Chapter IX: Getting the Author’s Mood (6)

_Dona Dolores._ Call whom you will, you cannot save yourself. In ten minutes there will be a revolution in the palace, and to-morrow all Spain will be on fire to avenge your brother. Spain has not forgotten Don Carlos yet. You tortured him to death. There are those alive who saw you give Queen Isabel the draught that killed her—with your own hand. Are you mad enough to think that no one knows these things; that your spies who spy on others do not spy on you; that you alone of all mankind can commit every crime with impunity?

_Philip._ Take care, girl! Take care!

_Dona Dolores._ Beware, Don Philip of Austria, King of Spain and half the world, lest a girl’s voice be heard above yours, and a girl’s hand loosen the foundations of your throne. Outside this door are men who guess the truth already; who hate you as they hate Satan; and who loved your brother as every living being loved him, except you. One moment more. Order my father to be set free, or I will open and speak. One moment! You will not? It is too late—you are lost.... If you ring that bell, I will open the door. Bring the order here where I am safe. I must read it myself before I am satisfied. [_Philip writes order._] I humbly thank your majesty and take my leave.—This scene is arranged from the novel “In the Palace of the King,” by Marion Crawford.

THE KING AND THE POET

[François Villon, the poet, fought and severely wounded the traitorous Grand Constable of France, Thibaut d’Aussigny. King Louis XI, in a whimsical mood, had the poet elevated to his opponent’s station instead of having him cast into prison and sentenced to death. Lady Katherine, hearing that François had fought with Thibaut d’Aussigny, whom she hates for his many protestations of love, and knowing that the penalty was death, pleads for the poet’s life at the feet of him whom she supposes to be the new Grand Constable, but who after all is none other than her own true lover.]

(_The morning after his visit to the Fircone Tavern, Louis sat in his rose-garden, pondering upon his strange adventure of the night before. A favorite astrologer had interpreted his dream to mean that one in the depths, if exalted, would be of great service to him. He knew how precarious his position was, how unpopular he was with the people, how strong were the forces of the Duke of Burgundy, how little he could depend upon the allegiance of the people of Paris if once the enemy set foot within the capital city. His encounter with Villon coming upon the heels of his strange dream, and followed by the vague prophecies of the star-gazer, made him believe that the fantastic rhymester was sent to him in a time of peril to be of support to his throne._

_A heavy tread behind him stirred him from his meditations. Turning, he beheld the companion of his adventure the previous evening._)

_King._ Well, Tristan?

_Tristan._ The bird has flown, sire. Thibaut’s wound was much slighter than we thought last night. After we carried him to his house, he made his escape thence in disguise, and has, as I believe, fled from Paris to join the Duke of Burgundy.

_King._ I wish the Duke joy of him. He is more dangerous to my enemy when he is on my enemy’s side. And my rival for loyalty?

_Tristan._ Barber Oliver has charge of him. I would have hanged the rogue out of hand.

_King._ The stars warn me that I need this rhyming ragamuffin.

_Tristan._ Are you going to let him think he is king, sire?

_King._ Not quite. When he wakes, he is to be assured that he is the Count of Montcorbier and Grand Constable of France. His antics may amuse me, his lucky star may serve me, and his winning tongue may help to avenge me on a certain forward maid, who disdained me. Send me here Oliver. [_Exit Tristan._]

[_Katherine comes slowly down one of the rose-ways._]

_King._ Where are you going, girl?

_Katherine._ To her majesty, sire, who bade me gather roses.

_King._ You are a pretty child. You might have had a king’s love. Well, well, you were a fool. Does not Thibaut woo you?

_Katherine._ He professes to love me, sire, and I profess to hate him.

_King._ He was sorely wounded last night in a tavern scuffle.

_Katherine._ Only wounded, sire?

_King._ Your solicitude is adorable. Be of cheer. He may recover. And we have clapped hands on the assassin. He shall pay the penalty.

_Katherine._ This man should not die, sire. Thibaut d’Aussigny was a traitor, a villain—

_King._ If this knave’s life interests you, plead for it to my lord the Grand Constable.

_Katherine._ Thibaut is pitiless.

_King._ Thibaut is no longer in office. Try your luck with his successor.

_Katherine._ His name, sire?

_King._ He is the Count of Montcorbier. He is a stranger in our court, but he has found a lodging in my heart. He came under safe conduct from the south last night. I believe he will serve me well, and I am sure he will always be lenient to loveliness. Now go, girl, or my wife and your queen will be wanting her roses. [_Exit Katherine._]

[_Glancing up the terrace, he perceives the figure of Oliver. Behind Oliver comes a little cluster of pages, and behind them again the king can see a shining figure in cloth of gold._]

_King._ Here comes my mountebank as pompous as if he were born to the purple. It would be rare sport if Mistress Katherine disdained Louis to decline upon this beggar. He shall hang for mocking me. But he carries himself like a king for all his tatters and patches, and he shall taste of splendor.

[_As the little procession descends the steps into the rose-garden the king moves swiftly to the door of the tower and enters. There is a little grating in the door, and through this grating the king now peers with infinite entertainment of the comedy himself had planned._]

[_Master Villon is greatly changed. The barber’s own handiwork has cleansed and shaved his countenance. He is as sumptuously attired as if he were a prince of the blood royal. It is plain that the tricked out poet is in a desperate dilemma. He manages to bear himself with dignity that consorts with his pomp._]

_Oliver._ Will your dignity deign to linger awhile in this rose-arbor?

_François._ My dignity will deign to do anything you suggest.

_Oliver._ May we take our leave, monseigneur?

_François._ You may, you may—stay one moment. You know this plaguy memory of mine—what a forgetful fellow I am. Would you mind telling me again who I happen to be?

_Oliver._ You are the Count of Montcorbier, monseigneur. You have just arrived in Paris from the court of Provence, where you stood in high favor with the king of that country, but your favor is, I believe, greater with the king of France, for he has been pleased to make you Grand Constable of France. It is his majesty’s wish that you contrive to remember this.

_François._ Of course, it was most foolish of me to forget. Now, I suppose, good master long-toes, that a person in my exalted rank has a good deal of power, influence, authority, and what not?

_Oliver._ With the king’s favor, you are the first man in the realm.

_François._ Quite so! Good sir, will you straightway dispatch some one you can trust with a handful of these broad pieces to the mother of Villon, a poor old woman sorely plagued with a scapegrace son? Let him seek her out and give her these coins that she may buy herself food, clothes and fire.

_Oliver._ It shall be done. [_Exit all but François._]

[_As soon as Villon finds himself alone he looks cautiously around him and tries to recall the events of the evening before, which for some fantastic reason seems to lie centuries behind him._]

_François._ Last night I was a red-handed outlaw, sleeping on the straw of a dungeon. To-day I wake in a royal bed and my varlets call me _Monseigneur_. Either I am mad or I am dreaming. I do not think I am mad, for I know in my heart that I am poor François Villon, penniless Master of Arts, and no will-o’-the-wisp Grand Constable. Then I am dreaming, and everything has been and is a dream. Then the king—popping up at the last moment, like a Jack-in-the-box—a dream. These clothes, these servants, this garden—dreams, dreams, dreams. I shall wake presently and be devilish cold, hungry and shabby.

[_He goes to the golden flagon on the table, pours out a full cup of Burgundy, and watches it glow in the sunlight._]

_François._ To the loveliest lady this side of heaven! By heaven, my eyes dazzle, for I believe I see her!

[_On the terrace the fair girl leans and looks over at the garden and its golden occupant._]

_Oliver._ My lord, there is a lady there who desires to speak with you.

_François._ I desire to speak with her.

[_Oliver enters the palace, and Katherine approaches Villon._]

_Katherine._ My lord, will you listen to a distressed lady?

_François._ She does not know me.

_Katherine._ There is a man in prison at this hour for whom I would implore your clemency. His name is François Villon. Last night he wounded Thibaut d’Aussigny. The penalty is death. But Thibaut was a traitor, sold to Burgundy.

_François._ Did this Villon fight him for his treason?

_Katherine._ No! He fought for the sake of a woman.

_François._ How do you know all this?

_Katherine._ Because I was the woman. This man had seen me, thought he loved me, sent me verses—.

_François._ How insolent!

_Katherine._ It was insolence—and yet they were beautiful verses. I was in mortal fear of Thibaut. I went to this Villon and begged him to kill my enemy. He backed his love-tale with his sword—and he lies in the shadow of death. It is not just that he should suffer for my sin.

_François._ Do you by any chance love this Villon?

_Katherine._ Great ladies do not love tavern bravos. But I pity him and I do not want him to die.

_François._ If I had stood in this rascal’s shoes, I would have done as he did for your sake.

_Katherine._ If you think this, you should grant the poor knave his freedom.

_François._ That brother of ballads shall go free. We will do no more than banish him from Paris. Forget that such a slave ever came near you.

_Katherine._ I shall remember your clemency.

_François._ By Saint Venus, I envy this fellow that he should have won your thoughts. I, too, would die to serve you!

_Katherine._ My lord, you do not know me.

_François._ Did he know you? Yet when he saw you he loved you and made bold to tell you so.

_Katherine._ His words were of no more account than the wind in the leaves. But you and I are peers and the words we change have meanings.

_François._ Would you pity me if I told you I love you?

_Katherine._ Heaven’s mercy, how fast your fancy gallops. I care little to be flattered and less to be wooed, and I swear that I should be very hard to win.

_François._ I have more to try than your tap-room bandit. I see what he saw; I love what he loved.

_Katherine._ You are very inflammable.

_François._ My fire burns to ashes. You can no more stay me from loving you than you can stay the flowers from loving the soft air, or true men from loving honor, or heroes from loving glory. I would rake the moon from heaven for you.

_Katherine._ That promise has grown rusty since Adam first made it to Eve. There is a rhyme in my mind about moons and lovers:

Life is unstable,
Love may uphold;
Fear goes in sable,
Courage in gold.

Mystery covers
Midnight and noon,
Heroes and lovers
Cry for the moon.

_François._ What doggerel!

_Katherine._ It is divinity.

_François._ Tell me what I may do to win your favor?

_Katherine._ A trifle. Save France! Oh, that a man would come to court! For the man who shall trail the banners of Burgundy in the dust for the king of France to walk on I may perhaps have favors.

_François._ You are hard to please.

_Katherine._ My hero must have every virtue for his wreath, every courage for his coronet. Farewell. [_Exit Lady Katherine._]

[_Enter King Louis._]

_King._ Good afternoon, Lord Constable. Does power taste well?

_François._ Nobly, sire! On my knees let me thank your majesty.

_King._ Nonsense, man; I’m pleasing myself. You sang yourself into splendor. “_If François were the king of France_,” eh?

_François._ Sire, I will serve you as never king was served.

_King._ I will make you Grand Constable for a week.

_François._ A week, sire? A week—

_King._ Even so. One wonderful week, seven delirious days. The world was made in seven days. Seven days of power, seven days of splendor, seven days of love.

_François._ And then go back to the garret and the kennel, the tavern and the brothel!

_King._ No, no, not exactly! You don’t taste the full force of the joke yet. Your last task as Grand Constable will be to hang François Villon.

_François._ Sire, sire, have pity!

_King._ You may have your week of wonder if you wish, but if you do, by my word as king, you shall swing for it.

_François._ Sire, what have I done that you should torture me thus?

_King._ You have mocked a king and maimed a minister. You can’t get off scot free.

_François._ Heaven help me! Life, squalid, sordid, but still life, with its tavern corners and its brute pleasures of food and drink and warm sleep, living hands to hold, and living laughter to gladden me—or a week of cloth of gold, of glory, of love—and then a shameful death!

_King._ One further chance, fellow. If the Count Montcorbier win the heart of Lady Katherine within the week, he shall escape the gallows and carry his lady love where he please.

_François._ On your word of honor, sire?

_King._ My word is my honor, Master François. Well?

_François._ Give me my week of wonders though I die a dog’s death at the end of it. I will show France and her what lay in the heart of a poor rhymester.

_King._ Spoken like a man! But remember, a bargain’s a bargain. If you fail to win the lady you must keep yourself for the gallows. I give you the moon, but I want my price for it.

[_Enter Oliver._]

_Oliver._ Sire, the Burgundian herald attends under a flag of truce with a message for your majesty.

_King_. We will receive him here, Oliver. We need air when we hold speech with Burgundy. [_Exit Oliver._]

_King._ Listen well to this man’s words, my Lord Constable.

[_Enter Messenger._]

_King._ Your message, sir?

_Herald._ In the name of the Duke of Burgundy and of his allies and brothers-in-arms assembled outside the walls of Paris, I hereby summon you, Louis of France, to surrender this city unconditionally and to yield yourself in confidence to my master’s mercy.

_King._ And if we refuse, Sir Herald?

_Herald._ The worst disasters of war, fire and sword and famine, and no hope for yourself.

_King._ Great words. The Count of Montcorbier, Constable of France, is my counselor. His voice delivers my mind. Speak, friend, and give this messenger his answer.

_François._ As I will, sire?

_King._ Yes, go on, go on. “_If Villon were the king of France._”

_François._ Herald of Burgundy, in God’s name and the king’s, I bid you go back to your master and say this: “Kings are great in the eyes of their people, but the people are great in the eyes of God. The people of Paris are not so poor of spirit that they fear the croak of the Burgundian ravens. When we who eat are hungry, when we who drink are dry, when we who glow are frozen, when there is neither bite on the board nor sup in the pitcher nor spark upon the hearth, our answer to rebellious Burgundy will be the same. You are knocking at our doors, beware lest we open them. We give you back defiance for defiance, menace for menace, blow for blow. This is our answer—this and the drawn sword.”

[_Enter Katherine while he is speaking._]

_Katherine._ My Lord, with my lips the women of France thank you for your words of flame.

_King._ Mistress, what does this mean?

_Katherine._ It means, sire, that a man has come to court.—This scene is arranged from Justin Huntly McCarthy’s novel, “If I Were King.”

THE BISHOP AND THE CONVICT

BY VICTOR HUGO

That evening, after his walk in the town, the Bishop of D— remained quite late in his room. At eight o’clock he was still at work, writing with some inconvenience on little slips of paper, with a large book open on his knees, when Mme. Magloire, as usual, came in to take the silver from the panel by the bed. A moment after, the bishop, knowing that the table was laid, and that his sister was perhaps waiting, closed his book and went into the dining-room.

Just as the bishop entered Mme. Magloire was speaking with some warmth. It was a discussion on the means of fastening the front door.

It seems that while Mme. Magloire was out making provisions for supper she had heard the news in sundry places. There was talk that an ill-favored runaway, a suspicious vagabond, had arrived and was lurking somewhere near the town, and that it was the part of wise people to secure their doors thoroughly.

“Brother, do you hear what Mme. Magloire says?”

“I heard something of it indistinctly,” said the bishop. Then, turning his chair half round, putting his hands on his knees, and raising toward the old servant his cordial and good-humored face, which the firelight shone upon, he said: “Well, well, what is the matter! Are we in any great danger?”

Then Mme. Magloire began her story again, unconsciously exaggerating it a little. It appeared that a barefooted gypsy man, a sort of dangerous beggar, was in the town. A man with a knapsack and a rope and a terrible-looking face.

“Indeed!” said the bishop.

“We say that this house is not safe at all; and, if monseigneur will permit me, I will go out and tell Paulin Musebois, the locksmith, to come and put the old bolts in the door again; they are there, and it will take but a minute. I say we must have bolts, were it only for to-night; for I say that a door that opens with a latch on the outside to the first comer, nothing could be more horrible; and then monseigneur has the habit of always saying: ‘Come in’ even at midnight. But, my goodness, there is no need to even ask leave—”

The door opened.

It opened quickly, quite wide, as if pushed by some one boldly and with energy.

A man entered.

He came in, took one step, and paused, leaving the door open behind him. He had his knapsack on his back, his stick in his hand, and a rough, hard, tired, and fierce look in his eyes, as seen by the firelight. He was hideous. It was an apparition of ill omen.

Mme. Magloire had not even the strength to scream. She stood, trembling, with her mouth open.

Mdlle. Baptistine turned, saw the man enter, and started out half alarmed; then, slowly turning back again toward the fire, she looked at her brother, and her face resumed its usual calmness and serenity.

“See here! My name is Jean Valjean. I am a convict; I have been nineteen years in the galleys. Four days ago I was set free, and started for Pontarlier, which is my destination; during these four days I have walked from Toulon. To-day I have walked twelve leagues. When I reached this place this evening I went to an inn, and they sent me away on account of my yellow passport, which I had shown at the mayor’s office, as was necessary. I went to another inn; they said: ‘Get out!’ It was the same with one as with another; no one would have me. I went to the prison and the turnkey would not let me in. I crept into a dog-kennel, the dog bit me, and drove me away as if he had been a man; you would have said that he knew who I was. I went into the fields to sleep beneath the stars; there were no stars. I thought it would rain, and there was no good God to stop the drops, so I came back to the town to get the shelter of some doorway. There in the square I lay down upon a stone; a good woman showed me your house, and said: ‘Knock there!’ I have knocked. What is this place? Are you an inn? I have money; my savings, one hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous, which I have earned in the galleys by my work for nineteen years. I will pay. What do I care? I have money. I am very tired—twelve leagues on foot—and I am so hungry. Can I stay?”

“Mme. Magloire,” said the bishop, “put on another plate.”

The man took three steps and came near the lamp which stood on the table. “Stop,” he exclaimed, as if he had not been understood, “not that, did you understand me? I am a galley slave—a convict—I am just from the galleys.” He drew from his pocket a large sheet of yellow paper, which he unfolded. “There is my passport, yellow, as you see. That is enough to have me kicked out wherever I go. Will you read it? I know how to read, I do. I learned in the galleys. There is a school there for those who care for it. See, see, here is what they have put in my passport: ‘Jean Valjean, a liberated convict, has been nineteen years in the galleys; five years for burglary; fourteen years for having attempted four times to escape. This man is very dangerous.’ There you have it! Everybody has thrust me out; will you receive me? Is this an inn? Can you give me something to eat and a place to sleep? Have you a stable?”

“Mme. Magloire,” said the bishop, “put some sheets on the bed in the alcove.”

Mme. Magloire went out to fulfill her orders.

“Monsieur, sit down and warm yourself; we are going to take supper presently, and your bed will be made ready while you sup.”

“True? What? You will keep me? You won’t drive me away—a convict? You call me monsieur and don’t say, ‘Get out, dog!’ as every one else does. I thought that you would send me away, so I told first off who I am. I shall have a supper? A bed like other people? With mattress and sheets—a bed? It is nineteen years that I have not slept on a bed. M. Innkeeper, what is your name? I will pay all you say. You are an innkeeper, ain’t you?”

“I am a priest who lives here.”

“A priest, oh, noble priest! Then you do not ask any money?”

“No, keep your money. How much have you?”

“One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous.”

“And how long did it take you to earn that?”

“Nineteen years.”

Mme. Magloire brought in a plate and set it on the table.

“Mme. Magloire, put this plate as near the fire as you can. The night wind is raw in the Alps; you must be cold, monsieur.”

Every time he said the word monsieur with his gently solemn and heartily hospitable voice the man’s countenance lighted up. Monsieur to a convict is a glass of water to a man dying of thirst at sea.

“The lamp gives a very poor light.”

Mme. Magloire understood him, and going to his bed-chamber, took from the mantel the two silver candlesticks, lighted the candles and placed them on the table.

“M. l’Curé, you are good; you don’t despise me. You take me into your house; you light your candles for me, and I haven’t hid from you where I came from, and how miserable I am.”

“You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house; it is the house of Christ. It does not ask any comer whether he has a name, but whether he has an affliction. You are suffering; you are hungry and thirsty; be welcome. And do not thank me; do not tell me that I take you into my house. This is the home of no man except him who needs an asylum. I tell you, who are a traveler, that you are more at home here than I; whatever is here is yours. What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me, I knew it.”

“Really? You knew my name?”

“Yes, your name is my brother. You have seen much suffering.”

“Oh, the red blouse, the ball and chain, the plank to sleep on, the heat, the cold, the galley’s screw, the lash, the double chain for nothing, the dungeon for a word—even when sick in bed, the chain. The dogs, the dogs are happier! nineteen years! and I am forty-six, and now a yellow passport. That is all.”

“Yes, you have left a place of suffering. But listen, there will be more joy in heaven over the tears of a repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred good men. If you are leaving that sorrowful place with hate and anger against men, you are worthy of compassion; if you leave it with good will, gentleness and peace, you are better than any of us.”

Meantime Mme. Magloire had served up supper. The bishop said the blessing and then served. The man paid no attention to any one. He ate with the voracity of a starving man.

After having said goodnight to his sister, the bishop took one of the silver candlesticks from the table, handed the other to his guest, and said to him: “Monsieur, I will show you to your room.”

The man followed him.

The house was so arranged that one could reach the alcove in the oratory only by passing through the bishop’s sleeping-chamber. Just as they were passing through this room Mme. Magloire was putting up the silver in the cupboard at the head of the bed. It was the last thing she did every night before going to bed.

The bishop left his guest wishing him a good night’s rest.

As the cathedral clock struck two, Jean Valjean awoke. He opened his eyes and looked for a moment into the obscurity about him, then he closed them to go to sleep again. But he could not get to sleep again, so he began to think. He remembered noticing the six silver plates and the large ladle that Mme. Magloire had put on the table.

Those six silver plates took possession of him. There they were within a few steps. At the very moment that he passed through the middle room to reach the one he was now in, the old servant was placing them in a little cupboard at the head of the bed. He had marked that cupboard well; on the right coming from the dining-room. They were solid and old silver. With the big ladle they would bring at least two hundred francs; double what he had got for nineteen years’ labor.

His mind wavered a whole hour and a long one, in fluctuation and in struggle. The clock struck three. He opened his eyes, rose up hastily in bed, reached out his arm and felt his knapsack, which he had put into the corner of the alcove, then he thrust out his legs and put his feet on the floor and found himself, he knew not how, seated on his bed. All at once he stooped down, took off his shoes and put them softly upon the mat in front of the bed, then he resumed his thinking posture and was still again. Then he rose to his feet, hesitated for a moment longer and listened; all was still in the house; he walked straight and cautiously toward the window which he could discern. The night was very dark, there was a full moon. On reaching the window, Jean Valjean examined it. It had no bars, opened into the garden, and was fastened with only a little wedge. He took his club in his right hand, and, holding his breath, with stealthy steps he moved toward the door of the next room, which was the bishop’s, as we know. On reaching the door he found it unlatched. The bishop had not closed it.

Jean Valjean listened. Not a sound.

He pushed the door. A rusty hinge suddenly sent out into the darkness a harsh and prolonged creak.

Jean Valjean shivered. He took one step and was in the room. At the moment when he passed the bed, a cloud broke, as if purposely, and a ray of moonlight crossing the high window, suddenly lighted up the bishop’s pale face. He slept tranquilly. His entire countenance was lit up with a vague expression of content, hope and happiness. It was more than a smile and almost a radiance.

Jean Valjean was in the shadow with the iron drill in his hand, erect, motionless, terrified at this radiant figure. He had never seen anything comparable to it. This confidence filled him with fear. He did not remove his eyes from the old man. He appeared ready either to cleave his skull or to kiss his hand.

In a few moments he raised his left hand slowly to his forehead and took off his hat; then letting his hand fall with the same slowness, Jean Valjean resumed his contemplations, his cap in his left hand, his club in his right, and his hair bristling on his fierce-looking head.

Under this frightful gaze the bishop still slept in profoundest peace.

The crucifix above the mantel-piece was dimly visible in the moonlight, apparently extending its arms toward both, with a benediction for one and a pardon for the other.

Suddenly Jean Valjean put on his cap, then passed quickly, without looking at the bishop, along the bed, straight to the cupboard which he perceived near its head; he raised the drill to force the lock; the key was in it; he opened it; the first thing he saw was the basket of silver; he took it, crossed the room with hasty stride, careless of noise, reached the door, entered the oratory, took his stick, stepped out, put the silver in his knapsack, threw away the basket, ran across the garden, leaped over the wall like a tiger and fled.

The next day at sunrise the bishop was walking in the garden. Mme. Magloire ran toward him quite beside herself.

“Monseigneur, the man has gone! The silver is stolen. The abominable fellow! He has stolen our silver!”

The bishop was silent for a moment then, raising his serious eyes, he said mildly to Mme. Magloire: “Now, first, did this silver belong to us? Mme. Magloire, I have for a long time withheld this silver; it belonged to the poor. Who was this man? A poor man evidently.”

“Alas! Alas!” returned Mme. Magloire. “It is not on my account or mademoiselle’s; it is all the same to us. But it is on yours, monseigneur. What is monsieur going to eat from now?”

The bishop looked at her in amazement.

“How so! have we no tin plates?”

Just as the brother and sister were rising from their breakfast there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said the bishop.

The door opened. A strange, fierce group appeared on the threshold. Three men were holding a fourth by the collar. The three men were gendarmes; the fourth, Jean Valjean.

In the meantime the bishop had approached as quickly as his great age permitted. “Ah, there you are!” said he, looking toward Jean Valjean. “I am glad to see you. But I gave you the candlesticks also, which are silver like the rest, and would bring two hundred francs. Why did you not take them along with your plates?”

Jean Valjean opened his eyes and looked at the bishop with an expression no human tongue could describe.

“Monseigneur,” said the brigadier, “then what this man said was true? We met him. He was going like a man who was running away and we arrested him in order to see. He had this silver.”

“And he told you that it had been given him by a good old priest with whom he had passed the night. I see it all. And you brought him back here? It is all a mistake.”

“If that is so,” said the brigadier, “we can let him go.”

“Certainly,” replied the bishop, “you may retire.”

The gendarmes released Jean Valjean, who shrank back.

“My friend, before you go away here are the candlesticks; take them.”

Jean Valjean was trembling in every limb. He took the two candlesticks mechanically and with a wild appearance.

“Now go in peace. By the way, my friend, when you come again you need not come through the garden. You can always come in and go out by the front door. It is closed only with a latch, day or night. Forget not, never forget that you have promised me to use this silver to become an honest man.

“Jean Valjean, my brother, you belong no longer to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I am buying for you. I withdraw it from dark thoughts and from the spirit of perdition and I give it to God!”—Arranged from “Les Miserables.”

A DESERT TRAGEDY

BY FRANK NORRIS

One day, a fortnight after McTeague’s flight from San Francisco, Marcus rode into Modoc, to find a group of men gathered about a notice affixed to the outside of the Wells-Fargo office. It was an offer of reward for the arrest and apprehension of a murderer. The crime had been committed in San Francisco, but the man wanted had been traced as far as the western portion of Inyo County, and was believed at that time to be in hiding in either the Pinto or Panamint hills in the vicinity of Keeler.

Marcus reached Keeler on the afternoon of that same day. Half a mile from the town his pony fell and died from exhaustion. Marcus did not stop even to remove the saddle. He arrived in the barroom of the hotel in Keeler just after the posse had been made up. The sheriff, who had come down from Independence that morning, at first refused his offer of assistance. He had enough men already—too many, in fact. The country traveled through would be hard, and it would be difficult to find water for so many men and horses.

“But none of you fellers have ever seen um,” vociferated Marcus, quivering with excitement and wrath. “I know um well. I could pick um out in a million. I can identify um, and you fellers can’t. And I knew—I knew—good God! I knew that girl—his wife—in Frisco. She’s a cousin of mine, she is—she was—I thought once of—. This thing’s a personal matter of mine—an’ that money he got away with, that five thousand, belongs to me by rights. Oh, never mind, I’m going along. Do you hear?” he shouted, his fists raised, “I’m going along, I tell you. There ain’t a man of you big enough to stop me. Let’s see you try and stop me going. Let’s see you once, any two of you.” He filled the barroom with his clamor.

“Lord love you, come along, then,” said the sheriff.

The posse rode out of Keeler that same night. The keeper of the general merchandise store, from whom Marcus had borrowed a second pony, had informed them that Cribbens and his partner, whose description tallied exactly with that given in the notice of reward, had outfitted at his place with a view to prospecting in the Panamint hills. The posse trailed them at once to their first camp at the head of the valley. It was an easy matter. It was only necessary to inquire of the cowboys and range-riders of the valley if they had seen and noted the passage of two men, one of whom carried a bird-cage.

Beyond this first camp the trail was lost, and a week was wasted in a bootless search around the mine at Gold Gulch, whither it seemed probable the partners had gone. Then a traveling peddler, who included Gold Gulch in his route, brought in the news of a wonderful strike of gold-bearing quartz some ten miles to the south on the western slope of the range. Two men from Keeler had made a strike, the peddler had said, and added the curious detail that one of the men had a canary bird in a cage with him.

The posse made Cribbens’ camp three days after the unaccountable disappearance of his partner. Their man was gone, but the narrow hoof-prints of a mule, mixed with those of huge hob-nailed boots, could be plainly followed in the sand. Here they picked up the trail and held to it steadily till the point was reached where, instead of tending southward, it swerved abruptly to the east. The men could hardly believe their eyes.

“It ain’t reason,” exclaimed the sheriff. “What in thunder is he up to? This beats me! Cutting out into Death Valley at this time of year!”

“He’s heading for Gold Mountain over in the Armagosa, sure.”

The men decided that this conjecture was true. It was the only inhabited locality in that direction. A discussion began as to the further movements of the posse.

“I don’t figure on going into that alkali sink with no eight men and horses,” declared the sheriff. “One man can’t carry enough water to take him and his mount across, let alone eight. No, sir. Four couldn’t do it. No, three couldn’t. We’ve got to make a circuit round the valley and come up on the other side and head him off at Gold Mountain. That’s what we got to do, and ride like blazes to do it, too.”

But Marcus protested with all the strength of his lungs against abandoning the trail now that they had found it. He argued that they were now but a day and a half behind their man. There was no possibility of their missing the trail—as distinct in the white alkali as in snow. They could make a dash into the valley, secure their man, and return long before their water failed them. He, for one, would not give up the pursuit, now that they were so close. In the haste of the departure from Keeler the sheriff had neglected to swear him in. He was under no orders. He would do as he pleased.

“Go on, then, you darn fool,” answered the sheriff. “We’ll cut on round the valley, for all that. It’s a gamble he’ll be at Gold Mountain before you’re half-way across. But if you catch him, here”—he tossed Marcus a pair of handcuffs—“put ’em on him and bring him back to Keeler.”

Two days after he had left the posse, and when he was already far out in the desert, Marcus’s horse gave out. In the fury of his impatience he had spurred mercilessly forward on the trail, and on the morning of the third day found that his horse was unable to move. The joints of his legs seemed locked rigidly. He would go his own length, stumbling and interfering, then collapse helplessly upon the ground with a pitiful groan. He was used up.

Marcus believed himself to be close upon McTeague now. The ashes at his last camp had still been smoldering. Marcus took what supplies of food and water he could carry, and hurried on. But McTeague was farther ahead than he had guessed, and by evening of his third day upon the desert Marcus, raging with thirst, had drunk his last mouthful of water and had flung away the empty canteen.

“If he ain’t got water with um,” he said to himself, as he pushed on, “if he ain’t got water with um, I’ll be in a bad way. I will, for a fact.”

* * * * *

At Marcus’s shout McTeague looked up and around him. For the instant he saw no one. The white glare of alkali was still unbroken. Then his swiftly rolling eyes lighted upon a head and shoulder that protruded above the low crest of the break directly in front of him. A man was there, lying at full length upon the ground, covering him with a revolver. For a few seconds McTeague looked at the man stupidly, bewildered, confused, as yet without definite thought. Then he noticed that the man was singularly like Marcus Schouler. It was Marcus Schouler. How in the world did Marcus Schouler happen to be in that desert? What did he mean by pointing a pistol at him that way? He’d best look out or the pistol would go off. Then his thoughts readjusted themselves with a swiftness born of a vivid sense of danger. Here was the enemy at last, the tracker he had felt upon his footsteps. Now at length he had “come on” and shown himself, after all those days of skulking. McTeague was glad of it. He’d show him now. They two would have it out right then and there. His rifle! He had thrown it away long since. He was helpless. Marcus had ordered him to put up his hands. If he did not, Marcus would kill him. He had the drop on him. McTeague stared, scowling fiercely at the leveled pistol. He did not move.

“Hands up!” shouted Marcus a second time. “I’ll give you three to do it in. One, two—” Instinctively McTeague put his hands above his head.

Marcus rose and came towards him over the break.

“Keep ’em up,” he cried. “If you move ’em once I’ll kill you, sure.”

He came up to McTeague and searched him, going through his pockets; but McTeague had no revolver; not even a hunting knife.

“What did you do with that money, with that five thousand dollars?”

“It’s on the mule,” answered McTeague, sullenly.

Marcus grunted, and cast a glance at the mule, who was standing some distance away, snorting nervously, and from time to time flattening his long ears.

“Is that it there on the horn of the saddle, there in that canvas sack?” Marcus demanded.

“Yes, that’s it.”

A gleam of satisfaction came into Marcus’s eyes, and under his breath he muttered: “Got it at last.”

He was singularly puzzled to know what next to do. He had got McTeague. There he stood at length, with his big hands over his head, scowling at him sullenly. Marcus had caught his enemy, had run down the man for whom every officer in the state had been looking. What should he do with him now? He couldn’t keep him standing there forever with his hands over his head.

“Got any water?” he demanded.

“There’s a canteen of water on the mule.”

Marcus moved toward the mule and made as if to reach the bridle-rein. The mule squealed, threw up his head, and galloped to a little distance, rolling his eyes and flattening his ears.

Marcus swore wrathfully.

“He acted that way once before,” explained McTeague, his hands still in the air. “He ate some loco-weed back in the hills before I started.”

For a moment Marcus hesitated. While he was catching the mule McTeague might get away. But where to, in heaven’s name? A rat could not hide on the surface of that glistening alkali, and besides, all McTeague’s store of provisions and his priceless supply of water were on the mule. Marcus ran after the mule, revolver in hand, shouting and cursing. But the mule would not be caught. He acted as if possessed, squealing, lashing out, and galloping in wide circles, his head high in the air.

“Come on,” shouted Marcus, furious, turning back to McTeague. “Come on, help me catch him. We got to catch him. All the water we got is on the saddle.”

McTeague came up.

“He’s eatun some loco-weed,” he repeated. “He went kinda crazy before.”

“If he should take it into his head to bolt and keep on running—”

Marcus did not finish. A sudden great fear seemed to widen around and inclose the two men. Once their water gone, the end would not be long.

“We can catch him all right,” said the dentist. “I caught him once before.”

“Oh, I guess we can catch him,” answered Marcus, reassuringly.

Already the sense of enmity between the two had weakened in the face of a common peril. Marcus let down the hammer of his revolver and slid it back into the holster.

The mule was trotting on ahead, snorting and throwing up great clouds of alkali dust. At every step the canvas sack jingled, and McTeague’s bird-cage, still wrapped in the flour bags, bumped against the saddle-pads. By and by the mule stopped, blowing out his nostrils excitedly.

“He’s clean crazy,” fumed Marcus, panting and swearing.

“We ought to come up on him quiet,” observed McTeague.

“I’ll try and sneak up,” said Marcus; “two of us would scare him again. You stay here.”

Marcus went forward a step at a time. He was almost within arm’s length of the bridle when the mule shied from him abruptly and galloped away.

Marcus danced with rage, shaking his fists, and swearing horribly. Some hundred yards away the mule paused and began blowing and snuffing in the alkali as though in search of food. Then, for no reason, he shied again, and started off on a jog trot toward the east.

“We’ve _got_ to follow him,” exclaimed Marcus, as McTeague came up. “There’s no water within seventy miles of here.”

Then began an interminable pursuit. Mile after mile, under the terrible heat of the desert sun, the two men followed the mule, racked with a thirst that grew fiercer every hour. A dozen times they could almost touch the canteen of water, and as often the distraught animal shied away and fled before them. At length Marcus cried:

“It’s no use, we can’t catch him, and we’re killing ourselves with thirst. We got to take our chances.” He drew his revolver from its holster, cocked it, and crept forward.

“Steady now,” said McTeague; “it won’t do to shoot through the canteen.”

Within twenty yards Marcus paused, made a rest of his left forearm and fired.

“You got him,” cried McTeague. “No, he’s up again. Shoot him again. He’s going to bolt.”

Marcus ran on, firing as he went. The mule, one foreleg trailing, scrambled along, squealing and snorting. Marcus fired his last shot. The mule pitched forward upon his head, then, rolling sideways, fell upon the canteen, bursting it open and spilling its entire contents into the sand.

Marcus and McTeague ran up, and Marcus snatched the battered canteen from under the reeking, bloody hide. There was no water left. Marcus flung the canteen from him and stood up, facing McTeague. There was a pause.

“We’re dead men,” said Marcus.

McTeague looked from him out over the desert. Chaotic desolation stretched from them on either hand, flaming and glaring with the afternoon heat. There was the brazen sky and the leagues upon leagues of alkali, leper white. There was nothing more. They were in the heart of Death Valley.

“Not a drop of water,” muttered McTeague; “not a drop of water.”

“We can drink the mule’s blood,” said Marcus. “It’s been done before. But—but—” he looked down at the quivering, gory body “—but I ain’t thirsty enough for that yet.”

“Where’s the nearest water?”

“Well, it’s about a hundred miles or more back of us in the Panamint hills,” returned Marcus, doggedly. “We’d be crazy long before we reached it. I tell you we’re _done_ for. We ain’t ever going to get outa here.”

“Done for?” murmured the other, looking about stupidly. “Done for, that’s the word. Done for? Yes, I guess we’re done for.”

“What are we going to do _now_?” exclaimed Marcus, sharply, after a while.

“Well, let’s be moving along—somewhere.”

“_Where_, I’d like to know? What’s the good of moving on?”

“Wat’s the good of stopping here?”

There was a silence.

“Lord, it’s hot,” said the dentist, finally, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Marcus ground his teeth.

“Done for,” he muttered; “done for.”

“I never was so thirsty,” continued McTeague. “I’m that dry I can hear my tongue rubbing against the roof of my mouth.”

“Well, we can’t stop here,” said Marcus, finally; “we got to go somewhere. We’ll try and get back, but it ain’t no manner of use. Anything we want to take along with us from the mule? We can—”

Suddenly he paused. In an instant the eyes of the two doomed men had met as the same thought simultaneously rose in their minds. The canvas sack with its five thousand dollars was still tied to the horn of the saddle.

Marcus had emptied his revolver at the mule, and though he still wore his cartridge belt, he was for the moment as unarmed as McTeague.

“I guess,” began McTeague, coming forward a step, “I guess even if we are done for, I’ll take—some of my truck along.”

“Hold on,” exclaimed Marcus, with rising aggressiveness. “Let’s talk about that. I ain’t so sure about who that—who that money belongs to.”

“Well, I _am_, you see,” growled the dentist.

The old enmity between the two men, their ancient hate, was flaming up again.

“Don’t try an’ load that gun either,” cried McTeague, fixing Marcus with his little eyes.

“Then don’t lay your finger on that sack,” shouted the other. “You’re my prisoner, do you understand? You’ll do as I say.” Marcus had drawn the handcuffs from his pocket, and stood ready with his revolver held as a club. “You soldiered me out of that money once, and played me for a sucker, an’ it’s _my_ turn now. Don’t you lay your finger on that sack.”

Marcus barred McTeague’s way, white with passion. McTeague did not answer. His eyes drew to two fine, twinkling points, and his enormous hands knotted themselves into fists, hard as wooden mallets. He moved a step nearer to Marcus, then another.

Suddenly the men grappled, and in another instant were rolling and struggling upon the hot, white ground. McTeague thrust Marcus backward until he tripped and fell over the body of the dead mule. The little bird-cage broke from the saddle with the violence of their fall, and rolled out upon the ground, the flour-bags slipping from it. McTeague tore the revolver from Marcus’s grip and struck out with it blindly. Clouds of alkali dust, fine and pungent, enveloped the two fighting men, all but strangling them.

McTeague did not know how he killed his enemy, but all at once Marcus grew still beneath his blows. Then there was a sudden last return of energy. McTeague’s right wrist was caught, something clicked upon it, then the struggling body fell limp and motionless with a long breath.

As McTeague rose to his feet, he felt a pull at his right wrist; something held it fast. Looking down, he saw that Marcus in that last struggle had found strength to handcuff their right wrists together. Marcus was dead now; McTeague was locked to the body. All about him, vast, interminable, stretched the measureless leagues of Death Valley.

McTeague remained stupidly looking around him, now at the distant horizon, now at the ground, now at the half-dead canary chittering feebly in its little gilt prison.—Arranged from “McTeague.” Copyright by _Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind permission.

MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR

BY JULES VERNE

The door of the imperial cabinet was opened and General Kissoff was announced.

“The courier?” inquired the Czar eagerly.

“He is here, sire,” replied General Kissoff.

“Let him come in,” said the Czar.

In a few moments Michael Strogoff, the courier, entered. The Czar fixed a penetrating look upon him without uttering a word. Then in an abrupt tone—

“Thy name?”

“Michael Strogoff, sire.”

“Thy rank?”

“Captain in the corps of Couriers to the Czar.”

“Thou dost know Siberia?”

“I am a Siberian.”

“A native of—?”

“Omsk, sire.”

“Hast thou relations there?”

“Yes, sire, my aged mother.”

The Czar suspended his questions for a moment; then pointed to a letter which he held in his hand:

“Here is a letter which I charge thee, Michael Strogoff, to deliver into the hands of the Grand Duke, and to no one but him.”

“I will deliver it, sire.”

“The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk. Thou wilt have to traverse a rebellious country, invaded by Tartars, whose interest it will be to intercept this letter.”

“I will traverse it.”

“Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, who will perhaps meet thee on the way.”

“I will beware of him.”

“Wilt thou pass through Omsk?”

“Sire, that is my route.”