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 this 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 crossbeam.
I had not dreamed. I had, indeed, seen the butterfly of the night; I had seen the man hanging, and I had seen Fledermausse.
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. Il n’y à que le premier pas qui coûte.”
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 Tübingen, wholesale dealer in furs, dismounted at the Inn Boeuf-Gras. 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 crossbeam of the signboard.
“Well, that might do for once; nothing could be said.
“Every proper investigation was made, and the 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 cups, 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 Minnesänger, perceived something hanging to the crossbeam; 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 devil’s 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 it 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 Boeuf-Gras 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 Boeuf-Gras, and asked for lodging. He was the son of a minister of the gospel.
“How could anyone suppose that the son of a pastor could conceive the idea of hanging himself on the crossbeam of a signboard, because a big monsieur and an old soldier had done so? We must admit, Master Christian, that the thing was not probable; 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. Apropos, Master Christian, where is our landscape of ‘Saint Odille’?”
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 Toubac, 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
