Chapter 2 wedge

On the border of La Marche and Béry, in the country called Varennes,—it is nothing but a vast wasteland with oak and chestnut woods, where the woods are thickest.In the most desolate place, you can see a small ruined castle, huddled in the depression; about a hundred paces from the main gate, you can find a small incomplete tower.The centuries-old trees surrounding the castle and the scattered steep rocks above it hide the castle in perennial darkness. Only at noon can one cross the abandoned path leading to the castle without bumping into the gnarled tree trunks and steps. Steps are clogged with rubble.This gloomy depression, and this sad little castle, is Maupra Rock Castle.

Not long ago, the last of the Mauprats, who had inherited the land, had the roof of the castle taken off and the wood of all the houses sold; On the ground, he pierced through the north tower, split the wall from top to bottom, then shook the dust off his feet, and took the workers away, abandoning his territory to foxes, white-tailed sea eagles, and pit vipers.Since then, the woodcutters and charcoal burners who lived in the scattered thatched huts nearby whistled with disdain or cursed the ruins when they passed the high places of the Maupra Rock depression by day; But as soon as the day drew to a close, and the nightingale began to sing over the holes in the wall, the woodcutter and charcoal burner hurried past silently, making the sign of the sign of the sign of the sign of the sign of the sign of the sign of the cross to guard against the evil spirits that ravaged the ruins.

To tell the truth, I myself have always been apprehensive when I walked along the hollow at night; and I dare not swear that sometimes, on stormy nights, I did not kick my mount with spurs, to hasten the end of this neighborhood to me. Unpleasant impression. This is because when I was a child I placed Maupra's name between Cartush and Bluebeard, and in my nightmares I used to confuse old legends of ogres and monsters with more recent facts, which The facts provide a macabre explanation for the Maupra family in our province. ① Cartouch (1963-1721), a French bandit leader, once ravaged Paris and its suburbs; Bluebeard, a character in Bello's fairy tales, killed his six wives.

When I was hunting, my companion and I left the ambush to warm ourselves in the blazing charcoal heaps that the workers tended all night, and as we approached I heard the ominous words come out of the workers' mouths. name.But when they recognized us, and were assured that none of the bandit ghosts were hiding among us, they whispered hair-raising tales to us.I do not want to tell you these stories for fear of spoiling my memory and suffering. It's not that the stories I'm about to tell you happen to be likable and enjoyable.On the contrary, pardon me for giving you a sombre story; but it strikes me with some consolation mixed with it, which I daresay is very healthy for the soul, I hope You will forgive me because of the ending.Besides, I've just heard the story; you've asked me to tell it: what a great opportunity I'll never be languid or at a loss for words.

Last week I finally met Bernard Maupra, the last of the family, who had long since severed himself from his notorious family, and who wanted to prove that his childhood memories disturbed him by tearing down his mansion.This Bernard was one of the most respected persons in the region; he lived in a handsome country house on the plain near Chateauroux.I lived near him, and a friend of mine knew him again, and I expressed my desire to visit him; my friend promised me a warm welcome, and took me there at once. I have a rough idea of ​​the old man's legendary story; but I want to know the details, especially to hear his own account.To me, this man's strange fate is like a philosophical puzzle to be solved.I watched his countenance, manners, and heart with special interest.

Bernard Maupra was more than eighty years old, although his strong body, straight waist, powerful posture, and no trace of weakness made him appear to be fifteen or twenty years younger.I think his face is extremely handsome, without a trace of the stern expression that makes the figure of his ancestors pass by my will.I reckon he was physically like his predecessors.He alone could tell us that, since neither my friend nor I knew any of the Maupras; and yet that's exactly what we avoided asking him. His servants served him with a swiftness and precision which, in our opinion, is uncommon for a servant in Berry.At the slightest slight from a servant, he would raise his voice, knit his brows, which looked so dark under his white hair, and mutter some impatient words that would give wings to the most lumbering man.At first I was almost disgusted; I felt the manner was too Maupratish.After a while, however, he spoke to the servants in a gentle, almost fatherly manner, whose emotions seemed so different from fear, that I soon forgave him.What's more, he treats us politely and carefully.Sadly, at the end of dinner, a door that had not been properly closed sent a gust of cold wind on his old head, and he let out a terrible curse, and my friend and I exchanged a surprised look.He noticed, and said to us:

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but I see that you feel me a little moody; you see more often than not; I am like an old twig, fortunately freed from its hideous trunk, and transplanted into fertile soil, but this twig is knotty and rough, like its roots. I have come to this mild, calm state which you see now. Alas! If I had had the courage, I would have reproached heaven so severely: it is to estimate my life as equal to as short as others. Forty or fifty years must be fought to change from wolf to man, and a hundred years must be lived to enjoy one's victory. But what use is it to me?" he added in a melancholy tone. . "The nymph who transfigured me is no longer here to admire her work. Ah! it's time to end it!"

Then he turned to me again, staring at me with great excited black eyes, and said to me: "Hey, little brother, I know why you're here: you're curious about my life. Come near the fire and take it easy. I'm Mauprat, but I'm not going to throw you for firewood Into the stove. You give me great pleasure just by listening to me. Your friends will tell you that I don't talk about myself lightly, and that I'm often afraid to deal with fools; I hear about you, and I know your Personality and your profession: You are an observer and storyteller, that is to say—forgive me, a curious and chatty person.”

He laughed loudly, and I tried to do the same, and began to worry that he was mocking us; I couldn't help but think of his grandfather's fondness for playing tricks on curious people who dropped by.But he took my arm in a friendly way, and let me sit in front of the roaring fire, facing the table full of teacups. "Don't be offended," he said to me, "I'm too old for my ancestral mocking temper; my mockings are harmless. In all seriousness, I'll be happy to receive you, and I will tell you my life. A man as unfortunate as I am deserves to have a faithful biographer who will cleanse my name of all slander. Well, go on with me and have some coffee Bar."

I silently offered him a cup of coffee; he declined with a gesture, with a smile that seemed to say, "It will be good for your feeble generation." So, he opened the chatter box and talked about such an experience: