THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Joseph P. Loeb
 
 THE HOUSE THAT DIED
 
 BOOKS BY 
 HENRY BORDEAUX 
 
 THE WILL TO LIVE 
 
 Translated by PITTS DUFFULD 
 
 THE HOUSE 
 
 Translated by LOUISE SEYMOUR 
 HOUOHTON 
 
 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE 
 SNOW 
 
 Translated by LOUISE SETMOUH 
 HOUOHTOX 
 
 THE WOOLLEN DRESS 
 
 Translated by RUTH HELEN DAVIS 
 
 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 
 Translated by LOUISE SETMOUB 
 
 HOUGHTOX
 
 THE HOUSE THAT 
 DIED 
 
 (LA MAISON MORTE) 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY BORDEAUX 
 
 Member of the French Academy 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 HAROLD HARPER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 1922
 
 Copyright, 1923, by 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 Printed in U. 8. A.
 
 ft) 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 Prologue 3 
 
 I. Three Generations 15 
 
 II. The Arc Gives Up the Body 37 
 
 III. Our Lord in the Stable 56 
 
 IV. A Belated Vocation _ 77 
 
 V. Suspicion 96 
 
 VI. The Chamois* Revenge ...... 118 
 
 VII. An Ethical Problem 134 
 
 VIII. Pursuit .147 
 
 IX. Hamlet's Betrothal 166 
 
 X. In the Caves of the Aisne .._... 185 
 
 XI. La Malmaison 201 
 
 XII. Benoit and Maddalena 219 
 
 XIII. The Hearth Without a Fire 240 
 
 XIV. The Hermit of Hautecombe 247 
 
 XV. Weeds 258 
 
 645273
 
 TO THE 
 
 MARQUIS TREDICINI DE SAINT-SEVERIN 
 
 MT DEAR FRIEND: 
 
 You are, I imagine, our mightiest "hunter before the 
 Lord" of chamois. I was only a child when I was 
 first filled with pity, though not without admiring you, 
 for one of your victims beautiful even in death. 
 
 Will you allow me to offer you this book through 
 which I hope there breathes even through a terrible 
 tragedy the air of our high mountains and valleys 
 to offer it to you in memory of our hunts and of the 
 warm welcome I always received in that cabin on the 
 shores of Lake Lovitel which our dear comrade M. 
 Joseph de Lafarge transformed into a most delightful 
 hermitage, a true stronghold against care. 
 
 HENRY BORDEAUX 
 Le Maupas 
 
 December 1st, 1921. 
 
 vii
 
 THE HOUSE THAT DIED
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 IT is one of those old-fashioned houses built of 
 large stone blocks, constructed entirely without 
 the use of mortar. Yet in spite of its antiquity 
 the date 1630 is cut into the granite arch above 
 the entrance to the courtyard it mocks at time. 
 A wooden gallery runs round the first storey 
 which is almost completely concealed under a low 
 roof, giving it the appearance of a face hidden 
 beneath a hat. The sloping roof, covered with 
 slabs of unfinished slate almost as thick as stone 
 blocks, puts the final touch on the building which 
 resembles a squat, thickset turtle with its head 
 and feet drawn in for protection. 
 
 The courtyard is deserted. Anyone may walk 
 in, for the key hangs on the door. In entering 
 you descend a short way, the distance of two steps, 
 and enter a hallway that opens on the left into 
 the wood-shed, where there is a large supply of 
 wood, enough to last through a long, severe win- 
 ter. To the right is the kitchen, and through the 
 window you catch sight of shining copper kettles 
 and boilers. At the very end of the courtyard you 
 come to a vast room with a paved floor, which is 
 lighted by two windows. On each side are the 
 stalls for cows and mules. A gutter runs down 
 
 9
 
 4 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 the middle of the floor. The rest of the court is 
 used as a dining- and bedroom combined. The 
 dining-room is indicated by a large table of mas- 
 sive wood and a few shelves for dishes and uten- 
 sils, nailed to the wall. The bedroom consists 
 of those two-storeyed press-beds that occupy an 
 entire wall and are concealed by curtains. In 
 one corner of the beamed ceiling is a trap-door 
 that can be opened to permit the passage of a 
 rope-ladder, by which you ascend to the first 
 floor, where there are other rooms. From the 
 kitchen there is a spiral staircase also leading to 
 this floor. Here the grain is stored, and in sum- 
 mer people live in it. The granary is close by. 
 
 How does it happen that in the twentieth cen- 
 tury there are still houses where man and beast 
 live together? "Well, it does happen just as it 
 happened in the stable where Christ was born. 
 
 The household I am about to describe is at 
 Bessans in Savoy. Bessans is a village of a hun- 
 dred and fifty or two hundred families, situated 
 in the Haute-Maurienne, at an altitude of over 
 1,700 meters. The winters up here are long and 
 severe; snow falls so deep as to block the doors 
 of the houses, and often the very windows. At 
 the foot of many of the paths you will see crosses 
 indicating the burial-places of the victims of the 
 dreaded avalanche. So you will readily under- 
 stand that the heat of a stable is by no means to 
 be despised during the cold weather. In summer
 
 PROLOGUE 5 
 
 you move upstairs when the heat becomes too 
 intense. 
 
 The nearest railway station is forty kilometers 
 away: it is Modane, standing at the entrance 
 of the Frejus Tunnel on the route to Italy. Bes- 
 sans is hidden away almost at the extremity of 
 the Valley of the Arc between the ridge of the 
 Vanoise and that of the Charbonel. Here the 
 earth is little more than skin and bones: vast 
 stretches of rock, with occasional forests of pine 
 and larch, in which clearings have been cut for a 
 few barren farms. The land reminds one of an 
 old fur ravaged by generations of moths. Wheat 
 will not grow, but in the spring they sow Mani- 
 toba grain. Eye, barley and oats somehow man- 
 age to thrive, but hay is not ready to cut before 
 July. The Valleys of Eibon and Averole, starting 
 at Bessans and bisected by the Tierce Peak which 
 stands dominating them and seems to threaten 
 the village with destruction and actually deprives 
 it of a part of the morning sun, offer mountain 
 pastures to the flocks and herds that feed there 
 during the summer. 
 
 At that season the melancholy denuded Mauri- 
 enne presents, along the slopes of its mountains 
 glistening with glaciers and ice-fields and in its 
 ancient parishes rebellious to outside influence, a 
 sad and haughty grace, like the smile of a woman 
 guarding some sacred inner flame. No one who 
 has set foot in this country ever forgets it. As
 
 6 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 yon enter it the most beautiful landscapes of 
 Italy and France fade from your memory; the' 
 smiling lakes and undulating hillsides that so 
 charmed your senses are forgotten as you forget 
 the kermesses of the Flemings and the mechanical 
 pageantry of the Florentines and Venetians when 
 you first come upon the tortuous masterpieces 
 of the Spaniards. The Alpine cars which wend 
 their way from Modane to Lanslebourg, there to 
 follow Napoleon's road over Mont-Cenis down to 
 Suse in Piedmont, or those that follow the bed 
 of the Arc as far as Bessans and Bonneval, have 
 made the country accessible; but the occasional 
 sojourns of tourists have altered neither its man- 
 ners, its dress, nor its fundamental character. 
 
 The key, I have said, hangs on the door and I 
 enter without asking permission of anyone. I 
 know very well, however, that my audacity has 
 scandalized the village. 
 
 I can sympathize with city folk who have no 
 wish to bury themselves alive at Bessans in the 
 Maurienne. Did not Madame de Sevigne, retiring 
 for economy's sake to spend a winter at the 
 Chateau des Eoches in Brittany declare that one 
 must have an iron constitution to remain in the 
 country late in the season and be able to support 
 the loneliness? Here in the Maurienne the soli- 
 tude, intensified by the encircling mountains 
 brought closer together, as it were, in winter 
 requires the strongest sort of constitution, an in-
 
 PROLOGUE 7 
 
 dependent mind, and a hatred of mankind, or 
 simply a long-established habit. 
 
 Is it not strange that the people of the Com- 
 mune should so sedulously avoid this house and 
 allow it to remain open? Is it not strange that 
 no one would ever think of renting or buying it ; 
 that it should thus stand like a condemned crimi- 
 nal without appeal? 
 
 Not long since I knew it when it was gay, busy, 
 humming with life. Three generations lived there 
 together, not counting the dog, the chickens, and 
 the cattle. Three generations! Enough indeed 
 to assure the conquest of the Promised Land. 
 Three generations living under the headship of 
 the aged patriarch, working and toiling in com- 
 mon, and to all appearances existing in peace. 
 Was this not a perfect example of the ancient 
 patriarchal family, the glory and mainstay of 
 our rural France ? And yet, within ten years the 
 inmates have disappeared, the three generations 
 vanished. 
 
 This disappearance of a whole race is by no 
 means a rare phenomenon. The War has given 
 us many similar instances. But is this sufficient 
 to explain the reprobation which now attaches 
 to this charming old house, meant to give shelter 
 to man and beast alike beneath its solid and 
 abiding roof? Must we attribute its present 
 abandonment to some evil deed, to some hidden 
 crime?
 
 8 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 The Maurienne was formerly a land of sorcer- 
 ers, and many superstitions still persist among 
 its inhabitants. Still, everyone knows that houses 
 can be exorcized, and when, at the ceremony 
 which takes place every spring, the Cure blessed 
 all the roofs, this one was not passed by. If 
 you inquire of the neighbors why no one will live 
 in it they will tell you that they do not know. 
 The house is, after all, no one's affair, and each 
 may do what seems good to him. But if you sug- 
 gest that anyone accompany you into it, if only 
 for a brief visit of inspection, he will turn his 
 back on you and walk off. 
 
 Every attempt I made to penetrate the mystery 
 ended with the "I don't know" that put an end 
 to all discussion. How many times have I ques- 
 tioned the peasants of the Valley, either at Bes- 
 sans when I was last there or at Chambery 
 where they came to consult me about their law- 
 suits! "Tell me," I ask, "who owns the Couvert 
 house?" "Nobody." "Isn't it for sale!" "I 
 don't think so." "It's falling to pieces, isn't it!" 
 "Oh, no, it's solid enough." "Why does no one 
 live in it?" "I don't know." "Is it bewitched?" 
 "Oh, we'd know if it was." "Fine people, those 
 Converts. I knew them intimately." "Yes, fine 
 people." "They left a good reputation behind 
 them." "Oh, yes." "And no one wants to live 
 in their house ? Why not ? " "I don 't know. ' ' 
 
 In these evasive answers I never discovered the
 
 PROLOGUE 9 
 
 least malice or hint of anything suspicions; 
 they indicated no more than a systematic re- 
 fusal to say anything definite. I was eventu- 
 ally convinced that everyone in the parish had 
 ended by suspecting what I suspected, and that 
 our common suspicions were nourished rather 
 by a secret instinct than by any logical deduction 
 from the facts. I believed that I was the first to 
 formulate these suspicions definitely: I was the 
 only one with sufficient data. 
 
 I can explain the growth of this common sus- 
 picion only as a curious mental phenomenon by 
 which the same current of thought passed through 
 the minds of all the peasants as well as through 
 my own. All of us, horror-stricken at our con- 
 clusion, but without proofs, held our tongues, for 
 fear of being mistaken, or rather for fear of the 
 law. It was not necessary to agree to this con- 
 spiracy of silence we were united by a common 
 instinct. No one confided his thoughts to his 
 neighbor, nor would say why the Couvert house 
 was now abandoned. Even today, after the pas- 
 sage of ten years has outlawed the crime, and the 
 criminal, if he is still alive, is safe from justice, 
 I feel morally certain that no one would dream of 
 mentioning his name. Everyone knows who he 
 is, but no one will accuse him. Here again is a 
 singular instance of that Crowd Psychology which 
 a modern philosopher has attempted to explain, 
 but which still seems so obscure, so deeply hidden
 
 10 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 in its causes and so striking in its sudden har- 
 monious functionings, like an invisible orchestra 
 playing in unison. 
 
 I returned to Bessans one day last autumn. As 
 I was pressed for time I had taken an automobile 
 at Modane and in less than two hours I was on 
 the heights above the Haute-Maurienne, over 
 which the clouds floated, now hiding from me the 
 highest summits and now clinging to the flanks 
 of the mountains. A sharp wind drove them on- 
 ward: I could imagine I heard them beat like 
 waving flags. The first snow of the season had 
 fallen to a point only a few hundred meters above 
 the valley bottom. It glistened as the sun touched 
 it. The reddish fields added their color to the 
 thin soil, and the purple shrubs and larches, like 
 golden candelabra, vividly contrasted with the 
 never-changing pines. After leaving Lansle- 
 bourg, the town that stands at the head of the 
 road into Italy or rather a little the other side 
 of Lanslevillard with its stone steeple standing 
 on a rock like a pedestal you have indeed pene- 
 trated into the heart of this savage and fascinat- 
 ing district. The country appears to be defending 
 itself, as it actually did defend itself in the distant 
 past when the Saracens made it their last foot- 
 hold. The name "Maurienne" is a heritage 
 from the Moors who during the whole of the 
 tenth century inhabited it after the failure of 
 their invading expeditions. It was the Count
 
 PROLOGUE 11 
 
 Berold de Savoie, father of the great Humbert 
 aux Blanches-Mains who finally drove them out 
 of Bessans and Bonneval. Near Lanslevillard 
 you may still see the remains of the Saracens' 
 wall. But there was hardly need here of artificial 
 fortification, as Nature had amply defended the 
 place. Between Lanslevillard and Bessans you 
 must cross the Pass of La Madeleine, a barren de- 
 serted spot below which you hear the hurrying 
 current of the querulous Green Arc. As you leave 
 the Pass, the horizon widens out and the valley 
 lies before you hedged in between the glaciers 
 of Mean-Martin and the Croix de Don-Juan- 
 Maurice, beyond which stretch the fertile districts 
 of the Tarentaise, Roche-Melon, the Charbonel, 
 and Albaron, which last mark the boundary be- 
 tween Savoy and Italy. The belfry of the Bes- 
 sans church, covered with sheet-iron, reflects each 
 shifting ray of sunlight to a distance of many 
 miles. You cross the Arc and before you stands 
 the village, a collection of huddled roofs; just 
 above it and to one side is a large Calvary with 
 its terrible image of the Christ, looking as if it 
 had been cast down from the frowning heights 
 above. The little church is built on a small rise 
 of ground and stands like a shepherd tending his 
 flocks. The slate-covered houses complete the re- 
 semblance by looking very much like sheep, trem- 
 bling at the approach of a storm. 
 I mounted the knoll by the church and stood in
 
 12 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 the cemetery by the small chapel of St. Anthony, 
 whose walls are covered with frescoes painted 
 centuries ago by native artists. There I sought 
 protection from the mountain wind. It was Sun- 
 day, and I saw women and girls arriving from the 
 little village of Averole which is, I believe, next 
 to ficot and Bonneval, the highest hamlet in 
 France, lying at a height of over two thousand 
 meters ; it is about an hour's walk from the parish. 
 The women come to church mounted on asses and 
 mules, sitting astride, without stirrups, spurring 
 the little beasts with a kick on the flanks. The 
 Bessans costume is of the simple Spanish type: 
 a wide black skirt, black waist, an apron or a 
 fichu of dark brown or blue, and head-dress of 
 black tulle, which allows the coiffure to emerge at 
 the back of the head, the whole surmounted by 
 a knot of ribbons that float out gaily behind. This 
 is the only bright spot to relieve the severity of 
 the rest of the costume. While the old ladies or 
 women in mourning wear a black ribbon, the 
 young girls deck themselves out in bright red, 
 scarlet, and orange. The contrast is striking. 
 The bright ribbon dances in the breeze like a dart- 
 ing ray of sunlight, the reflection of a burning 
 thought that will not brook confinement. It is 
 like a flame in the night. 
 
 These women's features are noticeably regular, 
 though sometimes you will find them accentuated 
 a hooked nose, perhaps, or a pointed chin. It
 
 PROLOGUE 13 
 
 is said that there are traces of Saracen blood in 
 their veins. They are indeed generally dark- 
 complexioned, though I have seen girls with au- 
 burn hair. Everyone carries himself with a no- 
 bility and easy grace the like of which you will 
 rarely see among our other French peasants. A 
 trip to Bessans will give you the same impression 
 of being on foreign soil that you receive at Fon- 
 tarabie on the Spanish frontier. 
 
 I walked round the Convert house, which stands 
 a little apart in the outskirts of the village. This 
 time I dared not enter, I who had been a guest 
 there for so many years. The superstition that 
 clings to it and protects it had ended by taking 
 complete possession of me. The key, as always, 
 hangs on the door, but my hand avoided it as if I 
 feared it would burn me. Not the palace of the 
 sons of Atreus itself is more effectively protected 
 than is this house. 
 
 Within its wall was enacted a peasant drama 
 which, to me at least, evokes almost as fatefully 
 the memory of the Furies or the apparition of 
 the Ghost at Elsinore. I cannot tell the story of 
 this drama from the "inside": that would pre- 
 suppose my knowing things which I do not know. 
 I shall therefore recount only the external events 
 and content myself with bringing together the 
 details which have gradually accumulated in my 
 memory; these details have become an obsession 
 and at last a positive conviction. Today the crime
 
 14 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 is expiated, not by its perpetrator, but by a volun- 
 tary offering of prayer and of blood on the part 
 of many innocent victims. Is the murderer still 
 alive! There has been no news of him since his 
 mysterious departure. The house has disgorged 
 him; it could no longer abide his presence, for 
 the very stones have a soul, and every stone would 
 curse him. Today their solitude is in itself an 
 accusation.
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THBEE GENERATIONS 
 
 EVERY year, previous to the war, I took advan- 
 tage of the annual vacation accorded to magis- 
 trates to leave Chambery and spend three or four 
 weeks at Bessans in the Maurienne, in the chalet 
 of La Lombarde, situated still higher up in the 
 mountains. I used to hunt heathercock and cham- 
 ois royal game on the slopes of the Charbonel, 
 of Albaron, or of Roche-Melon. These, as I have 
 already explained, are the heights between Bes- 
 sans and Bonneval, dividing Savoy from Italy. 
 At this extremity of the Valley of the Arc the 
 passes are numerous the Neck of La Lombarde, 
 through which passed the army of Count Berold, 
 and the Neck of the Ames, and the numerous 
 passes of La Levanna, which are more difficult 
 and therefore preferred by poachers and smug- 
 glers, who are at home anywhere in the moun- 
 tains. On these tramps I was as good as the best 
 of the masters of the mountain ; and I am not sure 
 but that on one occasion I shot a chamois in the 
 preserves of His Majesty the King of Italy be- 
 yond the frontier, and even dragged him home, 
 hotly pursued by the game wardens. The famous 
 Blanc called the " Bailiff,'* he came from Bon- 
 
 15
 
 16 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 neval and was easily the peer of the celebrated 
 guides Michel Croz and Coutet of Chamonix 
 knows something about that, but he will not be- 
 tray me. 
 
 I cannot recall without a thrill of pride these 
 expeditions of my youth; the climb in the fresh- 
 ness of the early morning, the choice of a hiding- 
 place behind a rock, situated often on the very 
 edge of a glacier or ice-field; and then while 
 waiting, the view of the horizon, every detail of 
 it, my eye wandering down to the slopes of green, 
 dotted here and there with junipers and tufts of 
 bilberry, fiery red as though they had been burned 
 by the sun; or again, up to the mountain-tops, 
 the snowy immaculate peaks resplendent in the 
 crystal air, their whiteness standing out sharp 
 against the deep azure sky a sky at once pure, 
 massive and yet limpid, in no way reminiscent of 
 the blue of the Orient or that of Italy. It is 
 simply the blue of Savoy, purified by the air as 
 it comes in contact with the virgin heights. And 
 there would come past me a whole herd of cham- 
 ois fleeing from the beaters pursuing them in the 
 valley below; a marvelous exhibition of agility. 
 As they leaped over some rocky precipice, I could 
 see each muscle distended and observe the black 
 hoofs so divided as to allow them to make their 
 dangerous way over a course that is as easy to 
 them as the grass race-track to a thoroughbred on 
 Derby Day. How often have I lingered to watch
 
 THREE GENERATIONS 17 
 
 them and missed my shot, unable to make up my 
 mind to fire. They were too noble, too fine, too 
 heroic! Then they would come close to me, arid 
 I could distinguish their little heads with the curl- 
 ing black horns, their pointed, mobile ears, and 
 velvety soft brown eyes. Then, of a sudden, 
 scenting me, they would turn sharply and scamper 
 off at a terrific speed, performing the most peril- 
 ous manoeuvres, at the risk of slipping and falling 
 on the rocks below. At that moment they become 
 the enemy they are manoeuvring ! I quickly take 
 aim and fire. The bullet strikes one of them; he 
 falls, his body stretched out in the very act of 
 leaping; I approach and discover that he is only 
 wounded. Seeing me he makes an heroic effort, 
 rises to his feet and runs on, forcing me to pursue 
 him into almost inaccessible places, across peril- 
 ous chasms, the chamois all the while struggling 
 against fresh wounds and trailing a broken foot 
 behind him. But the chamois never surrenders, 
 and his blood so hot as to burn the hands that 
 touch it is an antidote against dizziness and 
 fear. 
 
 During the hunting season I stayed at the home 
 of one of my clients a sly old rascal, past master 
 in the art of entangling business affairs, juggling 
 with assessment records, suborning witnesses, and 
 securing advantageous grants defining the course 
 of the waterways running through his property. 
 This man was Jean-Pierre Couvert. The court-
 
 18 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 house was his theater, and there he was the lead- 
 ing actor, indeed the whole show. His everlasting 
 lawsuits gave him legitimate excuse for frequent 
 trips to town. The peasant likes lawsuits because 
 they give him an opportunity for mixing with his 
 fellow-beings in cities. He requires diversion. 
 But this sort of diversion is, to say the least, 
 rather expensive. 
 
 A room on the first storey, just over the court- 
 yard, was always set aside for my use. This room 
 opened out upon a gallery surmounted by a slop- 
 ing roof which was so low that it seemed on the 
 point of slipping down on top of one. 
 
 Jean-Pierre 's eldest son, the unmarried Benoit, 
 ordinarily used this room, but when I came he 
 moved out together with his few belongings and 
 lived in the granary. The family lived all to- 
 gether, as families frequently do in this part of 
 the country. 
 
 In his day old Jean-Pierre had been a hard task- 
 master. In a district where grave disdainful 
 manners are the rule, he stood out above all the 
 others; he had a natural majesty and haughty 
 solemnity which old age had only accentuated, and 
 which he never for a moment forgot, even when 
 haggling over prices in the market-place or driv- 
 ing a particularly hard bargain. There was a 
 good deal of the Saracen in old Jean-Pierre. Like 
 the other good Mauriennais he treated women as 
 an inferior species.
 
 THREE GENERATIONS 19 
 
 Consequently his wife Petronille obeyed her 
 husband implicitly. She performed instantly 
 and without complaint every service he de- 
 manded of her, understanding even the word- 
 less but no less unequivocal commands he 
 gave by throwing a wine-bottle or cider-jug 
 at her head a pantomimic performance some- 
 times necessary after heavy drinking. She 
 glided to and fro in her soft slippers and 
 no sound betrayed her presence as she busied 
 herself indoors or went out to pump water from 
 the well, carried the watering-pots, cooked the 
 meals or fed the chickens. In spite of these duties 
 she found time to attend mass once or twice on 
 week-days and on Sundays as well. She was so 
 unobtrusive that no matter how much she had to 
 do she gave one the impression of never stirring 
 from one spot. She radiated a spirit of peace upon 
 everyone about her. Without preaching, without 
 scolding, she exercized a beneficent influence so 
 subtle that you did not realize it until long after 
 you had felt its effects. I was myself not con- 
 scious of this until some years after I came to 
 know her. I was in the habit of considering Pet- 
 ronille a nonentity, and then one fine morning I 
 discovered that I had been living in the presence 
 of a saint. Saintliness, like genius, is revealed 
 in sudden flashes. It comes, as it goes, during the 
 course of our every-day life. 
 
 The two sons of this aged couple they had
 
 20 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 two daughters as well, one who died a nun, and 
 one who "went to the bad" in Paris were Benoit 
 and Claude. Benoit was the elder, a different 
 person in every way from his brother. Such con- 
 trasts are not unusual in families and are the 
 result either of heredity or of an early antagon- 
 ism which increases with the years. 
 
 The elder was an uncommunicative, taciturn fel- 
 low; he was never quite comfortable in the pres- 
 ence of his domineering father, a man who often 
 burst into declamatory invective, and his younger 
 brother, an eloquent, talkative youth, scintillat- 
 ing, restless, boastful. He had sought refuge 
 from these two in work ; he had made of work his 
 fortress, and taken it upon himself to do the hard 
 manual labor. In summer it was he who went off 
 to live alone in a chalet up at La Lombarde, high 
 above Bessans, tending the sheep at pasture and 
 making the famous blue cheeses for which Bes- 
 sans is celebrated. He was a tall clean-shaven 
 man with hard regular features, and an ironic 
 gleam in his eye ; a person very difficult to know, 
 the kind who talks philosophy the moment you 
 begin a conversation with him. On Sundays after 
 he had washed his face and donned clean clothes, 
 he was quite presentable. The girls made eyes 
 at him after mass, but he passed them by dis- 
 dainfully. 
 
 More than once his mother had spoken to him 
 on the subject of marriage, but he invariably
 
 THREE GENERATIONS 21 
 
 turned a deaf ear. It was some time before I ac- 
 customed myself to his unsocial, or rather bar- 
 baric, manners; nevertheless, I succeeded by de- 
 grees in dragging from him a whole collection of 
 proverbs, maxims, and meteorological pronounce- 
 ments by which one may determine weather con- 
 ditions by observing the moon and the clouds. 
 For instance: "If the April moon begins ill, it 
 ends well"; or, "Bed clouds in the morn make 
 the mill-wheel turn." Exact observations these, 
 and very useful to those who live out-of-doors. 
 When the evening clouds are red it is a sign of 
 good weather; when they are red in the morning 
 it means rain. As for the importance of the moon 
 in matters of atmospheric changes, that is uni- 
 versally acknowledged. If, for instance, his 
 mother had insisted that he choose a wife, as his 
 brother had done he would have objected: "Two 
 pots on the hearth mean good cheer, but two 
 women mean a tempest"; or else, "There should 
 be no more women at supper than there are pot- 
 hooks on the hearth." You ought to hear these 
 proverbs spoken in patois ; they lose their satiric 
 flavor when transferred to cold type, and the 
 patois of our country defies transcription, requir- 
 ing as it does a special kind of pronunciation. 
 
 Benoit was by no means lacking in common 
 sense; his sagacity was profound. I was inter- 
 ested in him and made serious efforts to know 
 him more intimately. The occasion finally came,
 
 22 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 but strangely enough the moment we found our- 
 selves becoming friends we were both embar- 
 rassed and ill at ease, for there arose between 
 us an indefinable something, the reasons for which 
 I came to know, only too well, at a later time. 
 
 The more Benoit held aloof from others the 
 more Claude gave in to his own exuberant spirits ; 
 while the one shrank from the society of people, 
 the other was everlastingly in search of an 
 audience. 
 
 Picture to yourself a short man with a beard, 
 remarkably agile in spite of a rotund, well-nour- 
 ished body, continually on the move and making 
 eyes at every pretty woman he saw. Claude was 
 endowed by nature with the ability to move the 
 skin on his forehead down over his eyes, to the 
 infinite delight of his friends. He could also wrig- 
 gle the lobes of his ears, a performance that never 
 failed to fascinate children. He was skilful with 
 his hands and excelled in nearly every manual 
 accomplishment from sewing to shooting a rifle; 
 his legs carried him up the steepest ascents and 
 down the sharpest grades; he could play any 
 musical instrument, performing on the flute with 
 his nose, on the ocharina with his lips and tongue, 
 and on the accordeon with his arms, while his 
 whole body danced the accompaniment. The 
 man's uncanny knack of being in many places at 
 the same time was surely a gift of the devil. Peo- 
 ple were seeing him everywhere, and the moment
 
 THREE GENERATIONS 23 
 
 he appeared on the scene everyone felt happier, 
 and smiles spread over faces in expectation of 
 "something good." Children's eyes glistened 
 when they heard his footsteps, which were easily 
 recognized by their rapidity a rare thing with 
 peasants. 
 
 At home he had of course undertaken the man- 
 agement of outside affairs the selling of grain, 
 cheese, and cattle, and attending fairs. He often 
 went off to the outlying districts, Saint-Jean- 
 de-Maurienne, Moutiers-Tarentaise, Saint-Pierre- 
 d'Albigny on the banks of the Isere, and Bourg- 
 Saint-Maurice at the foot of the Petit Saint-Ber- 
 nard. He could do wonders with a dilapidated 
 cart and an old mule. 
 
 In spite of the many enterprises in which he 
 engaged, he brought very little money home, but 
 his father would accept with paternal indulgence 
 whatever Claude brought back, without a murmur 
 of complaint. The lad was exceptionally clever 
 at avoiding the frequent remonstrances of his 
 mother. 
 
 He had married a girl from Ceresole in Italy, a 
 village the other side of the Levanna, brought 
 within the domain of modern progress by the dis- 
 covery of iron-water springs, and turned into a 
 watering-place for the summer season. Her name 
 was Maddalena Corona. She had lived the life 
 of a peasant during the winter and been a cham- 
 bermaid at the hotel during the season. She
 
 24 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 had doubtless been won by Claude's amusing 
 grimaces and the description he had given her of 
 the Valley of the Arc. She looked like a Primi- 
 tive Madonna, with her triangular face, her fore- 
 head bound tight in a kerchief, her ivory com- 
 plexion, and her slight, graceful figure. Her wel- 
 come at the Convert home would have been a very 
 cold one had it not been for the generous warm 
 heart of Petronille. I learned this later, when I 
 first began coming to Bessans. TShe dignified old 
 Jean-Pierre and the taciturn Benoit did not fail 
 by their manner, if not by words, to reproach 
 her for being a foreigner in this valley whose 
 people are proud of their Savoyard past and 
 consider themselves a chosen people. Claude's 
 frequent absences from home left the girl entirely 
 without defence. But gradually she had insinu- 
 ated herself into the good graces of the old man 
 to win her brother-in-law was a different matter. 
 Since the mother managed the household, Madda- 
 lena was enabled to give free rein to her religious 
 propensities, which were manifested in a more or 
 less external manner, as is usual with Italians. 
 
 She was not satisfied with making pilgrimages 
 to St. Anthony, the patron saint of Bessans, and 
 to St. Sebastian, the chief saint of Lanslevillard, 
 to all the little shrines that dot the countryside 
 and to that of Saint Come, Saint-Landry, Saint- 
 Laurence, Notre-Dame-des-Glaces or Notre-Dame- 
 des-Neiges, or to all the other calvaries in this old
 
 THREE GENERATIONS 25 
 
 and pious district. After she had visited these 
 she insisted on going to the more famous sanctu- 
 aries in remoter regions, Notre Dame-du-Poivre 
 near Tennignon, so called in memory of a spice 
 merchant who, returning from Italy and over- 
 taken by a storm, invoked the Virgin and promised 
 her his goods; Notre-Dame-de-Charmaix among 
 the pines of the Frejus above Modane, founded, 
 it is said, by Charlemagne; Saint- Jean-Baptiste 
 at Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne where you may see 
 three fingers of the saint who baptized Christ, 
 brought back from Egypt by a Valloire shep- 
 herdess; and still farther away, the shrines of 
 Notre-Dame-de-Myans, near Chambery (that one 
 stopped the course of an avalanche from Mont- 
 Granier) ; Notre-Dame-de-Laus near Gap (com- 
 memorating certain apparitions of the Virgin in 
 the seventeenth century) ; and finally the shrine 
 of Salette, that rises above the Valley of the 
 Bonne the most celebrated of all. This is under 
 the spiritual guidance of the ecstatic little Melanie, 
 elder sister of Bernadette of Lourdes and, like 
 her, a shepherdess. 
 
 At first her zealous devotion met with some re- 
 sistance, not from her husband who was always 
 ready for a long trip and would willingly have 
 gone to Jerusalem if he had been able and would 
 there no doubt have treated s-ome pretty Saracen 
 as did many a crusader but from the two other 
 men who disapproved of the vagabond journeys
 
 26 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 and complained of their cost while the children 
 were allowed to run wild at home. The good Pet- 
 ronille made every imaginable excuse for her 
 daughter-in-law, and even did special favors for 
 her. It was better that the girl should satisfy 
 her religious cravings than her personal vanity, 
 for instance. Maddalena indeed had not willingly 
 accommodated herself to the rigidly severe style 
 of Bessans. Bessans required the wearing of 
 black, while the other parishes, Saint-Colomban, 
 Saint-Sorlin-d'Arves, Saint- Jean-d'Arves, and 
 Fontcouverte, ran to fine laces in star and cres- 
 cent designs, golden fichus, red waists, blue skirts, 
 and variegated aprons. Maddalena had brought 
 with her a whole outfit of brilliantly colored 
 clothes, scarlet shawls, and gay-spangled sashes 
 which delighted her husband but displeased the 
 head of the family and Benoit, both of whom were 
 uncompromising in matters of tradition and hos- 
 tile to all innovation. One day, however, either 
 because she had wearied of her own resistance or 
 had discovered that the local costume was becom, 
 ing to her madonna-like beauty, she bowed to the 
 inevitable and donned the sombre dress of the 
 district, keeping only a fire-colored ribbon which 
 fluttered about her neck; this she would never 
 consent to hide or curtail. 
 
 Maddalena was about thirty when I first came 
 r to the Couvert home. She was one of those dark- 
 complexioned women who never had much fresh-
 
 THREE GENERATIONS 27 
 
 ness but seem able to retain a relative youthful- 
 ness which endures, if not for a whole lifetime, 
 at least for many years. As a matter of fact, 
 during all the time I knew her, I observed scarcely 
 any change in her appearance. That was fifteen 
 or sixteen years ago, perhaps more. I see her 
 setting the table with a certain nonchalance, her 
 face grave, her voice droning the refrain of some 
 sad old Piedmont song. I have no idea what she 
 was thinking of. What peasant women do think 
 of is often beyond our comprehension; perhaps 
 she was thinking of nothing at all? Her pious 
 excursions, had given her a certain keenness of 
 wit which often surprised me, though she never 
 spoke many words at one time. 
 
 When she was at home two little boys and a girl 
 were continually with, her : Etienne, Jean-Marie, 
 and Catherine who was called Eina, the Italian 
 diminutive. When, she was not at home they 
 clung to the skirts of their tireless and complacent 
 grandmother. Etienne was the eldest, a serious 
 boy of twelve, touched perhaps by some spark 
 of the religious fire kindled in the mother through 
 her contact with some miraculous sanctuary. It 
 was planned that he should enter the priesthood, 
 a career he would have followed even had his 
 determination not been strengthened by a terrible 
 and momentous discovery. Then came Catherine, 
 aged nine or ten, and finally Jean-Marie, aged six. 
 Jean-Marie was a chubby-faced, healthy animal,
 
 28 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 very like a little dog playing in the sun, literally 
 overflowing with superabundant health and hap- 
 piness. 
 
 I used to take Claude with me when I went 
 hunting. That was my way of ridding myself of a 
 formidable rival, for if he had been allowed to 
 hunt by himself I would have accomplished little. 
 There was no one else so intimately acquainted 
 with the habitat of the chamois often situated as 
 they are at the foot of a rocky peak, on some 
 deserted pasture perched high on a steep preci- 
 pice, or else in a pine wood studded with rocks 
 and gashed by crevasses. He knew them all. 
 He followed the migrations of the chamois and 
 went wild with despair if they retreated to a dif- 
 ferent canton, but pursued them to discover their 
 new residence, chased them off the best grazing 
 grounds away from that bright green grass which 
 they prefer to all others called by our mountain 
 folk come de cerf or deer-horn, because of its 
 peculiar twist. I suspected that during the mat- 
 ing season in November, or in April, he killed 
 more than one, contrary to all the rules of the 
 chase. My bare feet had trod chamois skins at 
 Bessans and at the little chalet up in the moun- 
 tains far thicker than any I ever saw during the 
 summer! But so long as he was in my service 
 he was the soul of fairness. How pleasant it was 
 to have him with me, not only to plan every detail 
 of the chase but to look after the food and drink I
 
 THREE GENERATIONS 29 
 
 In the twinkling of an eye he would gather twigs, 
 light a fire, and cook a meal. His Italian dishes 
 which he learned from his wife who had doubt- 
 less filched the recipes from the hotel in Ceresole 
 where she had worked were sometimes a little 
 too highly spiced, but they put new life into our 
 exhausted bodies and amply satisfied our appe- 
 tites. How well I remember his "minestrone," a 
 soup composed of every variety of vegetable to 
 which he added olives and noodles; his rice, 
 browned to a turn ; and above all, his fried mush- 
 rooms. These he had gathered in the fields and 
 woods, discovering them by a happy instinct. I 
 recall their umbrella-like forms, the tenderest 
 ones hardly opened, juicy, golden-tinted, white 
 and red. When others returned from foraging 
 expeditions empty-handed you would see him 
 laden with spoils smelling of the forest. Truly 
 he was a precious adjunct, a man I could never 
 hope to replace. Hunting lost its attraction for 
 me after his tragic death. 
 
 I was about to omit one detail, a detail of some 
 importance to all and their number is legion 
 who have suffered the tortures of thirst in the 
 mountains and are unwilling to adopt the substi- 
 tute suggested by Theophile Gautier : * ' After the 
 hunt I have only the water of the heavens to 
 drink ; I drink it out of my hands. But the path 
 I follow is virgin earth and knows not the tread 
 of the feet of man."
 
 30 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 At our picnic lunches the gourds for the wine 
 were always iced : he had set them in little rock 
 pockets where snow had lodged ; these he had dis- 
 covered and marked beforehand. Eabelais would 
 have knighted him for discovering the secret of 
 serving cool drinks in the summertime. 
 
 It is necessary to remark that the peasants of 
 the Maurienne do not in the least conform to our 
 common ideas regarding their kind. Their coun- 
 try is an old one, for twenty centuries and more 
 the scene of the greatest historic events. This 
 district witnessed the passage of Hannibal with 
 his Carthaginians, his Numidians, his Spaniards, 
 and his blacks, his numberless cavalcade of ele- 
 phants and strange monsters driven by Hindoos. 
 It has also witnessed the passage and the re- 
 turn after defeat of the greatest conquerors and 
 generals: Hasdrubal, Marius, and CaBsar, the 
 Barbarian invaders ; Charlemagne the Invincible ; 
 Louis the Debonnair who founded the Hospice of 
 Mont-Cenis; Charles the Bald who died at Av- 
 rieux on the banks of the Arc, poisoned by his 
 doctor the Jew Sedecias ; Charles VII and Fran- 
 cis the First, splendid princes eager to bring into 
 France the art and magnificence of the Italian 
 Eenaissance; the armies of the Revolution with 
 the greatest of their warriors ; Napoleon the Em- 
 peror, who almost perished in the snows ; and the 
 troops of the Second Empire coming to help the 
 Italians in their struggle for freedom. During
 
 THREE GENERATIONS 31 
 
 the last Great War the leaders of the nation, to- 
 gether with the generals-in-chief met at Modane, 
 and in November, 1917, camions crossed the Alps 
 laden with French and English soldiers going to 
 reinforce our Latin brothers on the Piave. 
 
 Such scenes have left their impress on the en- 
 tire people, whose ardent imaginations demand 
 and feed upon the supernatural, the miraculous, 
 the abnormal. 
 
 The peasant casts his eyes up over the glaciers 
 that circle about him and threaten destruction, 
 and dreams of overcoming the laws of gravity and 
 of time. He delights in skirting the borderland 
 of the future : The prophetess Cancianile comes 
 from Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne to announce dire 
 catastrophes, cholera, war and famine. The peas- 
 ant believes implicitly in sorcerers and magicians 
 who bewitch cattle and cast spells, and ride to 
 ghostly nocturnal meetings on broomsticks. 
 Where but in the Maurienne would it have been 
 possible for a whole school of children to deter- 
 mine to cross the mountains and deliver the Pope 
 who, they heard, had been made a prisoner; 1 
 
 or for a village cure, the victim of an attempted 
 murder, to secure protection only by taking into 
 his service the man who tried to kill him? 2 Such 
 
 1 See La Nouvelle Croisade des enfants, by Henry Bordeaux. 
 
 2 See the same writer 'a Le Curg de Lanslevillard in the Garnet 
 d'un stagiaAre.
 
 things are not wondered at here, so deeply rooted 
 is the desire to escape from every-day realities, to 
 live strenuously, to taste the bitter, to slip from 
 the actual into the land of dreams, of deviltry, 
 or the open skies above. 
 
 The Maurienne has at all times preserved intact 
 its own peculiar form of civilization, the legends 
 and tales and mysteries of which are transmitted 
 orally from generation to generation. Those of 
 her soldiers who saw Flanders, Italy, the Ehine 
 or the Orient, and were fortunate enough to re- 
 turn, have added new elements to the old. Some 
 of the tales you hear nowadays are obviously mod- 
 ern, as for instance that of the Bessans peasant 
 who befriended a wolf and was in turn saved by 
 the animal. As far back as the fifteenth and six- 
 teenth centuries perhaps earlier, for the memory 
 of man is lost in the night of time Bessans had 
 her own painters and poets. The artists of Bur- 
 gundy or the Low Countries as they passed over 
 the Alps from Italy, laden with wondrous spoils, 
 stopped here and paid for their board and lodging 
 with drawings or statuettes. The secrets of the 
 new art were soon learned and men in the Valley 
 began to paint. The frescoes in the Chapel of St. 
 Sebastian at Lanslevillard and in St. Anthony at 
 Bessans (especially the former, which are better 
 preserved) are simple and rather crude, but they 
 bear witness to a genuine primitive school which 
 flourished a little later than that of the Italians.
 
 THREE GENERATIONS 33 
 
 One Jean Clappier 3 of Bessans set to carving 
 wood; he did a number of very quaint altar 
 screens and statues of the saints. He .founded a 
 school in his own family, as well as in the village 
 where, forty years later, a certain Vincendet suc- 
 ceeded him: he specialized in the carving of 
 wooden devils. It was by such men as these that 
 the oratories, chapels, and sanctuaries hereabouts 
 were decorated. 
 
 While the Mystery of the Passion was being 
 performed at Chambery, the Last* Judgment at 
 Modane, and the Patron of Tours at Saint-Martin- 
 de-la-Porte, the dramatists of Bessans gave per- 
 formances either in the open or in the Chapel of 
 St. Anthony, offering the Mystery of St. Se- 
 bastian, or the Nativity, or Job. The simple and 
 unaffected dialogue of these plays has survived 
 and in it we may read charming commentaries on 
 the Annunciation and the Incarnation words 
 that are possibly no more than transpositions of a 
 prose Noel attributed to St. Bernard himself. 
 For instance: " Jesus entered into her of this 
 there is no doubt as the sun passes through a 
 window without breaking the glass.'* 
 
 In the Mystery of St. Sebastian Folly takes pos- 
 session of the entire world for her kingdom : ' ' For 
 
 1 See Les Peintures murales des chapelles Saint-SSbastien et 
 Saint- Antoine d Lanslevillard et Bessans, by Lucien Begule; 
 Academy of Sciences, Letters and Arts of Lyons. (Bey, Lyons, 
 1918).
 
 34 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 Folly hath at all seasons more subjects than the 
 king himself. So many people ask for me that I 
 cannot serve them all. Methinks I shall find it 
 hard to visit all my good subjects between here 
 and ISurin in a single day." 
 
 The good people of Bessans, guided by an in- 
 stinct of local patriotism not altogether devoid of 
 modesty, have appropriated to themselves the In- 
 fant Jesus who, according to them, was born not 
 at Bethlehem but at Bessans. It was the shep- 
 herds of the Maurienne who were the first to 
 adore Him, for is it not related that when the 
 Virgin was confined an ox and an ass were in the 
 stable with her? And everyone knows that men 
 and beasts live together only in the Maurienne. 
 
 We have then a parish of five or six hundred 
 people, situated at an altitude of 1,700 meters 
 above sea-level where means of communication 
 are few; a district which in the 16th century had 
 poets to write its plays, actors to interpret them, 
 and painters to make scenery. And we still speak 
 of the ignorance of bygone ages and boast of our 
 progress in education ! 4 
 
 This extraordinary civilization, in which exist 
 at once a simple credulity and a thirst for knowl' 
 edge, has managed to perpetuate itself from age 
 to age. Scholars have recently published the diary 
 
 * See Secits mauriennais, a monthly review edited by the Abbe" 
 Truchet (Imprimerie VuUiennet at Saint- Jean-de-Maurienae, 
 1889.)
 
 THREE GENERATIONS 35 
 
 of a Bessans peasant, Etienne Vincendet, written 
 during the French. Kevolution. This Vincendet 
 wielded the pen very much as he handled his 
 chisel, for he was both writer and sculptor, though 
 he had not studied either of the arts he practised. 
 In his diary he describes with the utmost preci- 
 sion the political rumblings and economic up- 
 heavals so far from his native Valley ; his are the 
 remarks of a practical, sane-minded fellow and his 
 attitude on the situation is entirely unlike that of 
 any other peasant of his day. 5 Nowadays the 
 people of Bessans occupy their leisure hours dur- 
 ing the winter in wood-carving, or else go to Paris 
 as taxi drivers, returning after the Grand Prix 
 to sow their fields. It was only the other day that 
 the Academy Council quite wrongly, I think 
 were very much worked up over the discovery of 
 secret societies in the stables where the traditions 
 of this valley were being taught. The societies 
 were forthwith suppressed. 
 
 My friends the Couverts were typical specimens 
 of this race of dreamers and practical men, as 
 formidable in the market-place as they are pious 
 at their sacred shrines. From the very first I 
 had noticed traces of defiance in Maddalena's at- 
 titude toward her brother-in-law, Benoit, and in 
 him a haughtiness and cynicism on the occasions 
 
 6 See the Journal d'un pay son de Maurienne pendant la Eevolu* 
 tion et I'Empire, published by Francois Vermale. (Dardel, Cham* 
 Wry, 1919.)
 
 36 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 when Claude amused the company with his ever- 
 lasting babble and queer amusing antics. But all 
 such indications of diverse and antipathetic tem- 
 peraments almost unavoidable in houses where 
 the family lives together were minimized, and 
 soon vanished altogether under the influence of 
 the saintly Petronille, and besides, the children, 
 happily ignorant of the temperamental vagaries 
 of their elders, prevented any sort of outbreak 
 between the others. 
 
 For five years, during the hunting season, I was 
 a guest in this home without once realizing that 
 I stood over a yawning chasm. I felt absolutely 
 at home there, joked with Maddalena, smoked my 
 pipe with the old man, asked advice of his saintly 
 wife, played with the children and almost suc- 
 ceeded in inducing Benoit to emerge from his se- 
 clusion. As for Claude, my companion, he was a 
 real friend. So far as I was concerned, my true 
 happiness was there at Bessans, in the bosom of 
 'this united family where three generations were 
 in gradual process of carrying on the torch of 
 their age-old and noble traditions. It was in the 
 midst of this that the murder was committed.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE ABC GIVES UP THE BODY 
 
 THIS is how it happened. I am here writing my 
 deposition as witness, not merely the bare facts 
 I gave to the court at Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne, 
 but with the addition of certain details and ob- 
 servations which occurred to me at a later time. 
 It was this additional data which served to 
 strengthen and finally to confirm my suspicions. 
 
 We had installed ourselves for the season in 
 the narrow Valley of La Lombarde, a prolonga- 
 tion of the Valley of Averole that begins at 
 Bessans and runs down between the vast heights 
 of Le Charbonel and Albaron. The Valley is in- 
 habited only during the summer months, when the 
 shepherds bring their flocks there to pasture. 
 
 The Couverts own two chalets, one of which 
 was used by Benoit, who lived alone tending 
 sheep and making cheese. Claude and I used the 
 other, which is higher up and more comfortable 
 than Benoit 's. I had selected this because it was 
 near the hiding-places and also because a secret 
 instinct had taught me that the brothers did not 
 care to be too near to each other. None the less, 
 it was convenient to have Benoit not too far away, 
 
 87
 
 38 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 as he supplied us with fresh milk. Besides, Mad- 
 dalena rode up on her mule with provisions sev- 
 eral days a week, bringing with her my mail. In 
 former years she brought with her on these ex- 
 cursions one of her sons, but now the boys were 
 growing up : Etienne, the elder, was nearly seven- 
 teen and Jean-Marie was twelve, and they were 
 needed on the farm. 
 
 One day it was the 12th of September a dozen 
 years ago we returned from hunting rather 
 earlier than usual (I think it was between four 
 and five), carrying a chamois we had killed on 
 the edge of the Arnes Glacier near the Italian 
 border. I made a present of him to Claude, who 
 seemed very anxious to have him. 
 
 "I've got time to take it down to Bonneval this 
 evening," he said. 
 
 "Why to Bonneval and not Bessans? Bonne- 
 vaPs a long way." 
 
 "Because the Bonneval hotel wants it for their 
 guests." 
 
 "You can't return in time for the hunt to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 "Why not? Ill walk back at night." 
 
 "Then listen to me: we shan't start so early in 
 the morning. Come back tomorrow, and spend 
 the night at Bessans with your wife." 
 
 "Oh, my wife!" 
 
 And he spat on the ground to show what he 
 thought of that. Inasmuch as this is not an un-
 
 THE ARC GIVES UP THE BODY 39 
 
 common performance among the Mauriennais, I 
 ought to have paid no attention to it. As I have 
 already said, women are considered an inferior 
 race. But this was different : Claude had hitherto 
 treated Maddalena at least with kindness and con- 
 sideration if not with positive respect. The act 
 in itself was nothing, but I could not help noticing 
 the man's attitude. It was strange. 
 
 I added: " Perhaps you'll meet her on the 
 path. She 's due with provisions today. Or why 
 not wait for her? You could put the chamois on 
 her mule?" 
 
 "I haven't time for that. I'd rather depend on 
 my own legs and arms it's surer. I'll find a cart 
 at Bessans." 
 
 As we stood talking he cleaned the animal and 
 bound its feet together. Then he slung the car- 
 cass over his shoulders like a trophy, while the 
 pretty wild head of the chamois with its black 
 curved horns fell over his neck and down his 
 back. Claude looked like a bearded faun, cruel 
 and tricky. He stuck his pipe in his mouth, 
 grasped his stick, whistled for his dog "Coal," 
 and plunged into the woods. 
 
 It was the last time I saw Claude alive. 
 
 That night the beaters cooked supper for me. 
 The soup they served me was not, indeed, Claude's 
 soup, nor did the mushroom omelette or fricas- 
 sees approach the high standard Claude had set. 
 But I made the best of it. 
 
 Just after nightfall we had a storm, a sudden
 
 40 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 unannounced mountain tempest, that prevented 
 my leaving the chalet. 
 
 "Claude must now be at Bonneval," I remarked 
 to the men. 
 
 "He'll spend the night there, too," said one 
 of them. 
 
 Everyone laughed loudly. I took this as an 
 allusion to Claude's love of drink or possibly to 
 some amorous adventure, for I knew his reputa- 
 tion. I allowed the comment to pass and said 
 nothing. 
 
 The chalet trembled with the repeated buffets 
 of the wind as if some mountain demon were shak- 
 ing it like a salad-basket. The rain trickled 
 through the roof and at first I found it impossible 
 to sleep. Later, when I awoke from a moment's 
 doze, I caught sight through a small hole in the 
 roof of a clear and starry sky. The stars twink- 
 led with the unaccustomed freshness they assume 
 just before or after a severe rain. "Beautiful 
 weather for hunting," I thought as I rolled over 
 and went to sleep. I awoke late and verified the 
 truth of my prediction : there was every promise 
 of a soft -fair day. I was sorry now I had al- 
 lowed Claude to spend the night below. 
 
 "He's not back yet?" I inquired. 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 And again the men laughed. At about eleven 
 I became impatient and went down as far as 
 Benoit's hut. I found him stripped to the waist,
 
 THE ARC GIVES UP THE BODY 41 
 
 washing his clothes and hanging them up to dry. 
 Keferring to his informal costume I said with a 
 laugh : 
 
 "I see you went out in the storm last night and 
 got a good drenching.'* 
 
 "I was after one of the cows," he explained. 
 
 "Did you see Claude?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "He was taking a chamois to Bonneval and 
 he's not come back yet." 
 
 " Bonneval 's quite a distance." 
 
 "Didn't you see him last evening on his way 
 down?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Has Maddalena come up? Yesterday was her 
 day, you know." 
 
 "Oh yes, I saw her." 
 
 "She didn't come to us." 
 
 "Here's some mail she left. She came late 
 last night." 
 
 "But you didn't allow her to go back in that 
 storm, did you?" 
 
 He looked me straight in the eye, as he an- 
 swered: "No: she didn't go back till early this 
 morning." 
 
 Knowing him as I did I could read the thought 
 foe had not put into words: "I'm not an absolute 
 brute, as you seem to insinuate. Though I've 
 never gone out of my way to oblige my sister-in- 
 law, I'm not one to send her away from my house
 
 42 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 on a night like last night. In the Maurienne we 
 have some sense of the fitness of things !" 
 
 "Well," I said, turning to go, "so much the 
 worse. We'll have to go hunting without him." 
 
 The hunt that day, already seriously delayed, 
 was not successful. My beaters set about their 
 business in a lackadaisical way. We returned 
 home out of sorts. I was in a mood to vent my 
 ill-humor on Claude, only Claude had not yet put 
 in an appearance. This time there was no laugh- 
 ing. No one could remember when a hunter had 
 failed to turn up after a night of pleasure. Evi- 
 dently something unusual had occurred : perhaps 
 he had slipped on the way down the mountain, it 
 was not impossible, laden as he was with a heavy 
 chamois, or maybe he had quarreled in some wine- 
 shop at Bonne val. I recalled how on one occa- 
 sion I had had to intervene with the local police 
 in an affair of that kind. 
 
 After supper I took a lantern and descended to 
 Benoit's chalet. The door was closed, and I 
 shouted. No answer: the shepherd must have 
 gone, for the pasture gate had been carefully fas- 
 tened. He had, no doubt, been summoned to Bes- 
 sans. There was no longer room for uncertainty : 
 something out of the ordinary had happened to 
 Claude. 
 
 I was too tired to go down into the valley and 
 make sure. I waited therefore until morning and 
 at sunrise I set out.
 
 THE ARC GIVES UP THE BODY 43 
 
 When I entered the house everyone was in the 
 stable courtyard, fully dressed; no one had gone 
 to bed. I could see that the crisis of wailing and 
 lamentation had already passed. It was now suc- 
 ceeded by a period of mute despair. No one ut- 
 tered a word, not even little Jean-Marie, who 
 stood clinging to his grandmother. The silence 
 was the more moving as it was the only manifes- 
 tation of grief. It was with considerable trepi- 
 dation that I dared break the silence by asking: 
 
 "What has happened?" 
 
 Naturally it was old Jean-Pierre who an- 
 swered, weighing each word and preserving his 
 majestic dignity in the presence of this over- 
 whelming calamity: 
 
 "They're looking for him." 
 
 "He's not come back yet?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Night before last he came to show the chamois 
 to the children before taking it to Bonneval, and 
 to borrow a mule from Peraz, our neighbor. Our 
 own mule, you know, was up at the chalet 
 Maddalena took him with her. Yesterday morn- 
 ing the mule came back to Bonneval alone. Coal 
 ran on ahead and waked us up with his barking." 
 
 Coal, you will remember, was Claude's little 
 black dog. The old man went on : 
 
 "We opened the door and let him in. Why did 
 he come back without his master? We thought
 
 44 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 maybe the boy'd lost his way. But the dog kept 
 on barking: we couldn't make him stop. Claude 
 hadn't come back at sunrise. That was queer, be^ 
 cause he ought to've brought us the money from 
 the chamois, so I took Etienne with me and we 
 followed the dog. He led us to the butcher's in 
 Bonneval, and then to the inn, and then to the 
 road." 
 
 "He was taking you over the path his master 
 had gone T ' ' 
 
 "That was it. Before you get to the chalets of 
 Barmanere the road goes alongside the stream; 
 At one place Coal began barking like the devil, 
 and led us over to the bank and then right down 
 to the water. We didn't find anything there. ' ' 
 
 "The current must have carried the body off, 
 ehf You remember Saint-Landry?" 
 
 Saint-Landry was a monk held in especial 
 honor throughout the Valley, a man who had 
 come from Piedmont to win over the people of 
 Bessans and Bonneval from their Saracen faith. 
 The inhabitants of Bonneval had thrown him into 
 the Arc. His body was recovered at Lanslevil- 
 lard, without the trace of a wound or scratch upon 
 it, in spite of the swiftness of the current that 
 had rolled and tumbled it for a distance of ten 
 kilometers. 
 
 "Yes, the Arc is very high now. It might have 
 carried the body downstream. But not very far. 
 They're looking for him now between Bessans 
 and Bonne val."
 
 THE ARC GIVES UP THE BODY 45 
 
 "There's still hope so long as the body hasn't 
 been found." 
 
 "No. Dogs aren't like people. They're never 
 wrong. ' ' 
 
 As the father rendered this solemn verdict 
 Benoit went off. They had sent little Jean-Marie 
 for him the evening before, but he could not come 
 at that time, as his flocks required all his atten- 
 tion. He must now return to them. 
 
 The aged Petronille had fallen to her knees on 
 the stone floor of the stable, the others following 
 her example: the children, Maddalena, Jean- 
 Pierre, and I myself. She had put on her glasses 
 to read the prayers from her Book of Hours 
 recommending the departed soul to God. In the 
 intervals between prayers the mule could be 
 heard crunching his meal and chasing flies off 
 with a switch of his tail or a sudden kick. 
 
 As Petronille was in the middle of a particu- 
 larly difficult passage she was little used to read- 
 ing we heard footsteps in the outer courtyard. 
 I was the first to stand up: I was sure it was 
 someone coming to announce the recovery of the 
 body. 
 
 I stepped outside quickly. I was not mistaken, 
 for I saw a large crowd of people who had 
 gathered there out of motives of curiosity, or 
 perhaps compassion. They pressed close about 
 the litter, which was covered with a sheet. I 
 lifted a corner of this and saw the face of my
 
 46 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 faithful comrade. His beard was matted and his 
 eyes wide open, fixed in a last expression of 
 anguish: he had doubtless realized the danger 
 as he struggled in the icy torrent. The little 
 black dog, in a state of utter exhaustion, his 
 tongue hanging from his mouth, crouched by his 
 master's side. Strangely enough, no member of 
 the family left the stable, though they must all 
 have heard what I had heard. 
 
 The Cure of Bessans joined the others and it 
 was he who went in to the family. No one had 
 thought of doing that! The stretcher-bearers 
 and their companions marched slowly in, carry- 
 ing their burden with an air of stolid indifference. 
 It was only when they had deposited it within 
 the doorway that they realized the tragic effect 
 they had produced. The family followed the 
 Cure in the direction of the stretcher. He took 
 Bina and Jean-Marie each by the hand, but re- 
 leased them in the presence of the dead. That 
 expression of human piety which ordinarily gave 
 an air of severity to the priest's features became 
 at once transfigured, assuming a supernatural 
 brightness, as if he were celebrating the most 
 sacred mysteries. He approached the stretcher 
 and in the presence of parents, wife, and children, 
 blessed the body. His words and gestures spread 
 a tranquil beauty over the tragic scene. Madda- 
 lena alone was unable to restrain herself, and 
 burst into a fit of sobbing. Such was the custom
 
 THE ARC GIVES UP THE BODY 47 
 
 of her country, and no one was surprised. Again 
 Petronille fell to her knees. I was standing near 
 her and distinctly heard her sigh rather than 
 articulate : 
 
 "My little one!" 
 
 Tears rolled down her cheeks. I took her hand 
 and helped her to her feet. She made her way 
 into the inner rooms slowly, painfully, there 
 to make ready the bed that was to receive 
 the remains of her child. This done, the stretcher* 
 bearers took up their burden and laid it in the 
 stable, which was spotlessly clean, for the cows 
 were up in the mountains, and only the mule 
 remained. One of the great press-beds had been 
 opened, and white sheets showed through the 
 covering. On this they laid the body. On the 
 table they put lighted candles, and in the holy- 
 water vase was a sprig of box-wood. One after 
 another the stretcher-bearers sprinkled the body 
 with holy-water and left, their assistants follow- 
 ing their example. 
 
 The family having received its dead, Petro- 
 nille laid out the body with loving care, washing 
 the scarred face and arranging the beard which 
 was covered with the clay of the river-bed. His 
 hands she crossed over a chaplet of beads, tied 
 his cravat in a neat bow, and pulled the upper 
 sheet over the arms. Meantime Maddalena con- 
 tinued to sob, not once offering to help her aged 
 mother-in-law. I turned round and caught sight
 
 48 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 of little Jean-Marie: lie was so terrified that I 
 offered to take charge of him. 
 
 "Let me have him. I'll take his brother and 
 sister, too. I'll keep them occupied and bring 
 them back in time for the funeral." 
 
 "You won't take me," said the independent 
 Etienne, who was now seventeen and as tall as 
 a man. 
 
 "And you won't take me either," echoed the 
 quiet little Eina, who followed her brother's ex- 
 ample in all things. 
 
 Nor would the youngest allow me to take him. 
 I was, however able to divert his attention by 
 promising to shoot my rifle. I took him by the 
 hand and we walked to the inn where I had taken 
 a room. 
 
 I had no intention of returning to my mountain 
 lodge. The hunting season was practically over 
 and besides, I felt I owed it to the family not 
 to desert them in their hour of need. 
 
 Claude's death was purely an accident. I was 
 in no doubt as to that. After selling his chamois 
 he had dined at the inn and probably wined too 
 well by way of celebrating the conclusion of a 
 satisfactory bargain. And then the storm had 
 broken. He had waited until the worst was over 
 and set out after midnight. Perhaps the wind 
 had blown out his lantern and Claude, a little 
 unsteady on his legs, had lost his way and fallen
 
 THE ARC GIVES UP THE BODY 49 
 
 into the stream. That was how I reconstructed 
 the catastrophe. 
 
 But the people of Bonneval were unwilling to 
 accept this version : they admitted he had sold his 
 chamois twenty sous a pound was the price: 
 three Napoleons in all. But it was remembered 
 that he was quite sober his sobriety was even 
 remarked by his friends. He had seemed anx- 
 ious to start off immediately for Bessans, whence 
 he would push on again up to La Lombarde to 
 be in time for the morning's hunt. "I've prom- 
 ised," he had said. He had been vexed at the 
 delay occasioned by the storm and the moment 
 rain and wind had abated set forth with his dog 
 and mule. As regards his lantern, it was no 
 wind that blew that out: it was found by the 
 roadside, smashed to bits. 
 
 "Now that's a sample of your Maurienne imag- 
 ination," I thought to myself. ''They are not 
 satisfied to accept the hypothesis of an accident ; 
 they suspect crime in everything." 
 
 And yet, as I busied myself with the affairs of 
 the family and made preparations for the fune- 
 ral, I could not resist the temptation of glancing 
 now and then at the body of my dead companion 
 and examining his face with a certain attention. 
 During one of these brief examinations I detected 
 on the neck a few very faint marks ; I bent over, 
 untied the cravat, loosened the collar, and was 
 shocked to discover more marks, unmistakable
 
 50 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 finger marks. Was is possible that Claude had 
 been strangled? 
 
 Old Petronille and Maddalena had followed 
 every movement I made without uttering a sound. 
 The older woman was apprehensive, the younger 
 outraged. 
 
 "We must summon the mayor," I said 
 brusquely. 
 
 "The law won't bring him to life again," said 
 the bereaved mother. 
 
 "Let him be," agreed the wife, and went on 
 with her lamentations. 
 
 I understood them both and sympathized with 
 the grief of the one and the outraged feelings of 
 the other. The endless lawsuits in which Jean- 
 Pierre had engaged were of interest to no one 
 but himself: to his family they meant nothing 
 but unhappiness and debts. It is not without good 
 reason that women fear lawyers, for they know 
 intuitively that the weight of the law always falls 
 on the weakest, that it pries into their past, dis- 
 covering evidence of evil intentions, suspicious 
 relationships and dark deeds, thus compromising 
 them under pretence of safeguarding their inter- 
 ests. I am too well acquainted with criminal pro- 
 cedure not to understand the instinctive horror 
 these women felt. But, after all, if Claude had 
 been murdered, was it not my duty to see to it 
 that his murderer was punished? 
 
 Meantime Jean-Pierre drew near. He stood up
 
 THE ARC GIVES UP THE BODY 51 
 
 to his full height and assumed his most dignified 
 air. He had been following the scene from a 
 distance. 
 
 " Monsieur 1'Avocat, you are right," he said 
 peremptorily, "he can't be buried without an 
 Jnquest. The mayor must be sent for." 
 
 I made off at once, and the mayor, who shared 
 my suspicions, telegraphed on my advice to the 
 district court at Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne. After 
 which, and again on my advice, he did what the 
 peasants, owing to a fine feeling of delicacy, had 
 kept him from doing: went through Claude's 
 pockets. His search revealed many devices neces- 
 sary for a life in the mountains : a knife, a leather 
 drinking-cup, scissors, a thimble, a steel case full 
 of needles, string, and the like, and finally the 
 sixty francs he had received from the sale of the 
 chamois, less three francs which he had evidently 
 spent at the inn. The smallness of this sum was 
 sufficient proof that my beater had not been drunk 
 enough to affect him. If murder it was, the 
 motive could not have been robbery. 
 
 These facts once established, there was nothing 
 left to do but to put the body in a coffin, but the 
 mayor refused to permit burial; the District At- 
 torney, who had to come from some distance, 
 could not arrive until the following morning, and 
 the funeral was therefore postponed until the 
 day after that. 
 
 The Attorney's physician and the Examining
 
 52 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 Judge were in no doubt whatsoever as to the 
 nature of the marks I had discovered: Claude 
 Couvert had been strangled, and the hand that 
 strangled him was an exceptionally strong one. 
 For a while after strangulation the water had 
 attenuated the marks of ecchymosis, but these 
 had returned shortly after with unmistakable 
 clearness. The Judge took my deposition, which 
 was of little use to him in furnishing a clue, for 
 I could not name anyone who was on bad terms 
 with Claude. Perhaps there might have been 
 some poacher, jealous of Claude's exploits, or the 
 marked preference I showed for him? I recalled 
 the laughter and the equivocal remarks of the 
 beaters up at the chalet whenever I referred to 
 Claude 's passing the night at Bonneval. 
 
 The funeral was an imposing ceremony, for 
 news of Claude's death had spread throughout 
 the Valley. The entire population of Bessans 
 was present, and many had come from Bonneval 
 and even from Lanslevillard. Folk from the lit- 
 tle mountain hamlets, Pierre-Grosse and Averole, 
 had come down on asses and mules, as they were 
 wont to go to religious festivals. 
 
 "The murderer must be there among all those 
 people," said the Judge to me in a whisper as 
 he saw the vast assemblage. 
 
 "Unless," I returned, "he has gone over the 
 mountains into Italy." 
 
 "He might do that if he were a thief, but if it
 
 THE ARC GIVES UP THE BODY 53 
 
 was revenge, he wouldn't. A Mauriennais would 
 be too proud to run away if he considered he 
 had merely exercized his right." 
 
 "But he won't give himself up." 
 
 "Sooner or later every criminal is discovered. 
 That has been my experience. Joseph de Maistre 
 is absolutely right." 
 
 I knew the passage he referred to, and more 
 than once during my legal career I had pondered 
 over it. On my return to Chambery I opened a 
 copy of the Soirees de Saint-Petersbourg, and 
 turned to this sentence: "It is an invariable fact 
 that there is on earth a universal and invisible 
 order for the temporal punishment of crime. I 
 must once again repeat that criminals escape the 
 hand of justice much less frequently than is com- 
 monly believed, for their discovery is often a 
 result merely of the application of a theory or 
 else of the infinite precautions taken by the cul- 
 prit to escape discovery. There is often in the 
 circumstances surrounding the discovery of the 
 cleverest criminals an element so unexpected, so 
 surprising, so unforseeable, that those who are 
 called upon to deal in matters of this sort come 
 to believe that the dispensers of human justice 
 are endowed with superhuman powers." 
 
 Meantime I left the Examining Judge to make 
 his professional investigation and went to join 
 the family. I insisted on considering myself one 
 of them, and took my place at their side during
 
 54 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 the funeral. In the procession I was directly be- 
 hind the group comprising the father, the two 
 sons and the brother of Claude. Old Jean-Pierre 
 walked with head erect; his face was the image 
 of despair, but he was doing his utmost to con- 
 ceal every indication of senility and sorrow in 
 order to be a credit to the son who had been 
 struck down, and to show the world that he was 
 himself quite able to punish the murderer. There 
 was no pose in his magnificently paternal man- 
 ner: it was simply the affirmative gesture of a 
 man accustomed to hold his own and stand firmly 
 upon his rights. The children, giving in to their 
 feelings in a more natural manner, wept with the 
 women ; for Claude had been the life and soul of 
 the house with his never-wearying vivacity, his 
 joyous grimaces, and his jokes. Benoit, who had 
 come down from the mountain for the day was as 
 usual silent and impenetrable. But I could see 
 that under his mask he was deeply moved, and 
 I was sorry I had supected him of jealousy. 
 
 The women gathered together in a group at 
 one side. Maddalena had shrieked so loudly that 
 it was necessary to leave her at home for fear 
 she would interrupt the service. But Petronille 
 had courageously marched in the procession, 
 holding little Eina by the hand. She bore her 
 grief with the utmost simplicity, exactly as she 
 was used to perform the tasks of her every-day 
 existence.
 
 THE ARC GIVES UP THE BODY 55 
 
 When we had reached the church and stood 
 facing the entrance I turned round to see that 
 mass of human beings, a solid phalanx in black, 
 marching up the steep proclivity. The women, 
 in their long^ trailing gowns and black head- 
 dresses, reminded me of nuns in a solemn pro- 
 cession. There was no sign of a colored ribbon 
 even among the young girls. Like the mourners 
 of antiquity these women occasionally uttered a 
 prolonged wail like the wail of the night-owl. 
 
 The next day I returned to Chambery, but 
 before I left I made Jean-Pierre promise to keep 
 me informed of any new developments.
 
 CHAPTER HI 
 
 OUR LORD IN THE STABLE 
 
 DURING the autumn and winter following the 
 murder I received two or three visits from Jean- 
 Pierre Convert ; but he brought me no new facts 
 regarding the investigation following the inquest 
 which was, it appeared, the usual perfunctory for- 
 mality. I wondered, as I took note of his altered 
 expression, his red face and watery eyes, whether 
 he had not taken advantage of these visits to 
 leave home in order to carouse as much as he 
 liked? Of course he had always been fond of 
 wine, but he carried his drink as every good 
 Savoyard prides himself on doing, and never got 
 really drunk. But now the old man seemed to 
 have succumbed. 
 
 "How goes it up in your part of the country, 
 Jean-Pierre?" 
 
 "Oh, same as usual, but I've come about the 
 old woman." 
 
 "Is Petronille sick?" 
 
 "Not sick exactly. She spits blood. Seems 
 worn out. It's her grief. It's killing her." 
 
 The old man was glad of an opportunity to 
 leave home. When one reaches a certain age one 
 finds it increasingly difficult to bear the burdens 
 of others. 
 
 56
 
 OUR LORD IN THE STABLE 57 
 
 One day I went to Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne on 
 a case, and I asked the Judge there, Fonclair 
 who was just a little too much interested in local 
 history to be a good judge whether he had dis- 
 covered any new clues. It was just as I had 
 foreseen. The court had delved into Claude's 
 past life, in much the same way as the magistrate 
 had gone through his pockets. It seems that 
 several years ago he had made love to some girl 
 in Bonneval and probably had a child by her. 
 Probably, I say, but this was by no means certain, 
 for she was not a vestal; certain it is that many 
 men had had relations with her. She married 
 later and her husband had legitimatized the 
 child. Could the belated jealousy of this man be 
 seized upon as a valid clue? The court had in- 
 deed followed it up for a time and then dropped 
 it: the fellow was too simple-minded, and his 
 wife ruled him with an iron hand. He even had 
 no doubts regarding the paternity of the child, 
 and was known to be peaceable and friendly on 
 all occasions. And yet this long-forgotten story 
 occasioned more gaiety on the part of my beaters 
 than had my announcement of Claude's trip to 
 Bonneval. Such tales are very slow to start in 
 these regions, but they die hard. 
 
 The Judge, realizing that he could not discover 
 anything particularly discreditable to the victim's 
 moral character, had turned his attention to 
 that little secret world of smuggling and
 
 58 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 poaching, a world into which, an outsider may 
 enter only at the risk of his life. But the 
 judge knew this world, every by-path in it: 
 he had crossed the frontier over passes that 
 were ordinarily considered impossible; he knew 
 its secret hiding-places, was intimate with its 
 manners and customs, and its code of honor, 
 and consequently, he understood its laws and 
 its vengeances. The investigation was made 
 with infinite precaution and tact. Claude, of 
 course, knew that world and frequented every 
 nook and corner of it: he hunted chamois out of 
 season and knew where to sell his game at the 
 highest price. He was invaluable as a guide be- 
 cause of his inexhaustible knowledge of every 
 part of the mountains. He had friends and allies 
 at Ceres ole in Italy and without doubt he trans- 
 ported contraband goods to that place. Possibly 
 he had quarrelled with one of his accomplices? 
 Maybe he had blabbed and compromised a pal! 
 The court had even decided to arrest one of the 
 most notorious smugglers, a man who had once 
 been sentenced because of a row at the inn where 
 he had put out the eye of a customs officer. 
 Pierre-Paul Poing of Bonneval was celebrated 
 for his physical strength and his ugly temper. 
 He was rather irritated when they came to arrest 
 him, so that it was necessary to send a whole 
 squad of police to carry him off. What particu- 
 larly aroused his ire was that he should be sus-
 
 OUR LORD IN THE STABLE 59 
 
 pected of committing a crime in the dead of night 
 a cowardly act! His innocence was soon estab- 
 lished, and he was released. 
 
 "I did not bring charges against him," ex- 
 plained the Judge. 
 
 "What sort of charges could you have 
 brought?" 
 
 "Resisting the police; assault and battery." 
 
 "But he was innocent!" 
 
 "That's no reason. Do you think we arrest 
 only the guilty? You can't know until afterward. 
 Besides, we had to do something for the sake of 
 the lawyers." 
 
 "Thanks; your blunders are quite sufficient. 
 Meantime, have you any fresh clues?" 
 
 "Yes, a better one. I'm very glad you came. 
 I want to ask you a few questions. How many 
 beaters did you have when you went hunting at 
 La Lombarde?" 
 
 "Four, not counting Claude Couvert." 
 
 "Weren't they all jealous of him?" 
 
 "Yes, but they were very decent fellows." 
 
 "A judge takes no account of 'decent fellows.' 
 All that's necessary is to arrest one of them and 
 find out a few things about his private life. That'll 
 bring to light any amount of moral turpitude." 
 
 "You're a dangerous man." 
 
 "No man is more dangerous than a judge." 
 
 "So I see. But may I point out that while 
 moral turpitude, as you phrase it, is a human at-
 
 60 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 tribute, it does not bear the same relation to 
 society at large as does actual crime. ' ' 
 
 "But it's only a step from that to crime." 
 
 "A very long step often a step that is prac- 
 tically impossible to take." 
 
 "Impossible 1 ? I have just read Joseph de Mais- 
 tre and I see he condoned judicial errors on the 
 ground that when justice was mistaken the victim 
 in suffering punishment was thus expiating an- 
 other, an unknown crime." 
 
 "AJi, but you twist the author's meaning. Ee- 
 call for a moment that other passage you quoted 
 at Bessans during the funeral, about the universal 
 and visible order for the temporal punishment of 
 crime, and the cleverest criminals sooner or later 
 disclosing their guilt by imprudence." 
 
 "Yes. Sometimes they are a long time doing 
 it, and show no consideration for the judges. 
 That is why they force us to adopt any means at 
 hand." 
 
 "That's small consolation for the good, law- 
 abiding citizens ! ' ' 
 
 "People don't properly understand the attitude 
 of judges. We work in the dark. It is inevitable 
 that we should make others suffer." 
 
 "But you ought to do your best to minimize 
 that suffering." 
 
 "I do my best, but a magistrate owes it to him- 
 self to have an easy conscience. He must not 
 permit himself over-refined scruples."
 
 OUR LORD IN THE STABLE 61 
 
 Judge Fonclair is a very able man, a lover of 
 paradox, and always delights in showing off his 
 erudition. 
 
 He is endowed with sufficient irony and scepti- 
 cism to prevent his being absolutely stupid, and 
 as a result of his vast experience he can make 
 shrewd guesses. But in the Convert case he was 
 quite beyond his depth, utterly at sea, as I real- 
 ized when he announced the following hypothesis : 
 
 "Let us return to our beaters," he said. 
 "Claude Convert enjoys your confidence. A re- 
 markable fellow; knows all the hiding-places of 
 the chamois ; is better than all the rest in discov- 
 ering game. A wonderful cook. In every way a 
 keen, fine, fearless fellow. When he is about, 
 everything runs smoothly nothing is lacking. 
 Every day he entertains you with all sorts of 
 amusing rigmaroles. In your little community he 
 is by all odds the favorite. You give him more 
 game than the others." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "I've investigated. His four comrades begin 
 to rebel; they decide to get rid of him. Finally, 
 you make him a present of a fat young chamois at 
 a time when the guests at the inn are clamoring 
 for chamois meat. He takes the animal down to 
 Bonneval. The gang chooses his executioner, or 
 executioners as the case may be. At night he, or 
 they, slip away from La Lombarde and lie in 
 wait somewhere on the road between Bonneval
 
 62 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 and Bessans between the chalets of Barmanere 
 and the bridge where the road crosses the river. 
 The little dog of course recognizes the men, and 
 naturally doesn't bark at them. Kemember, the 
 people at Barmanere heard no barking! They 
 strangle Claude and throw his body into the river. 
 Then, under cover of the night, they return to the 
 chalet. The trip down and back is nothing to 
 men who are used to the mountains. In the morn- 
 ing they are ready for the hunt as if nothing had 
 happened. Who could suspect them?" 
 
 "Well, you were quite right when you said that 
 a judge is a dangerous man! You've just con- 
 structed a more astonishing piece of fiction than 
 was ever conceived by a popular novelist. I admit 
 my beaters were jealous of Claude, but that was a 
 purely professional jealousy not the sort that 
 leads to crime. There is no possible connection 
 between the cause and the result you imagine. My 
 men realized Claude's superiority, though they 
 would not admit it even to themselves, and they 
 might conceivably have gotten together to play a 
 practical joke on him, but the joke would have 
 gone no further than sending him off on a false 
 scent. So much for the 'morality' of my men. 
 And that is enough for me. Let me point out 
 that there are any number of material objections 
 to your version." 
 
 "For instance?" 
 
 "First, the matter of distance. It's at least
 
 OUR LORD IN THE STABLE 63 
 
 three hours' walk from my chalet to Bonneval." 
 
 "But Claude evidently thought he could make 
 it and even in shorter time ! ' ' 
 
 "Have patience, Judge, Claude Couvert left 
 between four and five in the afternoon. He 
 intended to return during the night. My men 
 were all at the chalet for dinner, and after din- 
 ner I talked with them about the next day's 
 hunt." 
 
 "They're very fast walkers, you know!" 
 
 "You forget the storm. It broke out between 
 eight and nine that night and was particularly 
 violent. Not even a customs officer would think of 
 leaving his door in such a storm.' 7 
 
 "These mountaineers are afraid of nothing." 
 
 "Note that it was so severe that Claude was 
 forced to remain at Bonneval till midnight." 
 
 "He stopped at the inn because of the mule. 
 You know, these peasants take better care of their 
 animals than of themselves." 
 
 "But why do you assume that the dog did not 
 bark? Naturally, he couldn't be heard at Bar- 
 manere because of the roaring of the river." 
 
 "People living near rivers become accustomed 
 to the sound and hear other sounds quite dis- 
 tinctly." 
 
 "You're very hard to convince. But since you 
 won't otherwise believe in the innocence of my 
 men, let me give you ono incontrovertible proof." 
 
 "Well, well, this sounds like a court plea. Let
 
 64 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 us have your incontrovertible proof. I ask noth- 
 ing better than to believe it. I 'm not prejudiced. ' ' 
 
 "My men did not leave La Lombarde at all that 
 night. And my proof is that if they had gone 
 on this wild expedition their clothes would have 
 been soaked. As a matter of fact, they were quite 
 dry." 
 
 "They might have changed?" 
 
 "They had no others." 
 
 "What do they do when they get wet?" 
 
 "Dry them in the sun if it shines again; other- 
 wise, at the fire." 
 
 "Well, I admit that is a reason. Still, I would 
 like to arrest one of them." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "To make the others talk. In these rural dis- 
 tricts, no one opens his mouth until one of them 
 is behind the bars." 
 
 "Don't arrest anyone. Take my advice." 
 
 * * Too bad ! It 's really a shame ! ' ' 
 
 After thus expressing his regret Fonclair burst 
 into laughter which scarcely concealed his rage. 
 For a moment I suspected that he might have 
 been joking, but I learned during the more friendly 
 conversation that followed that he was in deadly 
 earnest, and had actually investigated the past 
 lives of my beaters. My statement alone had pre- 
 vented his making an arrest. But he believed me 
 implicitly. So you see, my trip to Saint-Jean-de- 
 Maurienne was not in vain, for it served to shield
 
 OUR LORD IN THE STABLE 65 
 
 the innocent. They were of course honest men, 
 easily distinguishable, the Judge notwithstand- 
 ing, from criminals. 
 
 If I go to such pains in going over the details 
 of this conversation, it is by no means for the 
 purpose of emphasizing my role as protector of 
 the innocent. On the contrary, for the false, 
 though ingenious, hypothesis of the Judge en- 
 abled me to make good use of his ideas at a 
 later time in order to strengthen a totally dif- 
 ferent conviction that had come to me. 
 
 During the month of the following February 
 some of my friends at Chambery organized a ski- 
 ing party through the Maurienne. They planned 
 to go by train to Modane and then proceed by 
 sleds up the Valley of the Arc to Bonneval where 
 a chalet-refuge had just been opened by the 
 Alpine Club. The return trip was to be made 
 on skis : there were wonderful slopes, they knew, 
 at La Madeleine above Lanslevillard. Though 
 I was especially busy at the time I joined the 
 party; two or three days spent in the open air 
 would drive the legal cobwebs from my mind. Be- 
 sides, I could stop off at Bessans and visit the 
 Couverts. 
 
 Those who have never made a sojourn in the 
 mountains during the winter can have no concep- 
 tion of their grandeur. Some traveller I don't 
 know who it was whose appetite for sensation 
 had lost its edge, declared that each country
 
 66 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 ought to be visited during what he called its "vio- 
 lent" season; the Orient under the blasting heat 
 of midsummer, the Scandinavian countries in the 
 dead of winter, and so on. This is especially true 
 of the mountains. There the winter is by no 
 means what you might imagine it to be : the sun, 
 for instance, shines oftener than it does on the 
 plains and in the valleys. How many times as I 
 sat in my office at Chambery have my mountaineer 
 clients pitied me because of the fogs that con- 
 tinually hid the sky from my view ! 
 
 "Up where we live, Monsieur 1'Avocat, we have 
 clear weather." 
 
 And what crystal clarity it is! A horizon of 
 pure white and azure, not your ordinary white 
 and azure: the white up there glistens like new 
 armor; luminous, living, quickened into life by 
 the blinding sunlight. The snow bursts into clouds 
 of innumerable diamonds. And the blue! It is 
 dense and yet light, deep and at the same time 
 unbelievably delicate ; more tenuous than the sky 
 of Italy, and yet darker than that of the Ile-de- 
 France. Under this mantle of blue and white the 
 mountains reveal their magnificent outlines, now 
 soft and smooth, now awful in their rugged 
 abruptness. Under a shifting atmosphere these 
 outlines at times stand out in every detail, and 
 again become attenuated and lost in the ever- 
 shifting mists. The pines and larches, laden with 
 hoar-frost, show touches of vivid green or golden
 
 OUR LORD IN THE STABLE 67 
 
 brown. A church steeple in the distance marks 
 the position of a silent village tucked away in a 
 corner of the valley. Everywhere is the sweet 
 silence of a lonely monastery. This world of white 
 knows no monotony, since the vivid light darts 
 and changes with each floating mist. The morn- 
 ing is full of golds and pinks, and you might 
 imagine you were present at the birth of some 
 Alpine goddess, sprung from the glacier, like 
 Venus rising from the sea. The evenings are still 
 more beautiful: there is a profusion of soft tints, 
 beginning with the deepest orange and melting 
 into every variety of red crimson, carmine, cop- 
 per; and then through all the yellows sulphur, 
 saffron, light lemon ; and at last passing into the 
 violets, lilacs, and mauves. No painter has ever 
 been able to render this ever-changing fusion of 
 colors, more delicately and subtly shaded than 
 the petals of roses and chrysanthemums. 
 
 But there are other pleasures besides the visual. 
 A fresh and salubrious wind caresses the face and 
 sends the blood coursing through the body. There 
 is no exercise more agreeable, more voluptuous, 
 than skating or skiing, for in these sports you 
 feel an inner heat contrasting pleasantly with the 
 cold air. In no other way is it possible to feel 
 so close to nature and life. 
 
 The winter is by no means a sad season in 
 the mountain regions. Think of the long eve- 
 nings indoors! It is then that traditions are
 
 68 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 handed down, one generation learning from the 
 other the history of the race in the form of 
 legends, which of course are the truest sort of 
 history. It is then that the character is formed, 
 the soul shaped, and first love born. The girls 
 of the Maurienne, I may say, are particularly 
 pretty. 
 
 We spent the night at Lanslebourg in order to 
 rest our mules. My companions were anxious 
 to reach Bonneval in time for lunch. "We started 
 out early the next morning, but experienced some 
 difficulty in crossing the pass at La Madeleine, 
 which lies between Lanslevillard and Bessans. 
 The trail had disappeared and our animals sank 
 into the new snow up to their bellies. We had to 
 dismount and pull the animals out. 
 
 We arrived at Bessans about noon atad decided 
 to eat there. After lunch my companions pro- 
 ceeded on their way while I remained behind. We 
 had agreed that they were to call for me on their 
 return. Meantime I engaged a room at the inn. 
 Now that Claude was gone, I hesitated to accept 
 the hospitality of the Couverts, though I pre- 
 sented myself at the house immediately after the 
 skiing party had left. 
 
 Jean-Pierre's fears on behalf of his wife's 
 health were by no means unfounded. When I 
 entered the stable I saw Petronille lying in bed, 
 her hands folded over the sheet, surrounded by 
 the animals in their stalls, and the children. The
 
 OUR LORD IN THE STABLE 69 
 
 fact that she had consented to go to bed at all 
 sufficed to show that there was no hope of her 
 recovery. She was one of those women who posi- 
 tively refuse to be sick, but when once they are 
 stricken, never recover. A sunbeam coming in 
 through one of the windows illuminated the cen- 
 ter of the scene. I can still see the mule and the 
 broad haunches of the cows ; I even remember that 
 the stalls had not been cleaned out, an ominous 
 detail, for I knew that no house, as a rule, was 
 cleaner than this. The cows still wore their bells 
 and from time to time their slow movements sent 
 out silvery sounds on two or three notes, mingling 
 pleasantly with the conversation or startling the 
 silence. A hen, making her way into forbidden 
 territory, paraded back and forth, picking up 
 crumbs and grain. Coal, the little black dog, was 
 curled up in a corner sleeping a troubled sleep. 
 He occasionally uttered a little yelp and relapsed 
 into silence. Perhaps he felt the presence of the 
 Unknown Guest. 
 
 The dying woman was cared for by her grand- 
 son, Etienne, and by little Eina, who supplied her 
 with sugar-water and rum, and occasionally gave 
 her a teaspoonful of Bonjean Elixir, the universal 
 Savoyard remedy for the "restoration of strength 
 and immediate relief of all pain." They stood 
 with eyes fixed upon her, endeavoring to guess 
 her wishes, never leaving her side for a moment. 
 I felt a genuine admiration for this tall youth of
 
 70 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 seventeen or eighteen, as tenderly attentive as a 
 young nurse learning her profession. At that 
 time I perceived some indication of what his 
 future was to be : there was in him none of the 
 awkwardness or boorishness of the typical coun- 
 tryman. He was delicate and refined in manner. 
 Poor boy! What an ordeal he was to undergo 
 before entering the priesthood! His sister, who 
 had already attached herself to him like a servant 
 and sought to emulate him in every respect, was 
 also to seek refuge later on from the world. Jean- 
 Pierre was seated at the table. He was showing 
 Jean-Marie, the youngest of his grandsons, how 
 to carve wood after the fashion of Clapier and 
 Vincendet, local sculptors of a bygone day, into 
 the semblance of saints, soldiers, and devils. Be- 
 fore him on the table was a jug which I thought 
 at first was full of wine or cider. I was wrong, 
 for it contained mountain thistles which the old 
 man had gathered in order to put beneath a lit- 
 tle photograph of Claude that hung on the wall. 
 His memory was sacred in this house, and its 
 celebration was a religious cult. 
 
 I inquired after Maddalena: she had taken 
 charge of the kitchen as well as of the entire 
 household. As for Benoit, I could hear him 
 sawing wood in the wood-shed: the cold weather 
 would necessitate a large supply of ash and beech, 
 pine and larch. 
 
 After paying my respects to the others I went
 
 OUR LORD IN THE STABLE 71 
 
 to Petronille, uncertain whether my speaking 
 would agitate her. But Etienne reassured me 
 with these words, which later assumed a meaning 
 he could not possibly have intended : 
 
 "You may speak, Monsieur. She hears every- 
 thing, sees everything, knows everything." 
 
 Thank God, she did not know everything! 
 
 Her quickly failing eyes had already taken ac- 
 count of my presence. She greeted me and called 
 me by name: "How do you do, Monsieur Char- 
 lieu," and seemed anxious to know if I were well 
 lodged and nourished. She received me in the 
 manner of a great lady or rather with the cere- 
 monious gravity which distinguishes peasant hos- 
 pitality in this region. I suggested the advisa- 
 bility of sending to Lanslebourg for a doctor, but 
 she politely refused. I remember her exact reply : 
 
 "No thank you, except for accidents, we can die 
 without help from anyone." 
 
 There was no trace of malice in this. The "acci- 
 dent" she referred to was, of course, Claude's 
 accident. During the course of my life I have 
 seen many people face death with courage and 
 even contempt, but only on one other occasion with 
 such serenity. That was an old friend of my 
 father's a man of unshaken faith, a judge who, 
 after his retirement, had devoted his lively and 
 energetic mind to the study of theology. When he 
 realized that his last moment was at hand he said 
 with the utmost coolness and detachment: "I
 
 72 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 have always wondered just how the soul takes 
 flight from the body. Now I shall know." 
 
 The knowledge he was about to acquire is paid 
 for, however, only with life. Human beings as a 
 rule do not approach this knowledge without 
 agony, but Petronille, happy in her ignorance, was 
 not troubled. She went out to meet death very 
 much as she was wont to go back and forth 
 through the house noiselessly and discreetly, per- 
 forming each task at its appointed time and per- 
 forming it well. Of her own accord she asked 
 for the priest and his sacraments, and preparing 
 to receive into her house the symbols of God, 
 she ordered the animals curried, the room set in 
 order, and a clean cloth, two candlesticks, and 
 new candles, to be laid on the table. While Bina 
 went to fetch the white cloth the old lady asked 
 the others to take down two clean sheets. The 
 use to which these would be put was unmistak- 
 able. These preliminaries over, she sent little 
 Jean-Marie for Monsieur le Cure, then lay back 
 and made no further reply to us, as if she had 
 already begun to accustom herself to another ex- 
 istence. 
 
 The priest, clothed in his surplice, and preceded 
 by his assistant, showed not the slightest aston- 
 ishment at seeing his parishioner in the presence 
 of the animals. He took the holy Elements, pro- 
 nounced the sacramental words and, approaching 
 the bed, held the Host to the lips of the dying
 
 OUR LORD IN THE STABLE 73 
 
 woman, who received it with closed eyes, in a sort 
 of ecstasy, as if she were offering up her very 
 soul. The face of Petronille, attenuated by the 
 ravages of an incurable malady, was now trans- 
 figured and spiritualized. It bore a striking re- 
 semblance to those crude rustic madonnas you 
 may see, painted by the local artists, on the walls 
 of the Chapel of St. Anthony at Bessans or of St. 
 Sebastian at Lanslevillard. Because of this re- 
 semblance I almost expected to see a halo round 
 her head, as she lay there receiving the commun- 
 ion. The cows, unaccustomed to the unusual pro- 
 ceedings, shook their little bells as if they were 
 announcing to the faithful the moment of the 
 Elevation of the Host. 
 
 The picture before me, a spectacle as old as 
 time, inevitably called to mind the birth of Jesus 
 in the stable, in the presence of an ass and an 
 ox and humble shepherds. Jesus in His turn had 
 now come into the presence of one of His flock 
 and behold, this stable was transfigured and was 
 become the House of God. 
 
 The sacred ointments were applied to the eyes, 
 the ears, the nostrils, and the mouth that was now 
 shrunk to a small and delicate bloodless line, to 
 her hands that were worn and cracked by con- 
 stant use, to her feet that for so many years had 
 taken her nowhere outside the house save to 
 church. By the application of this Unction her 
 human errors were forgiven, while the ointment
 
 74 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 symbolized the consecration of her soul. Actu- 
 ally, however, her soul was offered up to God in 
 expiation. In expiation, mark you, for this poor 
 woman had asked, while still in full possession of 
 her mental powers and before the lapse into un- 
 .consciousness, to receive Extreme Unction. I 
 am positive that she realized the efficacy of this 
 last sacrament. She received it with such fervor, 
 with a self-abandonment so complete, that we 
 feared the effort would precipitate instant death. 
 
 After speaking a few words of consolation and 
 hope, the priest left, and for a long time Petro- 
 nille lay prostrate. Finally she called to her bed- 
 side her son Benoit and Claude's wife, Madda- 
 lena. These two had stood apart during the last 
 scene, busied with their domestic duties. Food 
 must be prepared and wood cut even in such sol- 
 emn hours. They had been quietly performing 
 their duties, relieving the others of petty details 
 and allowing them to care for the dying woman. 
 They answered her summons and stood facing 
 her on either side of the bed, awkward and ill at 
 ease. I was astonished by their pallor and the 
 trembling of their hands. Occupied as they had 
 been in other parts of the house, they were now 
 doubtless shocked by the rapid progress of Pe- 
 tronille's malady. She appeared not to see them. 
 
 "I am here," said Benoit. 
 
 Then she opened her eyes which had that ter- 
 rifying expression we see in the dying, who ap-
 
 OUR LORD IN THE STABLE 75 
 
 pear to be making a final effort to cling to this life 
 while their vision is already fixed upon a world 
 beyond. 
 
 She managed to look them both straight in the 
 eyes, but I noticed that they could not sustain her 
 glance, and turned their heads aside. I admit that 
 even I, an outsider, could scarcely have borne that 
 look without flinching. Her face was contorted 
 and it seemed for a moment as though the pain 
 would make her scream a woman who had never 
 uttered a complaint. She lifted an arm but had 
 to let it fall, for she was in a state bordering upon 
 prostration. The next moment she took Benoit's 
 hand in an unexpectedly firm grip, and tried with 
 her other hand to take hold of Maddalena's. Her 
 son and daughter-in-law did not immediately re- 
 spond to Petronille's unspoken desire. The hand 
 which had sought Maddalena's fell back power- 
 less on the sheet. 
 
 What had that gesture meant? I imagined that 
 before leaving her family she had been seized 
 with a desire to pronounce some benediction of 
 peace, addressing herself especially to her son 
 and to Claude's widow, on account of the hos- 
 tility that existed between the two. This was what 
 I made of the scene at the time. Now that I 
 know, this supreme effort of a woman who had 
 divined only a part of the truth, who had striven 
 on the brink of the grave to effect an impossible 
 reparation, now assumes a grandeur comparable,
 
 76 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 I think, only to the miracles of the Saints. What 
 tortures would she not have suffered if she had 
 guessed all! I left the stable full of the deepest 
 veneration for her. Every detail of that scene 
 is still vivid to me. Even now, after so many 
 years, I am stirred whenever I think of her, be- 
 cause I have learned how far the fear of sin and 
 the love of God can penetrate into the soul of 
 a woman. 
 
 She spoke few words after that, but though her 
 mouth was closed she continued to make the sign 
 of the cross with her gnarled hand. 
 
 She did not die until two days later. I had left 
 the evening before, promising to return in the 
 autumn to hunt chamois. Either Benoit or 
 Etienne, who was now a fine stalwart lad, would 
 come with me. Someone is always found to take 
 the place of the dead.
 
 CHAPTEE IV 
 
 A BELATED VOCATION 
 
 ELEVEN months had passed since the death of 
 Claude Convert, and six since that of his mother. 
 
 The hunting season was about to open, I had 
 made the usual preparations and even written to 
 Bessans to make sure that either Benoit or 
 Etienne would be with me at the chalet, when I 
 received a visit from Jean-Pierre, who had not 
 left the mountains since his wife's death. 
 
 "Well, here you are at last!" I exclaimed as 
 the old man entered my office. "I haven't seen 
 you for ages. What have you been doing with 
 yourself? You have brought me no new suits, 
 done no traveling, and evidently managed to keep 
 away from the bottle ! You must be growing old, 
 Jean-Pierre!" 
 
 As I joked with him I was shocked by the 
 marked change in his face and manner. This 
 proud and majestic peasant, a born leader and 
 master who walked with head erect, wore his 
 clothes in the grand manner and always shaved 
 with the most scrupulous care, now stood before 
 me a bent and pathetic old man. This venerable 
 patriarch, for years an absolute master in his own 
 
 77
 
 78 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 home and lord of his lands, only too ready to do 
 battle in defence of his boundaries, his rights of 
 way, his water franchises, eager to exercise every 
 privilege to its utmost limit, was now simply an 
 old man, whose clothes hung like bags from his 
 shrunken body. His beard was unkempt, his nose 
 red, his eyes dull. He was perhaps sixty-five, cer- 
 tainly not a day over seventy, but he carried his 
 years as if they had been an imponderable burden 
 that was crushing him. To what was I to at- 
 tribute this change? To sorrow, or to drink! At 
 first I put it down to drink because of the color of 
 his face, and more especially to the trembling of 
 his hands. But those shifting pathetic eyes, that 
 seemed almost to express fear, no longer looked 
 straight at one, and I suspected the presence of 
 Some agony undermining his spiritual being. 
 Doubtless the double loss of son and wife was the 
 cause of this tragic deterioration. He was like a 
 magnificent tree, decayed and ready to fall before 
 'the first wind. 
 
 I inquired after the whole family, and his re- 
 port was in every way satisfactory. Benoit was 
 up in the Averole Valley tending the cattle. 
 Etienne, he said, would be my companion at La 
 Lombarde. This lad was as quick as his father, 
 as ready with his hands, and as untiring. But 
 his knowledge of the haunts and habits of ani- 
 mals was by no means as thorough. And, last 
 but not least, he lacked his father's sense of fun.
 
 A BELATED VOCATION 79 
 
 " Sorrow is also affecting him," said the old 
 man. 
 
 "He will get over it; young people do." 
 ' ' Oh, he has the mind of a much older man. ' ' 
 In this last statement I recognized the Jean- 
 Pierre I had always known, a keen observer, able 
 to reduce his judgments to the most concise and 
 exact form. His mind had remained unaffected. 
 He lost no time in explaining the purpose of his 
 visit. He had come to consult me about the dis- 
 position of his worldly goods and asked me what 
 he ought to do. 
 
 "You have two children, Jean-Pierre." 
 "I did have four. Now I have only one." 
 "Legally you have two: Claude's interests are 
 represented by his children. You have therefore 
 the right to dispose of only a third of your prop- 
 erty." 
 
 "Then I'll make a will in favor of my grand- 
 son Etienne. You see, Benoit is single." 
 
 It was quite natural. In this way he had pro- 
 vided for the future of the family and at the 
 same time perpetuated the custom of primo- 
 geniture. 
 
 "But," I objected, "Benoit is not old; he may 
 marry yet." 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 This "No" came from him in a flash as if 
 the old man were indignantly protesting against 
 the bare possibility. I took it that having once
 
 80 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 made up his mind, he was unwilling to alter it. 
 
 "But why give to Etienne at the expense of 
 Bina and Jean-Marie!" 
 
 "Oh, Eina " 
 
 Eina of course was only a girl. In the country 
 girls are not reckoned when you count the chil- 
 dren. But little Jean-Marie? Jean-Pierre 
 looked at me and upon my word I think he was 
 afraid. 
 
 "Etienne is the oldest," he declared as if he 
 were laying down the law. 
 
 I advised him not to dispose of his property 
 before he died, sound advice, by the way. I have 
 too often beheld the spectacle of an old man 
 despised, abandoned, and destitute, the moment 
 he has given away his property. Such a man is 
 considered merely a-parasite, consuming without 
 producing, a superfluous creature who has out- 
 lived his time. For country people (though I 
 have known striking exceptions) to honor their 
 father and their mother when it is no longer a 
 matter of material interest, is not usual. 
 
 Jean-Pierre allowed me to speak without in- 
 terruption, and when I had finished, he added : 
 
 "Yes, I understand, but you see I'm going 
 away. ' ' 
 
 Where could he be going? I asked him, and 
 he made a vague gesture. 
 
 "Over there."
 
 A BELATED VOCATION 81 
 
 I pretended to be satisfied with this answer, 
 for he evidently felt he could not yet trust me. 
 
 "How long are you going to be away 1 ?" 
 
 "Always." 
 
 What the devil did he mean by these mysterious 
 words? Surely he didn't intend, at his age, to 
 begin life over again elsewhere, especially after 
 giving up his property? I was well aware that 
 in the Maurienne, where witchcraft and sorcery 
 are accepted as facts and the peasant imagina- 
 tion is always evolving the most extraordinary 
 ideas, nothing ought to surprise me. Crusading 
 emigrants were common: many of them had 
 already gone to America. Long lines of conquer- 
 ors passing through the country had left in it 
 some of the ambition and desire for gain that had 
 actuated them. Had the old man succumbed to 
 some folly of this sort ? I was on fairly intimate 
 terms with (him, and believed I had a right to 
 insist : 
 
 "Come, now, Jean-Pierre, don't you care to 
 tell me where you're going?" 
 
 His little smile changed to a savage grimace 
 that made him look twenty years younger. It 
 was the cunning smile of the child who plays 
 a trick or jumps over the school-house wall. 
 
 "It's a secret." 
 
 "They don't know it at home?" 
 
 "No. Women blab." 
 
 This, I knew, was a reference to Maddalena,
 
 82 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 Perhaps that strange woman had again taken up 
 her pious pilgrimages ? 
 
 "You're mighty mysterious, Jean-Pierre. So 
 you mean to tell me your children have seen the 
 last of you in Bessans, and don't even know where 
 you have gone? You wouldn't play a trick like 
 that ! Eemember the day you waited for Claude 
 to return. Don't you cause the same anxiety to 
 the others." 
 
 My allusion produced a more powerful effect 
 than I had hoped for, and the old man's hands 
 trembled more violently than before. But he at- 
 tempted to defend himself : 
 
 ' ' Who 's waiting for me ? The wife 's in peace. ' ' 
 "Your son Benoit. And Claude's three chil- 
 dren and Maddalena." 
 
 He seemed for a moment to weigh the words : 
 only one name interested him. 
 "All right then, I'll write to Etienne." 
 Perceiving the full extent of my sympathy for 
 him, Jean-Pierre then decided to reveal his ex- 
 traordinary secret. 
 
 "I'll tell you: I'm going to Hautecombe." 
 Hautecombe, on the banks of Lake Le Bourget, 
 is the burying-ground of the Princes of the House 
 of Savoy. The church is a huge commonplace 
 structure with a tower. Next it are a monastery 
 and cloister, and a chapel with the royal tombs. 
 What was the old peasant planning to do in this 
 retreat? I couldn't believe my ears.
 
 A BELATED VOCATION 83 
 
 "Oh," I said with a smile, "I know very well 
 that the Dukes of Savoy came from the Maur- 
 ienne, but I've never heard that every Maurien- 
 nais had a right to be buried with them at Haute- 
 combe." 
 
 "I'm not dead yet, Monsieur 1'Avocat," he 
 said, "but that's where I'm going to be buried 
 when I am." 
 
 Having broached the secret, he seemed to have 
 rid himself of a burden, and his former dignified 
 manner returned to him. He seemed to enjoy 
 telling me what was on his mind. 
 
 ' ' Tell me, Jean-Pierre, what is there besides the 
 tombs at Hautecombe ? ' ' 
 
 "There's the monastery." 
 
 "Do you mean to say you're going into a mon- 
 astery? I'm blest if I ever thought you had the 
 makings of a monk in you!" 
 
 "I couldn't very well be a monk, because I'm 
 not educated, but I'm going to be a servant. They 
 call them brothers, too." 
 
 "Yes, lay brothers. So you've taken it into 
 your head to be a lay-brother? I can't believe 
 it!" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Simply because you've been in the habit of 
 commanding other people for the last fifty years, 
 and an old general finds it rather hard to take 
 orders." 
 
 He had risen and was now standing before me.
 
 84 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 At that moment he was clothed with a majesty 
 comparable only to that of his wife as she lay m 
 the stable waiting to receive God into her pres- 
 ence. 
 
 "I've given away everything that belonged to 
 me. I'm now a poor man and if I want to become 
 a servant there's nothing to prevent me." 
 
 Become a servant at seventy ! To eat the bread 
 of others after one has enjoyed plenty during a 
 whole lifetime ! I was struck with what he said : 
 "If I want to become a servant there's nothing to 
 prevent me !" For one brief moment I had been 
 ready to believe this man a drunkard, and now he 
 calmly announced his intention of entering a 
 monastery, after giving up all his property and 
 sacrificing the companionship and affection of his 
 family. If I had not known him for a native of 
 that strange Bessans whose inhabitants claim it 
 as the birthplace of Jesus and who for a thousand 
 years have preserved their civilization, character 
 and wild imagination intact, I would have thought 
 him mad. With the utmost tranquillity he laid his 
 entire plan before me. One of his uncles had been 
 a Cistercian monk at the Abbey of Hautecombe, 
 and Jean-Pierre reminding the authorities of this 
 fact had written them offering his services. As 
 the uncle was held in great veneration the old 
 man's offer had been accepted. 
 
 "Are you quite sure you will not regret your 
 decision, Jean-Pierre ? ' '
 
 A BELATED VOCATION 85 
 
 "My mind has been at rest ever since I made 
 it." 
 
 "It isn't an easy life. No more wine, you 
 know?" 
 
 "The price of wine is going up; anyway, I'll 
 learn to do without it." 
 
 "How did you discover your vocation?" 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps my wife ?" 
 
 He could give me no satisfactory explanation. 
 I hardly think he tried to. The vocation had sim- 
 ply come, and that was all there was to it. 
 
 "When do you start?" 
 
 "Eight off this afternoon by boat. Just as 
 soon as I've seen the notary and arranged about 
 the will. I've kept out a little money for the 
 notary and for you, too, Monsieur 1'Avocat." 
 He opened his purse and was about to pay me a 
 consultation fee when I stopped him with a wave 
 of the hand. 
 
 "No, no, I shan't accept a sou, and I insist be- 
 sides on your lunching with me, Jean-Pierre. It's 
 your last meal in this world." 
 
 He hesitated just a moment and then accepted. 
 A marked change had come over him since he be- 
 gan telling his secret : he was now cordial, frank, 
 almost care-free. 
 
 "Just as you say. I'll see the notary and come 
 back in a couple of hours." 
 
 After he left I hurried to the kitchen in order 
 to effect several changes in my menu. Nothing
 
 86 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 would be too good for the man who was on the 
 point of renouncing riches, power and worldly 
 position. My cook was in a flurry, and must have 
 thought I had asked some prince to lunch. I in- 
 structed her to buy the finest provisions at the 
 best shops. She returned with Lake Le Bourget 
 herrings, game out of season, one of those inde- 
 scribable pates for which Chambery is justly cele- 
 brated, and a Sambaglione a I'ltalienne. I myself 
 descended to the cellar and selected several bot- 
 tles of the finest Savoy wines white Chignin 
 whose bouquet is like a flower, which sparkles like 
 golden Champagne, and is as fresh and stimulat- 
 ing as a sunrise on the snow; and red Saint- Jean- 
 de-la-Porte, as solid as the best Burgundy; old 
 Montmelian, bottled half a century ago, a wine to 
 be treated with respect and ceremonious unction 
 as you would a lord of some bygone age. We 
 have excellent vintages in Savoy, quite unknown 
 beyond the border, as the supply is strictly lim- 
 ited. 
 
 I myself selected the appropriate glasses. When 
 my old servant heard the bell ring she could not 
 resist the temptation of opening the kitchen door 
 for a glimpse of the royal guest. I looked at her 
 in amusement, permitting myself this additional 
 liberty, for I had already invaded her dominion 
 in order to supervise the mixing of the sauces. 
 
 "It's only another client," grumbled the dis- 
 appointed parlor-maid as she ushered in Jean-
 
 A BELATED VOCATION 87 
 
 Pierre. "He'll keep lunch waiting. It's a shame 
 we never can have meals on time ! ' ' 
 
 "But, Fanchette, this is he!" 
 
 "A peasant!" 
 
 "Exactly. He is my guest. I cannot do him 
 enough honor." 
 
 Of course she thought I had gone raving mad, 
 and but for her professional pride she would no 
 doubt have refused to serve the rarer delicacies 
 that had been prepared. Still, I must do my cook 
 the justice of stating that she distinguished her- 
 self; I am quite unable to determine which was 
 her masterpiece, the creamy Hollandaise served 
 with the herring, the unimpeachable partridge 
 dressing, or the sauce that went with the 8am- 
 baglione. Jean-Pierre ate and drank like I was 
 going to say "like a monk," but the comparison 
 would be unjust both to my guest and to the monk 
 so I will say "like a true Savoyard." Under 
 the influence of good food and wine the old man 
 was completely transformed. I saw him as I had 
 often seen him in former years, his mouth puck- 
 ered and his eyes full of malice, as when he left 
 the court-house like a dramatist who had just seen 
 a performance of his own play. He seemed to have 
 forgotten all about his pious vocation. He was at 
 this moment free of cares and though he was on 
 the point of entering a life of self-abnegation he 
 was at least beginning his pilgrimage on a full 
 stomach. Here I was offering him every variety
 
 88 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 of food and surrounding him with a veritable 
 army of wine-glasses. He partook of everything 
 that was set before him, and of course he was an 
 expert in wines. I was just a little taken aback 
 at this self-indulgence, but I was gratified, and 
 told him so : 
 
 "We are burying your earthly existence, " I 
 said. 
 
 "And royally, Monsieur 1'Avocat, you might 
 add." 
 
 "And you're sure you won't miss all this on 
 your visit at Hautecombe?" 
 
 "My visit!" 
 
 "Yes, your whatever you choose to call it." 
 
 "You can get used to any change so long as it 
 comes all at once, and not little by little." 
 
 "Tell me, now, just what you intend doing up 
 there?" 
 
 "Do as I'm told to do." 
 
 "Do what you're told to do? But you've always 
 been the one to give orders to other people !" 
 
 "That's just it: you're happy when you don't 
 have to give orders to other people." 
 
 "But you've not prepared yourself for this 
 life." 
 
 "Oh, Monsieur 1'Avocat, you don't need pre- 
 paration to learn to pick vegetables, wash lettuce, 
 or clean pots. Any woman can do that!" 
 
 "But you're not a woman." 
 
 "I've done hard work in my day."
 
 A BELATED VOCATION 89 
 
 It was clear that he had definitely made up his 
 mind : his decision was irrevocable, because it was 
 based on excellent reasons, which I was not to 
 know until long afterward. As he had eaten and 
 drunk as much as he cared for, I ventured for the 
 last time to ask news of the murder case. I wished 
 to know whether before leaving home he had as- 
 sured himself that nothing more remained to do, 
 that every clue had been run down and the law 
 satisfied so far as was humanly possible. It 
 seemed to me that the Judge had lost interest and 
 that the case was dragging. Had the police been 
 keeping an eye on those suspicious-looking tramps 
 along the Franco-Italian frontier? Was it not 
 perhaps worth while to look for a clue among 
 them? Had they sent detectives into the low 
 dives of Modane and secured a writ of inquiry 
 from the Turin courts? I asked the old man whe- 
 ther he didn't think it a good idea to stop over 
 at Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne and have a talk with 
 the Judge? 
 
 Jean-Pierre allowed me to elaborate these de- 
 tails without interruption as he kept his eyes fixed 
 on a glass of Montmelian that sparkled like rubies, 
 and then emptied it at a draught. I had an idea 
 that he was no longer interested in avenging the 
 murder of his son and intended to forget every- 
 thing up at Hautecombe. But I was wrong. 
 
 "I've already been to Saint- Jean-de-Maurienne 
 and seen the Judge."
 
 90 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 "And what did the Judge say?" 
 
 "He told me there was no use making any more 
 investigations." 
 
 "No use? What on earth do you mean, Jean- 
 Pierre? Don't you want to avenge Claude 's mur- 
 der?" 
 
 I noticed that he hesitated for the fraction of 
 a moment. Then he continued with his accus- 
 tomed authority : 
 
 "Claude was not murdered." 
 
 I was now absolutely dumbfounded. Claude 
 not murdered ! But with my own eyes I had seen 
 those unmistakable marks on the boy's neck, and 
 the Mayor had corroborated my testimony. The 
 facts were further attested to by the medical ex- 
 pert and accepted without question by the court. 
 There had been no shadow of a doubt in the minds 
 of any of us. Jean-Pierre's wits must have been 
 affected or else his newly revealed vocation had 
 transformed him into an effeminate coward, ready 
 to leave vengeance in the hands of the Lord. I 
 looked at him across the table and I felt a little 
 sorry for him. I filled his glass once more and 
 again he emptied it at a gulp. Was he seeking 
 support from the wine ? Hardly, for the few bot- 
 tles he had drunk were after all not much for a 
 man of his accomplishments. It served only to 
 loosen his tongue a little, for his remarks were 
 those of a man in complete possession of all his 
 faculties.
 
 A BELATED VOCATION 91 
 
 "No, Monsieur 1'Avocat, it was not murder. 
 The criminal would have been discovered. Claude 
 hadn't one enemy in the whole Valley. You know, 
 that story about the Guyton girl in Bonneval 
 doesn't amount to a row of pins, and you know too 
 those beaters of yours are decent fellows. And 
 smugglers don't kill a,man without good reason." 
 
 "It might have been somebody we never heard 
 tell of?" 
 
 "No, no, I tell you, Claude fell into the Arc at 
 night, and that's all there is to it. He dropped his 
 lantern, and that's how he came to lose his way. 
 Nobody heard the dog bark: if he had barked 
 someone would have heard him in Barmanere. 
 After he fell in, his neck was bruised by the 
 bushes. I've been along there myself and seen the 
 bushes. His body was caught in them and the 
 current did the rest. It's only natural, don't you 
 see, that his neck would be bruised and scratched. 
 And that's that." 
 
 He had of course returned to the theory of ac- 
 cidental death which the rest of us, on discovering 
 the bruises, had discarded once for all. He had 
 even given this theory a new impetus. I frankly 
 admit I was too astonished to answer, and he 
 went on with that air of authority which he was 
 so soon to abandon for the rest of his days : 
 
 "Those are the facts, Monsieur PAvocat. Ee- 
 member, I am telling you this, I Claude's father, 
 and you've got to believe me. At first the Judge
 
 92 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 wasn't sure, bnt I made him see. He's investi- 
 gated the whole district as far as Modane with- 
 out finding the ghost of a new clue he's come 
 back like a dog with his tail between his legs, a 
 dog that's gone off on a false scent. First he 
 thought I was talking nonsense, but after he heard 
 everything I had to say, he said, * Maybe you're 
 right after all, Pere Convert,' and just as I was 
 going off he said, 'Quite right, Convert, that ex- 
 plains why our investigations have come to noth- 
 ing.' And then he made me come in again. He 
 told the clerk everything I'd said, and the clerk 
 wrote it down and then I signed it." 
 
 The words "Then I signed it" were spoken in 
 a tone so peremptory that you might have thought 
 he was the judge pronouncing the investigations 
 formally terminated. 
 
 Coffee and liqueurs there was an old Apremont 
 among these last had been served during the 
 old man's recital. Jean-Pierre drank everything 
 that was offered and refused nothing that was 
 passed a second time. He sat smoking one of 
 those long Italian cigars with a straw running 
 through it, which I had offered him. He smoked 
 it slowly and with obvious regret : it was his last 
 smoke. He looked at the clock and rose to his 
 feet. 
 
 "I mustn't be late for the boat." 
 
 His face, ruddy as a rock under the setting 
 sun, his legs firmly planted on the ground, Jean-
 
 A BELATED VOCATION 93 
 
 Pierre had lost every particle of resemblance to 
 that pathetic little man who had stood in my of- 
 fice a short time before. Was I to attribute this 
 change to the food, or to his new vocation? As he 
 stood at my door, ready to go, he turned as if he 
 wished to impart a last confidential message. 
 
 " You 're going to see Etienne up at the chalet, 
 aren't you?" 
 
 ' 'Surely, Jean-Pierre. I'm very glad to have 
 him, though naturally I regret his father." 
 
 "He's a nice boy but too serious-minded." 
 
 "Too serious-minded?" 
 
 "Yes, it got him too soon." 
 
 "What got Mm too soon?" 
 
 He put his finger to his forehead, by which the 
 old man meant that the lad thought more than 
 young men of his age are apt to think. Without 
 doubt his father's "accident" since accident it 
 must be considered and his grandmother's 
 death, had given the boy a maturity that comes 
 only from great mental suffering. 
 
 "He has all sorts of notions imagines things 
 and all that. This business about his father 
 weighs on his mind. That's bad, Monsieur 1'Avo- 
 cat, bad. Children oughtn't to be mixed up in 
 those kind of things. A boy like Etienne ought to 
 be young at his time of life, he ought to have 
 broad shoulders like me. His shoulders aren't 
 broad enough. I'm depending on you, Monsieur 
 1'Avocat."
 
 94 
 
 "On me?' 
 
 "Yes, to set his mind at rest. Tell him not to 
 worry any more : it was an accident. He ought to 
 be a boy with the other boys, have a good time and 
 all that, don't you think? You keep an eye on 
 him." 
 
 "I give you my word I will, Jean-Pierre." 
 
 I had promised without any definite idea of 
 what I was promising, for I saw that my guest 
 was worried about Etienne. I saw immediately 
 that my reply had lifted a burden from him. He 
 took my hand, and pressing it in his callous 
 palms, bade me good-bye. 
 
 "Thank you for everything, Monsieur PAvocat. 
 That was a fine dinner you gave me." 
 
 In the country, you know, dinner is the mid- 
 day meal. As he turned to leave it suddenly 
 came over me that I was genuinely sorry to see 
 him go. I called him back. 
 
 I 1 Good-bye, Jean-Pierre ! ' ' 
 
 And well I kissed him ! I had not before re- 
 alized the depth of my affection for him, and now 
 he was leaving me forever, to be a servant in the 
 House of the Lord. It was at least a consolation 
 to think that I had sent him off happy and com- 
 forted. My unexpected outburst of affection had 
 pleased him, having instantly swept away every 
 social barrier between us. As he turned for the 
 last time he murmured : 
 
 "I leave the lad in your hands "
 
 A BELATED VOCATION 95 
 
 He descended the stairs a picture of majesty in 
 spite of his ridiculous clothes. I was to see him 
 once again, long after, a more majestic and a 
 more tragic figure, King Lear, but without a 
 crown and without a daughter.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 SUSPICION 
 
 SOME days afterward I set out for Bessans with 
 my friend Louis de Vimines, who like myself was 
 an enthusiastic hunter. The Couvert house had 
 lost three of its inmates during the past year, 
 but when I entered it there was no visible change. 
 Maddalena had taken entire charge of the house- 
 hold; she was still the calm-featured madonna, 
 keenly alert, coming and going, passing to and 
 fro unobtrusively between kitchen and stable. 
 
 "Well, Maddialena," I said -jokingly, "what 
 about those pilgrimages of yours?" 
 
 "I don't go any more." 
 
 "Aren't you going even to La Salette? There's 
 a great festival there in honor of Maximin and 
 Melanie. ' ' 
 
 This news left her cold, and I perceived that 
 her domestic duties were now occupying all her 
 time and attention. 
 
 ' ' So the old man has gone ? ' ' 
 
 "He got the notion, and left." 
 
 "Did you know he was going?" 
 
 "No: he wrote Etienne." 
 
 Jean-Pierre's departure, which had to me 
 seemed so extraordinary, appeared to have made 
 
 96
 
 SUSPICION 97 
 
 no stir in the family circle. How easily some 
 seemingly difficult problems solve themselves ! 
 
 "And Benoit, is he here with you?" 
 
 An indiscreet question, perhaps, but I had imag- 
 ined that the absence of both the old people had 
 created a delicate situation, for Maddalena and 
 her brother-in-law, living together under one roof, 
 might now require some reconciling influence or 
 authority. Maddalena had apparently not given 
 the matter a thought. 
 
 "Benoit is up at the chalet with the flocks and 
 cattle." 
 
 "Then who takes up the food? The children, 
 Etienne and Jean-Marie?" 
 
 " No, I do. I 'm used to that. ' ' 
 
 As of course she was. She had done it for 
 years, but that was before she had taken charge 
 of the house. 
 
 "But who manages the house when you aren't 
 here, Maddalena?" 
 
 "Eina she's quite grown up now." 
 
 At this moment a tall, fresh-colored healthy girl 
 of seventeen came in ; when she caught sight of me 
 she blushed, and tried to hide behind her brother 
 Etienne who followed her. 
 
 "How you have grown," I said. "You'll be 
 getting married before long." 
 
 At this her already pink cheeks flushed to a deep 
 crimson. I thought my reference to marriage 
 would please her, but I realized at once that I
 
 98 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 had wounded her feelings. Her father's death 
 was perhaps too recent for her to think of court- 
 ship. I was sorry for having spoken. With 
 these Maurienne peasants you must choose your 
 words as carefully as in the most refined com- 
 pany. Etienne spoke up in order to cover his 
 sister's embarrassment. 
 
 "She has plenty of time," he said, "no need to 
 hurry her." 
 
 Etienne was tall and thin with wide shoulders 
 and a narrow waist; he had sharp features like 
 Jean-Pierre's, his nose a little less hooked and his 
 chin not so pointed. His manner was softer than 
 that of his grandfather, and he had an air of spir- 
 ituality inherited from his grandmother. As often 
 happens where many generations and races live 
 together, this lad had inherited more from his 
 grandparents and ancestors than from his par- 
 ents. I looked at Etienne for some time, this lad 
 who was to be my intimate companion for the 
 next three weeks, and I felt affection for him not 
 unmixed, I declare, with doubt. How in the 
 world could this boy take the place of his om- 
 niscient father a wonderful hunter, a marvelous 
 cook, an inimitable spinner of yarns? I never 
 could hope to replace him I 
 
 "So I'm to take you with me!" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur 1'Avocat." 
 
 "You know something about the chamois?" 
 
 "A little, Monsieur 1'Avocat."
 
 SUSPICION 99 
 
 "You're quite at home in the mountains, 
 though?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. I know the mountains all right." 
 
 The boy was, I knew, better educated than 
 most youths of his age. Not long since, the Cure 
 of Bessans thought he had a vocation and put him 
 into the Seminary at Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne. 
 Though Etienne did well in his studies and 
 learned with the greatest facility, he stopped sud- 
 denly at the end of his second year. He felt the 
 need of mountain air; the Alpine pastures were 
 calling him. The pious Petronille and the super- 
 stitious Maddalena were grieved at Etienne 's de- 
 cision, for both of them had dreamed of seeing 
 him return to them one day a Cure who would 
 give them- his blessing. 
 
 Jean-Marie was in every way different from his 
 brother. He was a stout rosy-cheeked youngster, 
 a glutton who delighted in stuffing himself with 
 soup and potatoes, and already began to resemble 
 his father. He had soon learned tricks of every 
 sort, to know flowers and plants and mushrooms 
 and all the animals, to carve wood, and even to 
 master the first principles of the art of cooking. 
 "Later," I thought to myself as I observed the 
 ceaseless activity of the boy, who paid no more 
 {attention to me than if I had not been there 
 "Later, I'll take him with me. At fourteen he 
 knows more than his learned brother the semi- 
 narist."
 
 100 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 Besides Etienne, I took with me the same four 
 beaters of the year before : Antoine Portaz, Sera- 
 fin Euffin, Michel Burnin, and Anthelme Chabord. 
 On my way up I stopped to pay my respects to the 
 hermit Benoit. As usual, I found him deferential 
 but taciturn. When I spoke of his father his an- 
 swer was like Maddalena's : 
 
 "He got the notion into his head, and left. 
 Everyone is free to do as he likes. There is no 
 use trying to persuade or advise people." 
 
 Etienne and Benoit seemed to be on good terms 
 with each other. Benoit, indeed, appeared to be 
 making some effort to create a more human atti- 
 tude toward Claude's children and seemed anxious 
 to take the place of the dead father. At least, this 
 is how I interpreted the interest inspired in him 
 by Etienne 's visit. Etienne had with him his 
 father's dog Coal. It was remarkable that Benoit, 
 who never showed any affection except for his 
 cows, condescended to pat the little dog; but 
 Coal ran off growling. 
 
 We spent the afternoon settling ourselves at 
 the chalet, which I had rented for the season. 
 The little house is situated at the summit of the 
 neck between the spurs of the Albaron and the 
 Charbonel. As you stand there, there spreads out 
 before you the nearby glaciers, with only a few 
 sprinklings of larch and sloping pastures between 
 you and them. If you turn back in the direction 
 from which you have climbed, up the Valley of
 
 SUSPICION 101 
 
 the Arc, you are faced with the majestic Ridge of 
 La Vanoise the peaks of Le Vallonbrun and 
 Mean-Martin, and the equivocally named Croix- 
 de-Don- Juan-Maurice. 
 
 The first night of each season in the mountains 
 invariably intoxicates me : the solitude, far from 
 petty disputes and human turmoil and from men 
 who weary one and eat into one's life as moths 
 eat into fur; the infinite peace that seems to reach 
 the somber arch of Heaven sprinkled with the sil- 
 ver-dust of innumerable stars ; the silence broken 
 only by the regular rhythm of the stream; the 
 fresh air that caresses the face and enters into 
 the very soul and gives it life ; everything together 
 exalts me like some soul-stirring chant and soothes 
 me like a prayer. My companion felt just as I 
 did, and our sensations found expression in the 
 simple words, "It's good to be here!" But I 
 soon discovered that it was not quite so good as it 
 used to be : Claude was missing, and his son did 
 not exactly fill his place. I don't mean that the 
 food prepared by Serafin was bad; it lacked 
 merely a certain seasoning and variety, but I got 
 used to it; not that the hunting was unsatisfac- 
 torily planned or unsuccessful. On the contrary, 
 I made many a good shot and enjoyed many a fine 
 chase. It was simply that there was something in 
 the air during the first few days I couldn't make 
 out. 
 
 After dinner I joined the beaters in the kitchen
 
 102 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 as I had always done : that was almost the pleas- 
 antest part of the day. I remember so well the 
 huge open fireplace and the flaming logs that 
 lighted up the whole room, though during the in- 
 terminable August twilights there is little need of 
 artificial light. A fresh chamois skin hung on a 
 hook, and the meat lay on a shelf against the 
 wall. "We lighted our pipes and exchanged end- 
 less yarns until bedtime. It was here that the 
 unchanging customs and the whole history of 
 Bessans were revealed to me. What extraordi- 
 nary tales of hunting, in which the chamois in- 
 variably received unstinted praise for his cour- 
 age and strength! There was one story of a 
 buck, wounded by a rifle shot who fell from a 
 height of fifteen meters; the hunters thought 
 he had been killed outright, but they soon caught 
 sight of him running away: he had fallen on his 
 feet and was making off at full speed. And 
 there was that other story of the female chamois 
 with her kid. The kid was hard pressed by the 
 dogs. Protecting her young, she made her way 
 into a rock crevice that was open on one side. 
 Standing in front of the kid she faced her pur- 
 suers, maintaining a magnificent attitude of de- 
 fiance. She stood her ground, receiving two 
 shots without moving; the third killed her, and 
 only when she had fallen, was the kid revealed. 
 Stories of this sort arouse our admiration for
 
 SUSPICION 103 
 
 the game we pursue: they appeal to the hunter's 
 soul. Why should we not respect and admire 
 our enemy? 
 
 And after the stories we would make ready for 
 the next day's hunt. Each one would suggest 
 his plan. When Claude was with us it was dif- 
 ferent: his plan and his alone was always fol- 
 lowed. He knew exactly where to go. The eager 
 faces of the hunters stood clearly revealed by 
 the fire of blazing pine-logs ; they were the faces 
 of men who had worked- hard and dined well. We 
 were united by common interests and a common 
 existence, eating and hunting together in these 
 airy mountains. We understood one another per- 
 fectly and lived in close accord despite occasional 
 jealousies among the men. 
 
 Somehow I felt a foreboding that this cordial 
 relationship was about to end. There were oc- 
 casional pauses during our conversations, and 
 prolonged silences; the men's faces expressed 
 concern, something remained unspoken, something 
 was being held back. What, I asked myself, 
 could be the reason, and I repeated this question 
 day after day. I finally decided that it was the 
 presence of Etienne. 
 
 "This Etienne of yours has the evil eye," Louis 
 de Vimines said to me one day. 
 
 Perhaps he was too young to be associated with 
 us? Our ways of living were possibly not suited
 
 104 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 to a boy of his age. I would watch him carefully; 
 he would soon give me a chance to learn whether 
 that were so. 
 
 One evening I went into the kitchen with Vim- 
 ines and found only two of the men : Serafin, the 
 cook, and Anthelme Chabord. I inquired about 
 the others. 
 
 "The boy took them off," I was told. 
 
 "Where to?" 
 
 "Bonneval." 
 
 "Without my permission? Why, we're going 
 to start off tomorrow at sunrise I I don't like 
 this at all." 
 
 "Well, you see," explained the cook, who was 
 evidently the official spokesman, "you said at sup- 
 per you were going to bed the minute you were 
 through eating. ' ' 
 
 "I was tired then, but I'm not tired now. This 
 is a nice how-d'ye-do!" 
 
 "They didn't expect you'd come in here." 
 
 "And they took advantage of that to run 
 away!" 
 
 "Beg your pardon, sir, it was a bet Etienne 
 made, that they couldn't walk to Bonneval and 
 back in four hours and a half. They'll be here 
 by midnight." 
 
 "Yes, and in fine condition for tomorrow!" 
 
 "They'll be all right. You don't know them!" 
 - "And what's the bet?" 
 
 "Claude Couvert's rifle."
 
 SUSPICION 105 
 
 "What the devil! Why, that's an old Martini I 
 gave him. It's still good. Very foolish of Etienne 
 to part with that weapon it had a wonderful 
 sight!" 
 
 The incident had made me quite angry, and I 
 left the kitchen and went straight to bed. 
 
 Next morning Etienne called me on time as if 
 nothing had happened; as a matter of fact, he 
 seemed brighter and more light-hearted than 
 usual. He threw the shutters wide open and a 
 bright morning sun flooded the room. 
 
 "Well, what about your jaunt to Bonne vail" 
 
 "You know about that, Monsieur 1'Avocat?" 
 
 "Of course. Who won?" 
 
 "They did. We were back by midnight." 
 
 "It was very stupid of you. In the future you 
 will be good enough to remain at your post and 
 not turn this establishment upside down." 
 
 I was soon to learn the real reason for the boy's 
 apparently meaningless adventure. 
 
 r A few days later, as I was scaling a particularly 
 steep rock on the side of the Albaron, on my way 
 to a lookout, Portaz, who was carrying my gun 
 and bag, suddenly stopped and turned to me : 
 
 "Monsieur, I want to go." 
 
 "Go where!" 
 
 "I want to quit." 
 
 "Why, Antoine, you've been one of my steadi- 
 est men since the very first. Let's climb up first 
 and you can tell me all about it up there." But
 
 106 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 the man insisted that he wanted to go. He didn't 
 like the idea of being suspected of murder. 
 
 "Why, my dear fellow, who suspects you?" 
 
 The suspicions harbored by the Judge at Saint- 
 Jean-de-Maurienne immediately occurred to me. 
 
 "It's Etienne. He played a trick on us last 
 night and took us to Bonneval. You know where 
 the road runs along the river between Bar- 
 manere and the bridge well, he showed us the 
 place where his father was strangled. 'You see,' 
 he said, 'Coal knows the place. Coal remembers. 
 Here, Coal ! ' And the dog did begin to howl and 
 jumped into the water. Dogs've got wonderful 
 memories. And then do you know what the boy 
 did? He took his dog by the collar and pushed 
 him up against Michel Burnin, and then me." 
 
 "What did he mean?" 
 
 "He meant that he wanted to find out if the dog 
 remembered me or Michel. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, nonsense!" 
 
 "It's the truth I'm telling you, and this very 
 morning he's trying to play the same trick on 
 Serafin Euffin and Anthelme Chabord. He can 
 keep his father's rifle and go to hell for all of 
 me! I'm not used to keeping company with de- 
 tectives! I won't stand any more tricks like 
 that!" 
 
 I did my best to quiet him and promised to 
 straighten out the matter. 
 
 So this was why our evenings had been spoiled!
 
 SUSPICION 107 
 
 Some obscure instinct had told us that we were 
 all under suspicion and constant surveillance. 
 Old Jean-Pierre had warned me that " these no- 
 tions" were not good for Etienne, that his "shoul- 
 ders weren't broad enough." He was like a puppy 
 that has not learned to hunt, and in his desire 
 to avenge his father he followed every false scent. 
 He had doubtless imagined that the murderer 
 the chamois. Who, he thought, could have known 
 knew Claude Convert had gone to Bonneval to sell 
 this except the men he was living with and who 
 were naturally jealous of him? And he had 
 counted on the dog. Coal would without doubt 
 recognize the murderer if he could be brought to 
 the scene of the crime. That is why Etienne had 
 made his companions submit to the ordeal. 
 
 I hadn't brought Etienne with me to have him 
 play pranks of this sort, and when we returned 
 from the hunt I planned to see him alone. The 
 moment he was with me I took the initiative be- 
 fore he had a chance to speak: 
 
 "So this is the way you abuse my hospitality!" 
 "My father was murdered, you know!" 
 "That is by no means certain. Your grand- 
 father didn't think so. I'll be glad to talk over 
 the whole matter with you, but in any case you 
 have shown a lack of confidence in me. You think 
 you are cleverer than those who have investigated 
 your father's death. You have taken it into your 
 head to suspect and spy upon honest men ; other
 
 108 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 people have had the same notion, those who had a 
 better right than you, a wider experience and bet- 
 ter evidence. They have admitted that they were 
 mistaken, I would gladly have told you this if 
 you had asked me.*' 
 
 In all this he seemed to catch only my allusion 
 to the investigations. 
 
 "Others? Who? Tell me, Monsieur PAvocat." 
 
 "Why, the Judge at Saint- Jean-de-Maurienne." 
 
 I briefly summed up my conversation with the 
 
 Judge and repeated the evidence I had given 
 
 proving the innocence of my men; the terrific 
 
 storm the night of the murder, the fact that the 
 
 men's clothes were dry the next morning, and 
 
 the conclusive fact that they had no change of 
 
 clothing. 
 
 "That's true," agreed Etienne. "They would 
 have been soaked going down to Bonneval." 
 
 I had succeeded in reassuring him, but the mo- 
 ment I had finished, an extraordinary thing oc- 
 curred to me: I had never thought of it before. 
 When I had gone to Benoit's chalet to inquire 
 about Claude, which took me not over fifteen min- 
 utes, I had found Benoit half naked, drying his 
 clothes in the morning sun. He must, therefore, 
 have gone out during the storm: to look for his 
 cows, he had said. It is impossible to control the 
 notions that come into one's head: You either 
 accept or reject them. In this instance, however, 
 I was unable to do either. Why, the notion was
 
 SUSPICION 109 
 
 fantastic, terrible. Benoit and Claude, though 
 they were somewhat incompatible, got along very 
 well together. I had no right, without the least 
 tangible evidence, to suspect even for a moment 
 that there could have existed between them a ha- 
 tred great enough to account for or give a motive 
 to, murder. I blamed myself for allowing the 
 idea to pass through my mind, and resolutely cast 
 it aside. But I could not wholly forget it, for one 
 little detail (quite easily explicable, no doubt) 
 would persist in my mind. Maddalena had come 
 up to the chalet the evening before, but was unable 
 to leave on account of the storm. Benoit had told 
 me this himself. He had not dared let her go on 
 such a night. 
 
 My imagination was running away with me. 
 Could it be that my frequent sojourns in the 
 Maurienne had unbalanced me? Was I too fall- 
 ing under the magic and sorcery of the region? 
 
 After a long pause I noticed a rapt expression 
 on the face of my companion. He too had been 
 following my course of thought. 
 
 "So you are quite convinced now?" I said. 
 
 "Yes, but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "The dog didn't bark. He must have known 
 the murderer. They were my father's comrades 
 and it seemed natural " 
 
 "Oh, let your father's comrades be! They 
 never wished him harm. And besides, who told
 
 110 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 you the dog didn't bark? He couldn't have been 
 heard because of the roaring of the river, and re- 
 member, it happened at night while the people at 
 Barmanere were fast asleep. They're heavy 
 sleepers. In all likelihood it was not murder : the 
 court is practically certain of that." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 I explained in great detail everything his grand- 
 father had told me, passing on the information 
 with all the dignity and eloquence of a lawyer 
 reading a will. But Etienne became actually vio- 
 lent as he protested against this interpretation of 
 the mystery. 
 
 "The old man (his grandfather) was willing to 
 forgive the murderer because he was going into a 
 monastery. You've got to do things like that 
 When you have a vocation. But the murdered man 
 was my father, remember that." 
 
 By this he meant, of course, that it was his 
 business to avenge the murder. I questioned him 
 further urging that even under such extraordi- 
 nary circumstances no son had any right to accuse 
 people almost at random. I told him he must not 
 let his imagination run away with him. I knew 
 him for an intelligent and level-headed boy and 
 during our long conversation I even explained the 
 theory of Joseph de Maistre on the temporal pun- 
 ishment of crimes and the unexpected events 
 which in the end reveal the criminal. He listened
 
 SUSPICION 111 
 
 attentively, and I was so sure of my success that I 
 even joked with him: 
 
 "And what about me, Etienne, have you sus- 
 pected me?" 
 
 "No, not you." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 His answer was, to say the least, a crushing 
 one, and decidedly unflattering to me. 
 
 "You're not strong enough: you couldn't have 
 strangled my father." 
 
 "So that's the only reason!" 
 
 "You were his friend, and you had no motive 
 for killing him. ' ' 
 
 He had spoken these words with the utter 
 frankness of youth ; he was incapable of the slight- 
 est hypocrisy. I now understood to what an ex- 
 tent the "business about his father" had "got 
 him," according to the picturesque expression of 
 Jean-Pierre, Etienne in his turn had followed 
 every clue, starting invariably from the same 
 point: the murderer must have known of Claude's 
 trip to Bonneval and the dog must on that occa- 
 sion have recognized him, otherwise he would 
 have warned his master of the approach of a 
 stranger. It was now my business to restrain 
 this youthful ardor at any cost or the boy might 
 go about accusing everyone. I therefore took 
 advantage of the confidence I had inspired to ex- 
 tract a promise from him:
 
 112 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 "When you have any suspicions, come and tell 
 me. We'll investigate together. I've been your 
 grandfather's lawyer, and your father's, so why 
 not let me be yours?" 
 
 "All right. I promise." 
 
 He smiled, a thing he rarely did. It was a relief 
 to have someone share his secret with him. When 
 we returned to the others his expression was 
 normal and he said no more to Kuffin and Chabord 
 about taking them down to the river. 
 
 I imagined now that peace had returned to the 
 chalet, when suddenly I came near ruining every- 
 thing myself. As I was going to bed one night 
 my friend Vimines had already turned in I 
 noticed that I had no cartridges. A disconcerting 
 discovery for a hunter. Maddalena must have 
 received the new supply that had been sent me 
 and left them at Benoit's chalet, having no doubt 
 been unable to bring them up to me. Should I 
 go for them myself? My beaters were fast asleep, 
 worn out by the long day's hunt on the heights 
 and in the valleys. I couldn't think of disturbing 
 them so I set out myself. The moon, which had 
 scarcely begun to wane, shed a light almost as 
 strong as the sun at dawn. I could see the long 
 stretches of the Valley, the trees, and even sepa- 
 rate clumps of bushes. The beds of snow and the 
 great glaciers, caressed by the soft white light, 
 sparkled as if animated by a spiritual life. Who 
 has dared think of the mountains as the abode of
 
 SUSPICION 113 
 
 death? It is in the mountains that supernal life 
 springs from the very roots of nature. Are not 
 the mountains the vast reservoir of the earth? Is 
 it not they that send down nourishing and benefi- 
 cent waters to a world of men? As I went down 
 the path I was reminded of what the Ancients 
 had written of the night and inevitably the tacitae 
 per arnica silentia lunae of Vergil came to my lips. 
 
 It was familiar with the internal arrangement 
 of Benoit's hut: downstairs were the kitchen and 
 a furnished room, just over the hay-loft. Even 
 at that time cowherds enjoyed the luxury of a 
 bed As I put my hand on the latch I saw that 
 the door had not been locked. It is not necessary 
 to lock doors at night in this part of the country. 
 I went into the kitchen; I should only have to 
 knock at Benoit's door and tell him of my pre- 
 dicament. He would then tell me where to find 
 the cartridges and I would return. This was the 
 simplest thing to do, and surely the most natural. 
 I executed my little plan step by step. I knocked 
 twice on the wall and hearing nothing I opened 
 the bedroom door. I had no hesitation, so sure 
 was I that I would not be intruding. Besides, I 
 deemed that our neighborly relations had given 
 me this right. 
 
 Through the half-open door I saw distinctly in 
 the bright moonlight that came in through the 
 curtainless window two heads on the bolster: 
 Benoit's and Maddalena's, the long black tresses
 
 114 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 of the woman lying in disorder about her shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 "Who's there?" cried Benoit in a sleepy voice. 
 
 I had already shut the door and started to go. 
 I wanted to escape that was my one instinctive 
 desire. I was afraid, afraid of the monstrous 
 secret I had unwittingly discovered. I had up 
 to that moment not dreamed of the possibility of 
 a thing like that. How in Heaven's name could I 
 so much as suspect this relationship ? These two 
 had never been other than indifferent toward 
 each other; they were even hostile. Had I the 
 right to suspect? Claude was dead, and his death 
 had broken the fraternal bonds that had, against 
 their wills (I had seen this with my own eyes) 
 constrained Benoit and Maddalena to live to- 
 gether on terms of at least apparent friendliness. 
 After Claude's death Benoit might easily have 
 married his sister-in-law had he wished. This 
 sort of thing is often done for the purpose of 
 simplifying the management of the property and 
 for the sake of the children. Even if he had made 
 her his mistress he would in no way have been 
 wronging his dead brother. True, but for how 
 long had Maddalena been his mistress? Perhaps 
 she had been in his arms on that stormy night 
 she remained at the chalet, the night of the mur- 
 der? I could not forget the picture of those two 
 heads on the bolster. 
 
 Old Petronille had known. That was the ex-
 
 SUSPICION 115 
 
 planation of her last effort to join their hands: 
 it was her desire that they should legalize their 
 guilty love through the sacred ceremony of mar- 
 riage. But if she had forgiven them and wished 
 them to marry then obviously their relations had 
 at that time not been actually "criminal." She 
 would never have countenanced that ! 
 
 And old Jean-Pierre had known. That was why 
 he went off, filled with speechless disgust, to seek 
 a living death in the cellars at Hautecombe. He, 
 the head of the family, would have turned the sin- 
 ners out of his house if he had suspected their 
 having betrayed Claude while he was alive. No, 
 I had no right to suspect the couple of criminal 
 behavior in the past. Their affair had not begun 
 until after Claude's death. It was bad enough 
 at best. But perhaps Etienne had made this dis- 
 covery, or suspected some -part of the truth? 
 
 I made my way rapidly back to my chalet, oc- 
 cupied with these thoughts and determined to tell 
 no one what I had seen. 
 
 Early next morning, just before we set out, 
 Benoit brought me the cartridges. 
 
 "Maddalena left these for you. She didn't 
 have time to bring them all the way up. She 
 had to go down again." 
 
 Though I had asked no questions he went to 
 great trouble to establish an alibi. By his inquisi- 
 tive expression I saw that he was trying to iden- 
 tify his nocturnal visitor; he was not altogether
 
 116 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 reassured until he saw Etienne come up to him 
 and behave in a natural and unconcerned 
 manner. As Benoit turned to go, I called him 
 back and, looking him straight in the eye, said: 
 
 "By the way, Benoit, I advise you to turn the 
 key in your lock." 
 
 He showed some confusion but remained master 
 of himself as I added: 
 
 "If I were you I would keep an eye on Etienne 
 er why don't you marry Maddalena?" 
 
 Far from taking offence, he seemed grateful. 
 
 "I've asked her to marry me, but she doesn't 
 want to." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because of the children." 
 
 "I should think that was a reason for marrying. 
 It would regularize the situation " 
 
 "Maybe. Maybe it would " 
 
 Then he stalked off to look after his cows. Was 
 my advice sound? I was, as a matter of fact, 
 afraid of Etienne 's investigations, as much for 
 his sake as for that of the fickle Maddalena, whose 
 fidelity to the memory of her murdered husband 
 had lasted so short a time. Their affair may 
 even have antedated Petronille's death; it cer- 
 tainly explained the dying woman's actions. 
 
 On leaving the Maurienne after the close of the 
 season and returning to Chambery I had reason 
 to hope that Etienne would quietly accept the 
 mystery of his father's death. Had I succeeded
 
 SUSPICION 117 
 
 in convincing him that it was an accident, and not 
 murder, and consequently carried out the almost 
 testamentary last wishes of Jean-Pierre? In talk- 
 ing with the boy I had always started with that 
 hypothesis. But what if the lad should discover 
 the relationship between his mother and Benott? 
 This worried me, and the Couvert house from that 
 time on became a house of mystery, the scene of 
 a portentous drama.
 
 CHAPTEE VI 
 
 THE CHAMOIS' BEVENGE 
 
 WHEN I returned to Bessans the next season 
 two years after the murder there was no visible 
 change in the house, but I unconsciously looked 
 for phantoms. Like dogs, whose instinct is guided 
 by a thousand indications in their pursuit of game, 
 we human beings are sometimes mysteriously 
 guided in our relations with our fellow men, and 
 unknowingly discover the deepest-hidden spir- 
 itual phenomena. Yet what can we actually do 
 without self-evident proofs? The novelist has 
 recourse to the facile expedient of looking into 
 the minds of his characters : he is able to reveal 
 to us their inmost thoughts. But how does he 
 know? Where did he learn those thoughts? We 
 ordinary beings, deprived of the infinite resources 
 of the writer of fiction, are necessarily confined 
 to an interpretation of the facts and a record of 
 spoken words. In this particular family tragedy 
 words have been of practically no use to me. I 
 have had to read faces, observe attitudes, trans- 
 late and explain silences. 
 
 Benoit and Maddalena had not accepted my 
 advice : they continued to live together as before, 
 just as they had resisted the solemn wordless ob- 
 
 118
 
 THE CHAMOIS' REVENGE 119 
 
 jurgation of Petronille. I attributed this obsti- 
 nacy to the superstitious character of the Italian. 
 Possibly she believed that in remaining Benoit's 
 mistress she was doing less violence to Claude's 
 memory than in re-marrying; or perhaps she 
 feared Etienne's resentment. She treated her 
 son with marked respect, either because she had 
 once seen in him a potential priest, or because she 
 feared his ever-watchful eyes and keen quick 
 judgment. Later on I learned the real reason for 
 the poor creature's refusal. 
 
 I wondered whether she would be able to keep 
 their secret at home. Their life in common was 
 after all a promiscuous affair ; could such a liaison 
 be effectively hidden? Well, it had been hidden 
 from me for a long time, and revealed only by 
 sheer accident. But was it an accident? Per- 
 haps we are wrong in using that word to account 
 for those unexpected circumstances, those fatal 
 chances which, according to Joseph de Maistre, 
 reveal criminals. Might not the same accident 
 have happened in the case of Etienne? For 
 Etienne knew. I can't explain how or why, but 
 of this I was positive. The year before I had left 
 him in a state of tranquillity and confidence; on 
 my return I found him preoccupied, irritable, sus- 
 picious. All the ground I had won was lost, and 
 I should have to begin all over again if I intended 
 to keep my promise to Jean-Pierre. Etienne 
 must have known, otherwise why this complete
 
 120 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 change? How else explain his avoidance not of 
 his uncle Benoit (he never had much to do with 
 him) but of his mother? Something had occurred 
 between mother and son, something so portentous 
 as to render any explanation between them im- 
 possible. 
 
 I spent one day at Bessans and then went on up 
 to my chalet. Michel Burnin was laid up with 
 rheumatism and I lacked one beater. To my great 
 surprise, Benoit offered to take Michel's place. 
 "What about your cattle, Benoit!" 
 "Rina and Jean-Marie will look after them." 
 I was tempted to refuse. I didn't like the idea 
 of having nephew- and uncle together with me. 
 The good fellowship and friendliness of my little 
 community would doubtless be troubled, as it had 
 been last season- before I had come to an under- 
 standing with Etienne. But I accepted his offer. 
 There is in us all, an instinct of curiosity, a desire 1 
 to know, to see pass before us the spectacle of 
 human drama, that is almost irresistible. Some- 
 times, perhaps, we think we can prevent its con- 
 summation, though we may secretly not wish to, 
 preferring rather to stand by and learn what will 
 happen next. So far as I was concerned, it was 
 my intention to carry out in this fashion my prom- 
 ise to Jean-Pierre. I would watch Etienne as 
 he spied on Benoit. 
 
 Benoit was, as always, the same quiet, impassi- 
 ble, self-sufficing man, even though he realized he
 
 THE CHAMOIS' REVENGE 
 
 was the object of a determined siege: he kept 
 watch over his preserves, knowing well that no 
 one could advance beyond the ramparts he had 
 thrown up about him. He was especially good 
 at hunting and this seemed to me the more ex- 
 traordinary as he had had no occasion to make 
 use of his skill during the course of his every-day 
 existence as cowherd and cheese-maker. 
 
 One day he was making his way down a steep 
 declivity, quickly and skillfully, planting his heels 
 in the loose earth and carrying a forty-kilo buck 
 on his shoulders. He came down over the slope 
 with Etienne and when I was within hailing dis- 
 stance I gave way to my admiration: 
 
 "Good work, Benoit! Why, you're stronger 
 even that your brother Claude." 
 
 When I lifted the animal I realized that my 
 praise was by no means excessive. 
 
 "That was a good shot of yours," he muttered 
 between his teeth without looking at me. He then 
 bent over the chamois. 
 
 I had turned to Etienne. 
 
 "The last time I saw your father he had a 
 chamois over his shoulders. I remember seeing 
 him as he walked down the mountain with the 
 chamois ' head showing above his own. He looked 
 for all the world like Bacchus crowned with vine- 
 leaves." 
 
 The moment I had spoken I realized my com- 
 parison was scarcely tactful, but the ex-seminarist
 
 122 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 was not enough, of a classicist to understand the 
 last allusion. I beat a hasty retreat and turned 
 to Benoit. 
 
 "You remember. You must have seen him, on 
 his way down to Bonneval?" 
 
 "I? No!" Benoit was intent on the chamois, 
 his eyes fixed on the animal's hide. 
 
 Maddalena continued as before to bring up sup- 
 plies to our chalet, and to Bina and Jean-Marie 
 at theirs. At my chalet she of course saw Etienne 
 and her brother-in-law. I dare not say "her 
 lover," for there was nothing in their behavior 
 to arouse the least suspicion in the minds of my 
 beaters. 
 
 It was Benoit 's business to do errands down 
 in the Valley. One night he disappeared and 
 next morning he was not on hand for the hunt. 
 I could imagine the reason for his absence: he 
 was forty-five and a victim of the flesh, just as 
 Etienne was a victim of the mental torture of 
 suspicion. 
 
 Maddalena, I observed, was meantime failing: 
 her face had turned the color of parchment. She 
 came all the way up to the chalet occasionally, es- 
 corted by the daughter of Serafin Euffin, our cook. 
 She was a pretty girl, that child, not the usual 
 brunette type of the district for she had lovely 
 auburn hair the incarnation of youth, brightness, 
 happiness. What more natural than that she 
 should pay an occasional visit to her father?
 
 THE CHAMOIS' REVENGE 123 
 
 She captivated us all. She wore pretty clothes 
 and loved flowers. She would appear on the scene 
 with a charming black tulle head-dress, from 
 which hung a pink or cerise ribbon floating out 
 behind her as she walked. She would play in 
 the fields and pick white chrysanthemums and 
 violet asters which she made into great bouquets 
 for our chalet, saving out enough to put in her 
 waist or hair. I soon discovered that all these 
 mano3uvres were directed at one of our number 
 and one alone : at Etienne. Etienne, the youngest 
 of us was thus favored, but though he was polite 
 to the girl, he was not in the least aware that he 
 was the object of her attentions. But women 
 are naturally more intuitive, and Maddalena 
 promptly realized the girl's feelings. One day 
 she came to me and pointing to Etienne and 
 Melanie, said: 
 
 ''They ought to marry." 
 
 "Your boy is still very young." 
 
 "He's going on nineteen." 
 
 "But what about his vocation? His studies at 
 the Seminary?" 
 
 "He's forgotten all about that. Yo'-i speak to 
 him about the girl, Monsieur 1'Avocat. He'll lis- 
 ten to you." 
 
 This was not unreasonable, and I had only to 
 look at Melanie to agree to the proposal. And 
 yet why should it shock me simply because it 
 had come from Maddalena? It was of course she
 
 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 who had induced Melanie to come up with her. She 
 had brought the girl in order to divert Etienne 's 
 attention ; she knew that the boy suspected. This 
 much I could divine from her hypocritical words. 
 
 On the other hand, had not Jean-Pierre made 
 a like request in asking me to look after Etienne ? 
 Was it not my duty to see that the boy should 
 enjoy his youth, which he now seemed to have 
 forgotten? For the boy's sake ought I not to 
 act on Maddalena's suggestion? Ought I not, 
 so far as I could, to do my best to avoid an im- 
 minent catastrophe? 
 
 "But what about you?" I said suddenly to 
 Claude 's widow. 1 1 Why don 't you marry again ? ' ' 
 
 She was struck dumb. I saw at once that 
 Benoit had not told her of my visit the year 
 before. 
 
 "At my age?" she murmured. 
 
 "You're not old, Maddalena, and you don't 
 have to look far for a husband." 
 
 She hung her head like a naughty child. Maybe 
 it was embarrassment, and not a sense of guilt? 
 I did not care to press the point and therefore 
 promised to speak to Etienne. I liked little 
 Melanie and I admired the disdainful (or hard- 
 hearted) Etienne. She had that clear-cut medal- 
 lion-like profile so often found in Bessans, a 
 heritage, it is said, of the long Saracen occupa- 
 tion, for it is seen nowhere else in Savoy. She 
 was saddened by the pathetic failure of her pretty
 
 THE CHAMOIS' REVENGE 125 
 
 advances, and a tinge of melancholy lent to her 
 features an inexplicable quiet charm not unlike 
 the refrains in certain songs that linger long on 
 the final notes. 
 
 It was not necessary for me to intervene. What 
 purpose could my intervention have served? I 
 really can't say. 
 
 An incident occurred one day when we were 
 hunting, the extraordinary importance of which 
 quite escaped me at the time. This incident, which 
 I shall relate in some detail, was to result in 
 Etienne's embarking upon an entirely new ven- 
 ture, infinitely more dangerous and tragic than 
 that of his efforts to discover his father's mur- 
 derer. 
 
 I started out with a light heart. It was a 
 beautiful day, cloudless and crystal clear. I 
 found a good hiding-place, just where the rocky 
 cliff of the mountain rises up in a sheer mass 
 before dipping down on the other side into the 
 Valley. I took my position on a small level 
 stretch of earth, flanked on one side by a pyra- 
 mid of stone. A herd of chamois, frightened by 
 the cries of the beaters, scampered out from be- 
 hind the alder bushes and made for the heights. 
 
 A moment before, not twenty paces away, I 
 had caught sight of a single chamois silhouetted 
 against the ridge. He could not see me because 
 of the rocks between us, and the wind carried 
 my scent in the opposite direction. My loaded
 
 126 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 rifle was on the grass at my side. Without a 
 moment's hesitation I snatched it up and took 
 aim. The animal was at my mercy. And yet I 
 could not make up my mind to shoot. A feeling 
 of respect and, I might almost say, admiration, 
 had quite taken possession of me. 
 
 I had often observed, through my field-glasses, 
 the charming antics of these animals on the snow, 
 their mad pranks and extraordinary quadrilles. 
 I had marvelled at the strength and agility with 
 which they scaled vertical walls of rock ; the rigid- 
 ity of their hoofs that gripped the narrowest pro- 
 jection like spurs of steel; and their vertiginous 
 descents into the deepest chasms But this lone 
 chamois, standing so close to me, indifferent and 
 unafraid, revealed to me a new aspect of the 
 animal. In repose, I was able to study his pro- 
 portions and the loveliness of his lines. This one 
 was of medium size though, standing as he did 
 upon his four black hoofs, he gave me an impres- 
 sion of sculptural solidity on a large scale. His 
 summer coat was tawny, merging into red, with a 
 belt of white round the belly. I could clearly 
 distinguish the heaving of his flanks as he stood 
 inhaling the clear air or lowering his head to 
 nibble a tuft of grass. The horns, black as ebony 
 and curling backward forming a kind of hook, 
 gave the head a proud look, as a high head-dress 
 puts the finishing touch to a woman's face. As 
 he had nothing to fear, his ears lay back negli-
 
 THE CHAMOIS' REVENGE 127 
 
 gently and his nostrils sniffed the soft wind. 
 Occasionally his black eyes would fasten on wood- 
 cutters working at the edge of the forest in the 
 valley far below. This sight was not unfamiliar 
 to him, and gave him no cause for alarm. Domi- 
 nating this magnificent panorama he seemed to 
 consider the rock a pedestal for him and him 
 alone. When he walked he was like a lord sur- 
 veying his domain. I continued to gaze at him 
 and I endowed him with a soul: he had lost his 
 identity as a mere animal, and become a sort of 
 intangible divinity. So long as he remained 
 where he was I knew I could never bring myself 
 to kill him. I would as soon have shot a man or 
 desecrated the statue of a god. 
 
 Then the wind shifted. At once his ears shot 
 forward, his nostrils distended, there was terror 
 in his beautiful black eyes, and from his throat 
 came a heavy and prolonged hissing sound. I 
 had ample time to observe each of these phe- 
 nomena. But what followed I could not clearly 
 see : that phantom leaped so swiftly that I felt the 
 wind of it against my cheek. In an instant the 
 chamois had become my enemy. I put my rifle 
 to my shoulder and aiming almost at random, 
 pulled the trigger. The animal disappeared be- 
 hind the rock; I was afraid I had missed him. A 
 moment after he reappeared on an ice-field and 
 scampered away full speed over the shining snow. 
 But he was using only three feet: the right fore-
 
 128 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 front, broken at the joint turned like a mill-wheel. 
 I exhausted in quick succession all my cartridges 
 but failed to make another hit. Wounded as he 
 was, he cleared an especially difficult precipice. 
 I could not leave the wounded animal in that state, 
 and the chase began in deadly earnest. 
 
 By a clever manoeuvre, Vimines and I were 
 able to take possession of the heights above, 
 whence we would force the chamois down to the 
 beaters who were ready for him. He did what 
 we expected him to do and passed within range 
 of Pierre Laval, but Laval, who was lying in wait, 
 shot and missed. Though the animal showed the 
 most remarkable signs of vitality, we all knew 
 that he could not, after the loss of so much blood, 
 prolong his resistance indefinitely. He had dis- 
 appeared from our view and we could only sur- 
 mise where he had hidden. We were grouped 
 together against the mass of rock, and there 
 through our glasses we examined each rocky ledge 
 and clump of bushes that might possibly harbor 
 the chamois. The wall behind us consisted of a 
 series of stone ledges with here and there a 
 stretch of grass and clumps of junipers. One of 
 us caught sight of the chamois high above us, 
 standing on a slight projection, a foreshortened 
 silhouette against the bright sky. His horns 
 seemed to hang out into the azure vaulting; his 
 neck, craned forward, betrayed terror. For some 
 time he scanned the horizon and then, no doubt
 
 THE CHAMOIS' REVENGE 129 
 
 worn out, he lay down. But the neck was still 
 arched, the eyes watchful. Had it not been for 
 this we would have concluded that he had lain 
 down to die. 
 
 "He'll never get up again," said the least ex- 
 perienced member of the party. But the others 
 knew that a chamois will rise and face his enemy 
 up to the very end. 
 
 I had once seen a buck with both forelegs broken 
 actually rise and face his pursuers. There is no 
 braver or hardier animal. 
 
 Benoit, who had been handed a rifle, scaled the 
 wall. He, too, was silhouetted high above us as 
 he approached his prey. As yet the animal had 
 not caught sight of the man. 
 
 We were mute witnesses of a tense drama: a 
 murderer and his victim were on the stage before 
 us. A moment later we were able to show Benoit 
 by means of signs the place where the chamois 
 had lain down. He must at any cost put an end to 
 the beast's misery. His approach was made with 
 the greatest caution, but the chamois had scented 
 danger, and the next instant he sprang to his feet. 
 He stood over the edge of the precipice and peered 
 down. At the same moment we heard the crack 
 of Benoit 's rifle and saw the chamois lunge into 
 the abyss. This time, surely, he was done for! 
 He had jumped just in time to miss the shot, and 
 landed safely on another rock; but the next shot 
 was effective, and he fell. And once again he
 
 130 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 rose up, standing not on three feet but on two, 
 and succeeded in dragging himself behind some 
 bushes. 
 
 The gathering dusk and the protecting bushes 
 were in the animal's favor. The chase had lasted 
 all day and our search was fruitless. Night had 
 come and all the subtle and malignant sorcery of 
 the mountain combined to save the chamois. We 
 were reluctantly forced to postpone the last act 
 of this tragedy until dawn. 
 
 Next morning at the first signs of gray on the 
 horizon I set out with Benoit and Etienne to find 
 the animal. He had gone. He had made heroic 
 efforts and been able to gain the upper gorge of 
 a cascade not far off, where he had sought to 
 bathe his wounds with the fresh water of melted 
 snows. When we came upon him he was lying 
 down, his neck, as before, arched in an attitude 
 of alarmed vigilance. The moment he caught 
 sight of us he actually stood up and faced us, 
 calmly watching our approach. His nostrils quiv- 
 ered, but he made no sound. During our pursuit 
 the day before he had cried out to warn his com- 
 rades of danger but in the presence of death he 
 maintained a disdainful silence. His soft black 
 eyes were riveted on us in an expression of almost 
 human anguish. He was ready to accept his 
 fate, but he would not surrender. I read in that 
 expression his regret for tranquil lakes and un- 
 trod fields, the wind from off the glacier, the
 
 THE CHAMOIS' REVENGE 131 
 
 delicate scented pasture, the infinite peace of the 
 mountain of all of which man had at last come to 
 rob him. This I imagined at the time, but actually 
 there was no regret for the past, only defiance and 
 rage and a challenge to battle. 
 
 He would not give up. When the exasperated 
 Benoit came near he made ready to charge. 
 Benoit took firm hold of his horns, but the animal 
 was the stronger. In the pink dawn, by the side 
 of that rose-tinted cascade, they were like a faun 
 and a goat performing a festive dance in honor of 
 Bacchus. Finally, to make an end of the ghastly 
 business, the man put his powerful hands round 
 the animal 's neck and choked him. The chamois 
 fell heavily. To his dying gasp he stood his 
 ground. 
 
 I had followed every step of the struggle with 
 the greatest admiration and interest. I could not 
 help endowing the victim with a human soul, and 
 I could not rid myself of the notion that his suffer- 
 ing was likewise human. I felt almost as if I had 
 been an accomplice in the murder, and as I bent 
 over the carcass I felt a need to confess having 
 committed a barbaric atrocity. Turning to Etienne 
 to tell him of my hypocritical regrets I was sur- 
 prised, and then terrified, by the change in his 
 expression. His eyes were those of one who has 
 been hypnotized. They were riveted upon his 
 uncle Benoit who, smiling strangely, was calcu- 
 lating the weight and value of the chamois. As
 
 182 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 if by some telepathic flash I could read the boy's 
 mind, feel the throbbing of his heart, and divine 
 the anguish that had taken possession of him. 
 The masterly way in which Benoit had seized and 
 strangled the chamois had brutally called up the 
 picture of his father's murder. Claude had met 
 his death in the very same manner! 
 
 And by the same hand! This is what flashed 
 through our minds, without reason and without 
 proof ; it had come to us in a picture. When the 
 boy's excitement momentarily subsided he turned 
 to me and saw that I was watching him intently. 
 I am positive he realized that I had surprised his 
 secret. But he said nothing, and by degrees re- 
 assumed his normal manner. 
 
 Benoit suspected nothing of this mute drama: 
 he was busy with the chamois. He took an ob- 
 vious pleasure in taking out the entrails and filling 
 the carcass with preservative nettles. This done, 
 he bound the feet together and slung the chamois 
 over his shoulders. The blood trickled down his 
 neck and over his hands. 
 
 We followed Benoit in silence. In front of the 
 chalet, now reflecting the glory of the newly risen 
 sun, were gathered our companions, ready to cele^ 
 brate our dishonorable victory. The mule was 
 there, too, though no one had thought of unload- 
 ing his pack. We could see fruits and the de- 
 licious brown crusts of bread in the half-open 
 panniers. Maddalena greeted us gleefully, or
 
 THE CHAMOIS' REVENGE 133 
 
 rather Benoit, her man. And little Melanie, her 
 cheeks fresh as ever, her bright ribbon floating 
 in the wind, tried her best to catch Etienne's eye. 
 But the boy paid no attention to her. 
 
 I was no longer in the world of actuality; the 
 scene was that in which the ghost of the poisoned 
 king appears to Hamlet at Elsinore. Why, the 
 play-scene had just been enacted, and a dumb 
 animal, strangely mixed up in the troupe, played 
 his part with the murderer. Was this Ophelia 
 before me, with her garland of flowers, doomed 
 to sorrow and despair? Were this infamous 
 couple the usurper Claudius and his accomplice 
 Gertrude f And was Hamlet now about to wreak 
 vengeance upon his incestuous mother and fratri- 
 cide uncle ? 
 
 I did my best to dispel this hideous invasion 
 of ghosts, for I had no intention of giving in to 
 an absurd hallucination, the result no doubt of my 
 having read too many old books! Was I not in 
 the mountains, in the company of faithful friends, 
 with the members of the Convert family whom I 
 had always known as peaceable home-loving folk? 
 
 I burst out laughing. The others must have 
 thought I was expressing satisfaction over the 
 morning's hunt. A damnable hunt it was, in which 
 the chamois, struggling up to the very moment of 
 his death, had at last revealed the identity of 
 Claude's murderer.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AN ETHICAL, PBOBLEM 
 
 THAT afternoon we set out on a relatively short 
 chase, in pursuit of a stray chamois that was 
 not far off in the underbrush. I took my place 
 at a post from which I could see nothing of the 
 hunt, for I was determined to set my thoughts in 
 order. 
 
 In spite of myself these persisted in focussing 
 upon one point : there was no longer a doubt that 
 the intimacy of Benoit and Maddalena antedated 
 the murder. Claude had himself told me as much 
 the day I had said to him, " Don't come back till 
 morning. Sleep at Bessans. Your wife will be 
 glad," and he had replied, "Oh, my wife!" I 
 could not forget the intonation of his voice. Until 
 then he had always treated her with affectionate 
 familiarity, teasing and joking with her and mak- 
 ing fun of her pious pilgrimages. Then came 
 this sudden change : he had suspected something. 
 
 On the night of the murder Benoit surely knew 
 of his brother's trip down the mountain, as the 
 latter must have passed in front of the lower 
 chalet. And, a more significant point : Maddalena 
 must have met her husband on the way up. "What 
 
 134
 
 AN ETHICAL PROBLEM 135 
 
 can have passed between them? They must have 
 separated on unfriendly terms, as he had not 
 asked to borrow the mule to carry the animal, 
 preferring to hire another at Bessans. "Was there 
 a quarrel or some sort of misunderstanding 1 ? Can 
 he have hinted at her relations with Benoit? 
 Might she afterward have gone straight to her 
 lover with news of the quarrel? Perhaps, and 
 Benoit, fearing the consequences of Jean-Pierre 's 
 wrath, not to mention Claude's, may have de- 
 termined to do away with his brother, and gone 
 about it immediately. 
 
 I pictured him setting forth in the storm, leav- 
 ing Maddalena alone in the chalet his accom- 
 plice, knowing what the night was about to bring 
 forth. Benoit finds a suitable hiding-place be- 
 hind the bushes by the roadside, where it runs 
 parallel with the stream, between Barmanere and 
 the Bonneval bridge. There he lies in wait. He 
 will be able to see by the light of Claude's lantern ; 
 he must have one, for you cannot otherwise travel 
 by night with a mule. The dark night and the 
 heavy rain are in his favor : no one is likely to be 
 outdoors, the roads are deserted. He sees the 
 lantern approach; the dog, trotting on ahead, 
 sniffs Benoit but knows him, and naturally does 
 not bark a warning to his master. His master? 
 Is not the whole family his master? He knows 
 Benoit almost as well as he does Claude. Why 
 should he bark? Benoit allows the mule to pass
 
 136 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 on, and the man after him. Then, at a bound, he 
 pounces on Claude from behind, snatches his 
 lantern, throws it away, and bringing into play 
 that marvelous co-ordinated strangle-hold he used 
 on the chamois, chokes his victim, who is of 
 course unable to make a sound. The body he 
 then throws into the stream. 
 
 The whole thing is over in a few seconds. 
 
 The doctor who examined the wounds on the 
 dead man's neck was positive that only a very 
 strong man could have done the deed. There was 
 no need to prove the physical strength of Benoit 
 Couvert. 
 
 The murderer then hastens on past the mule 
 that ambles off to Bessans, and returns to his 
 chalet. It is not a long trip for a man like Benoit. 
 Had he not recently made a similar journey by 
 night to see his mistress? He returns as fast as 
 possible in order to join Maddalena who has not 
 gone to sleep, and the incestuous couple consum- 
 mate in sin their unspeakable crime. 
 
 Next morning at dawn she starts back. In the 
 bosom of her family she will pretend to know 
 nothing, while the others speculate on the disap- 
 pearance of Claude, and the return of the mule 
 without him. She will act the part of the grieved 
 wife when the body is at last brought home. But 
 she will leave to Claude's mother the preparation 
 of the bier and the laying out of the body: that 
 she will not dare to touch.
 
 AN ETHICAL PROBLEM 137 
 
 How clearly can we read each gesture, each 
 glance, when once we have the clue! 
 
 Up on the mountain Benoit has risen; he finds 
 his clothes soaked through and through. He hangs 
 them up to dry in the morning sun. I find him 
 there at work suspicious work! 
 
 He is present at his victim's funeral, and there 
 the Judge whispers to me : ' ' See all these people : 
 the murderer is surely among them." And he 
 is, one of the most prominent. And then the 
 inquest and the long fruitless search. Who could 
 have suspected incest and fratricide? Who would 
 dream of accusing Benoit and Maddalena? They 
 surely are immune from suspicion. Is it not 
 Benoit's idea to marry Maddalena and take 
 Claude's place? But she refuses. Why? In 
 order to divert suspicion? Is it a belated gleam 
 of respect for the memory of her defunct hus- 
 band? Perhaps she is unable to face Petronille, 
 or fears the wrath of Jean-Pierre, who is un- 
 favorably disposed toward such a union? Or, 
 finally, is it not rather a deep-rooted religious 
 fear of Hell, whither she must carry her remorse ? 
 After Claude's death her pilgrimages cease; she 
 dares not go to confession, and before marriage 
 everyone must confess. Yes, that explains her 
 refusal. It were better to believe her guilty 
 even of illicit love. 
 
 But the illicit love is discovered. Old Petro- 
 nille knows of it, she grieves her life out because
 
 138 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 of it, and is horror-stricken at the crime. She 
 suspects as well that Claude's murderer is in 
 her own home, and is sick at the knowledge that 
 he is flesh of her flesh and bone of her bone. And 
 she has no doubt that sin and crime have been 
 committed in her house during Claude's lifetime. 
 It was horrible enough in the eyes of the saintly 
 old woman that Maddalena should be guilty of 
 adultery ; that was why her last act was an effort 
 to regularize the union. 
 
 And Jean-Pierre had guessed, but being more 
 perspicacious than his wife he went one step 
 further. He was an old hand at legal procedure 
 and knew how to reach a logical conclusion in his 
 reasoning. This of course explained his belated 
 and apparently reasonless vocation. What other 
 possible motive could there be f Why else should 
 he of all men submit to the discipline of a monas- 
 tery? Was it natural? The house had become 
 unbearable to him. But I could not make out 
 how he had learned the facts. At any rate, he 
 carried off his secret with him, and the atmos- 
 phere of good fellowship during our last dinner 
 was not sufficient to make him reveal it to me. 
 But everything he said and did proved that he 
 knew: his disinheriting Benoit for instance > 
 though I must admit he did the same to the inno- 
 cent Jean-Marie. But could he have suspected 
 that Jean-Marie was not Claude's child? Could 
 the affair be traced that far back? Did the boy;
 
 AN ETHICAL PROBLEM 139 
 
 really resemble Benoit? I had not noticed, but 
 I determined to do so at the first opportunity. 
 
 Then there was that visit to the Judge at Saint- 
 Jean-de-Maurienne that was significant. He is 
 the head of the family, he cannot deliver his own 
 son into the hands of justice; on the other hand, 
 if he remains at home he will become Benoit's 
 accomplice, to all intents and purposes a party to 
 the crime. He must leave in order to devote his 
 remaining days to the expiation of a crime com- 
 mitted by his children. But he intends that what 
 he was unable to do no outsider shall do for him : 
 before he disappears he does everything in his 
 power to prevent further investigations, which 
 might lead to appalling discoveries. He there- 
 fore appeals in person to the Judge, asking him 
 to close the case. On what grounds? On the 
 grounds simply that no crime had been com- 
 mitted ; there would surely have been a clue other- 
 wise, and no clue had as yet come to light. Claude 
 had no enemies; his death therefore was acci- 
 dental. And he retires with this white lie on his 
 lips, a lie which the Judge, already at his wits' 
 end, is only too ready to believe. 
 
 There is, however, one disturbing element. In 
 the old man's house is another restless, inquisitive 
 mind: Etienne burns with a desire to avenge his 
 father. He must be satisfied, convinced. And the 
 boy has found a clue, one that his grandfather had 
 never dreamed of. This is why Jean-Pierre-had
 
 140 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 warned me of the lad's extreme susceptibility. 
 He asked me to help Etienne, to guide and be- 
 friend him. And this he did before going off to 
 bury himself alive. 
 
 So at last I had the key to the mystery: it 
 opened every door and I was able to peer into the 
 darkest chambers. 
 
 Comfortably settled in my hiding-post, effec- 
 tively screened by a wall of rock, I heard the 
 shouts of the beaters, but I had no wish to join 
 in the chase. The idea of harrying a lone chamois 
 did not appeal to me. 
 
 Another drama absorbed all my attention: an 
 abyss opened at my feet. I recalled how once I 
 had broken through a bridge of snow and fallen 
 into the crevasse. Fortunately the rope binding 
 me to the guide and porter did not break, and I 
 was saved. It was hard work climbing out; my 
 hands and knees slipped over the smooth surface 
 of the ice, and when I looked below me I saw 
 bluish depths without end. 
 
 And, as I pondered the whole matter it seemed 
 as if I was again in that gaping chasm, suspended 
 over a bottomless pit. I strove, as before, to 
 climb up to the light of day. 
 
 It was clearly my duty to bring the culprits to 
 the bar of justice. Witnesses are the eyes and 
 ears of the law and have no right to refuse their 
 services. But to whom should I go with my story ?
 
 AN ETHICAL PROBLEM 141 
 
 To whom confide my moral certainty? To the 
 Judge at Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne or simply to 
 Etienne, proving to him that this time he was 
 on the right track? The incident of Benoit's wet 
 clothes would be enough. Should I play the 
 Ghost to my young Hamlet? 
 
 I must be demented : here I was constructing a 
 whole Shakespearian drama on a hypothesis for 
 which I have no proofs, only a series of ingenious 
 conjectures ; I had built up a structure not unlike 
 that of Judge Fonclair when he tried to implicate 
 my beaters. On second thoughts I realized to 
 what an extent the facts had become colored by 
 my imagination. As a matter of fact I was quite 
 unable to say when Maddalena had become 
 Benoit's mistress. Claude's "Oh, my wife!" 
 might mean no more than that he was tired of her 
 or preferred hunting to a night at home. It may 
 easily have meant no more than that. And then 
 why should I rashly conclude that Benoit, busy 
 with his cattle or making cheese, had actually 
 seen his brother? And Maddalena might easily 
 have come to the chalet without meeting her hus- 
 band. I knew, too, that she could not have re- 
 turned in that storm, and that she had remained 
 with Benoit as a matter of course. At that time 
 I had thought they were scarcely on speaking 
 terms. If they were on terms of intimacy, why, 
 the storm had merely served as an excellent pre-
 
 142 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 text. Benoit's explanation of the incident was 
 logical and clear. During the legal investigations 
 I had insisted that no one's having heard the 
 dog bark was a matter of no importance, because 
 of the roaring torrent, the late hour, and the dis- 
 tance from Barmanere. Petronille's dumb prayer 
 had been inspired solely by her moral suscepti- 
 bilities and Jean-Pierre's departure was explica- 
 ble on the same grounds. There was also without 
 doubt a certain impulsiveness and fantasy in his 
 act traceable to his Maurienne blood. After all, 
 why should he not actually believe in the version 
 of accidental death which he had gone to the trou- 
 ble of laying before the court? As regards the 
 distribution of his property it was not unnatural, 
 taking into account the universal desire among 
 peasants to keep land in the family, that he should 
 disinherit the unmarried Benoit in order to main- 
 tain the principle of primogeniture in favor of 
 Etienne, Claude's eldest son. 
 
 You see how easy it was to destroy the hy- 
 pothesis I had created. Perhaps this was due to 
 my lawyer's habit of defending rather than accus- 
 ing the client. But the moment I had demolished 
 my case I was faced with a delicate problem in 
 ethics. You see, old Jean-Pierre was my client, 
 too. I could not divulge what I had learned from 
 him in my professional capacity. That secret 
 must be jealously guarded. But this was pre- 
 cisely the keystone to my latest theory. Every
 
 AN ETHICAL PROBLEM 143 
 
 part fitted into every other: eliminate one ele- 
 ment and nothing remained. For example, the 
 detail of Benoit's clothes actually the only fact 
 in the chain of evidence would never have as- 
 sumed the slightest importance in my mind with- 
 out all the other details. No, I could under no cir- 
 cumstances accuse Benoit and Maddalena, or even 
 suspect them, as I had no means of proving my 
 assertions. 
 
 Since Etienne had promised the year before to 
 share with me his worries and suspicions, he had 
 not once confided in me. 
 
 On the morning that we returned together be- 
 hind Benoit who was carrying the chamois, he 
 had made no reference to the matters that I knew 
 were occupying all his attention. This might be 
 explained by the fact that like me, he was sympa- 
 thizing with the animal that had shown itself so 
 beautifully courageous in its struggle with the 
 brutal man. Very likely I had exaggerated the 
 meaning of the eager expression in his eyes. It 
 is so easy to misread an expression. (I really 
 ought to be on my guard against first impres- 
 sions !) It seemed almost as though I had a mania 
 for dramatizing life. Was it because I had spent 
 so much time in this tragic Maurienne, so crowded 
 with history and legend, sorcery and witchcraft? 
 
 As I argued the case for and against, inclined 
 sometimes to accuse and sometimes to exculpate, 
 there happened to me what oftens happens under
 
 144 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 similar circumstances: the game I was hunting 
 surprised me at my pose. Suddenly I saw just 
 under me, with only a rock and a tuft of junipers 
 between us, the very animal we were after. Or 
 rather, I saw only his head, with his long curved 
 black horns and delicate ears. His soft eyes 
 were placidly fixed upon me. He showed no sign 
 of fear, and it seemed as though he knew the 
 state of my troubled conscience and relied on that 
 to escape when and how he liked. I dared not 
 move for fear of blotting out this singular vision 
 of grim irony. I thought for a second that I was 
 the victim of an hallucination, and I am sure 
 that not St. Hubert himself, seeing the deer 
 with a Crucifix, could have been more sur- 
 prised than I at this unexpected tete-a-tete with 
 the chamois. Extraordinary as it may seem, the 
 animal stood and continued to look at me. Even 
 now I sometimes ask myself whether the duration 
 of our tete-a-tete was not exaggerated by my over- 
 heated imagination. 
 
 Then the chamois leaned forward and I could 
 distinguish his neck which had been caught be- 
 tween two branches of a bush and held tight as 
 with two human hands like Claude's neck be- 
 tween the knotty hands of Benoit. 
 
 Men who have such visions have no business 
 hunting. I picked up my rifle and took aim. To 
 shoot down from a height is never easy. The 
 confounded animal managed to extricate himself
 
 AN ETHICAL PROBLEM 145 
 
 and dash away. I can see him now, a large, dark, 
 well-built buck. I missed him. Perhaps after all 
 he was only a ghost. 
 
 "It was such a beautiful chance!" said Vimi- 
 nes reproachfully. 
 
 " Then it was real?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked my puzzled com- 
 panion. 
 
 "A real chamois?" 
 
 "I should think it was. He passed across our 
 path not far off, but shot out at right angles when 
 he got our scent. I notice you fired." 
 
 "Oh, I hardly took aim." 
 
 I did not tell anyone of my adventure ; no one 
 would have believed me. 
 
 Maddalena left us that evening to return to 
 Bessans in company with little Melanie of the 
 pink ribbons. The girl carried off armfuls of 
 flowers which she had picked during the day. She 
 turned back from time to time to shout to her 
 father who, busy in the kitchen, took no trouble 
 to answer her. She was of course trying to at- 
 tract Etienne's attention. But young Hamlet 
 showed no sign of interest in his Ophelia. He was 
 observing, scrutinizing, examining every move of 
 his uncle Benoit, who, ever since the morning's 
 adventure, seemed to have thrown off his habitual 
 moroseness, far from suspecting that he had 
 finally betrayed himself. The last stage of the 
 pursuit was taking place under my own roof.
 
 146 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 So it seemed that my wild suppositions were 
 not wrong after all ; and suppositions, when they 
 are logical, coherent, and precise, are as good as 
 proofs. The murderer was here in our midst and 
 the victim's son was on his trail. Of what inter- 
 est were ordinary hunts compared with this ?
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 PURSUIT 
 
 No time was lost in starting. Indeed, the at- 
 tack was made in my presence, in that of my com- 
 panions Vimines and Laval, and some of my 
 beaters. But I was the only one who could follow 
 the pursuit and understand every move. 
 
 We rested for a day and made use of the extra 
 time to inspect every rock and green patch that 
 might harbor the chamois. We scanned through 
 field-glasses every inch of a large rock that stood ' 
 at the edge of a chasm two or three hundred 
 meters wide some distance off. Antoine Portaz 
 insisted he had seen a chamois there. 
 
 "How could he have climbed up?" asked the 
 sceptical Laval. 
 
 "Claude Convert did it once," replied Antoine 
 petulantly, "and he was only a man." 
 
 "Claude Convert? Nonsense! Only crows can 
 go up there!" 
 
 "It was the year before he died," insisted the 
 beater. There was a dispute over the possibility 
 of making the ascent, and Portaz turned from one 
 to the other in quest of eye-witnesses, every one 
 of whom backed up his assertions. 
 
 147
 
 148 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 "What a terrible Ipss for us all!" I said. 
 "Claude was the King- of the Mountains." 
 
 Benoit and Etienne had taken no part in the 
 discussion, but when it was over the boy turned 
 to his uncle and said : 
 
 "Uncle Benoit, you've never seen the place 
 where father was killed. I'll take you there when- 
 ever you like." 
 
 "What's the use?" answered Benpit. "It was 
 only an accident." 
 
 A plausible answer: he had accepted Jean- 
 Pierre's version, but I somehow insisted on con- 
 sidering it as a partial confession. I had the key, 
 and could easily read between the lines. Etienne 
 had the little dog with him when he offered to go 
 down with his uncle. He was determined to work 
 out the plan he had made last yerar. Coal was the 
 only witness, and Coal would remember every 
 filing once he was on the scene, and of course rec- 
 ognize the murderer. With the help of the dog, 
 Etienne would be certain. He never varied in his 
 methods. 
 
 Then a strange thing happened ; I wondered if 
 Etienne had noticed. Never had I seen Benoit 
 caress the dog; he now tried it, and Coal showed 
 his teeth. But perhaps the same hostility had 
 existed before Claude's death? I couldn't say. 
 Benoit, at least, had never shown any great affec- 
 tion for him. 
 
 It was I who had brought Benoit and Etienne
 
 PURSUIT 149 
 
 together on this occasion, and I alone was able to 
 interpret the meaning of the boy's offer. At least 
 I thought I was the only one, for my beaters were 
 concerned, if at all, only with Etienne 's former 
 suspicion of them. But I caught a glimpse of 
 Benoit's face as he looked at Coal. He was im- 
 mediately on his guard. He understood; of this 
 I had conclusive proof, for some days later Coal 
 was found dead among the rocks. The murderer 
 had got rid of a dangerous witness. 
 
 Dogs, however, are often killed up among these 
 precipitous rocks ; it is so dangerous that we long 
 ago gave up hunting with them. 
 
 Why does every event present two aspects, one 
 natural, and the other suspicious? 
 
 Etienne was furious over the loss of his dog. 
 He had no hesitation in accusing Benoft not 
 directly, of course, but I could read resentment 
 in his face. War was declared between the two, 
 a war of ambuscades, and I feared for the younger 
 of the combatants. 
 
 Benoit retired once more within his wall of im- 
 penetrability and ill-humour. His power, his self- 
 possession and a thorough knowledge of the for- 
 midable game he was playing, made him an alto- 
 gether dangerous man. His abrupt silences and 
 assumed airs of affability were terrible. I was 
 worried on account of Etienne, whose " shoul- 
 ders," according to Jean-Pierre, were not intended 
 for " these notions!" The Prince of Denmark,
 
 150 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 too, had not sufficiently broad shoulders to per- 
 form the duty imposed upon him by the ghost of 
 Elsinore. Knowledge of guilt alone is not enough 
 for the execution of justice. 
 
 Little by little Claude's son lost ground. He 
 asked stupid questions, resulting only to his dis- 
 advantage, and one day Benoit was able to take 
 the offensive. Portaz' chamois was at last sighted 
 through the field-glasses, and Benoit turned to 
 his nephew: 
 
 "Do you want to go after him.? Your father 
 could climb the rock, and you are as good a 
 climber as he was. Portaz has found the trail. 
 You take the little path to the right, and then 
 cross over to the left." 
 
 Benoit gave this information without looking at 
 Etienne, whose pride was naturally touched. But 
 I remembered what had happened to the dog his 
 "accidental" death. A similar "accident" was 
 being proposed to Etienne. Etienne was at first 
 tempted to go, but he too must have thought of 
 Coal, for he turned to Benoit and said: 
 
 "I'll go if you'll go, Uncle." 
 
 This took Benoit by surprise. He thjought for 
 a moment and then decided to take the chance : 
 
 "All right, youngster, we'll both go." 
 
 He said "youngster" when he wished particu- 
 larly to exasperate Etienne. The two eyed each 
 other like duellists about to engage in mortal com- 
 bat, each calculating the other's power of resis-
 
 PURSUIT 151 
 
 tance. It was evidently their intention to fight it 
 out up there on the rock a duel to the death. 
 "Would it, I wondered, be a fair and equal fight? 
 On their way up the steep rock might not one try 
 to throw the other into the abyss. Who would 
 know of it? It is so easy to misinterpret things 
 at a distance. The refusal to lend a hand at a 
 critical moment would never be noticed. 
 
 I calculated the danger, and interposed my 
 authority : 
 
 "I won't allow either of you to go.'* 
 
 "Very well, if you say so," said Benoit. 
 
 Etienne was not so ready to give in: he had 
 seen in this duel the opportunity he had longed 
 for. 
 
 In order to prevent accidents I saw to it that 
 Etienne was close by my side during the hunt, 
 showing him marked preference by allowing him 
 to carry my lunch bag and fetch the game for 
 me. But the analytical Etienne realised that I 
 was keeping a strict watch over him. I am not 
 sure whether or not he guessed my reasons, but 
 he made it a point of honor to perform his duties 
 to perfection. Suddenly doubtless he had 
 thought it all out he was grateful to me, though 
 he showed his gratitude rather by deed than by 
 word. But his new manner troubled me : he had 
 told no one of his secret. Later, I discovered that 
 he had suffered in silence. My existence, living 
 as I did between these two men, was like a con-
 
 152 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 tinual dream, in which I could only speculate re- 
 garding which of the two would be the first to kill 
 the other. How was I to disarm them? If the 
 pursuer were to cease the pursuit, the criminal 
 would naurally be no longer on the defensive. 
 
 I called to mind Jean-Pierre's advice: "Let 
 Etienne enjoy himself like other young men." I 
 must therefore offer him distractions if I hoped 
 to avoid a catastrophe. 
 
 It was he himself who gave me the occasion. 
 One day when we were hunting he wanted to 
 know whether it would be possible to attain his 
 legal majority before the normal time. 
 
 "It is possible," I explained, "in a way, at 
 least by 'emancipation.' But the status of 
 'emancipation' is by no means legal majority. 
 Are you thinking of getting married?" 
 
 "I? No!" he replied, almost indignantly. 
 "Why?" 
 
 "If you were married you would be legally 
 'emancipated.' Marry that little girl who comes 
 here with your mother. Haven't you noticed her? 
 She's always making eyes at you. She's really 
 very fond of you. Melanie is as pretty a girl as 
 I ever saw what fresh cheeks and bright eyes! 
 How good-natured she is, with a kind word for 
 
 everyone, and a love of flowers ! If I were 
 
 you I shouldn't hesitate. Her father, Serafin, is 
 the best man in Bessans, and that's saying a
 
 PURSUIT 153 
 
 great deal. You must think of the family you're 
 marrying into, you know." 
 
 He listened attentively to my harangue, and I 
 thought when I had ended that the secretive boy 
 had all along been deceiving us regarding his 
 affection for Melanie. But his answer proved 
 me wrong: 
 
 "I don't want to marry." 
 
 Had I been indiscreet in hinting that family 
 reputation was a matter of importance in this con- 
 nection ? I tried the attack again from a different 
 angle. 
 
 "If not Melanie, then someone else. There are 
 plenty of pretty girls in Bessans." 
 
 "Oh, girls!" It was an echo I had heard 
 something very much like that, long ago. 
 
 In these two words there was a haunting melan- 
 choly: regret for the unattainable, longing for 
 tenderness and love that could never be his. I 
 could not otherwise interpret that sigh of the 
 ex-seminarist, a lad who had preserved intact 
 his youthful modesty, and possibly his youthful 
 innocence. 
 
 "No, I don't want to marry," he repeated with 
 unmistakable emphasis. 
 
 I thought of poor drooping Melanie, while 
 Etienne returned to his legal inquiries: 
 
 "Isn't there another way, Monsieur 1'Avocat?" 
 
 "No, you cannot attain your majority before
 
 154 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 you reach, the right age. 'Emancipation* is sim- 
 ple enough. A widow can emancipate her chil- 
 dren when they have reached fifteen. All you 
 need is her declaration before a justice of the 
 peace. ' ' 
 
 "Do I make the application!" 
 
 "No, it must be your mother." 
 
 "Then ask my mother to apply." 
 
 "I have no objection, but tell me, why do you 
 want this?" 
 
 "I don't know. Or I can at least give away 
 my property?" 
 
 "Oh, no you can't." 
 
 So that was his reason : he wanted to make his 
 will. He would seem then to have abandoned the 
 pursuit, allowing Benoit to resume his daily life, 
 either because he could think of no new method 
 of attack or because he had lost his absolute con- 
 viction of his uncle's guilt. 
 
 One morning, when Benoit had gone off with 
 the beaters, Etienne asked leave to remain be- 
 hind in the chalet. I was afraid he wanted to be- 
 gin again, and I began by refusing. He ex- 
 plained that as this was the day when supplies 
 were expected he would like to wait and see his 
 mother. 
 
 "Your mother and also Melanie?" 
 
 He was a little more gracious than usual, and 
 answered : 
 
 *' Perhaps Melanie, too."
 
 PURSUIT 155 
 
 "Very well then, you may stay." 
 
 After I had stationed myself in my post on the 
 slope of Albaron, I pondered over our little con- 
 versation. It was pleasant to think that the girl's 
 charms were at last beginning to take effect on the 
 hard-hearted Etienne. She would be the oasis in 
 his life, the shade, the peace, the rest. She would 
 also bring happiness, and end by inducing him 
 to forget his vengeance and his "sacred duties." 
 And then I was seized by a terrible doubt. What 
 if Etienne, unable to attack Benoit, were to turn 
 against his mother? Was it not his intention at 
 this instant to induce the imprudent Maddalena 
 to talk while Benoit was out of the way? Per- 
 haps he had decided to forget filial respect and 
 arrive at the truth in that way? 
 
 Absorbed as he was by his warfare with Ben- 
 oit he had taken no account of the abyss into 
 which his mother would be thrown were he to se- 
 cure absolute proofs of the crime. Was it not 
 she who had spent the night of the murder in the 
 chalet ? Would Etienne denounce her after wring- 
 ing a confession from her? I hardly dared ima- 
 gine the interview between mother and son. I 
 ought to have remained with them. I owed it 
 to Jean-Pierre. 
 
 When I heard the horn announcing that the 
 chamois was finally at bay, instead of joining my 
 companions and lunching with them as usual, I 
 made my way back to the chalet, unseen by any-
 
 156 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 one. The few provisions I had brought with me 
 were quite sufficient. I calculated that Maddalena 
 would not have arrived before my return, but as 
 a matter of fact I saw the mule, just relieved of 
 his burden, quietly munching his grain in front 
 of the door. In a field nearby, I caught sight of 
 two girls picking flowers: Melanie and Blna, no 
 doubt. Eina sometimes came up with her mother. 
 
 Etienne had been some time alone with his 
 mother. How long had they been together? 
 
 I went into my room to put down my rifle and 
 leave my cartridges. This room is upstairs on 
 the second floor, and has a long window opening 
 on a balcony with a view of the Valley of the 
 Averole, opposite that of the Albaron which you 
 can see from the front door. Below the balcony 
 outside is a bench. As I stepped out, I could hear 
 voices, and I knew that Maddalena and her son 
 were there. They could not have suspected my 
 return, for there was no interruption in their con- 
 versation. I had no business to listen, but I knew 
 their affairs so intimately that I unhesitatingly 
 took this opportunity of clearing up my doubts, 
 if only for the purpose of preventing further 
 crimes and the ultimate ruin of the Convert fam- 
 ily. I would reveal my presence if I felt it neces- 
 sary. 
 
 I was surprised to find that it was the woman 
 who conducted the conversation. Etienne scarcely 
 answered, possibly because he felt that such a
 
 PURSUIT 157 
 
 cross-examination was more decorously executed 
 in that way; or perhaps he had stopped short, 
 terrified at the idea of making a direct attack 
 himself. That at least is how I interpreted the 
 slow and hesitating manner of his replies. Mad- 
 dalena spoke to him much as the Queen speaks to 
 Hamlet. She urged him to cease his attempts, 
 telling him, "It happens to us all; everything that 
 lives must die, to live again in Eternity." This 
 at least was the burden of her words. She en- 
 couraged him to enjoy himself like other young 
 men, speaking like a procuress describing her 
 wares, and then went on to praise Melanie, who 
 was healthy and virtuous, hard-working and well- 
 shaped. There was in her description of the girl 
 a sensuality that opened my eyes to a great deal 
 in her own character. At an earlier time her re- 
 ligious pilgrimages offered her a certain distrac- 
 tion; now she was completely dominated by her 
 passion. She could not conceal that: even her 
 words betrayed it. It was as if she were undress- 
 ing in my presence. Would she be able to main- 
 tain any sort of defence under the rapid fire of a 
 really clever cross-examination undertaken for 
 the purpose of incriminating her? Etienne had 
 her at his mercy, though he did not realize it ; but 
 I did. 
 
 The more he tried to take refuge in soft evasive 
 answers, the harder did she press him: 
 
 "Melanie comes up here to see you. You're a
 
 158 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 handsome boy, Etienne. Set the day; say when 
 it's to be." 
 
 Etienne impatiently repulsed her, though he 
 managed to be polite: 
 
 "There's no hurry, Mama." He used the fa- 
 miliar peasant form. 
 
 Was he moved by her maternal solicitude or 
 simply hesitating to perform his terrible duty? 
 I am convinced that nothing would have happened 
 had not Maddalena ended her harangue by sug- 
 gesting something she had set her heart on, re- 
 awakening all the latent hatred and desire for re- 
 venge in the breast of Etienne. Was not this one 
 of these "unforeseen circumstances" which, ac- 
 cording to Joseph de Maistre, inevitably betray 
 the cleverest criminals? 
 
 "And there is something else, Etienne, I wanted 
 to say, now that you're in a quiet humor. Your 
 Uncle Benoit is anxious about you and wants you 
 to be happy. Why are you so unkind to him?" 
 
 "Who told you I was?" 
 
 "He did. He wasn't complaining, he just told 
 me. After all, you know, he takes your father's 
 place in the family. ' ' 
 
 "Takes your father's place" was peculiarly 
 unfortunate. Even I, as I stood on my balcony, 
 was shocked it seemed almost an insult to me; 
 what must have been the effect on Etienne? It 
 was now his turn to cross-question his mother;
 
 PURSUIT 169 
 
 her words had swept away the last vestige of re- 
 spect he felt he owed her: 
 
 "Were yon on the path to Averole when you 
 saw him for the last time?" 
 
 "Without even asking what he referred to, she 
 answered quietly: 
 
 "I had just come up to the chalet with the mule 
 when I saw him coming down with his chamois. ' * 
 
 "Did he say anything to you?" 
 
 "Of course: 'Good day.' Why not?" 
 
 ' ' Did he say anything about me, or Jean-Marie, 
 or Rina?" 
 
 "I don't remember. He was going to Bonneval 
 to sell the chamois. He seemed very happy. He 
 was thinking of nothing but that." 
 
 "I see. Thinking of nothing but that. Uncle 
 Benoit was with you, wasn't he?" 
 
 "Yes, he was with us. He was over by the 
 door, waiting for the mule." 
 
 "He talked with you, too?" 
 
 "I don't remember. That was two years ago." 
 
 * ' Two years is nothing. ' ' 
 
 "It's long enough to get things mixed in your 
 mind. What do you want to know all these things 
 for?" 
 
 "Because I'm thinking about my father." 
 
 "You think too much about him. Shall I call 
 Melanie?" 
 
 ' ' Not yet, Mama, not yet. ' '
 
 160 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 Had she said too much! She attempted to 
 retreat : 
 
 "Maybe your Uncle Benoit was not there." 
 "He was standing by the door, waiting to un- 
 load the mule." 
 
 "I'm not sure. You could ask him." 
 A pause, after which Etienne murmured, hardly 
 above a whisper : 
 
 "You'd better call Melanie." 
 "You're a sensible boy. Thank you." 
 She got up and walked away, and shortly after 
 I heard her musical voice calling to the girl. 
 
 I, who knew so much, realized what was passing 
 in the mind and heart of the boy. He had dis- 
 covered what he wanted to know. Once more, 
 Dalilah had betrayed Samson. Etienne and I had 
 been together on the occasion when I had reminded 
 Benoit of Claude's last descent: "You must have 
 seen him as he walked past your chalet on his way 
 to Bonneval?" and Benoit, laying down his cham- 
 ois, had denied seeing him, turning toward the 
 animal to avoid my eye. Why had he denied 
 meeting his brother? Simply in order to prove 
 that he knew nothing of Claude's nocturnal trip. 
 And the crime must obviously have been premedi- 
 tated: the place chosen for its execution and the 
 attack from the rear, proved that. This denial 
 had surprised Etienne, and at the same time 
 brought his examination to an abrupt conclusion. 
 That is why he had turned to his mother. He had
 
 PURSUIT 161 
 
 long hesitated to ask that question, allowing her 
 rather to chatter on and try to persuade him to 
 let the matter rest. But she had herself provoked 
 the asking of the fatal question by making that 
 odious comparison. 
 
 It was from a feeling of sympathy, and not idle 
 curiosity, that I leaned over the balcony. 
 Etienne's face was hidden in his hands; he was 
 crying. The people of this district rarely weep, 
 though in the presence of death it is customary 
 to utter cries. Etienne had silently given in to 
 his sorrow. His training at the seminary had no 
 doubt predisposed him to feel the subtle refine- 
 ments of mental suffering. What was he crying 
 about? It was because the proofs he had acquired 
 had come from his own mother, his mama. I was 
 tempted to go down, take him in my arms and 
 console him, this boy whose burden was too heavy 
 for the shoulders of youth. But I couldn't. That 
 would have meant that I knew everything 
 Benoit's crime and Maddalena's. 
 
 Stealthy steps were heard coming around the 
 house, at which both of us, he below and I at 
 my window, were startled. I had just time to see 
 Etienne jump to his feet before I returned to 
 my room. It was only Melanie. Happy, gracious, 
 charming, and blushing to the roots of her hair 
 (thus I pictured her), she was coming to her 
 melancholy betrothal. She found Etienne in 
 tears.
 
 162 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 "Are you angry, Etienne, or don't you feel 
 well?" 
 
 "Oh, I am all right." A pause, and then: "So 
 it's true, Melam'e?" 
 
 "What, Etienne?" 
 
 "That if I ask you to marry me you'll have 
 me?" 
 
 "I'm willing." 
 
 Another pause. This is their betrothal. 
 
 "That's a pretty bouquet you have, Melanie." 
 
 "Do you want it?" 
 
 "It's too big. Just give me some of them." 
 
 "Those?" 
 
 "Yes, those purple ones. They have no smell." 
 
 And again they said nothing. A silence pro- 
 longed by the increasing embarrassment of the 
 two. It was Etienne who finally broke it: 
 
 "You tell Mama, will you Melanie? She'll be 
 glad." 
 
 Then, just above a whisper, I heard her sigh : 
 
 "So soon!" 
 
 That was all. 
 
 The love scene was over. They did not even 
 kiss. I wondered whether Etienne had not ac- 
 cepted his mother's plan in order to escape from 
 himself, using his engagement as an excuse to 
 abandon his mission? In that case he too would 
 be dragging his victim down with him, destroying 
 a life that had been confided to his care. His 
 hands, then, were no cleaner than those of his
 
 PURSUIT 163 
 
 Uncle Benoit. Etienne's were more delicate, per- 
 haps, but strong enough indeed to strangle a bird. 
 
 I was now free to show myself, and when I 
 stepped out on to the balcony I saw the couple 
 walking away. They walked side by side, but not 
 holding hands. He was tall and thin though there 
 was a certain robust power in his flexible and 
 agile body. But how faintly did she resemble the 
 portrait drawn by Maddalena ! Her feet scarcely 
 touched the ground. I could just catch sight of 
 her delicate profile, proclaiming the purity and 
 nobility of her soul. There was nothing of the 
 Italian in her, she was the product of a race at 
 once laborious and spiritual, hard-headed and 
 mystical. To what sufferings was she doomed, 
 poor child! 
 
 That evening before leaving for Bessans with 
 Maddalena and her mule, Melanie ran in to kiss 
 her father, who was standing at the door of his 
 kitchen. As she kissed those unshaven cheeks 
 she glanced at Etienne. The good Serafin re- 
 ceived the kiss without knowing that it had been 
 intended for his daughter's betrothed. 
 
 Serafin had not been told the news, nor had 
 anyone else. I could not understand the reason 
 for this secrecy. Perhaps Etienne had insisted 
 on it. 
 
 After dinner, when I had gone as usual into the 
 beater's room to smoke a pipe and talk over the 
 hunt, I tried to catch the eyes, of Etienne, which
 
 164 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 were riveted upon Benoit. Did he consider the 
 proofs he had just acquired insufficient! She 
 who had given them would deny them at the 
 slightest nod from her accomplice. Yet he had 
 no doubts, I was sure of that. How would he 
 attempt to strike the murderer! Directly, or 
 fhrough a legal accusation! If through legal 
 channels, I would of course give testimony on that 
 detail of Benoit 's wet clothes. But after all, had 
 he not given up his plans, and was not this day 
 of his betrothal a prelude to his final abdication! 
 Was he merely taking a last look at his prey! 
 
 A few days afterward I returned to Chambery. 
 My vacation was over. Although I had done my 
 utmost to discourage Etienne from further pur- 
 suit, he had told me nothing of his plans for the 
 future. Just before I left, as he was helping 
 me to strap my bags and pack my rifles, I made a 
 last attempt to get something out of him : 
 
 "Are you still anxious to attain your majority 
 before you reach the legal age!" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur 1'Avocat." 
 
 "How about marriage as a means to bringing 
 it about!" 
 
 "Perhaps, Monsieur 1'Avocat." 
 
 "With Melanie Ruffin!" 
 
 "With Melanie." 
 
 "Splendid! My congratulations. She's a fine, 
 capable girl, and very pretty to boot. May I come 
 to the wedding feast!"
 
 PURSUIT 165 
 
 "The wedding feast? Such things are not for 
 you, Monsieur 1'Avocat." 
 
 "I'll come all the same, if you'll invite me." 
 "All right, Monsieur 1'Avocat." 
 "Well, you may count on me, young man." 
 Did I make that last sentence sound too solemn! 
 He turned the whites of his eyes toward me, as 
 if trying to penetrate some hidden meaning. 
 Were we not sharers of the same secret, from 
 that day when we had seen Benoit strangle the 
 chamois? When my bags were packed, and the 
 mules had started on the road, I stopped to shake 
 hands with each of my beaters, telling them that 
 I hoped to see them all next year. Etienne stood 
 by, waiting to see how I would behave to Benoit, 
 who stood last in line. I could feel that he was 
 looking at me. What could I do other than shake 
 his hand as I had that of the others, and turn 
 away, not looking behind me? I burned with 
 shame fearing I knew not what, after shaking 
 hands with the murderer. It was a matter of 
 keen regret that I had not been able to carry with 
 me a last visual impression of my cabin, my frail 
 little wooden chalet hidden away among the gi- 
 gantic rock walls of the Albaron and the Char- 
 bonel.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 HAMLET'S BETROTHAL 
 
 THE charming custom of betrothal ceremonies 
 is still observed in Savoy. The young people go 
 to church accompanied by their families, and in 
 the presence of the priest make their formal ex- 
 change of vows. From the moment of the priest's 
 blessing, the engaged couple are considered as 
 practically married, and cannot break the engage- 
 ment without perjury. They may not, however, 
 spend a night together under the same roof until 
 after the marriage is consecrated. 
 
 A month after my departure in October, I re- 
 ceived a well- written letter from Etienne inviting 
 me to the betrothal, which was set for All Saints' 
 Day. The marriage was not to take place before 
 winter. It was wiser therefore to undertake the 
 trip on November first, since later on the roads 
 would be impassable. Etienne was counting on 
 my presence. 
 
 I set out from Chambery in one of those soft 
 autumnal mists that vanish toward midday, leav- 
 ing a bright clear Italian sky overhead. As my 
 carriage reached the wild summit of the little 
 ridge of La Madeleine, between Lanslevillard and 
 
 166
 
 HAMLET'S BETROTHAL 167 
 
 Bessans, my eyes feasted on the familiar land- 
 scape the broad Valley of the Arc, the church 
 steeple glistening in the sun, and my beloved 
 mountains covered half-way down with a powder 
 of snow. The late season added novelty to the 
 scene. Up to the snow-belt everything was gold, 
 pale gold and dull of the birches, mellow gold of 
 the oaks, red gold of the beeches, fiery gold of 
 the willows stretching along the banks of the 
 stream, yellow gold of the thickets, scarlet gold 
 of the tufted bilberries, and finally pure virgin 
 gold of the larch forests contrasting with the som- 
 bre green of the pines. The incomparable rich- 
 ness of this tapestry, with the colors passing in 
 gradation from green to purple, stood out in sharp 
 relief against the lowest reaches of the snow that 
 sprang into life under the quickening rays of the 
 sun. Autumn and winter struggled for possession 
 of the mountains, each outvying the other in the 
 magnificence of its apparel. 
 
 The church at Bessans, as you know, stands on 
 a knoll above the town, dominating the little ag- 
 glomeration of houses. The path leading up to it 
 passes by a crucifix rising up gaunt against the 
 background of the Valley; the figure of Christ 
 reminds you of those tragic Spanish Christs 
 crushed under a burden of sorrow, as if they had 
 been bent and stiffened to the task of bearing the 
 cross. The cemetery clusters round the little 
 Chapel of St. Antoine. From a point of vantage
 
 168 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 on this knoll I watched the people coming up 
 to celebrate All Saints' Mass, the townsfolk of 
 Bessans, and a sprinkling of others from neigh- 
 boring villages. Women from the valleys of Ave- 
 role and Ribon, who lived some distance away, 
 came on asses and mules. It was pleasant to 
 watch them leap down so lightly from their sad- 
 dles, even the aged matrons. They all dressed in 
 the sombre costume of Bessans. Some had added 
 shawls, or aprons embroidered in brown or blue. 
 Every face was shaded by the black tulle bonnet, 
 and the younger women wore red or orange rib- 
 bons. A few had put on family jewels a golden 
 heart or a cross suspended from a velvet ribbon, 
 or other heavy gold ornaments. The men wore 
 hats adorned with steel buckles, red or green 
 belts, short jackets with metal buttons, colored 
 waistcoats with yellow buttons and red lace trim- 
 mings. Not all the men, however, for many of 
 then especially those who had done military 
 service and knew the ways of cities had donned 
 the conventional black suit. Had it not been for 
 this treason toward local custom, you might have 
 thought yourself in a bygone age, in the days when 
 the Clapiers painted wooden church ornaments, 
 or mounted mystery plays in the Chapel of St. 
 Antoine, before the good people of Bessans as- 
 sembled to see the stable where Christ was born. 
 
 The cemetery at my feet had been transformed 
 into a garden in honor of the dead. The tombs
 
 HAMLET'S BETROTHAL 169 
 
 were smothered under heaps of chrysanthemums 
 that had been brought that morning and symmetri- 
 cally arranged with the utmost care. One poor 
 old woman dismounted from her mule and car- 
 ried in a magnificent armful of gorgeously colored 
 boughs. They were an offering to her dead. The 
 tomb on which she laid them shone resplendent 
 above all the others ; it glistened with the golden 
 splendor of a candelabrum on the high altar. 
 
 I turned and looked in the opposite direction: 
 the whole mountain resembled a gigantic garden. 
 
 The betrothal ceremony was celebrated after 
 mass in a side chapel, and, except for myself, only 
 the immediate members of the two families were 
 present. Conforming to the ancient tradition, 
 Etienne and Melanie had dressed in the appro- 
 priate costumes. They were a charming couple, 
 graceful, young, supple. My heart went out to 
 them, and I felt considerable apprehension about 
 their future. For how long would they tread the 
 path of peace and happiness? Had indeed all 
 hatred and vengeance been stifled in the boy's 
 heart, and had his love for Melanie effectually 
 taken their place ? I could not help watching him 
 and trying to guess his thoughts. But his features 
 were set, his lips tightly closed, and I could read 
 nothing in his expression, I thought I saw his 
 hand tremble when the priest asked him to take 
 Melanie 's. The girl raised her head ecstatically 
 toward the man at her side, and the halo of her
 
 170 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 head-dress completed her resemblance to the Vir- 
 gin. There was something delicate and distin- 
 guished in her pallor that was accentuated by the 
 fresh pinkness of her temples and forehead. How 
 different was she from the girl Maddalena had 
 described ! How little had the woman understood 
 the girl ! It is piety or a boundless mystical love 
 that gives a young girl the air of an angel a 
 Bernadette of Lourdes or a Melanie de la Salette, 
 humble shepherdesses who see visions. 
 
 Serafin Ruffin's family included many brothers 
 and sisters, all of whom were present. The 
 mother, however, was dead. The occasion was 
 too much for my poor beater who, except when he 
 was hunting, was a soft-hearted, easy-going fel- 
 low; he could not restrain the tears, which he 
 brushed away with his huge thumb as he would an 
 importunate insect. Bina clung to Melanie, as if 
 she felt it her duty to help the future wife of 
 Etienne, her guide and her idol My eyes next 
 fixed on Jean-Marie, a healthy grown-up lad of 
 fifteen. Why was I so attentive to him? I was 
 looking for the resemblance! To Claude, or to 
 Benoit? That mouth surely, and those ears lying 
 flat against the head, were indubitably Benoit's, 
 but were not his jovial aspect, round face and 
 dumpy features, the very antithesis of the sharp 
 bony face of Benoit? On the other hand, ro- 
 tundity of features often comes from good soup, 
 and joviality from a happy childhood. Before his
 
 HAMLET'S BETROTHAL 171 
 
 death Claude was able to give his own imprint, as 
 it were, to the impressionable youngster. This 
 at least was what I saw in Jean-Marie 's pleasant 
 face. He interested me ; he was a new element 
 the last in this family drama, for Etienne had 
 abdicated. 
 
 But had he ? Surely his uncle and mother were 
 convinced of it. They both looked infinitely re- 
 lieved. Or did I only imagine it? Maddalena had 
 put on a bright ribbon was it not fitting after 
 two years of widowhood one of those fire-tinted 
 ribbons she used to be so fond of, casting its color 
 over her head-dress, and falling down over her 
 neck, tinting the upper part of her waist. She 
 was once more beginning to experience the joy 
 of life. 
 
 After the priest's benediction we left the church 
 in a body. There remained only the dinner at 
 Etienne 's home, at which I was the sole outside 
 guest. As Melanie stepped out of the church she 
 took Etienne by the arm, and pointing to the 
 cemetery : 
 
 " Would you like to go!" she asked. 
 
 She had lavished all her care and love of flowers 
 on the decoration of Claude's grave. Now she 
 wished to show Etienne what she had done, to 
 associate their present happiness with the other 
 sacred memory. How was she to know that it 
 was wrong to take Hamlet to the cemetery? Was 
 it not there that he would hear strange counsels
 
 172 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 and utter fatally reasonable words? She had 
 given in to a natural impulse of sympathy and 
 generosity, for her loving intuition had told her 
 of the sorrow in the heart of Claude's son. But 
 that same intuition was to destroy the happiness 
 that had just been so solemnly promised her. I 
 was startled by his reply : 
 
 "Why the cemetery?" 
 
 She too was surprised, and did not insist. Sud- 
 denly he changed his mind and taking Melanie by 
 the arm he led her quickly to the grave. I re- 
 mained where I was, for of course I had no right 
 to follow them. When, together with the families, 
 I started down the hill, I could see them in the 
 cemetery, standing out against the heaps of flow- 
 ers she must have been kneeling, for he towered 
 high above her. The great crucifix seemed to 
 cast a shadow of sorrow over the couple while 
 the face of Christ was turned to God in an attitude 
 of supplication. 
 
 We sat down to dinner before a long table set 
 in the courtyard surrounded on two sides by the 
 stalls, where the cows, unaccustomed to the sound 
 of so many strange voices, were constantly ring- 
 ing their little bells. Etienne's expression had 
 entirely changed : he wore that look I had so often 
 seen during his terrible investigations. I was 
 afraid. 
 
 The unfortunate incident which I feared must 
 soon happen occurred at this moment. Benoit
 
 HAMLET'S BETROTHAL 173 
 
 was about to take his place opposite Maddalena 
 at the center of the table. It was natural that 
 he should do so and no less natural that Madda- 
 lena should sit opposite him: indeed it was their 
 duty on an important occasion of this kind to 
 preside at dinner. As Benoit was about to seat 
 himself, Etienne spoke. 
 
 "What are you doing, Uncle Benoit?" 
 
 It was Maddalena who answered. She was one 
 of those people who seem destined to say the 
 wrong thing and precipitate scenes. 
 
 "He's going to sit there, Etienne, in your 
 father's place.'* 
 
 It was precisely this phrase that had so agitated 
 the boy up at the chalet. Etienne became livid 
 with anger. It was he who was head of the 
 house. He stepped round to where Benoit was 
 standing. 
 
 "I am taking my father's place, and no one 
 else ! No one else, you hear, Mama, no one else ! ' ' 
 
 Melanie clung to her father, looking in terror at 
 the man whom she had never known to be other 
 than quiet and timid. And now he was com- 
 pletely changed, hard and pitiless. It was to this 
 man that she had publicly pledged her heart for- 
 ever. Maddalena was terrified. I wondered how 
 Benoit, so unaccommodating, so jealous of his 
 rights, would take this public insult. Would he 
 give in to his nephew? And would Etienne hold 
 his tongue ? Perhaps this was to be the great de-
 
 174 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 nunciation, the execution of Etienne 's vengeance ? 
 Judging by the violence and hatred of Etienne 's 
 attitude I thought the moment had come. This 
 time Etienne, his memories freshly stirred by a 
 visit to the cemetery, his nerves shattered by the 
 renunciation implied by his betrothal, could not 
 restrain himself. 
 
 "Come now " Benoit began, without giving 
 
 in an inch. The two men stood face to face, almost 
 touching each other. 
 
 "Not another word from you!" said the 
 younger. 
 
 Etienne was about to speak, and Benoit was 
 silent. I took pity on Melanie, who looked help- 
 lessly in my direction. I could not allow Claude's 
 son to give in to an excess of rage on this occa- 
 sion. What he might do later was another matter. 
 He would surely regret it. If he wished to accom- 
 plish what he considered his filial duty, he must 
 not undertake it under the influence of sudden 
 madness. To the relief of the entire company I 
 quietly intervened : 
 
 "Come now, Etienne, you musn't lose your tem- 
 per. Here you are boiling over like milk soup. 
 You must know that if your mother didn't put you 
 in the center, it was because you ought to be next 
 to Melanie. She didn't want you to have to bother 
 with any one else during dinner. Benoit realizes 
 that it is only the son who takes the place of the
 
 HAMLET'S BETROTHAL 175 
 
 father. He will give you his place with the great- 
 est pleasure. Won't you, Benoit f" 
 
 I spoke with amiable courtesy, with an air of 
 friendliness intended to put an end to the discus- 
 sion. As a host enjoying Maurienne hospitality, 
 as an old friend of the family, and as a lawyer, I 
 enjoyed a certain prestige. Above all, Benoit and 
 Maddalena had suddenly realized the danger that 
 threatened them. The only proof I had of this 
 was their expressions: they were like animals at 
 bay. In that room there were four of us who 
 knew the truth. Benoit immediately accepted my 
 suggestion and went to the foot of the table, mur- 
 muring, to save his face: 
 
 "Just as you say, Monsieur 1'Avocat." 
 
 Etienne, perceiving his mother's terror, said 
 nothing. 
 
 This incident cast a shadow over the first part 
 of the dinner ; but this was gradually dispelled by 
 a succession of succulent dishes and the uncork- 
 ing of numberless bottles of wine. The Euffins, 
 whose appetites were in no wise diminished, fell 
 to with infinite zest, showing no consideration 
 whatsoever for the pig (prematurely killed long 
 before Christmas) which made its entrance from 
 the kitchen in every imaginable form sausages, 
 chops, ham, and the rest. I had brought many of 
 those choice vintages which had pleased Jean- 
 Pierre at Chambery; on this occasion I need 
 scarcely say, they were slighted by no one. At
 
 176 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 dessert I proposed a toast in which I briefly al- 
 luded to poor Claude, mainly for the purpose of 
 proving to Etienne that I had not forgotten my 
 faithful comrade. I likewise referred to the her- 
 mit of Hautecom.be who would, I said, be gratified 
 to know that his family was in no danger of ex- 
 tinction. Finally I praised Melanie not in the 
 coarse manner of peasants, but with phrases ap- 
 propriate to her charms. It was at any rate my 
 intention to use light, transparent, and flowing 
 words in describing her. We are often influenced 
 by the praise accorded to those we love, and some- 
 times in that praise we find new reasons for lov- 
 ing. Even though love can do without reasons it 
 is none the less wise to have a few in reserve. I 
 attempted in this way to point out to Etienne 
 what happiness he might enjoy if he would con- 
 sent to accept it. Meantime, Melanie, modest and 
 embarrassed, bent over her plate. 
 
 And then there was singing. Serafin gave us a 
 drinking song and Maddalena, quickly recovering 
 from her emotions, sang an Italian folk-song. 
 
 "Now it's your turn," I said to Melanie. "I 
 have heard you singing when you gathered flowers 
 in our fields. I could hear you distinctly from the 
 chalet. " 
 
 Her white cheeks turned to deepest red. She 
 tried her best to refuse, until her brothers and 
 sisters delivered her into the hands of the enemy 
 by insisting that she had a "very pretty voice."
 
 HAMLET'S BETROTHAL 177 
 
 Without a trace of false timidity she stood up 
 and sang an old Bessans Noel, a song centuries 
 old, bright, gay and sparkling. The patois of this 
 region cannot be transcribed. Those who have 
 tried to do so have never succeeded, for it is a 
 living spoken language without rules or syntax. 
 Its soul is in the trembling of an accent, like 
 leaves in a wind. Here is the Noel translated as 
 well as uninspired scholars can do it : 6 
 
 BESSANS NOEL 
 
 "You who are in your liouses as snug as mar- 
 mots don't put on your boots just take your 
 sabots go outdoors: and there you'll find some- 
 thing wonderful; you'll see clearer than you do 
 at noon; go out and you'll see angels they're 
 greeting everybody. 
 
 "They're up there on green Clapey all the 
 way across the happy Aiguille, they're singing 
 a beautiful motif by heart, without reading it. 
 Kun and ask Father Pierre who knows some 
 Latin ask him to explain the mystery: Gloria 
 in excelsis Deo. 
 
 "They have sung this song at least twenty-five 
 times but we still listen to it, we don't under- 
 stand what they are saying Ask them a little 
 favor that before they leave that place they 
 
 'See CJiansons des Alpes, Savoie et Dauphint, collected by 
 Julien Tiersot (Ducloz, printer, Motitiers.)
 
 178 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 sing in Bcssanais not one time, but two or 
 three." 
 
 "Green Clapey" is the prairie whence came 
 the shepherds bringing to the Infant Jesus their 
 gifts of milk, eggs, cheese, chickens, white par- 
 tridges, a young lamb, and their hearts as well. 
 This field is above Bessans, and every one knows 
 it was there in a stable that the Virgin waa 
 brought to bed. 
 
 Melanie's voice was a trifle thin but it had an 
 agreeable quality, and above all a freshness to 
 which the fashionable singers I heard at Aix dur- 
 ing the season had entirely unaccustomed me. 
 Her youthful voice lingered over each finale with 
 a soft, sweet effect. Her reward was the look 
 that Etienne gave her. I had seen that same look 
 on his face during Mass at church, especially dur- 
 ing the Elevation of the Host. It must have been 
 that the music touched a sympathetic chord some- 
 where in his seminaristic soul. 
 
 Evening had fallen during the little family con- 
 cert. It comes quickly to these narrow valleys in 
 November. A last ray of light filtered in through 
 the windows, and fell on Melanie, who sat down 
 after the song. 
 
 I imagined that she had been especially de- 
 signated as the harbinger of peace in this tragic 
 house. I could now depart without fear of the 
 future. I was confident that nothing serious would 
 now occur. Etienne was bound to submit to the
 
 HAMLET'S BETROTHAL 179 
 
 yoke imposed by his lovely companion ; he would 
 no longer be haunted by the vision of his mur- 
 dered father; this time Ophelia would triumph 
 over Hamlet. This was the best solution after 
 all, for how could Etienne punish the murderer 
 without at the same time striking the murderer's 
 accomplice, his own mother? On the other hand, 
 here were murder and incest going unpunished, 
 and the criminals taking possession of the house, 
 for there was no doubt Benoit would in the end 
 take the place he had temporarily relinquished. 
 
 I left with mixed feelings of reassurance and 
 disgust, intending to spend the first night at 
 Lanslevillard, and proceed to Modane, where I 
 took the train for Chambery next day. 
 
 About Christmas, when I had expected news of 
 the marriage, I received a letter from Etienne ; it 
 revealed the boy's embarrassment and informed 
 me that the wedding had been postponed until 
 spring. His reason for writing was to ask me to 
 demand of his mother in writing the formalities 
 necessary for his legal emancipation. He wished 
 to take this step not so much for his own sake as 
 for that of Bina, who was just eighteen. The 
 idea was really absurd, as Etienne 's legal status 
 would remain practically unchanged. To me it 
 indicated simply his mental restlessness. 
 
 This letter gave the last blow to all my opti- 
 mism. Claude's son was once again the prey of 
 doubt and worry and suspicion. Separated from
 
 180 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 him as I was, I probably magnified his torment. 
 At any rate I did what he asked, and replied to 
 all his questions, slipping in at the end a few af- 
 fectionate remarks and compliments for Melanie. 
 
 I asked myself whether the wedding would 
 really take place in the spring! 
 
 When spring came, I was surprised by a visit 
 from Etienne, who entered my office followed by 
 a young woman who, I felt sure, must be his wife. 
 The two had evidently come to see me on their 
 honeymoon. But the woman was Eina, not Mela- 
 nie. Brother and sister stood before me without 
 opening their mouths. 
 
 "Well, Etienne, not married yet?" 
 
 "Oh no, Monsieur 1'Avocat. We've come to 
 say good-bye. You've been so good to us." 
 
 "Never mind my goodness. You're going 
 away? Both of you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "To Paris." 
 
 "Paris ! What are you going to do there? And 
 when are you returning?" 
 
 I was then reminded of another visit Jean- 
 Pierre's: both were made for the same reason. 
 The young people were leaving their home, at- 
 tempting to escape from the nightmare. I now 
 understood far better than before, the motives of 
 the old man's departure. If Etienne had come 
 to me alone I should perhaps have heard his con-
 
 HAMLET'S BETROTHAL 181 
 
 f ession, but the presence of the innocent Rina for- 
 bade any exchange of confidences. She could not 
 have known the truth, her face was so calm and 
 untroubled. In this instance she was blindly fol- 
 lowing her brother, submitting to his every wish. 
 
 It was incumbent upon me to ask further ques- 
 tions : 
 
 "I take it you both have religious vocations?" 
 
 " Maybe, Monsieur PAvocat." 
 
 ''Both of you?" 
 
 "Both of us." 
 
 I managed to learn that he was entering a Laz- 
 arist Foreign Missions Seminary, and she the 
 Novitiate in the Eue du Bac, where she would 
 eventually take the hood of a Sister of Mercy. 
 They had perfected their plans together during 
 the long winter evenings. The time Etienne had 
 spent at the Seminary had left a deep impression 
 upon him which had been strengthened by his 
 doubts and tribulations. The church was his 
 refuge, and into the church he was now leading 
 his sister, an unselfish, unreflecting girl. She 
 was grateful to her brother for taking the trouble 
 to plan her life for her. 
 
 They were both destined to go to China which 
 they heard a great deal about from missionaries, 
 who had either described it in letters or related 
 in person the magic wonders of the Far East. 
 
 Like Jean-Pierre, they too wished to set their 
 affairs in order before leaving. That explained
 
 182 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 Etienne 's desire for emancipation, as he believed 
 it would enable him to dispose of his property. 
 Actually, it could not annul his legal status as a 
 minor. Etienne, according to his grandfather's 
 last wishes, was owner of the greater part of the 
 family property. He and Bina wanted to leave 
 everything to Jean-Marie. 
 
 "At your death?" 
 
 "No. Eight now. We don't want to take any- 
 thing with us." 
 
 They felt that the money was tainted, that was 
 clear. 
 
 It was with some difficulty that I regularized 
 the last wishes of these emancipated minors. I 
 drew up a document by which they gave up all 
 claim to their property in favor of their younger 
 brother, and sent them to a notary to make out 
 the act in proper form. This would serve as a 
 basis for the long and complicated series of docu- 
 ments which was necessary because of the excep- 
 tional circumstances. Then I asked them both to 
 dinner, but they refused : they had not time before 
 the train left. Just as they were leaving I ad- 
 dressed Etienne: 
 
 "Well, Etienne, what about Melanie!" 
 
 My very natural question agitated him. Had 
 he hoped I would not ask! I knew it would cause 
 him a certain remorse, for it reminded him of hap- 
 piness lost at the moment he seemed about to 
 enjoy it
 
 HAMLET'S BETROTHAL 183 
 
 "Melanie" he began, lingering on the name as 
 if he were pronouncing a forbidden word for the 
 last time. 
 
 "She must be heart-broken, poor child I " 
 
 He protested : 
 
 "She doesn't want me. I explained." 
 
 What had he explained? Had he told her his 
 secret in order to justify breaking off the engage- 
 ment? Unthinkable. Melanie surely would have 
 trusted or even forgiven him without being told, 
 no matter what the effort cost her. She was one 
 of those women who allow their hearts to be torn 
 out rather than utter a complaint or a protest, 
 because they understand nothing but love. 
 
 "There may soon be another marriage up 
 there," he muttered between his teeth. 
 
 I guessed his meaning, and said no more. So 
 that was why he was going! 
 
 And I kissed these two as I had kissed their 
 grandfather. I would never see them again, I 
 meditated, and I alone knew the secret reason for 
 their vocation. 
 
 "Good-bye, Etienne good-by, Rina." I was 
 more deeply moved than I dared admit to myself. 
 I said little, for it was my duty to respect the 
 wishes of the young man who had decided not to 
 reveal the secret, the weight of which rested on 
 his shoulders alone. Indeed, it seemed, as the old 
 man had said, that those shoulders were not broad
 
 184 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 enough, and as though he were at last asking help 
 where help is never refused. 
 
 I watched brother and sister descend the stairs. 
 They too, like Jean-Pierre, were paying the price. 
 I turnd back and called to mind the great figure 
 of Christ on the cross at Bessans, his body bent 
 under the avalanche of human sorrow, but with 
 his head high.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IN THE CAVES OP THE AISNB 
 
 I HAD not been to Bessans for many years. 
 
 Some time after the departure of Etienne and 
 Rina I learned of the marriage of Maddalena and 
 Benoit. Nobody of course was surprised; the 
 two could not otherwise have continued to live 
 together under the same roof. It was, besides, a 
 matter of great practical convenience, as it put a 
 stop to village gossip, facilitated the handling of 
 the property which had not been divided and 
 enabled Jean-Marie to profit from Benoit 's in- 
 struction in matters of farm-management. The 
 peasant who brought me this news descanted at 
 great length on the many excellent reasons for 
 the marriage, and gave me the impression that 
 he was anxious to convince me of their validity. 
 
 So the murderer and his accomplice were living 
 their life together, unpunished, respected by the 
 community, rid at last of every member of the 
 household who might pass judgment on them, 
 accompanied only by one boy, the fruit possibly 
 of their guilty passion, a boy whose youth and 
 temperament prevented his inquiring too closely 
 into the past. As for myself, I could do nothing : 
 I could not accuse them without betraying the 
 secret of Jean-Pierre's sacrifice and that of 
 
 185
 
 186 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 Etienne and Rina. But I made up my mind not to 
 be a witness of their prosperity, or a party to it, 
 so I gave up my hunting lease at La Lombarde. 
 Henceforth I hunted with Vimines and Laval on 
 their preserves in the Dauphine on the shores of 
 Lake Lovitel. 
 
 Then came the War, overshadowing the drama 
 of the Couvert House, as it overshadowed many 
 another. As a result of one of those fortuitous 
 circumstances which seem foreordained and which 
 Joseph de Maistre would attribute to supernatu- 
 ral design, I was to meet during the struggle the 
 last descendant of Jean-Pierre, and through him 
 to witness the unexpected denouement of that 
 drama. 
 
 You will remember how after the military com- 
 plications of May and June, 1917, were ultimately 
 solved by the adoption of a unified command, the 
 armies were restored to their earlier morale, and 
 to confidence by the victories at Verdun and La 
 Malmaison. I had been attached to the Head- 
 quarters of the llth Corps then under the com- 
 mand of General Maud'huy and was present at 
 the taking of the Fort of La Malmaison. It was 
 there that I met Jean-Marie Couvert. It was so 
 natural, so providential, and at the same time so 
 strange. 
 
 Do I owe the extraordinary clarity of my im- 
 pressions on this occasion to that happy episode 
 of martial victory? 
 
 General Maud'huy had put me on his staff out
 
 IN THE CAVES OF THE AISNE 187 
 
 of pure friendship, because I had answered the 
 call to arms after the manner of the old tales of 
 chivalry, for I was an assiduous reader of Be- 
 dier's Legendes piques and knew by heart whole 
 passages of the Quatre fils Aymon and the Chan- 
 son de Roland. The general was also an en- 
 thusiast, loving as I did the old chansons de geste. 
 He was fond of quoting to me those parts of 
 the Quatre fils Aymon that treat of honor and 
 filial respect and the brotherhood of arms. He 
 took particular pleasure in telling of Tristan's 
 master who taught him never to tell a lie. 
 
 "That," he added, " explains the quality of his 
 love for Yseult." 
 
 He often took me with him on his tours of in- 
 spection. The moment the men caught sight of 
 the wiry little man, straight as an arrow, broad- 
 shouldered, precise, his pipe in his mouth, you 
 could feel every man thrill with the knowledge 
 that all was well. He chatted with his men with 
 the utmost freedom and good-humor, and dis- 
 tributed tobacco on all occasions. He must have 
 spent a fortune on that. A word from him, or a 
 gesture, brought gaiety to the most stolid soldiers, 
 for his word was the right word, and his gesture 
 the right gesture. He must have derived from 
 Merlin his power to transform the character and 
 spirit of places: at his coming the trenches as- 
 sumed an entirely new aspect. The secret of his 
 miraculous power lay, of course, in his heart.
 
 188 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 I was again with the General when he was 
 forced back along the edge of the Forest of Vil- 
 lers-Cotterets during the great German offensive 
 at the Aisne. He held the Forest. Had the enemy 
 managed to penetrate, it would have meant im- 
 mediate danger for Compiegne and a free road 
 to Paris. But whether in joy or anxiety, victory 
 or retreat, his magic charm never failed. He 
 might be worn out with fatigue and worry, but 
 his magnificent soul ever dominated the flesh. His 
 mind was as alert, and his soul as fresh and in- 
 spired, under the most adverse conditions. 
 Though he spoke to everybody he never confused 
 one man with another; he remembered the fea- 
 tures of everyone he saw. There were no anony- 
 mous units for him, only brothers-in-arms. "I 
 collect eyes," he told me on the eve of La Mal- 
 maison. "I have seen many since the beginning 
 of the War. I could write its history on the basis 
 of the eyes alone. There are the eyes of faith and 
 hope, that was at the beginning; eyes of infinite 
 anguish during the retreat from Sarrebourg; 
 triumphant eyes after the Marne, but with a touch 
 of gravity, expressing doubt as to the decisive 
 importance of the victory; indifferent eyes that 
 had seen the mud and misery of 1915 ; terrible and 
 determined eyes at Verdun those were the fierc- 
 est eyes of all; and eyes almost discouraged 
 by that tragic May of last year. But now I seem 
 to see ardent eyes that have had their faith re-
 
 IN THE CAVES OF THE AISNE 189 
 
 stored. La Malmaison and the Chemin des Dames 
 will be ours." 
 
 And he added a short quotation from one of 
 the innumerable books he had read : 
 
 "Do you remember, in War and Peace, that 
 page on Borodino? Prince Andre says to Peter 
 Bezhoukov: "Victory has never depended and 
 never will depend upon position, weapons, or num- 
 bers.' 'Upon what then does it depend?' 'It de- 
 pends upon my feelings and upon the feelings of 
 each soldier.' " 
 
 I took advantage of the General's amiable 
 humor to ask him a favor: 
 
 "I should like to see these feelings in opera- 
 tion, General. Will you allow me to observe at 
 first-hand?" 
 
 "If you promise you will do your best to come 
 back and tell me about it! With whom do you 
 want to march?" 
 
 "With the Chasseurs. There are doubtless a 
 number of Savoyards among them." 
 
 ' ' True. You want to be with your own people. 
 However the 4th Zouaves are going to attack the 
 Fort." 
 
 "Then I'll go with the 4th Zouaves. I know the 
 Commandant, Clermont-Tonnerre." 
 
 ' ' So you know Clermont ? ' ' 
 
 "I knew him before the War I did social work 
 with him. But you'll allow me to visit the Chas- 
 seurs before, won't you, General?"
 
 190 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 "Of course. I wish I were going with you! 
 But I must finish working out some details." 
 
 The General's Corps consisted of two Divisions, 
 the 38th, composed of sharpshooters and Zouaves, 
 and the 66th, Chasseur Battalions. It was the 
 business of this Corps to capture the Chemin des 
 Dames, which runs along the foot of the old dis- 
 mantled Fort of La Malmaison, and then to reach 
 the Ailette. The Chemin des Dames is a long 
 ridge with spurs shooting out from it at right- 
 angles ; it is very much like some animals with an 
 abnormally elongated back, and any number of 
 feet. Now this ridge, lying between the Aisne 
 and the Ailette, is a decidedly important mili- 
 tary obstacle, rendered doubly difficult by the con- 
 figuration of this part of the Laonnois, a region 
 of caves, abandoned quarries and huge subter- 
 ranean mushroom-beds, sometimes deep and wide 
 enough to hold an entire regiment. In order, 
 therefore, to conquer such terrain you must work 
 not only above but under the ground. 
 
 The dismantled Fort of La Malmaison domi- 
 nates the whole of that sloping plateau. The 
 Giraud Batallion of 4th Zouaves was to under- 
 take the attack. 
 
 "I'm going to call that post over there the 
 Josephine Post/' said Commandant. "Allow me 
 to invite you to tea.'* 
 
 "I accept with pleasure. " 
 
 The Zouaves were to be supported on the right
 
 IN THE CAVES OF THE AISNE 191 
 
 by a battalion of sharpshooters that would occupy 
 the Orme Farm, and by the 6th Battalion of 
 Chasseurs, operating against the Bois de Veau. 
 The Avricourt Cave on the Mont-sans-Pain Plat- 
 eau now served as a post for the staff of young 
 Colonel Besson commanding the 4th Zouaves, 
 which had fought at Montceau-les-Provins, Ypres, 
 Vaux-Chapitre, Douaumont, Louvemont and 
 Hurtebise. What glories do these names evoke! 
 Do they not alone equal the glories of the Grande 
 Armee! From Avricourt it was my intention to go 
 on the evening before the attack to the plateau 
 where the Hameret farm was situated, to the Cave 
 of Le Caid, and the Penguin Quarry, where the 
 6th Battalion was then stationed. Commandant 
 Frere, who was in command and too busy at the 
 time to receive me, turned me over to his adju- 
 tant, Captain 'Chalumeau. Together with him I 
 made the rounds, distributing the General's to- 
 bacco, and doing my best to encourage the men, 
 stationed everywhere in caves and grottoes. I in- 
 quired about my fellow-provincials and found a 
 good many of them. To these I was especially 
 generous. The volunteer Savoyard contingents 
 had been made into foot Chasseurs. As we 
 stopped before the quarters of one company, the 
 Captain answered my question: 
 
 "Savoyards? Only one here, I think, but he's 
 a good one. Little Convert. " 
 
 "Jean-Marie Couvert from Bessans in the 
 Maurienne?"
 
 192 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 * * Do yon know him ? We '11 have him called. ' ' 
 
 While one of the men went off to find Jean- 
 Marie, the Captain, whom I had thought a rather 
 stolid and indifferent type, gave me an example 
 of " spiritual paternity," that intimate relation- 
 ship between officer and man which is the glory of 
 our Army. 
 
 "So little Convert is a compatriot. Then he 
 shan't go.'* 
 
 "Has he done anything wrong, Captain?" 
 
 * ' On the contrary, I am well pleased with him. 
 He's the life and soul of the Company, or rather 
 was. He was a happy, rollicking boy, clever as 
 the devil with his hands; he's as good at carving 
 canes and making aluminum rings as he is at clip- 
 ping barbed wire or throwing hand-grenades ; he 
 cooks better than anybody else, sings songs of 
 his native district, and by George, he can wiggle 
 his ears and forehead besides! He's a real trea- 
 sure. I don't know what the men would do without 
 him." 
 
 My companion could not help realizing the 
 pleasure he gave me by his description of Jean- 
 Marie. It was, you see, a portrait of Claude. The 
 resemblance between father and son was unmis- 
 takable. There was not a trace of Benoit. No, 
 that idea was preposterous. 
 
 "A first-rate soldier, then," I said. 
 
 "Yes, but now he's altogether changed. I
 
 IN THE CAVES OF THE AISNE 193 
 
 hardly recognise him. He seems worried, sad, 
 touchy. He speaks to nobody. I asked him if 
 he were sick, and even had him examined. There 
 was nothing the matter : he was simply a changed 
 man. I can't explain it. He now volunteers 
 asks to be sent on the most dangerous missions. 
 To-night, for instance, he is one of a patrol sent 
 out to explore the Casse-tete trench. 
 
 "Well, the boy has nerve." 
 
 "My dear friend, soldiers don't usually go out 
 of their way to look for danger. When you're 
 facing death, death all the time, there's no need in 
 pressing the point. No, something's happened to 
 the boy we don't know what. I've questioned 
 him, but he won't answer. You've known him 
 for so long, try to find out what's the matter. I'm 
 immensely fond of him, I couldn't ask for a better 
 courier. I'm going to send him to-morrow to La 
 Malmaison in order to be sure that our advance 
 synchronizes with that of the Zouaves." 
 
 "To the Fort? I may be there myself I knew 
 the boy very well when he was a great deal 
 younger. How long ago did this change take 
 place?" 
 
 "Since his last leave, not long ago. He came 
 back before his time was up. As a rule, you know, 
 the boys return in the pink of perfection. He was 
 in the dumps. A love affair ? Had his girl thrown 
 him over while he was away? Such things will 
 happen. Good Lord, I don't see why they should
 
 194, THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 attach so much importance to these little affairs T 
 One woman's about the same as another, don't 
 you think!" 
 
 I saw I was dealing with a philosopher to whom 
 sentimental complications meant very little. I 
 thought of another reason for Jean-Marie's sor- 
 row, but I didn't care to mention it. I was now 
 more anxious than ever to see him and ask him 
 questions. I wondered if I would recognise him. 
 Years had passed since I last hunted in the Mauri- 
 enne, three of which were the dark years of war. 
 My last view of him was at the betrothal of his 
 brother Etienne; he was merely a boy then; I 
 would now find him a grown man. I wondered 
 how he would react to any advances I might make. 
 Would he remember the friend of his grandfather, 
 his father, and his elder brother? Would he be 
 communicative, or silent; cordial, or indifferent? 
 
 The cave in which a part of the battalion was 
 massed is so far underground that you can hardly 
 hear a concerted artillery action above. It was 
 divided by nature into a number of separate com- 
 partments, and lighted by an improvised electric 
 plant. Here lived a seething horde of men, wait- 
 ing for orders: Chasseurs, engineers, pioneers, 
 stretcher-bearers. Some were playing cards, some 
 eating with that proverbial appetite of the soldier 
 who is always ready to absorb food as if to com- 
 pensate himself for the days when there is none ; 
 some slept, others wrote letters by the light of
 
 IN THE CAVES OF THE AISNE 195 
 
 small flickering candles. Before me spread out 
 that vast conglomeration of men living a common 
 life, safe in the depths of a cave where one could 
 at least draw a long breath, although the air was 
 scarcely breathable. That there was anguish in 
 the breasts of these men could not be doubted, 
 but there was no evidence of it. The most terrible 
 part, to a sensitive man, was the impossibility of 
 being alone. In war there are no individuals : or 
 rather, the battalion is the only individual. The 
 soldier eats, sleeps, plays, thinks, fights, dies in 
 company with his fellow soldiers. No one, liter- 
 ally, can call his life his own, nor his thoughts, 
 nor his love. I looked into these young faces with 
 mingled feelings of pity and affection. "Which of 
 us was sure to be alive on the morrow? 
 
 I heard my name spoken and turning round I 
 saw Jean-Marie Couvert. I flashed my little elec- 
 tric torch into his face and .was immediately 
 struck by the unmistakable resemblance to his 
 father. He was as like Claude in the flesh as in the 
 spirit as I was able to judge from the Captain's 
 description of him. My pleasure at this discovery 
 was so evident and my greeting so cordial that 
 the young man immediately unbent. I began by 
 recalling the happy scenes at Bessans and at our 
 chalet in the mountains. I then referred to mat- 
 ters nearer his heart: 
 
 "And wh,at's happened to Etienne? Is he in 
 the army!"
 
 196 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 "No, Lieutenant, he was refused." 
 
 "Refused, one of our fine healthy Savoyards!" 
 
 "On account of his lungs. At least, that's what 
 they said. They didn't really want him. He went 
 to China afterward. 
 
 "A missionary ?" 
 
 "Yes, Lieutenant to Tientsin. My sister 
 Rina went with him. She 's in the hospital there." 
 
 "Do you hear from them?" 
 
 "Sometimes, Lieutenant. They're pretty far 
 away." 
 
 He accompanied this last statement with a 
 vague gesture as if to explain that one had no 
 right to expect news from people who live at the 
 other end of the world. The boy seemed to con- 
 sider that his brother and sister had definitely 
 gone out of his life. Jean-Marie spoke with that 
 ease of manner which is characteristic of the 
 Maurienne peasants, particularly the inhabitants 
 of the Haute-Maurienne, who own property and 
 are proudly conscious of their independence. But 
 he had neither the education nor the intelligence 
 of his elder brother. It was therefore not to be 
 expected that he would concern himself with the 
 family drama. Besides, Claude's murder was so 
 long ago. I made a rapid mental calculation: it 
 was eight years ago the ten years necessary to 
 outlaw the crime had not yet elapsed. Why should 
 I bother about it? The past was the past, I had
 
 IN THE CAVES OF THE AISNE 197 
 
 no business thinking of it. I then asked about 
 the others: 
 
 "And what of your grandfather ? " 
 "I don't know anything about him." 
 "Is he still alive and at Hautecombe ? " 
 "I think so." 
 
 "He must be going on seventy-five? does he 
 write you?" 
 "Never." 
 
 "Are you sure he's not dead?" 
 "Oh, we'd know that, Lieutenant." 
 But the old man was dead so far as everyone 
 else was concerned. He had given up his posses- 
 sions ; he no longer counted. He had himself un- 
 derstood this, and gave no sign of life: he had 
 willingly, knowingly, buried himself among the 
 Princes of the House of Savoy. 
 
 There was one more question I wanted to ask, 
 a question affecting two people that I had kept 
 to the last. It was a natural question, and I 
 asked it in a perfunctory way: 
 "And how is your mother, Jean-Marie?" 
 "Mama," he said, as if that single word were a 
 reply in itself. 
 
 He was not in a mood for conversation. Per- 
 haps, facing death as he was and appearing to 
 wish it, he had determined not to try to dissimu- 
 late anything. Poor boy, he didn't know how 
 unerringly that silence had betrayed his secret. 
 He too knew, and it was impossible for him to
 
 198 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 speak of his mother ; he had learned the truth on 
 the occasion of his last leave, from which he had 
 returned a " changed man." Like his elder 
 brother he was faced with the horrible truth, and 
 again like Etienne he was torn between duty and 
 filial reticence. The tragedy of Hamlet was be- 
 ginning all over again. 
 
 How had he learned the secret? Had he, like 
 Etienne, spied upon the criminals, or had the 
 light suddenly been revealed to him through their 
 carelessness, by one of those imprudent blunders 
 that even "the cleverest criminals" cannot avoid 
 making! I inclined to the opinion that the discov- 
 ery was instantaneous, made probably on the oc- 
 casion of his unexpected return on leave. I was 
 not to learn this until later, and then not fully, 
 but my surmise was in the main correct. I felt 
 sorry for Jean-Marie, believing that I had no 
 right to allow him to perceive my own anxiety. He 
 must not think that I knew the secret. 
 
 Or maybe I was wrong, that I had misinter- 
 preted his silence? It may have been no more 
 than resentment toward his mother for re-marry- 
 ing, or anger at what he considered an intrusion 
 on the part of his stepfather. Or finally, there 
 may have been a quarrel over some question of 
 property. It is always easy to find explanations, 
 and as I have often said, every event presents 
 two aspects. 
 
 But I dared not mention Benoit, and brought
 
 IN THE CAVES OF THE AISNE 199 
 
 the conversation back to commonplaces, asking 
 Jean-Marie whether he were in need of tobacco, 
 brandy, or cash. He deigned to accept, as a favor 
 the proud Mauriennais a few bars of choco- 
 late. As he was about to go I laid an affectionate 
 hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "Now listen to me, my dear boy. I was your 
 father's friend, and your grandfather's. If you 
 need a friend, you may count on me, always." 
 
 "Thanks, Lieutenant. I don't need anything." 
 
 "You never can tell. Well, you'll do your duty 
 all right, I know. But you'll be careful, won't 
 you?" 
 
 On whose behalf could I ask it? You ordinarily 
 ask a young man to be careful for his mother's 
 sake, but could I do this with Jean-Marie? 
 
 "You're not engaged to anyone in Bessans, are 
 you?" 
 
 "No, Lieutenant." 
 
 "Too bad. Well, you'll marry when the war's 
 over. You'll be a wealthy proprietor. You know, 
 that was what your brother and sister wanted." 
 
 I was doing my best to interest him in life, but 
 he made no reply. As I could think of nothing 
 more to say, I turned to go. 
 
 "There may be one thing you can do, Lieu- 
 tenant." 
 
 "I'll be glad to do it." 
 
 "A letter for Etienne."
 
 200 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 He took from his pocket a letter which was 
 sealed and addressed. 
 
 "Send it to China? Certainly. It'll go sooner 
 if I send it with Headquarters mail." 
 
 "No, not that. It's to be sent only in case of 
 accident. ' ' 
 
 "I understand. I'll keep it for you. And I 
 hope there will be no accidents. A mountaineer 
 like you ought to know how to avoid accidents. 
 However, I may meet with one before you." 
 
 And again he made a vague gesture. 
 
 The letter was evidently his will. I tried not 
 to attach too great importance to his presenti- 
 ment, and shook his hand nonchalantly. 
 
 "Good-bye. I may see you at La Malmaison 
 tomorrow, if you go with your battalion." 
 
 He gave me a searching glance, saluted, and 
 turned away. Yes, he had Jean-Pierre's eyes, 
 and Etienne's; just then they reminded me of 
 the two occasions on which the others had bade 
 me good-bye they were full of determination, il- 
 luminated by an inner light. I had kissed the 
 others, why had I not kissed the last, who was per- 
 haps about to embark on a more distant journey? 
 
 "Well?" asked the Captain. 
 
 "A fine boy. Keep your eye on him; he'll go 
 anywhere if you'll let him." 
 
 "I know, but without his old light-hearted- 
 ness." 
 
 "You can't always be gay." 
 
 "Of course not. It's too bad, though."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 LA MALMAISON 
 
 As I left the cave to join the Zouaves on the 
 Mont-sans-Pain Plateau, the evening shadows had 
 begun to hide the already overcast day. The 
 slopes of the Chemin des Dames, to-morrow's ob- 
 jective, looked like phantoms. I could scarcely 
 distinguish the outlines of the old fort on the hill. 
 A Y-shaped tree, dear to the heart of artillery- 
 men who used it in calculating ranges, helped 
 me to make out its position. I knew that the 
 first three lines of German trenches which we 
 called Casse-tete, Liebnitz, and Carabine would 
 have to be taken before we could reach the ditches 
 round the fort. I scanned every part of this 
 territory, now almost dark in the approaching 
 evening: yonder was Laon, and beyond that Me- 
 zieres and the Meuse, the last of the occupied 
 zone. Ah, what if we should be able to catch 
 sight next day of the towers of Laon Cathedral ! 
 
 Our artillery boomed incessantly. Overhead I 
 heard the constant whirring of our shells. The 
 German answer to this cannonade was not so 
 
 regular, but it was deadly poisonous. 
 
 201
 
 S03 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 "We'll have to put on our masks, Lieutenant," 
 said the Zouave who was with me. 
 
 The enemy were using that burning gas that 
 eats into the eyes and skin. A company of masked 
 men passed us on the road. They looked dia- 
 bolic in their Tissot tube masks. The country 
 we were passing through was a haunted region 
 full of evil omens. But what were the sorceries 
 of old compared with the accursed inventions of 
 man! 
 
 In order to reach the post at Avricourt we 
 had to pass through the cut of the Intendance, 
 a spot constantly under enemy fire. Parts of 
 this had even caved in. It ran down a steep and 
 difficult slope just where our manoauvres were 
 to be made on the morrow, and the wounded cared 
 for. 
 
 The Avricourt post, hardly 500 meters behind 
 the front, was an abandoned quarry. Two com- 
 panies now occupied it: Engineers, the Head- 
 quarters staff (including couriers) telephone op- 
 erators the usual personnel. And of course the 
 stretcher-bearers. They were all crowded into 
 that narrow pit. At night the fighting units must 
 effect their formations there as well. 
 
 I watched the men as the General addressed 
 to them a few quiet words: "You are the Victors 
 of Douaumont, you will be the Victors of La Mal- 
 maison. " There was no doubt of this in the men's 
 minds. They had been given the fort, it was
 
 LA MALMAISON 203 
 
 theirs. They would be victors, but not all of them. 
 This is what they think, though the thought is 
 not translated into words. As the hour ap- 
 proaches they chat idly and make their last 
 preparations. 
 
 A regiment, like a nation, is composed of the 
 living and the dead. It has its tradition as well 
 as its flag. But this is a regiment among regi- 
 ments it is unique. Composed of Algerians at 
 the beginning of the "War, it now comprises 
 Zouaves from every province of France and Al- 
 geria. But they are always Zouaves. When they 
 are not in action, they proudly wear their dis- 
 tinctive chechias, lending vivid touches of red 
 when lighted by the electricity of the caves. 
 
 I make haste to join Lieutenant-Colonel Besson, 
 a wonderful officer, a man of calm demeanor with 
 a great heart, and a great expert in the art of 
 military operations. His adjutant, Major de Cler- 
 mont-Tonnerre, is a man who exerts moral influ- 
 ence through courtesy and a soft persuasive man- 
 ner, which never deserts him even in the most 
 critical moments. At Hurtebise he was seen tak- 
 ing back into battle a number of his men who had 
 just been relieved, with the same calm assurance 
 and serenity as always ! 
 
 Here too was the Chaplain, little Pere Joyeux, 
 thin and sickly, with hardly a body at all, only 
 a soul. 
 
 In a small room lighted with miners' acetylene
 
 204 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 lamps, General Giraud is in conference with his 
 staff. It is his particular job to take the fort. 
 A long plank supported by saw-horses is his 
 table, and on this is spread out the map, fastened 
 down with thumb-tacks. Behind the officers is 
 a large mirror, brought there by no one knows 
 whom, which reflects the cavernous room to end- 
 less lengths. 
 
 I sit back a little, not to be in the way, and 
 study the heads. I suppose I acquired my in- 
 terest in eyes from the Major. He stands up to 
 explains his plans to the others He is a tall, spare 
 man with steel-blue eyes; a man whose military 
 exploits have already become legendary. He was 
 wounded at Guise early in the war, and left for 
 dead on the field of battle, but managed by a 
 superhuman effort to escape death and capture. 
 
 I wonder who is the youngest. Marasquin, who 
 leads the pioneers, or De Champfeu, the cavalry 
 officer with eyes darting fire? I had been told 
 about his arrival in the regiment last year, in 
 time for the engagement on the 16th of April. 
 
 He came to the Colonel, who said: "You've 
 arrived sooner than we expected. We're attack- 
 ing tomorrow ; the posts are full. You will there- 
 fore take charge of the Divisional Depot, and I'll 
 call you at the first vacancy." 
 
 "You are attacking tomorrow and you want me 
 to take charge of the Divisional Depot? Colo- 
 nel, I come of a race of soldiers. Look at me:
 
 LA MALMAISON 205 
 
 of course you don't know me, but look. Don't ask 
 me to do anything like that." The Colonel took 
 him. 
 
 Among these men is a second lieutenant who 
 might well be their grandfather Villebois-Mare- 
 uil, a man of nearly sixty. He took the place 
 of Second-Lieutenant Trincart, who was sixty- 
 four; he was actually called grandfather by the 
 regiment. He had served in 1870, and was killed 
 at La Lizerne, near Ypres, in May, 1915. Ville- 
 bois-Mareuil, cousin of the famous Colonel of the 
 same name who fell in the Transvaal, enlisted as 
 a stretcher-bearer, but determined to enter the 
 ranks. He was satisfied with his lot, and always 
 smiled like a great lord in his chateau. He has 
 the dignity of age and the knowledge that death 
 is not far off. 
 
 He now listens calmly, without entering the 
 discussion. Champfeu, on the other hand, cannot 
 restrain his excitement. The group is a Rem- 
 brandt picture in chiaroscuro : each face is lighted 
 by a small lamp they are eager faces, taut faces, 
 faces full of determination and gravity, faces that 
 express submission to the decrees of fate. 
 
 Toward midnight the two companies set out to 
 take their positions preparatory to the attack. 
 I go out a moment: the rain is falling, and the 
 constant fire of our batteries has changed to a 
 furious uproar. The night is rent by a terrific can- 
 nonading, and the sky is a mass of lightning.
 
 206 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 The enemy is comparatively inactive: onr men 
 will suffer small losses in entering the trenches. 
 The post seems deserted. Orders ring out sharply, 
 but there is nothing for us to do but wait. We 
 chat together. Major Giraud, who does not join 
 his battalion until 12.50 A.M., tells us about his 
 escape. 
 
 He lay for a time wounded at Charleroi, with a 
 bullet in his lung, and was later carried to a 
 neighboring town. The German doctor who 
 treated him, a Major in the Medical Corp, ap- 
 peared to show a friendly interest, so Giraud 
 asked him to send a letter to his wife, promising 
 that it would contain no details, nothing but per- 
 sonal news of himself. The envelope would of 
 course be unsealed. The Major at first refused. 
 "If I were in your place I'd do the same for you," 
 said the wounded man. "Ah, yes, you gallant 
 Frenchmen!" The next day the German hands 
 the Frenchman an envelope addressed to Giraud 's 
 wife. "This will reach her. Put your letter in 
 it." The wounded man did so, and the doctor 
 asked him to seal the envelope. 
 
 The letter arrived a month later. 
 
 "Yes," continues the narrator, "it arrived. 
 The papers announced my death! But my wife 
 refused to believe it. 'Have they seen his body?* 
 she asked. 'Mortally wounded' was the report. 
 'That is not sufficient for me.' She had faith, 
 you see."
 
 LA MALMAISON 207 
 
 He speaks in a far-off voice, as if he were in 
 reality a ghost. This persistent refusal to accept 
 death was common in our homes, but how often 
 was fate so kind to others as it had been with 
 Giraud? 
 
 In the village near Guise he had been cared for 
 by the mayor's daughter who had gradually col- 
 lected for him sufficient clothes to dress him in 
 a tramp's outfit. One night he said to her: "I'm 
 ready now. You promised me the key." She 
 hesitates, afraid, and tries to prevent his going, 
 but ends by giving him the key. He manages to 
 escape, making his way at last as a tinker to 
 Saint-Quentin, whence he believes he will have 
 little difficulty in crossing the lines; but since 
 Charleroi there has been the Marne, and sea-fight- 
 ing, and trench warfare. There is no passing now 
 at any point between the Vosges and the Channel. 
 He must go north into Belgium. 
 
 This he did, acting all the while his part of 
 jack-of-all trades sometimes a groom, sometimes 
 an accountant, sometimes a charcoal-burner, and 
 once as a clown. At length he crossed the Dutch 
 border, returning to France six months later. 
 Such is the man who is to capture La Malmaison. 
 He stands up : an hour has slipped by unperceived 
 during the recital of his adventures. The Colonel 
 kisses him as he leaves, and the two embrace 
 a quick manly embrace. 
 
 "I'll be with you shortly," I told him.
 
 208 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 "The Josephine post is waiting for us. Tea is 
 served." 
 
 Toward three in the morning, after a light 
 breakfast of sardines and jam for we are all 
 hungry and food restores the spirits I set out 
 with the Major who is on his way to address his 
 battalion. We make our way up above the quarry. 
 The German batteries have shifted their fire di- 
 rectly upon that point : a terrific fire, as severe as 
 during the worst days at Verdun. Their shells 
 rake the whole terrain between the Mont-sans- 
 Pain Plateau and our front-line trenches. It 
 seems as though the enemy were aware of our 
 intended attack. Our losses will be heavy. And 
 what of the influence upon our morale ? It would 
 be impossible to pass through the cut now filled 
 with soldiers in order to reach the trenches. We 
 must scale the parapet. We make our way slowly 
 forward, throwing ourselves flat on the ground 
 every time a shell explodes. We are lucky to 
 escape with no more than a shower of earth and 
 stones. 
 
 One of the men ahead of me falls his head 
 blown to pieces. A quick groan that is all. 
 Another groan behind me a shoulder wound and 
 the man turns back. There is a dull sensation in 
 one of my arms ; by an incredible freak of chance 
 it is only a stone. I feel at once for my portfolio. 
 What would happen to Jean-Marie's letter if an 
 accident occurred? I meant to have left it at the
 
 LA MALMAISON 209 
 
 post, but I forgot. The boy had absolute faith 
 in me, and I had neglected to keep my promise. 
 Well, he'll come back safe and so will I, and I'll 
 return his will to him. One always thinks of 
 others' danger, never of one's own, such is the 
 tenacity of our desire to live. But is this a will? 
 What can he have written to his brother? The 
 family secret is perhaps in this envelope, and I 
 shall never know it through any direct confession, 
 or learn it by any witness. 
 
 Making my way through the darkness torn by 
 sudden flashes, under a continuous hail of steel 
 and earth, and occasionally stumbling over the 
 dead, is an occupation that requires every atom 
 of my attention. Here are the three lines of 
 trenches. My eyes, at last accustomed to the 
 darkness, can just make out the long lines of 
 earth. Our men are there, packed one against 
 another, silent, moveless. No knapsacks are car- 
 ried they are too heavy for quick movement 
 but round his body each man carries a musette, 
 provided with food and hand-grenades which give 
 him a silhouette like a lozenge. From time to 
 time a star-shell goes up from the German lines, 
 showing in every detail the picture of our ex- 
 pectant soldiers. Some of them fasten their eyes 
 upon the intermittently appearing objective, the 
 filigree ruins standing above the line of the ho- 
 rizon; but for the most part the men seem indif- 
 ferent, concerned only in finding the least un-
 
 210 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 comfortable resting positions. Leaning against 
 the earth embankments, bent down, or even lying 
 on top of each other, they doze for a moment or 
 two. An occasional word is spoken, but there is 
 no conversation. Everyone does his own think- 
 ing, though he is quite willing to receive physical 
 support from his comrade. There is no single 
 isolated being; this Battalion is one, and from its 
 oneness each individual takes his courage and 
 his strength. 
 
 In this multifarious assembly I catch sight of 
 the Chaplain as well as Captain Champfeu, im- 
 patiently champing his bit. He is standing up- 
 right on the parapet, as if the shells falling round 
 us were not intended for him. Louis de Clermont- 
 Tonnerre is looking for the faces of comrades, the 
 men who love him. He then returns to his post 
 at the Colonel's side. 
 
 It is 5.05; Major Giraud rises to his feet. I 
 am surprised when I look at my watch: it can't 
 be so late! The Major looks over the parapet. 
 The men standing beside him think this is the 
 signal, and a telepathic message goes along the 
 line. "Not yet," says the Major, and quietly the 
 men resume their positions. 
 
 What was he looking at? The day is long in 
 coming, the night is still pitch black, and a fine 
 drizzle is falling. It will be difficult to advance 
 in the dark, and infinite precautions must be taken
 
 LA MALMAISON 211 
 
 to keep the proper formation, but the march will 
 be slow that has been arranged for. 
 
 5 :15. This time the hour has come. Again the 
 tall Major rises and at once without a spoken 
 word everyone is ready. And then going over ! 
 It's not what one imagines it: a headlong rush to 
 victory. It is a simple and quiet affair. Yon 
 must first make your way as best you can up the 
 little steps leading to the parapet. Many soldiers 
 mount it either at a leap or by hoisting each other 
 up. Then you rather guess than see a thousand 
 shadows, regular links in an endless chain, swarm- 
 ing over and forming ranks on the top. There is 
 not a work spoken, as amid bursting shells the 
 men begin their orderly march. With their gro- 
 tesque burdens they look like peasants setting out 
 for a fair before daybreak. Or hardly that : theirs 
 is the tranquillity and calculated order of some 
 sacred ceremony. There is no hesitation as they 
 fall into formation the moment they clear the 
 parapet. Occasionally a man is hit he utters a 
 groan and falls. A matter of small importance, 
 provided it does not retard the advance of the 
 whole body. 
 
 Slowly objects begin to emerge from the sha- 
 dows of night, which has concealed the perfect 
 order of the march, its method and carefully 
 planned maneuvering. Now, a few steps away, I 
 catch sight of the long line and the close-packed 
 columns. The star-shells cast their reflections on
 
 212 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 the steel helmets, masses of which suddenly sink 
 into the earth and as suddenly emerge: men 
 marching through shell-holes. This quiet, per- 
 sistent orderly march is the attack. 
 
 The rain has stopped, but will the sun ever 
 rise? Why the devil couldn't we have had clear 
 weather ! Over this scarred and battered terrain, 
 full of shell-holes and pits, the Zouaves advance 
 just behind the barrage, with the regularity of 
 clock-work. From time to time a muffled "go 
 easy!" from the officers restrains a man who is 
 in too great a hurry. You can't go ahead of your 
 artillery. 
 
 "We send up no star-shells. The advance is a 
 little retarded by the darkness ; men stumble. It 
 is almost impossible to do anything under the 
 heavy bombardment, but after an advance of two 
 or three hundred meters the rain of shells is not 
 quite so heavy. 
 
 We gain the Casse-tete trench, already de- 
 stroyed by our fire ; the entire first line is now no 
 doubt in our hands. The Leibnitz is also almost 
 totally demolished; there again we find little op- 
 position. But the enemy has placed sharp-shoot- 
 ers in shell-holes and our Zouaves are attacked 
 from the rear. But we continue our advance with- 
 out turning round. A special company has been 
 detailed to clear out the sharp-shooters' nests. 
 
 The Germans now send up a continuous stream 
 of red star-shells. They frantically signal their
 
 LA MALMAISON 213 
 
 own artillery to shorten range in order to pro- 
 tect them from the oncoming assault. Their 
 luminous signals appear and disappear, the grace- 
 ful arcs meeting and crossing in the air. To our 
 right we see green signals. Meantime our fire 
 is directed upon the Fort incendiary shells that 
 burst into red flames, behind which the ruined 
 Fort is seen looming out of the blackness. The 
 Fort is now a perfect objective. A regiment of 
 Moroccan Colonials, marching in our direction, 
 supports the left, while the Chasseurs come up on 
 the right. The Zouaves, holding the center, push 
 relentlessly forward. 
 
 The mad mingling of signals, bursting incen- 
 diary shells, and the first rays of dawn make a 
 soul-stirring picture. To the booming of artillery, 
 the tick-tack of sharp-shooters and the cries of 
 the wounded, the attacking body steadily advances. 
 
 At the Carabine trench, just at the foot of the 
 Fort, there is determined resistance. This is 
 soon overcome and the attack on the Fort begins. 
 The men are so near that they are unable to dis- 
 tinguish the component parts of the Fort: La 
 Malmaison to the men just below it, is merely a 
 blot in the surrounding darkness. Isolated in 
 this way, it is easily defended. These difficulties 
 have naturally been foreseen and the battalion 
 begins maneuvering. It is first necessary to take 
 the ruined outer walls, then the turrets, then the 
 inner walls. The Fort itself once taken, it is still
 
 314 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 necessary to descend into the caves, the dun- 
 geons, wherever sharp-shooters might be sta- 
 tioned. 
 
 The two companies ahead, followed by a com- 
 pany of sharp-shooters, having surrounded the 
 Fort to the east and west, now march through 
 the breeches made by our heavy guns. The first 
 man to enter the breech was a peasant from Poi- 
 tou, called Barre. He was a married Reservist, 
 a quiet fellow, who never sought adventure, one 
 of those level-headed men who was quite willing 
 to keep in line during the advance. 
 
 There is some fighting inside the Fort. Six or 
 eight German sharp-shooters have been stationed 
 here and there, and threaten, serious trouble. The 
 rapidity of our attack, however, has taken them 
 unawares and they are soon put out of business. 
 
 "Six o'clock. "At six I will be master of the 
 Fort" was what the Major had promised. And 
 at six he was master of the Fort. He starts to 
 send up the tri-color star-shell which was the 
 signal agreed upon, but the fuse fails to work. A 
 Zouave mounts the wall end plants on it the tri- 
 color flag, while the following message is sig- 
 naled: Objective attained. The news is received 
 at Avricourt and sent thence by telephone and 
 wireless from post to post, to the division, the 
 Corps, and then to General Headquarters. Finally 
 it reaches Paris and is flashed to all of France. 
 
 The Division airman, at six o'clock sharp, flies
 
 LA MALMAISON 215 
 
 over the Fort and makes his observations on the 
 new post. The sun rises at last over the Fort 
 with its little flag floating in the breeze, while 
 the airplane describes great circles overhead. 
 
 In the distance we catch sight of the towers of 
 Laon Cathedral. 
 
 The taking of La Malmaison was only one epi- 
 sode in a battle that was fought all the way be- 
 tween the Moulin de Laffaux and La Eoyne. But 
 it was an indication of victory, a hard and bloody 
 victory won by the right wing, including the 
 Zouaves, the Sharp-shooters and the Chasseurs. 
 Our losses were heavy. We soon had particu- 
 lars on the casualties among officers: Villebois- 
 Mareuil was killed during the march ; Marasquin, 
 too, though I thought he had only been wounded; 
 Champfeu stationed his sharp-shooters at the 
 Fort, but immediately after he was showered by 
 shells and fell wounded in the thigh and head. I 
 had seen him as they carried him off. He raised 
 himself on his elbow and turned to me : 
 
 "That was a first-rate attack, wasn't it?" 
 
 The other battalions were to go beyond the 
 Fort and take the Many farm, a key position for 
 the taking of the village of Chavignon. Every- 
 thing was well with the Colonial regiment next 
 to us. Things were not so well with the Chasseurs 
 at our right. They had had a hard time of it at 
 first defending the Pantheon and Bovette caverns, 
 and later had met with stout resistance at the
 
 216 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 Bois de Veau. In the 6th Regiment Major Frere 
 had been wounded, and despite his tremendous 
 energy had been forced to pass on his command 
 to Captain Chalumeau. Major de Bellegarde of 
 the 46th was killed outright. 
 
 Toward four in the afternoon two Chasseurs 
 arrived at the post. Jean-Marie was one of them. 
 They delivered by word of mouth the orders which 
 the General had not dared to commit to writing, 
 as the couriers would have to pass through a zone 
 that was still disputed. While they were waiting 
 to rejoin their corps I talked with Jean-Marie. 
 
 "You see, it is possible to avoid accidents." 
 
 "Yes, Lieutenant." 
 
 The boy's expression was hard, and his features 
 contracted. 
 
 "Do you want me to give you your letter?" 
 
 "It isn't worth while." 
 
 The battle was not yet over. I did not dare 
 question the boy regarding the contents of the 
 letter, but I was trying to draw some statement 
 from him. I imagined that it might be some con- 
 solation to him if he were to confide in me. I 
 soon learned, however, that he would never do 
 so, and we chatted about Bessans, the chalet, 
 and hunting. 
 
 "I am going to take you hunting with me after 
 the war." 
 
 He smiled, wishing to make himself agreeable.
 
 LA MALMAISON 217 
 
 I could utter nothing but commonplaces in the 
 presence of this man who wanted to die. 
 
 After a moment he and his comrade were sum- 
 moned to receive the oral instructions they were 
 to take back. The two men then made off in the 
 direction of the Bois de Veau, at that time full 
 of sharp-shooters and ambuscades. 
 
 The dark red sun dipped down to the horizon 
 and threw into ghastly relief all the irregularities 
 of the ground. I could not help praying for dark- 
 ness to envelop and protect the two little Chas- 
 seurs. 
 
 The Chasseur Battalion had tenaciously re- 
 newed their attack on the German Imperial 
 Guards. On the 25th of October they routed the 
 enemy, took Pargny-Filain and reached the Ail- 
 ette. I asked news of Private Convert of the 6th 
 Battalion : he was " missing," not having returned 
 to La Malmaison. 
 
 His body was found in the Bois de Veau. I 
 was present when he was identified. His breast 
 and abdomen were riddled by sharp-shooters * bul- 
 lets; there was no mark on his face, only mud, 
 and his eyes were wide open. I could not close 
 them. 
 
 So Jean-Marie had gone on a longer journey 
 than had his grandfather or his elder brother. 
 Like them he had secretly, silently, done his part 
 in atoning for the family crime. On both the oc- 
 casions when I had met him in the cave by the
 
 218 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 Aisne and at La Malmaison he had had no desire 
 to live; he had determined upon sacrificing his 
 life. Poor boy I He had even more conrage than 
 his superiors and comrades imagined, for he had 
 faced the horror of crime in his own family. It 
 was that that he had not cared to survive. 
 
 When I returned to Headquarters General 
 Maud'Huy summoned me at once. 
 
 "Well, Charlieu, how ahout the eyesf " 
 
 "Eyes of faith, General, eyes of hope, of sor- 
 row, and of love." 
 
 "Sorrow!'* 
 
 "That, too, General" 
 
 The General had the heart of a father, and 
 could readily understand. He did not question 
 me further, and left me to my own thoughts. 
 
 I saw once again the unclosed eyes of Jean- 
 Marie; eyes of sorrow, yes, but of love as well, 
 of the greatest love, of the love that redeems.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 BENOIT AND MADDALENA 
 
 I SENT Jean-Marie's will to Father Etienne 
 Convert, Lazarist at Tien-tsin, together with 
 every detail I was able to learn not only of the 
 lad's death bnt of his life as a Chasseur; some 
 personal reminiscences of his officers and com- 
 rades, and his military citation. I was nnable 
 to send the packet until nearly a month after the 
 battle : the delay was dne to my having to collect 
 this material and being suddenly ordered to Italy 
 under General Maistre, the victor of La Malmai- 
 son and later of Monte-Tomba He was being 
 sent to help the Italians along the Piave after the 
 Austro-Gennan offensive at Caporetto. 
 
 It was a long time before I received an answer 
 from China six months: the letter arrived in 
 May, 1918. At that time Amiens was threatened, 
 and consequently Paris. Playing her last card, 
 Germany was attempting to bring the war to an 
 abrupt close. 
 
 Father Convert expressed his thanks in the 
 warmest terms. I gathered that his soul was at 
 peace, and that the life he was leading was no 
 
 219
 
 220 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 more than a righteous endeavor to deserve death, 
 the gate to immortality. He asked me to do him 
 two favors: to visit his mother, telling her par- 
 ticulars of "the little one's" death, and to see 
 Jean-Pierre. 
 
 I hadn't the courage to write direct to Madda- 
 lena. Etienne 's asking me to see her proved that 
 he thought me ignorant of her complicity. I was 
 perhaps mistaken after all in my interpretation of 
 his attitude. I had at any rate assumed that we 
 both shared the same secret. 
 
 But I was not long troubled with these doubts : 
 I would take up the Convert business later, when 
 circumstances permitted. Meantime I had other 
 obligations to fulfil. 
 
 As I knew I should not be able to go to Savoy 
 for some time I decided to write Maddalena giving 
 her such details as she might wish to know. It 
 was only right that I should do this, for has not 
 the war taught us the lesson of compassion? I 
 had seen too much suffering not to wish to re- 
 lieve it. The poor woman had no children now: 
 the two elder had left her, and the last had re- 
 turned to the earth. Was she not sufficiently 
 punished! 
 
 The letter I sent was returned unopened, and 
 on it was stamped the single word "Deceased." 
 I could not help wondering why her husband had 
 not opened it, then I put the matter out of my 
 mind entirely. Henceforward no link bound me
 
 BENOIT AND MADDALENA 
 
 to the Convert family. The murderer was at last 
 alone, master of the house. I should take good 
 care not to meet him again. 
 
 The Armistice. When the end came I was at 
 Mayence, but was not demobilized until February, 
 when I resumed my professional duties after a 
 lapse of five and a half years. 
 
 Ask any ex-soldier how he felt when he returned 
 to civil life and you will learn that he felt ill at 
 ease and couldn't concentrate. We have been 
 blamed for causing a "wave of laziness." Of 
 course the criticism came from those who had not 
 served. True, we lacked decision and initiative: 
 but the struggle had been so violent and so long 1 
 
 My friend Louis de Vimines had given me scant 
 news of himself during the war, sending me only 
 an occasional card from a rest camp ; but when the 
 time came for my vacation he sent me a cordial 
 invitation to join him at Lake Lovitel. There were 
 plenty of chamois on the slopes of Lake Murail- 
 lette, Le Peyron, and Le Signal, and among the 
 rocks of Malhaubert. The herds had increased 
 to an enormous extent, as all the poachers had 
 been in the army. A herd of fifty had been re- 
 cently sighted. 
 
 I should immediately examine my weapons and 
 outfit and set out to join my friend. The war, it 
 seemed to me, had been merely an interlude be- 
 tween two hunting seasons. 
 
 I accepted the invitation with alacrity: it had
 
 222 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 succeeded in arousing me from my torpor. I felt 
 as I had used to feel. I already enjoyed the sen- 
 sation of pure mountain air in my lungs. I had 
 had enough of "Hill 304" or "Hill 344," I was 
 now going off to ramble at will over icy slopes and 
 rocky precipices at 3,000 meters* altitude, alone 
 with my gun and my thoughts and my game 
 when the game thought fit to come my way ! Mem- 
 ories of earlier hunting days returned to me 
 of the days I used to go up into the Maurienne. 
 I could not help thinking of it, and I was seized 
 by an irresistible desire to see the place once 
 again. 
 
 Claude's murder seemed like a recent event. 
 Once more I rapidly considered the proofs or 
 rather the circumstantial evidence. That was so 
 clear, so overwhelming, as to strengthen my cer- 
 tainty of Benoit's guilt, and Maddalena's. Of all 
 this circumstantial evidence one fact alone stood 
 out: Benoit's wet clothes. The rest was merely 
 hypothetical, circumstantial, and yet taking every- 
 thing into account it would be sufficient to secure a 
 legal conviction. 
 
 Legal conviction? "Was I still thinking of that? 
 Crimes are outlawed after ten years. Let me see : 
 Claude was murdered on September 12 ten years 
 ago this summer. Some few days remained before 
 the expiration of the period. And now I began 
 to be troubled with the same old ethical problem. 
 Was it not my duty to bring an accusation before
 
 BENOIT AND MADDALENA 
 
 September 12? My time was limited. Etienne had 
 remained silent out of regard for his mother, and 
 so had Jean-Marie. Would they, I wondered, 
 have spared Benoit after she had gone! Would 
 they have allowed the murderer to inherit the 
 property? Would I not be carrying out their 
 wishes in bringing Benoit to the bar of justice? 
 
 On the other hand, would they not tell me, 
 "Respect the memory of our Mama: that is 
 sacred? What right have you, who have sur- 
 prised our secret, to do what we thought it our 
 duty to refrain from doing? Say nothing, as 
 we have done. Do not destroy the work we have 
 begun. We have expiated the crime/' To this 
 imperious mandate would be added the voice of 
 Jean-Pierre, more imperious than the others, of 
 the old man who had spared his son. 
 
 Nevertheless I was tempted to go to Bessans, 
 if only to enter the Convert house, look into the 
 eyes of Benoit and accuse him point-blank. But 
 I must be certain; I could not do it if there re- 
 mained the least doubt in my mind. But I had 
 no doubt now. No, I wanted to take revenge. I, 
 too, had spared Benoit out of regard for the 
 others, I had taken in mine the hand I had seen 
 strangle the life out of an animal the animal 
 that had taken its revenge by revealing the crimi- 
 nal. I had made up my mind to show him he 
 had not deceived me. Once I had him at my 
 mercy I might allow the necessary time to elapse.
 
 224 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 So before going to Lake Lovitel I went to Bes- 
 sans. In order to face Benoit, who might offer 
 some resistance, I had taken precautions: he 
 would doubtless stop at nothing if he found him- 
 self cornered. Those hands of his could kill with- 
 out shedding blood. I carried a very small re- 
 volver in my pocket; I might need it if only to 
 keep my man at a distance until I had finished 
 talking. Then I went over beforehand the exact 
 words I intended to say : my accusation would be 
 mercilessly direct. I would even say that the 
 police were coming for him immediately, and then 
 read confession on his face. I had become used 
 to making war on nameless enemies, but this time 
 my enemy was to be a man known to me and to 
 me alone. I thought of Jean-Marie's eyes, wide 
 open in death those eyes knew, they had under- 
 stood. They prompted me to carry out my mis- 
 sion of justice. Even were I not to turn Benoit 
 over to the police, I should at least enjoy the 
 satisfaction of causing him shame, remorse, and 
 fear. 
 
 I crossed the Haute-Maurienne by carriage. It 
 was a beautiful day toward the end of August, 
 but even the loveliest days are tinged with melan- 
 choly, for they are short in these narrow valleys 
 of the Maurienne. The mountains are covered 
 with pines and larches whose sadness is more 
 striking in summer even than in autumn. After 
 crossing the wild heights of La Madeleine my
 
 BENOIT AND MADDALENA 325 
 
 heart warmed as I saw the valley widen and 
 caught a glimpse of the church steeple at Bessans, 
 for here I had enjoyed happiness and freedom, 
 and physical well-being and a close contact with 
 nature. My soul expanded at the sight and I 
 smiled. How could I think of vengeance in this 
 paradise of crystal air and radiance T 
 
 I left my bags at the inn near the entrance to 
 the old town, and walked up to the church. I 
 climbed quickly as if I expected, to meet old 
 friends, as I had used to do on previous visits. 
 Two hens, hunting for grain, gravely preceded 
 me. I saw no one : everybody must have been in 
 the fields or up in the mountain pastures. Not 
 long after, I passed one old woman who recog- 
 nized me. "How do you do, Monsieur Charlieu, 
 so you're back?" It was pleasant to be remem- 
 bered. I stopped and spoke a few words about 
 the Bessans boys who had fallen there were over 
 forty of them. I did not ask about Benoit. 
 
 Then I made my way back and stood outside 
 the court of Benoit 's house. I stood for a mo- 
 ment and drew a long breath ; I would have need 
 of it. 
 
 The outer courtyard, which you enter through 
 an open arcade, was deserted. A small hand-cart 
 stood just under the eaves beside a pile of wood. 
 The ground had not been swept for a long time, 
 and was covered with wisps of decaying straw. In 
 spite of the heat the house door was closed, and
 
 326 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 the windows as well. I did not see how the in- 
 mates could breathe. Of course I knew that peas- 
 ants, for the most part surfeited with fresh air, 
 are apt to keep their doors and windows tight 
 shut. But there was something hostile and om- 
 inous in the deathly silence of the place. It had 
 not been like this in the old days. It now looked 
 like a dismantled fortress. 
 
 I felt my pocket to be sure that the revolver 
 was there, and knocked at the door. It was just 
 as well to be on the safe side. No answer. 
 
 I knocked again still no answer. 
 
 And once again, with my cane. 
 
 A woman from one of the neighboring houses, 
 hearing the noise, appeared at the outer door. 
 
 I inquired for Benoit. 
 
 "Gone," she answered, determined, I could see, 
 to say no more. 
 
 The woman was too young to have known me 
 when I was last there. Formerly everyone knew 
 and recognized me. 
 
 "Where tot" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 If she didn't know, he had probably not gone 
 far, and would return before long. 
 
 "Has he gone up with his cows in the Averole 
 Valley!" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Is he coming back!" 
 
 "I don't think so."
 
 BENOIT AND MADDALENA JW7 
 
 "Very well. Thank yon." 
 
 I stood there before the closed door, disap- 
 pointed and uncertain. I had counted on Benoit's 
 being at home ; it was really inconsiderate of him 
 to deceive me I It seemed as though he had known 
 of my coming. I could get nothing out of the 
 peasant girl, she would not talk and that was all 
 there was to it. It then occurred to me to pay a 
 visit to- Serafin Ruffin. He had always been a 
 merry fellow, a heavy drinker and eater, honest 
 and upright and faithful. Though he was a 
 widower he had brought up eleven children, one 
 of whom, it will be remenibered, was the pretty 
 Melanie. 
 
 Ruffin/s house was, fortunately, inhabited, and 
 I was. given a warm welcome. They insisted that I 
 sit down- and make myself at home in their spot- 
 less stable. Without a second's delay Melanie 
 and a young sister laid a cloth on the table, a plate 
 and two glasses, a knife, some cheese and wine, 
 while Serafin filled the glasses and offered to 
 drink with me. The entire family observed the 
 ceremonials of peasant hospitality, the women 
 standing up and the men seated. 
 
 "Well, S&rafin, old man, we've both grown 
 older." 
 
 "Can't help that." 
 
 To myself I said everyone does "especially 
 you!" He had more of a stoop than ever before 
 and the color of his nose proclaimed the intemper-
 
 228 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 ance of his habits, though these were, to do him 
 justice, regular. The years had given a severity 
 to his face; and he was not so good-natured as 
 he used to be. I soon learned the reason for this 
 change: one of his sons had been killed and an- 
 other had returned with only one leg. 
 
 "And you, Melanie, are you married yet?" 
 
 She too, had changed for the worse. She had 
 lost her color, and looked thinner, and was care- 
 less about her appearance. I know that peasant 
 women age very rapidly; no wonder, when you 
 think of the hard physical labor they must do, but 
 Melanie was still very young. When I last knew 
 her she wasn't a day over eighteen. A girl 
 oughtn't to lose her beauty at twenty-five or six. 
 She blushed at my question: 
 
 "Oh, no, Monsieur PAvocat!" 
 
 "Well, it's your own fault then. You used to 
 wear such pretty ribbons. Where are they? And 
 you used to sing Noels; I'll wager you don't any 
 longer." 
 
 "Oh, no, Monsieur 1'Avocat." 
 
 And she looked at me in astonishment, with 
 those large eyes that were still bright and beauti- 
 ful in her faded face. How, they seemed to 
 ask reproachfully, could I speak so lightly of 
 the past? The last time I had seen Melanie 
 was at her betrothal ceremony. It was at 
 the feast afterward that she had sung the 
 Noel. Had I forgotten? After all, she was
 
 BENOIT AND MADDALENA 829 
 
 only a child then, and I had imagined she 
 had long since picked up the thread of her 
 life. There was surely no lack of suitors for a 
 pretty girl like her. But I was quite mistaken: 
 she had remained faithful to her Etienne. I had 
 only to read the purity and sorrow of her eyes to 
 discover inr them the image of fidelity. 
 
 "That's her way," said her father. He was 
 simply giving in to the inevitable. More than 
 once he had vainly tried to break down the girl's 
 resistance. 
 
 And I had shamelessly, thoughtlessly re-opened 
 an old wound. This first contact with the past 
 taught me to be careful at my next attempt. In 
 spite of my desire to speak of the Converts I 
 postponed all reference to them, waiting for the 
 subject to arise naturally. We spoke of the har- 
 vest and of hunting. 
 
 1 * There 's plenty of chamois on the Albaron and 
 the Charbonel but you don't come here any 
 longer. ' ' 
 
 ''I'm going hunting in the Dauphine." 
 
 "You don't like Bessans any more?" 
 
 I vigorously protested, and then asked for 
 news of my old -beaters. It was in this way that I 
 came to the fatal question. 
 
 "What about Benoit Convert?" 
 
 "He's gone." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "I don't know."
 
 230 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 "Is he coming back soon?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "This evening, at any rate!" 
 
 * 'I'd be migbty surprised if he came back this 
 evening. " 
 
 "Then he's gone fart" 
 
 "No one knows where he's gone." 
 
 Almost identically the same answers I had re- 
 ceived from the peasant girl. There was a mys- 
 tery here, and no one was willing to speak of it. 
 Had Benoit's guilt been discovered and had he 
 escaped? I thought so at first. 
 
 "Why did he go?" 
 
 "Because he took it into his head to go." 
 
 So he had gone of his own free will, and not 
 run away like a criminal. Serafin was clearly try- 
 ing to evade my questions. Like most peasants, 
 he said no more than he wanted to say. I let 
 the matter drop, intending to learn other facts as 
 they might develop casually. But I must know 
 at all costs when Benoit would return. I had no 
 intention of letting him escape; my old hunter's 
 instincts were now fully aroused. Never had I 
 so wanted to have him in my power, even if it 
 were only to let him go the next minute. I felt 
 that in this way I should be carrying out the 
 wishes of Jean-Pierre, Etienne, and Jean-Marie. 
 
 "So Maddalena is dead. She wasn't old, was 
 she T I wrote her about Jean-Marie, but my letter 
 waa returned. How long ago did it happen?"
 
 BENOIT AND MADDALENA 831 
 
 "Nearly two years." 
 
 "Two years! Was it her sorrow that killed 
 her?" 
 
 "Well, she didn't have any disease." 
 
 It occurred to me that possibly she had inflicted 
 punishment upon herself. Had she, after the loss 
 of her youngest, recognized in this fatality the 
 finger of God? I remembered how superstitious 
 she had been. 
 
 "So it wasn't suicide?" I asked with a smile 
 intended to mitigate the brutality of the question. 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 I don't think so! I was beginning to resent 
 this persistent refusal to give me a definite 
 answer. 
 
 "See here, Serafin, you're not a damn bit of 
 good. You know I'm interested in all the Cou- 
 verts. You don't give me any news. Claude was 
 my first and best beater. When his body was 
 fished out of the Arc I felt as though I'd lost one 
 of my family. By the way, has the murderer 
 been found?" 
 
 "No, Monsieur PAvocat," and he added be- 
 tween his teeth, "and what's more, I don't think 
 they've looked for him!" 
 
 "You've got something on your mind, SeVafin?" 
 
 "Who, me? Oh, no! What do you mean?" he 
 answered evasively. 
 
 "You know everyone in the Valley: you must 
 suspect someone."
 
 232 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 "It was all so long ago. You know, Monsieur 
 1'Avocat, it's the same with murderers as with 
 chamois : at first the blood is hot and wet on your 
 hands and you're excited, but it dries mighty 
 quick. ' ' 
 
 He would not tell me what he thought, and I 
 returned to the subject of Maddalena. I tried 
 the indirect method : 
 
 "As you know, I had Etienne with me after 
 Claude's death, but God took him. You're not 
 jealous, Melanie ?" 
 
 "I'm not jealous, Monsieur. Etienne did what 
 was right!" 
 
 How quickly she sprang to his defence and how 
 her eyes flashed ! A chicken that had jumped up 
 on the table and was picking the crumbs from 
 my plate gave the girl a chance to hide her em- 
 barrassment. She chased away the intrusive 
 bird, and amid a flapping of wings and flying of 
 feathers, I attempted to resume: 
 
 "So he's in China now. I've heard no news 
 of him since his brother's death." 
 
 Serafin explained that Melanie corresponded 
 regularly with Eina, who occasionally sent news 
 of Etienne. 
 
 "Melanie wanted to join them. She may 
 when I'm dead, if she wants to: or when her 
 younger sister grows up." 
 
 Melanie bowed her head as if she dared not 
 look me in the face. In these few words I had
 
 BENOIT AND MADDALENA 333 
 
 read the whole drama of her love. She had noth- 
 ing more to conceal from me: she was one of 
 those women who love only once and for always. 
 But her emotions had become spiritualized and 
 she was now ready to give herself to humanity 
 for the sake of one man. I recognized in her the 
 mystic ardor of the Maurienne race, preserved 
 intact in her pure spirit and virgin body. In- 
 stinctively I dropped my familiar manner: there 
 was something sacred about her. She, too, 
 through her love, was expiating the crime. 
 
 "Forgive me, Melanie, for hurting your feel- 
 ings. I have just begun to understand you." 
 
 She was surprised at my words and made a lit- 
 tle gesture of protest meaning that a humble girl 
 like herself had nothing to forgive. She seemed 
 to want to re-establish the social barrier between 
 us. But she said no more. The vocation which 
 would ultimately take her away had already be- 
 gun to affect her: she seemed to have stepped 
 back out of the world of reality and to be en- 
 veloped in the veil that she would one day wear. 
 
 Once again I continued the litany of the Con- 
 vert family: 
 
 1 ' Then there was little Jean-Marie. A nice boy. 
 He seemed so gay." 
 
 "Oh, he was that," affirmed Serafin. 
 
 "The picture of his father." 
 
 "You're dead right, Monsieur 1'Avocat." 
 
 "You know, I met him during the war. Ihadnt
 
 334 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 seen him since he was a youngster. He was killed 
 at La Malmaison while he was on a dangerous 
 mission. He'd asked to be sent." 
 
 "D'ye mean he wcunted to go?" 
 
 "Why, yes, Serafin." 
 
 "Good Lord, you don't ask for things like that. 
 Of course, if they send you, it's all rights." 
 
 "But you know, Serafin, there are some who al- 
 ways ask. Jean-Marie was one of those." 
 
 "Maybe he had his reasons." 
 
 This reflection was no doubt one of those peas- 
 ant correctives which take the wind, as it were, 
 out of noble sentiments and grandiose phrases 
 and bring one suddenly down to earth. I felt 
 that Serafin knew something about this and was 
 sure that the boy's secret was known in the vil- 
 lage. I therefore followed up my advantage : 
 
 "Tell me, Serafin, do you remember Jean- 
 Marie's last leave T When he came back to his 
 battalion they hardly recognized him: his old 
 gaiety was all gone. Were there any discussions 
 about the property, any question about Etienne's 
 and Rina's last wishes!" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know about that, Monsieur 1'Avo- 
 cat. Benoit and his wife didn't get along very 
 well together. We didn't see much of them, but 
 the neighbors used to hear them screaming at 
 each other; sometimes at night, too. Well, the 
 young soldier turned up one night when they
 
 BENOIT AND MADDALENA 835 
 
 weren't expecting him. Maybe he came in when 
 they were fighting. That may be." 
 
 "But Maddalena loved Jean-Marie," added 
 Melanie from her corner. 
 
 "Yes," I repeated, "she did. How did she 
 hear of his death?" 
 
 "It was this way," said my host. "She was 
 alone in the house. Benoit was up on the moun- 
 tain getting wood. The Mayor called on her him- 
 self. She made a terrible hullabaloo when she 
 heard. That's the way they do in her country, 
 you know ; here we keep our feelings to ourselves. 
 Then she ran out of the house like she was crazy. 
 They thought she'd gone to the church or the 
 cemetery, but they saw her taking the Averole 
 Road, maybe to fetch her husband. But when 
 Benoit came home that night she wasn't with him, 
 and he hadn't seen her, so they went out with 
 lanterns to look for her. Maybe she was spending 
 the night at Averole Village? Well, the next day 
 they went in that direction. Some children had 
 seen her she'd passed Plan-du-pre. That's 
 where the mule-path ends, but the trail was cov- 
 ered even there by the snow that had fallen the 
 night before. They managed to follow her foot- 
 prints in the snow. A caravan had crossed by the 
 path that leads over the Arnes Pass, and another 
 up to the Oratory of Notre-Dame-des-Neiges. 
 That's where they found her, half -buried in the 
 snow. She'd been caught there during the night,
 
 2S6 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 and frozen to death. She was lying just under the 
 Oratory. She didn't suffer much probably. You 
 soon lose your senses when you're being frozen." 
 
 "Poor woman! She used to give in to the call 
 of pious pilgrimages. So that was her last!" 
 
 As Serafin was in a confiding mood I went on : 
 
 "AndBenoitt" 
 
 * ' Benoit helped bring her back. He never talks. 
 He spent the whole winter after her death mind- 
 ing his own business and not saying a word to 
 anyone. In the spring he took his cattle to the 
 fair at Bourg-Saint-Maurice you know, in the 
 Tarentaise. He got a good price for them, so 
 they say. I don't know; I wasn't there. After 
 that, he sold all the land, farms and everything. 
 Everything but the house." 
 
 1 'But that property didn't belong to him, Sera- 
 fin!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, Monsieur 1'Avocat. Yes, it did. 
 Everything came to him by inheritance." 
 
 "Do you mean that Jean-Marie left his prop- 
 erty to Benoit t" 
 
 "No; I mean the others gave up their rights 
 old Jean-Pierre, Etienne, and Bina. So you see, 
 everything came to him." 
 
 "Well, you Bessans people have so many law- 
 suits that you know the code better than we law- 
 yers. What has he done with his money?" 
 
 "I couldn't tell you that. One morning he ups 
 and goes. That was a year ago next Saint-Jean.
 
 BENOIT AND MADDALENA 237 
 
 He followed the same road as his wife, only he 
 didn't stop at the Oratory. He must've crossed 
 over into Italy." 
 
 ''Did he take his money with him?" 
 
 "Maybe he did and maybe he didn't. Monsieur 
 le Cure says he left it all to charity for the poor 
 people of the parish. You can believe that or not 
 as you like. Cures have a way of telling just 
 what they want to tell. ' ' 
 
 "It's the truth," solemnly added Melanie. 
 
 Her father did not contradict. It seemed as 
 though he wished to mitigate the cruelty of his 
 sceptical comment. 
 
 "And what's to become of the house, Serafin?" 
 
 "Oh, it'll stay where it is." 
 
 "So I should imagine, but who's going to buy 
 or rent it?" 
 
 "No one." 
 
 "How do you mean? It's a fine well-built house, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, it's built to last." 
 
 "And you mean no one wants to live in it?" 
 
 "You can walk right in if you like: the key's 
 hanging on the door." 
 
 "Why, Serafin, what about the furniture?" 
 
 "The furniture's all there." 
 
 "Won't it be stolen?" 
 
 "No, Monsieur 1'Avocat, no one will steal that." 
 
 "Extraordinary! You can't abandon a house 
 like that!"
 
 238 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 "Oh, yes, yon can, Monsieur 1'Avocat, becanse 
 this one is abandoned." 
 
 "Why, this is absurd. People die, but not 
 houses. Other people take the place of those who 
 are dead. The Converts are gone, someone else 
 will take their place." 
 
 "No, no one. Houses die, too." 
 
 "Naturally, they fall to pieces when they aren't 
 lived in, but that's not quite the same thing." 
 
 Serafin saw no reason to prolong the discussion. 
 But I had learned what I wanted to know, which 
 was much more than I had imagined. At that, it 
 was hard enough to get out of him the story of 
 the outcome of the tragedy. I wondered how 
 much of it he suspected, and asked myself whether 
 the whole village as well had not learned the se- 
 cret T I am inclined to think that Serafin did, judg- 
 ing by our conversation. Certainly his remark 
 on the lack of any effort to discover the criminal, 
 his hint as to Jean-Marie's "reasons," the refusal 
 of the parish to associate with the Convert ghosts 
 surely these were sufficient proof. And the vil- 
 lage knew, in all probability, though no one would 
 admit it. In spite of anything that might be said 
 about the murder and the disappearance of 
 Benoit, no direct accusation would ever be made. 
 As a matter of fact, the subject would be avoided 
 and ere long the members of the family the 
 living with the dead would vanish tinder the 
 gathering shadows of the years.
 
 BENOIT AND MADDALENA 239 
 
 Just before taking leave I looked Melanie 
 straight in the eyes. Had Etienne by chance con- 
 fided to her his tragic secret before breaking the 
 engagement? Or had he simply asked her to 
 trust him implicitly, leaving their next meeting 
 in the hands of God, the beginning and end of all 
 immortal love? I was never to know, though I 
 went away assured that she would perform her 
 daily round of duties, with a peaceful mind and 
 happy conscience until the day she would be sum- 
 moned to meet her Etienne. 
 
 \
 
 CHAPTEB *TTT 
 
 THE HEARTH WITHOUT A FTEE 
 
 LEAVING Serafin's house I went up to the church 
 again. From every home in the village rose a deli- 
 cate thread of blue smoke, for it was the dinner 
 hour, and women were preparing food for the 
 men returning from work. Nature, at rest, spread 
 a soft tranquillity over the narrow valley. 
 
 A home is not a home without its cockade of 
 smoke. Children realize this and never draw a 
 picture of a house without it. Have you ever 
 seen one of their primitive attempts without those 
 rings and curlicues intended to represent smoke ? 
 They never forget them. 
 
 But no smoke rose from the Convert house. 
 
 I then descended and called at the Presbytery, 
 where I was received by the Cure. He had seen 
 service and been wounded, and was now glad to 
 be home once again. I asked him about Benoit, 
 but like the others, he was reticent. 
 
 "You know, I came here only a few months 
 before he left. I had been demobilized because 
 of my wounds. My predecessor knew a great deal 
 about Etienne, the missionary. I never knew 
 Benoit." 
 
 240
 
 THE HEARTH WITHOUT A FIRE 241 
 
 "I am told lie spoke to no one at all?" 
 
 "He was naturally a silent man." 
 
 "I am also told that before he left he gave you 
 the money he had received from the sale of his 
 land and cattle, asking you to distribute it among 
 the poor?" 
 
 "True, Monsieur PAvocat. He would keep 
 nothing back for himself. I made a statement of 
 the fact from the pulpit." 
 
 I pretended to approve of Benoit's act and to 
 agree with the priest, and added nonchalantly : 
 
 "He was a good example to the parish." 
 
 Did he think I knew nothing of the whole affair? 
 Was he himself ignorant or just doubtful? Was 
 he perhaps anxious to shield the criminal? He 
 went on: 
 
 "Not from a religious point of view. He never 
 came to church. He never came in to kneel." 
 
 "Never came in to kneel." The sentence was 
 illuminating. It accurately characterized Benoit 
 who had persistently faced the tempest and pre- 
 ferred to drop from sight altogether rather than 
 admit his guilt before the sole Tribunal that never 
 refuses forgiveness. 
 
 I took leave of the hospitable Cure, planning to 
 enter for the last time the mysterious house. I 
 had come as a minister of justice, but now I felt 
 only compassion. 
 
 I was reminded of a passage in La Cite 'Antique, 
 a book for which one of my law professors had
 
 242 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 given me the greatest affection. The passage is 
 that in which the author speaks of Hearth Wor- 
 ship Among the Ancients. "Every Greek and 
 Eoman house/' he says, and I think I quote cor- 
 rectly, "had an altar, and on that altar there al- 
 ways burned a fire. It was the sacred duty of the 
 head of the house to keep the fire burning day 
 and night. Every night the coals were banked 
 with ashes and every morning the flame was re- 
 vived by a few branches. The altar fire continued 
 to burn until the last member of the family had 
 perished. ' A dead fire ' and ' A dead family, ' were 
 synonymous expressions." 
 
 I had never forgotten this passage. My pro- 
 fessor, in reciting it, always put into his voice an 
 unforgettable lyrical fervor. 
 
 In this house I had known three generations, 
 of which there were still a few living representa- 
 tives : the hermit of Hautecombe, Benoit, and the 
 brother and sister now exiled at the other end of 
 the world. They had all deserted the hearth and 
 allowed the fire to perish. 
 
 Once again I passed through the door of the 
 (courtyard : Serafin was right, I had only to push 
 open the door. I advanced into the stone passage- 
 way I had known so well. To the left was the 
 wood-shed, full of wood ; to the right the kitchen 
 with its copper pans and kettles ; and, at the back, 
 the vast room that did service as stable, dining- 
 and bedroom. I was almost suffocated by an
 
 THE HEARTH WITHOUT A FIRE 243 
 
 odor of stuffiness and mould, as of a place long un- 
 inhabited. Could it be that houses, like human be- 
 ings, could decompose? I hastened to throw open 
 the shutters, and the sunlight enabled me to in- 
 spect the interior. 
 
 The stable was spotlessly clean. Benoit was a 
 methodical and orderly man, and before leaving 
 he had tidied up the whole house : the dishes and 
 glasses were carefully arranged on their racks, 
 the press-beds furnished with clean linen, the 
 chairs symmetrically arranged round the table, on 
 which were two simple wooden statuettes a St. 
 John the Baptist and a St. Anthony, Patron of 
 Bessana facing each other. These were, I pre- 
 sumed, the work of Jean-Marie, who delighted 
 the battalion with his ingenuity in carving cane- 
 handles. The young sculptor had caught the ro- 
 bust spirit of Clapier and the other local artists. 
 On the wall, just over the table, hung a photo- 
 graph of Jean-Marie in his Chasseur uniform. I 
 looked for pictures of his brother and sister, but 
 found none. Jean-Marie must have been his 
 mother's favorite, and Benoit had allowed the pic- 
 ture to remain out of a half paternal regard for 
 the boy. Possibly this affection had at- times miti- 
 gated the unhappy existence of the lonely couple. 
 
 It was easy enough to reconstruct the last scene. 
 One night Jean-Marie turns up: he has a few 
 days' leave. He has come by way of Lanslebourg 
 on foot. He enters the court and hears angry
 
 244 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 voices. Making his way indoors he is suddenly 
 apprised of the dreadful secret : a chance word or 
 a brutal taunt, and the truth flashes over him. In 
 the presence of his mother and stepfather he 
 pretends to have heard nothing and dissimulates 
 his astonishment and humiliation. Sick at heart 
 he cuts- short the time of his leave and returns 
 to the army a "changed man." A man of quicker 
 impulses than Etienne, less reflective and possibly 
 less scrupulous, he is too utterly broken to seek 
 forgetfulness and peace in this life. Death is to 
 him the only possible escape. 
 
 Jean-Marie's death had, however, completed 
 the epic drama by bringing about the ultimate 
 punishment of the guilty pair. Poor Maddalena 
 had been driven back instinctively toward her 
 native country, blindly hoping to find there a 
 refuge against her unbearable anguish. But a 
 more imperious instinct had forced her to stop 
 by the Oratory, whither she had gone years before 
 on one of her pilgrimages. As for Benoit, he had 
 punished* himself deliberately. Like Judas he 
 had received the reward of hi crime and had 
 remorsefully given his money to the Cure for 
 the use of the parish. Where had he gonet Who 
 could say! Proud, tenacious, taciturn, he was 
 not the man to bury himself in a monastery. He 
 might have gone to work for some farmer on the 
 far side of the Alps. No, he was not one to 
 run away from the police; he had gone of his
 
 THE HEARTH WITHOUT A FIRE 245 
 
 own free will. He, too, had been oppressed by 
 the house, and the house had ended by driving 
 him out. 
 
 The house was, indeed, I now realized, haunted 
 by an unnameable sadness. There generation had 
 succeeded generation during three hundred years, 
 and God Himself had entered it: I was present 
 when Petronille had received Him. 
 
 The altar fire was dead, the altar itself sacri- 
 legiously cast down. The Fire that dies on the 
 hearth is the end of the family cult. I was seized 
 with an unspeakable desolation. I had only too 
 convincing proof that a house could have a soul 
 as well as a body. This house, at least, was some- 
 thing more than a conglomeration of wood and 
 stone intended to harbor and protect a family and 
 reflect its character. Had it been only that, Benoit 
 could have sold it at once, but it was informed 
 by a spirit left behind by those who had lived 
 in it. That spirit had until late years been a 
 beneficent one, created by peaceable and laborious 
 Converts, but a new generation had brought crime 
 and incest into the family: Benoit and Madda- 
 lena had undone the good of the past and allowed 
 the fire to die out. 
 
 I closed the shutters and departed. The odor 
 of decomposition nauseated me. As I passed out 
 of the courtyard I caught sight of women's faces 
 peering out of the windows of nearby houses. 
 I was the first to enter that accurst home. Was
 
 246 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 it not profanation? The suspicious glances of 
 these neighbors were eloquent, and I knew that 
 Bessans, as well as I had learned the secret. 
 
 My thoughts turned to Jean-Pierre. I had 
 promised Etienne I would see him and tell him 
 of Jean-Marie's death, the self-inflicted punish- 
 ment of the guilty pair, and the ultimate extinc- 
 tion of the house. Then, perhaps, the old man 
 would at last consent to tell me everything that 
 he knew. What more had he to fear from men! 
 The ten years' period would elapse within a few 
 days, and Benoit would never return.
 
 CHAPTEE XIV 
 
 THE HERMIT OP HAUTECOMBE 
 
 THE hunting-season was about to open and I 
 hastened to join Louis de Vimines at his lodge on 
 Lake Lovitel. Though we had not seen each other 
 since 1913 we said nothing about the war that had 
 separated us: our conversation was devoted en- 
 tirely to the subject of chamois the chamois we 
 had killed and the chamois we hoped to kill. 
 
 The season was a brilliant success : I brought 
 down seven animals, in spite of the sharp com- 
 petition of the poachers. Every boy in the valley 
 who returned from the war brought with him a 
 Mauser and a large supply of cartridges. I have 
 no doubt that during the whole campaign they 
 all dreamed of the royal sport they would have 
 after the war was over. 
 
 And then I returned to Chambery. I had not 
 forgotten the projected pilgrimage to Haute- 
 combe. But the journey was sure to be a difficult 
 one, for the single steamer on Lake Le Bourget 
 had already been put up for the winter, and I 
 should have to charter a fisherman's sail-boat. 
 
 The night before I set out I spent reading the 
 
 247
 
 248 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 old chronicles wherein it is told of the founding 
 of the House of Savoy by Saint-Denis. 
 
 Lamartine has turned Lake Le Bourget into the 
 Lac d'Elvire and made it his own. But long be- 
 fore him it had been beloved of men with pas- 
 sionate hearts. 
 
 Hautecombe is a love pilgrimage. Its history 
 is more fascinating even than that of the Converts, 
 and the love it commemorates is a holy love. The 
 Abbey was founded in the twelfth century by the 
 monks of Citeaux, on a rock overhanging the 
 shore. Perched on that steep bank, it looks as 
 though it had been pushed down to its precarious 
 position by the thick forests that cover the wild 
 flanks of the Mont du Chat. The Abbey was no 
 more than a refuge when Humbert III, Count of 
 Savoy, came there to bury his second wife Anne 
 de Zoeringen. The inconsolable Humbert, leaving 
 his States, determined to live there for the rest 
 of his days in solitude and prayer. The silence 
 and peace of mountains and water were in per- 
 fect harmony with his sorrow. 
 
 But he was not to remain there long. The no- 
 bles, clergy and people unanimously bewailed the 
 loss of their leader, whose voluntary retirement 
 deprived them of a ruler and a successor to the 
 throne. A committee, therefore, composed of rep- 
 resentatives of the three classes, was sent to the 
 Count. Starting from Chambery the ambassa- 
 dors made their way to the village of Le Bourget
 
 THE HERMIT OF HAUTECOMBE 249 
 
 and set sail over the lake to Hautecombe. The 
 Count received them courteously, and though he 
 suspected the purpose of their errand he feigned 
 surprise. The leader of the clergy was the first 
 to speak. His words were to the point, if we may 
 credit the old chronicler: "What thing art thou 
 doing here and what has put into thy head the 
 strange fancy to refuse to take unto thyself an- 
 other wife? Far better were it that religion did 
 not exist than that thou shouldst permit thy land 
 to perish without heirs and thyself without suc- 
 cessors! Alas, if thou diest without a son who 
 will protect, govern and defend us, and lead us 
 into battle? Unfortunate land, well may it be 
 said that its lord will cause our ruin ! Alas, proud 
 lord, be not the cause of our destruction, leave 
 not thy land, which is now widowed, alone and full 
 of sorrows ! For the love of God, my lord, we con- 
 jure thee to re-marry, that we may have an heir 
 and our country's future be assured." 
 
 To this 'harangue the Count replied: "Thou 
 speakest in vain, for I will remain here and end 
 my days in this place." Whereto the ambas- 
 sadors answered that he could achieve salvation 
 as well in marriage as alone. "Thou oughtest to 
 marry ! ' ' they cried. 
 
 But Humbert was supported in his resistance 
 by the Abbot and monks of the monastery. See- 
 ing this, the nobles and the people took the afore- 
 said Abbot and monks aside and swore that unless
 
 250 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 they joined the others in forcing the Count to 
 leave and re-marry, they would set fire to the 
 Abbey. The 'holy men, seized with a sudden fear, 
 capitulated ; and the Count promised to re-marry 
 on condition that a suitable wife be found for 
 him. 
 
 He married Beatrix de Vienne of whom was 
 born his successor Thomas, who in turn left a 
 magnificent family fourteen legitimate children, 
 Guicheron assures us, and two illegitimate. In 
 his will Humbert asked to bg buried at Haute- 
 combe, by the side of the best loved of his three 
 wives. The other two he had buried together at 
 a cemetery in distant parts. 
 
 This is why the Princes of Savoy chose Haute- 
 combe for their royal bury ing-place. 
 
 I, too, embarked at the village of Le Bourget 
 and set sail over the lake. It was one of those 
 October days that begin in a fog and end in 
 golden radiance. The border of the lake skirts 
 the foot of precipitous mountains, the slopes 
 of which are everywhere cut up into deep ravines 
 full of bushes tinted in greens and purples, and 
 gilded by the autumn sunlight. 
 
 The Chateaux de Bourdeau, an ancient square 
 fortress, rises on a terrace projecting from the 
 side of the mountain, surrounded by chestnut- 
 groves and gardens. Beyond the chateau there is 
 no sign of human habitation: all is wild and un- 
 cultivated, with gaunt rocks almost buried under
 
 THE HERMIT OF HAUTECOMBE 251 
 
 a carpet of shrubbery. Between my boat and the 
 shore the water was a dark, ominous-looking 
 green, while out toward the middle of the lake it 
 was turning from pearl gray to a vivid blue as 
 the sun gradually melted through the low-lying 
 mists. The opposite shore is a smiling shore, 
 sweet and restful to the eye. Yonder is the hill 
 of Tresserve half hiding Aix, and there Saint- 
 Innocent with its spire emerging from the tree- 
 tops; and La Chambotte, a diminutive Alp; and 
 over there that great opening of the horizon 
 marks the spot where, beyond the low-lying 
 Chateau de Chatillon, the Lake is lost among the 
 rushes of La Chautagne. 
 
 Passing the last rocky headlands extending 
 down from the Mont du Chat, I catch sight of 
 the Abbey of Hautecombe. Seen from this point 
 it looks like a white ship ready to set sail into 
 the lake. Its gothic tower the Tour du Phare 
 completes the resemblance, for it looks exactly 
 like a mast. Between the cliff and the water there 
 is room only for the wall, originally thrown up 
 for the protection of the royal tombs. It would be 
 an ideal spot for meditations on death were it 
 not for a certain festive atmosphere; this corner 
 of Savoy invites complete abandonment to the 
 joys of life. Sometimes on summer nights you 
 may catch sight of the fireworks at Aix, a con- 
 stant reminder to the monks of human turmoil. 
 A small matter, perhaps, but such things assume
 
 252 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 a disproportionate importance in the eyes of men 
 who have renonnced the world. 
 
 I stepped ashore and started up the short ave- 
 nue of plane-trees that skirts the outer walls of 
 the Abbey. Passing by the celebrated fountain I 
 rang the bell. The brother who received me 
 offered to show me the chapel, but I declined and 
 asked to see " Brother Couvert." 
 
 "The old man!" 
 
 It was necessary to demand formal permission 
 of the Superior. 
 
 The Superior received me in a cloister sur- 
 rounding a lovely rose garden. The flowers bathed 
 this old Florentine cloister in a flood of soft light. 
 
 "Here's your friend," said the Superior. "You 
 will find it pleasant in the garden just now: the 
 sun is shining. " 
 
 He ushered us both toward the gardens 
 overhanging the Lake. Meantime I had had no 
 opportunity of looking at "my friend," and had 
 scarcely spoken a word to him, but as I exchanged 
 the ordinary commonplaces of greeting and asked 
 how he was feeling, I had leisure to scrutinize 
 him. At first I had hardly recognized him ; I had 
 not seen him for nine years. He must have been 
 nearly eighty. He was a pathetic shrivelled figure 
 in his coarse robe of dirty white almost a skele- 
 ton. This bent old man was on the brink of the 
 grave. His cheeks were shrunken, and a thin 
 uneven growth of white beard covered the sharp
 
 THE HERMIT OF HAUTECOMBE 253 
 
 bones of his face and the extremity of his chin. 
 However, there remained the same regular fea- 
 tures, the general outline so characteristic of the 
 Maurienne race. The eyes, deep-set as they were 
 in the hollow sockets, glowed with a tenacious 
 fire, expressing a keen intelligence and undimin- 
 ished will power. The years had bent and twisted 
 his body, but his spirit was untouched. He fol- 
 lowed my conversation, immediately comprehend- 
 ing the most subtle allusions, and answering 
 briefly, as if he were afraid of tearing away the 
 veils that shrouded his mystery. 
 
 Though his intelligence remained, I rather think 
 his feelings had lost their edge. Old men are 
 either too emotional or not sufficiently so. He 
 listened in silence to my account of the manner 
 and reasons of Jean-Marie's death, but when I 
 had finished he seemed indifferent. Seeing that 
 he showed so little feeling, I told him of Madda- 
 lena's still more tragic end. He had heard of 
 her death through Etienne, but knew no details. 
 To my great surprise he pronounced this brief 
 funeral oration: 
 
 "You oughtn't to go out of your own district 
 for a wife ! ' ' 
 
 He was obviously blaming Claude for not mar- 
 rying a girl from Bessans or one of the neigh- 
 boring villages. Claude had evidently done wrong 
 in crossing the mountains and bringing home 
 an unknown Italian wife. She was to blame for
 
 854 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 everything; it was she who had ruined the home. 
 
 But was it indeed she who had seduced Benoit? 
 True, he had seemed scornful toward her, espe- 
 cially at first. Had she flirted with him, worn 
 those pretty ribbons and assumed that virginal 
 air for the purpose of overcoming his hostility? 
 Had she made his conquest out of pique, jealousy, 
 passion? I wondered if Jean-Pierre had sus- 
 pected? He could not, I knew, be certain, as he 
 had not discovered the secret of their relations 
 until after Petronille's death. 
 
 Then I asked about Benoit, but the old man 
 knew nothing of him. Etienne, who received the 
 news from the Cure of Bessans, had not written 
 to his grandfather about Benoit 's disappearance. 
 Was this not proof enough that Etienne had not 
 forgotten, even if he had forgiven? He could 
 not bring himself to write the name of his uncle 
 his stepfather. 
 
 I next told the old man what I had learned from 
 Serafin: the long winter after Maddalena's death 
 when Benoit had lived in total isolation ; the sale 
 of the cattle, the farms and pastures, the follow- 
 ing spring; the strange gift to the Cure, and the 
 mysterious departure to unknown regions. As I 
 finished the poor old man, quite lost in the folds 
 of his voluminous robe, uttered a piercing cry. 
 This cry, torn from the heart of the patriarch, 
 expressed the old man's horror on realizing that 
 his race had become extinct.
 
 THE HERMIT OF HAUTECOMBE 255 
 
 "And the house I" 
 
 His house had died before his son. His bright 
 eyes could not see Benoit, wandering through the 
 mountain mists, driven from his own home by re- 
 morse and fear: he saw only the old house, the 
 house that was dead, the house in which the fire 
 had been allowed to die, and from the chimney 
 of which came no smoke. 
 
 Yet he had been the first to leave it, unwilling 
 as he was to live in the presence of incest and 
 murder. It was after his example that the others 
 had gone away. I described in detail my last 
 visit, telling him of the desolation that had fallen 
 upon the great courtyard and the sickening odor 
 of decomposition. I omitted nothing that might 
 induce him to open his heart to me. This was 
 not the sole motive of my cruelty, for I was to a 
 great extent the victim of my own thoughts and 
 experiences : I had been so closely associated with 
 this drama that I was no longer master of my 
 feelings, thoughts and words. He listened quietly 
 and when I had ended he spoke as if he were 
 merely thinking aloud: 
 
 " There are other Converts in America." 
 
 He was wondering whether the family could 
 be revived. Was it not possible to induce some 
 of these Couverts to return to their native land! 
 Graft a new branch on the decaying tree 1 Why, 
 it would be like the entrance of Fortinbras in the 
 last act of Hamlet. And I was like one of the
 
 256 THE HOUSE THAT DIED 
 
 ambassadors who had come to Hautecombe to 
 demand the return of Count Humbert of Savoy to 
 his throne. 
 
 "So there are Converts in America! Are they 
 close relations?" 
 
 "Sons of a younger brother of mine." 
 
 "Have you their address?" 
 
 "I'll find it" 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "There!" 
 
 He pointed to his forehead. The next instant 
 the light had died out of his eyes and he mur- 
 mured : 
 
 "That's best after all." 
 
 What was best after all? That no one should 
 re-enter the house, that the line should become 
 extinct, that the crime should be expiated to the 
 end in silence? It was thus that I interpreted the 
 tranquil expression of Jean-Pierre's face. The 
 idea had tempted him for the fraction of a mo- 
 ment. I should never again try to make the 
 old man confide in me, and I made no further 
 allusion to the secret. I said good-bye and turned 
 to go, but he insisted on accompanying me to 
 the boat. 
 
 After I was seated he put one foot on the back 
 seat as if he intended to come with me. 
 
 "Come along, Jean-Pierre," I said half in fun. 
 His eyes were strangely troubled and I am sure 
 he seriously considered the proposal but only
 
 THE HERMIT OF HAUTECOMBE 257 
 
 for an instant. This little boat, ready to put out 
 from his shore, symbolized his former indepen- 
 dence, and the possible resumption of authority. 
 For a second I imagined him picturing to himself 
 a triumphant return to the house in which he had 
 ruled, but he relapsed once more, submissively 
 obedient to the rules of his order. One word, 
 that now rose to his lips, had sufficed : 
 
 "Benoit!" 
 
 It was for Benoit 's sake that he had given up 
 everything and accepted the humility of personal 
 service. He was expiating Benoit 's crime. But 
 the wandering fugitive had not yet, according to 
 the ancient expression, "acquitted his life." 
 
 He thought I had not heard him, for he had 
 hardly raised his voice above a whisper. He was 
 sure I could not have understood. 
 
 I rose to my feet and standing on the gunwale, 
 I kissed him good-bye. 
 
 Turning round in my seat at some distance 
 from land, I watched his frail silhouette diminish. 
 
 He stood watching me until the boat was no 
 more than a speck, then turned round and re- 
 turned to the monastery.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 WEEDS 
 
 THE coarse white robe under the plane-trees, 
 the huge white ship-like monastery of Haute- 
 combe, the mauve and lilac surface of the lake 
 under the evening sky such was the last setting 
 of the drama which I had myself reconstructed 
 without the direct evidence of any other living 
 soul. 
 
 From Le Bourget I returned to Chambery on 
 foot. In the fields peasants were burning great 
 piles of those weeds which the Savoyards call 
 Covasses. The ashes are used to purify the soil. 
 
 The sun was setting in a glorious riot of dark 
 red, an autumn sunset. 
 
 "Yes," I mused still under the influence of my 
 visit, "these weeds purify the earth ready to 
 receive the new seed, to give it life, and eventu- 
 ally to render a rich harvest of rye and oats and 
 wheat. Is it not possible that a like phenomenon 
 should take place in the realm of the spirit! Can- 
 not a whole race be rid of what is evil and emerge 
 purified! Will not the virtues of preceding gen- 
 erations atone for the vices of the last! Was not 
 old Jean-Pierre right in wishing for a moment to 
 
 258
 
 WEEDS 259 
 
 reinstate his relatives in the house of his fathers, 
 desiring that they should again kindle the fire that 
 had gone out? Surely, after so much sacrifice, 
 the crime had been atoned for?" 
 
 As I passed along the road I pictured other 
 fires whose flames were higher and brighter than 
 those about me, flames that rose far over and be- 
 yond the horizon: over the cemetery of Bessans 
 where lay the honest hard-working ancestors of 
 Jean-Pierre and the saintly Petronille whom God 
 had visited in her stable; over the high terrace 
 of Hautecombe; flames at the ends of the earth 
 where Etienne and Eina were consecrating their 
 lives to the work of humanity; flames that sprang 
 from a shell-riddled wood on the Chemin des 
 Dames, at the foot of La Malmaison; and last 
 of all the ardent flames that supported the pure 
 and faithful heart of Melanie, who had renounced 
 an earthly love for another and a greater. 
 
 If weeds can purify the soil is it not possible 
 that the flames of sacrifice can dispel the shadows 
 of crime? Surely human justice is satisfied with 
 voluntary expiation such as this, attesting as it 
 does the solidarity of the race and its power of 
 redemption ! 
 
 THE END
 
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