Mauprat | Page 9

from the top of the
loopholes, wood-cutter and charcoal-burner pass by silently, with
quickened step, and cross themselves from time to time to ward off the
evil spirits that hold sway among the ruins.
For myself, I own that I have never skirted the ravine at night without
feeling a certain uneasiness; and I would not like to swear that on some
stormy nights I have not given my horse a touch of the spur, in order to
escape the more quickly from the disagreeable impression this
neighbourhood made on me.
The reason is that in childhood I classed the name of Mauprat with
those of Cartouche and Bluebeard; and in the course of horrible dreams

I often used to mix up the ancient legends of the Ogre and the Bogey
with the quite recent events which in our province had given such a
sinister lustre to this Mauprat family.
Frequently, out shooting, when my companions and I have left our
posts to go and warm ourselves at the charcoal fires which the
workmen keep up all night, I have heard this name dying away on their
lips at our approach. But when they had recognised us and thoroughly
satisfied themselves that the ghosts of none of these robbers were
hiding in our midst, they would tell us in a whisper such stories as
might make one's hair stand on end, stories which I shall take good care
not to pass on to you, grieved as I am that they should ever have
darkened and pained my own memory.
Not that the story I am about to tell is altogether pleasant and cheerful.
On the contrary, I must ask your pardon for unfolding so sombre a tale.
Yet, in the impression which it has made on myself there is something
so consoling and, if I may venture the phrase, so healthful to the soul,
that you will excuse me, I hope, for the sake of the result. Besides this
is a story which has just been told to me. And now you ask me for one.
The opportunity is too good to be missed for one of my laziness or lack
of invention.
It was only last week that I met Bernard Mauprat, the last of the line,
the man who, having long before severed himself from his infamous
connections, determined to demolish his manor as a sign of the horror
aroused in him by the recollections of childhood. This Bernard is one
of the most respected men in the province. He lives in a pretty house
near Chateauroux, in a flat country. Finding myself in the
neighbourhood, with a friend of mine who knows him, I expressed a
wish to be introduced; and my friend, promising me a hearty welcome,
took me to his house then and there.
I already knew in outline the remarkable history of this old man; but I
had always felt a keen desire to fill in the details, and above all to
receive them from himself. For me, the strange destiny of the man was
a philosophical problem to be solved. I therefore noticed his features,
his manners, and his home with peculiar interest.

Bernard Mauprat must be fully eighty-four, though his robust health,
his upright figure, his firm step, and the absence of any infirmity might
indicate some fifteen or twenty years less. His face would have
appeared to me extremely handsome, had not a certain harshness of
expression brought before my eyes, in spite of myself, the shades of his
fathers. I very much fear that, externally at all events, he must resemble
them. This he alone could have told us; for neither my friend nor
myself had known any other Mauprat. Naturally, however, we were
very careful not to inquire.
It struck us that his servants waited on him with a promptitude and
punctuality quite marvellous in Berrichon domestics. Nevertheless, at
the least semblance of delay he raised his voice, knitted his eyebrows
(which still showed very black under his white hair), and muttered a
few expressions of impatience which lent wings even to the slowest. At
first I was somewhat shocked at this habit; it appeared to savour rather
too strongly of the Mauprats. But the kindly and almost paternal
manner in which he spoke to them a moment later, and their zeal,
which seemed so distinct from fear, soon reconciled me to him.
Towards us, moreover, he showed an exquisite politeness, and
expressed himself in the choicest terms. Unfortunately, at the end of
dinner, a door which had been left open and through which a cold air
found its way to his venerable skull, drew from him such a frightful
oath that my friend and I exchanged a look of surprise. He noticed it.
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," he said.