Читать книгу The Seven Pillars - Wenceslao Fernández-Flórez - Страница 8

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Archibald Granmont paced across his sumptuous office with a worried air, and then stopped, frowning, in front of his secretary.

“And so,” he grumbled, crossing his muscular arms, “we’ve got only half a dozen children.”

“That is so,” murmured the other.

“Well then, what’s your bright idea, Lucio? To put me to shame?”

“Excellency!”

“To cover me with ridicule? When Archibald Granmont presents an asylum to the Charity Organisation, he presents it all complete. I warned you of that. I give the site, the building, the staff, the beds, and the chairs. Am I to leave out the patients, which are the main thing? No, Archibald Granmont is not going to make any such mistake. Hunt up some other children, pay whatever they ask. And they must be the best specimens in all the town.”

The secretary tried to excuse himself.

“I was negotiating for two splendid cases, your Excellency, a child with an enormous head, and another with a minute head. To look at them brought tears to the eyes. But at the last moment their relations refused to hand them over.”

“The imbeciles,” grunted Granmont. “Did they know that they were for my asylum? What were they up to?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“It doesn’t surprise me that they thought they had something pretty good in these two extraordinary heads. They must have said: ‘Archibald Granmont has all that he wants except a child with a head much too large or much too small.’ But they are mistaken, Lucio. Offer them double the price. If they don’t accept, we’ll bring from elsewhere a number of children with heads so misshapen that no one will look at theirs.”

“It shall be done, Excellency.”

The secretary gave a low bow, gathered his papers, and began to go away. Granmont, now quite calm, told him:

“You’ll find Miss Sander in the anteroom. Have her shown in.”

The great man left his splendid desk and moved slowly to one of the windows and then went to a mirror to look at his tall form and lofty brow with their vigorous and dominating appearance. He then turned to watch the door by which Miss Sander would come in. But there were other things to happen before anyone could reach the presence of the magnate. First the curtain over the entrance door shook, then there appeared a hand in a white cotton glove, followed by a stolid face, and finally a man-servant in livery. The servant announced a name, received a nod of approval, disappeared for a moment, reappeared, and ushered in an elegantly dressed girl. Archibald moved to meet her without any great haste.

“Sit down, dear friend,” he said in a slightly honied voice. “I’ve been anxious to see you for nearly a month, but my orphan asylum has been occupying all my time. I have something to tell you. I’ve taken the National Theatre.”

Adriana Sander’s lovely face shone with pleasure.

“And I am thinking of giving you the lead.”

“Mr. Granmont,” she cried in a transport of pleasure. “No wonder they call you the most generous philanthropist in the world.”

“But there is something else. I have taken a flat in Grand Avenue, and my secretary has just told me that the rooms have been decorated and furnished, and are quite ready for you to take possession.”

Adriana Sander changed from joy to surprise.

“For me to take possession?”

“There are two cars in the garage, one of them a road racer. I am told that you like driving.”

The girl got up hurriedly.

“Mr. Granmont, I don’t know what you mean. Why are you offering me all these?”

“My dear, I don’t like silly questions. You know the answer very well. I have a lot to do, and I wish this first interview to be brief. I have only to add that my jeweller is John Levy in Poplar Street; but I have no objection if you prefer another shop.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, blushing with shame, “you are suggesting in this casual way that I am to become your mistress. You forget that I am an honest woman.”

“No, I haven’t forgotten it. I know that you are the most coveted of all our actresses; the desire of men surrounds you, and some day you will fall. Don’t protest! It always happens. And then your artistic talent will suffer, you will fall from public favour, and perhaps you will have the tragic fate of dragging the wings with which you used to soar. You said just now that I was a philanthropist. Now here is the noblest possible charity. The National Theatre is closed because it has ruined every impresario. I am going to open it to Art again. Up to now you haven’t had a field worthy of your talent. I offer you the first stage in the country. As for the rest, if gossip associates your name with mine, that won’t do a woman any very great harm.”

“This is too much; please let me go.”

“Go when you please, Adriana, I am not going to put any pressure on you.”

The actress hurried across the room, but when she began to raise the curtain at the door, she paused.

“You must see, Mr. Granmont, that your behaviour is unpardonable.”

“I don’t agree,” replied the great man politely. “Perhaps before deciding you might have a look at the furniture and the garage, and spend a few minutes at the jeweller’s window.”

Adriana dropped the curtain and threw herself, sobbing, into an armchair.

“Oh, how miserable I am, how miserable! Are you not ashamed to tempt a poor girl?”

Granmont looked at his watch without saying anything.

“You might at least tell me that you loved me,” cried the girl, recovering her honourable indignation.

“But, dear girl,” Archibald allowed himself to say, “that hardly comes in. Just think how many women would sell their souls to the Devil for the proposal I have just made to you. Again, I assure you that my idea is entirely philanthropic, and I have no time to waste; the asylum is taking up all my time. By the bye, I have put your name down among the invitations to the opening ceremony. All the best people will be there.”

“I don’t care about the best people.”

“Are you going?”

“Mr. Granmont, you are a monster. Do you want to drive me crazy? A moment ago you were making horrible proposals to me, and now suddenly you are talking about something else. Do you mean what you say? How can I take you seriously?”

“Sorry, I was thinking of something else.”

“Oh,” burst out the actress, “you are hopeless, Archibald. Thinking of something else when you are trying to seduce a girl. I wouldn’t have believed it of you. It is no use talking any more.”

And she went again towards the door.

“At least give me an answer,” the magnate almost shouted.

But Adriana had gone. A few seconds passed. Then again the curtain opened to show the charming face of the actress, who asked:

“What is the number of the house?”

“Grand Avenue, number 116.”

“Thank you.”

And this time the honourable young lady made her final exit.

Three days later, at the opening ceremony of the asylum, everyone knew that the virtue of Adriana Sander, which had resisted many temptations, had finally yielded to the noble millionaire, and the truth is that among all the people crowding the courtyards and the halls of the building, only one person thought this capitulation of any importance. If anyone wishes to know who that person was, he has only to pick out the one guest who refused a sandwich, didn’t taste the cup, didn’t seek a bow or a smile from Granmont; the one person who went through the dormitories and dining-rooms, the gymnasium and the class-rooms, without uttering words of praise and admiration; the person who seemed to look at things without seeing them, who even when the cigars were handed round, took one without lighting it. And by these signs there would have been discovered Florio Olivan, the young manufacturer of foie gras, who was now hiding his sorrow in a corner of the huge hall between his great friend Alberto Truffe, fat and round as a football, and the gloomy Marco Massipo, silent and dignified, the most conscientious of all the researchers who have dedicated themselves to the high task of hypertrophying the liver of ducks.

But nobody took the pains to notice this sorrow among so great rejoicings. The luncheon had been copious, the guests had now the pleasure of feeling replete and of showing their good manners by exchanging commonplaces. The crowd was densest under the elms of the courtyard, and the noise of people chattering, of women laughing, of merry shouting, reached over the high walls to the slopes outside where uninvited idlers were trying to guess what was going on inside. The smoke from the flashlights of photographers came slowly through the open windows. On the steps of the great staircase leading to the hall, some grave seniors in frock-coats were in solemn conclave.

Truffe himself didn’t seem to think the grief of his friend very serious. His heart was too well protected by fat for ill-humour to reach it, but he was very nearly cross when he was dragged away from the sideboard by Florio, in torture at the revelation of female inconstancy. From the moment of leaving the buffet, Truffe only interrupted Olivan’s wails by a few monosyllables. As for Marco Massipo, he hardly ever spoke. He was a man between forty and fifty, browned by the sun, powerful and dark-skinned, the owner of a huge moustache which hung down over his mouth and chin. Since he was no more than a boy he had been employed in the cemetery of St. Mamed until it was closed as the city had reached its walls. Then the out-of-work cemetery man had found a job in Olivan’s factory, and in time had come to be a trusted official, overseer of the pens in which innumerable ducks, shut in wire cages, endured in the darkness and silence the hypertrophy of their most succulent organ. It must be said that prosperity and the change of occupation had not altered Marco’s character. It seemed almost as if he suffered from homesickness. The few words he uttered were always lugubrious, and he lost his verbal continence only when he came to tell stories of the gloomy precincts in which he had spent more than half his life.

“What a calamity, Alberto, what a calamity!” continued Olivan.

“A real calamity,” replied Truffe in the most indifferent way.

“Who could have foretold that the innocent girl whom we used to see running about in the fields would come to this? A lover, Alberto, she has taken a lover!”

“No doubt about it, my friend,” replied the fat man, his face now brightened by hope as he saw some waiters coming round with trays.

But at that moment Florio saw Adriana, who was making her way through the throng, evidently coming to speak to him. The young man seized his friend’s arm.

“Let us be off,” he cried anxiously. “For goodness’ sake, don’t turn your head.”

“What’s up?”

“Adriana is coming. Let us be off.”

Truffe set off in a hurry towards the waiter.

“Not that way!”

“What way then?” asked the glutton, pretending to be confused.

But by then Adriana was in front of them, and held out her hand to Olivan.

“It must be many days since we have seen each other, Florio; how are you?”

He replied reproachfully:

“I am just as I always was, and I wish you could say the same.”

The young girl looked at him with surprise, and then blushed, and held down her head.

“Then they have told you.”

“Yes.”

There was silence. Truffe and Massipo eagerly lightened the waiter’s tray, taking no notice of the unhappy couple.

Adriana said:

“You were my dearest and oldest friend. Don’t judge me too harshly. Life is a hard struggle and I am alone. Granmont can bring me success and happiness.”

“Do you love him?”

“No.”

“What do you expect from him?”

“Florio, it is only three days, only three days, since I accepted... the friendship of that man, and everything has changed for me; without asking, I get everything. I am the star of the National Theatre; my new life is so luxurious that it almost frightens me. All sorts of people seek me out and bow to me, who took no notice of me when I was ‘straight.’ All the newspapers are now publishing my portrait, and they are preparing an enthusiastic biography for my first appearance.”

“Granmont has paid for all that to flatter your vanity.”

“But it is me that it is helping.”

“At what a price!”

“The world is like that.”

“Not all the world.”

The girl looked at him with her eyes full of tears.

“Florio, you know that since I was a child my life has been a struggle, sometimes absolute want.... Do you think I haven’t the right to be happy, even if the price is high?”

Florio’s heart softened, as he listened to her, and it was now he who hung his head. And just then the clatter of talk changed into a clamour. Archibald Granmont appeared at the top of the great staircase surrounded by the beings who were to have the happiness of living in his asylum. There was loud applause. Granmont came forward leading with one hand a child with a gigantic head and with the other a child almost without a head. The applause turned into a shout of hurrahs.

But then the Mayor raised his hand for silence. In the name of the city he thanked the generous donor. He recounted the benefactions the city had received from Granmont, the Granmont People’s Club, the Granmont Free Library, the Granmont Asylum. He announced that the name of the philanthropist was to be given to a street.

Next, a thin solemn man, dressed in black, came to the front of the balcony and made a speech to the children. It was Theophilus Alp, the founder and director of the Savings Bank. His dreary voice was heard at every public function, preaching the benefits of saving. What was he up to now? He congratulated the children rescued by Granmont from misery and poverty, and urged them to open a Savings Bank account with the twenty-five pesetas which the magnate had given to each of them.

“Save,” he shouted, “and show that you are civilised beings. A civilised man is distinguished from everyone else by the fact that he saves. The savage never saves; he lives for the day and takes no thought for the future. If you will get in the habit of saving from your infancy, you will have gone a long way towards being useful to your country and to yourselves. A famous author has said, ‘Saving is the elementary school of capitalism.’ ”

And he proceeded to take their money from them. He was thus able to satisfy himself with sorrow that the fifteen orphans were fifteen little savages who had intended at once to buy sweets and toys with the dole which they were made to hand over in tears.

As the waiters had disappeared before the speeches were over, the guests began to leave. Granmont and a few people of importance still remained at the top of the staircase. The philanthropist was telling the journalists that no other asylum in the world owned a pair of children like the one with the gigantic head and the other with the minute head, and he allowed himself to be photographed between them. He was then photographed in another pose, surrounded by the important persons who had kept close to him, hardly concealing their satisfaction, although they made a favour of being taken in the group. Some reporters who were already leaving the hall turned round quickly and pointed their cameras at the group, just as if a big spider had caught them by the leg. Florio, who was looking angrily at the group, said:

“Just look at them; each of them thinks himself the centre of the universe, the one who ought to be in the middle of the picture-page of the daily papers. They all think that the others should serve only as a background. Just look how pride is stiffening their necks. There are the savant Noke and the famous Sike pushing themselves forward, and Commander Coedere with his clipped moustache, and Hector Azil, the critic, with his eyebrows raised disdainfully. What fools! The chief idea in their heads is that the world was made for them to shine in. And that Granmont!... that Granmont!”

He stopped speaking and clenched his fists as the magnate was passing close to him, distributing distant bows. A splendid car was throbbing in the courtyard, at the entrance gate, where there was still a crowd of spectators, and the footman, bowing so deeply that he seemed to be looking for something on the ground, held open the door. The philanthropist entered the car, cheering broke out, the liveried footman got up beside the driver, and the order to start was given.

Olivan and his friends also left. The young man lived in a house close to his factory, in the country, a few miles from the city. The sun was setting when they arrived. They sat down in a wide veranda from which could be seen the rich valley and the distant mountains. Florio’s bad temper had made their journey silent. Truffe, however, ventured to say that he felt the heat, and the intelligent Marco didn’t require a clearer hint to set before him a gigantic glass of beer. The insatiable glutton drank it off in a prolonged gulp, so that when he had finished it he had to take a deep breath as if he had just come up from a dive. Then he clasped his hands on his stomach and smiled ecstatically.

“What a lovely summer, Florio,” he chanted in praise. “The plain looks like a table set for a banquet of the gods. The grapes are giving the best harvest of the century; I’ve never seen the wheat look better; it has been necessary to prop up the branches in the orchards, and in the river, trout as big as tunnies swim up and down as if they were annoyed by the laziness of the fishermen. Merely to look at all this plenty, brings happiness.”

He looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye. But Olivan certainly didn’t seem at all pleased by all that good news.

“As for you,” grumbled Truffe, “nothing will drag you out of your melancholy. Just listen to me. I was once even more slender than you, and was in love with Lida as much as Romeo was in love with Juliet, When she deserted me, I became such a yellow skeleton that the manager of a circus wanted to hire me for his show. I couldn’t forget Lida, and the bitterness of her deceit made me hate the whole human race. But now I know the difference between a bad woman and a good cook, and if I have to choose between a kiss and a fat quail, I take good care not to disappoint the innocent bird.”

Florio didn’t show the slightest interest in these preferences.

“After all,” cried Truffe, a little annoyed, “don’t you realise that you did nothing to prevent what happened. You have known Adriana since she was a child, and you’ve been in love with her for years. But when did you ever make a formal proposal to her? I’ve no patience with you, Florio. I am quite sure that every morning when you opened your letters you expected to find a declaration of love from her.”

Olivan retorted:

“She knew as well as me that I was in love with her; but our lives parted. When I went abroad, Adriana was only a little girl; when I came back, she had taken to the stupid life of the stage. What do you think I should have done? You would have been the first to look grave if I had offered to marry her. I thought that I would forget her. I couldn’t. And now, what am I to her? The good friend of her childhood, too serious to share her follies, and too poor to satisfy her ambition?”

“You aren’t poor. You are the owner of the chief factory of foie gras in the kingdom.”

“But Archibald Granmont is a multi-millionaire, and he bears a name famous for two hundred years. To the devil with him! Did you see the way he looks at people? It seems as he doesn’t see anyone, as if nobody reached the level of his eyes. I believe I could kill him, and never repent, Alberto. He is the most arrogant man in the world.”

Marco raised his voice.

“The most arrogant man that has ever lived was buried years ago in the cemetery of St. Mamed.”

And although the recollection plunged him into gloom, he stretched over to refill with care Truffe’s glass.

“Nobody can pour out beer as well as you, Marco,” said the glutton, deeply moved by the attention. “I am going to drink this glass to your health.”

“I don’t know that it will do me any good, sir,” replied the employee, “but thank you all the same.”

“Now,” said Truffe, when he had emptied the huge mug, “I am in the proper spiritual frame to hear the history of your reprobate.”

Massipo turned to his master:

“If Mr. Olivan doesn’t mind listening,” he said diffidently.

Florio made a gesture of indifference, as much as to indicate that no possible annoyance (whether it were a story by Massipo, or an earthquake) could add to his grief, and the former superintendent of St. Mamed sat down beside the two friends and began as follows:

“The proudest man on earth, gentlemen,” he said, “died twenty years ago. He was the Baron de la Cetea, and his Christian name was José: but he changed that name, as being rather vulgar, to Everard, after having ascertained that in the whole province there was no other distinguished Everard. About what my hero did during his life, I have nothing to say, because I haven’t taken the trouble to find out the facts. But I know that he had fifteen or twenty different uniforms, the wearing of each of which carried a distinct privilege, even if it had become no more than the right to meet other wearers of the same uniform. The servant who for some time had the duty of taking flowers to the tomb told me that the chief object of these reunions was to maunder over old times, a fatiguing task which made it necessary for them to dress themselves in strange costumes and brag of their own ancestors. Baron de la Cetea was very proud of his own chief ancestor, and cited him on any pretext and at any time. I know also that among all his suits, the one that gave our nobleman most pleasure carried the right to stand for four hours a day outside one of the bedrooms of the royal palace. The same servant also told me that his dead master would never try to strike the same match twice. If the phosphorus didn’t break into flame with one rub on the box, the haughty Everard threw it away and took another, as to persevere with the first was to grant it an unmerited favour.

“It won’t surprise you that our gentleman devoted many pages of his will to directions for his own funeral. It is a practice few vain people can resist. Our hero arranged for himself a sensational funeral. He contrived to give trouble to more people at his death than most men give during their whole lives. He had himself placed in a coffin of costly wood, where, stiff and solemn, clad in his most splendid uniform, he was on view for a whole day, to everyone who cared to come, just as if his carrion were something out of the way. At ten o’clock at night the first gases of decomposition slightly moved his mouth, and gasped out ‘puah.’ And exactly at that moment the prime minister and other very distinguished persons had come into the death chamber.

“ ‘How annoying,’ thought the proud corpse, ‘whatever will these gentlemen think of my manners?’

“He watched them from the corner of his eye, to see if their faces showed any signs of reproach or ridicule; but he saw nothing except gravity and sorrow. And he was comforted.

“Apart from that little detail, never did a corpse acquit itself in its coffin with more dignity. Four-and-twenty hours he was on view and not for a second did he forget himself. You couldn’t come across a dead man making a more dignified corpse, and those who saw him in his white uniform, with his frilled collar, a fine ivory crucifix in his hands, his boots with the spurs of his Order shining like mirrors, one eyelid closed and the other just showing a bit of the cornea, can never have forgotten him.

“All the same, the supreme triumph of the dead man was when he felt himself being slipped gently over the velvet-palled floor of the hearse—the sumptuous open hearse he had specified in his will. Everything was magnificent: the horses, the chariot, the plumes, the liveries of the footmen—and although one of these wasn’t plump enough to fit his dress coat, he was to be forgiven because of the discomfort a wig much too small must have caused him. The cortège started, and behind it there came the discordant voices of the clergy—to whom it seemed impossible to assume the proper melancholy tone—next a crowd on foot, further back an endless stream of carriages with crests. Weepers, black gloves, silk hats, and then, as master of the funeral ceremony, the representative of the king, a thin and livid courtier, hunched of body and slow on his feet, to whom, because he looked like an unburied corpse himself, these duties were always assigned at the Palace, to his legitimate pride.

“To see that dignitary behind the coach was the chief pleasure the defunct owed to his new estate. But soon he found other reasons to be glad that he was dead, enjoying himself more than he had thought possible. To pass through the streets in a sumptuous coach, holding up the traffic, with hundreds of well-dressed people on foot following behind, is a deep joy; but to be saluted by all the world, to obtain from old and young, from rich and poor, a solemn courtesy in which for a space bared heads showed bald skulls, curly hair, white or ruddy locks, is a pleasure granted to very few whilst they are alive. The baron received these salutes with the reserved gravity that came from conscious merit.

“ ‘At last,’ he thought, ‘justice is being done me.’

“He would have liked the priests to sing all the way, but that little grievance didn’t disturb his contentment too much. Things went well, and there were no ruts to endanger the stability of his sword, his staff, and his plumed hat lying on the coffin. On many of the balconies women appeared and crossed themselves, and some people coming out of their houses as the cortège passed, hurried back in visible terror.

“That reminded the dead man of the faculty which he had acquired as a corpse, of casting the evil eye, and from his coffin he directed an evil gaze from his horrible eye at everyone who came out from his house as he passed.

“Many decent merchants became bankrupt that day, by the action of the proud gentleman.

“Since the soil of St. Mamed was consecrated, there had not been, among all the millions who had been buried there, any conduct so strange as the Baron’s. The customs of the dead are very simple, and contrary to the general belief, there is not the least solemnity when they meet. They like to tell stories, to dance, and to chase will-o’-the-wisps. The Baron de la Cetea soon began to go out at nights, to walk along the cemetery paths, clad in a rag of his white robe as knight of some Order or other. But he didn’t exchange a word with anyone, or go near a group of his neighbours, although they were extremely picturesque in the moonlight. You can take it from me that there were there some very respectable ghosts: for instance, there were Mr. Calamin who had a sonnet on his tombstone, and another skeleton with six gold teeth. And yet neither of these gentlemen gave themselves any airs. But one night, whilst the Baron was trying to decipher the laudatory poem on Mr. Calamin’s tombstone, the gentleman came out of his retreat and made a courteous salute.

“ ‘I congratulate you,’ said the Baron. ‘This idea of a poetical epitaph is excellent. I am sorry I didn’t think of it.’

“ ‘After a time,’ objected the other modestly, ‘I got rather tired of it. I am not going to deny that for the first few months I was very proud of the verses; but they seem now to turn me into—into something like toffee.’

“ ‘Like toffee, my dear sir?’

“ ‘Yes; when I was a child, I was very fond of sweetmeats with verses printed on the wrapping paper. But why talk about a trifle like that? Allow me to say that I regret not seeing you at our little meetings.’

“ ‘Oh,’ replied the Baron, rather fretfully, ‘I haven’t found anyone to introduce me.’

“ ‘I assure you that it isn’t necessary.’

“ ‘Well, to tell the truth, I am afraid of meeting undesirable persons; I am not very fond of the rabble.’

“ ‘But,’ explained Mr. Calamin gloomily, ‘there are no common people here; there is nothing but the community of the dead. Neither blue blood, nor horny hands, nor well-endowed brains: the worms have eaten or the soil has drank up all that. Death has levelled us, and in this domain there is nothing to divide us into ranks.’

“The Baron de la Cetea interrupted him:

“ ‘I am sorry to hear a gentleman of your obvious distinction defend notions of that kind. What distinguishes us in life is the way in which we came into it, and I don’t see why the same should not apply to our death. I came into life in a cradle with a coat of arms. That was enough. And I came into the cemetery in a state coach. Very good, you are not going to tell me that it would have been all the same if I had come here third class.’

“ ‘I also came here first class,’ said Mr. Calamin, with some pride, boasting in his turn.

“ ‘So I should have supposed,’ admitted the other; ‘let us introduce ourselves. What were you in life?’

“ ‘Chief of the Board of Trade. And you?’

“ ‘It would take a long time to recite all my titles; but it will probably please you specially to know that I was private chamberlain of the cape and sword of His Holiness.’

“The man with the poetic epitaph made a deep bow.

“ ‘It is an honour to know you. Was your duty very heavy?’

“ ‘By no means. I saw the Pope only once in my life.’

“ ‘Then?’

“ ‘You must understand that I only had it to put on my death certificate. It is well known that there are many offices and many distinctions that have no other object except to be put on the death certificate. But I think the hour has come for us to retire. Good-bye, sir.’

“ ‘Good-bye, sir, here is my niche, and I am at your service.’

“Breaking the simple manners of the dead, the Baron soon succeeded in dividing them into castes. He formed an upper-class club, and got them to meet on Fridays in his vault, with little other purpose than to talk to them about his distant ancestor, the first Baron de la Cetea. No one else had an ancestor so distinguished, and the skeleton with the six gold teeth tried in vain to attract attention when the private chamberlain was speaking. Before the club broke up, every Friday evening, Mr. Calamin got leave to recite his poetical epitaph, so giving a literary tone to the proceedings.

“One night, when the Baron was taking a solitary walk near the boundary wall, he saw a skeleton sitting in a meditative attitude on a mossy stone. The nobleman looked askance at him, with the lofty disdain which the rabble deserve. A mere glance had warned him that he had to do with a denizen of the common grave-pit. The skeleton was many years old, possibly many centuries, and was grimy and discoloured with gritty patches of soil. The nobleman passed on silent and dignified. But he heard a voice:

“ ‘Everard!’

“The voice was harsh and powerful, and just a little mocking. The private chamberlain of His Holiness stood still, and the two skeletons stared at each other for a few seconds.

“ ‘I am very pleased to see you, Everard,’ said the bunch of dirty bones smoothly. ‘Yes, very pleased indeed! In your present condition no one can say that you aren’t very like your father, and that should gratify family pride.’

“ ‘And who are you?’ muttered the proud gentleman.

“ ‘I am one of your ancestors; the first Baron de la Cetea, my dear. That I am, although the common grave has damaged me a bit. I heard yesterday that you had arrived, and I said to myself that a chat with you might be amusing. How is the world wagging? What sort of a life did you lead there?’

“ ‘The life proper to my rank, grandparent,’ replied the Baron, although he was a little confused.

“ ‘Very good; I am glad of that. Is there still good money in piracy?’

“ ‘Piracy?’

“ ‘My word—it would be almost worth while to live again, my boy, to taste its joys. I hear that the world is now rather a dull place, and that people have to learn reading and writing. It must be like a girls’ party. Oh, the good times! the good times! I can’t deny that I was sometimes starving and often had a struggle; but from the day we murdered the master of the Cetea and I made myself captain, and we turned to piracy, life was much pleasanter.’

“ ‘I always understood that you had been captain of a royal vessel.’

“ ‘When that happened I had already drunk many casks. And casks made my fortune. Do you know the story? The ship of Arnaldo, the Genoese, saw us because we had deliberately placed ourselves in his course. We pretended to be carriers of wine in the Adriatic, and we had a full cargo. The trick succeeded. Arnaldo’s crew coveted the wine, boarded our stern, and chained us to the benches in their ship. “Drink!” we thought, “for our turn will come soon.” You have guessed that the casks were poisoned. In a few hours the crew of the ship died, howling. Arnaldo and a few others had vomited up the poison, but we had no trouble in securing them. Then I had the notion of impaling Arnaldo on the foremast of the Cetea. But he didn’t stick well, and we had to tie ropes to his ankles and pull hard. Lord, how we laughed!’

“ ‘Horrible!’

“ ‘And so we entered the port. When Don Henry, the king, whom the Genoese had kept uneasy, heard of it, he not only pardoned us, but made me captain of the captured vessel. Three years later I married Mencia, your virtuous ancestress, and it was to that rash impulse that I owe the pleasure of speaking to you now, Everard.’

“He sighed deeply and exclaimed:

“ ‘There was an excellent woman! When I had to use a knife on her father who had withheld his consent to our marriage, that saint kept on crying: “Don’t make him suffer, don’t make him suffer! It’s not necessary; cut his throat without any more tortures.” Tender heart! She couldn’t bear to see unpleasantness!’

“Everard, completely overcome, had sat down near his ancestor, and was hiding his skull in his hands. Suddenly they heard close by a thump on the ground. A voice whispered:

“ ‘Jump down! there’s nothing to fear.’

“And they saw a man holding out his arms to another, who was still astride the wall.

“ ‘We must hide,’ ordered the founder of the House of de la Cetea, ‘or we are done for.’

“And he dragged his descendant to the shelter of a tombstone.

“The two new arrivals stood quite near them, but talked so low that not a word could be heard. They put down on the ground beside the tomb a big sack and a rope ladder, and moved away in the darkness.

“ ‘They have come to steal skeletons,’ said the old pirate; ‘they make bone buttons and they come here to get their raw material.’

“He shook his head sadly.

“ ‘Now they are going to the common grave-pit. It’s the worst of being an occupant of that ditch; you run the risk of finding yourself holding up people’s drawers. I hear that you have a splendid vault. I must take up my quarters in it from to-night.’

“Everard didn’t reply. He peered into the darkness, and listened to the sound of the footsteps to guess how far off they were. Then he hurled himself violently on the dirty skeleton of his ancestor, seized it, doubled it up, popped it into the robbers’ sack, and tied the neck so that it couldn’t escape.

“ ‘Everard, Everard,’ cried the prisoner, in a lamentable voice.

“ ‘Ouf,’ cried the Baron, ‘what would come of the De la Ceteas if they had to introduce this bandit to their friends?’

“He shook his hands, tainted from having touched that dirt, and moved off.”