The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK ®. Emile Erckmann

here are the rural guard, the shepherd and his dog. We are stronger than you—be wise and tell me peaceably who you are, what you are doing here, and why you do not dare to appear in broad daylight. Then we shall see what’s to be done with you.”

      “All that’s none of your business,” replied the little man in his cracked voice. “I shall not answer.”

      “In that case, forward, march,” ordered the burgomaster, who grasped him firmly by the nape of the neck; “you are going to sleep in prison.”

      The little man writhed like a weasel; he even tried to bite, and the dog was sniffing at the calves of his legs, when, quite exhausted, he said, not without a certain dignity:

      “Let go, sir, I surrender to superior force—I’m yours!”

      The burgomaster, who was not entirely lacking in good breeding, became calmer.

      “Do you promise?” said he.

      “I promise!”

      “Very well—walk in front.”

      And that is how, on the night of the 29th of July, 1835, the burgomaster took captive a little red-haired man, issuing from the cavern of Geierstein.

      Upon arriving at Hirschwiller the rural guard ran to find the key of the prison and the vagabond was locked in and double-locked, not to forget the outside bolt and padlock.

      Everyone then could repose after his fatigues, and Petrus Mauerer went to bed and dreamed till midnight of this singular adventure.

      On the morrow, toward nine o’clock, Hans Goerner, the rural guard, having been ordered to bring the prisoner to the town house for another examination, repaired to the cooler with four husky daredevils. They opened the door, all of them curious to look upon the Will-o’-the-wisp. But imagine their astonishment upon seeing him hanging from the bars of the window by his necktie! Some said that he was still writhing; others that he was already stiff. However that may be, they ran to Petrus Mauerer’s house to inform him of the fact, and what is certain is that upon the latter’s arrival the little man had breathed his last.

      The justice of the peace and the doctor of Hirschwiller drew up a formal statement of the catastrophe; then they buried the unknown in a field of meadow grass and it was all over!

      Now about three weeks after these occurrences, I went to see my cousin, Petrus Mauerer, whose nearest relative I was, and consequently his heir. This circumstance sustained an intimate acquaintance between us. We were at dinner, talking on indifferent matters, when the burgomaster recounted the foregoing little story, as I have just reported it.

      “’Tis strange, cousin,” said I, “truly strange. And you have no other information concerning the unknown?”

      “None.”

      “And you have found nothing which could give you a clew as to his purpose?”

      “Absolutely nothing, Christian.”

      “But, as a matter of fact, what could he have been doing in the cistern? On what did he live?”

      The burgomaster shrugged his shoulders, refilled our glasses, and replied with:

      “To your health, cousin.”

      “To yours.”

      We remained silent a few minutes. It was impossible for me to accept the abrupt conclusion of the adventure, and, in spite of myself, I mused with some melancholy on the sad fate of certain men who appear and disappear in this world like the grass of the field, without leaving the least memory or the least regret.

      “Cousin,” I resumed, “how far may it be from here to the ruins of Geierstein?”

      “Twenty minutes’ walk at the most. Why?”

      “Because I should like to see them.”

      “You know that we have a meeting of the municipal council, and that I can’t accompany you.”

      “Oh! I can find them by myself.”

      “No, the rural guard will show you the way; he has nothing better to do.”

      And my worthy cousin, having rapped on his glass, called his servant:

      “Katel, go and find Hans Goerner—let him hurry, and get here by two o’clock. I must be going.”

      The servant went out and the rural guard was not tardy in coming.

      He was directed to take me to the ruins.

      While the burgomaster proceeded gravely toward the hall of the municipal council, we were already climbing the hill. Hans Goerner, with a wave of the hand, indicated the remains of the aqueduct. At the same moment the rocky ribs of the plateau, the blue distances of Hundsrück, the sad crumbling walls covered with somber ivy, the tolling of the Hirschwiller bell summoning the notables to the council, the rural guardsman panting and catching at the brambles—assumed in my eyes a sad and severe tinge, for which I could not account: it was the story of the hanged man which took the color out of the prospect.

      The cistern staircase struck me as being exceedingly curious, with its elegant spiral. The bushes bristling in the fissures at every step, the deserted aspect of its surroundings, all harmonized with my sadness. We descended, and soon the luminous point of the opening, which seemed to contract more and more, and to take the shape of a star with curved rays, alone sent us its pale light. When we attained the very bottom of the cistern, we found a superb sight was to be had of all those steps, lighted from above and cutting off their shadows with marvelous precision. I then heard the hum of which I have already spoken: the immense granite conch had as many echoes as stones!

      “Has nobody been down here since the little man?” I asked the rural guardsman.

      “No, sir. The peasants are afraid. They imagine that the hanged man will return.”

      “And you?”

      “I—oh, I’m not curious.”

      “But the justice of the peace? His duty was to—”

      “Ha! What could he have come to the Owl’s Ear for?”

      “They call this the Owl’s Ear?”

      “Yes.”

      “That’s pretty near it,” said I, raising my eyes. “This reversed vault forms the pavilion well enough; the under side of the steps makes the covering of the tympanum, and the winding of the staircase the cochlea, the labyrinth, and vestibule of the ear. That is the cause of the murmur which we hear: we are at the back of a colossal ear.”

      “It’s very likely,” said Hans Goerner, who did not seem to have understood my observations.

      We started up again, and I had ascended the first steps when I felt something crush under my foot; I stopped to see what it could be, and at that moment perceived a white object before me. It was a torn sheet of paper. As for the hard object, which I had felt grinding up, I recognized it as a sort of glazed earthenware jug.

      “Aha!” I said to myself; “this may clear up the burgomaster’s story.”

      I rejoined Hans Goerner, who was now waiting for me at the edge of the pit.

      “Now, sir,” cried he, “where would you like to go?”

      “First, let’s sit down for a while. We shall see presently.”

      I sat down on a large stone, while the rural guard cast his falcon eyes over the village to see if there chanced to be any trespassers in the gardens. I carefully examined the glazed vase, of which nothing but splinters remained. These fragments presented the appearance of a funnel, lined with wool. It was impossible for me to perceive its purpose. I then read the piece of a letter, written in an easy running and firm hand. I transcribe it here below, word for word. It seems to follow the other half of the sheet, for which I looked vainly all about the ruins:

      “My micracoustic ear trumpet thus has the double