Though and Act
by Honore de Balzac
Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley
Toward the end of Venemiaire, year VII., a republican period which in the
present day corresponds to October 20, 1799, two young men, leaving Bonn
in the early morning, had reached by nightfall the environs of Andernach,
a small town standing on the left bank of the Rhine a few leagues from
Coblentz. At that time the French army, commanded by Augereau, was
manoeuvring before the Austrians, who then occupied the right bank of the
river. The headquarters of the Republican division was at Coblentz, and
one of the demi-brigades belonging to Augereau's corps was stationed at
The two travellers were Frenchmen. At sight of their uniforms, blue mixed
with white and faced with red velvet, their sabres, and above all their
hats covered with a green varnished-cloth and adorned with a tricolor
plume, even the German peasants had recognized army surgeons, a body of
men of science and merit liked, for the most part, not only in our own
army but also in the countries invaded by our troops. At this period many
sons of good families taken from their medical studies by the recent
conscription law due to General Jourdan, had naturally preferred to
continue their studies on the battle-field rather than be restricted to
mere military duty, little in keeping with their early education and their
peaceful destinies. Men of science, pacific yet useful, these young men
did an actual good in the midst of so much misery, and formed a bond of
sympathy with other men of science in the various countries through which
the cruel civilization of the Republic passed.
The two young men were each provided with a pass and a commission as
assistant-surgeon signed Coste and Bernadotte; and they were on their way
to join the demi-brigade to which they were attached. Both belonged to
moderately rich families in Beauvais, a town in which the gentle manners
and loyalty of the provinces are transmitted as a species of birthright.
Attracted to the theatre of war before the date at which they were
required to begin their functions, they had travelled by diligence to
Strasburg. Though maternal prudence had only allowed them a slender sum of
money they thought themselves rich in possessing a few louis, an actual
treasure in those days when assignats were reaching their lowest
depreciation and gold was worth far more than silver. The two young
surgeons, about twenty years of age at the most, yielded themselves up to
the poesy of their situation with all the enthusiasm of youth. Between
Strasburg and Bonn they had visited the Electorate and the banks of the
Rhine as artists, philosophers, and observers. When a man's destiny is
scientific he is, at their age, a being who is truly many-sided. Even in
making love or in travelling, an assistant-surgeon should be gathering up
the rudiments of his fortune or his coming fame.
The two young had therefore given themselves wholly to that deep
admiration which must affect all educated men on seeing the banks of the
Rhine and the scenery of Suabia between Mayenne and Cologne,—a
strong, rich, vigorously varied nature, filled with feudal memories, ever
fresh and verdant, yet retaining at all points the imprints of fire and
sword. Louis XIV. and Turenne have cauterized that beautiful land. Here
and there certain ruins bear witness to the pride or rather the foresight
of the King of Versailles, who caused to be pulled down the ancient
castles that once adorned this part of Germany. Looking at this marvellous
country, covered with forests, where the picturesque charm of the middle
ages abounds, though in ruins, we are able to conceive the German genius,
its reverie, its mysticism.
The stay of the two friends at Bonn had the double purpose of science and
pleasure. The grand hospital of the Gallo-Batavian army and of Augereau's
division was established in the very palace of the Elector. These
assistant-surgeons of recent date went there to see old comrades, to
present their letters of recommendation to their medical chiefs, and to
familiarize themselves with the first aspects of their profession. There,
as elsewhere, they got rid of a few prejudices to which we cling so fondly
in favor of the beauties of our native land. Surprised by the aspect of
the columns of marble which adorn the Electoral Palace, they went about
admiring the grandiose effects of German architecture, and finding
everywhere new treasures both modern and antique.
From time to time the highways along which the two friends rode at leisure
on their way to Andernach, led them over the crest of some granite hill
that was higher than the rest. Thence, through a clearing of the forest or
cleft in the rocky barrier, they caught sudden glimpses of the Rhine
framed in stone or festooned with vigorous vegetation. The valleys, the
forest paths, the trees exhaled that autumnal odor which induced to
reverie; the wooded summits were beginning to gild and to take on the warm
brown tones significant of age; the leaves were falling, but the skies
were still azure and the dry roads lay like yellow lines along the
landscape, just then illuminated by the oblique rays of the setting sun.
At a mile and a half from Andernach the two friends walked their horses in
silence, as if no war were devastating this beautiful land, while they
followed a path made for the goats across the lofty walls of bluish
granite between which foams the Rhine. Presently they descended by one of
the declivities of the gorge, at the foot of which is placed the little
town, seated coquettishly on the banks of the river and offering a
convenient port to mariners.
"Germany is a beautiful country!" cried one of the two young men, who was
named Prosper Magnan, at the moment when he caught sight of the painted
houses of Andernach, pressed together like eggs in a basket, and separated
only by trees, gardens, and flowers. Then he admired for a moment the
pointed roofs with their projecting eaves, the wooden staircases, the
galleries of a thousand peaceful dwellings, and the vessels swaying to the
waves in the port.
[At the moment when Monsieur Hermann uttered the name of Prosper Magnan,
my opposite neighbor seized the decanter, poured out a glass of water, and
emptied it at a draught. This movement having attracted my attention, I
thought I noticed a slight trembling of the hand and a moisture on the
brow of the capitalist.
"What is that man's name?" I asked my neighbor.
"Taillefer," she replied.
"Do you feel ill?" I said to him, observing that this strange personage
was turning pale.
"Not at all," he said with a polite gesture of thanks. "I am listening,"
he added, with a nod to the guests, who were all simultaneously looking at
"I have forgotten," said Monsieur Hermann, "the name of the other young
man. But the confidences which Prosper Magnan subsequently made to me
enabled me to know that his companion was dark, rather thin, and jovial. I
will, if you please, call him Wilhelm, to give greater clearness to the
tale I am about to tell you."
The worthy German resumed his narrative after having, without the smallest
regard for romanticism and local color, baptized the young French surgeon
with a Teutonic name.]
By the time the two young men reached Andernach the night was dark.
Presuming that they would lose much time in looking for their chiefs and
obtaining from them a military billet in a town already full of soldiers,
they resolved to spend their last night of freedom at an inn standing some
two or three hundred feet from Andernach, the rich color of which,
embellished by the fires of the setting sun, they had greatly admired from
the summit of the hill above the town. Painted entirely red, this inn
produced a most piquant effect in the landscape, whether by detaching
itself from the general background of the town, or by contrasting its
scarlet sides with the verdure of the surrounding foliage, and the
gray-blue tints of the water. This house owed its name, the Red Inn, to
this external decoration, imposed upon it, no doubt from time immemorial
by the caprice of its founder. A mercantile superstition, natural enough
to the different possessors of the building, far-famed among the sailors
of the Rhine, had made them scrupulous to preserve the title.
Hearing the sound of horses' hoofs, the master of the Red Inn came out
upon the threshold of his door.
"By heavens! gentlemen," he cried, "a little later and you'd have had to
sleep beneath the stars, like a good many more of your compatriots who are
bivouacking on the other side of Andernach. Here every room is occupied.
If you want to sleep in a good bed I have only my own room to offer you.
As for your horses I can litter them down in a corner of the courtyard.
The stable is full of people. Do these gentlemen come from France?" he
added after a slight pause.
"From Bonn," cried Prosper, "and we have eaten nothing since morning."
"Oh! as to provisions," said the innkeeper, nodding his head, "people come
to the Red Inn for their wedding feast from thirty miles round. You shall
have a princely meal, a Rhine fish! More, I need not say."
After confiding their weary steeds to the care of the landlord, who vainly
called to his hostler, the two young men entered the public room of the
inn. Thick white clouds exhaled by a numerous company of smokers prevented
them from at first recognizing the persons with whom they were thrown; but
after sitting awhile near the table, with the patience practised by
philosophical travellers who know the inutility of making a fuss, they
distinguished through the vapors of tobacco the inevitable accessories of
a German inn: the stove, the clock, the pots of beer, the long pipes, and
here and there the eccentric physiognomies of Jews, or Germans, and the
weather-beaten faces of mariners. The epaulets of several French officers
were glittering through the mist, and the clank of spurs and sabres echoed
incessantly from the brick floor. Some were playing cards, others argued,
or held their tongues and ate, drank, or walked about. One stout little
woman, wearing a black velvet cap, blue and silver stomacher, pincushion,
bunch of keys, silver buckles, braided hair,—all distinctive signs
of the mistress of a German inn (a costume which has been so often
depicted in colored prints that it is too common to describe here),—well,
this wife of the innkeeper kept the two friends alternately patient and
impatient with remarkable ability.
Little by little the noise decreased, the various travellers retired to
their rooms, the clouds of smoke dispersed. When places were set for the
two young men, and the classic carp of the Rhine appeared upon the table,
eleven o'clock was striking and the room was empty. The silence of night
enabled the young surgeons to hear vaguely the noise their horses made in
eating their provender, and the murmur of the waters of the Rhine,
together with those indefinable sounds which always enliven an inn when
filled with persons preparing to go to bed. Doors and windows are opened
and shut, voices murmur vague words, and a few interpellations echo along
At this moment of silence and tumult the two Frenchmen and their landlord,
who was boasting of Andernach, his inn, his cookery, the Rhine wines, the
Republican army, and his wife, were all three listening with a sort of
interest to the hoarse cries of sailors in a boat which appeared to be
coming to the wharf. The innkeeper, familiar no doubt with the guttural
shouts of the boatmen, went out hastily, but presently returned conducting
a short stout man, behind whom walked two sailors carrying a heavy valise
and several packages. When these were deposited in the room, the short man
took the valise and placed it beside him as he seated himself without
ceremony at the same table as the surgeons.
"Go and sleep in your boat," he said to the boatmen, "as the inn is full.
Considering all things, that is best."
"Monsieur," said the landlord to the new-comer, "these are all the
provisions I have left," pointing to the supper served to the two
Frenchmen; "I haven't so much as another crust of bread nor a bone."
"Not enough to put in my wife's thimble! As I had the honor to tell you
just now, you can have no bed but the chair on which you are sitting, and
no other chamber than this public room."
At these words the little man cast upon the landlord, the room, and the
two Frenchmen a look in which caution and alarm were equally expressed.
["Here," said Monsieur Hermann, interrupting himself, "I ought to tell you
that we have never known the real name nor the history of this man; his
papers showed that he came from Aix-la-Chapelle; he called himself
Wahlenfer and said that he owned a rather extensive pin manufactory in the
suburbs of Neuwied. Like all the manufacturers of that region, he wore a
surtout coat of common cloth, waistcoat and breeches of dark green
velveteen, stout boots, and a broad leather belt. His face was round, his
manners frank and cordial; but during the evening he seemed unable to
disguise altogether some secret apprehension or, possibly, some anxious
care. The innkeeper's opinion has always been that this German merchant
was fleeing his country. Later I heard that his manufactory had been
burned by one of those unfortunate chances so frequent in times of war. In
spite of its anxious expression the man's face showed great kindliness.
His features were handsome; and the whiteness of his stout throat was well
set off by a black cravat, a fact which Wilhelm showed jestingly to
Here Monsieur Taillefer drank another glass of water.]
Prosper courteously proposed that the merchant should share their supper,
and Wahlenfer accepted the offer without ceremony, like a man who feels
himself able to return a civility. He placed his valise on the floor and
put his feet on it, took off his hat and gloves and removed a pair of
pistols from his belt; the landlord having by this time set a knife and
fork for him, the three guests began to satisfy their appetites in
silence. The atmosphere of this room was hot and the flies were so
numerous that Prosper requested the landlord to open the window looking
toward the outer gate, so as to change the air. This window was barricaded
by an iron bar, the two ends of which were inserted into holes made in the
window casings. For greater security, two bolts were screwed to each
shutter. Prosper accidentally noticed the manner in which the landlord
managed these obstacles and opened the window.
As I am now speaking of localities, this is the place to describe to you
the interior arrangements of the inn; for, on an accurate knowledge of the
premises depends an understanding of my tale. The public room in which the
three persons I have named to you were sitting, had two outer doors. One
opened on the main road to Andernach, which skirts the Rhine. In front of
the inn was a little wharf, to which the boat hired by the merchant for
his journey was moored. The other door opened upon the courtyard of the
inn. This courtyard was surrounded by very high walls and was full, for
the time being, of cattle and horses, the stables being occupied by human
beings. The great gate leading into this courtyard had been so carefully
barricaded that to save time the landlord had brought the merchant and
sailors into the public room through the door opening on the roadway.
After having opened the window, as requested by Prosper Magnan, he closed
this door, slipped the iron bars into their places and ran the bolts. The
landlord's room, where the two young surgeons were to sleep, adjoined the
public room, and was separated by a somewhat thin partition from the
kitchen, where the landlord and his wife intended, probably, to pass the
night. The servant-woman had left the premises to find a lodging in some
crib or hayloft. It is therefore easy to see that the kitchen, the
landlord's chamber, and the public room were, to some extent, isolated
from the rest of the house. In the courtyard were two large dogs, whose
deep-toned barking showed vigilant and easily roused guardians.
"What silence! and what a beautiful night!" said Wilhelm, looking at the
sky through the window, as the landlord was fastening the door.
The lapping of the river against the wharf was the only sound to be heard.
"Messieurs," said the merchant, "permit me to offer you a few bottles of
wine to wash down the carp. We'll ease the fatigues of the day by
drinking. From your manner and the state of your clothes, I judge that you
have made, like me, a good bit of a journey to-day."
The two friends accepted, and the landlord went out by a door through the
kitchen to his cellar, situated, no doubt, under this portion of the
building. When five venerable bottles which he presently brought back with
him appeared on the table, the wife brought in the rest of the supper. She
gave to the dishes and to the room generally the glance of a mistress, and
then, sure of having attended to all the wants of the travellers, she
returned to the kitchen.
The four men, for the landlord was invited to drink, did not hear her go
to bed, but later, during the intervals of silence which came into their
talk, certain strongly accentuated snores, made the more sonorous by the
thin planks of the loft in which she had ensconced herself, made the
guests laugh and also the husband. Towards midnight, when nothing remained
on the table but biscuits, cheese, dried fruit, and good wine, the guests,
chiefly the young Frenchmen, became communicative. The latter talked of
their homes, their studies, and of the war. The conversation grew lively.
Prosper Magnan brought a few tears to the merchant's eyes, when with the
frankness and naivete of a good and tender nature, he talked of what his
mother must be doing at that hour, while he was sitting drinking on the
banks of the Rhine.
"I can see her," he said, "reading her prayers before she goes to bed. She
won't forget me; she is certain to say to herself, 'My poor Prosper; I
wonder where he is now!' If she has won a few sous from her neighbors—your
mother, perhaps," he added, nudging Wilhelm's elbow—"she'll go and
put them in the great red earthenware pot, where she is accumulating a sum
sufficient to buy the thirty acres adjoining her little estate at
Lescheville. Those thirty acres are worth at least sixty thousand francs.
Such fine fields! Ah! if I had them I'd live all my days at Lescheville,
without other ambition! How my father used to long for those thirty acres
and the pretty brook which winds through the meadows! But he died without
ever being able to buy them. Many's the time I've played there!"
"Monsieur Wahlenfer, haven't you also your 'hoc erat in votis'?" asked
"Yes, monsieur, but it came to pass, and now—"
The good man was silent, and did not finish his sentence.
"As for me," said the landlord, whose face was rather flushed, "I bought a
field last spring, which I had been wanting for ten years."
They talked thus like men whose tongues are loosened by wine, and they
each took that friendly liking to the others of which we are never stingy
on a journey; so that when the time came to separate for the night,
Wilhelm offered his bed to the merchant.
"You can accept it without hesitation," he said, "for I can sleep with
Prosper. It won't be the first, nor the last time either. You are our
elder, and we ought to honor age!"
"Bah!" said the landlord, "my wife's bed has several mattresses; take one
off and put it on the floor."
So saying, he went and shut the window, making all the noise that prudent
"I accept," said the merchant; "in fact I will admit," he added, lowering
his voice and looking at the two Frenchmen, "that I desired it. My boatmen
seem to me suspicious. I am not sorry to spend the night with two brave
young men, two French soldiers, for, between ourselves, I have a hundred
thousand francs in gold and diamonds in my valise."
The friendly caution with which this imprudent confidence was received by
the two young men, seemed to reassure the German. The landlord assisted in
taking off one of the mattresses, and when all was arranged for the best
he bade them good-night and went off to bed.
The merchant and the surgeons laughed over the nature of their pillows.
Prosper put his case of surgical instruments and that of Wilhelm under the
end of his mattress to raise it and supply the place of a bolster, which
was lacking. Wahlenfer, as a measure of precaution, put his valise under
"We shall both sleep on our fortune," said Prosper, "you, on your gold; I,
on my instruments. It remains to be seen whether my instruments will ever
bring me the gold you have now acquired."
"You may hope so," said the merchant. "Work and honesty can do everything;
have patience, however."
Wahlenfer and Wilhelm were soon asleep. Whether it was that his bed on the
floor was hard, or that his great fatigue was a cause of sleeplessness, or
that some fatal influence affected his soul, it is certain that Prosper
Magnan continued awake. His thoughts unconsciously took an evil turn. His
mind dwelt exclusively on the hundred thousand francs which lay beneath
the merchant's pillow. To Prosper Magnan one hundred thousand francs was a
vast and ready-made fortune. He began to employ it in a hundred different
ways; he made castles in the air, such as we all make with eager delight
during the moments preceding sleep, an hour when images rise in our minds
confusedly, and often, in the silence of the night, thought acquires some
magical power. He gratified his mother's wishes; he bought the thirty
acres of meadow land; he married a young lady of Beauvais to whom his
present want of fortune forbade him to aspire. With a hundred thousand
francs he planned a lifetime of happiness; he saw himself prosperous, the
father of a family, rich, respected in his province, and, possibly, mayor
of Beauvais. His brain heated; he searched for means to turn his fictions
to realities. He began with extraordinary ardor to plan a crime
theoretically. While fancying the death of the merchant he saw distinctly
the gold and the diamonds. His eyes were dazzled by them. His heart
throbbed. Deliberation was, undoubtedly, already crime. Fascinated by that
mass of gold he intoxicated himself morally by murderous arguments. He
asked himself if that poor German had any need to live; he supposed the
case of his never having existed. In short, he planned the crime in a
manner to secure himself impunity. The other bank of the river was
occupied by the Austrian army; below the windows lay a boat and boatman;
he would cut the throat of that man, throw the body into the Rhine, and
escape with the valise; gold would buy the boatman and he could reach the
Austrians. He went so far as to calculate the professional ability he had
reached in the use of instruments, so as to cut through his victim's
throat without leaving him the chance for a single cry.
[Here Monsieur Taillefer wiped his forehead and drank a little water.]
Prosper rose slowly, making no noise. Certain of having waked no one, he
dressed himself and went into the public room. There, with that fatal
intelligence a man suddenly finds on some occasions within him, with that
power of tact and will which is never lacking to prisoners or to criminals
in whatever they undertake, he unscrewed the iron bars, slipped them from
their places without the slightest noise, placed them against the wall,
and opened the shutters, leaning heavily upon their hinges to keep them
from creaking. The moon was shedding its pale pure light upon the scene,
and he was thus enabled to faintly see into the room where Wilhelm and
Wahlenfer were sleeping. There, he told me, he stood still for a moment.
The throbbing of his heart was so strong, so deep, so sonorous, that he
was terrified; he feared he could not act with coolness; his hands
trembled; the soles of his feet seem planted on red-hot coal; but the
execution of his plan was accompanied by such apparent good luck that he
fancied he saw a species of predestination in this favor bestowed upon him
by fate. He opened the window, returned to the bedroom, took his case of
instruments, and selected the one most suitable to accomplish the crime.
"When I stood by the bed," he said to me, "I commended myself mechanically
At the moment when he raised his arm collecting all his strength, he heard
a voice as it were within him; he thought he saw a light. He flung the
instrument on his own bed and fled into the next room, and stood before
the window. There, he conceived the utmost horror of himself. Feeling his
virtue weak, fearing still to succumb to the spell that was upon him he
sprang out upon the road and walked along the bank of the Rhine, pacing up
and down like a sentinel before the inn. Sometimes he went as far as
Andernach in his hurried tramp; often his feet led him up the slope he had
descended on his way to the inn; and sometimes he lost sight of the inn
and the window he had left open behind him. His object, he said, was to
weary himself and so find sleep.
But, as he walked beneath the cloudless skies, beholding the stars,
affected perhaps by the purer air of night and the melancholy lapping of
the water, he fell into a reverie which brought him back by degrees to
sane moral thoughts. Reason at last dispersed completely his momentary
frenzy. The teachings of his education, its religious precepts, but above
all, so he told me, the remembrance of his simple life beneath the
parental roof drove out his wicked thoughts. When he returned to the inn
after a long meditation to which he abandoned himself on the bank of the
Rhine, resting his elbow on a rock, he could, he said to me, not have
slept, but have watched untempted beside millions of gold. At the moment
when his virtue rose proudly and vigorously from the struggle, he knelt
down, with a feeling of ecstasy and happiness, and thanked God. He felt
happy, light-hearted, content, as on the day of his first communion, when
he thought himself worthy of the angels because he had passed one day
without sinning in thought, or word, or deed.
He returned to the inn and closed the window without fearing to make a
noise, and went to bed at once. His moral and physical lassitude was
certain to bring him sleep. In a very short time after laying his head on
his mattress, he fell into that first fantastic somnolence which precedes
the deepest sleep. The senses then grew numb, and life is abolished by
degrees; thoughts are incomplete, and the last quivering of our
consciousness seems like a sort of reverie. "How heavy the air is!" he
thought; "I seem to be breathing a moist vapor." He explained this vaguely
to himself by the difference which must exist between the atmosphere of
the close room and the purer air by the river. But presently he heard a
periodical noise, something like that made by drops of water falling from
a robinet into a fountain. Obeying a feeling of panic terror he was about
to rise and call the innkeeper and waken Wahlenfer and Wilhelm, but he
suddenly remembered, alas! to his great misfortune, the tall wooden clock;
he fancied the sound was that of the pendulum, and he fell asleep with
that confused and indistinct perception.
["Do you want some water, Monsieur Taillefer?" said the master of the
house, observing that the banker was mechanically pouring from an empty
Monsieur Hermann continued his narrative after the slight pause occasioned
by this interruption.]
The next morning Prosper Magnan was awakened by a great noise. He seemed
to hear piercing cries, and he felt that violent shuddering of the nerves
which we suffer when on awaking we continue to feel a painful impression
begun in sleep. A physiological fact then takes place within us, a start,
to use the common expression, which has never been sufficiently observed,
though it contains very curious phenomena for science. This terrible
agony, produced, possibly, by the too sudden reunion of our two natures
separated during sleep, is usually transient; but in the poor young
surgeon's case it lasted, and even increased, causing him suddenly the
most awful horror as he beheld a pool of blood between Wahlenfer's bed and
his own mattress. The head of the unfortunate German lay on the ground;
his body was still on the bed; all its blood had flowed out by the neck.
Seeing the eyes still open but fixed, seeing the blood which had stained
his sheets and even his hands, recognizing his own surgical instrument
beside him, Prosper Magnan fainted and fell into the pool of Wahlenfer's
blood. "It was," he said to me, "the punishment of my thoughts." When he
recovered consciousness he was in the public room, seated on a chair,
surrounded by French soldiers, and in presence of a curious and observing
crowd. He gazed stupidly at a Republican officer engaged in taking the
testimony of several witnesses, and in writing down, no doubt, the
"proces-verbal." He recognized the landlord, his wife, the two boatmen,
and the servant of the Red Inn. The surgical instrument which the murderer
[Here Monsieur Taillefer coughed, drew out his handkerchief to blow his
nose, and wiped his forehead. These perfectly natural motions were noticed
by me only; the other guests sat with their eyes fixed on Monsieur
Hermann, to whom they were listening with a sort of avidity. The purveyor
leaned his elbow on the table, put his head into his right hand and gazed
fixedly at Hermann. From that moment he showed no other sign of emotion or
interest, but his face remained passive and ghastly, as it was when I
first saw him playing with the stopper of the decanter.]
The surgical instrument which the murderer had used was on the table with
the case containing the rest of the instruments, together with Prosper's
purse and papers. The gaze of the assembled crowd turned alternately from
these convicting articles to the young man, who seemed to be dying and
whose half-extinguished eyes apparently saw nothing. A confused murmur
which was heard without proved the presence of a crowd, drawn to the
neighborhood of the inn by the news of the crime, and also perhaps by a
desire to see the murderer. The step of the sentries placed beneath the
windows of the public room and the rattle of their accoutrements could be
heard above the talk of the populace; but the inn was closed and the
courtyard was empty and silent.
Incapable of sustaining the glance of the officer who was gathering his
testimony, Prosper Magnan suddenly felt his hand pressed by a man, and he
raised his eyes to see who his protector could be in that crowd of
enemies. He recognized by his uniform the surgeon-major of the
demi-brigade then stationed at Andernach. The glance of that man was so
piercing, so stern, that the poor young fellow shuddered, and suffered his
head to fall on the back of his chair. A soldier put vinegar to his
nostrils and he recovered consciousness. Nevertheless his haggard eyes
were so devoid of life and intelligence that the surgeon said to the
officer after feeling Prosper's pulse,—
"Captain, it is impossible to question the man at this moment."
"Very well! Take him away," replied the captain, interrupting the surgeon,
and addressing a corporal who stood behind the prisoner. "You cursed
coward!" he went on, speaking to Prosper in a low voice, "try at least to
walk firmly before these German curs, and save the honor of the Republic."
This address seemed to wake up Prosper Magnan, who rose and made a few
steps forward; but when the door was opened and he felt the fresh air and
saw the crowd before him, he staggered and his knees gave way under him.
"This coward of a sawbones deserves a dozen deaths! Get on!" cried the two
soldiers who had him in charge, lending him their arms to support him.
"There he is!—oh, the villain! the coward! Here he is! There he is!"
These cries seemed to be uttered by a single voice, the tumultuous voice
of the crowd which followed him with insults and swelled at every step.
During the passage from the inn to the prison, the noise made by the
tramping of the crowd and the soldiers, the murmur of the various
colloquies, the sight of the sky, the coolness of the air, the aspect of
Andernach and the shimmering of the waters of the Rhine,—these
impressions came to the soul of the young man vaguely, confusedly,
torpidly, like all the sensations he had felt since his waking. There were
moments, he said, when he thought he was no longer living.
I was then in prison. Enthusiastic, as we all are at twenty years of age,
I wished to defend my country, and I commanded a company of free lances,
which I had organized in the vicinity of Andernach. A few days before
these events I had fallen plump, during the night, into a French
detachment of eight hundred men. We were two hundred at the most. My
scouts had sold me. I was thrown into the prison of Andernach, and they
talked of shooting me, as a warning to intimidate others. The French
talked also of reprisals. My father, however, obtained a reprieve for
three days to give him time to see General Augereau, whom he knew, and ask
for my pardon, which was granted. Thus it happened that I saw Prosper
Magnan when he was brought to the prison. He inspired me with the
profoundest pity. Though pale, distracted, and covered with blood, his
whole countenance had a character of truth and innocence which struck me
forcibly. To me his long fair hair and clear blue eyes seemed German. A
true image of my hapless country. I felt he was a victim and not a
murderer. At the moment when he passed beneath my window he chanced to
cast about him the painful, melancholy smile of an insane man who suddenly
recovers for a time a fleeting gleam of reason. That smile was assuredly
not the smile of a murderer. When I saw the jailer I questioned him about
his new prisoner.
"He has not spoken since I put him in his cell," answered the man. "He is
sitting down with his head in his hands and is either sleeping or
reflecting about his crime. The French say he'll get his reckoning
to-morrow morning and be shot in twenty-four hours."
That evening I stopped short under the window of the prison during the
short time I was allowed to take exercise in the prison yard. We talked
together, and he frankly related to me his strange affair, replying with
evident truthfulness to my various questions. After that first
conversation I no longer doubted his innocence; I asked, and obtained the
favor of staying several hours with him. I saw him again at intervals, and
the poor lad let me in without concealment to all his thoughts. He
believed himself both innocent and guilty. Remembering the horrible
temptation which he had had the strength to resist, he feared he might
have done in sleep, in a fit of somnambulism, the crime he had dreamed of
"But your companion?" I said to him.
"Oh!" he cried eagerly. "Wilhelm is incapable of—"
He did not even finish his sentence. At that warm defence, so full of
youth and manly virtue, I pressed his hand.
"When he woke," continued Prosper, "he must have been terrified and lost
his head; no doubt he fled."
"Without awaking you?" I said. "Then surely your defence is easy;
Wahlenfer's valise cannot have been stolen."
Suddenly he burst into tears.
"Oh, yes!" he cried, "I am innocent! I have not killed a man! I remember
my dreams. I was playing at base with my schoolmates. I couldn't have cut
off the head of a man while I dreamed I was running."
Then, in spite of these gleams of hope, which gave him at times some
calmness, he felt a remorse which crushed him. He had, beyond all
question, raised his arm to kill that man. He judged himself; and he felt
that his heart was not innocent after committing that crime in his mind.
"And yet, I am good!" he cried. "Oh, my poor mother! Perhaps at
this moment she is cheerfully playing boston with the neighbors in her
little tapestry salon. If she knew that I had raised my hand to murder a
man—oh! she would die of it! And I am in prison, accused of
committing that crime! If I have not killed a man, I have certainly killed
Saying these words he wept no longer; he was seized by that short and
rapid madness known to the men of Picardy; he sprang to the wall, and if I
had not caught him, he would have dashed out his brains against it.
"Wait for your trial," I said. "You are innocent, you will certainly be
acquitted; think of your mother."
"My mother!" he cried frantically, "she will hear of the accusation before
she hears anything else,—it is always so in little towns; and the
shock will kill her. Besides, I am not innocent. Must I tell you the whole
truth? I feel that I have lost the virginity of my conscience."
After that terrible avowal he sat down, crossed his arms on his breast,
bowed his head upon it, gazing gloomily on the ground. At this instant the
turnkey came to ask me to return to my room. Grieved to leave my companion
at a moment when his discouragement was so deep, I pressed him in my arms
with friendship, saying:—
"Have patience; all may yet go well. If the voice of an honest man can
still your doubts, believe that I esteem you and trust you. Accept my
friendship, and rest upon my heart, if you cannot find peace in your own."
The next morning a corporal's guard came to fetch the young surgeon at
nine o'clock. Hearing the noise made by the soldiers, I stationed myself
at my window. As the prisoner crossed the courtyard, he cast his eyes up
to me. Never shall I forget that look, full of thoughts, presentiments,
resignation, and I know not what sad, melancholy grace. It was, as it
were, a silent but intelligible last will by which a man bequeathed his
lost existence to his only friend. The night must have been very hard,
very solitary for him; and yet, perhaps, the pallor of his face expressed
a stoicism gathered from some new sense of self-respect. Perhaps he felt
that his remorse had purified him, and believed that he had blotted out
his fault by his anguish and his shame. He now walked with a firm step,
and since the previous evening he had washed away the blood with which he
was, involuntarily, stained.
"My hands must have dabbled in it while I slept, for I am always a
restless sleeper," he had said to me in tones of horrible despair.
I learned that he was on his way to appear before the council of war. The
division was to march on the following morning, and the commanding-officer
did not wish to leave Andernach without inquiry into the crime on the spot
where it had been committed. I remained in the utmost anxiety during the
time the council lasted. At last, about mid-day, Prosper Magnan was
brought back. I was then taking my usual walk; he saw me, and came and
threw himself into my arms.
"Lost!" he said, "lost, without hope! Here, to all the world, I am a
murderer." He raised his head proudly. "This injustice restores to me my
innocence. My life would always have been wretched; my death leaves me
without reproach. But is there a future?"
The whole eighteenth century was in that sudden question. He remained
"Tell me," I said to him, "how you answered. What did they ask you? Did
you not relate the simple facts as you told them to me?"
He looked at me fixedly for a moment; then, after that awful pause, he
answered with feverish excitement:—
"First they asked me, 'Did you leave the inn during the night?' I said,
'Yes.' 'How?' I answered, 'By the window.' 'Then you must have taken great
precautions; the innkeeper heard no noise.' I was stupefied. The sailors
said they saw me walking, first to Andernach, then to the forest. I made
many trips, they said, no doubt to bury the gold and diamonds. The valise
had not been found. My remorse still held me dumb. When I wanted to speak,
a pitiless voice cried out to me, 'You meant to commit that crime!'
All was against me, even myself. They asked me about my comrade, and I
completely exonerated him. Then they said to me: 'The crime must lie
between you, your comrade, the innkeeper, and his wife. This morning all
the windows and doors were found securely fastened.' At those words,"
continued the poor fellow, "I had neither voice, nor strength, nor soul to
answer. More sure of my comrade than I could be of myself, I could not
accuse him. I saw that we were both thought equally guilty of the murder,
and that I was considered the most clumsy. I tried to explain the crime by
somnambulism, and so protect my friend; but there I rambled and
contradicted myself. No, I am lost. I read my condemnation in the eyes of
my judges. They smiled incredulously. All is over. No more uncertainty.
To-morrow I shall be shot. I am not thinking of myself," he went on after
a pause, "but of my poor mother." Then he stopped, looked up to heaven,
and shed no tears; his eyes were dry and strongly convulsed. "Frederic—"
["Ah! true," cried Monsieur Hermann, with an air of triumph. "Yes, the
other's name was Frederic, Frederic! I remember now!"
My neighbor touched my foot, and made me a sign to look at Monsieur
Taillefer. The former purveyor had negligently dropped his hand over his
eyes, but between the interstices of his fingers we thought we caught a
darkling flame proceeding from them.
"Hein?" she said in my ear, "what if his name were Frederic?"
I answered with a glance, which said to her: "Silence!"
"Frederic!" cried the young surgeon, "Frederic basely deserted me. He must
have been afraid. Perhaps he is still hidden in the inn, for our horses
were both in the courtyard this morning. What an incomprehensible
mystery!" he went on, after a moment's silence. "Somnambulism!
somnambulism? I never had but one attack in my life, and that was when I
was six years old. Must I go from this earth," he cried, striking the
ground with his foot, "carrying with me all there is of friendship in the
world? Shall I die a double death, doubting a fraternal love begun when we
were only five years old, and continued through school and college? Where
He wept. Can it be that we cling more to a sentiment than to life?
"Let us go in," he said; "I prefer to be in my cell. I do not wish to be
seen weeping. I shall go courageously to death, but I cannot play the
heroic at all moments; I own I regret my beautiful young life. All last
night I could not sleep; I remembered the scenes of my childhood; I
fancied I was running in the fields. Ah! I had a future," he said,
suddenly interrupting himself; "and now, twelve men, a sub-lieutenant
shouting 'Carry-arms, aim, fire!' a roll of drums, and infamy! that's my
future now. Oh! there must be a God, or it would all be too senseless."
Then he took me in his arms and pressed me to him with all his strength.
"You are the last man, the last friend to whom I can show my soul. You
will be set at liberty, you will see your mother! I don't know whether you
are rich or poor, but no matter! you are all the world to me. They won't
fight always, 'ceux-ci.' Well, when there's peace, will you go to
Beauvais? If my mother has survived the fatal news of my death, you will
find her there. Say to her the comforting words, 'He was innocent!' She
will believe you. I am going to write to her; but you must take her my
last look; you must tell her that you were the last man whose hand I
pressed. Oh, she'll love you, the poor woman! you, my last friend. Here,"
he said, after a moment's silence, during which he was overcome by the
weight of his recollections, "all, officers and soldiers, are unknown to
me; I am an object of horror to them. If it were not for you my innocence
would be a secret between God and myself."
I swore to sacredly fulfil his last wishes. My words, the emotion I showed
touched him. Soon after that the soldiers came to take him again before
the council of war. He was condemned to death. I am ignorant of the
formalities that followed or accompanied this judgment, nor do I know
whether the young surgeon defended his life or not; but he expected to be
executed on the following day, and he spent the night in writing to his
"We shall both be free to-day," he said, smiling, when I went to see him
the next morning. "I am told that the general has signed your pardon."
I was silent, and looked at him closely so as to carve his features, as it
were, on my memory. Presently an expression of disgust crossed his face.
"I have been very cowardly," he said. "During all last night I begged for
mercy of these walls," and he pointed to the sides of his dungeon. "Yes,
yes, I howled with despair, I rebelled, I suffered the most awful moral
agony—I was alone! Now I think of what others will say of me.
Courage is a garment to put on. I desire to go decently to death,