But they did not let the luckless logician finish, and he was
turned out, hustled and bruised.
"Citizens," said Pulmacher the grocer, who usually sold groceries
by retail, "whatever this cowardly apothecary may have said, I
engage by myself to kill five thousand Virgamenians, if you will
accept my services!"
"Five thousand five hundred!" cried a yet more resolute patriot.
"Six thousand six hundred!" retorted the grocer.
"Seven thousand!" cried Jean Orbideck, the confectioner of the
Rue Hemling, who was on the road to a fortune by making whipped
creams.
"Adjudged!" exclaimed the burgomaster Van Tricasse, on finding
that no one else rose on the bid.
And this was how Jean Orbideck the confectioner became
general-in-chief of the forces of Quiquendone.
CHAPTER XII.
IN WHICH YGÈNE, THE ASSISTANT, GIVES A REASONABLE PIECE OF ADVICE,
WHICH IS EAGERLY REJECTED BY DOCTOR OX.
"Well, master," said Ygène next day, as he poured the pails of
sulphuric acid into the troughs of the great battery.
"Well," resumed Doctor Ox, "was I not right? See to what not only
the physical developments of a whole nation, but its morality,
its dignity, its talents, its political sense, have come! It is
only a question of molecules."
"No doubt; but--"
"But--"
"Do you not think that matters have gone far enough, and that
these poor devils should not be excited beyond measure?"
"No, no!" cried the doctor; "no! I will go on to the end!"
"As you will, master; the experiment, however, seems to me
conclusive, and I think it time to--"
"To--"
"To close the valve."
"You'd better!" cried Doctor Ox. "If you attempt it, I'll
throttle you!"
CHAPTER XIII.
IN WHICH IT IS ONCE MORE PROVED THAT BY TAKING HIGH GROUND ALL HUMAN
LITTLENESSES MAY BE OVERLOOKED.
"You say?" asked the Burgomaster Van Tricasse of the Counsellor
Niklausse.
"I say that this war is necessary," replied Niklausse, firmly,
"and that the time has come to avenge this insult."
"Well, I repeat to you," replied the burgomaster, tartly, "that
if the people of Quiquendone do not profit by this occasion to
vindicate their rights, they will be unworthy of their name."
"And as for me, I maintain that we ought, without delay, to
collect our forces and lead them to the front."
"Really, monsieur, really!" replied Van Tricasse. "And do you
speak thus to -me-?"
"To yourself, monsieur the burgomaster; and you shall hear the
truth, unwelcome as it may be."
"And you shall hear it yourself, counsellor," returned Van
Tricasse in a passion, "for it will come better from my mouth
than from yours! Yes, monsieur, yes, any delay would be
dishonourable. The town of Quiquendone has waited nine hundred
years for the moment to take its revenge, and whatever you may
say, whether it pleases you or not, we shall march upon the
enemy."
"Ah, you take it thus!" replied Niklausse harshly. "Very well,
monsieur, we will march without you, if it does not please you to
go."
"A burgomaster's place is in the front rank, monsieur!"
[Illustration: "A burgomaster's place is in the front rank,
monsieur!"]
"And that of a counsellor also, monsieur."
"You insult me by thwarting all my wishes," cried the
burgomaster, whose fists seemed likely to hit out before long.
"And you insult me equally by doubting my patriotism," cried
Niklausse, who was equally ready for a tussle.
"I tell you, monsieur, that the army of Quiquendone shall be put
in motion within two days!"
"And I repeat to you, monsieur, that forty-eight hours shall not
pass before we shall have marched upon the enemy!"
It is easy to see, from this fragment of conversation, that the
two speakers supported exactly the same idea. Both wished for
hostilities; but as their excitement disposed them to altercation,
Niklausse would not listen to Van Tricasse, nor Van Tricasse to
Niklausse. Had they been of contrary opinions on this grave
question, had the burgomaster favoured war and the counsellor
insisted on peace, the quarrel would not have been more violent.
These two old friends gazed fiercely at each other. By the
quickened beating of their hearts, their red faces, their
contracted pupils, the trembling of their muscles, their harsh
voices, it might be conjectured that they were ready to come to
blows.
But the striking of a large clock happily checked the adversaries
at the moment when they seemed on the point of assaulting each
other.
"At last the hour has come!" cried the burgomaster.
"What hour?" asked the counsellor.
"The hour to go to the belfry tower."
"It is true, and whether it pleases you or not, I shall go,
monsieur."
"And I too."
"Let us go!"
"Let us go!"
It might have been supposed from these last words that a
collision had occurred, and that the adversaries were proceeding
to a duel; but it was not so. It had been agreed that the
burgomaster and the counsellor, as the two principal dignitaries
of the town, should repair to the Town Hall, and there show
themselves on the high tower which overlooked Quiquendone; that
they should examine the surrounding country, so as to make the
best strategetic plan for the advance of their troops.
Though they were in accord on this subject, they did not cease to
quarrel bitterly as they went. Their loud voices were heard
resounding in the streets; but all the passers-by were now
accustomed to this; the exasperation of the dignitaries seemed
quite natural, and no one took notice of it. Under the circumstances,
a calm man would have been regarded as a monster.
The burgomaster and the counsellor, having reached the porch of
the belfry, were in a paroxysm of fury. They were no longer red,
but pale. This terrible discussion, though they had the same
idea, had produced internal spasms, and every one knows that
paleness shows that anger has reached its last limits.
At the foot of the narrow tower staircase there was a real
explosion. Who should go up first? Who should first creep up the
winding steps? Truth compels us to say that there was a tussle,
and that the Counsellor Niklausse, forgetful of all that he owed
to his superior, to the supreme magistrate of the town, pushed
Van Tricasse violently back, and dashed up the staircase first.
Both ascended, denouncing and raging at each other at every step.
It was to be feared that a terrible climax would occur on the
summit of the tower, which rose three hundred and fifty-seven
feet above the pavement.
The two enemies soon got out of breath, however, and in a little
while, at the eightieth step, they began to move up heavily,
breathing loud and short.
Then--was it because of their being out of breath?--their wrath
subsided, or at least only betrayed itself by a succession of
unseemly epithets. They became silent, and, strange to say, it
seemed as if their excitement diminished as they ascended higher
above the town. A sort of lull took place in their minds. Their
brains became cooler, and simmered down like a coffee-pot when
taken away from the fire. Why?
We cannot answer this "why;" but the truth is that, having
reached a certain landing-stage, two hundred and sixty-six feet
above ground, the two adversaries sat down and, really more calm,
looked at each other without any anger in their faces.
"How high it is!" said the burgomaster, passing his handkerchief
over his rubicund face.
"Very high!" returned the counsellor. "Do you know that we have
gone fourteen feet higher than the Church of Saint Michael at
Hamburg?"
"I know it," replied the burgomaster, in a tone of vanity very
pardonable in the chief magistrate of Quiquendone.
The two notabilities soon resumed their ascent, casting curious
glances through the loopholes pierced in the tower walls. The
burgomaster had taken the head of the procession, without any
remark on the part of the counsellor. It even happened that at
about the three hundred and fourth step, Van Tricasse being
completely tired out, Niklausse kindly pushed him from behind.
The burgomaster offered no resistance to this, and, when he
reached the platform of the tower, said graciously,--
"Thanks, Niklausse; I will do the same for you one day."
A little while before it had been two wild beasts, ready to tear
each other to pieces, who had presented themselves at the foot of
the tower; it was now two friends who reached its summit.
The weather was superb. It was the month of May. The sun had
absorbed all the vapours. What a pure and limpid atmosphere! The
most minute objects over a broad space might be discerned. The
walls of Virgamen, glistening in their whiteness,--its red,
pointed roofs, its belfries shining in the sunlight--appeared a
few miles off. And this was the town that was foredoomed to all
the horrors of fire and pillage!
The burgomaster and the counsellor sat down beside each other on
a small stone bench, like two worthy people whose souls were in
close sympathy. As they recovered breath, they looked around;
then, after a brief silence,--
"How fine this is!" cried the burgomaster.
"Yes, it is admirable!" replied the counsellor. "Does it not
seem to you, my good Van Tricasse, that humanity is destined to
dwell rather at such heights, than to crawl about on the surface
of our globe?"
"I agree with you, honest Niklausse," returned the burgomaster,
"I agree with you. You seize sentiment better when you get clear
of nature. You breathe it in every sense! It is at such heights
that philosophers should be formed, and that sages should live,
above the miseries of this world!"
"Shall we go around the platform?" asked the counsellor.
"Let us go around the platform," replied the burgomaster.
And the two friends, arm in arm, and putting, as formerly, long
pauses between their questions and answers, examined every point
of the horizon.
[Illustration: The two friends, arm in arm]
"It is at least seventeen years since I have ascended the belfry
tower," said Van Tricasse.
"I do not think I ever came up before," replied Niklausse; "and I
regret it, for the view from this height is sublime! Do you see,
my friend, the pretty stream of the Vaar, as it winds among the
trees?"
"And, beyond, the heights of Saint Hermandad! How gracefully they
shut in the horizon! Observe that border of green trees, which
Nature has so picturesquely arranged! Ah, Nature, Nature,
Niklausse! Could the hand of man ever hope to rival her?"
"It is enchanting, my excellent friend," replied the counsellor.
"See the flocks and herds lying in the verdant pastures,--the
oxen, the cows, the sheep!"
"And the labourers going to the fields! You would say they were
Arcadian shepherds; they only want a bagpipe!"
"And over all this fertile country the beautiful blue sky, which
no vapour dims! Ah, Niklausse, one might become a poet here! I do
not understand why Saint Simeon Stylites was not one of the
greatest poets of the world."
"It was because, perhaps, his column was not high enough,"
replied the counsellor, with a gentle smile.
At this moment the chimes of Quiquendone rang out. The clear
bells played one of their most melodious airs. The two friends
listened in ecstasy.
Then in his calm voice, Van Tricasse said,--
"But what, friend Niklausse, did we come to the top of this tower
to do?"
"In fact," replied the counsellor, "we have permitted ourselves
to be carried away by our reveries--"
"What did we come here to do?" repeated the burgomaster.
"We came," said Niklausse, "to breathe this pure air, which human
weaknesses have not corrupted."
"Well, shall we descend, friend Niklausse?"
"Let us descend, friend Van Tricasse."
They gave a parting glance at the splendid panorama which was
spread before their eyes; then the burgomaster passed down first,
and began to descend with a slow and measured pace. The
counsellor followed a few steps behind. They reached the landing-stage
at which they had stopped on ascending. Already their cheeks began to
redden. They tarried a moment, then resumed their descent.
In a few moments Van Tricasse begged Niklausse to go more slowly,
as he felt him on his heels, and it "worried him." It even did
more than worry him; for twenty steps lower down he ordered the
counsellor to stop, that he might get on some distance ahead.
The counsellor replied that he did not wish to remain with his
leg in the air to await the good pleasure of the burgomaster, and
kept on.
Van Tricasse retorted with a rude expression.
The counsellor responded by an insulting allusion to the
burgomaster's age, destined as he was, by his family traditions,
to marry a second time.
The burgomaster went down twenty steps more, and warned Niklausse
that this should not pass thus.
Niklausse replied that, at all events, he would pass down first;
and, the space being very narrow, the two dignitaries came into
collision, and found themselves in utter darkness. The words
"blockhead" and "booby" were the mildest which they now applied
to each other.
"We shall see, stupid beast!" cried the burgomaster,--"we shall
see what figure you will make in this war, and in what rank you
will march!"
"In the rank that precedes yours, you silly old fool!" replied
Niklausse.
Then there were other cries, and it seemed as if bodies were
rolling over each other. What was going on? Why were these
dispositions so quickly changed? Why were the gentle sheep of the
tower's summit metamorphosed into tigers two hundred feet below
it?
However this might be, the guardian of the tower, hearing the
noise, opened the door, just at the moment when the two
adversaries, bruised, and with protruding eyes, were in the act
of tearing each other's hair,--fortunately they wore wigs.
"You shall give me satisfaction for this!" cried the burgomaster,
shaking his fist under his adversary's nose.
"Whenever you please!" growled the Counsellor Niklausse,
attempting to respond with a vigorous kick.
The guardian, who was himself in a passion,--I cannot say why,--
thought the scene a very natural one. I know not what excitement
urged him to take part in it, but he controlled himself, and went
off to announce throughout the neighbourhood that a hostile
meeting was about to take place between the Burgomaster Van
Tricasse and the Counsellor Niklausse.
CHAPTER XIV.
IN WHICH MATTERS GO SO FAR THAT THE INHABITANTS OF QUIQUENDONE,
THE READER, AND EVEN THE AUTHOR, DEMAND AN IMMEDIATE DÉNOUEMENT.
The last incident proves to what a pitch of excitement the
Quiquendonians had been wrought. The two oldest friends in the
town, and the most gentle--before the advent of the epidemic, to
reach this degree of violence! And that, too, only a few minutes
after their old mutual sympathy, their amiable instincts, their
contemplative habit, had been restored at the summit of the
tower!
On learning what was going on, Doctor Ox could not contain his
joy. He resisted the arguments which Ygène, who saw what a
serious turn affairs were taking, addressed to him. Besides, both
of them were infected by the general fury. They were not less
excited than the rest of the population, and they ended by
quarrelling as violently as the burgomaster and the counsellor.
Besides, one question eclipsed all others, and the intended duels
were postponed to the issue of the Virgamenian difficulty. No man
had the right to shed his blood uselessly, when it belonged, to
the last drop, to his country in danger. The affair was, in
short, a grave one, and there was no withdrawing from it.
The Burgomaster Van Tricasse, despite the warlike ardour with
which he was filled, had not thought it best to throw himself
upon the enemy without warning him. He had, therefore, through
the medium of the rural policeman, Hottering, sent to demand
reparation of the Virgamenians for the offence committed, in
1195, on the Quiquendonian territory.
The authorities of Virgamen could not at first imagine of what
the envoy spoke, and the latter, despite his official character,
was conducted back to the frontier very cavalierly.
Van Tricasse then sent one of the aides-de-camp of the
confectioner-general, citizen Hildevert Shuman, a manufacturer of
barley-sugar, a very firm and energetic man, who carried to the
authorities of Virgamen the original minute of the indictment
drawn up in 1195 by order of the Burgomaster Natalís Van
Tricasse.
The authorities of Virgamen burst out laughing, and served the
aide-de-camp in the same manner as the rural policeman.
The burgomaster then assembled the dignitaries of the town.
A letter, remarkably and vigorously drawn up, was written as an
ultimatum; the cause of quarrel was plainly stated, and a delay
of twenty-four hours was accorded to the guilty city in which to
repair the outrage done to Quiquendone.
The letter was sent off, and returned a few hours afterwards,
torn to bits, which made so many fresh insults. The Virgamenians
knew of old the forbearance and equanimity of the Quiquendonians,
and made sport of them and their demand, of their -casus belli-
and their -ultimatum-.
There was only one thing left to do,--to have recourse to arms,
to invoke the God of battles, and, after the Prussian fashion, to
hurl themselves upon the Virgamenians before the latter could be
prepared.
This decision was made by the council in solemn conclave, in
which cries, objurgations, and menacing gestures were mingled
with unexampled violence. An assembly of idiots, a congress of
madmen, a club of maniacs, would not have been more tumultuous.
As soon as the declaration of war was known, General Jean
Orbideck assembled his troops, perhaps two thousand three hundred
and ninety-three combatants from a population of two thousand
three hundred and ninety-three souls. The women, the children,
the old men, were joined with the able-bodied males. The guns of
the town had been put under requisition. Five had been found, two
of which were without cocks, and these had been distributed to
the advance-guard. The artillery was composed of the old culverin
of the château, taken in 1339 at the attack on Quesnoy, one of
the first occasions of the use of cannon in history, and which
had not been fired off for five centuries. Happily for those who
were appointed to take it in charge there were no projectiles
with which to load it; but such as it was, this engine might well
impose on the enemy. As for side-arms, they had been taken from
the museum of antiquities,--flint hatchets, helmets, Frankish
battle-axes, javelins, halberds, rapiers, and so on; and also in
those domestic arsenals commonly known as "cupboards" and
"kitchens." But courage, the right, hatred of the foreigner, the
yearning for vengeance, were to take the place of more perfect
engines, and to replace--at least it was hoped so--the modern
mitrailleuses and breech-loaders.
The troops were passed in review. Not a citizen failed at the
roll-call. General Orbideck, whose seat on horseback was far from
firm, and whose steed was a vicious beast, was thrown three times
in front of the army; but he got up again without injury, and
this was regarded as a favourable omen. The burgomaster, the
counsellor, the civil commissary, the chief justice, the
school-teacher, the banker, the rector,--in short, all the
notabilities of the town,--marched at the head. There were no tears
shed, either by mothers, sisters, or daughters. They urged on their
husbands, fathers, brothers, to the combat, and even followed
them and formed the rear-guard, under the orders of the
courageous Madame Van Tricasse.
The crier, Jean Mistrol, blew his trumpet; the army moved off,
and directed itself, with ferocious cries, towards the Oudenarde
gate.
******
At the moment when the head of the column was about to pass the
walls of the town, a man threw himself before it.
"Stop! stop! Fools that you are!" he cried. "Suspend your blows!
Let me shut the valve! You are not changed in nature! You are
good citizens, quiet and peaceable! If you are so excited, it is
my master, Doctor Ox's, fault! It is an experiment! Under the
pretext of lighting your streets with oxyhydric gas, he has
saturated--"
The assistant was beside himself; but he could not finish. At the
instant that the doctor's secret was about to escape his lips,
Doctor Ox himself pounced upon the unhappy Ygène in an indescribable
rage, and shut his mouth by blows with his fist.
It was a battle. The burgomaster, the counsellor, the
dignitaries, who had stopped short on Ygène's sudden appearance,
carried away in turn by their exasperation, rushed upon the two
strangers, without waiting to hear either the one or the other.
Doctor Ox and his assistant, beaten and lashed, were about to be
dragged, by order of Van Tricasse, to the round-house, when,--
CHAPTER XV.
IN WHICH THE DÉNOUEMENT TAKES PLACE.
When a formidable explosion resounded. All the atmosphere which
enveloped Quiquendone seemed on fire. A flame of an intensity and
vividness quite unwonted shot up into the heavens like a meteor.
Had it been night, this flame would have been visible for ten
leagues around.
The whole army of Quiquendone fell to the earth, like an army of
monks. Happily there were no victims; a few scratches and slight
hurts were the only result. The confectioner, who, as chance
would have it, had not fallen from his horse this time, had his
plume singed, and escaped without any further injury.
[Illustration: The whole army of Quiquendone fell to the earth]
What had happened?
Something very simple, as was soon learned; the gasworks had just
blown up. During the absence of the doctor and his assistant,
some careless mistake had no doubt been made. It is not known how
or why a communication had been established between the reservoir
which contained the oxygen and that which enclosed the hydrogen.
An explosive mixture had resulted from the union of these two
gases, to which fire had accidentally been applied.
This changed everything; but when the army got upon its feet
again, Doctor Ox and his assistant Ygène had disappeared.
CHAPTER XVI.
IN WHICH THE INTELLIGENT READER SEES THAT HE HAS GUESSED CORRECTLY,
DESPITE ALL THE AUTHOR'S PRECAUTIONS.
After the explosion, Quiquendone immediately became the peaceable,
phlegmatic, and Flemish town it formerly was.
After the explosion, which indeed did not cause a very lively
sensation, each one, without knowing why, mechanically took his
way home, the burgomaster leaning on the counsellor's arm, the
advocate Schut going arm in arm with Custos the doctor, Frantz
Niklausse walking with equal familiarity with Simon Collaert,
each going tranquilly, noiselessly, without even being conscious
of what had happened, and having already forgotten Virgamen and
their revenge. The general returned to his confections, and his
aide-de-camp to the barley-sugar.
Thus everything had become calm again; the old existence had been
resumed by men and beasts, beasts and plants; even by the tower
of Oudenarde gate, which the explosion--these explosions are
sometimes astonishing--had set upright again!
And from that time never a word was spoken more loudly than
another, never a discussion took place in the town of Quiquendone.
There were no more politics, no more clubs, no more trials, no
more policemen! The post of the Commissary Passauf became once
more a sinecure, and if his salary was not reduced, it was because
the burgomaster and the counsellor could not make up their minds
to decide upon it.
From time to time, indeed, Passauf flitted, without any one
suspecting it, through the dreams of the inconsolable Tatanémance.
As for Frantz's rival, he generously abandoned the charming Suzel
to her lover, who hastened to wed her five or six years after
these events.
And as for Madame Van Tricasse, she died ten years later, at the
proper time, and the burgomaster married Mademoiselle Pélagie Van
Tricasse, his cousin, under excellent conditions--for the happy
mortal who should succeed him.
CHAPTER XVII.
IN WHICH DOCTOR OX'S THEORY IS EXPLAINED.
What, then, had this mysterious Doctor Ox done? Tried a fantastic
experiment,--nothing more.
After having laid down his gas-pipes, he had saturated, first the
public buildings, then the private dwellings, finally the streets
of Quiquendone, with pure oxygen, without letting in the least
atom of hydrogen.
This gas, tasteless and odorless, spread in generous quantity
through the atmosphere, causes, when it is breathed, serious
agitation to the human organism. One who lives in an air
saturated with oxygen grows excited, frantic, burns!
You scarcely return to the ordinary atmosphere before you return
to your usual state. For instance, the counsellor and the
burgomaster at the top of the belfry were themselves again, as
the oxygen is kept, by its weight, in the lower strata of the
air.
But one who lives under such conditions, breathing this gas which
transforms the body physiologically as well as the soul, dies
speedily, like a madman.
It was fortunate, then, for the Quiquendonians, that a
providential explosion put an end to this dangerous experiment,
and abolished Doctor Ox's gas-works.
To conclude: Are virtue, courage, talent, wit, imagination,--are
all these qualities or faculties only a question of oxygen?
Such is Doctor Ox's theory; but we are not bound to accept it,
and for ourselves we utterly reject it, in spite of the curious
experiment of which the worthy old town of Quiquendone was the
theatre.
MASTER ZACHARIUS
CHAPTER I.
A WINTER NIGHT.
The city of Geneva lies at the west end of the lake of the same
name. The Rhone, which passes through the town at the outlet of
the lake, divides it into two sections, and is itself divided in
the centre of the city by an island placed in mid-stream. A
topographical feature like this is often found in the great
depôts of commerce and industry. No doubt the first inhabitants
were influenced by the easy means of transport which the swift
currents of the rivers offered them--those "roads which walk
along of their own accord," as Pascal puts it. In the case of the
Rhone, it would be the road that ran along.
Before new and regular buildings were constructed on this island,
which was enclosed like a Dutch galley in the middle of the
river, the curious mass of houses, piled one on the other,
presented a delightfully confused -coup-d'oeil-. The small area
of the island had compelled some of the buildings to be perched,
as it were, on the piles, which were entangled in the rough
currents of the river. The huge beams, blackened by time, and
worn by the water, seemed like the claws of an enormous crab, and
presented a fantastic appearance. The little yellow streams,
which were like cobwebs stretched amid this ancient foundation,
quivered in the darkness, as if they had been the leaves of some
old oak forest, while the river engulfed in this forest of piles,
foamed and roared most mournfully.
One of the houses of the island was striking for its curiously
aged appearance. It was the dwelling of the old clockmaker,
Master Zacharius, whose household consisted of his daughter
Gerande, Aubert Thun, his apprentice, and his old servant
Scholastique.
There was no man in Geneva to compare in interest with this
Zacharius. His age was past finding out. Not the oldest
inhabitant of the town could tell for how long his thin, pointed
head had shaken above his shoulders, nor the day when, for the
first time, he had-walked through the streets, with his long
white locks floating in the wind. The man did not live; he
vibrated like the pendulum of his clocks. His spare and
cadaverous figure was always clothed in dark colours. Like the
pictures of Leonardo di Vinci, he was sketched in black.
Gerande had the pleasantest room in the whole house, whence,
through a narrow window, she had the inspiriting view of the
snowy peaks of Jura; but the bedroom and workshop of the old man
were a kind of cavern close on to the water, the floor of which
rested on the piles.
From time immemorial Master Zacharius had never come out except
at meal times, and when he went to regulate the different clocks
of the town. He passed the rest of his time at his bench, which
was covered with numerous clockwork instruments, most of which he
had invented himself. For he was a clever man; his works were
valued in all France and Germany. The best workers in Geneva
readily recognized his superiority, and showed that he was an
honour to the town, by saying, "To him belongs the glory of
having invented the escapement." In fact, the birth of true
clock-work dates from the invention which the talents of
Zacharius had discovered not many years before.
After he had worked hard for a long time, Zacharius would slowly
put his tools away, cover up the delicate pieces that he had been
adjusting with glasses, and stop the active wheel of his lathe;
then he would raise a trap-door constructed in the floor of his
workshop, and, stooping down, used to inhale for hours together
the thick vapours of the Rhone, as it dashed along under his
eyes.
[Illustration: he would raise the trap door constructed in the
floor of his workshop.]
One winter's night the old servant Scholastique served the
supper, which, according to old custom, she and the young
mechanic shared with their master. Master Zacharius did not eat,
though the food carefully prepared for him was offered him in a
handsome blue and white dish. He scarcely answered the sweet
words of Gerande, who evidently noticed her father's silence, and
even the clatter of Scholastique herself no more struck his ear
than the roar of the river, to which he paid no attention.
After the silent meal, the old clockmaker left the table without
embracing his daughter, or saying his usual "Good-night" to all.
He left by the narrow door leading to his den, and the staircase
groaned under his heavy footsteps as he went down.
Gerande, Aubert, and Scholastique sat for some minutes without
speaking. On this evening the weather was dull; the clouds
dragged heavily on the Alps, and threatened rain; the severe
climate of Switzerland made one feel sad, while the south wind
swept round the house, and whistled ominously.
"My dear young lady," said Scholastique, at last, "do you know
that our master has been out of sorts for several days? Holy
Virgin! I know he has had no appetite, because his words stick in
his inside, and it would take a very clever devil to drag even
one out of him."
"My father has some secret cause of trouble, that I cannot even
guess," replied Gerande, as a sad anxiety spread over her face.
"Mademoiselle, don't let such sadness fill your heart. You know
the strange habits of Master Zacharius. Who can read his secret
thoughts in his face? No doubt some fatigue has overcome him, but
to-morrow he will have forgotten it, and be very sorry to have
given his daughter pain."
It was Aubert who spoke thus, looking into Gerande's lovely eyes.
Aubert was the first apprentice whom Master Zacharius had ever
admitted to the intimacy of his labours, for he appreciated his
intelligence, discretion, and goodness of heart; and this young
man had attached himself to Gerande with the earnest devotion
natural to a noble nature.
Gerande was eighteen years of age. Her oval face recalled that of
the artless Madonnas whom veneration still displays at the street
corners of the antique towns of Brittany. Her eyes betrayed an
infinite simplicity. One would love her as the sweetest
realization of a poet's dream. Her apparel was of modest colours,
and the white linen which was folded about her shoulders had the
tint and perfume peculiar to the linen of the church. She led a
mystical existence in Geneva, which had not as yet been delivered
over to the dryness of Calvinism.
While, night and morning, she read her Latin prayers in her
iron-clasped missal, Gerande had also discovered a hidden sentiment in
Aubert Thun's heart, and comprehended what a profound devotion
the young workman had for her. Indeed, the whole world in his
eyes was condensed into this old clockmaker's house, and he
passed all his time near the young girl, when he left her
father's workshop, after his work was over.
Old Scholastique saw all this, but said nothing. Her loquacity
exhausted itself in preference on the evils of the times, and the
little worries of the household. Nobody tried to stop its course.
It was with her as with the musical snuff-boxes which they made
at Geneva; once wound up, you must break them before you will
prevent their playing all their airs through.
Finding Gerande absorbed in a melancholy silence, Scholastique
left her old wooden chair, fixed a taper on the end of a
candlestick, lit it, and placed it near a small waxen Virgin,
sheltered in her niche of stone. It was the family custom to
kneel before this protecting Madonna of the domestic hearth, and
to beg her kindly watchfulness during the coming night; but on
this evening Gerande remained silent in her seat.
"Well, well, dear demoiselle," said the astonished Scholastique,
"supper is over, and it is time to go to bed. Why do you tire your
eyes by sitting up late? Ah, Holy Virgin! It's much better to
sleep, and to get a little comfort from happy dreams! In these
detestable times in which we live, who can promise herself a
fortunate day?"
"Ought we not to send for a doctor for my father?" asked Gerande.
"A doctor!" cried the old domestic. "Has Master Zacharius ever
listened to their fancies and pompous sayings? He might accept
medicines for the watches, but not for the body!"
"What shall we do?" murmured Gerande. "Has he gone to work, or to
rest?"
"Gerande," answered Aubert softly, "some mental trouble annoys
your father, that is all."
"Do you know what it is, Aubert?"
"Perhaps, Gerande"
"Tell us, then," cried Scholastique eagerly, economically
extinguishing her taper.
"For several days, Gerande," said the young apprentice,
"something absolutely incomprehensible has been going on. All the
watches which your father has made and sold for some years have
suddenly stopped. Very many of them have been brought back to
him. He has carefully taken them to pieces; the springs were in
good condition, and the wheels well set. He has put them together
yet more carefully; but, despite his skill, they will not go."
"The devil's in it!" cried Scholastique.
"Why say you so?" asked Gerande. "It seems very natural to me.
Nothing lasts for ever in this world. The infinite cannot be
fashioned by the hands of men."
"It is none the less true," returned Aubert, "that there is in
this something very mysterious and extraordinary. I have myself
been helping Master Zacharius to search for the cause of this
derangement of his watches; but I have not been able to find it,
and more than once I have let my tools fall from my hands in
despair."
"But why undertake so vain a task?" resumed Scholastique. "Is it
natural that a little copper instrument should go of itself, and
mark the hours? We ought to have kept to the sun-dial!"
"You will not talk thus, Scholastique," said Aubert, "when you
learn that the sun-dial was invented by Cain.''
"Good heavens! what are you telling me?"
"Do you think," asked Gerande simply, "that we might pray to God
to give life to my father's watches?"
"Without doubt," replied Aubert.
"Good! They will be useless prayers," muttered the old servant,
"but Heaven will pardon them for their good intent."
The taper was relighted. Scholastique, Gerande, and Aubert knelt
down together upon the tiles of the room. The young girl prayed
for her mother's soul, for a blessing for the night, for
travellers and prisoners, for the good and the wicked, and more
earnestly than all for the unknown misfortunes of her father.
[Illustration: The young girl prayed]
Then the three devout souls rose with some confidence in their
hearts, because they had laid their sorrow on the bosom of God.
Aubert repaired to his own room; Gerande sat pensively by the
window, whilst the last lights were disappearing from the city
streets; and Scholastique, having poured a little water on the
flickering embers, and shut the two enormous bolts on the door,
threw herself upon her bed, where she was soon dreaming that she
was dying of fright.
Meanwhile the terrors of this winter's night had increased.
Sometimes, with the whirlpools of the river, the wind engulfed
itself among the piles, and the whole house shivered and shook;
but the young girl, absorbed in her sadness, thought only of her
father. After hearing what Aubert told her, the malady of Master
Zacharius took fantastic proportions in her mind; and it seemed
to her as if his existence, so dear to her, having become purely
mechanical, no longer moved on its worn-out pivots without
effort.
Suddenly the pent-house shutter, shaken by the squall, struck
against the window of the room. Gerande shuddered and started up
without understanding the cause of the noise which thus disturbed
her reverie. When she became a little calmer she opened the sash.
The clouds had burst, and a torrent-like rain pattered on the
surrounding roofs. The young girl leaned out of the window to
draw to the shutter shaken by the wind, but she feared to do so.
It seemed to her that the rain and the river, confounding their
tumultuous waters, were submerging the frail house, the planks of
which creaked in every direction. She would have flown from her
chamber, but she saw below the flickering of a light which
appeared to come from Master Zacharius's retreat, and in one of
those momentary calms during which the elements keep a sudden
silence, her ear caught plaintive sounds. She tried to shut her
window, but could not. The wind violently repelled her, like a
thief who was breaking into a dwelling.
Gerande thought she would go mad with terror. What was her father
doing? She opened the door, and it escaped from her hands, and
slammed loudly with the force of the tempest. Gerande then found
herself in the dark supper-room, succeeded in gaining, on tiptoe,
the staircase which led to her father's shop, and pale and
fainting, glided down.
The old watchmaker was upright in the middle of the room, which
resounded with the roaring of the river. His bristling hair gave
him a sinister aspect. He was talking and gesticulating, without
seeing or hearing anything. Gerande stood still on the threshold.
"It is death!" said Master Zacharius, in a hollow voice; "it is
death! Why should I live longer, now that I have dispersed my
existence over the earth? For I, Master, Zacharius, am really the
creator of all the watches that I have fashioned! It is a part of
my very soul that I have shut up in each of these cases of iron,
silver, or gold! Every time that one of these accursed watches
stops, I feel my heart cease beating, for I have regulated them
with its pulsations!"
As he spoke in this strange way, the old man cast his eyes on his
bench. There lay all the pieces of a watch that he had carefully
taken apart. He took up a sort of hollow cylinder, called a
barrel, in which the spring is enclosed, and removed the steel
spiral, but instead of relaxing itself, according to the laws of
its elasticity, it remained coiled on itself like a sleeping
viper. It seemed knotted, like impotent old men whose blood has
long been congealed. Master Zacharius vainly essayed to uncoil it
with his thin fingers, the outlines of which were exaggerated on
the wall; but he tried in vain, and soon, with a terrible cry of
anguish and rage, he threw it through the trap-door into the
boiling Rhone.
Gerande, her feet riveted to the floor, stood breathless and
motionless. She wished to approach her father, but could not.
Giddy hallucinations took possession of her. Suddenly she heard,
in the shade, a voice murmur in her ears,--
"Gerande, dear Gerande! grief still keeps you awake. Go in again,
I beg of you; the night is cold."
"Aubert!" whispered the young girl. "You!"
"Ought I not to be troubled by what troubles you?"
These soft words sent the blood back into the young girl's heart.
She leaned on Aubert's arm, and said to him,--
"My father is very ill, Aubert! You alone can cure him, for this
disorder of the mind would not yield to his daughter's consolings.
His mind is attacked by a very natural delusion, and in working with
him, repairing the watches, you will bring him back to reason.
Aubert," she continued, "it is not true, is it, that his life is
mixed up with that of his watches?"
Aubert did not reply.
"But is my father's a trade condemned by God?" asked Gerande,
trembling.
"I know not," returned the apprentice, warming the cold hands of
the girl with his own. "But go back to your room, my poor
Gerande, and with sleep recover hope!"
Gerande slowly returned to her chamber, and remained there till
daylight, without sleep closing her eyelids. Meanwhile, Master
Zacharius, always mute and motionless, gazed at the river as it
rolled turbulently at his feet.
CHAPTER II.
THE PRIDE OF SCIENCE.
The severity of the Geneva merchant in business matters has
become proverbial. He is rigidly honourable, and excessively
just. What must, then, have been the shame of Master Zacharius,
when he saw these watches, which he had so carefully constructed,
returning to him from every direction?
It was certain that these watches had suddenly stopped, and
without any apparent reason. The wheels were in a good condition
and firmly fixed, but the springs had lost all elasticity. Vainly
did the watchmaker try to replace them; the wheels remained
motionless. These unaccountable derangements were greatly to the
old man's discredit. His noble inventions had many times brought
upon him suspicions of sorcery, which now seemed confirmed. These
rumours reached Gerande, and she often trembled for her father,
when she saw malicious glances directed towards him.
Yet on the morning after this night of anguish, Master Zacharius
seemed to resume work with some confidence. The morning sun
inspired him with some courage. Aubert hastened to join him in
the shop, and received an affable "Good-day."
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621
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