The new terror
this story, and, be assured, I will pass over the most loathsome
details, knowing as I do how much the mind of a gentleman can bear. The
tragedy of my martyrdom proceeded so quickly that I can call to mind
only their inhuman cries, the protests of some and the rush of others
while Madame Beauvisage stood up and murmured:
“‘Be careful not to hurt him!’
“I tried to leap to my feet, but by this time a posse of mad cripples
was round me who tripped me up and I crashed to the floor. And I felt
their awful hooks hold my flesh captive just as the meat in a butcher’s
shop is held captive on its hooks.
“Yes, monsieur, I will spare you the details. I pledged you my word;
all the more so as I couldn’t give them to you, for I did not see
the operation. The doctor clapped a plug of cotton wool steeped in
chloroform on my mouth by way of a gag.
“When I came to myself I was in the kitchen, and I had lost an arm.
The cripples were all around me. They had ceased their wrangling. They
seemed to be united in the most touching harmony; in reality they were
in a state of dazed intoxication which caused them to sway their heads
like children who feel the need to go and lie down after eating their
fill, and I had not a doubt but that they were beginning, alas! to
digest me.... I was stretched at full length on the floor, securely
bound, and deprived of all power of movement, but I could both see and
hear them. My old comrade, Gérard Beauvisage, had tears of joy in his
eyes as he exclaimed:
“‘I should never have thought you would be so tender!’
“Madame Beauvisage was not present, but she, too, must have taken part
in the feast, for I heard some one ask Gérard how ‘she liked her share.’
“Yes, monsieur, I have finished my story. I have finished my story.
Those loathsome cripples having satisfied their weakness, must have at
last realized the full extent of their iniquity. They made themselves
scarce, and Madame Beauvisage, of course, escaped with them. They left
the doors wide open but no one came to set me free until four days
afterwards, when I was pretty well dead with hunger....
“Those miserable wretches had not even left the bone behind!”
THE GOLD AXE
Many years ago I was at Gersau, a small health resort on the Lake of
the Four Forest Cantons, a few miles from Lucerne. I wanted to complete
certain work, and I had arranged to spend the autumn in the quiet of
this delightful village whose ancient pointed roofs were reflected in
the romantic waters of the lake on which William Tell sailed in days of
old.
It was the end of autumn, and tourists had scattered, while the many
hideous Tartarins who had descended upon us from Germany with their
alpenstocks, their puttees and their little round hats decked with
the indispensable feather, had returned to their lager beer, their
sauerkraut and their “big concerts,” leaving the country between
Pilatus, the Mythen and the Rigi free to us at last.
Not more than half-a-dozen of us foregathered in the hotel at meal
time, and when evening came related our experiences of the day or
indulged in a little music.
An old lady, always enveloped in deep mourning, who when the little
hotel was swarming with noisy visitors had never addressed a word to
any one, and seemed the embodiment of woe, stood revealed as a pianist
of the first rank, and without waiting to be pressed, played Chopin to
us and, in particular, a certain lullaby by Schumann which she rendered
with such exquisite tenderness that she brought tears to our eyes.
We were all so grateful to her for the pleasant hours which she enabled
us to pass, that we joined together to present her, at the moment of
her departure, with a slight souvenir of our stay at Gersau.
One of us who went that day to Lucerne undertook to buy the gift. He
returned in the evening with a gold brooch in the form of a small axe.
Neither on that evening nor the following one did the old lady make her
appearance; and the visitors who were leaving entrusted the gold brooch
to my care.
Her luggage was still in the hotel, and I was prepared to see her
return, sooner or later, reassured as to her well-being by the
proprietor who told me that she was in the habit of disappearing for a
day or two, and he had no reason to feel anxious about her.
As a matter of fact the day before my departure, as I was making a
final tour of the lake and had pulled up a few steps from Tell’s
Chapel, I saw the old lady standing at the entrance of the building.
Never until then had I been impressed by the unspeakable distress
depicted on her face down which the tears were coursing, and never had
I so clearly observed the traces, which were still manifest, of her
former beauty. She caught sight of me, lowered her veil, and walked
toward the lake. Nevertheless, I did not hesitate to overtake her, and
bowing, expressed the visitors’ regret that we were about to lose her;
and then, as I had the gift on me, I presented her with the small case
containing the gold axe.
She opened it with a sweet, far-away smile, but no sooner did she
perceive the jewel inside than she began to tremble with emotion, and
drew back some distance from me, as though she had something to fear
from my presence, and with an insensate gesture threw the brooch into
the lake.
I displayed so much amazement at this unaccountable reception that she
begged my forgiveness and burst into a fit of sobbing. A seat stood in
this secluded spot, and we both sat down. And after a few lamentations
against the decrees of fate which left me quite at a loss, she confided
to me her strange, melancholy story which I was never to forget. For,
in truth, I know of no more terrible destiny than that which befell the
old lady in the black veil, who had played Schumann’s lullaby to us
with such exquisite emotion.
* * * * *
“I will tell you the whole story,” she said, “for I am about to leave
for ever this country which I determined to visit for the last time.
And then you will understand why it was that I threw the little gold
axe into the lake.
“I was born in Geneva, monsieur. We belonged to one of the leading
families and were rich, but some unfortunate speculations on the stock
exchange ruined my father, who died from the shock. When I was eighteen
I was a beautiful girl without a dowry. My mother gave up all hope of
marrying me. And yet she yearned to make sure of my future before she
went to join my father.
“I was twenty-four when a suitor whom every one looked upon as an
unhoped-for chance appeared.
“A young man from Briesgau who was accustomed to spend the summer in
Switzerland and whose acquaintance we made in the casino at Evian,
fell in love with me, and I liked him. Herbert Gutmann was a tall
young fellow, kindly, unobtrusive and good-natured. He seemed to unite
qualities alike of heart and mind. He possessed a certain affluence
without being actually wealthy. His father was still engaged in
business, and made him an allowance in order that he might travel until
the time came for him to succeed him in his business. We were all
intending to visit the elder Gutmann at his place in Todtnau, in the
Black Forest, when the state of my mother’s health greatly hastened
the course of events.
“Conscious that she no longer possessed the physical strength to
travel, my mother hurriedly returned to Geneva, where she received
from the civil authorities of Todtnau, to whom she had written, the
most satisfactory information in respect of Herbert and his family.
Herbert’s father had begun life as an ordinary woodcutter, and then
had left the district, returning to it with a small fortune which he
had ‘made in timber.’ That was all, at least, that was known of him in
Todtnau.
“This was enough to induce my mother to press forward the formalities
of my marriage, which took place a week before her death. She died with
her mind at rest for, as she said, she felt ‘reassured about my future.’
“My husband helped me to overcome the grief which this sore trial
caused me by his constant goodness and solicitude. Before we set out
for Todtnau we came here to Gersau to spend a week, and then to my
great surprise we undertook a long journey instead of making our visit
to Herbert’s father. My sorrow would have gradually been dispelled if,
as the days sped by, I had not noticed, almost with dismay, that my
husband was more and more becoming a prey to melancholy.
“I was more surprised than I can express, because Herbert had seemed to
me of a humorous disposition, open, unrestrained and extremely frank.
Was I to discover that the liveliness which he used to display was
forced, and veiled some deep mortification? Alas, his sighs when he
thought himself alone, and the agitation which sometimes disturbed his
night’s rest, scarcely left room for doubt, and I made up my mind to
question him.
“At the first word that I ventured to speak on the subject he made
answer by bursting into laughter, treating me as a silly little goose
and kissing me passionately, which merely served to strengthen my
conviction that I was in the presence of some painful mystery.
“I could not hide from myself that there was something in Herbert’s
demeanor which was very like ‘remorse.’ And yet I could have sworn that
he was incapable of committing, I will not say a low or mean action,
but even one lacking in propriety.
“It was then that the fate which had dogged my footsteps, struck us
another blow in the person of my father-in-law of whose death we learnt
whilst we were in Scotland. This grievous piece of news depressed
my husband more than I can say. He remained the whole night without
uttering a word, nor did he shed tears nor appear to listen to the
words of consolation by which I, in my turn, endeavored to rouse his
spirit. He seemed to be overwhelmed. At last, when the light was
beginning to dawn, he rose from the arm-chair in which he had sat
huddled, and turning toward me a face terribly distorted by suffering,
said in a harrowing voice:
“‘Come, Elizabeth, we shall have to go back. We shall have to go back.’
“These words seemed to possess a significance from the tone in which
they were spoken which I failed to understand. A return to the land of
his father’s was quite natural at a moment like that, and I could not
see why he should fight against the necessity of going home. From that
day onward Herbert changed completely; he grew extraordinarily silent,
and more than once I came upon him sobbing wildly.
“The grief which the loss of a beloved father might occasion could not
entirely explain the horror of our position, for there is nothing more
terrible than mystery, the deep mystery which steals in between two
beings who are devoted to each other, and separates them from their
happiness....
“We reached Todtnau in time to breathe a prayer over the newly made
grave.
“This little town in the Black Forest, at no great distance from
Höllenthal, was a dreary spot; and there was scarcely any society in it
for me. The Gutmann’s house, in which we took up our abode, lay on the
borders of a forest.
“It was a gloomy chalet standing in its own grounds, and our one
visitor was an old clockmaker in the place, who was said to be rich and
had been the elder Gutmann’s friend. He appeared from time to time at
the lunch or dinner hour, in order to get himself invited.
“I had no liking for this manufacturer of cuckoo-clocks, this petty
usurer, for though he was rich, he was a miser and incapable of the
least nicety of feeling. Nor did Herbert care for Frantz Basckler,
though he continued out of respect for the memory of his father to keep
on friendly terms with him.
“Basckler, who had no children, had told the elder Gutmann times out of