Speaker 1: The Invisible Eye by Erkman Chatrian. About this time, said
Christian Poor, as a church mouse, I took refuge in
the roof of an old house in Minnesanga Street, Nuremberg,
and made my nest in the corner of the garret.
I was compelled to work over my straw bed to
reach the window. But this window was in the gable end,
and the view from it was magnificent, both town and
country being spread out before me. I could see the
cats walking gravely in the gutters, the stalks, their beaks
filled with frogs, carrying nourishment to their ravenous brood. The
pigeons springing from their coats, their tails spread like fans,
hovering over the streets. In the evening, when the bells
called the world to the Angelus. With my elbows upon
the edge of the roof, I listened to their melancholy chimes.
I watched the windows as one by one they were
lighted up. The good burghers smoking their pipes on the sidewalks,
the young girls in their red skirts with their pitchers
under their arms, laughing and chatting around the fountain Sant
sabot Insensibly, all this faded away. The bats commenced their
rapid course, and I retired to my mattress in a
sweet peace and tranquility. The old curiosity seller, Tubac knew
the way to my little lodging as well as I did,
and was not afraid to climb the ladder. Every week,
his ugly head, adorned with a reddish cap, raised the
trap door. His fingers grasped the ledge, and he cried
out in a nasal tone, well, well, master Christian, have
you anything, to which I replied, come in. Why in
the devil don't you come in. I'm just finishing a
little landscape, and you must tell me what you think
of it. Then his great back, seeming to elongate, grew
up even to the roof, and the good Man laughed silently.
I must do justice to Tubac. He never haggled with
me about prices. He bought all my paintings at fifteen florins,
one with the other, and sold them again for forty each.
This was an honest jew. I began to grow fond
of this mode of existence and to find new charms
in it day by day. Just at this time the
city of Nuremberg was agitated by a strange and mysterious event.
Not far from my dormer window, a little to the
left stood the Inn Berf Gras, an old ouberche much
patronized throughout the country. Three or four wagons filled with
sacks or casks were always drawn up before the door,
where the rustic drivers were in the habit of stopping
on their way to the market to take their morning
draft of wine. The gable end of the inn was
distinguished by its peculiar form, twas very narrow pointed, and
on two sides cut in teeth like a saw. The
carvings were strangely grotesque, interwoven and ornamenting the cornices and
surrounding the windows. But the most remarkable fact was that
the house opposite reproduced exactly the same sculptures, the same ornaments.
Even the sign board, with its post and spiral of iron,
was exactly copied. One might have thought that these two
ancient houses reflected each other. Behind the inn, however, was
a grand old oak, whose somber leaves darkened the stones
of the roof, while the other house stood out in
bold relief against the sky. To complete the description, this
old building was as silent and dreary as the Inn
Berf cuire was noisy and animated. On one side, a
crowd of merry drinkers were continually entering in and going out, singing, tripping,
cracking their whips. On the other, profound silence reigned. Perhaps
once or twice during the day, the heavy door seemed
to open of itself to allow a little old woman
to go out, with her back almost in a semicircle,
her dress fitting tight about her hips, an enormous basket
on her arm, and her hand contracted against her breast.
It seemed to me that I saw, at a glance,
as I looked upon her, a whole existence of good
works and pious meditations. The physiognomy of this old woman
had struck me more than once. Her little green eyes,
long thin nose, the immense bouquets of flowers on her shawl,
which must have been at least a hundred years old,
the withered smile which puckered her cheeks into a cockade,
the lace of her bonnet falling down to her eyebrows.
All this was fantastic and interested me much. Why did
this old woman live in this great deserted he? I
wished to explore the mystery One day, as I paused
in the street and followed her with my eyes. She
turned suddenly and gave me a look, a horrible expression
of which I know not how to paint, made three
or four hideous grimaces, and then, letting her palsied head
fall upon her breast, drew her great shawl closely around her,
and advanced slowly to the heavy door, behind which I
saw her disappear. She's an old fool, I said to myself,
in a sort of stupor. My faith it was the
height of folly in me to be interested in her. However,
I would like to see her grimace again. Old Toubac
would willingly give me fifteen florins if I could paint
it for him. I must confess that these pleasantries of
mine did not entirely reassure me. The hideous glance which
the old shrew had given me pursued me everywhere more
than once, climbing the almost perpendicular ladder to my loft,
feeling my clothing caught on some point, I trembled from
head to foot, imagining that the old wretch was hanging
to the tails of my coat in order to destroy me. Tubac,
to whom I related this adventure was far from laughing
at it. Indeed, he assumed a grave and solemn air.
Master Christian said he, if the old woman wants you
take care, her teeth are small pointed and of marvelous whiteness,
and that is not natural at her age, she has
an evil eye. Children flee from her, and the people
of Nuremberg call her Fledamous. I admired the clear, sagacious
intellect of the Jew, and his words gave me cause
for reflection. Several weeks passed away, during which I often
encountered Fladamous without any alarming consequences. My fears were dissipated,
and I thought of her no more. But an evening
came during which, while sleeping very soundly, I was awakened
by a strange harmony. It was a kind of vibration
so sweet, so melodious, that the whispering of the breeze
among the leaves can give but a faint idea of
its charm. For a long time I listened intently, with
my eyes wide open, and holding my breath so as
not to lose a note. At last, I looked toward
the window and saw two wings fluttering against the glass.
I thought at first that it was a bat caught
in my room, but the moon rising at that instant,
I saw the wings of a magnificent butterfly of the night,
delineated upon her shining disk. Their vibrations were often so
rapid that they could not be distinguished. Then they posed
extended upon the glass, and their frail fibers were again
brought to view. Miss misty apparition, coming in the midst
of the universal silence, opened my heart to all sweet emotions.
It seemed to me that an airy sylph, touched with
a sense of my solitude, had come to visit me,
and this idea melted me almost to tears. Be tranquil, sweet, captive,
Be tranquil, said I. Your confidence shall not be abused.
I will not keep you against your will. Return to
heaven and to liberty. I then opened my little window.
The night was calm, and millions of stars were glittering
in the sky. For a moment I contemplated this sublime spectacle,
and words of prayer and praise came naturally to my lips.
But judge of my amazement. When lower my eyes I
saw a man hanging from the cross beam of the
sign of the berf gras, the hair disheveled, the arms stiff,
the legs elongated to a point, and casting their gigantic
shadows down to the street. The immobility of this figure
under the moon's rays was terrible. I felt my tongue freezing,
my teeth clinched. I was about to cry out in terror, when,
by some incomprehensible, mysterious attraction, my glance fell below, and
I distinguished confusedly the old woman, crouched at her window,
in the midst of dark shadows, and contemplating the dead
man with an air of diabolic satisfaction. Then I had
a vertigo of terror. All my strength abandoned me, and
retreating to the wall of my loft, I sank down
and became insensible. I do not know how long the
sleep of death continued. When restored to consciousness, I saw
that it was broad day. The mists of the night
had penetrated to my garret and deposited their fresh dew
upon my hair, and the confused murmurs of the street
ascended to my little lodging. I looked without. The burgomaster
and his secretary were stationed at the door of the inn,
and remained there a long time. Crowds of people came
and went, and paused to look in, then recommenced their course.
The good women of the neighborhood, who were sweeping before
their doors, looked on from afar and talked gravely with
each other. At last a litter, and upon this litter
a body covered with a linen cloth issued from the inn.
Carried by two men. They descended to the street, and
the children, on their way to school, ran behind them.
All the people drew back as they advanced. The window
opposite was still open. The end of a rope floated
from the cross beam. I had not dreamed. I had
indeed seen the butterfly of the night. I had seen
the man hanging, and I had seen flayed the mouse.
That day, Toubac made me a visit, and as his
great nose appeared on a level with the floor, he exclaimed,
Master Christian, have you nothing to sell? I did not
hear him. I was seated upon my one chair, my
hands clasped upon my knees, and my eyes fixed before me. Toubac,
surprised at my inattention, repeated in a louder voice, Master Christian.
Master Christian, then striding over the sill, he advanced and
struck me on the shoulder. Well, well, what is the
matter now, ah? Is that you Toubac eh parbleu? I
rather think so? Are you ill? No? I am only
thinking what in the devil are you thinking about? Of
the man who was hanged? Oh? Oh, cried the curiosity vender.
You have seen him, then, the poor boy. What a
singular history? The third in the same place, How the third? Ah, yes,
I ought to have warned you, but it is not
too late. There will certainly be a fourth who will
follow the example of the others. In laque le premiere
pa gikute. Saying this, Toubac took a seat on the
corner of my trunk, struck his match box, lighted his pipe,
and blew three or four powerful whiffs of smoke with
a meditative air. My faith said he. I am not fearful,
but if I had full permission to pass the night
in that chamber, I should much prefer to sleep elsewhere. Listen,
Master Christian. Nine or ten months ago, a good man
of Tubingen, wholesale dealer in furs, dismounted at the Inn Boeufras.
He called for supper. He ate well, he drank well,
and was finally conducted to that room in the third story.
It is called the green Room. Well, the next morning
he was found hanging to the cross beam of the signboard.
Well that might do. For once nothing could be said.
Every proper investigation was made, and a stranger was buried
at the bottom of the garden. But look you. About
six months afterwards, a brave soldier from Neustadt arrived. He
had received his final discharge and was rejoicing in the
thought of returning to his native village. During the whole evening,
while emptying his wine cup, he spoke fondly of his
little cousin, who was waiting to marry him. At last,
this big monsieur was conducted to his room, the Green Room,
And the same night the watchman, passing down the street Minnesanger,
perceived something hanging to the cross beam. He raised his
lantern and lo it was the soldier, with his final
discharge in a bow on his left hip, and his
hands gathered up to the seam of his pantaloons, as
if on parade. Truth to say, this is extraordinary, cried
the burgomaster. The devils to pay well, the chamber was
much visited, the walls were replastered, and the dead man
was sent to Neustadt. The registrar wrote this marginal note,
died of apoplexy. All Nuremberg was enraged against the innkeeper.
There were many, indeed, who wished to force him to
take down his iron crossbeam under the pretext that had
inspired people with dangerous ideas. But you may well believe
that old Michael Schmidt would not lend his ear to
this proposition. This crossbeam said, he was placed here by
my grandfather. It has borne the sign of Berfgraft for
one hundred and fifty years, from father to son. It
harms no one, not even the hay wagons which pass beneath,
for it is thirty feet above them. Those who don't
like it can turn their heads aside and not see it. Well.
Gradually the town calmed down, and during several months no
new event agitated it. Unhappily, a student of Heidelberg returning
to the university, stopped day before yesterday at the inn
Berfkras and asked for lodging. He was the son of
a minister of the Gospel. How could any one supposed
that the son of a pastor could conceive the idea
of hanging himself on the cross beam of a sign
board because a monsieur and an old soldier had done so.
We must admit, Master Christian, that the thing was not probable,
that these reasons would not have seemed sufficient to myself
or to you Enough enough, I exclaimed, this is too horrible.
I see a frightful mystery involved in all this. It
is not the crossbeam, it is not the room. What
do you suspect the innkeeper, the most honest man in
the world, and belonging to one of the oldest families
in Nuremberg. No, no, may God preserve me from indulging
in unjust suspicions. But there is an abyss before me
into which I scarcely dare glance. You are right, said Toubac,
astonished at the violence of my excitement. We will speak
of other things. A propos, Master Christian, where is our
landscape of Saint Odile? This question brought me back to
the world of realities. I showed the old man the
painting I had just completed. The affair was soon concluded,
and to Bac, well satisfied, descended the ladder, entreating me
to think no more of the student of Heidelberg. I
would gladly have followed my good friend's counsel. But when
the devil once mixes himself up in our concerns, it
is not easy to disembarrass ourselves of him. In my
solitary hours, all these events were reproduced with frightful distinctness
in my mind. This old wretch, I said to myself,
is the cause of it all. She alone has conceived
these crimes and has consummated them. But by what means
has she had recourse to cunning alone? Or has she
obtained the intervention of invisible powers? I walked to and
fro in my retreat, an inward voice cried out, It
is not in vain that providence permitted you to see
fladormous contemplating the agonies of her victim. It is not
in vain that the soul of the poor young man
came in the form of a butterfly of the night
to awake you. No, no, all, this was not accidental. Christian.
The heavens impose upon you a terrible mission. If you
do not accomplish it, tremble lest you fall yourself into
the hands of the old murderess. Perhaps at this moment
she is preparing her snares in the darkness. During these
several days, these hideous images followed me without intermission. I
lost my sleep. It was impossible for me to do anything.
My brush fell from my hand, and horrible to confess,
I found myself sometimes gazing at the cross beam with
a sort of complacency. At last, I could endure it
no longer, and one evening I descended the ladder and
hid myself behind the door of Fledormous, hoping to surprise
her fatal secret. From that time, no day passed in
which I was not en route, following the old wretch, watching, spying,
never losing sight of her. But she was so cunning,
had a scent so suptile, that without even turning her head,
she knew I was behind her. However, she feigned not
to perceive this. She went to the market to the
butcher's like any good simple woman, only hastening her steps
and murmuring confused words. At the close of the month,
I saw that it was impossible for me to attain
my object in this way, and this conviction made me
inexpressibly sad. What can I do? I said to myself,
the old woman divines my plan. She is on her guard.
Every hope abandons me. Ah, old hag, you think you
already see me at the end of your rope. I
was continually asking myself this question, what can I do?
What can I do? At last, a luminous idea struck me.
My chamber overlooked the house of Fledermous, But there was
no window on this side. I adroitly raised a slate,
and no pen could paint my joy. When the whole
ancient building was thus exposed to me. At last, I
have you, I exclaimed, You cannot escape me. Now from
here I can see all that passes, your goings, your comings,
your arts and snares. You will not suspect this invisible eye,
this watchful eye, which will surprise crime. At the moment
it blooms, Oh, justice, Justice. She marches slowly, but she arrives.
Nothing could be more sinister than the den now spread
out before me. A great court yard, the large slabs
of which were covered with moss. In one corner, a
well whose stagnant waters you shuddered to look upon a
stairway covered with old shells. At the farther end, a
gallery with wooden balustrade and hanging upon it some old linen,
and the tick of an old straw mattress. On the
first floor. To the left, the stone covering of a
common sewer indicated the kitchen. To the right, the lofty
windows of the building looked out upon the street, then
a few pots of dried withered flowers. All was cracked
somber moist. Only one or two hours during the day
could the sun penetrate this loathsome spot. After that the
shadows took possession. Then the sunshine fell upon the crazy walls,
the worm eaten balcony, the dull and tarnished glass, and
upon the whirlwind of atoms floating in its golden rays,
disturbed by no breath of air. I had scarcely finished
these observations and reflections when the old woman entered, having
just returned from market. I heard the grating of her
heavy door. Then she appeared with her basket. She seemed fatigued,
almost out of breath. The lace of her bonnet fell
to her nose. With one hand, she grasped the banister
and ascended the stairs. The heat was intolerable, suffocating. It
was precisely one of those days in which all insects, crickets, spiders, mosquitoes,
et cetera, make old ruins resound with their strange sounds.
Fladamouse crossed the gallery slowly, like an old ferret who
feels at home. She remained more than a quarter of
an hour in the kitchen, then returned, spread out her linen,
took the broom and brushed away some blades of straw
on the floor. At last, she raised her head, and
turning her little green eyes in every direction, searching, investigating carefully.
Could she, by some strange intuition suspect anything? I do
not know, But I gently lowered the slate and gave
up my watch for the day. In the morning, Fladamouse
appeared reassured. One angle of light fell upon the gallery.
In passing, she caught a fly on the wing and
presented it delicately to a spider established in a corner
of the roof. This spider was so bloated that, notwithstanding
the distance, I saw it descend from round to round,
then glide along a fine web like a drop of venom,
seize its prey from the hands of the old shoe,
and remount rapidly. Flador Mouse looked at it very attentively,
with her eyes half closed, then sneezed and said to
herself in a jeering tone, God, bless you, beautiful one,
God bless you. I watched during six weeks and could
discover nothing concerning the power of Fladormouse. Sometimes seated upon
a stool, she peeled her potatoes, then hung out her
linen upon the balustrade. Sometimes I saw her spinning, but
she never sang, as good kind old women are accustomed
to do, their trembling voices mingling well with the humming
of the wheel. Profound silence always reigned around her. She
had no cat that cherished society of old women. Not
even a sparrow came to rest under her roof. It
seemed as if all animated nature shrank from her glance.
The bloated spider alone took delight in her society. I
cannot now conceive how my patience could endure these long
hours of observation. Nothing escaped me, nothing was matter of indifference.
At the slightest sound, I raised my slate. My curiosity
was without limit, insatiable. Toubac complained greatly. Master Christian said
he How in the devil do you pass your time?
Formerly you painted something for me every week. Now you
do not finish a piece once a month. Oh, you painters.
Lazy is a painter is a good wise proverb. As
soon as you have a few kreutzers in possession, you
put your hands in your pockets and go to sleep.
I confess that I began to lose courage. I had watched, spied,
and discovered nothing. I said to myself that the old
woman could not be so dangerous as I had supposed,
that I had perhaps done her injustice by my suspicions.
In short, I began to make excuses for her. One
lovely afternoon, with my eye fixed at my post of observation,
I abandoned myself to these benevolent reflections. When suddenly the
scene changed. Flaedormouse passed through the gallery with the rapidity
of lightning. She was no longer the same person. She
was erect. Her jaws were clinched, her glove ants fixed,
her neck extended. She walked with grand strides, her gray
locks floating behind her. Oh, at last, I said to myself,
something is coming attention, But alas the shadows of evening
descended upon the old building. The noises of the city expired,
and silence prevailed. Fatigued and disappointed, I lay down upon
my bed. When casting my eyes toward my dormer window,
I saw the room opposite illuminated. So a traveler occupied
the green room, fatal to strangers. Now all my fears
were reawakened. The agitation of flator mouse was explained. She
scented a new victim. No sleep for me that night.
The rustling of the straw, the nibbling of the mice
under the floor gave me nervous chills. I rose and
leaned out of my window. I listened. The light in
the room opposite was extinguished. In one of those moments
of poignant anxiety, I cannot say if it was illusion
or reality. I thought I saw the old wretch also
watching and listening. The night passed, and the gray dawn
came to my windows. By degrees, the noise and movements
in the street ascended to my loft. Harassed by fatigue
and emotion, I fell asleep, But my slumber was short,
and by eight o'clock I had resumed my post of observation.
It seemed as if the night had been as disturbed
and tempestuous to flador Mouse as to myself. When she
opened the door of the gallery, I saw that a
livid pallor covered her cheeks and thin throat. She had
on only her chemise and the woolen skirt. A few
locks of reddish gray hair fell on her shoulders. She
looked towards my hiding place with a dreamy, abstracted air,
but she saw nothing. She was thinking of other things.
Suddenly she descended, leaving her old shoes at the bottom
of the steps. Without doubt, thought I, she is going
to see if the door below is well fastened. I
saw her remount, hastily, springing up three or four steps
at a time. It was terrible. She rushed into the
neighboring chamber, and I heard something like the falling of
the top of a great chest. Then Flademaus appeared in
the gallery, dragging a mannikin after her, and this mannikin
was clothed like the Heidelberg student. With surprising dexterity, the
old woman suspended this hideous object to a beam of
the shed, then descended rapidly to the courtyard to contemplate it.
A burst of sardonic laughter escaped from her lips. She remounted,
then descended again like a maniac, and each time uttered
new cries and new bursts of laughter. A noise was
heard near the door, and the old woman bounded forward,
unhooked the mannikin and carried it off. Then, leaning over
the balustrade with her throat elongated, her eyes flashing, she
listened earnestly. The noise was lost in the distance. The
muscles of her face relaxed, and she drew long breaths.
It was only a carriage which had passed. The old
wretch had been frightened. She now returned to the room,
and I heard the chest close. This strange scene confounded
all my ideas. What did this mannikin signify? I became
more than ever attentive. Flador Mouse now left the house
with her basket on her arm. I followed her with
my eyes till she turned the corner of the street.
She had reassumed the air of a trembling old woman,
took short steps, and from time to time turned her
head partly round to peer behind from the corner of
her eye. Clady Mouse was absent fully five hours for myself.
I went, I came I meditated. The time seemed insupportable.
The sun heated the slate of the roof and scorched
my brain. Now I saw at the window the good
man who occupied the fatal green chamber. He was a
brave peasant of Nassau, with a large three cornered hat,
a scarlet vest, and a laughing face. He smoked his
pipe of ulmn tranquility and seemed to fear no evil.
I felt a strong desire to cry out to him,
good man, bey on your guard. Do not allow yourself
to be entrapped by the old wretch. Distrust yourself. But
he would not have comprehended me. Toward two o'clock, Fladormaus returned.
The noise of her door resounded through the vestibule. Then alone,
all alone, she entered the yard and seated herself on
the interior step of the stairway. She put down her
basket before her and drew out first some packets of herbs,
then vegetables, then a red vest, then a three cornered hat,
a coat of brown velvet, pants of plush, a coarse
woolen hose, the complete costume of the peasant from Nassau.
For a moment I felt stunned. Then flames passed before
my eyes. I recollected those precipices which entice with an
irresistible power, Those wells or pits which the police have
been compelled to close because as men threw themselves into them,
Those trees which had been cut down because they inspired
men with the idea of hanging themselves. That contagion of suicides,
of robberies, of murders at certain epochs by desperate means,
that strange and subtile enticement, of example, which makes you
yawn because another yawns, suffer because you see another suffer,
kill yourself because you see others kill themselves. And my
hair stood up with horror. How could this flador mouse,
this base, sordid creature, have derived so profound a law
of human nature? How had she found the means to
use this law to the profit or indulgence of her
sanguinary instincts. This I could not comprehend. It surpassed my
wildest imaginations. But reflecting longer upon this inexplicable mystery, I
resolved to turn the fatal law against her, and to
draw the old murderess into her own net. So many
innocent victims called out for vengeance. I felt myself to
be on the right path. I went to all the
old clothes cellars in Nuremberg and returned in the afternoon
to the Inn berth Cras with an enormous packet under
my arm. Michel Smitt had known me for a long time.
His wife was fat and good looking. I had painted
her portrait. Ah, mister Christian, said he squeezing my hand.
What happy circumstance brings you here? What procures me the
pleasure of seeing you, my dear mister Smitt. I feel
a vehement, insatiable desire to sleep in the green room.
We were standing on the threshold of the inn, and
I pointed to the room. The good man looked at
me distrustfully, fear nothing, I said, I have no desire
to hang myself a la boneur, ah, la boneur. For frankly,
that would give me pain an artist of such merit.
When do you wish the room, Master Christian, This evening impossible?
It is occupied. Monsieur can enter, immediately, said a voice
just behind me. I will not be in the way.
We turned round in great surprise. The peasant of Nassau
stood before us, with his three cornered hat and his
packet at the end of his walking stick. He had
just learned the history of his three predecessors in the
green room and was trembling with rage. Rooms like yours,
cried he stuttering. But it is murderous to put people
in there. It is assassination. You deserve to be sent
to the galleys. Immediately. Go go calm yourself, said the innkeeper.
That did not prevent you from sleeping. Well, happily I
said my prayers at night, said the peasant. Without that,
where would I be? And he withdrew with his hands
raised to heaven. Well, said nischheol Smidt, stupefied. The room
is vacant. But I entreat you, do not serve me
a bad trick. It would be a worse trick for
myself than for you, monsieur. I gave my packet to
the servants and installed myself for the time with the drinkers.
For a long time I had not felt so calm
and happy after so many doubts and disquietudes. I touched
the goal. The horizon seemed to clear up, and it
appeared that some invisible power gave me the hand. I
lighted my pipe, placed my elbow on the table, my
wine before me, and listened to the chorus in Freischutz,
played by a troop of gypsies from the Black forest.
The trumpets, the hue and cry of the chase the
hot boys plunged me into a vague reverie, and at
times rousing up to look at the hour. I asked
myself gravely if all which had happened to me was
not a dream. But the watchman came to ask us
to leave the sal and soon other and more solemn
thoughts were surging in my soul and in deep meditation.
I followed little Charlotte, who preceded me with a candle
to my room. We mounted the stairs to the third story.
Charlotte gave me the candle and pointed to the door there,
said she, and descended rapidly. I opened the door. The
green room was like any other inn room. The sea
was very low, the bed very high. With one glance,
I explored the interior and then glided to the window.
Nothing was to be seen in the house of Fladermouse.
Only in some distant room an obscure light was burning.
Some one was on the watch that is well, said I,
closing the curtain. I have all necessary time. I opened
my packet. I put on a woman's bonnet with hanging lace. Then,
placing myself before a mirror, I took a brush and
painted wrinkles in my face. This took me nearly an hour.
Then I put on the dress and a large shawl,
and I was actually afraid of myself. Fladermouse seemed to
me to look at me from the mirror. At this moment,
the watchman cried out eleven o'clock. I seized the mannikin
which I had brought in my packet, and muffled it
in a costume precisely similar to that worn by the
old wretch. I then opened the curtain. Certainly, after all
that I had seen of the Flaedor Mouse, of her
infernal cunning, her prudence, her adroitness, she could not in
any way surprise me. And yet I was afraid. The
light which I had remarked in the chamber was still immovable,
and now cast its yellow rays on the mannikin of
the peasant of Nassau, which was crouched on the corner
of the bed, with the head hanging on the breast.
The three cornered hat pulled down over the face, the
arms suspended, and the whole aspect that of absolute despair.
The shadows, managed with diabolical art, allowed nothing to be
seen but the general effect of the face, the red
vest and six round buttons alone to shine out in
the darkness, but the silence of the night, the complete
immobility of the figure, the exhausted, mournful air were well
calculated to take possession of a spectator with a strange power.
For myself, although forewarned, I was chilled even to my bones.
How would it then have fared with the poor simple peasant.
If he had been surprised unawares, he would have been
utterly cast down, despairing. He would have lost all power
of self control, and the spirit of imitation would have
done the rest scarcely had I moved the curtain. When
I saw a flayed a mouse on the watch behind
her window, she could not see me. I opened my
window softly. The window opposite was opened, and her mannikin
appeared to rise slowly and advance before me. I also
advanced my mannikin, and seizing my torch with one hand
with the other, I quickly opened the shutter, And now
the old woman and myself were face to face, struck
with sudden terror. She had let her mannekin fall. We
gazed at each other with almost equal horror. She extended
her finger. I advanced mine. She moved her lips. I
agitated mine. She breathed a profound sigh and leaned upon
her elbow. I imitated her. To describe all the terrors
of the scene would be impossible. It bordered upon confusion, madness, delirium.
It was a death struggle between two wills, between two intelligences,
between two souls, each one wishing to destroy the other.
And in this struggle I had the advantage. Her victims
struggled with me. After having imitated for some seconds every
movement of flador mouse, I pulled a rope from under
my skirt and attached it to the cross beam. The
old woman gazed at me with gaping mouth. I passed
the rope around my neck. Her pupils expanded, lightened, her
face was convulsed. No, no, said she in a whistling voice.
I pursued her with the impassibility of an executioner. Then
rage seemed to take possession of her old fool. She exclaimed,
straightening herself up and her hands contracted on the cross beam.
Old fool, I gave her no time to go on
blowing out my lamp. I stooped like a man going
to make a vigorous spring and seizing my mannekin, I
passed the rope around its neck and precipitated it below.
A terrible cry resounded through the street, and then silence,
which I seemed to feel. Perspiration bathed my forehead. I
listened a long time. At the end of a quarter
of an hour, I heard, far away, very far away,
the voice of the watchman crying. Inhabitants of Nuremberg midnight.
Midnight sounds. Now justice is satisfied, I cried, and three
victims are avenged. Pardon me, o Lord. About five minutes
after the cry of the watchman, I saw fledormouse, attracted
allured by my mannikin her exact image, spring from the
window with a rope around her neck and rest suspended
from the crossbeam. I saw the shadow of death undulating
through her body, while the moon, calm, silent, majestic, inundated
the summit of the roof, and her cold, pale rays
reposed upon the old disheveled, hideous head. Just as I
had seen the poor young student of Heidelberg, just so
did I now see Fledermouse. In the morning, all Nuremberg
learned that the old wretch had hanged herself, and this
was the last event of that kind. In the street
Minnesonga