Marcel Proust - "Le Cote de Guermantes"

Johannes Ewald - "The Death of Balder"

A.E.W. Mason - "Clementina"

G. Bosch - "Auvergne"

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"You have heard something?"

"I thought I heard a horse's feet. I am not sure, but I will stay behind
a minute to find out."

The lady, without replying, went on, and Remy got off his horse and let
him follow her, while he hid himself behind an immense post and waited.
The lady knocked at the door of the inn, behind which, according to the
hospitable custom of the country, watched, or rather slept, a maid
servant. The girl woke up and received the traveler with perfect
good-humor, and then opened the stable-door for the two horses.

"I am waiting for my companion," said Diana; "let me sit by the fire; I
shall not go to bed until he comes."

The servant threw some straw to the horses, shut the stable door, then
returned to the kitchen, put a chair by the fire, snuffed the candle
with her fingers, and went to sleep again.

Meanwhile Remy was watching for the arrival of the traveler whose horse
he had heard. He saw him enter the town and go on slowly, and seeming
to listen; then, seeing the inn, he appeared to hesitate whether to go
there or to continue his journey. He stopped close to Remy, who laid his
hand on his knife.

"It is he again," thought Remy, "and he is following us. What can he
want?"

After a minute the traveler murmured in a low voice, "They must have
gone on, and so will I," and he rode forward.

"To-morrow we will change our route," thought Remy.

And he rejoined Diana, who was waiting impatiently for him.

"Well," said she softly, "are we followed?"

"There is no one, I was wrong; you may sleep in perfect safety, madame."

"I am not sleepy, Remy."

"At least have supper, madame; you have scarcely eaten anything."

"Willingly, Remy."

They reawakened the poor servant, who got up as good-humoredly as
before, and hearing what they wanted, took from the cupboard a piece of
salt pork, a cold leveret, and some sweets, which she set before them,
together with a frothing jug of Louvain beer.

Remy sat down with Diana, who drank half a glass of beer, and ate a
piece of bread. Remy did the same, and then they both rose.

"Are you not going to eat any more?" asked the girl.

"No, thank you, we have done."

"Will you not eat any meat? it is very nice."

"I am sure it is excellent, but we are not hungry."

The girl clasped her hands in astonishment at this strange abstinence;
it was not thus she was used to see travelers eat.

Remy threw a piece of money on the table.

"Oh!" said the girl, "I cannot change all that; six farthings would be
all your bill."

"Keep it all, my girl," said Diana; "it is true my brother and I eat
little, but we pay the same as others."

The servant became red with joy.

"Tell me, my girl," said Remy, "is there any cross-road from here to
Mechlin?"

"Yes, monsieur, but it is very bad, while the regular road is a very
fine one."

"Yes, my child, I know that, but we wish to travel by the other."

"Oh! I told you, monsieur, because, as your companion is a lady, the
road would not do for her."

"Why not?"

"Because to-night a great number of people will cross the country to go
to Brussels."--"To Brussels?"

"Yes; it is a temporary emigration."

"For what reason?"

"I do not know; they had orders."

"From whom--the Prince of Orange?"

"No; from monseigneur."

"Who is he?"

"I do not know, monsieur."

"And who are the emigrants?"

"The inhabitants of the country and of the villages which have no dykes
or ramparts."

"It is strange."

"We ourselves," said the girl, "are to set out at daybreak, as well as
all the other people in the town. Yesterday, at eleven o'clock, all the
cattle were sent to Brussels by canals and cross-roads; therefore on the
road of which you speak there must be great numbers of horses, carts,
and people."

"I should have thought the great road better for all that."

"I do not know; it was the order."

"But we can go on to Mechlin, I suppose?"

"I should think so, unless you will do like every one else, and go to
Brussels."

"No, no, we will go on at once to Mechlin," said Diana, rising; "open
the stable, if you please, my good girl."

"Danger every way," thought Remy; "however, the young man is before us."
And as the horses had not been unsaddled, they mounted again, and the
rising sun found them on the banks of the Dyle.




CHAPTER LXVII.

EXPLANATION.


The danger that Remy braved was a real one, for the traveler, after
having passed the village and gone on for a quarter of a league, and
seeing no one before him, made up his mind that those whom he sought had
remained behind in the village. He would not retrace his steps, but lay
down in a field of clover; having made his horse descend into one of
those deep ditches which in Flanders serve as divisions between the
properties, he was therefore able to see without being seen. This young
man, as Remy knew, and Diana suspected, was Henri du Bouchage, whom a
strange fatality threw once more into the presence of the woman he had
determined to fly. After his conversation with Remy, on the threshold of
the mysterious house, that is to say, after the loss of all his hopes,
he had returned to the Hotel Joyeuse, quite decided to put an end to a
life which he felt to be so miserable, and as a gentleman, and one who
had his name to keep untarnished, he decided on the glorious suicide of
the field of battle.

Therefore, as they were fighting in Flanders, and his brother had a
command there, Henri, on the following day, left his hotel twenty hours
after the departure of Diana and Remy.

Letters from Flanders announced the intended coup de main on Antwerp,
and Henri hoped to arrive in time for it. He pleased himself with the
idea that he should die sword in hand, in his brother's arms, under a
French flag, and that his death would be talked about until the sound
even reached the solitude in which the mysterious lady lived. Noble
follies! glorious, yet sad dreams!

Just as--full of these thoughts--he came in sight of Valenciennes, from
whose church tower eight o'clock was sounding, he perceived that they
were about to close the gates. He pushed on, and nearly overturned, on
the drawbridge, a man who was fastening the girths of his horse. Henri
stopped to make excuses to the man, who turned at the sound of his
voice, and then quickly turned away again. Henri started, but
immediately thought, "I must be mad; Remy here, whom I left four days
ago in the Rue de Bussy; here now, without his mistress. Really, grief
must be turning my brain and making me see everything in the form of my
own fancies." And he continued his way, convinced that his idea had been
pure fancy. At the first hotel that he came to he stopped, gave his
horse to a servant, and sat down on a bench before the door, while they
prepared his bed and supper. But as he sat there he saw two travelers
approaching, and this time he saw more clearly.

"Now," murmured he, "I do not dream, and still I think I see Remy. I
cannot remain in this uncertainty; I must clear up my doubts."

He got up and ran down the road after them, but they had disappeared.
Then he went to all the hotels and questioned the servants, and after
much search discovered that two cavaliers had been seen going toward a
small inn in the Rue de Beffroi. The landlord was just shutting the
doors when Henri entered. While the man offered him rooms and
refreshment, he looked round, and saw on the top of the staircase Remy
going up, lighted by a servant; of his companion he saw nothing. Du
Bouchage had no longer any doubts, and he asked himself, with a dreadful
sinking of the heart, why Remy had left his mistress and was traveling
without her; for Henri had been so occupied in identifying Remy, that he
had scarcely looked at his companion. The next morning when he rose, he
was much surprised to learn that the two travelers had obtained from the
governor permission to go out; and that, contrary to all custom, the
gates had been opened for them. Thus, as they had set out at one
o'clock, they had six hours' start of him. Henri put his horse to the
gallop and passed the travelers at Mons. He saw Remy; but Remy must have
been a sorcerer to know him, for he had on a soldier's great coat and
rode another horse. Nevertheless, Remy's companion, at a word from him,
turned away his head before Henri could see his face. But the young man
did not lose courage; he watched them to their hotel, and then
questioning, with the aid of an irresistible auxiliary, learned that
Remy's companion was a very handsome, but very silent and sad looking
young man. Henri trembled. "Can it be a woman?" asked he.

"It is possible," replied the host: "many women travel thus disguised
just now, to go and rejoin their lovers in Flanders; but it is our
business to see nothing, and we never do."

Henri felt heart-broken at this explanation. Was Remy, indeed,
accompanying his mistress dressed as a cavalier; and was she, as the
host suggested, going to rejoin her lover in Flanders? Had Remy lied
when he spoke of an eternal regret? was this fable of a past love, which
had clothed his mistress forever in mourning, only his invention to get
rid of an importunate watcher?

"If it be so," cried Henri, "the time will come when I shall have
courage to address this woman and reproach her with all the subterfuges
which lower her whom I had placed so high above all ordinary mortals;
and seeing nearer this brilliant envelope of a common mind, perhaps I
shall fall of myself from the height of my illusions and my love."

And the young man tore his hair in despair at the thought of losing the
love which was killing him; for a dead heart is better than an empty
one. So he continued to follow them, and to wonder at the cause which
took to Flanders, at the same time as himself, these two beings so
indispensable to his existence.

At Brussels he gathered information as to the Duc d'Anjou's intended
campaign. The Flemings were too hostile to the duke to receive well a
Frenchman of distinction, and were too proud of their position to
refrain from humiliating a little this gentleman who came from France
and questioned them in a pure Parisian accent, which always seemed
ridiculous to the Belgians. Henri began to conceive serious fears with
reference to this expedition, in which his brother was to bear so
prominent a part, and he resolved in consequence to push on rapidly to
Antwerp. It was a constant surprise to him to see Remy and his
companion, in spite of their desire not to be seen, continue to follow
the same road as himself.

Henri, now hidden in the clover field, felt certain of seeing the face
of the young man who accompanied Remy, and thus putting an end to all
his doubts. As they passed, unsuspicious of his vicinity, Diana was
occupied in braiding up her hair, which she had not dared to untie at
the inn.

Henri recognized her, and nearly fainted. The travelers passed on, and
then anger took, in Henri's mind, the place of the goodness and patience
he had exercised, while he believed Remy and the lady sincere toward
him. But after the protestations of Remy, this journey seemed to him a
species of treason.

When he had recovered a little from the blow, he rose, shook back his
beautiful light hair, and mounted his horse, determined no longer to
take those precautions that respect had made him hitherto observe, and
he began to follow the travelers openly, and with his face uncovered. No
more cloak nor hood, no more stops and hesitation; the road belonged to
him as to them, and he rode on, regulating the pace of his horse by that
of theirs. He did not mean to speak to them, but only to let them see
him. Remy soon perceived him, and, seeing him thus openly advance
without any further attempt at concealment, grew troubled; Diana noticed
it and turned also.

"Is it not that young man following us?"

Remy, still trying to reassure her, said, "I do not think so, madame. As
well as I can judge by the dress, it is some young Walloon soldier going
probably to Amsterdam, and passing by the theater of war to seek
adventures."

"I feel uneasy about him, Remy."

"Reassure yourself, madame, had he been really the Comte du Bouchage, he
would have spoken to us; you know how persevering he was."

"I know also that he was respectful, Remy, or I should never have
troubled myself about him, but simply told you to get rid of him."

"Well, madame, if he be so respectful, you would have no more to fear
from him on this road than in the Rue de Bussy."

"Nevertheless, Remy, let us change our horses here at Mechlin, in order
to get on faster to Antwerp."

"On the contrary, madame, I should say, do not let us enter Mechlin at
all; our horses are good, let us push on to that little village which
is, I think, called Villebrock; in that manner we shall avoid the town,
with its questioners and curious gazers."

"Go on, then, Remy."

They turned to the left, taking a road hardly made, but which visibly
led to Villebrock; Henri also quitted the road, and turned down the
lane, still keeping his distance from them.

Remy's disquietude showed itself in his constantly turning to look
behind him. At last they arrived at Villebrock. Of 200 houses which this
village contained, not one was inhabited; some forgotten dogs and lost
cats ran wildly about the solitude, the former calling for their masters
by long howls. Remy knocked at twenty doors, but found no one. Henri on
his side, who seemed the shadow of the travelers, knocked at the first
house as uselessly as they had done, then, divining that the war was the
cause of this desertion, waited to continue his journey until the
travelers should have decided what to do.

They fed their horses with some corn which they found in an inn, and
then Remy said--

"Madame, we are no longer in a friendly country, nor in an ordinary
situation; we must not expose ourselves uselessly. We shall certainly
fall in with some French, Spanish, or Flemish band, for in the present
state of Flanders, adventures of all kinds must be rife. If you were a
man I should speak differently; but you are a young and beautiful woman,
and would run a double risk for life and honor."

"My life is nothing," said she.

"On the contrary, madame, it is everything. You live for a purpose."

"Well, then, what do you propose? Think and act for me, Remy."

"Then, madame, let us remain here. I see many houses which would afford
us a sure shelter. I have arms, and we will defend or hide ourselves,
as we shall be strong or weak."

"No, Remy, no, I must go on; nothing must stop me; and if I had fears,
they would be for you."

"We will go on then."

They rode on, therefore, without another word, and Henri du Bouchage
followed.




CHAPTER LXVIII.

THE WATER.


As the travelers advanced, the country took an equally strange aspect,
for it was utterly deserted, as well as the towns and villages. Nowhere
were the calves to be seen grazing in the meadows, nor the goat perched
on the top of the mountain, or nibbling the green shoots of the brier or
young vine; nowhere the shepherd with his flock; nowhere the cart with
its driver; no foreign merchant passing from one country to another with
his pack on his back; no plowman singing his harsh song or cracking his
long whip. As far as the eye could see over the magnificent plains, the
little hills and the woods, not a human figure was to be seen, not a
voice to be heard. It seemed like the earth before the creation of
animals or men. The only people who animated this dreary solitude were
Remy and his companion, and Henri following behind and preserving ever
the same distance. The night came on dark and cold, and the northeast
wind whistled in the air, and filled the solitude with its menacing
sound.

Remy stopped his companion, and putting his hand on the bridle of her
horse, said--

"Madame, you know how inaccessible I am to fear; you know I would not
turn my back to save my life; but this evening some strange feeling
possesses me, and forbids me to go further. Madame, call it terror,
timidity, panic, what you will, I confess that for the first time in my
life I am afraid."

The lady turned.

"Is he still there?" she said.

"Oh! I was not thinking of him; think no more of him, madame, I beg of
you; we need not fear a single man. No, the danger that I fear or
rather feel, or divine with a sort of instinct, is unknown to me, and
therefore I dread it. Look, madame, do you see those willows bending in
the wind?"

"Yes."

"By their side I see a little house; I beg you, let us go there. If it
is inhabited, we will ask for hospitality; and if not, we will take
possession of it. I beg you to consent, madame."

Remy's emotion and troubled voice decided Diana to yield, so she turned
her horse in the direction indicated by him. Some minutes after, they
knocked at the door. A stream (which ran into the Nethe, a little river
about a mile off), bordered with reeds and grassy banks, bathed the feet
of the willows with its murmuring waters. Behind the house, which was
built of bricks, and covered with tiles, was a little garden, encircled
by a quickset hedge.

All was empty, solitary, and deserted, and no one replied to the blows
struck by the travelers. Remy did not hesitate; he drew his knife, cut a
branch of willow, with which he pushed back the bolt and opened the
door. The lock, the clumsy work of a neighboring blacksmith, yielded
almost without resistance. Remy entered quickly, followed by Diana,
then, closing the door again, he drew a massive bolt, and thus
intrenched, seemed to breathe more freely. Feeling about, he found a
bed, a chair, and a table in an upper room. Here he installed his
mistress, and then, returning to the lower room, placed himself at the
window, to watch the movements of Du Bouchage.

His reflections were as somber as those of Remy. "Certainly," said he to
himself, "some danger unknown to us, but of which the inhabitants are
not ignorant, is about to fall on the country. War ravages the land;
perhaps the French have taken, or are about to assault Antwerp, and the
peasants, seized with terror, have gone to take refuge in the towns."

But this reasoning, however plausible, did not quite satisfy him. Then
he thought, "But what are Remy and his mistress doing here? What
imperious necessity drags them toward this danger? Oh, I will know; the
time has come to speak to this woman, and to clear away all my doubts.
Never shall I find a better opportunity."

He approached the house, and then suddenly stopped, with a hesitation
common to hearts in love.

"No," said he, "no, I will be a martyr to the end. Besides, is she not
mistress of her own actions? And, perhaps, she does not even know what
fable was invented by Remy. Oh, it is he alone that I hate; he who
assured me that she loved no one. But still let me be just. Ought this
man for me, whom he did not know, to have betrayed his mistress's
secrets? No, no. All that remains for me now is to follow this woman to
the camp, to see her hang her arms round some one's neck and hear her
say, 'See what I have suffered, and how I love you.' Well, I will follow
her there, see what I dread to see, and die of it; it will be trouble
saved for the musket or cannon. Alas! I did not seek this; I went calmly
to meet a glorious death, and I wished to die with her name on my lips.
It is not so to be; I am destined to a death full of bitterness and
torture. Well, I accept it."

Then, recalling his days of waiting, and his nights of anguish before
the inexorable house, he found that he was less to be pitied here than
at Paris, and he went on.

"I will stay here, and take these trees for a shelter, and then I can
hear her voice when she speaks, and see her shadow on the window."

He lay down, then, under the willows, listening, with a melancholy
impossible to describe, to the murmur of the water that flowed at his
side. All at once he started; the noise of cannon was brought distinctly
to him by the wind.

"Ah!" said he, "I shall arrive too late; they are attacking Antwerp."

His first idea was to rise, mount his horse, and ride on as quickly as
possible; but to do this he must quit the lady, and die in doubt, so he
remained.

During two hours he lay there, listening to the reports. He did not
guess that what he heard was his brother's ships blowing up. At last,
about two o'clock, all grew quiet.

"Now," thought Henri, "Antwerp is taken, and my brother is a conqueror;
but after Antwerp will come Ghent, and then Bruges; I shall not want an
occasion for a glorious death. But before I die I must know what this
woman wants in the French camp."

He lay still, and had just fallen asleep, when his horse, which was
grazing quietly near him, pricked up his ears and neighed loudly.

Henri opened his eyes. The animal had his head turned to the breeze,
which had changed to the southeast, as if listening.

"What is it, my good horse?" said the young man; "have you seen some
animal which frightened you, or do you regret the shelter of your
stable?"

The animal stood still, looking toward Lier, with his eyes fixed and his
nostrils distended, and listening.

"Ah!" said Henri, "it is more serious; perhaps some troops of wolves
following the army to devour the corpses."

The horse neighed and began to run forward to the west, but his master
caught the bridle and jumped on his back, and then was able to keep him
quiet. But after a minute, Henri himself began to hear what the horse
had heard. A long murmur, like the wind, but more solemn, which seemed
to come from different points of the compass, from south to north.

"What is it?" said Henri; "can it be the wind? No, it is the wind which
brings this sound, and I hear the two distinctly. An army in march,
perhaps? But no; I should hear the sound of voices and of regular
marching. Is it the crackling of a fire? No, there is no light in the
horizon; the heaven seems even to grow darker."

The noise redoubled and became distinct; it was an incessant growling
and rolling, as if thousands of cannon were being dragged over a paved
road. Henri thought of this. "But no," said he, "there is no paved road
near."

The noise continued to increase, and Henri put his horse to the gallop
and gained an eminence.

"What do I see?" cried he, as he attained the summit. What he saw his
horse had seen before him; for he had only been able to make him advance
by furious spurring, and when they arrived at the top of the hill he
reared so as nearly to fall backward. They saw in the horizon an
infinite body rolling over the plain, and visibly and rapidly
approaching. The young man looked in wonder at this strange phenomenon,
when, looking back to the place he had come from, he saw the plain
beginning to be covered with water, and that the little river had
overflowed, and was beginning to cover the reeds which a quarter of an
hour before had stood up stiffly on its banks.

"Fool that I am," cried he, "I never thought of it. The water! the
water! The Flemings have broken their dykes!"

Henri flew to the house, and knocked furiously at the door.

"Open! open!" cried he.

No one replied.

"Open, Remy!" cried he, furious with terror; "it is I, Henri du
Bouchage."

"Oh! you need not name yourself, M. le Comte," answered Remy from
within, "I recognized you long ago; but I warn you, that if you break in
the door you will find me behind it, with a pistol in each hand."

"But you do not understand," cried Henri; "the water; it is the water!"

"No fables, no pretexts or dishonorable ruses, M. le Comte; I tell you
that you will only enter over my body."

"Then I will pass over it, but I will enter. In Heaven's name, in the
name of your own safety and your mistress's, will you open?"--"No."

Henri looked round him, and perceived an immense stone. He raised it and
threw it against the door, which flew open. A ball passed over Henri's
head, but without touching him; he jumped toward Remy, and seizing his
other arm, cried, "Do you not see that I have no arms? do not defend
yourself against a man who does not attack. Look! only look!" and he
drew him to the window.

"Well," said he, "do you see now?" and he pointed to the horizon.

"The water!" cried Remy.

"Yes, the water! it invades us; see, at our feet, the river overflows,
and in five minutes we shall be surrounded."

"Madame! madame!" cried Remy.

"Do not frighten her, Remy; get ready the horses at once."

Remy ran to the stable, and Henri flew up the staircase. At Remy's cry
Diana had opened her door; Henri seized her in his arms and carried her
away as he would have done a child. But she, believing in treason or
violence, struggled, and clung to the staircase with all her might.

"Tell her that I am saving her, Remy!" cried Henri.

Remy heard the appeal, and cried:

"Yes, yes, madame, he is saving you, or rather he will save you. Come,
for Heaven's sake!"




CHAPTER LXIX.

FLIGHT.


Henri, without losing time in reasoning with Diana, carried her out of
the house, and wished to place her before him on his horse; but she,
with a movement of invincible repugnance, glided from his arms, and was
received by Remy, who placed her on her own horse.