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

by Émile Erckmann

  Before venturing upon the dangerous path, the old campaigner halted and looked at my window. He hesitated for a long while.

  At the end of a quarter of an hour he took the first step, moving with his back flattened against the wall. He had reached half-way, and no doubt flattered himself that he should gain the ledge which descended to the Kasbah, when I uttered the death-cry—

  “Raymond! Where are you going?”

  But, whether it was that he was prepared for whatever might happen, or that he had more sang-froid than his victim, the scoundrel was unscared, and answered with an outburst of ironical laughter—

  “A-ha! You are there, are you, doctor? I thought so. Wait till I return; we have a little account to settle together.”

  I lit my torch and held it out above the precipice.

  “It is too late!” I cried. “Wretch! Behold your grave!”

  And the immense ranges of the abyss, with their black slippery rocks, bristling with wild fig-trees, were illuminated to the bottom of the valley.

  The view was Titanic: the white light of the flaming pitch, descending from stage to stage of the rocks, casting their broad shadows into space, seemed to plough into unfathomable depths of darkness.

  I was strongly affected myself, and fell back a step, as if seized with giddiness. But he—separated from the yawning gulf but by the width of a brick—with what terror must he not have been overwhelmed!

  His knees bent under him—his hands clutched at the wall. I held forth the blazing torch again: an enormous bat, disturbed by the light, commenced his dreary round about the gigantic walls, like a black rat with angular wings, floating in the flame; and far, far down, the waves of the Rummel sparkled in immensity.

  “Mercy!” cried the murderer in a broken voice—“mercy!”

  I had not courage to prolong his torture, and threw my torch’ into the abyss. It fell slowly, its ragged flame waving in the darkness; lighting, turn by turn, the ledges of the mighty rocks as it passed them, and sprinkling the bushes with its dazzling sparks.

  While it was yet but a spot in the midst of night, and was still descending, a shadow overtook and passed it like a thunderbolt!

  Justice, I knew, had been done.

  * * * *

  On my way up the stairs from the amphitheater, something bent under my foot: I stooped and picked it up; it was my own sword! With his habitual perfidy, Castagnac had resolved to kill me with my own weapon, so that my death might have appeared to be the result of suicide.

  Moreover, as I had foreseen, the door of my room had been forced open, my bed turned over, my papers scattered about; his search, in fact, had been exhaustive.

  This circumstance completely dissipated the involuntary feeling of pity with which the wretch’s terrific end had inspired me.

  1 The Voltigeurs were French military skirmish units created in 1804 by Emperor Napoleon I.

  2 Spahis were light cavalry regiments of the French army recruited primarily from the indigenous populations of Algeria, Tunisia and Morocco.

  THE MAN-WOLF

  CHAPTER I

  About Christmas time in the year 18—, as I was lying fast asleep at the Cygne at Fribourg, my old friend Gideon Sperver broke abruptly into my room, crying—

  “Fritz, I have good news for you; I am going to take you to Nideck, two leagues from this place. You know Nideck, the finest baronial castle in the country, a grand monument of the glory of our forefathers?”

  Now I had not seen Sperver, who was my foster-father, for sixteen years; he had grown a full beard in that time, a huge fox-skin cap covered his head, and he was holding his lantern close under my nose. It was, therefore, only natural that I should answer—

  “In the first place let us do things in order. Tell me who you are.”

  “Who I am? What! don’t you remember Gideon Sperver, the Schwartzwald huntsman? You would not be so ungrateful, would you? Was it not I who taught you to set a trap, to lay wait for the foxes along the skirts of the woods, to start the dogs after the wild birds? Do you remember me now? Look at my left ear, with a frost-bite.”

  “Now I know you; that left ear of yours has done it; Shake hands.”

  Sperver, passing the back of his hand across his eyes, went on—

  “You know Nideck?”

  “Of course I do—by reputation; what have you to do there?”

  “I am the count’s chief huntsman.”

  “And who has sent you?”

  “The young Countess Odile.”

  “Very good. How soon are we to start?”

  “This moment. The matter is urgent; the old count is very ill, and his daughter has begged me not to lose a moment. The horses are quite ready.”

  “But, Gideon, my dear fellow, just look out at the weather; it has been snowing three days without cessation.”

  “Oh, nonsense; we are not going out boar-hunting; put on your thick coat, buckle on your spurs, and let us prepare to start. I will order something to eat first.” And he went out, first adding, “Be sure to put on your cape.”

  I could never refuse old Gideon anything; from my childhood he could do anything with me with a nod or a sign; so I equipped myself and came into the coffee-room.

  “I knew,” he said, “that you would not let me go back without you. Eat every bit of this slice of ham, and let us drink a stirrup cup, for the horses are getting impatient. I have had your portmanteau put in.”

  “My portmanteau! what is that for?”

  “Yes, it will be all right; you will have to stay a few days at Nideck, that is indispensable, and I will tell you why presently.”

  So we went down into the courtyard.

  At that moment two horsemen arrived, evidently tired out with riding, their horses in a perfect lather of foam. Sperver, who had always been a great admirer of a fine horse, expressed his surprise and admiration at these splendid animals.

  “What beauties! They are of the Wallachian breed, I can see, as finely formed as deer, and as swift. Nicholas, throw a cloth over them quickly, or they will take cold.”

  The travellers, muffled in Siberian furs, passed close by us just as we were going to mount. I could only discern the long brown moustache of one, and his singularly bright and sparkling eyes.

  They entered the hotel.

  The groom was holding our horses by the bridle. He wished us bon voyage, removed his hand, and we were off.

  Sperver rode a pure Mecklemburg. I was mounted on a stout cob bred in the Ardennes, full of fire; we flew over the snowy ground. In ten minutes we had left Fribourg behind us.

  The sky was beginning to clear up. As far as the eye could reach we could distinguish neither road, path, nor track. Our only company were the ravens of the Black Forest spreading their hollow wings wide over the banks of snow, trying one place after another unsuccessfully for food, and croaking, “Misery! misery!”

  Gideon, with his weather-beaten countenance, his fur cloak and cap, galloped on ahead, whistling airs from the Freyschütz; sometimes as he turned I could see the sparkling drops of moisture hanging from his long moustache.

  “Well, Fritz, my boy, this is a fine winter’s morning.”

  “So it is, but it is rather severe; don’t you think so?”

  “I am fond of a clear hard frost,” he replied; “it promotes circulation. If our old minister Tobias had but the courage to start out in weather like this he would soon put an end to his rheumatic pains.”

  I smiled, I am afraid, involuntarily.

  After an hour of this rapid pace Sperver slackened his speed and let me come abreast of him.

  “Fritz, I shall have to tell you the object of this journey at some time, I suppose?”

  “I was beginning to think I ought to know what I am going about.”

  “A good many doctors have already been consulted.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Yes, some came from Berlin in great wigs who only asked to see the patient’s tongue. Others from Switzerland examined him anoth
er way. The doctors from Paris stared at their patient through magnifying glasses to learn something from his physiognomy. But all their learning was wasted, and they got large fees in reward of their ignorance.”

  “Is that the way you speak of us medical gentlemen?”

  “I am not alluding to you at all. I have too much respect for you, and if I should happen to break my leg I don’t know that there is another that I should prefer to yourself to treat me as a patient, but you have not discovered an optical instrument yet to tell what is going on inside of us.”

  “How do you know that?”

  At this reply the worthy fellow looked at me doubtfully as if he thought me a quack like the rest, yet he replied—

  “Well, Fritz, if you have indeed such a glass it will be wanted now, for the count’s complaint is internal; it is a terrible kind of illness, something like madness. You know that madness shows itself in either nine hours, nine days, or nine weeks?”

  “So it is said; but not having noticed this myself, I cannot say that it is so.”

  “Still you know there are agues which return at periods of either three, six, or nine years. There are singular works in this machinery of ours. Whenever this human clockwork is wound up in some particular way, fever, or indigestion, or toothache returns at the very hour and day.”

  “Why, Gideon, I am quite aware of that; those periodical complaints are the greatest trouble we have.”

  “I am sorry to hear it, for the count’s complaint is periodical; it comes back every year, on the same day, at the same hour; his mouth runs over with foam, his eyes stand out white and staring, like great billiard-balls; he shakes from head to foot, and he gnashes with his teeth.”

  “Perhaps this man has had serious troubles to go through?”

  “No, he has not. If his daughter would but consent to be married he would be the happiest man alive. He is rich and powerful and full of honours. He possesses everything that the rest of the world is coveting. Unfortunately his daughter persists in refusing every offer of marriage. She consecrates her life to God, and it harasses him to think that the ancient house of Nideck will become extinct.”

  “How did his illness come on?” I asked.

  “Suddenly, ten years ago,” was the reply.

  All at once the honest fellow seemed to be recollecting himself. He took from his pocket a short pipe, filled it, and having lighted it—

  “One evening,” said he, “I was sitting alone with the count in the armoury of the castle. It was about Christmas time. We had been hunting wild boars the whole day in the valleys of the Rhéthal, and had returned at night bringing home with us two of our boar-hounds ripped open from head to tail. It was just as cold as it is to-night, with snow and frost. The count was pacing up and down the room with his chin upon his breast and his hands crossed behind him, like a man in profound thought. From time to time he stopped to watch the gathering snow on the high windows, and I was warming myself in the chimney corner, bewailing my dead hounds, and bestowing maledictions on all the wild boars that infest the Schwartzwald. Everybody at Nideck had been asleep a couple of hours, and not a sound could be heard but the tread and the clank of the count’s heavy spurred boots upon the flags. I remember well that a crow, no doubt driven by a gust of wind, came flapping its wings against the window-panes, uttering a discordant shriek, and how the sheets of snow fell from the windows, and the windows suddenly changed from white to black—”

  “But what has all this to do with your master’s illness?” I interrupted.

  “Let me go on—you will soon see. At that cry the count suddenly gathered himself together with a shuddering movement, his eyes became fixed with a glassy stare, his cheeks were bloodless, and he bent his head forward just like a hunter catching the sound of his approaching game. I went on warming myself, and I thought, ‘Won’t he soon go to bed now?’ for, to tell you the truth, I was overcome with fatigue. All these details, Fritz, are still present in my memory. Scarcely had the bird of ill omen croaked its unearthly cry when the old clock struck eleven. At that moment the count turns on his heel—he listens, his lips tremble, I can see him staggering like a drunken man. He stretches out his hands, his jaws are tightly clenched, his eyes staring and white. I cried, ‘My lord, what is the matter?’ but he began to laugh discordantly like a madman, stumbled, and fell upon the stone floor, face downwards. I called for help; servants came round. Sébalt took the count by the shoulders; we removed him to a bed near the window; but just as I was loosening the count’s neckerchief—for I was afraid it was apoplexy—the countess came and flung herself upon the body of her father, uttering such heartrending cries that the very remembrance of them makes me shudder.”

  Here Gideon took his pipe from his lips, knocked the ashes out upon the pommel of his saddle, and pursued his tale in a saddened voice.

  “From that day, Fritz, none but evil days have come upon Nideck, and better times seem to be far off. Every year at the same day and hour the count has shuddering fits. The malady lasts from a week to a fortnight, during which he howls and yells so frightfully that it makes a man’s blood run cold to hear him. Then he slowly recovers his usual health. He is still pale and weak, and moves trembling from one chair to another, starting at the least noise or movement, and fearful of his own shadow. The young countess, the sweetest creature in the world, never leaves his side; but he cannot endure her while the fit is upon him. He roars at her, ‘Go, leave me this moment! I have enough to endure without seeing you hanging about me!’ It is a horrible sight. I am always close at his heels in the chase, I who sound the horn when he has killed the forest beasts; I am at the head of all his retainers, and I would give my life for his sake; yet when he is at his worst I can hardly keep off my hands from his throat, I am so horrified at the way in which he treats his beautiful daughter.”

  Sperver looked dangerously wroth for a moment, clapped both his spurs to his mount, and we rode on at a hard gallop.

  I had fallen into a reverie. The cure of a complaint of this description appeared to me more than doubtful, even impossible. It was evidently a mental disorder. To fight against it with any hope of success it would be needful to trace it back to its origin, and this would, no doubt, be too remote for successful investigation.

  All these reflections perplexed me greatly. The old huntsman’s story, far from strengthening my hopes, only depressed me—not a very favourable condition to insure success. At about three we came in sight of the ancient castle of Nideck on the verge of the horizon. In spite of the great distance we could distinguish the projecting turrets, apparently suspended from the angles of the edifice. It was but a dim outline barely distinguishable from the blue sky, but soon the red points of the Vosges became visible.

  At that moment Sperver drew in his bridle and said—

  “Fritz, we shall have to get there before night—onward!”

  But it was in vain that he spurred and lashed. The horse stood rooted to the ground, his ears thrown back, his nostrils dilated, his sides panting, his legs firmly planted in an attitude of resistance.

  “What is the matter with the beast?” cried Gideon in astonishment. “Do you see anything, Fritz? Surely—”

  He broke off abruptly, pointing with his whip at a dark form in the snow fifty yards off, on the slope of the hill.

  “The Black Plague!” he exclaimed with a voice of distress which almost robbed me of my self-possession.

  Following the indication of his outstretched whip I discerned with astonishment an aged woman crouching on the snowy ground, with her arms clasped about her knees, and so tattered that her red elbows came through her tattered sleeves. A few ragged locks of grey hung about her long, scraggy, red, and vulture-like neck.

  Strange to say, a bundle of some kind lay upon her knees, and her haggard eyes were directed upon distant objects in the white landscape.

  Spencer drew off to the left, giving the hideous object as wide a berth as he could, and I had some difficulty in following him. />
  “Now,” I cried, “what is all this for? Are you joking?”

  “Joking?—assuredly not! I never joke about such serious matters. I am not given to superstition, but I confess that I am alarmed at this meeting!”

  Then turning his head, and noticing that the old woman had not moved, and that her eyes were fixed upon the same one spot, he appeared to gather a little courage.

  “Fritz,” he said solemnly, “you are a man of learning—you know many things of which I know nothing at all. Well, I can tell you this, that a man is in the wrong who laughs at a thing because he can’t understand it. I have good reasons for calling this woman the Black Plague. She is known by that name in the whole Black Forest, but here at Nideck she has earned that title by supreme right.”

  And the good man pursued his way without further observation.

  “Now, Sperver, just explain what you mean,” I asked, “for I don’t understand you.”

  “That woman is the ruin of us all. She is a witch. She is the cause of it all. It is she who is killing the count by inches.”

  “How is that possible?” I exclaimed. “How could she exercise such a baneful influence?”

  “I cannot tell how it is. All I know is, that on the very day that the attack comes on, at the very moment, if you will ascend the beacon tower, you will see the Black Plague squatting down like a dark speck on the snow just between the Tiefenbach and the castle of Nideck. She sits there alone, crouching close to the snow. Every day she comes a little nearer, and every day the attacks grow worse. You would think he hears her approach. Sometimes on the first day, when the fits of trembling have come over him, he has said to me, ‘Gideon, I feel her coming.’ I hold him by the arms and restrain the shuddering somewhat, but he still repeats, stammering and struggling with his agony, and his eyes staring and fixed, ‘She is coming—nearer—oh—oh—she comes!’ Then I go up Hugh Lupus’s tower; I survey the country. You know I have a keen eye for distant objects. At last, amidst the grey mists afar off, between sky and earth, I can just make out a dark speck. The next morning that black spot has grown larger. The Count of Nideck goes to bed with chattering teeth. The next day again we can make out the figure of the old hag; the fierce attacks begin; the count cries out. The day after, the witch is at the foot of the mountain, and the consequence is that the count’s jaws are set like a vice; his mouth foams; his eyes turn in his head. Vile creature! Twenty times I have had her within gunshot, and the count has bid me shed no blood. ‘No, Sperver, no; let us have no bloodshed.’ Poor man, he is sparing the life of the wretch who is draining his life from him, for she is killing him, Fritz; he is reduced to skin and bone.”