdash;especially the disbanded. All canaille! All once upon
      a time the companions in arms of Armand D&rsquo;Hubert. But what need a D&rsquo;Hubert
      care what people that don&rsquo;t exist may think? Or, better still, I might get
      my brother-in-law to send for the mayor of the village and give him a
      hint. No more would be needed to get the three &lsquo;brigands&rsquo; set upon with
      flails and pitchforks and hunted into some nice, deep, wet ditch&mdash;and
      nobody the wiser! It has been done only ten miles from here to three poor
      devils of the disbanded Red Lancers of the Guard going to their homes.
      What says your conscience, Chevalier? Can a D&rsquo;Hubert do that thing to
      three men who do not exist?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A few stars had come out on the blue obscurity, clear as crystal, of the
      sky. The dry, thin voice of the Chevalier spoke harshly: &ldquo;Why are you
      telling me all this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The General seized the withered old hand with a strong grip. &ldquo;Because I
      owe you my fullest confidence. Who could tell Adele but you? You
      understand why I dare not trust my brother-in-law nor yet my own sister.
      Chevalier! I have been so near doing these things that I tremble yet. You
      don&rsquo;t know how terrible this duel appears to me. And there&rsquo;s no escape
      from it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He murmured after a pause, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a fatality,&rdquo; dropped the Chevalier&rsquo;s
      passive hand, and said in his ordinary conversational voice, &ldquo;I shall have
      to go without seconds. If it is my lot to remain on the ground, you at
      least will know all that can be made known of this affair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shadowy ghost of the ancien regime seemed to have become more bowed
      during the conversation. &ldquo;How am I to keep an indifferent face this
      evening before these two women?&rdquo; he groaned. &ldquo;General! I find it very
      difficult to forgive you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General D &lsquo;Hubert made no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is your cause good, at least?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am innocent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This time he seized the Chevalier&rsquo;s ghostly arm above the elbow, and gave
      it a mighty squeeze. &ldquo;I must kill him!&rdquo; he hissed, and opening his hand
      strode away down the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      The delicate attentions of his adoring sister had secured for the General
      perfect liberty of movement in the house where he was a guest. He had even
      his own entrance through a small door in one corner of the orangery. Thus
      he was not exposed that evening to the necessity of dissembling his
      agitation before the calm ignorance of the other inmates. He was glad of
      it. It seemed to him that if he had to open his lips he would break out
      into horrible and aimless imprecations, start breaking furniture, smashing
      china and glass. From the moment he opened the private door and while
      ascending the twenty-eight steps of a winding staircase, giving access to
      the corridor on which his room opened, he went through a horrible and
      humiliating scene in which an infuriated madman with blood-shot eyes and a
      foaming mouth played inconceivable havoc with everything inanimate that
      may be found in a well-appointed dining-room. When he opened the door of
      his apartment the fit was over, and his bodily fatigue was so great that
      he had to catch at the backs of the chairs while crossing the room to
      reach a low and broad divan on which he let himself fall heavily. His
      moral prostration was still greater. That brutality of feeling which he
      had known only when charging the enemy, sabre in hand, amazed this man of
      forty, who did not recognize in it the instinctive fury of his menaced
      passion. But in his mental and bodily exhaustion this passion got cleared,
      distilled, refined into a sentiment of melancholy despair at having,
      perhaps, to die before he had taught this beautiful girl to love him.
    </p>
    <p>
      That night, General D&rsquo;Hubert stretched out on his back with his hands over
      his eyes, or lying on his breast with his face buried in a cushion, made
      the full pilgrimage of emotions. Nauseating disgust at the absurdity of
      the situation, doubt of his own fitness to conduct his existence, and
      mistrust of his best sentiments (for what the devil did he want to go to
      Fouche for?)&mdash;he knew them all in turn. &ldquo;I am an idiot, neither more
      nor less,&rdquo; he thought&mdash;&ldquo;A sensitive idiot. Because I overheard two
      men talking in a cafe. . . . I am an idiot afraid of lies&mdash;whereas in
      life it is only truth that matters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Several times he got up and, walking in his socks in order not to be heard
      by anybody downstairs, drank all the water he could find in the dark. And
      he tasted the torments of jealousy, too. She would marry somebody else.
      His very soul writhed. The tenacity of that Feraud, the awful persistence
      of that imbecile brute, came to him with the tremendous force of a
      relentless destiny. General D&rsquo;Hubert trembled as he put down the empty
      water ewer. &ldquo;He will have me,&rdquo; he thought. General D&rsquo;Hubert was tasting
      every emotion that life has to give. He had in his dry mouth the faint
      sickly flavour of fear, not the excusable fear before a young girl&rsquo;s
      candid and amused glance, but the fear of death and the honourable man&rsquo;s
      fear of cowardice.
    </p>
    <p>
      But if true courage consists in going out to meet an odious danger from
      which our body, soul, and heart recoil together, General D&rsquo;Hubert had the
      opportunity to practise it for the first time in his life. He had charged
      exultingly at batteries and at infantry squares, and ridden with messages
      through a hail of bullets without thinking anything about it. His business
      now was to sneak out unheard, at break of day, to an obscure and revolting
      death. General D&rsquo;Hubert never hesitated. He carried two pistols in a
      leather bag which he slung over his shoulder. Before he had crossed the
      garden his mouth was dry again. He picked two oranges. It was only after
      shutting the gate after him that he felt a slight faintness.
    </p>
    <p>
      He staggered on, disregarding it, and after going a few yards regained the
      command of his legs. In the colourless and pellucid dawn the wood of pines
      detached its columns of trunks and its dark green canopy very clearly
      against the rocks of the grey hillside. He kept his eyes fixed on it
      steadily, and sucked at an orange as he walked. That temperamental
      good-humoured coolness in the face of danger which had made him an officer
      liked by his men and appreciated by his superiors was gradually asserting
      itself. It was like going into battle. Arriving at the edge of the wood he
      sat down on a boulder, holding the other orange in his hand, and
      reproached himself for coming so ridiculously early on the ground. Before
      very long, however, he heard the swishing of bushes, footsteps on the hard
      ground, and the sounds of a disjointed, loud conversation. A voice
      somewhere behind him said boastfully, &ldquo;He&rsquo;s game for my bag.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He thought to himself, &ldquo;Here they are. What&rsquo;s this about game? Are they
      talking of me?&rdquo; And becoming aware of the other orange in his hand, he
      thought further, &ldquo;These are very good oranges. Leonie&rsquo;s own tree. I may
      just as well eat this orange now instead of flinging it away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Emerging from a wilderness of rocks and bushes, General Feraud and his
      seconds discovered General D&rsquo;Hubert engaged in peeling the orange. They
      stood still, waiting till he looked up. Then the seconds raised their
      hats, while General Feraud, putting his hands behind his back, walked
      aside a little way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am compelled to ask one of you, messieurs, to act for me. I have
      brought no friends. Will you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The one-eyed cuirassier said judicially, &ldquo;That cannot be refused.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other veteran remarked, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s awkward all the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Owing to the state of the people&rsquo;s minds in this part of the country
      there was no one I could trust safely with the object of your presence
      here,&rdquo; explained General D&rsquo;Hubert, urbanely.
    </p>
    <p>
      They saluted, looked round, and remarked both together:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor ground.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s unfit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why bother about ground, measurements, and so on? Let us simplify
      matters. Load the two pairs of pistols. I will take those of General
      Feraud, and let him take mine. Or, better still, let us take a mixed pair.
      One of each pair. Then let us go into the wood and shoot at sight, while
      you remain outside. We did not come here for ceremonies, but for war&mdash;war
      to the death. Any ground is good enough for that. If I fall, you must
      leave me where I lie and clear out. It wouldn&rsquo;t be healthy for you to be
      found hanging about here after that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It appeared after a short parley that General Feraud was willing to accept
      these conditions. While the seconds were loading the pistols, he could be
      heard whistling, and was seen to rub his hands with perfect contentment.
      He flung off his coat briskly, and General D &lsquo;Hubert took off his own and
      folded it carefully on a stone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose you take your principal to the other side of the wood and let him
      enter exactly in ten minutes from now,&rdquo; suggested General D&rsquo;Hubert,
      calmly, but feeling as if he were giving directions for his own execution.
      This, however, was his last moment of weakness. &ldquo;Wait. Let us compare
      watches first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He pulled out his own. The officer with the chipped nose went over to
      borrow the watch of General Feraud. They bent their heads over them for a
      time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it. At four minutes to six by yours. Seven to by mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the cuirassier who remained by the side of General D&rsquo;Hubert,
      keeping his one eye fixed immovably on the white face of the watch he held
      in the palm of his hand. He opened his mouth, waiting for the beat of the
      last second long before he snapped out the word, &ldquo;Avancez.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert moved on, passing from the glaring sunshine of the
      Provencal morning into the cool and aromatic shade of the pines. The
      ground was clear between the reddish trunks, whose multitude, leaning at
      slightly different angles, confused his eye at first. It was like going
      into battle. The commanding quality of confidence in himself woke up in
      his breast. He was all to his affair. The problem was how to kill the
      adversary. Nothing short of that would free him from this imbecile
      nightmare. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s no use wounding that brute,&rdquo; thought General D&rsquo;Hubert. He
      was known as a resourceful officer. His comrades years ago used also to
      call him The Strategist. And it was a fact that he could think in the
      presence of the enemy. Whereas Feraud had been always a mere fighter&mdash;but
      a dead shot, unluckily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must draw his fire at the greatest possible range,&rdquo; said General
      D&rsquo;Hubert to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment he saw something white moving far off between the trees&mdash;the
      shirt of his adversary. He stepped out at once between the trunks,
      exposing himself freely; then, quick as lightning, leaped back. It had
      been a risky move but it succeeded in its object. Almost simultaneously
      with the pop of a shot a small piece of bark chipped off by the bullet
      stung his ear painfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      General Feraud, with one shot expended, was getting cautious. Peeping
      round the tree, General D&rsquo;Hubert could not see him at all. This ignorance
      of the foe&rsquo;s whereabouts carried with it a sense of insecurity. General
      D&rsquo;Hubert felt himself abominably exposed on his flank and rear. Again
      something white fluttered in his sight. Ha! The enemy was still on his
      front, then. He had feared a turning movement. But apparently General
      Feraud was not thinking of it. General D&rsquo;Hubert saw him pass without
      special haste from one tree to another in the straight line of approach.
      With great firmness of mind General D&rsquo;Hubert stayed his hand. Too far yet.
      He knew he was no marksman. His must be a waiting game&mdash;to kill.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wishing to take advantage of the greater thickness of the trunk, he sank
      down to the ground. Extended at full length, head on to his enemy, he had
      his person completely protected. Exposing himself would not do now,
      because the other was too near by this time. A conviction that Feraud
      would presently do something rash was like balm to General D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s
      soul. But to keep his chin raised off the ground was irksome, and not much
      use either. He peeped round, exposing a fraction of his head with dread,
      but really with little risk. His enemy, as a matter of fact, did not
      expect to see anything of him so far down as that. General D&rsquo;Hubert caught
      a fleeting view of General Feraud shifting trees again with deliberate
      caution. &ldquo;He despises my shooting,&rdquo; he thought, displaying that insight
      into the mind of his antagonist which is of such great help in winning
      battles. He was confirmed in his tactics of immobility. &ldquo;If I could only
      watch my rear as well as my front!&rdquo; he thought anxiously, longing for the
      impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      It required some force of character to lay his pistols down; but, on a
      sudden impulse, General D&rsquo;Hubert did this very gently&mdash;one on each
      side of him. In the army he had been looked upon as a bit of a dandy
      because he used to shave and put on a clean shirt on the days of battle.
      As a matter of fact, he had always been very careful of his personal
      appearance. In a man of nearly forty, in love with a young and charming
      girl, this praiseworthy self-respect may run to such little weaknesses as,
      for instance, being provided with an elegant little leather folding-case
      containing a small ivory comb, and fitted with a piece of looking-glass on
      the outside. General D&rsquo;Hubert, his hands being free, felt in his breeches&rsquo; 
      pockets for that implement of innocent vanity excusable in the possessor
      of long, silky moustaches. He drew it out, and then with the utmost
      coolness and promptitude turned himself over on his back. In this new
      attitude, his head a little raised, holding the little looking-glass just
      clear of his tree, he squinted into it with his left eye, while the right
      kept a direct watch on the rear of his position. Thus was proved
      Napoleon&rsquo;s saying, that &ldquo;for a French soldier, the word impossible does
      not exist.&rdquo; He had the right tree nearly filling the field of his little
      mirror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he moves from behind it,&rdquo; he reflected with satisfaction, &ldquo;I am bound
      to see his legs. But in any case he can&rsquo;t come upon me unawares.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And sure enough he saw the boots of General Feraud flash in and out,
      eclipsing for an instant everything else reflected in the little mirror.
      He shifted its position accordingly. But having to form his judgment of
      the change from that indirect view he did not realize that now his feet
      and a portion of his legs were in plain sight of General Feraud.
    </p>
    <p>
      General Feraud had been getting gradually impressed by the amazing
      cleverness with which his enemy was keeping cover. He had spotted the
      right tree with bloodthirsty precision. He was absolutely certain of it.
      And yet he had not been able to glimpse as much as the tip of an ear. As
      he had been looking for it at the height of about five feet ten inches
      from the ground it was no great wonder&mdash;but it seemed very wonderful
      to General Feraud.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first view of these feet and legs determined a rush of blood to his
      head. He literally staggered behind his tree, and had to steady himself
      against it with his hand. The other was lying on the ground, then! On the
      ground! Perfectly still, too! Exposed! What could it mean? . . . The
      notion that he had knocked over his adversary at the first shot entered
      then General Feraud&rsquo;s head. Once there it grew with every second of
      attentive gazing, overshadowing every other supposition&mdash;irresistible,
      triumphant, ferocious.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What an ass I was to think I could have missed him,&rdquo; he muttered to
      himself. &ldquo;He was exposed en plein&mdash;the fool!&mdash;for quite a couple
      of seconds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General Feraud gazed at the motionless limbs, the last vestiges of
      surprise fading before an unbounded admiration of his own deadly skill
      with the pistol.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Turned up his toes! By the god of war, that was a shot!&rdquo; he exulted
      mentally. &ldquo;Got it through the head, no doubt, just where I aimed,
      staggered behind that tree, rolled over on his back, and died.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he stared! He stared, forgetting to move, almost awed, almost sorry.
      But for nothing in the world would he have had it undone. Such a shot!&mdash;such
      a shot! Rolled over on his back and died!
    </p>
    <p>
      For it was this helpless position, lying on the back, that shouted its
      direct evidence at General Feraud! It never occurred to him that it might
      have been deliberately assumed by a living man. It was inconceivable. It
      was beyond the range of sane supposition. There was no possibility to
      guess the reason for it. And it must be said, too, that General D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s
      turned-up feet looked thoroughly dead. General Feraud expanded his lungs
      for a stentorian shout to his seconds, but, from what he felt to be an
      excessive scrupulousness, refrained for a while.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will just go and see first whether he breathes yet,&rdquo; he mumbled to
      himself, leaving carelessly the shelter of his tree. This move was
      immediately perceived by the resourceful General D&rsquo;Hubert. He concluded it
      to be another shift, but when he lost the boots out of the field of the
      mirror he became uneasy. General Feraud had only stepped a little out of
      the line, but his adversary could not possibly have supposed him walking
      up with perfect unconcern. General D&rsquo;Hubert, beginning to wonder at what
      had become of the other, was taken unawares so completely that the first
      warning of danger consisted in the long, early-morning shadow of his enemy
      falling aslant on his outstretched legs. He had not even heard a footfall
      on the soft ground between the trees!
    </p>
    <p>
      It was too much even for his coolness. He jumped up thoughtlessly, leaving
      the pistols on the ground. The irresistible instinct of an average man
      (unless totally paralyzed by discomfiture) would have been to stoop for
      his weapons, exposing himself to the risk of being shot down in that
      position. Instinct, of course, is irreflective. It is its very definition.
      But it may be an inquiry worth pursuing whether in reflective mankind the
      mechanical promptings of instinct are not affected by the customary mode
      of thought. In his young days, Armand D&rsquo;Hubert, the reflective, promising
      officer, had emitted the opinion that in warfare one should &ldquo;never cast
      back on the lines of a mistake.&rdquo; This idea, defended and developed in many
      discussions, had settled into one of the stock notions of his brain, had
      become a part of his mental individuality. Whether it had gone so
      inconceivably deep as to affect the dictates of his instinct, or simply
      because, as he himself declared afterwards, he was &ldquo;too scared to remember
      the confounded pistols,&rdquo; the fact is that General D&rsquo;Hubert never attempted
      to stoop for them. Instead of going back on his mistake, he seized the
      rough trunk with both hands, and swung himself behind it with such
      impetuosity that, going right round in the very flash and report of the
      pistol-shot, he reappeared on the other side of the tree face to face with
      General Feraud. This last, completely unstrung by such a show of agility
      on the part of a dead man, was trembling yet. A very faint mist of smoke
      hung before his face which had an extraordinary aspect, as if the lower
      jaw had come unhinged.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not missed!&rdquo; he croaked, hoarsely, from the depths of a dry throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      This sinister sound loosened the spell that had fallen on General
      D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s senses. &ldquo;Yes, missed&mdash;a bout portant,&rdquo; he heard himself
      saying, almost before he had recovered the full command of his faculties.
      The revulsion of feeling was accompanied by a gust of homicidal fury,
      resuming in its violence the accumulated resentment of a lifetime. For
      years General D &lsquo;Hubert had been exasperated and humiliated by an
      atrocious absurdity imposed upon him by this man&rsquo;s savage caprice.
      Besides, General D&rsquo;Hubert had been in this last instance too unwilling to
      confront death for the reaction of his anguish not to take the shape of a
      desire to kill. &ldquo;And I have my two shots to fire yet,&rdquo; he added,
      pitilessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      General Feraud snapped-to his teeth, and his face assumed an irate,
      undaunted expression. &ldquo;Go on!&rdquo; he said, grimly.
    </p>
    <p>
      These would have been his last words if General D&rsquo;Hubert had been holding
      the pistols in his hands. But the pistols were lying on the ground at the
      foot of a pine. General D&rsquo;Hubert had the second of leisure necessary to
      remember that he had dreaded death not as a man, but as a lover; not as a
      danger, but as a rival; not as a foe to life, but as an obstacle to
      marriage. And behold! there was the rival defeated!&mdash;utterly
      defeated, crushed, done for!
    </p>
    <p>
      He picked up the weapons mechanically, and, instead of firing them into
      General Feraud&rsquo;s breast, he gave expression to the thoughts uppermost in
      his mind, &ldquo;You will fight no more duels now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His tone of leisurely, ineffable satisfaction was too much for General
      Feraud&rsquo;s stoicism. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t dawdle, then, damn you for a cold-blooded
      staff-coxcomb!&rdquo; he roared out, suddenly, out of an impassive face held
      erect on a rigidly still body.
    </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert uncocked the pistols carefully. This proceeding was
      observed with mixed feelings by the other general. &ldquo;You missed me twice,&rdquo;
       the victor said, coolly, shifting both pistols to one hand; &ldquo;the last time
      within a foot or so. By every rule of single combat your life belongs to
      me. That does not mean that I want to take it now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no use for your forbearance,&rdquo; muttered General Feraud, gloomily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Allow me to point out that this is no concern of mine,&rdquo; said General
      D&rsquo;Hubert, whose every word was dictated by a consummate delicacy of
      feeling. In anger he could have killed that man, but in cold blood he
      recoiled from humiliating by a show of generosity this unreasonable being&mdash;a
      fellow-soldier of the Grande Armee, a companion in the wonders and terrors
      of the great military epic. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t set up the pretension of dictating
      to me what I am to do with what&rsquo;s my own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General Feraud looked startled, and the other continued, &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve forced me
      on a point of honour to keep my life at your disposal, as it were, for
      fifteen years. Very well. Now that the matter is decided to my advantage,
      I am going to do what I like with your life on the same principle. You
      shall keep it at my disposal as long as I choose. Neither more nor less.
      You are on your honour till I say the word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am! But, sacrebleu! This is an absurd position for a General of the
      Empire to be placed in!&rdquo; cried General Feraud, in accents of profound and
      dismayed conviction. &ldquo;It amounts to sitting all the rest of my life with a
      loaded pistol in a drawer waiting for your word. It&rsquo;s&mdash;it&rsquo;s idiotic;
      I shall be an object of&mdash;of&mdash;derision.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Absurd?&mdash;idiotic? Do you think so?&rdquo; queried General D&rsquo;Hubert with
      sly gravity. &ldquo;Perhaps. But I don&rsquo;t see how that can be helped. However, I
      am not likely to talk at large of this adventure. Nobody need ever know
      anything about it. Just as no one to this day, I believe, knows the origin
      of our quarrel. . . . Not a word more,&rdquo; he added, hastily. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t really
      discuss this question with a man who, as far as I am concerned, does not
      exist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the two duellists came out into the open, General Feraud walking a
      little behind, and rather with the air of walking in a trance, the two
      seconds hurried towards them, each from his station at the edge of the
      wood. General D&rsquo;Hubert addressed them, speaking loud and distinctly,
      &ldquo;Messieurs, I make it a point of declaring to you solemnly, in the
      presence of General Feraud, that our difference is at last settled for
      good. You may inform all the world of that fact.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A reconciliation, after all!&rdquo; they exclaimed together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reconciliation? Not that exactly. It is something much more binding. Is
      it not so, General?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General Feraud only lowered his head in sign of assent. The two veterans
      looked at each other. Later in the day, when they found themselves alone
      out of their moody friend&rsquo;s earshot, the cuirassier remarked suddenly,
      &ldquo;Generally speaking, I can see with my one eye as far as most people; but
      this beats me. He won&rsquo;t say anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In this affair of honour I understand there has been from first to last
      always something that no one in the army could quite make out,&rdquo; declared
      the chasseur with the imperfect nose. &ldquo;In mystery it began, in mystery it
      went on, in mystery it is to end, apparently.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert walked home with long, hasty strides, by no means
      uplifted by a sense of triumph. He had conquered, yet it did not seem to
      him that he had gained very much by his conquest. The night before he had
      grudged the risk of his life which appeared to him magnificent, worthy of
      preservation as an opportunity to win a girl&rsquo;s love. He had known moments
      when, by a marvellous illusion, this love seemed to be already his, and
      his threatened life a still more magnificent opportunity of devotion. Now
      that his life was safe it had suddenly lost its special magnificence. It
      had acquired instead a specially alarming aspect as a snare for the
      exposure of unworthiness. As to the marvellous illusion of conquered love
      that had visited him for a moment in the agitated watches of the night,
      which might have been his last on earth, he comprehended now its true
      nature. It had been merely a paroxysm of delirious conceit. Thus to this
      man, sobered by the victorious issue of a duel, life appeared robbed of
      its charm, simply because it was no longer menaced.
    </p>
    <p>
      Approaching the house from the back, through the orchard and the kitchen
      garden, he could not notice the agitation which reigned in front. He never
      met a single soul. Only while walking softly along the corridor, he became
      aware that the house was awake and more noisy than usual. Names of
      servants were being called out down below in a confused noise of coming
      and going. With some concern he noticed that the door of his own room
      stood ajar, though the shutters had not been opened yet. He had hoped that
      his early excursion would have passed unperceived. He expected to find
      some servant just gone in; but the sunshine filtering through the usual
      cracks enabled him to see lying on the low divan something bulky, which
      had the appearance of two women clasped in each other&rsquo;s arms. Tearful and
      desolate murmurs issued mysteriously from that appearance. General
      D&rsquo;Hubert pulled open the nearest pair of shutters violently. One of the
      women then jumped up. It was his sister. She stood for a moment with her
      hair hanging down and her arms raised straight up above her head, and then
      flung herself with a stifled cry into his arms. He returned her embrace,
      trying at the same time to disengage himself from it. The other woman had
      not risen. She seemed, on the contrary, to cling closer to the divan,
      hiding her face in the cushions. Her hair was also loose; it was admirably
      fair. General D&rsquo;Hubert recognized it with staggering emotion. Mademoiselle
      de Valmassigue! Adele! In distress!
    </p>
    <p>
      He became greatly alarmed, and got rid of his sister&rsquo;s hug definitely.
      Madame Leonie then extended her shapely bare arm out of her peignoir,
      pointing dramatically at the divan. &ldquo;This poor, terrified child has rushed
      here from home, on foot, two miles&mdash;running all the way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What on earth has happened?&rdquo; asked General D&rsquo;Hubert in a low, agitated
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Madame Leonie was speaking loudly. &ldquo;She rang the great bell at the
      gate and roused all the household&mdash;we were all asleep yet. You may
      imagine what a terrible shock. . . . Adele, my dear child, sit up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert&rsquo;s expression was not that of a man who &ldquo;imagines&rdquo; with
      facility. He did, however, fish out of the chaos of surmises the notion
      that his prospective mother-in-law had died suddenly, but only to dismiss
      it at once. He could not conceive the nature of the event or the
      catastrophe which would induce Mademoiselle de Valmassigue, living in a
      house full of servants, to bring the news over the fields herself, two
      miles, running all the way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why are you in this room?&rdquo; he whispered, full of awe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, I ran up to see, and this child . . . I did not notice it . .
      . she followed me. It&rsquo;s that absurd Chevalier,&rdquo; went on Madame Leonie,
      looking towards the divan. . . . &ldquo;Her hair is all come down. You may
      imagine she did not stop to call her maid to dress it before she started.
      . . Adele, my dear, sit up. . . . He blurted it all out to her at
      half-past five in the morning. She woke up early and opened her shutters
      to breathe the fresh air, and saw him sitting collapsed on a garden bench
      at the end of the great alley. At that hour&mdash;you may imagine! And the
      evening before he had declared himself indisposed. She hurried on some
      clothes and flew down to him. One would be anxious for less. He loves her,
      but not very intelligently. He had been up all night, fully dressed, the
      poor old man, perfectly exhausted. He wasn&rsquo;t in a state to invent a
      plausible story. . . . What a confidant you chose there! My husband was
      furious. He said, &lsquo;We can&rsquo;t interfere now.&rsquo; So we sat down to wait. It was
      awful. And this poor child running with her hair loose over here publicly!
      She has been seen by some people in the fields. She has roused the whole
      household, too. It&rsquo;s awkward for her. Luckily you are to be married next
      week. . . . Adele, sit up. He has come home on his own legs. . . . We
      expected to see you coming on a stretcher, perhaps&mdash;what do I know?
      Go and see if the carriage is ready. I must take this child home at once.
      It isn&rsquo;t proper for her to stay here a minute longer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert did not move. It was as though he had heard nothing.
      Madame Leonie changed her mind. &ldquo;I will go and see myself,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;I
      want also my cloak.&mdash;Adele&mdash;&rdquo; she began, but did not add &ldquo;sit
      up.&rdquo; She went out saying, in a very loud and cheerful tone: &ldquo;I leave the
      door open.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General D&rsquo;Hubert made a movement towards the divan, but then Adele sat up,
      and that checked him dead. He thought, &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t washed this morning. I
      must look like an old tramp. There&rsquo;s earth on the back of my coat and
      pine-needles in my hair.&rdquo; It occurred to him that the situation required a
      good deal of circumspection on his part.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am greatly concerned, mademoiselle,&rdquo; he began, vaguely, and abandoned
      that line. She was sitting up on the divan with her cheeks unusually pink
      and her hair, brilliantly fair, falling all over her shoulders&mdash;which
      was a very novel sight to the general. He walked away up the room, and
      looking out of the window for safety said, &ldquo;I fear you must think I
      behaved like a madman,&rdquo; in accents of sincere despair. Then he spun round,
      and noticed that she had followed him with her eyes. They were not cast
      down on meeting his glance. And the expression of her face was novel to
      him also. It was, one might have said, reversed. Those eyes looked at him
      with grave thoughtfulness, while the exquisite lines of her mouth seemed
      to suggest a restrained smile. This change made her transcendental beauty
      much less mysterious, much more accessible to a man&rsquo;s comprehension. An
      amazing ease of mind came to the general&mdash;and even some ease of
      manner. He walked down the room with as much pleasurable excitement as he
      would have found in walking up to a battery vomiting death, fire, and
      smoke; then stood looking down with smiling eyes at the girl whose
      marriage with him (next week) had been so carefully arranged by the wise,
      the good, the admirable Leonie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! mademoiselle,&rdquo; he said, in a tone of courtly regret, &ldquo;if only I could
      be certain that you did not come here this morning, two miles, running all
      the way, merely from affection for your mother!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He waited for an answer imperturbable but inwardly elated. It came in a
      demure murmur, eyelashes lowered with fascinating effect. &ldquo;You must not be
      mechant as well as mad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then General D&rsquo;Hubert made an aggressive movement towards the divan
      which nothing could check. That piece of furniture was not exactly in the
      line of the open door. But Madame Leonie, coming back wrapped up in a
      light cloak and carrying a lace shawl on her arm for Adele to hide her
      incriminating hair under, had a swift impression of her brother getting up
      from his knees.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come along, my dear child,&rdquo; she cried from the doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      The general, now himself again in the fullest sense, showed the readiness
      of a resourceful cavalry officer and the peremptoriness of a leader of
      men. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t expect her to walk to the carriage,&rdquo; he said, indignantly.
      &ldquo;She isn&rsquo;t fit. I shall carry her downstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This he did slowly, followed by his awed and respectful sister; but he
      rushed back like a whirlwind to wash off all the signs of the night of
      anguish and the morning of war, and to put on the festive garments of a
      conqueror before hurrying over to the other house. Had it not been for
      that, General D &lsquo;Hubert felt capable of mounting a horse and pursuing his
      late adversary in order simply to embrace him from excess of happiness. &ldquo;I
      owe it all to this stupid brute,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;He has made plain in a
      morning what might have taken me years to find out&mdash;for I am a timid
      fool. No self-confidence whatever. Perfect coward. And the Chevalier!
      Delightful old man!&rdquo; General D&rsquo;Hubert longed to embrace him also.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Chevalier was in bed. For several days he was very unwell. The men of
      the Empire and the post-revolution young ladies were too much for him. He
      got up the day before the wedding, and, being curious by nature, took his
      niece aside for a quiet talk. He advised her to find out from her husband
      the true story of the affair of honour, whose claim, so imperative and so
      persistent, had led her to within an ace of tragedy. &ldquo;It is right that his
      wife should be told. And next month or so will be your time to learn from
      him anything you want to know, my dear child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Later on, when the married couple came on a visit to the mother of the
      bride, Madame la Generale D&rsquo;Hubert communicated to her beloved old uncle
      the true story she had obtained without any difficulty from her husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Chevalier listened with deep attention to the end, took a pinch of
      snuff, flicked the grains of tobacco from the frilled front of his shirt,
      and asked, calmly, &ldquo;And that&rsquo;s all it was?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, uncle,&rdquo; replied Madame la Generale, opening her pretty eyes very
      wide. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it funny? C&rsquo;est insense&mdash;to think what men are capable
      of!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;H&rsquo;m!&rdquo; commented the old emigre. &ldquo;It depends what sort of men. That
      Bonaparte&rsquo;s soldiers were savages. It is insense. As a wife, my dear, you
      must believe implicitly what your husband says.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But to Leonie&rsquo;s husband the Chevalier confided his true opinion. &ldquo;If
      that&rsquo;s the tale the fellow made up for his wife, and during the honeymoon,
      too, you may depend on it that no one will ever know now the secret of
      this affair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Considerably later still, General D&rsquo;Hubert judged the time come, and the
      opportunity propitious to write a letter to General Feraud. This letter
      began by disclaiming all animosity. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve never,&rdquo; wrote the General Baron
      D&rsquo;Hubert, &ldquo;wished for your death during all the time of our deplorable
      quarrel. Allow me,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;to give you back in all form your
      forfeited life. It is proper that we two, who have been partners in so
      much military glory, should be friendly to each other publicly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The same letter contained also an item of domestic information. It was in
      reference to this last that General Feraud answered from a little village
      on the banks of the Garonne, in the following words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If one of your boy&rsquo;s names had been Napoleon&mdash;or Joseph&mdash;or
      even Joachim, I could congratulate you on the event with a better heart.
      As you have thought proper to give him the names of Charles Henri Armand,
      I am confirmed in my conviction that you never loved the Emperor. The
      thought of that sublime hero chained to a rock in the middle of a savage
      ocean makes life of so little value that I would receive with positive joy
      your instructions to blow my brains out. From suicide I consider myself in
      honour debarred. But I keep a loaded pistol in my drawer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame la Generale D&rsquo;Hubert lifted up her hands in despair after perusing
      that answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see? He won&rsquo;t be reconciled,&rdquo; said her husband. &ldquo;He must never, by
      any chance, be allowed to guess where the money comes from. It wouldn&rsquo;t
      do. He couldn&rsquo;t bear it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a brave homme, Armand,&rdquo; said Madame la Generale, appreciatively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, I had the right to blow his brains out; but as I didn&rsquo;t, we
      can&rsquo;t let him starve. He has lost his pension and he is utterly incapable
      of doing anything in the world for himself. We must take care of him,
      secretly, to the end of his days. Don&rsquo;t I owe him the most ecstatic moment
      of my life? . . . Ha! ha! ha! Over the fields, two miles, running all the
      way! I couldn&rsquo;t believe my ears! . . . But for his stupid ferocity, it
      would have taken me years to find you out. It&rsquo;s extraordinary how in one
      way or another this man has managed to fasten himself on my deeper
      feelings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      IL CONDE
    </h2>
    <h3>
      A PATHETIC TALE
    </h3>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Vedi Napoli e poi mori</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The first time we got into conversation was in the National Museum in
      Naples, in the rooms on the ground floor containing the famous collection
      of bronzes from Herculaneum and Pompeii: that marvellous legacy of antique
      art whose delicate perfection has been preserved for us by the
      catastrophic fury of a volcano.
    </p>
    <p>
      He addressed me first, over the celebrated Resting Hermes which we had
      been looking at side by side. He said the right things about that wholly
      admirable piece. Nothing profound. His taste was natural rather than
      cultivated. He had obviously seen many fine things in his life and
      appreciated them: but he had no jargon of a dilettante or the connoisseur.
      A hateful tribe. He spoke like a fairly intelligent man of the world, a
      perfectly unaffected gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      We had known each other by sight for some few days past. Staying in the
      same hotel&mdash;good, but not extravagantly up to date&mdash;I had
      noticed him in the vestibule going in and out. I judged he was an old and
      valued client. The bow of the hotel-keeper was cordial in its deference,
      and he acknowledged it with familiar courtesy. For the servants he was Il
      Conde. There was some squabble over a man&rsquo;s parasol&mdash;yellow silk with
      white lining sort of thing&mdash;the waiters had discovered abandoned
      outside the dining-room door. Our gold-laced door-keeper recognized it and
      I heard him directing one of the lift boys to run after Il Conde with it.
      Perhaps he was the only Count staying in the hotel, or perhaps he had the
      distinction of being the Count par excellence, conferred upon him because
      of his tried fidelity to the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having conversed at the Museo&mdash;(and by the by he had expressed his
      dislike of the busts and statues of Roman emperors in the gallery of
      marbles: their faces were too vigorous, too pronounced for him)&mdash;having
      conversed already in the morning I did not think I was intruding when in
      the evening, finding the dining-room very full, I proposed to share his
      little table. Judging by the quiet urbanity of his consent he did not
      think so either. His smile was very attractive.
    </p>
    <p>
      He dined in an evening waistcoat and a &ldquo;smoking&rdquo; (he called it so) with a
      black tie. All this of very good cut, not new&mdash;just as these things
      should be. He was, morning or evening, very correct in his dress. I have
      no doubt that his whole existence had been correct, well ordered and
      conventional, undisturbed by startling events. His white hair brushed
      upwards off a lofty forehead gave him the air of an idealist, of an
      imaginative man. His white moustache, heavy but carefully trimmed and
      arranged, was not unpleasantly tinted a golden yellow in the middle. The
      faint scent of some very good perfume, and of good cigars (that last an
      odour quite remarkable to come upon in Italy) reached me across the table.
      It was in his eyes that his age showed most. They were a little weary with
      creased eyelids. He must have been sixty or a couple of years more. And he
      was communicative. I would not go so far as to call it garrulous&mdash;but
      distinctly communicative.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had tried various climates, of Abbazia, of the Riviera, of other
      places, too, he told me, but the only one which suited him was the climate
      of the Gulf of Naples. The ancient Romans, who, he pointed out to me, were
      men expert in the art of living, knew very well what they were doing when
      they built their villas on these shores, in Baiae, in Vico, in Capri. They
      came down to this seaside in search of health, bringing with them their
      trains of mimes and flute-players to amuse their leisure. He thought it
      extremely probable that the Romans of the higher classes were specially
      predisposed to painful rheumatic affections.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the only personal opinion I heard him express. It was based on no
      special erudition. He knew no more of the Romans than an average informed
      man of the world is expected to know. He argued from personal experience.
      He had suffered himself from a painful and dangerous rheumatic affection
      till he found relief in this particular spot of Southern Europe.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was three years ago, and ever since he had taken up his quarters on
      the shores of the gulf, either in one of the hotels in Sorrento or hiring
      a small villa in Capri. He had a piano, a few books: picked up transient
      acquaintances of a day, week, or month in the stream of travellers from
      all Europe. One can imagine him going out for his walks in the streets and
      lanes, becoming known to beggars, shopkeepers, children, country people;
      talking amiably over the walls to the contadini&mdash;and coming back to
      his rooms or his villa to sit before the piano, with his white hair
      brushed up and his thick orderly moustache, &ldquo;to make a little music for
      myself.&rdquo; And, of course, for a change there was Naples near by&mdash;life,
      movement, animation, opera. A little amusement, as he said, is necessary
      for health. Mimes and flute-players, in fact. Only unlike the magnates of
      ancient Rome, he had no affairs of the city to call him away from these
      moderate delights. He had no affairs at all. Probably he had never had any
      grave affairs to attend to in his life. It was a kindly existence, with
      its joys and sorrows regulated by the course of Nature&mdash;marriages,
      births, deaths&mdash;ruled by the prescribed usages of good society and
      protected by the State.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a widower; but in the months of July and August he ventured to
      cross the Alps for six weeks on a visit to his married daughter. He told
      me her name. It was that of a very aristocratic family. She had a castle&mdash;in
      Bohemia, I think. This is as near as I ever came to ascertaining his
      nationality. His own name, strangely enough, he never mentioned. Perhaps
      he thought I had seen it on the published list. Truth to say, I never
      looked. At any rate, he was a good European&mdash;he spoke four languages
      to my certain knowledge&mdash;and a man of fortune. Not of great fortune
      evidently and appropriately. I imagine that to be extremely rich would
      have appeared to him improper, outre&mdash;too blatant altogether. And
      obviously, too, the fortune was not of his making. The making of a fortune
      cannot be achieved without some roughness. It is a matter of temperament.
      His nature was too kindly for strife. In the course of conversation he
      mentioned his estate quite by the way, in reference to that painful and
      alarming rheumatic affection. One year, staying incautiously beyond the
      Alps as late as the middle of September, he had been laid up for three
      months in that lonely country house with no one but his valet and the
      caretaking couple to attend to him. Because, as he expressed it, he &ldquo;kept
      no establishment there.&rdquo; He had only gone for a couple of days to confer
      with his land agent. He promised himself never to be so imprudent in the
      future. The first weeks of September would find him on the shores of his
      beloved gulf.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes in travelling one comes upon such lonely men, whose only
      business is to wait for the unavoidable. Deaths and marriages have made a
      solitude round them, and one really cannot blame their endeavours to make
      the waiting as easy as possible. As he remarked to me, &ldquo;At my time of life
      freedom from physical pain is a very important matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It must not be imagined that he was a wearisome hypochondriac. He was
      really much too well-bred to be a nuisance. He had an eye for the small
      weaknesses of humanity. But it was a good-natured eye. He made a restful,
      easy, pleasant companion for the hours between dinner and bedtime. We
      spent three evenings together, and then I had to leave Naples in a hurry
      to look after a friend who had fallen seriously ill in Taormina. Having
      nothing to do, Il Conde came to see me off at the station. I was somewhat
      upset, and his idleness was always ready to take a kindly form. He was by
      no means an indolent man.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went along the train peering into the carriages for a good seat for me,
      and then remained talking cheerily from below. He declared he would miss
      me that evening very much and announced his intention of going after
      dinner to listen to the band in the public garden, the Villa Nazionale. He
      would amuse himself by hearing excellent music and looking at the best
      society. There would be a lot of people, as usual.
    </p>
    <p>
      I seem to see him yet&mdash;his raised face with a friendly smile under
      the thick moustaches, and his kind, fatigued eyes. As the train began to
      move, he addressed me in two languages: first in French, saying, &ldquo;Bon
      voyage&rdquo;; then, in his very good, somewhat emphatic English, encouragingly,
      because he could see my concern: &ldquo;All will&mdash;be&mdash;well&mdash;yet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My friend&rsquo;s illness having taken a decidedly favourable turn, I returned
      to Naples on the tenth day. I cannot say I had given much thought to Il
      Conde during my absence, but entering the dining-room I looked for him in
      his habitual place. I had an idea he might have gone back to Sorrento to
      his piano and his books and his fishing. He was great friends with all the
      boatmen, and fished a good deal with lines from a boat. But I made out his
      white head in the crowd of heads, and even from a distance noticed
      something unusual in his attitude. Instead of sitting erect, gazing all
      round with alert urbanity, he drooped over his plate. I stood opposite him
      for some time before he looked up, a little wildly, if such a strong word
      can be used in connection with his correct appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my dear sir! Is it you?&rdquo; he greeted me. &ldquo;I hope all is well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was very nice about my friend. Indeed, he was always nice, with the
      niceness of people whose hearts are genuinely humane. But this time it
      cost him an effort. His attempts at general conversation broke down into
      dullness. It occurred to me he might have been indisposed. But before I
      could frame the inquiry he muttered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You find me here very sad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry for that,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t had bad news, I hope?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was very kind of me to take an interest. No. It was not that. No bad
      news, thank God. And he became very still as if holding his breath. Then,
      leaning forward a little, and in an odd tone of awed embarrassment, he
      took me into his confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The truth is that I have had a very&mdash;a very&mdash;how shall I say?&mdash;abominable
      adventure happen to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The energy of the epithet was sufficiently startling in that man of
      moderate feelings and toned-down vocabulary. The word unpleasant I should
      have thought would have fitted amply the worst experience likely to befall
      a man of his stamp. And an adventure, too. Incredible! But it is in human
      nature to believe the worst; and I confess I eyed him stealthily,
      wondering what he had been up to. In a moment, however, my unworthy
      suspicions vanished. There was a fundamental refinement of nature about
      the man which made me dismiss all idea of some more or less disreputable
      scrape.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very serious. Very serious.&rdquo; He went on, nervously. &ldquo;I will tell
      you after dinner, if you will allow me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I expressed my perfect acquiescence by a little bow, nothing more. I
      wished him to understand that I was not likely to hold him to that offer,
      if he thought better of it later on. We talked of indifferent things, but
      with a sense of difficulty quite unlike our former easy, gossipy
      intercourse. The hand raising a piece of bread to his lips, I noticed,
      trembled slightly. This symptom, in regard to my reading of the man, was
      no less than startling.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the smoking-room he did not hang back at all. Directly we had taken our
      usual seats he leaned sideways over the arm of his chair and looked
      straight into my eyes earnestly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You remember,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;that day you went away? I told you then I would
      go to the Villa Nazionale to hear some music in the evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I remembered. His handsome old face, so fresh for his age, unmarked by any
      trying experience, appeared haggard for an instant. It was like the
      passing of a shadow. Returning his steadfast gaze, I took a sip of my
      black coffee. He was systematically minute in his narrative, simply in
      order, I think, not to let his excitement get the better of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      After leaving the railway station, he had an ice, and read the paper in a
      cafe. Then he went back to the hotel, dressed for dinner, and dined with a
      good appetite. After dinner he lingered in the hall (there were chairs and
      tables there) smoking his cigar; talked to the little girl of the Primo
      Tenore of the San Carlo theatre, and exchanged a few words with that
      &ldquo;amiable lady,&rdquo; the wife of the Primo Tenore. There was no performance
      that evening, and these people were going to the Villa also. They went out
      of the hotel. Very well.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the moment of following their example&mdash;it was half-past nine
      already&mdash;he remembered he had a rather large sum of money in his
      pocket-book. He entered, therefore, the office and deposited the greater
      part of it with the book-keeper of the hotel. This done, he took a
      carozella and drove to the seashore. He got out of the cab and entered the
      Villa on foot from the Largo di Vittoria end.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stared at me very hard. And I understood then how really impressionable
      he was. Every small fact and event of that evening stood out in his memory
      as if endowed with mystic significance. If he did not mention to me the
      colour of the pony which drew the carozella, and the aspect of the man who
      drove, it was a mere oversight arising from his agitation, which he
      repressed manfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had then entered the Villa Nazionale from the Largo di Vittoria end.
      The Villa Nazionale is a public pleasure-ground laid out in grass plots,
      bushes, and flower-beds between the houses of the Riviera di Chiaja and
      the waters of the bay. Alleys of trees, more or less parallel, stretch its
      whole length&mdash;which is considerable. On the Riviera di Chiaja side
      the electric tramcars run close to the railings. Between the garden and
      the sea is the fashionable drive, a broad road bordered by a low wall,
      beyond which the Mediterranean splashes with gentle murmurs when the
      weather is fine.
    </p>
    <p>
      As life goes on late at night in Naples, the broad drive was all astir
      with a brilliant swarm of carriage lamps moving in pairs, some creeping
      slowly, others running rapidly under the thin, motionless line of electric
      lamps defining the shore. And a brilliant swarm of stars hung above the
      land humming with voices, piled up with houses, glittering with lights&mdash;and
      over the silent flat shadows of the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gardens themselves are not very well lit. Our friend went forward in
      the warm gloom, his eyes fixed upon a distant luminous region extending
      nearly across the whole width of the Villa, as if the air had glowed there
      with its own cold, bluish, and dazzling light. This magic spot, behind the
      black trunks of trees and masses of inky foliage, breathed out sweet
      sounds mingled with bursts of brassy roar, sudden clashes of metal, and
      grave, vibrating thuds.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he walked on, all these noises combined together into a piece of
      elaborate music whose harmonious phrases came persuasively through a great
      disorderly murmur of voices and shuffling of feet on the gravel of that
      open space. An enormous crowd immersed in the electric light, as if in a
      bath of some radiant and tenuous fluid shed upon their heads by luminous
      globes, drifted in its hundreds round the band. Hundreds more sat on
      chairs in more or less concentric circles, receiving unflinchingly the
      great waves of sonority that ebbed out into the darkness. The Count
      penetrated the throng, drifted with it in tranquil enjoyment, listening
      and looking at the faces. All people of good society: mothers with their
      daughters, parents and children, young men and young women all talking,
      smiling, nodding to each other. Very many pretty faces, and very many
      pretty toilettes. There was, of course, a quantity of diverse types: showy
      old fellows with white moustaches, fat men, thin men, officers in uniform;
      but what predominated, he told me, was the South Italian type of young
      man, with a colourless, clear complexion, red lips, jet-black little
      moustache and liquid black eyes so wonderfully effective in leering or
      scowling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Withdrawing from the throng, the Count shared a little table in front of
      the cafe with a young man of just such a type. Our friend had some
      lemonade. The young man was sitting moodily before an empty glass. He
      looked up once, and then looked down again. He also tilted his hat
      forward. Like this&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Count made the gesture of a man pulling his hat down over his brow,
      and went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think to myself: he is sad; something is wrong with him; young men have
      their troubles. I take no notice of him, of course. I pay for my lemonade,
      and go away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Strolling about in the neighbourhood of the band, the Count thinks he saw
      twice that young man wandering alone in the crowd. Once their eyes met. It
      must have been the same young man, but there were so many there of that
      type that he could not be certain. Moreover, he was not very much
      concerned except in so far that he had been struck by the marked, peevish
      discontent of that face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently, tired of the feeling of confinement one experiences in a crowd,
      the Count edged away from the band. An alley, very sombre by contrast,
      presented itself invitingly with its promise of solitude and coolness. He
      entered it, walking slowly on till the sound of the orchestra became
      distinctly deadened. Then he walked back and turned about once more. He
      did this several times before he noticed that there was somebody occupying
      one of the benches.
    </p>
    <p>
      The spot being midway between two lamp-posts the light was faint.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man lolled back in the corner of the seat, his legs stretched out, his
      arms folded and his head drooping on his breast. He never stirred, as
      though he had fallen asleep there, but when the Count passed by next time
      he had changed his attitude. He sat leaning forward. His elbows were
      propped on his knees, and his hands were rolling a cigarette. He never
      looked up from that occupation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Count continued his stroll away from the band. He returned slowly, he
      said. I can imagine him enjoying to the full, but with his usual
      tranquillity, the balminess of this southern night and the sounds of music
      softened delightfully by the distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently, he approached for the third time the man on the garden seat,
      still leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. It was a dejected
      pose. In the semi-obscurity of the alley his high shirt collar and his
      cuffs made small patches of vivid whiteness. The Count said that he had
      noticed him getting up brusquely as if to walk away, but almost before he
      was aware of it the man stood before him asking in a low, gentle tone
      whether the signore would have the kindness to oblige him with a light.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Count answered this request by a polite &ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; and dropped his
      hands with the intention of exploring both pockets of his trousers for the
      matches.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dropped my hands,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but I never put them in my pockets. I felt
      a pressure there&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put the tip of his finger on a spot close under his breastbone, the
      very spot of the human body where a Japanese gentleman begins the
      operations of the Harakiri, which is a form of suicide following upon
      dishonour, upon an intolerable outrage to the delicacy of one&rsquo;s feelings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I glance down,&rdquo; the Count continued in an awestruck voice, &ldquo;and what do I
      see? A knife! A long knife&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mean to say,&rdquo; I exclaimed, amazed, &ldquo;that you have been held up
      like this in the Villa at half-past ten o&rsquo;clock, within a stone&rsquo;s throw of
      a thousand people!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He nodded several times, staring at me with all his might.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The clarionet,&rdquo; he declared, solemnly, &ldquo;was finishing his solo, and I
      assure you I could hear every note. Then the band crashed fortissimo, and
      that creature rolled its eyes and gnashed its teeth hissing at me with the
      greatest ferocity, &lsquo;Be silent! No noise or&mdash;&lsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I could not get over my astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What sort of knife was it?&rdquo; I asked, stupidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A long blade. A stiletto&mdash;perhaps a kitchen knife. A long narrow
      blade. It gleamed. And his eyes gleamed. His white teeth, too. I could see
      them. He was very ferocious. I thought to myself: &lsquo;If I hit him he will
      kill me.&rsquo; How could I fight with him? He had the knife and I had nothing.
      I am nearly seventy, you know, and that was a young man. I seemed even to
      recognize him. The moody young man of the cafe. The young man I met in the
      crowd. But I could not tell. There are so many like him in this country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The distress of that moment was reflected in his face. I should think that
      physically he must have been paralyzed by surprise. His thoughts, however,
      remained extremely active. They ranged over every alarming possibility.
      The idea of setting up a vigorous shouting for help occurred to him, too.
      But he did nothing of the kind, and the reason why he refrained gave me a
      good opinion of his mental self-possession. He saw in a flash that nothing
      prevented the other from shouting, too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That young man might in an instant have thrown away his knife and
      pretended I was the aggressor. Why not? He might have said I attacked him.
      Why not? It was one incredible story against another! He might have said
      anything&mdash;bring some dishonouring charge against me&mdash;what do I
      know? By his dress he was no common robber. He seemed to belong to the
      better classes. What could I say? He was an Italian&mdash;I am a
      foreigner. Of course, I have my passport, and there is our consul&mdash;but
      to be arrested, dragged at night to the police office like a criminal!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shuddered. It was in his character to shrink from scandal, much more
      than from mere death. And certainly for many people this would have always
      remained&mdash;considering certain peculiarities of Neapolitan manners&mdash;a
      deucedly queer story. The Count was no fool. His belief in the respectable
      placidity of life having received this rude shock, he thought that now
      anything might happen. But also a notion came into his head that this
      young man was perhaps merely an infuriated lunatic.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was for me the first hint of his attitude towards this adventure. In
      his exaggerated delicacy of sentiment he felt that nobody&rsquo;s self-esteem
      need be affected by what a madman may choose to do to one. It became
      apparent, however, that the Count was to be denied that consolation. He
      enlarged upon the abominably savage way in which that young man rolled his
      glistening eyes and gnashed his white teeth. The band was going now
      through a slow movement of solemn braying by all the trombones, with
      deliberately repeated bangs of the big drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what did you do?&rdquo; I asked, greatly excited.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; answered the Count. &ldquo;I let my hands hang down very still. I
      told him quietly I did not intend making a noise. He snarled like a dog,
      then said in an ordinary voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Vostro portofolio.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I naturally,&rdquo; continued the Count&mdash;and from this point acted the
      whole thing in pantomime. Holding me with his eyes, he went through all
      the motions of reaching into his inside breast pocket, taking out a
      pocket-book, and handing it over. But that young man, still bearing
      steadily on the knife, refused to touch it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He directed the Count to take the money out himself, received it into his
      left hand, motioned the pocketbook to be returned to the pocket, all this
      being done to the sweet thrilling of flutes and clarionets sustained by
      the emotional drone of the hautboys. And the &ldquo;young man,&rdquo; as the Count
      called him, said: &ldquo;This seems very little.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was, indeed, only 340 or 360 lire,&rdquo; the Count pursued. &ldquo;I had left my
      money in the hotel, as you know. I told him this was all I had on me. He
      shook his head impatiently and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Vostro orologio.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Count gave me the dumb show of pulling out his watch, detaching it.
      But, as it happened, the valuable gold half-chronometer he possessed had
      been left at a watch-maker&rsquo;s for cleaning. He wore that evening (on a
      leather guard) the Waterbury fifty-franc thing he used to take with him on
      his fishing expeditions. Perceiving the nature of this booty, the
      well-dressed robber made a contemptuous clicking sound with his tongue
      like this, &ldquo;Tse-Ah!&rdquo; and waved it away hastily. Then, as the Count was
      returning the disdained object to his pocket, he demanded with a
      threateningly increased pressure of the knife on the epigastrium, by way
      of reminder:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Vostri anelli.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of the rings,&rdquo; went on the Count, &ldquo;was given me many years ago by my
      wife; the other is the signet ring of my father. I said, &lsquo;No. That you
      shall not have!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here the Count reproduced the gesture corresponding to that declaration by
      clapping one hand upon the other, and pressing both thus against his
      chest. It was touching in its resignation. &ldquo;That you shall not have,&rdquo; he
      repeated, firmly, and closed his eyes, fully expecting&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know
      whether I am right in recording that such an unpleasant word had passed
      his lips&mdash;fully expecting to feel himself being&mdash;I really
      hesitate to say&mdash;being disembowelled by the push of the long, sharp
      blade resting murderously against the pit of his stomach&mdash;the very
      seat, in all human beings, of anguishing sensations.
    </p>
    <p>
      Great waves of harmony went on flowing from the band.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly the Count felt the nightmarish pressure removed from the
      sensitive spot. He opened his eyes. He was alone. He had heard nothing. It
      is probable that &ldquo;the young man&rdquo; had departed, with light steps, some time
      before, but the sense of the horrid pressure had lingered even after the
      knife had gone. A feeling of weakness came over him. He had just time to
      stagger to the garden seat. He felt as though he had held his breath for a
      long time. He sat all in a heap, panting with the shock of the reaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      The band was executing, with immense bravura, the complicated finale. It
      ended with a tremendous crash. He heard it unreal and remote, as if his
      ears had been stopped, and then the hard clapping of a thousand, more or
      less, pairs of hands, like a sudden hail-shower passing away. The profound
      silence which succeeded recalled him to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      A tramcar resembling a long glass box wherein people sat with their heads
      strongly lighted, ran along swiftly within sixty yards of the spot where
      he had been robbed. Then another rustled by, and yet another going the
      other way. The audience about the band had broken up, and were entering
      the alley in small conversing groups. The Count sat up straight and tried
      to think calmly of what had happened to him. The vileness of it took his
      breath away again. As far as I can make it out he was disgusted with
      himself. I do not mean to say with his behaviour. Indeed, if his
      pantomimic rendering of it for my information was to be trusted, it was
      simply perfect. No, it was not that. He was not ashamed. He was shocked at
      being the selected victim, not of robbery so much as of contempt. His
      tranquillity had been wantonly desecrated. His lifelong, kindly nicety of
      outlook had been defaced.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nevertheless, at that stage, before the iron had time to sink deep, he was
      able to argue himself into comparative equanimity. As his agitation calmed
      down somewhat, he became aware that he was frightfully hungry. Yes,
      hungry. The sheer emotion had made him simply ravenous. He left the seat
      and, after walking for some time, found himself outside the gardens and
      before an arrested tramcar, without knowing very well how he came there.
      He got in as if in a dream, by a sort of instinct. Fortunately he found in
      his trouser pocket a copper to satisfy the conductor. Then the car
      stopped, and as everybody was getting out he got out, too. He recognized
      the Piazza San Ferdinando, but apparently it did not occur to him to take
      a cab and drive to the hotel. He remained in distress on the Piazza like a
      lost dog, thinking vaguely of the best way of getting something to eat at
      once.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly he remembered his twenty-franc piece. He explained to me that he
      had that piece of French gold for something like three years. He used to
      carry it about with him as a sort of reserve in case of accident. Anybody
      is liable to have his pocket picked&mdash;a quite different thing from a
      brazen and insulting robbery.
    </p>
    <p>
      The monumental arch of the Galleria Umberto faced him at the top of a
      noble flight of stairs. He climbed these without loss of time, and
      directed his steps towards the Cafe Umberto. All the tables outside were
      occupied by a lot of people who were drinking. But as he wanted something
      to eat, he went inside into the cafe, which is divided into aisles by
      square pillars set all round with long looking-glasses. The Count sat down
      on a red plush bench against one of these pillars, waiting for his
      risotto. And his mind reverted to his abominable adventure.
    </p>
    <p>
      He thought of the moody, well-dressed young man, with whom he had
      exchanged glances in the crowd around the bandstand, and who, he felt
      confident, was the robber. Would he recognize him again? Doubtless. But he
      did not want ever to see him again. The best thing was to forget this
      humiliating episode.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Count looked round anxiously for the coming of his risotto, and,
      behold! to the left against the wall&mdash;there sat the young man. He was
      alone at a table, with a bottle of some sort of wine or syrup and a carafe
      of iced water before him. The smooth olive cheeks, the red lips, the
      little jet-black moustache turned up gallantly, the fine black eyes a
      little heavy and shaded by long eyelashes, that peculiar expression of
      cruel discontent to be seen only in the busts of some Roman emperors&mdash;it
      was he, no doubt at all. But that was a type. The Count looked away
      hastily. The young officer over there reading a paper was like that, too.
      Same type. Two young men farther away playing draughts also resembled&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Count lowered his head with the fear in his heart of being
      everlastingly haunted by the vision of that young man. He began to eat his
      risotto. Presently he heard the young man on his left call the waiter in a
      bad-tempered tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the call, not only his own waiter, but two other idle waiters belonging
      to a quite different row of tables, rushed towards him with obsequious
      alacrity, which is not the general characteristic of the waiters in the
      Cafe Umberto. The young man muttered something and one of the waiters
      walking rapidly to the nearest door called out into the Galleria:
      &ldquo;Pasquale! O! Pasquale!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Everybody knows Pasquale, the shabby old fellow who, shuffling between the
      tables, offers for sale cigars, cigarettes, picture postcards, and matches
      to the clients of the cafe. He is in many respects an engaging scoundrel.
      The Count saw the grey-haired, unshaven ruffian enter the cafe, the glass
      case hanging from his neck by a leather strap, and, at a word from the
      waiter, make his shuffling way with a sudden spurt to the young man&rsquo;s
      table. The young man was in need of a cigar with which Pasquale served him
      fawningly. The old pedlar was going out, when the Count, on a sudden
      impulse, beckoned to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pasquale approached, the smile of deferential recognition combining oddly
      with the cynical searching expression of his eyes. Leaning his case on the
      table, he lifted the glass lid without a word. The Count took a box of
      cigarettes and urged by a fearful curiosity, asked as casually as he could&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, Pasquale, who is that young signore sitting over there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other bent over his box confidentially.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That, Signor Conde,&rdquo; he said, beginning to rearrange his wares busily and
      without looking up, &ldquo;that is a young Cavaliere of a very good family from
      Bari. He studies in the University here, and is the chief, capo, of an
      association of young men&mdash;of very nice young men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused, and then, with mingled discretion and pride of knowledge,
      murmured the explanatory word &ldquo;Camorra&rdquo; and shut down the lid. &ldquo;A very
      powerful Camorra,&rdquo; he breathed out. &ldquo;The professors themselves respect it
      greatly . . . una lira e cinquanti centesimi, Signor Conde.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Our friend paid with the gold piece. While Pasquale was making up the
      change, he observed that the young man, of whom he had heard so much in a
      few words, was watching the transaction covertly. After the old vagabond
      had withdrawn with a bow, the Count settled with the waiter and sat still.
      A numbness, he told me, had come over him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young man paid, too, got up, and crossed over, apparently for the
      purpose of looking at himself in the mirror set in the pillar nearest to
      the Count&rsquo;s seat. He was dressed all in black with a dark green bow tie.
      The Count looked round, and was startled by meeting a vicious glance out
      of the corners of the other&rsquo;s eyes. The young Cavaliere from Bari
      (according to Pasquale; but Pasquale is, of course, an accomplished liar)
      went on arranging his tie, settling his hat before the glass, and meantime
      he spoke just loud enough to be heard by the Count. He spoke through his
      teeth with the most insulting venom of contempt and gazing straight into
      the mirror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! So you had some gold on you&mdash;you old liar&mdash;you old birba&mdash;you
      furfante! But you are not done with me yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The fiendishness of his expression vanished like lightning, and he lounged
      out of the cafe with a moody, impassive face.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor Count, after telling me this last episode, fell back trembling in
      his chair. His forehead broke into perspiration. There was a wanton
      insolence in the spirit of this outrage which appalled even me. What it
      was to the Count&rsquo;s delicacy I won&rsquo;t attempt to guess. I am sure that if he
      had been not too refined to do such a blatantly vulgar thing as dying from
      apoplexy in a cafe, he would have had a fatal stroke there and then. All
      irony apart, my difficulty was to keep him from seeing the full extent of
      my commiseration. He shrank from every excessive sentiment, and my
      commiseration was practically unbounded. It did not surprise me to hear
      that he had been in bed a week. He had got up to make his arrangements for
      leaving Southern Italy for good and all.
    </p>
    <p>
      And the man was convinced that he could not live through a whole year in
      any other climate!
    </p>
    <p>
      No argument of mine had any effect. It was not timidity, though he did say
      to me once: &ldquo;You do not know what a Camorra is, my dear sir. I am a marked
      man.&rdquo; He was not afraid of what could be done to him. His delicate
      conception of his dignity was defiled by a degrading experience. He
      couldn&rsquo;t stand that. No Japanese gentleman, outraged in his exaggerated
      sense of honour, could have gone about his preparations for Hara-kiri with
      greater resolution. To go home really amounted to suicide for the poor
      Count.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a saying of Neapolitan patriotism, intended for the information
      of foreigners, I presume: &ldquo;See Naples and then die.&rdquo; Vedi Napoli e poi
      mori. It is a saying of excessive vanity, and everything excessive was
      abhorrent to the nice moderation of the poor Count. Yet, as I was seeing
      him off at the railway station, I thought he was behaving with singular
      fidelity to its conceited spirit. Vedi Napoli! . . . He had seen it! He
      had seen it with startling thoroughness&mdash;and now he was going to his
      grave. He was going to it by the train de luxe of the International
      Sleeping Car Company, via Trieste and Vienna. As the four long, sombre
      coaches pulled out of the station I raised my hat with the solemn feeling
      of paying the last tribute of respect to a funeral cortege. Il Conde&rsquo;s
      profile, much aged already, glided away from me in stony immobility,
      behind the lighted pane of glass&mdash;Vedi Napoli e poi mori!
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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