Nouveaux contes bleus 🌟📚✨

Découvrez *Nouveaux contes bleus* d’Édouard Laboulaye, une série de récits fascinants où le merveilleux et l’aventure se rencontrent ! 📖✨ Chaque conte nous plonge dans un monde où l’imaginaire prend vie et les personnages nous entraînent dans des voyages inattendus. 🌍💫

🔹 Un recueil d’histoires captivantes pour les passionnés de récits enchâssés de leçons de vie et de réflexion.
🔹 Un mélange parfait de fantaisie, d’émotions et d’humour.
🔹 Idéal pour les amateurs de contes traditionnels et les esprits curieux de découvrir des trésors littéraires oubliés.

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**Navigate by Chapters or Titles:**
00:00:28 Chapter 1.
00:04:52 Chapter 2.
00:10:31 Chapter 3.
00:14:08 Chapter 4.
00:14:27 Chapter 5.
00:16:46 Chapter 6.
00:37:43 Chapter 7.
00:38:00 Chapter 8.
00:39:43 Chapter 9.
00:41:27 Chapter 10.
00:44:25 Chapter 11.
00:46:06 Chapter 12.
00:49:15 Chapter 13.
00:53:44 Chapter 14.
00:57:10 Chapter 15.
01:00:22 Chapter 16.
01:03:21 Chapter 17.
01:07:30 Chapter 18.
01:12:59 Chapter 19.
01:19:00 Chapter 20.
01:53:02 Chapter 21.
01:58:56 Chapter 22.
02:05:23 Chapter 23.
02:09:57 Chapter 24.
02:15:02 Chapter 25.
02:18:29 Chapter 26.
02:21:39 Chapter 27.
02:24:40 Chapter 28.
02:33:36 Chapter 29.
02:38:17 Chapter 30.
02:43:17 Chapter 31.
02:47:17 Chapter 32.
02:49:30 Chapter 33.
02:55:09 Chapter 34.
02:59:17 Chapter 35.
03:08:58 Chapter 36.
03:13:25 Chapter 37.
03:23:19 Chapter 38.
03:28:06 Chapter 39.
03:37:07 Chapter 40.
03:42:20 Chapter 41.
04:03:11 Chapter 42.
04:05:20 Chapter 43.
04:18:20 Chapter 44.
04:21:53 Chapter 45.
04:29:11 Chapter 46.
04:35:06 Chapter 47.
04:38:37 Chapter 48.
04:42:09 Chapter 49.
04:47:12 Chapter 50.

In ‘New Blue Tales’, Édouard Laboulaye invites us to discover tales imbued with wisdom and charm, where the characters and situations are illustrations of human ingenuity. Through these stories, the author immerses us in a world rich in morals and reflections, while appealing to our imagination and curiosity. Prepare to be captivated by the depth and beauty of the tales that follow. THE STORY OF BRIAM THE MAD. Chapter 1. In the good land of Iceland, there once lived a king and a queen who ruled a faithful and obedient people. The queen was gentle and kind; no one spoke of her much! But the king was greedy and cruel: so all those who were afraid of him celebrated his virtues and kindness to the fullest . Thanks to his avarice, the king had castles, farms, livestock, furniture, and jewels, which he did not know the number of; but the more he had, the more he wanted to have. Rich or poor, woe betide anyone who fell into his hands. At the end of the park surrounding the royal castle, there was a cottage where an old peasant lived with his old wife. Heaven had given them seven children; that was all their wealth. To support this large family, the good people had only one cow, which was called Bukolla. It was an admirable beast. It was black and white, with small horns and large, sad, gentle eyes. Beauty was its least merit; it was milked three times a day, and it never gave less than forty pints of milk. She was so accustomed to her masters that at noon she would return home of her own accord , dragging her swollen udders, and lowing from afar for help . She was the joy of the house. One day when the king was out hunting, he crossed the pasture where the castle cows grazed; chance would have it that Bukolla had mingled with the royal herd: “What a fine animal I have here!” said the king. “Sire,” replied the shepherd, “this animal is not yours; it is Bukolla, the cow of the old peasant who lives in that hovel over there. ” “I want her,” replied the king. Throughout the hunt the prince spoke of nothing but Bukolla. In the evening, when he returned, he called his chief of guards, who was as wicked as he was. “Go find that peasant,” he said to him, “and bring me at once the cow I like.” The queen begged him not to do anything about it: “These poor people,” she said, “have nothing but this beast for their possessions; to take it from them would be to make them die of hunger. ” “I must have it,” said the king; “by purchase, by exchange, or by force, it matters not. If Bukolla is not in my stables in an hour, woe to him who has not done his duty!” And he frowned so tightly that the queen no longer dared to open her mouth, and the chief of the guards left as quickly as possible with a band of troopers. The peasant was in front of his door, busy milking his cow, while all the children crowded around it and caressed it. When he received the prince’s message, the good man shook his head and said that he would not give up Bukolla at any price. “She is mine,” he added, “she is my property, she is my thing, I love her better than all the cows and all the king’s gold.” Neither prayers nor threats made him change his mind. Time was drawing on; the chief of the guards feared the wrath of the master; he seized Bukolla’s halter to drag him away; the peasant stood up to resist, and a blow from the axe laid him dead on the ground. At this sight, all the children began to sob, except Briam, the eldest, who remained where he was, pale and mute. The chief of the guards knew that in Iceland blood is paid with blood, and that sooner or later the son avenges the father. If one does not want the tree to grow back, one must tear out every last shoot from the ground. With a furious hand, the brigand seized one of the crying children: “Where are you suffering?” he said to him. “There,” replied the child, pointing to his heart; immediately the villain plunged a dagger into his breast. Six times he asked the same question, six times he received the same answer, and six times he threw the son’s corpse onto the father’s corpse. And meanwhile Briam, his eyes wild and his mouth open, jumped after the flies that circled in the air. “And you, rascal, where are you suffering?” shouted the executioner. For all reply, Briam turned his back on him, and, striking his behind with both hands, he sang: It was there that my mother, one day in anger, With an angry foot scolded me so hard, That I fell face down on the ground, Wounded in front, wounded behind, My loins all bruised and my nose broken! The chief of the guards ran after the insolent fellow; but his companions stopped him. “Fie!” they said to him, “the wolf cub is slaughtered after the wolf, but a madman is not killed; what harm can he do?” And Briam ran away, singing and dancing. That evening, the king had the pleasure of caressing Bukolla and did not find that he had paid too much for her. But, in the poor cottage, a weeping old woman was asking God for justice. The whim of a prince had taken her husband and six children from her in one hour. Of everything she had loved, of everything that kept her alive, all that remained was a miserable idiot. Chapter 2. Soon, for twenty leagues around, everyone was talking about nothing but Briam and his extravagances. One day he wanted to put a nail in the wheel of the sun, the next day he threw his cap in the air to cover the moon. The king, who was ambitious, wanted to have a fool at his court, to resemble from afar the great princes of the continent. Briam was brought in, and he was given a beautiful outfit of all colors. A blue leg, a red leg, a green sleeve, a yellow sleeve, an orange breastplate; It was in this parrot costume that Briam was charged with amusing the courtiers’ boredom. Sometimes caressed and more often beaten, the poor fool suffered everything without complaint. He spent entire hours talking with the birds or following the burial of an ant. If he opened his mouth, it was to say something stupid: a great cause for joy for those who did not suffer from it. One day when dinner was about to be served, the head of the guards entered the castle kitchen. Briam, armed with a cleaver, was chopping carrot tops instead of parsley. The sight of this knife frightened the murderer; suspicion came to his heart. “Briam,” he said, “where is your mother? ” “My mother?” replied the idiot; “she is boiling over there.” And with his finger he indicated an enormous pot-au-feu, where the entire royal dinner was cooking, in olla podrida . “Stupid beast! said the chief of the guards, pointing to the pot, open your eyes: what is this? “It’s my mother! It’s the one who feeds me!” cried Briam. And, throwing down his cleaver, he jumped onto the stove, took in his arms the pot-au-feu all black with smoke, and fled into the woods. They ran after him, but it was in vain. When they caught him, everything was broken, overturned, spoiled. That evening, the king dined on a piece of bread; his only consolation was to have Briam whipped by the kitchen boys of the castle. Briam, completely crippled, returned to his cottage and told his mother what had happened to him. “My son, my son,” said the poor woman, “that is not the way to speak. ” “What should I have said, my mother? ” “My son, I should have said: Here is the pot that each day the king’s generosity fills.” –Well, mother, I will tell you tomorrow. The next day, the court was assembled. The king was talking with his major-domo. He was a handsome lord, very expert in good cheer, fat, plump, and laughing. He had a large bald head, a large neck, a belly so enormous that he could not cross his arms, and two small legs that barely supported this vast edifice. While the major-domo was talking to the king, Briam struck him boldly on the belly: –Here, he said, is the pot that the king’s generosity fills every day. If he was beaten, there is no need to say so; the king was furious, the court too; but, in the evening, throughout the castle, people whispered to each other that fools, without knowing it, sometimes tell good truths.
When Briam, all crippled, returned to his cottage, he told his mother what had happened to him. “My son, my son,” said the poor woman, “that is not the way to speak. ” “What should I have said, mother?” “My son, I should have said: Here is the most amiable and faithful of courtiers. ” “Well, mother, I will tell it tomorrow.” The next day, the king held a grand levee, and while ministers, officers, chamberlains, fine gentlemen and ladies were fighting over his smile, he was teasing a large spaniel dog who was snatching a cake from his hands. Briam went and sat at the king’s feet, and, taking the howling dog by the scruff of the neck , making a horrible grimace: “Here,” he cried, “is the most amiable and faithful of courtiers. ” This madness made the king smile; immediately the courtiers laughed heartily ; it was a question of who would show their teeth. But, as soon as the king had left, a rain of kicks and blows fell on poor Briam, who had great difficulty in extricating himself from the storm. When he had told his mother what had happened to him: “My son, my son,” said the poor woman, “that is not the way one should have spoken. ” “What should one have said, mother? ” “My son, one should have said: Here is the one who would eat everything if one let her. ” “Well, mother, I will tell it tomorrow.” The next day was a feast day, the queen appeared in the salon in her finest attire. She was covered in velvet, lace, jewels; Her necklace alone was worth the tax of twenty villages. Everyone admired such brilliance. “Here,” cried Briam, “is the one who would eat everything, if they let her. It would have been the end of the insolent man if the queen had not taken his defense. “Poor fool,” she said to him, “go away, let no one hurt you. If you knew how much these jewels weigh on me, you would not blame me for wearing them. ” When Briam returned to his cottage, he told his mother what had happened to him. “My son, my son,” said the poor woman, “that is not the way to speak. ” “What should I have said, my mother? ” “My son, I should have said: Here is the love and pride of the king. ” “Well, my mother, I will tell it tomorrow.” The next day, the king went hunting. His favorite mare was brought to him; He was in the saddle and casually saying farewell to the queen, when Briam began to strike the horse on the shoulder: “Here,” he cried, “is the love and pride of the king.” The prince looked askance at Briam; whereupon the madman ran away as fast as he could. He was beginning to smell the blows of the stick from afar. Seeing him return all panting: “My son,” said the poor mother, “do not return to the castle; they will kill you. ” “Patience, my mother; one does not know who dies or who lives. ” “Alas!” replied the mother, weeping, “your father is happy to be dead; he sees neither your shame nor mine. ” “Patience, my mother; the days follow one another and are not alike.” Chapter 3. It was already nearly three months since Briam’s father lay in the tomb, in the midst of his six children, when the king gave a great feast to the principal officers of the court. On his right was the chief of the guards, on his left was the fat majordomo. The table was covered with fruit, flowers, and lights; the most exquisite wines were being drunk from golden chalices . Heads were getting heated, people were talking loudly, and already more than one quarrel had begun. Briam, madder than ever, poured the wine around and left not a single glass empty. But while he held the golden flagon in one hand, with the other he nailed the guests’ clothes together two by two , so that no one could get up without dragging their neighbor along with them. Three times he had repeated this routine when the king, animated by the heat and the wine, shouted to him: “Fool, get up on the table, amuse us with your songs.” Briam jumped nimbly among the fruit and flowers, then in a hollow voice he began to sing: ” Everything comes in its turn, The wind and the rain, Night and the day, Death and life, Everything comes in its turn. ” “What is this mournful song?” said the king. “Come, fool, make me laugh, or I’ll make you cry!” Briam looked at the prince with fierce eyes, and in a jerky voice he continued: ” Everything comes in its turn, Good luck or bad, Fate is deaf, Outrage and revenge, Everything comes in its turn. ” “Fool!” said the king, “I think you’re threatening me. I’m going to punish you properly.” He stood up, and so abruptly that he carried off the chief of the guards with him. Surprised, the latter, to restrain himself, leaned forward and clung to the king’s arm and neck. “Wretch!” cried the prince, “do you dare lay a hand on your master?” And, seizing his dagger, the king was about to strike the officer when the latter, entirely devoted to his defense, seized the king’s arm with one hand and plunged his dagger into his neck with the other. Blood gushed out in great spurts; the prince fell, dragging his murderer with him in his last convulsions. Amidst shouts and tumult, the chief of the guards rose quickly and, drawing his sword, said: “Gentlemen,” he said, “the tyrant is dead. Long live liberty! I make myself king and I marry the queen. If anyone opposes this, let him speak; I am waiting for him. ” “Long live the king!” cried all the courtiers; there were even a few who, taking advantage of the opportunity, took a petition from their pockets. The joy was universal and bordered on delirium, when suddenly , with a terrible eye and an axe in his hand, Briam appeared before the usurper. “Dog, son of a dog,” he said to him, “when you killed my people, you thought neither of God nor of men. Now it’s up to us both! ” The chief of the guards tried to defend himself. With a furious blow, Briam struck off his right arm, which hung like a severed branch. “And now,” cried Briam, “if you have a son, tell him to avenge you, as Briam the madman is avenging his father today.” And he split his head in two. “Long live Briam!” cried the courtiers; “long live our liberator!” At that moment, the queen entered, all terrified, and threw herself at the feet of the madman, calling him her avenger. Briam raised her up, and, standing beside her, brandishing his bloody axe, he invited all the officers to swear an oath to their legitimate sovereign. “Long live the queen!” cried all those present. The joy was universal and bordered on delirium. The queen wanted to keep Briam at court; he asked to return to his cottage, and wanted as his only reward the poor animal, the innocent cause of so much evil. Arriving at the door of the house, the cow began to call lowing to those who could no longer hear her. The poor woman went out weeping. “Mother,” Briam said to her, “here is Bukolla, and you are avenged.” Chapter 4. Thus ends the story. What became of Briam? No one knows. But throughout the country they still point out the ruins of the hovel where Briam and his brothers lived, and the mothers say to the children: This is where lived the one who avenged his father and consoled his mother. And the children reply: We would do as he did. Chapter 5. The other story is a story of thieves. Today such stories have something shocking for us, we have little esteem for this skill which leads to the galleys. It was not so among primitive peoples. Herodotus does not fail to recite to us at length an Egyptian story which is found in the East and which is obviously only a fairy tale. In the book of Euterpe[1] we can see what more than bizarre means the Rhampsinite king uses to seize the clever thief who has plundered his treasure, and how, three times deceived, as king, as avenger and as a father, he found nothing better to do than to take this audacious and cunning brigand as his son-in-law. Rhampsinite, says the historian, gave him a great welcome and gave him his daughter, as to the most skillful of all men, since, the Egyptians being superior to all other peoples, he had shown himself superior to all the Egyptians. We see that national vanity is of the same date as fairy tales. [Note 1: Herodotus, book II, chap. cxxi.] These stories of thieves abound in collections. Under the name of the Master Thief, Mr. Asbjoernsen published a Norwegian tale which closely resembles the one we are about to read[1]. What is striking in all these stories is the naive admiration of the storyteller for the exploits of his hero. The human spirit has passed through this stage long since abandoned. The Greeks admired Ulysses, who was not a half-thief; the Romans worshipped Mercury. The Jews, fleeing Egypt, did not fail to follow the advice of Moses and to borrow from the Egyptians silver vessels, gold vessels, and clothes that they were never to return. Now, says the Bible[2], the Lord made the Egyptians favorable to his people, so that they would give to the children of Israel what they asked for. Thus they despoiled the Egyptians. This procedure revolts our delicacy; it is probable that the Jews gloried in it as a heroic skill. Let us learn by this not always to measure the world by the measure of our ideas of today. Our ancestors, twenty or thirty centuries ago , admired thieves, our fathers admired the Heiducchi and the Klephtes, we still admire conquerors; Who knows what our children will think of us? One day perhaps they will laugh at our barbarity, as we did at that of our fathers, and they will not be wrong. The day will come when this glory, so hollow and so costly, will be nothing more than a fairy tale! Chapter 6. THE LITTLE GRAY MAN. Long ago (I’m talking about three or four hundred years ago), there was at Skalholt, in Iceland, an old peasant who was no richer in wit than in possessions. One day when the good man was in church, he heard a fine sermon on charity. “Give, my brothers, give,” said the priest; “the Lord will repay you a hundredfold.” These words, often repeated, entered the peasant’s head and confused what little brain he had. As soon as he got home, he began to cut down the trees in his garden, to dig the ground, to cart stones and wood, as if he were going to build a palace. “What are you doing here, my poor man?” his wife asked him. “Don’t call me my poor man anymore,” said the peasant solemnly. ” We are rich, my dear wife, or at least we are going to be. In two weeks I am going to give away my cow… ” “Our only resource!” said the wife; “we are dying of hunger! ” “Be quiet, you ignorant woman,” replied the peasant; “it is clear that you understand nothing of the priest’s Latin. By giving away our cow, we will receive a hundred as a reward; the priest said so, it is the word of the Gospel. I will house fifty animals in this stable that I am building, and, with the price of the other fifty, I will buy enough meadow to feed our herd in summer as well as in winter. We will be richer than the king.” And, without worrying about the prayers or the reproaches of his wife, our mad master began to build his stable, to the great astonishment of the neighbors. The work completed, the good man put a rope around the neck of his cow and led her straight to the priest. He found him talking with two strangers whom he hardly looked at, so eager was he to make his gift and receive the price. The one who was astonished by this new kind of charity was the pastor. He made a long speech to this imbecile sheep, to demonstrate to him that Our Lord had never spoken of anything but spiritual rewards; but to no avail, the peasant kept repeating: You said it, Father, you said it. Alas At last, having reasoned with such a brute, the pastor flew into a holy rage and shut his door in the peasant’s face, who remained in the street, all astonished, still repeating: You said it, Father, you said it. He had to return home; it was not an easy thing. It was spring, the ice was melting, the wind was whipping up the snow in whirlwinds. At every step the man slipped, the cow mooed and refused to move forward. After an hour, the peasant had lost his way and was afraid of losing his life. He stopped, all perplexed, cursing his bad luck and no longer knowing what to do with the animal he was dragging. While he was thinking sadly, a man carrying a large sack approached him and asked him what he was doing there with his cow, and in such bad weather. When the peasant had told him of his trouble, the stranger said to him, “My good man, if I have one piece of advice to give you, it is to make a trade with me. I live near here; give me your cow, which you will never bring home, and take this sack from me; it is not too heavy, and all that it contains is good: it is flesh and bones.” The bargain made, the stranger took the cow with him; the peasant loaded the sack on his back, which he found terribly heavy. Once he had returned home , as he feared the reproaches and mockery of his wife, he recounted at length the dangers he had run, and how, like a clever man, he had exchanged a cow that was about to die for a sack that contained treasures. Listening to this fine story, the woman began to bare her teeth; The husband begged her to keep her bad humor to herself , and to put her biggest stew in the hearth. “You ‘ll see what I bring you,” he repeated to her; “wait a little, you ‘ll thank me.” Saying this, he opened the bag; and there came out of the depths a little man dressed all in gray like a mouse. “Good morning, good people,” he said with the pride of a prince! “Oh, I hope that instead of boiling me you will serve me something to eat. This little errand has given me a great appetite.” The peasant fell on his stool, as if struck by lightning. “There,” said the wife, “I was sure of it. Here is a new folly. But what can one expect from a husband but some stupidity? Monsieur lost the cow that kept us alive, and now that we have nothing left, monsieur brings us one more mouth to feed! Why did you not stay under the snow, you, your bag and your treasure! The good lady would still be talking, if the little gray man had not reminded her three times that big words do not fill the pot, and that the wisest thing was to go hunting and look for some game. He went out at once, despite the night, the wind and the snow, and returned after a while with a large sheep. “Here,” he said, “kill this beast for me, and let us not die of hunger.” The old man and his wife looked askance at the little man and his prey. This windfall, fallen from the clouds, smelled of a half-league theft. But, when hunger speaks, goodbye to scruples! Legitimate or not, the sheep was devoured with gusto. From that day on, abundance reigned in the peasant’s home. Sheep followed sheep, and the good man, more credulous than ever, wondered if he had not gained in the exchange, when, instead of the hundred cows he expected, heaven had sent him a provider as skillful as the little gray man. Every coin has its reverse side. While the sheep multiplied in the old man’s house, they diminished visibly in the royal flock, which grazed in the surrounding area. The master shepherd, very worried, warned the king that, for some time, although surveillance was redoubled, the finest heads of the flock were disappearing one after the other. Assuredly some clever thief had come to lodge in the neighborhood. It did not take long to learn that there was in the peasant’s hut, a newcomer , who had fallen from who knows where and whom no one knew . The king immediately ordered that the stranger be brought to him. The little gray man left without batting an eyelid; but the peasant and his wife began to feel some remorse at the thought that receivers of stolen goods and thieves were hanged on the same gallows. When the little gray man appeared at court, the king asked him if by any chance he had not heard that five large sheep had been stolen from the royal flock. “Yes, Your Majesty,” replied the little man, “it was I who took them. ” “And by what right?” said the prince. “Your Majesty,” replied the little man, “I took them because an old man and his wife were suffering from hunger, while you, king, are swimming in abundance and cannot even consume the tithe of your income.” It seemed to me only fair that these good people should live off your superfluity rather than die of poverty, while you do not know what to do with your wealth. The king was astounded by such boldness; then, looking at the little man in a way that did not bode well, he said to him: “As I see it,” he said, “your chief talent is theft.” The little man bowed with proud modesty. “Very well,” said the king. “You deserve to be hanged, but I forgive you, on the condition that tomorrow at this time you take from my shepherds my black bull, which I am having carefully guarded. ” “Your Majesty,” replied the little gray man, “what you ask of me is an impossible thing. How can you expect me to elude such vigilance? ” “If you do not do it,” replied the king, “you will be hanged.” And, with a sign of the hand, he dismissed our thief, to whom everyone repeated in a low voice: “Hanged! Hanged!” Hanged! The little gray man returned to the hut, where he was tenderly received by the old man and his wife. But he said nothing to them, except that he needed a rope and that he would leave the next day at daybreak . They gave him the cow’s old halter; whereupon he went to bed and slept in peace. At the first light of dawn, the little gray man set out with his rope. He went into the forest, on the path where the king’s herdsmen were to pass, and, choosing a large oak tree in full view, he hung himself by the neck from the largest branch. He had been very careful not to make a noose. Soon after, two shepherds arrived, escorting the black bull. “Ah!” said one of them, “there’s our rascal who has received his reward. This time, at least, he hasn’t stolen his halter. Farewell, my rascal, you won’t be the one to take the king’s bull.” As soon as the shepherds were out of sight, the little gray man climbed down from the tree, took a side road, and clung again to a large oak near which the road ran. Who was surprised at the sight of this hanged man? It was the king’s shepherds. “What is that?” said one of them. “Am I seeing things? There’s the hanged man from over there who is here! ” “How stupid you are!” said the other. “How can you expect a man to be hanged in two places at once? He’s a second thief, that’s all. ” “I tell you it’s the same one,” replied the first shepherd; “I recognize him by his clothes and his grimace. ” “And I,” continued the second, who was a strong spirit, “I bet you it’s another.” The wager accepted, the two shepherds tied the king’s bull to a tree and ran to the first oak. But, while they were running, the little gray man jumped down from his gallows and gently led the bull to the peasant’s house. There was great joy in the house; the animal was put in the stable until it was sold. When the two shepherds returned to the castle in the evening, their ears were so low and they looked so crestfallen that the king saw at once that he had been tricked. He sent for the little gray man, who came with the serenity of a great heart. “It is you who stole my bull,” said the king. “Your Majesty,” replied the little man, “I only did it to obey you.” “Very well,” said the king; “here are ten gold crowns for the ransom of my bull; but if in two days you have not stolen the sheets from my bed while I am sleeping in it, you will be hanged. ” “Your Majesty,” said the little man, “do not ask me such a thing. You are too well guarded for a poor man like me to even approach the castle. ” “If you do not do it,” said the king, “I will have the pleasure of seeing you hanged.” When evening came, the little gray man, who had returned to the cottage, took a long rope and a basket. In this basket lined with moss, he placed with all her brood a cat that had just had her kittens; then, walking in the middle of the darkest of nights, he slipped into the castle and climbed onto the roof without anyone noticing him. To enter an attic, saw the floor cleanly, and, through this skylight, descend into the king’s chamber, was for our skillful man the work of a short time. Once there, he delicately opened the royal couch and placed the cat and her kittens there; then, he carefully tucked the bed , and, holding onto the rope, he sat on the canopy. It was from this elevated position that he awaited events. The palace clock struck eleven when the king and queen entered their apartment. Once undressed, both knelt and said their prayers, then the king extinguished the lamp, the queen went into bed. Suddenly she gave a cry and threw herself in the middle of the room. “Are you mad?” said the king. ” Are you going to give the alarm at the castle?” “My friend,” said the queen, “do not enter this bed; I felt a burning heat, and my foot touched something hairy. “Why not say at once that the devil is in my bed?” the king continued, laughing with pity. “All women have the heart of a hare and the head of a linnet.” Whereupon, like a true hero, he bravely buried himself under the covers and immediately jumped out, howling like a damned man, dragging after him the cat that had sunk its four claws into his calf. At the king’s cries, the sentry approached the door and struck three blows with his halberd, as if to ask if help was needed . “Silence!” said the prince, ashamed of his weakness, and who did not want to be caught in the act of fear. He struck the lighter, relighted the lamp and saw in the middle of the bed the cat, who had returned to her place and was tenderly licking her kittens. “It’s too strong!” he cried; Without respect for our crown, this insolent animal dares to choose our royal bed to deposit its filth and its cats! Wait, hussy, I will treat you as you deserve! “She will bite you,” said the queen; “she may be rabid. ” “Fear nothing, dear friend,” said the good prince; and, lifting the corners of the bottom sheet, he wrapped the whole brood, then he rolled this bundle in the blanket and the top sheet, made an enormous ball of it, and threw it out of the window. “Now,” he said to the queen, “let us go into your room, and, since we are avenged, let us sleep in peace. Sleep, O king! and may happy dreams lull you to sleep; but, while you are resting, a man climbs onto the roof, attaches a rope to it and lets himself slide down into the courtyard. He gropes for an invisible object, he loads it onto his back, there he is, climbing over the wall and running in the snow. According to the sentries, a ghost passed before them, and they heard the moans of a newborn child. The next day, when the king awoke, he gathered his thoughts and began to reflect for the first time. He suspected that he had been the victim of some trickery and that the author of the crime might well be the little gray man. He sent for him at once. The little man arrived, carrying the freshly ironed sheets on his shoulder ; he knelt before the queen, and said to her in a respectful tone: “Your Majesty knows that everything I have done has been only to obey the King; I hope she will be kind enough to forgive me. “Very well,” said the queen, “but don’t come back to it. I would die of fright. ” “And I do not forgive,” said the king, very vexed that the queen should allow herself to be lenient without consulting her lord and master. ” Listen to me, you triple rogue. If, tomorrow evening, you have not robbed the queen herself, in her castle, tomorrow evening you will be hanged. ” “Your Majesty,” cried the little man, “have me hanged at once, you will spare me twenty-four hours of anguish. How do you expect me to succeed in such an undertaking? It would be easier to take the moon with my teeth. ” “That is your business and not mine,” replied the king. “In the meantime, I will have the gallows erected.” The little man went out in despair: he hid his head in his two hands and sobbed heartbreakingly; the king laughed for the first time. Towards the mist, a holy man of the Capuchin order, rosary in hand, satchel on his back, came, according to custom, to the castle to collect for his convent. When the queen had given him his alms: “Madame,” said the Capuchin, “God will recognize such charity. Tomorrow, as you know, they will hang in the castle an unfortunate man, doubtless very guilty . ” “Alas!” said the queen, “I forgive him with all my heart, and I would have liked to save his life. ” “That cannot be,” said the monk; “but this man, who is a kind of sorcerer, can give you a great gift before he dies. I know that he possesses three marvelous secrets, one of which alone is worth a kingdom. Of these three secrets, he can bequeath one to the one who took pity on him. ” “What are these secrets?” asked the queen. “By virtue of the first,” replied the Capuchin, “a woman makes her husband do whatever she wants. ” “Ah!” said the princess, pouting, “it’s not a marvelous recipe. Since Eve, of holy memory, this mystery has been known from mother to daughter. What is the second secret? ” “The second secret gives wisdom and kindness. ” “Very well,” said the queen in a distracted tone, “and the third? ” “The third,” said the Capuchin, “guarantees to the woman who possesses it unequaled beauty and the gift of pleasing until her dying day. ” “Father, that is the secret I want. ” “Nothing is easier,” said the monk. “All that is required is that before dying, and while he is still completely free, the sorcerer take both your hands and blow three times on your hair. ” “Let him come,” said the queen. “Father, go and get him.” “That cannot be,” said the Capuchin, “the king has given the strictest orders to prevent this man from entering the castle. If he sets foot within these walls, he is dead. Do not envy him the few hours he has left. ” “And me, Father, the king has forbidden me to go out until tomorrow evening. ” “That is unfortunate,” said the monk. ” I see that you must renounce this unparalleled treasure. It would be sweet, however, not to grow old and to remain forever young, beautiful, and, above all, loved. ” “Alas! Father, you are quite right; the king’s defense is a supreme injustice. But when I wanted to go out, the guards would oppose me. Do not look surprised; this is how the king treats me in his whims. I am the most unhappy of women. ” “It breaks my heart,” said the Capuchin. “What tyranny! What barbarity! Poor woman! Well!” No, Madam, you must not yield to such demands; your duty is to do your will. “And the means?” said the queen. “There is one if you have a sense of your rights. Get into this bag; I will get you out of the castle, at the risk of my life. And in fifty years when you are as beautiful and as fresh as today, you will still applaud yourself for having defied your tyrant. ” “Very well!” said the queen, “but is this not a trap that is being set for me? ” “Madam,” said the holy man, raising his arms and beating his chest, “as true as I am a monk, you have nothing to fear.” on this side. Besides, as long as this unfortunate man is near you, I will stay there. “And you will bring me back to the castle? ” “I swear it. ” “And with the secret?” added the queen. “With the secret,” continued the monk. “But, finally, if Your Majesty has any scruples, let us leave it at that, and let the recipe die with the one who found it, if he does not prefer to give it to some more trusting woman.” For all reply, the queen bravely entered the bag; the Capuchin pulled the cords, placed the burden on his shoulder, and crossed the courtyard with measured steps. On the way, he met the king, who was making his rounds. “The collection is good, I see?” said the prince. “Sire,” replied the monk, “Your Majesty’s charity is inexhaustible; I fear I have abused it. Perhaps I would do better to leave this bag and its contents here. ” “No, no,” said the king. Take everything away, Father, and good riddance! I don’t imagine that all you have in there is worth much. You will make a meager feast. “I hope Your Majesty sups with as good an appetite,” the monk continued in a paternal tone, and he went away muttering words that were not heard, a few oremus, no doubt. The bell rang for supper; the king entered the room rubbing his hands. He was pleased with himself and he hoped to take revenge, a double reason for having a great appetite. “The queen has not come down?” he said in an ironic voice; that does not surprise me at all. Inexactitude is the virtue of women. He was about to sit down to table when three soldiers, crossing their halberds, pushed the little gray man into the room. “Sire,” said one of the guards, “this rascal had the audacity to enter the courtyard of the castle, despite the royal prohibition. We would have hanged him immediately so as not to disturb Your Majesty’s supper, but he claims he has a message from the queen, and that he is the bearer of a state secret. ” “The queen!” cried the king, quite astonished, “where is she? Wretch, what have you done with it? ” “I stole it,” said the little man coldly. “And how?” said the king. “Sire, the Capuchin who had such a large bag on his back and to whom Your Majesty deigned to say: Take everything away, and good riddance!… ” “It was you!” said the prince; “but then, wretch, there is no longer any safety for me. One of these days you will take me, and my kingdom into the bargain. ” “Sire, I have come to ask you for more. ” “You frighten me,” said the king. Who are you? A sorcerer or the devil himself? “No, sire, I am simply the Prince of Holar. You have a daughter to marry, I came to ask for her hand, when the bad weather forced me to take refuge, with my grand-squire, at the priest of Skalholt. It was there that chance threw a foolish peasant in my path and made me play the role you know. Besides, everything I have done has been only to obey and please Your Majesty. ” “Very well!” said the king. “I understand, or rather I do not understand; it does not matter! Prince of Holar, I would rather have you as a son-in-law than as a neighbor. As soon as the queen comes… ” “Sire, she is here. My grand-squire has taken it upon himself to escort her back to her palace.” The queen soon entered, a little embarrassed by her simplicity, but easily consoled by the thought that she had such a clever man for a son-in-law. “And the famous secret,” she said in a low voice to the Prince of Holar, “you owe it to me?
” “The secret of always being beautiful,” said the prince, “is to always be loved. ” “And the way to always be loved?” asked the queen. “It is to be good and simple, and to do the will of your husband. ” “He dares to say that he is a sorcerer!” cried the queen indignantly, raising her arms to the sky. “Let us finish these mysteries,” said the king, who was already growing frightened. “Prince of Holar, when you are our son-in-law, you will have more time than you want to talk with your mother-in-law.” Supper grew cold: to table! Let us devote the whole evening to pleasure; enjoy yourself, my son-in-law, tomorrow you will be married. At this word, which he found piquant, the king looked at the queen; but she made such a face that at that very moment he rubbed his chin and admired the flies flying on the ceiling. Here end the adventures of the Prince of Holar; happy days have no history. We know, however, that he succeeded his father-in-law and that he was a great king. A bit of a liar, a bit of a thief, audacious and cunning, he had the virtues of a conqueror. He took from his neighbors more than a thousand acres of snow, which he lost and reconquered three times by sacrificing six armies. Thus his name figures gloriously in the famous annals of Skalholt and Holar. It is to these famous monuments that we refer the reader. Chapter 7. Another little story for my nephew the schoolboy, who, with unequalled ardor, struggles between rosa and dominus, and believes that it would be less difficult to make the kings of Europe march together than to agree the adjective and the noun, which always get each other wrong, in gender, number, and case. Chapter 8. THE TWO EXORCISTS. Long ago, in a little village in Iceland, there was a priest who knew as much Latin as a fish. One day, when a newborn child was brought to him for baptism, instead of looking in his book, he began to recite the formula of exorcism incorrectly. “Abi,” he said, “abi, male spirite.” But the devil, who invented grammar (grammar and grimoire are all one), was in no mood to be chased away by a solecism. “Pessime grammatice,” he cried, to the great terror of those present. The priest, feeling that he had made a mistake and taking his courage in both hands, said in a trembling voice: “Abi, male spiritu.” To which the devil, who is not to be found wanting, replied: “Male prius, nunc pejus. ” The priest, furious, continued: “Abi, male spiritus. ” “Sic debuisti dicere prius,” replied the devil, and he left quietly. The story is not bad; they tell another one in Germany which is perhaps better. “Exi tu ex corpo,” said the priest proudly. “Nolvo,” replied the devil. “Cur tu nolvis? ” “Quia,” replied the devil insolently, “quia tu male linguis.” “Hoc est aliud rem,” said the priest majestically, and he withdrew with dignity, leaving this solemn pedant all snub-nosed. “What follies,” one might say, “and in a man whose condition and age condemn him to seriousness for life. ” “Hello! grave censors, let me laugh, with your children. You too make me laugh, and often, but that laughter saddens my heart. Great men of today, I have all year to admire your astonishing wisdom; let me forget you for a day and play with these innocent souls who, thank God, do not yet know what you know. ” Zerbino the Fierce Neapolitan Tale Chapter 9. Once upon a time in Salerno there lived a young woodcutter named Zerbino. Orphaned and poor, he had no friends; wild and taciturn, he spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. Since he did not interfere in other people’s affairs, everyone considered him a fool. He was nicknamed the fierce one; never was a title better deserved. In the morning, when everyone in the town was still asleep, he would go to the mountains, his jacket and axe on his shoulder; he lived alone in the woods all day long, and only returned in the mist, dragging after him some wicked person from whom he bought his supper. When he passed by the fountain where every evening the young girls of the neighborhood went to fill their pitchers and empty their throats, each one laughed at this gloomy figure and mocked the poor woodcutter. Neither Zerbin’s black beard nor his shining eyes frightened this impudent troop; it was a question of who would provoke the innocent. “Zerbino of my soul,” cried one, “say a word, I give you my heart. ” “Pleasure of my eyes,” resumed the other, “show me the color of your words, I am yours. ” “Zerbino, Zerbino,” repeated all these mad heads in chorus, “which of us do you choose for wife? Is it me? Is it me? Who do you take? ” “The most talkative,” replied the woodcutter, shaking his fist at them. And each one immediately cried: “Thank you! My good Zerbino, thank you!” Pursued by peals of laughter, the poor savage returned home with the grace of a wild boar fleeing before the hunter. Once his door was closed, he ate his supper on a piece of bread and a glass of water, wrapped himself in the tatters of an old blanket, and lay down on the beaten earth. Without worries, without regrets, without desires, he fell asleep quickly and hardly dreamed. If happiness is to feel nothing, the happiest of men was Zerbino. Chapter 10. One day, when he had tired himself shaking an old box tree as hard as stone, Zerbino wanted to take a nap near a pond surrounded by beautiful trees. To his great surprise, he saw, stretched out on the grass, a young woman of marvelous beauty, whose dress was made of swan feathers. The stranger was struggling against a painful dream: her face was tense, her hands were agitated; one would have said that she was trying in vain to shake off the sleep that oppressed her. “If there is any good sense,” said Zerbino, “to sleep at noon with the sun on your face! All women are mad.” He twined some branches to shade the stranger’s head, and over this cradle he placed his work jacket like a veil. He was finishing plaiting the foliage when he saw in the grass, two steps from the stranger, a viper approaching, darting its poisonous tongue. “Ah!” said Zerbin, “so small and already so wicked!” And with two blows of his axe he cut the snake into three pieces. The pieces quivered as if they still wanted to reach the stranger, the woodcutter pushed them with his foot into the pond; they fell into it, quivering like a red-hot iron dipping into water. At this noise, the fairy awoke, and, rising, her eyes shining with joy: “Zerbin!” she cried, “Zerbin! ” “That’s my name, I know it,” replied the woodcutter, “there’s no need to shout so loudly. ” “What!” My friend, said the fairy, don’t you want me to thank you for the service you have done me? You have saved me more than my life. “I have not saved you anything at all,” said Zerbin, with his usual grace. ” Another time, don’t lie down on the grass without seeing if there are any snakes. That is the advice I give you. Now, good night; let me sleep, I have no time to lose.” He stretched out at full length on the grass and closed his eyes. “Zerbin,” said the fairy, “are you asking me for anything? ” “I ask you for peace. When you want nothing, you get what you want, you are happy. Good night.” And the villain began to snore. “Poor boy,” said the fairy, “your soul is asleep; but, whatever you do, I will not be ungrateful. Without you, I would have fallen into the hands of a genie, my cruel enemy; without you, I would have been a snake for a hundred years; I owe you a hundred years of youth and beauty. How can I pay you? I ‘m there, she added. When you have what you want, you are happy, you said so. Well! my good Zerbino, whatever you want, whatever you wish for, you will have it. Soon, I hope, you will bless the water fairy. She made three circles in the air with her hazel wand; then she entered the pond with such a light step that not even the water was rippled.
As their queen approached, the reeds bowed their plumes, the water lilies opened their freshest flowers; the trees, the day, the wind itself, everything smiled on the fairy, everything seemed to join in her happiness. One last time she raised her wand; immediately, to receive their young sovereign, the waters parted in illuminating. It was as if a ray of sunlight had pierced to the bottom of the abyss. Then everything returned to shadow and silence; nothing was heard except Zerbin, who was still snoring. Chapter 11. The sun was beginning to set when the woodcutter awoke. He returned calmly to his work, and with a vigorous arm he attacked the trunk of the tree he had chipped in the morning. The axe clanged on the wood, but it hardly made a dent; Zerbin was sweating profusely and striking in vain at this accursed tree, which defied all his efforts. “Ah!” he said, looking at his chipped axe, “what a pity that someone hasn’t invented a tool that cuts wood like butter! I ‘d like one like that.” He stepped back two steps, swung the axe over his head, and threw it with such force that he fell ten feet, arms outstretched, nose to the ground. “Per Baccho!” he cried, “I’m seeing things; I’ve hit the wrong way.” Zerbino was soon reassured, for at the same instant the tree fell, and so close to him that the poor fellow was almost crushed. “That’s a fine blow!” he cried, “and it speeds up my day. How sharp it is! It’s like a saw cut. No two woodcutters can work like my mother’s son.” With that, he gathered together all the branches he had cut down in the morning; then, untying a rope he had wound around his belt, he straddled the tree to tighten it further, and tied it with a noose. “Now,” he said, “we must drag this to the city. It is unfortunate that the people do not have four legs like horses! I would go proudly to Salerno and enter it prancing, like a fine cavalier who walks without doing anything. I would like to see myself like that. At that moment, here is the person who rises and begins to trot with an extended gait. Without being surprised at anything, the good Zerbino let himself be carried away by this new breed of mount, and all along the way he took pity on these poor little people who walked on foot, for lack of a person. Chapter 12. At the time of which we are speaking there was a large square in the middle of Salerno, and on this square was the king’s palace. This king, as everyone knows, was the famous Mouchamiel, whose name has been immortalized in history .
Every afternoon, the king’s daughter, Princess Aléli, could be seen sadly sitting on the balcony. It was in vain that her slaves tried to charm her with their songs, their stories, or their flatteries; Aleli listened only to her thoughts. For three years, the king, her father, had wanted to marry her to all the barons in the neighborhood; for three years, the princess had refused all the suitors. Salerno was her dowry, and she felt that it was her dowry alone that they wanted to marry. Serious and tender, Aleli had no ambition, she was not coquettish, she did not laugh to show her teeth, she knew how to listen and never spoke for the sake of saying nothing; this disease, so rare among women, was the despair of doctors. Aleli was even more dreamy than usual, when suddenly Zerbino appeared on the Piazza, guiding his personage with the majesty of a plumed Caesar. At this sight, the princess’s two wives burst into fits of laughter, and as they had oranges at hand, they began to throw them at the horseman, and so skillfully that he received two of them full in the face. “Laugh, you cursed ones,” he cried, pointing at them, “and may you laugh until your teeth are worn down to the gums. That is what Zerbin wishes for you.” And here are the two women laughing until they are writhing, without anything stopping them, neither the threats of the woodcutter nor the orders of the princess, who took pity on the poor woodcutter. “Good little woman,” said Zerbin, looking at Aleli, “and so sweet and so sad! I wish you well. May you love the first one who will make her laugh, and marry her into the bargain! With that, he took her lock of hair, and greeted the princess in the most graceful manner. General rule: when one is riding a person, one must not greet anyone, even a queen; Zerbino forgot this, and it was a bad thing for him. To greet the princess, he had let go of the rope that held the branches in a bundle; here the persono opens and good Zerbino falls backward, legs in the air, in the most grotesque and ridiculous fashion. He got up with a daring somersault, taking with him half the foliage, and, crowned like a sylvan god, he went and rolled ten paces further. When a person falls at the risk of being killed, why do people laugh? I don’t know; it is a mystery that philosophy has not yet explained. What I know is that everyone laughed and Princess Aleli did as everyone else did. But immediately she got up, looked at Zerbin with strange eyes, put her hand on her heart, raised it to her head and returned to the palace, agitated by some unknown disturbance. Meanwhile, Zerbin gathered the scattered branches and returned home on foot, like a simple bundler. Prosperity had not dazzled him, bad luck did not trouble him either. The day was good, that was enough for him. He bought a fine buffalo cheese, white and hard as marble, cut a long slice and dined with a good appetite. The innocent man had little idea of the harm he had done and the disorder he left behind him. Chapter 13. While these grave events were taking place, four o’clock struck from the tower of Salerno. The day was burning hot, silence reigned in the streets. Withdrawn to a low room, far from the heat and noise, King Mouchamiel was thinking of the happiness of his people: he was asleep. Suddenly he awoke with a start: two arms were clasping his neck, burning tears were wetting his face; it was the beautiful Aléli who was embracing her father, in a fit of tenderness. “What is this?” said the king, surprised by this redoubled love. “You embrace me and you cry? Ah! Daughter of your mother, you want me to do your will? ” “Quite the contrary, my good father,” said Aléli; “she is an obedient daughter who wants to do what you want. I have found the son-in-law you wish for. To please you, I am ready to give him my hand. ” “Good,” continued Mouchamiel, “this is the end of the whim. Who are we marrying? The Prince of Cava? No. Is it then the Count of Capri? The Marquis of Sorrento?” No. Who is he then? “I don’t know him, my good father. ” “What, you don’t know him? You saw him, though? ” “Yes, just now, in the castle square. ” “And he spoke to you? ” “No, father. Is there any need to speak when hearts are in accord?” Mouchamiel grimaced, scratched his ear, and looking his daughter between the eyes: “At least,” he said, “he’s a prince? ” “I don’t know, father, but what does it matter? ” “It matters a great deal, my daughter, and you understand nothing of politics. That you freely choose a son-in-law who suits me is marvelous. As king and as father, I will never hinder your will when that will is mine. But otherwise I have duties to fulfill towards my family and my subjects, and I expect that what I want is done.” Where is this beautiful bird hiding that you don’t know, that hasn’t spoken to you and that adores you? “I don’t know,” said Aleli. “That’s too much,” cried Mouchamiel. “It’s to tell me such nonsense that you come to take away moments that belong to my people! Hey! Chamberlains, let us call the princess’s wives and let us escort her back to her apartments. ” Hearing these words, Aleli raised her arms to the sky and began to burst into tears. Then, she fell at the king’s knees, sobbing. At the same moment, the two women entered, still laughing out loud. “Silence, wretches, silence!” cried Mouchamiel, indignant at this lack of respect. But the more the king shouted: Silence!, the more the two women laughed, without regard for etiquette. “Guards,” said the prince, beside himself, “let these insolent women be seized and their heads cut off. I will teach them that there is nothing less pleasant than a king. ” “Sire,” said Aléli, clasping his hands, “remember that you have distinguished your reign by abolishing the death penalty. ” “You are right, my daughter. We are civilized people. Let these women be spared and let us be content to treat them in the Russian manner, with all due consideration. Beat them until they die naturally. ” “Pardon! Father,” said Aléli; “it is I, it is your daughter who begs you.
” “For God’s sake! Let them stop laughing, and let me be rid of them,” said good Mouchamiel. Take these yokels away, I forgive them; let them be locked in a cell until they die of silence and boredom. “Ah! my father,” sobbed poor Aléli. “Come,” said the king, “let them be married, and let this be over! ” “Please, Sire, we will laugh no more,” cried the two women, falling to their knees and opening their mouths where there were only gums. “May Your Majesty forgive us, and avenge us. We are the victims of an infernal art; a villain has bewitched us. ” “A sorcerer in my States!” said the king, who was a strong mind; “it is impossible! There is none, since I do not believe in it. ” “Sire,” said one of the women, “is it natural for a person to trot like a riding school horse and prance under the hand of a woodcutter?” This is what we have just seen in the castle square. “A person!” resumed the king; “this smacks of a sorcerer. Guards, seize the man and his person, and, one carrying the other, burn them both . After that, I hope they will let me sleep. ” “Burn my beloved!” cried the princess, waving her arms like a madwoman. “Sire, this noble knight is my husband, my property, my life. If anyone touches a single hair of his, I die. ” “Hell is in my house,” said poor Mouchamiel. “What good is it to me to be king if I cannot even sleep in the morning? But it is good of me to torment myself. Let them call Mistigris. Since I have a minister, it is the least he can do for me to tell me what I think, and to know what I want.” Chapter 14. Lord Mistigris was announced. He was a small man, fat, short, round, broad, who rolled more than he walked. Weasel-like eyes that looked in all directions at once, a low forehead, a hooked nose, large cheeks, three chins: such is the portrait of the famous minister who was the happiness of Salerno, under the name of King Mouchamiel. He entered smiling, puffing, mincing, like a man who gaily bears power and its troubles. “At last, here you are!” said the prince. “How is it that unheard-of things happen in my empire, and that I, the king, am the last to be informed? ” “Everything is in the usual order,” said Mistigris in a placid tone. “I have here in my hands the police reports; happiness and peace reign in the State, as always.” And opening some large papers, he read the following: Port of Salerno. All is quiet. There has been no more theft at customs than usual. Three quarrels between sailors, six stabbings; five admissions to the hospital. Nothing new. Upper town. Tax doubled; prosperity and morality ever increasing. Two women starved to death; ten children exposed; three husbands who beat their wives, ten women who beat their husbands; thirty thefts, two murders, three poisonings. Nothing new. “So that’s all you know?” said Mouchamiel in an irritated voice. “Well! I, sir, whose job it is not to know about affairs of state, know more. A man riding on a person has passed through the castle square, and he bewitched my daughter. Now she wants to marry him. “Sire,” said Mistigris, “I was not ignorant of this detail; a minister knows everything; but why tire Your Majesty with this nonsense? The man will be hanged and all will be said. ” “And you can tell me where this wretch is? ” “No doubt, Sire,” replied Mistigris. “A minister sees everything, hears everything, is everywhere. ” “Well! Sir,” said the king, “if in a quarter of an hour this rascal is not here, you will leave the ministry to people who are not content with seeing, but who act. Go! ” Mistigris left the room still smiling. But, once in the waiting room, he became crimson like a man who is suffocating, and was obliged to take the arm of the first friend he met. It was the prefect of the city whom a happy chance had brought near him. Mistigris stepped back two steps and took the magistrate by the collar. “Sir,” he said, emphasizing each of his words, “if in ten minutes you don’t bring me the man who is riding around Salerno on a personage, I’ll break you, do you hear? I’ll break you. Go!” Stunned by this threat, the prefect ran to the chief of police. “Where is the man who rides around on a personage?” he said. “What man?” asked the chief of police. “Don’t argue with your superior; I won’t tolerate it. By not arresting this scoundrel, you have failed in all your duties. If in five minutes this man is not here, I’ll chase you out. Go!” The chief of police ran to the castle post; there he found his men watching over the public peace by playing dice. “Folks!” he shouted at them, if in three minutes you do not bring me the man who rides a personage, I will have you beaten like galley slaves. Run, and not a word. The troop left blaspheming, while the skillful and wise Mistigris, confident in the miracles of the hierarchy, calmly returned to the king’s chamber and put on his lips that perpetual smile which is part of the profession. Chapter 15. Two words spoken by the minister in the king’s ear charmed Mouchamiel. The idea of burning a sorcerer did not displease him. It was a nice little event which would honor his reign, a proof of wisdom which would astonish posterity. Only one thing bothered the king, it was poor Aléli drowned in tears and whom his women tried in vain to drag into his apartments. Mistigris looked at the king with a wink; Then, approaching the princess, he said to her in his quietest voice: “Madame, he is coming, he must not see you cry. On the contrary, adorn yourself; be twice as beautiful, and let the sight of you alone assure him of his happiness. ” “I hear you, good Mistigris,” cried Aléli. “Thank you, father, thank you, ” she added, throwing herself on the king’s hands, which she covered with kisses. “Blessed be you, a thousand and a thousand times blessed!” She left drunk with joy, her head held high, her eyes shining, and so happy, so happy that she stopped the first chamberlain as he passed to announce her marriage herself. “Good chamberlain,” she added, “he is coming. Do the honors of the palace for him yourself and be sure that you will not oblige ungrateful people.” Left alone with Mistigris, the king looked at his minister with a furious air. “Are you mad!” he said to him. “What! Without consulting me, you pledge my word? Do you believe yourself the master of my empire to dispose of my daughter and me without my consent? ” “Bah!” said Mistigris calmly, “it was necessary to calm the princess; it was the most urgent thing. In politics, one never worries about tomorrow. Each day has enough trouble of its own. ” “And my word,” replied the king, “how do you expect me to withdraw it now without perjuring myself? And yet I want to take revenge on this insolent man who stole my child’s heart. ” “Sire,” said Mistigris, “a prince never takes back his word; but there is several ways to hold her. “What do you mean by that?” said Mouchamiel. “Your Majesty,” continued the minister, “has just promised my daughter to marry her; we will marry her. After which we will adopt the law which says: If a nobleman who does not have the rank of baron dares to claim the love of a princess of royal blood, he will be treated as a nobleman, that is to say, beheaded. If the suitor is a bourgeois, he will be treated as a bourgeois, that is to say, hanged. If he is a villein, he will be drowned like a dog. ” “You see, Sire, that nothing is easier than to reconcile your paternal love and your royal justice. We have so many laws in Salerno that there is always a way to accommodate them. ” “Mistigris,” said the king, “you are a scoundrel.” “Sire,” said the fat man, puffing himself up, “you flatter me; I am only a politician. I was taught that there is a high morality for princes and a low one for the common people. I have profited from the lesson. It is this discernment that makes the genius of statesmen, the admiration of the clever, and the scandal of fools. ” “My good friend,” said the king, “with your three-part sentences you are as tiresome as an academic eulogy. I do not ask you for words, but for actions; hasten the execution of this man and let us be done with it.” As he spoke thus, Princess Aléli entered the royal chamber. She was so beautiful, there was so much joy in her eyes, that the good Mouchamiel sighed and began to wish that the person’s cavalier were a prince, so that he would not be hanged. Chapter 16. Glory is a beautiful thing, but it has its inconveniences. Farewell to the pleasure of being unknown and of defying the foolish curiosity of the crowd. The triumphal entry of Zerbino was hardly over, when there was not a child in Salerno who did not know the person, the life, and the dwelling of the woodcutter. So the troopers had little trouble finding the man they were looking for. Zerbino was on his knees in his courtyard, busy sharpening his famous axe; he was testing its edge with his thumbnail, when a hand fell upon him, seized him by the collar, and with a vigorous effort set him to his feet. Ten blows with his fist, twenty blows on the back pushed him into the street; it was in this way that he learned that a minister was interested in his person, and that the king himself deigned to summon him to the palace. Zerbin was a wise man, and a wise man is surprised by nothing. He put both hands in his belt and walked calmly, not being too disturbed by the hail that was falling on him. However, to be wise, one is not a saint. A kick received in the calf tired the woodcutter’s patience. “Easy,” he said, “a little pity for the poor fellow. ” “I think the rascal is reasoning,” said one of those who mistreated him. ” The gentleman is soft: we will take gloves to lead him by the hand. ” “I would like to see you in my place,” said Zerbin; “we would see if you would laugh. ” “Will you be quiet, rascal?” said the leader of the band, giving him a blow with his fist that would have dehorned an ox. The blow was doubtless badly aimed, for, instead of hitting Zerbin, it went straight into the eye of a trooper. Furious and half-blind, the wounded man threw himself on the clumsy man who had struck him and grabbed his hair. There they were fighting; they wanted to separate them: punches rained down from right, left, above, below; it was a general melee: nothing was missing, neither the screaming children, nor the weeping women, nor the barking dogs. It was necessary to send a patrol to restore order, arresting the fighters, the beaten , and the curious. Zerbin, still impassive, was walking back to the castle when, in the main square, he was accosted by a long line of handsome gentlemen in embroidered suits and short breeches. They were the servants of the king, who, under the direction of the majordomo and the great chamberlain himself, came to meet the fiancé whom the princess was waiting for. As they had received orders to be polite, each of them had their hat in their hand and a smile on their lips. They saluted Zerbino; the woodcutter, like a well-bred man, returned their salute. New bows of the livery, new salute from Zerbino. This was done eight or ten times in succession with perfect gravity. Zerbino tired himself first: not having been born in a palace, his loins were not supple, he lacked the habit: “Enough,” he cried, “enough; and as the song says: After three refusals, Luck; After three bows, The dance. You have not greeted me too much, now dance.” Immediately, the servants began to dance and bow, to bow and dance, and all of them, preceding Zerbin in admirable order, made for him an entrance into the castle worthy of a king. Chapter 17. To give himself a majestic attitude, Mouchamiel looked gravely at the tip of his nose; Aléli sighed, Mistigris sharpened his quills like a diplomat searching for an idea, the courtiers, motionless and mute, seemed to be thinking. Finally, the great door of the drawing room opened. The majordomo and servants entered in time, dancing a saraband that greatly surprised the court. Behind them walked the woodcutter, as little moved by the royal splendors as if he had been born in a palace. However, at the sight of the king, he stopped, took off his hat, which he held with both hands on his chest, bowed three times, pulling out his right leg; Then he put his hat back on his head, sat down peacefully on an armchair, and danced the tip of his foot. “My father,” cried the princess, throwing herself on the king’s neck, “here is the husband you gave me. How handsome he is! How noble he is! Will you not love him? ” “Mistigris,” murmured Mouchamiel, half-choked, “question this man with the greatest consideration. Think of my daughter’s peace and mine. What an adventure! Ah! how happy fathers would be if they had no children! ” “Let Your Majesty be reassured,” replied Mistigris; “humanity is my duty and my pleasure. ” “Get up, you rascal!” he said to Zerbin in a brusque tone; “answer quickly, if you want to save your skin. Are you a prince in disguise? You keep quiet, you wretch! You are a sorcerer!” “No more of a sorcerer than you, my dear,” replied Zerbin, without leaving his armchair. “Ah! brigand!” cried the minister; “this denial proves your crime; you are confounded by your silence, triple villain! ” “If I confessed, I would then be innocent?” said Zerbin. “Sire,” said Mistigris, who mistook fury for eloquence, “do justice; purge your States, purge the earth of this monster. Death is too sweet for such a scoundrel. ” “Still go,” said Zerbin; “bark, my dear, bark, but don’t bite.” “Sire,” cried Mistigris, puffing, “your justice and your humanity are in presence. Oua, oua, oua. Humanity orders you to protect your subjects by delivering them from this sorcerer, oua, oua, oua. Justice demands that he be hanged or burned, oua, oua, oua. You are a father, oua, oua, but you are a king, oua, oua, and the king, oua, oua, must erase the father, oua, oua, oua. “Mistigris,” said the king, “you speak well, but you have an unbearable tic . Not so much affectation. Conclude. ” “Sire,” resumed the minister, “death, the rope, fire. Oua, oua, oua.” While the king sighed, Aleli, abruptly leaving her father, went to sit beside Zerbin. “Order it, Sire,” she said; “here is my husband; his fate will be mine.” At this scandal, all the ladies of the court covered their faces. Mistigris himself felt obliged to blush. “Unhappy woman!” said the furious king, “by dishonoring yourself you have pronounced your condemnation. Guards! Arrest these two creatures; let them be married off immediately.” then; after that, confiscate the first boat that comes into the harbor, throw these culprits into it, and let them be abandoned to the fury of the waves. “Ah! Sire,” cried Mistigris, while the princess and Zerbin were being dragged away, “you are the greatest king in the world. Your kindness, your gentleness, your indulgence will be the example and the astonishment of posterity. What will the Official Journal not say tomorrow! As for us, confounded by so much magnanimity, all that remains is for us to be silent and admire. ” “My poor daughter,” cried the king, “what will become of her without her father! Guards, seize Mistigris and put him on the boat too. It will be a consolation for me to know this clever man is with my dear Aléli. And then, changing ministers will always be a distraction; in my sad situation, I need it. Farewell, my Mistigris.” Mistigris remained open-mouthed; he was about to catch his breath to curse the princes and their ingratitude, when he was carried out of the palace. Despite his cries, his threats, his prayers and his tears, he was thrown onto the boat, and soon the three friends found themselves alone in the middle of the waves. As for the good King Mouchamiel, he wiped away a tear and shut himself in the lower room to finish a nap so unpleasantly interrupted. Chapter 18. The night was beautiful and calm; the moon lit up the sea and its trembling furrows with its white light ; the wind blew from the land and carried the boat away; already Capri could be seen, rising in the middle of the waves like a basket of flowers. Zerbino was at the helm and murmuring I know not what song, plaintive, a woodcutter’s or a sailor’s song. At his feet sat Aleli, silent, but not sad; She listened to her beloved. She forgot the past; she hardly thought about the future; staying with Zerbino was her whole life. Mistigris, less tender, was less philosophical. Uneasy and furious, he moved about like a bear in its cage and made fine speeches to Zerbino that the woodcutter did not listen to. Insensitive as always, Zerbino bowed his head. Unaccustomed to official speeches, the minister’s speeches put him to sleep. “What will become of us?” cried Mistigris. “Come now, you dreadful sorcerer, if you have any virtue, show it; get us out of here. Make yourself a prince or king somewhere, and appoint me your first minister. I need something to govern. What good is your power to you if you do not make the fortune of your friends? ” “I am hungry,” said Zerbino, opening half of one eye. Aleli got up at once and looked around her. “My friend,” she said, “what do you want? ” “I want figs and grapes,” said the woodcutter. Mistigris gave a cry; a barrel of figs and raisins had just come out from between his legs and thrown him to the ground. “Ah!” he thought, getting up, “I have your secret, you cursed sorcerer. If you
have what you wish, my fortune is made: I was not a minister for nothing, handsome prince; I will make you want what I want.” While Zerbino ate his figs, Mistigris approached him, his back bent, his face smiling. “Lord Zerbino,” he said, “I have come to ask Your Excellency for your incomparable friendship. Perhaps Your Highness did not fully understand all the devotion I concealed beneath the affected severity of my words; but I can assure you that everything was calculated to hasten your happiness. It was I alone who hastened your happy marriage.” “I am hungry,” said Zerbin. “Give me some figs and grapes. ” “Here you are, sir,” said Mistigris with all the grace of a courtier. ” I hope that His Excellency will be satisfied with my little services and that he will often enable me to show him all my zeal. ” “Three-faced brute,” he murmured softly, “you don’t hear me. I absolutely must put Aléli in my interests. To please the ladies is the great secret of politics.” “By the way, Lord Zerbin,” he continued, smiling, “you forget that you are married this evening. Wouldn’t it be fitting to give a wedding present to your royal fiancée? ” “You, my fat fellow, you bore me,” said Zerbin. “A wedding present, where do you want me to fish for it? At the bottom of the sea? Go and ask the fish, and you will bring it back to me. ” At that very moment, as if an invisible hand had thrown him, Mistigris jumped over the edge and disappeared beneath the waves. Zerbin went back to peeling and crunching his grapes, while Aleli never tired of watching him. “There’s a porpoise coming out of the water,” said Zerbin. It wasn’t a porpoise, it was the happy messenger who, having risen up from the waves, was struggling amidst the foam; Zerbin took Mistigris by the hair and pulled him overboard. Strange to say, the fat man had a carbuncle in his teeth that shone like a star in the middle of the night. As soon as he could breathe , he said, “This is the gift the King of Fish offers to the charming Aleli. You see, Lord Zerbin, that you have in me the most faithful and devoted of slaves. If you ever have a small ministry to entrust… ” “I am hungry,” said Zerbin. “Give me some figs and grapes.” “Sir,” continued Mistigris, “will you do nothing for the princess your wife ? This boat, exposed to all the insults of the air, is not a place worthy of her birth and her beauty. ” “Enough! Mistigris,” said Aleli; “I am happy here, I ask for nothing.” “Remember, Madam,” said the officious minister, “that when the Prince of Capri offered you his hand, he had sent to Salerno a splendid mahogany ship, where gold and ivory shone on every side. And those sailors dressed in velvet, and those silk ropes, and those salons all adorned with mirrors! That’s what a little prince did for you. Signor Zerbino won’t want to be left behind, he, so noble, so powerful, and so good. ” “He’s a fool, that fellow!” said Zerbino; “he’s always talking. I wish I had a boat like that, just to shut you up, you chatterbox! After that, you would be silent. ” At that moment, Aleli uttered a cry of surprise and joy that made the woodcutter shudder. Where was he? On a magnificent ship that cut through the waves with the grace of a swan with outstretched wings. A tent lit by alabaster lamps formed a richly furnished salon on the deck; Aleli, still sitting at her husband’s feet, was still looking at him; Mistigris was running after the crew and wanted to give orders to the sailors. But on this strange ship no one spoke; Mistigris was at a loss for his eloquence, and could not even find a cabin boy to steer. Zerbin got up to look at the wake; Mistigris immediately ran up, still smiling. “Is Your Lordship,” he said, “satisfied with my efforts and zeal? ” “Be quiet, you chatterer,” said the woodcutter. “I forbid you to speak until tomorrow morning. I’m dreaming, let me sleep.” Mistigris remained open-mouthed, making the most respectful gestures; then in despair he went down to the dining room and began to eat supper without saying a word. He drank for four hours without being able to console himself, and finally fell under the table. Meanwhile Zerbin was dreaming at his ease; Aleli, alone, did not sleep. Chapter 19. One grows tired of everything, even of happiness, says a proverb; how much more do one grow tired of going to sea in a ship where no one speaks, and which goes I know not where. So, as soon as Mistigris had recovered his senses and recovered his speech, he had no other idea than to make Zerbin wish to be on land. The thing was difficult; the skillful courtier always feared some indiscreet wish which would send him back to the fishes: he trembled above all lest Zerbin should miss his wood and his axe. Then become the minister of a woodcutter! Luckily Zerbin had woken up in a charming mood; he was getting used to the princess, and, rough as he was, this amiable face cheered him up. Mistigris wanted to seize the opportunity; but, alas! women are so unreasonable when by chance they love! Aleli was telling Zerbin how sweet it would be to live together, alone, far from the world and the noise, in some quiet cottage, in the middle of an orchard, on the edge of a stream. Without understanding anything of this poetry, the good Zerbin listened with pleasure to these sweet words which lulled him. “A cottage, with cows and chickens,” he said, “that would be pretty. If…” Mistigris felt lost and knocked loudly. “Ah! lord!” he cried, “just look over there in front of you. How beautiful it is! ” “What is it?” said the princess, “I can’t see anything. ” “Nor I,” said Zerbin, rubbing his eyes. “Is it possible?” continued Mistigris with an astonished air. What! Don’t you see this marble palace shining in the sun, and this grand staircase, all adorned with orange trees, which descends majestically by a hundred steps to the seaside?
“A palace?” said Aleli. “To be surrounded by courtiers, egotists, and servants, I don’t want it. Let’s flee. ” “Yes,” said Zerbin, “a cottage is better; one is more peaceful there. ” “This palace is like no other,” cried Mistigris, whose imagination was aroused by fear. “In this fairy-tale dwelling there are neither courtiers nor servants; one is served invisibly; one is at once alone and surrounded! The furniture has hands, the walls have ears .
” “Do they have a tongue?” said Zerbin. “Yes,” continued Mistigris; “they speak and say everything, but they are silent when one wishes. ” “Well!” said the woodcutter, they have more wit than you. I would like to have a castle like that. Where is it, this beautiful palace? I don’t see it. “It’s there in front of you, my friend,” said the princess. The ship had run towards the land, and already they were dropping anchor in a port where the water was deep enough to allow them to land at the quay. The port was half surrounded by a great horseshoe staircase; above the staircase, on an immense platform overlooking the sea, rose the most cheerful palace that anyone had ever dreamed of. The three friends climbed gaily; Mistigris went in front, blowing at each step. Arriving at the gate of the castle, he wanted to ring; there was no bell; he called: it was the Gate itself that answered. “What do you want, stranger?” she asked. “Speak to the master of this house,” said Mistigris, a little intrigued to be speaking for the first time with wrought iron. “The master of this palace is Lord Zerbin,” replied the Gate. ” When he approaches, I will open it.” Zerbin arrived, giving his arm to the beautiful Aleli; the Gate moved aside respectfully and let the two spouses pass, followed by Mistigris. Once on the terrace, Aleli looked at the splendid spectacle before her: the sea, the immense sea, all shining in the morning sun. “How nice it is here!” she said, “and how comfortable it would be, sitting under this gallery, all adorned with flowering laurels! ” “Yes,” said Zerbin, “let us sit on the ground. ” “So there are no armchairs here?” cried Mistigris. “Here we are, here we are,” cried the armchairs; and they all arrived, running one after the other, as fast as their four feet would allow. “We could have lunch here,” said Mistigris. “Yes,” said Zerbin; “but where is the table? ” “Here I am, here I am,” replied a contralto voice. And a beautiful mahogany table, moving with the gravity of a matron, came and placed itself before the guests. “It’s charming,” said the princess, “but where are the dishes? ” “Here we are, here we are,” cried small, dry voices: and thirty dishes, followed by the plates, their sisters, and the cutlery, their cousins, without forgetting their aunts, the salt cellars, lined up in a instant in admirable order on the table, which was covered with game, fruit and flowers. “Lord Zerbin,” said Mistigris, “you see what I am doing for you. All this is my work. ” “You are lying!” cried a voice. Mistigris turned around and saw no one; it was a column in the gallery that had spoken. “Lord,” he said, “I believe that no one can accuse me of imposture; I have always told the truth. ” “You are lying!” said the voice. “This palace is odious,” thought Mistigris. “If the walls tell the truth, the court will never be established there, and I will never be a minister. That must be changed. ” “Lord Zerbin,” he continued, “instead of living here in solitude, would you not prefer to have a good people who would pay good little taxes, who would provide good little soldiers, and who would surround you with love and tenderness? ” “King!” said Zerbin, “what for?” “My friend, don’t listen to him,” said the good Aleli. “Let’s stay here, we are both so comfortable here. ” “All three of us,” said Mistigris; “I am here the happiest of men, and near you I desire nothing. ” “You lie!” said the voice. “What! Lord, is there anyone here who dares doubt my devotion? ” “You lie!” resumed the echo. “Lord, don’t listen to him,” cried Mistigris. “I honor you and I love you; believe my oaths. ” “You lie!” resumed the pitiless voice. “Ah! if you always lie, go to the moon,” said Zerbin; “it is the land of liars.” An imprudent word, for immediately Mistigris flew into the air like an arrow and disappeared above the clouds. Did he ever come back down to earth? We do not know, although some chroniclers assure us that he reappeared there, but under another name. What is certain is that he was never seen again in a palace where the very walls spoke the truth. Chapter 20. Left alone, Zerbin crossed his arms and looked at the sea, while Aleli gave herself over to the sweetest thoughts. To live in enchanted solitude , near what you love, is that not what you dream of in your best days? To discover her new domain, she took Zerbin’s arm. On right and left, the palace was surrounded by beautiful meadows watered by gushing waters. Holm oaks, purple beeches , larches with fine needles, plane trees with orange leaves stretched their long shadows on the lawn. Amidst the foliage sang the warbler, whose song breathed joy and rest. Aleli put her hand on her heart, and looking at Zerbin: “My friend,” she said to him, “are you happy here and have you nothing more to desire? ” “I have never desired anything,” said Zerbin. “What have I to ask? Tomorrow I will take my axe and work hard; there are fine woods to be felled there; one can get more than a hundred people from them. ” “Ah!” said Aleli, sighing, “you don’t love me! ” “Love you!” said Zerbin, “what is that? I don’t want you any harm, certainly, quite the contrary; here is a castle that comes to us from the clouds, it is yours; write to your father, have him come, it will please me. If I have caused you pain, it is not my fault: I have nothing to do with it. I was born a woodcutter, I want to die a woodcutter. That is my trade, and I know how to keep my place.” Don’t cry, I don’t want to say anything that will upset you. “Ah! Zerbino,” cried poor Aleli, “what have I done to you to treat me like this? I am so ugly and so wicked that you don’t want to love me? ” “Loving you! That’s not my business. Once again, don’t cry. It’s no use. Calm down, be reasonable, my child. Come, well! Here are more tears! Well! Yes, if it pleases you, I’ll love you; I love you, Aleli, I love you.” Poor Aleli, all in tears, raised her eyes: Zerbino was transformed. There was in his eyes the tenderness of a husband, the devotion of a a man who gives his heart and his life forever. At this sight, Aleli began to cry even more; but, while crying, she smiled at Zerbin, who, for his part, for the first time, began to burst into tears. To cry without knowing why, is that not the greatest pleasure in life? And then appeared the water fairy, holding the wise Mouchamiel by the hand. The good king was very unhappy since he no longer had his daughter and his minister. He tenderly embraced his children, gave them his blessing and bade them farewell the same day to spare his emotion, his sensitivity and his health. The water fairy remained the protector of the two spouses, who lived for a long time in their beautiful palace, happy to forget the world, happier to be forgotten by it. Did Zerbin remain foolish, like his father? Did his soul open to the clarity of the heavens? One could open his eyes with a single word; This word, do they whisper it to him? It’s a mystery; I don’t know it and I must keep quiet. But what does it matter, after all? Zerbin was happy. They loved him, that’s the big deal; Giving him wit wasn’t necessary; Whether she was a princess or a shepherdess, Any married woman has wit for two. THE SHEPHERD PASHA TURKISH TALE Once upon a time in Baghdad there lived a pasha much loved by the sultan, much feared by his subjects. Ali (that was our man’s name) was a true Muslim, a Turk of the old rock. As soon as dawn allowed one to distinguish a white thread from a black thread, he spread a carpet on the ground, and, his face turned toward Mecca, he piously performed his ablutions and prayers. His devotions completed, two black slaves, dressed in scarlet, brought him his pipe and coffee. Ali would sit on a couch, legs crossed, and remain like that all day long. Sipping black, bitter, burning Arabian coffee, slowly smoking Smyrna tobacco from a long hookah, sleeping, doing nothing and thinking even less, that was his way of governing. Every month, it is true, an order from Istanbul enjoined him to send a million piastres, the pashalick’s tax, to the imperial treasury; on that day, the good Ali, emerging from his usual tranquility, would call before him the richest merchants of Baghdad and politely ask them for two million piastres. The poor people would raise their hands to heaven, beat their chests, tear out their beards and swear through tears that they did not have a single para [1]; they would implore the pity of the pasha, the mercy of the sultan. Whereupon Ali, without ceasing to drink his coffee, had them stick the soles of his feet until they brought him this money which did not exist, and which was always found somewhere. Once the sum was counted, the faithful administrator sent half to the Sultan and threw the other half into his coffers; then he would start smoking again. Sometimes, despite his patience, he would complain that day of the worries of grandeur and the fatigues of power; but the next day he would think no more of it, and the following month he would levy the tax with the same calm and the same disinterestedness. He was the model of the pashas. [Note 1: The para is worth a few centimes.] After the pipe, the coffee and the money, what Ali loved best was his daughter, Charme-des-Yeux. He was right to love her, for in his daughter, as in a living mirror, Ali saw himself again with all her virtues. As nonchalant as she was beautiful, Charme-des-Yeux could not take a step without having three women at her side, always ready to serve her: a white slave took care of her hair and her toilet, a yellow slave held the mirror for her or fanned her, a black slave amused her with her grimaces and received her caresses or blows. Every morning, the pasha’s daughter went out in a large cart drawn by oxen; she spent three hours in the bath, and spent the rest of the time in visits, busy eating rose preserves, drinking pomegranate sorbets, watching dancers, making fun of her good friends. After such a busy day, she would return to the palace, kiss her father and sleep without dreaming. Reading, thinking, embroidering, making music , these are the fatigues that Charme-des-Yeux took care to leave to her servants. When one is young, beautiful, rich and the daughter of a pasha, one is born to have fun, and what is more amusing and more glorious than doing nothing? This is how the Turks reason; but how many Christians are Turks in this place! There is no unmixed happiness here below; otherwise the earth would make one forget heaven. Ali experienced this. One tax day, the vigilant pasha, less awake than usual, accidentally had a Greek raya, protected by England, beaten . The defeated man cried out: it was his right; but the English consul, who had slept badly, cried out louder than the defeated man, and England, which never sleeps, cried out louder than the consul. There was howling in the newspapers, vociferation in parliament, and shaking of the fist in Constantinople. So much noise for so little tired the Sultan, and, unable to get rid of his faithful ally, of whom he was afraid, he wanted at least to get rid of the pasha, the innocent cause of all this uproar. His Highness’s first idea was to have his former friend strangled; but He reflected that the torture of a Muslim would give too much pride and too much joy to those Christian dogs who are always barking. So, in his inexhaustible clemency, the Commander of the Faithful contented himself with ordering that the pasha be thrown onto some deserted beach and left to die of hunger. Fortunately for Ali, his successor and judge was an old pasha, in whom age tempered zeal, and who knew from experience that the will of sultans is immutable only in the almanac. He said to himself that one day His Highness might regret an old friend, and that then She would be grateful to him for a clemency that cost him nothing. He had Ali and his daughter brought to him in secret, gave them slave clothes and a few piastres, and warned them that if the next day they were found in the pashalick, or if their name was ever heard spoken, he would have them strangled or beheaded, as they chose. Ali thanked him for such kindness; an hour later, he had left with a caravan that was heading for Syria. In the evening, the fall and exile of the pasha was proclaimed in the streets of Baghdad; it was a universal intoxication. On all sides, the justice and vigilance of the Sultan, who always kept an eye open for the miseries of his children, were celebrated. So, the following month, when the new pasha, who was a bit heavy-handed, demanded two and a half million piastres, the good people of Baghdad paid without counting, only too happy to have finally escaped the clutches of the brigand who, for so many years, had plundered them with impunity. Saving one’s head is a good thing, but it is not everything: one must live, and this is a rather difficult task for a man accustomed to counting on the work and money of others. Arriving in Damascus, Ali found himself without resources. Unknown, without friends, without relatives, he was dying of hunger, and, a greater pain for a father! he saw his daughter pale and wasting away beside him. What to do in this extremity? Reach out? This was unworthy of a person who, only the day before, had a people at his knees. To work? Ali had always lived nobly, he didn’t know how to do anything. His whole secret, when he needed money, was to have people beaten; but, to practice this respectable industry in peace, one must be a pasha and have a privilege from the sultan. To practice this profession as an amateur, at one’s own risk and peril, was to expose oneself to being hanged as a highway robber. Pashas don’t like competition, Ali knew something about that: the finest deed of his life was to have had some little fellow strangled from time to time thief who had been foolish enough to hunt on the lands of the great. One day when he had not eaten, and Charme-des-Yeux, exhausted by fasting, had not been able to leave the mat where she was lying, Ali, prowling through the streets of Damascus like a hungry wolf, saw men loading jugs of oil onto their heads and carrying them to a store not far away. At the entrance to the store was a clerk, who paid each porter a para per trip. The sight of this small copper coin made the former pasha tremble. He joined the line, and, climbing a narrow staircase, received in his charge an enormous jar, which he had great difficulty balancing on his head, even with both hands on it. With his neck hunched, his shoulders raised, his forehead tense, Ali descended step by step, when, at the third step, he felt that his burden was leaning forward.
He throws himself back, his foot slips, he rolls to the bottom of the stairs, followed by the shattered jar and the streams of oil that flood him. He was getting up, all ashamed, when he felt himself grabbed by the collar of the house clerk. “Clumsy,” the latter said to him, “quickly pay me fifty piastres to repair your stupidity, and get out of here! When one does not know a trade, one does not interfere in it. ” “Fifty piastres!” said Ali, smiling bitterly. Where do you want me to get them? I do not have a para. ” “If you do not pay with your purse, you will pay with your skin,” continued the clerk without batting an eyelid. And, at a sign from this man, Ali, seized by four strong arms, was thrown to the ground, his feet placed between two ropes, and there, in an attitude in which he had only too often put the others, he received on the soles of his feet fifty blows of the stick as sharply applied as if a pasha had presided over the execution. He got up bleeding and lame in both legs, wrapped his feet in some rags and dragged himself towards his house, sighing. “God is great,” he murmured; “it is just that I suffer what I have made others suffer. But the merchants of Baghdad whom I had beaten were happier than I: they had friends who paid for them, and I am dying of hunger, and I am for my blows of the stick. He was mistaken: a good woman who, by chance or by curiosity, had seen his misfortune, took pity on him. She gave him oil to dress his wounds, a small bag of flour, and a few handfuls of lupins to live on while waiting for recovery, and that very evening, for the first time since his fall, Ali was able to sleep without worrying about the next day. Nothing sharpens the mind like illness and solitude. In his enforced retirement, Ali had a brilliant idea: I was a fool, he thought, to take up the profession of porter: a pasha is not strong-minded ; that honor must be left to the oxen. What distinguishes people of my condition is skill, lightness of hand; I was a hunter without equal; moreover, I know how to flatter and lie; I know what I am doing, I was a pasha: let us choose a profession where I can astonish the world with these brilliant qualities and quickly conquer an honest fortune. With these reflections, Ali became a barber. The first few days everything went well: the new barber’s boss had him draw water, clean the shop, shake out the braids, put away the utensils, and serve coffee and pipes to the regulars. Ali performed these delicate duties marvelously. If, by chance, he was entrusted with the head of some mountain peasant, a wrong stroke of the razor went unnoticed: these good people have thick skin and are not unaware that they are made to be flayed; a little more, a little less, it makes little difference to them and does not in the least affect their stupidity. One morning, in the boss’s absence, a tall man entered the shop whose very sight was enough to intimidate poor Ali. It was the Pasha’s jester, a horrible little hunchback with a pumpkin head, long hairy legs, a restless eye, and the teeth of a monkey. While a stream of fragrant foam was being poured over his head , the jester, leaning back in his seat, amused himself by pinching the new barber, laughing in his face, and sticking out his tongue. Twice he knocked the basin of soap from his hands, which twice filled him with such joy that he threw four paras at him. Meanwhile, prudent Ali lost none of his seriousness; entirely absorbed in the care of such a dear head, he was working his razor with admirable regularity and lightness , when suddenly the hunchback made such a hideous grimace and uttered such a cry that the barber, frightened, abruptly withdrew his hand, taking with him on the tip of his razor half an ear, and it was not his own. Jesters like to laugh, but it’s at other people’s expense. No one has more sensitive skin than those who mock their neighbors. For the hunchback, punching Ali and strangling him, while shouting “murderer,” it was a matter of a moment. Luckily for Ali, the cut was so severe that the wounded man had to think of his ear, from which a stream of blood was gushing. Ali seized this favorable moment and began to flee through the alleys of Damascus with the lightness of a man who knows that if he is caught, he will be hanged. After a thousand detours, he hid in a ruined cellar and only dared to return to his home in the darkness and silence of the night. To remain in Damascus after such an accident was certain death; Ali had no trouble convincing his daughter that they had to leave, and immediately. Their baggage hardly bothered them; before dawn they had reached the mountain. For three days they walked without stopping, having for food only a few figs stolen from the trees along the way, with a little water found with great difficulty at the bottom of the dried-up ravines. But every misery has its sweetness, and it is true to say that in the time of their splendors the pasha nor his daughter had never drunk or eaten with a better appetite. At their last stop, the fugitives were welcomed by a good peasant who widely practiced the holy law of hospitality. After supper, he made Ali talk, and, seeing him without resources, he offered to take him on as a shepherd. Driving twenty goats to the mountain, followed by fifty sheep, was not a difficult job; two good dogs did most of the work; there was no risk of being beaten for one’s clumsiness, one had unlimited milk and cheese, and, if the farmer did not give a para, at least he allowed Charme-des-Yeux to take as much wool as she could spin for her father’s clothes and her own. Ali, who had only the choice of dying of hunger or being hanged, decided, without too much difficulty, to lead the life of the patriarchs. The very next day, he went deep into the mountains with his daughter, his dogs and his flock. Once in the fields, Ali fell back into his indolence. Lying on his back and smoking his pipe, he passed the time watching the birds circling in the sky. Poor Charme-des-Yeux was less patient: she thought of Baghdad, and her distaff did not make her forget the sweet leisure of former times. “My father,” she often said, “what is the use of life when it is only a perpetual misery?” Wouldn’t it have been better to have ended it all at once than to die slowly? “God is great, my daughter,” replied the wise shepherd, “what he does is well done. I have peace; at my age, it is the first of all blessings; so, you see, I resign myself. Ah! if only I had learned a trade! You, you have youth and hope, you can wait for a return of fortune. How many reasons to console you! “I resign myself, my good father,” said Charme-des-Yeux with a sigh. And she resigned herself all the less because she hoped for more. For more than a year Ali had been leading this happy life in solitude when, one morning, the son of the Pasha of Damascus went hunting in the mountains. While chasing a wounded bird, he had lost his way; alone and far from his entourage, he was trying to find his way down a stream, when, at the bend of a rock, he saw in front of him a young girl who, sitting on the grass with her feet in the water, was braiding her long hair. At the sight of this beautiful creature, Yusuf gave a cry. Charme-des-Yeux raised her head. Frightened to see a stranger, she fled to her father and disappeared from the gaze of the astonished prince. “What is this?” thought Yusuf. The mountain flower is fresher than the rose in our gardens; this daughter of the desert is more beautiful than our sultanas. This is the woman I dreamed of. He ran in the footsteps of the stranger as fast as the stones that slipped beneath his feet would allow. He finally found Charme-des-Yeux busy milking the sheep, while Ali called the dogs to him, whose furious barking denounced the approach of a stranger . Yousouf complained of being lost and dying of thirst. Charme-des-Yeux immediately brought him some milk in a large earthenware vase ; he drank slowly, without saying anything, looking at the father and daughter; then, finally, he decided to ask for directions. Ali, followed by his two dogs, led the hunter to the bottom of the mountain, and returned trembling. The stranger had given him a gold coin: so he was an officer of the sultan, a pasha perhaps? For Ali, who judged by his own memories, a pasha was a man who could only do evil, and whose friendship was no less formidable than hatred. Arriving in Damascus, Yousouf ran to throw himself on his mother’s neck; he repeated to her that she was as beautiful as she had been at sixteen, brilliant as the moon at its full, that she was his only friend, that he loved only her in the world, and, saying this, he kissed her hands a thousand times. The mother began to smile: My child, she said to him, you have a secret to tell me: speak quickly. I don’t know if I am as beautiful as you say ; but what I am sure of is that you will never have a better friend than me. Yousouf did not need to be asked twice; he was burning to tell what he had seen in the mountains; he painted a marvelous portrait of the beautiful stranger, declared that he could not live without her, and that he wanted to marry her the next day. “A little patience, my son,” his mother repeated to him. “Let us know what this miracle of beauty is; after that, we will persuade your father, and we will make him consent to this happy union. ” When the Pasha learned of his son’s passion, he began by protesting and ended by flying into a rage. Was there a lack of rich and well-made girls in Damascus, that it was necessary to go to the desert to find a sheep-herder? He would never give his hand to this sad marriage, never! There is never a word that a prudent man should not utter in his household, when he has his wife and son against him. Eight days had not passed when the Pasha, moved by the tears of the mother, by the pallor and silence of the son, came from war weary to yield. But, like a strong man who esteems himself at his just value, he declared loudly that he was doing something foolish and that he knew it. “So be it!” that my son marries a shepherdess and that his folly falls back on his head; I wash my hands of it. But, so that nothing is missing from this ridiculous union, let them call my jester. It is up to him alone to obtain and bring here this miserable goatherd who has cast a spell on my house. An hour later, the hunchback, mounted on a donkey, reached the mountain, cursing the whim of the pasha and the loves of Yusuf. Was there any good sense to send as an embassy to a shepherd, through dust and sun, a delicate man, born to live under the paneling of a palace, and who charmed princes and nobles with the finesse of his wit? But, alas! fortune is blind: it places fools on a pinnacle, and reduces to the profession of a jester the genius who does not want to die of hunger. Three days of fatigue had not softened the hunchback’s mood, when he saw Ali, lying in the shade of a carob tree, and more occupied with his pipe than with his sheep. The jester spurred his donkey and advanced towards the shepherd with the majesty of a vizier. “Fool,” he said to him, “you have bewitched the pasha’s son: he does you the honor of marrying your daughter. Clean this pearl of the mountain as quickly as possible , I must take it to Damascus.” As for you, the Pasha sends you this purse and orders you to clear the country as quickly as possible. Ali dropped the purse that was thrown to him, and, without turning his head, asked the hunchback what he wanted. “You brute,” the latter continued, “did you not hear me? The Pasha’s son is taking your daughter in marriage. ” “What is the Pasha’s son doing?” said Ali. “What is he doing?” cried the jester, bursting into laughter. Double-minded yokel that you are, do you imagine that such a high-ranking personage is a boor of your kind? Don’t you know that the Pasha shares the tithe of the province with the Sultan, and that, of the forty sheep that you guard so badly, there are four that belong to him by right, and thirty-six that he can take at his will? “I am not speaking to you of the Pasha,” Ali continued calmly. ” May God protect His Excellency!” I ask you what his son does. Is he a gunsmith? “No, you fool. ” “Blacksmith? ” “Even less so. ” “Carpenter? ” “No. ” “Lime-burner? ” “No, no. He’s a great lord. Do you hear, you triple fool! Only beggars work. The Pasha’s son is a nobleman, which means he has white hands and does nothing. ” “Then he won’t have my daughter,” said the shepherd gravely. “Housekeeping is expensive; I’ll never give my child to a husband who can’t support his wife. But perhaps the Pasha’s son has some less arduous trade. Isn’t he an embroiderer? ” “No,” said the jester, shrugging his shoulders. “Tailor? ” ” No.”
“Potter? ” “No. ” “Basket-maker?” “No.” “So he’s a barber? ” “No,” said the hunchback, flushed with anger. Stop this foolish joke, or I’ll have you beaten. Call your daughter; I’m in a hurry. “My daughter won’t leave,” replied the shepherd. He whistled to his dogs, which came and stood beside him, growling and showing their teeth, which seemed to charm the Pasha’s envoy only slightly. He turned his mount around and, threatening Ali, who was holding his bristling mastiffs, with his fist, shouted, “You wretch!” he said to him, “you’ll soon hear from me; you’ll know what it costs to have a will other than that of the Pasha, your master and mine. ” The jester returned to Damascus with half his ear lower than usual. Fortunately for him, the Pasha took the matter in good stead. It was a small setback for his wife and son; for him, it was a triumph: a double success that pleasantly tickled his pride. “Really,” he said, “the old man is even crazier than my son; but rest assured, Yousouf, a pasha is only as good as his word. I will send four horsemen into the mountains who will bring me the girl; as for the father, don’t worry about it, I have a decisive argument in store for him. ” And, saying this, he gaily made a gesture with his hand, as if he were cutting away something that was bothering him. At a sign from his mother, Yousouf got up and begged his father to leave him the trouble of bringing this little adventure to a close. No doubt the means proposed was irresistible. But Charme-des-Yeux had perhaps the weakness of loving the old shepherd, she would cry; and the pasha would not want to sadden the first fine days of a marriage. Yousouf hoped that with a little gentleness he would easily overcome a resistance that did not seem serious to him. “Very well,” said the pasha. “You want to have more intelligence than your father; it is the custom of sons. Go then, and do what you wish; but I warn you that from today on I will no longer interfere in your affairs. If this crazy old shepherd refuses you, you will be ashamed. I would give a thousand piastres to see you come back as stupid as the hunchback.” Yousouf smiled; he was sure of success. How could Charme-des-Yeux not love him? He adored her. And besides, at twenty years old, does one doubt oneself and fortune? Doubt is made for those whom life has deceived, not for those whom it intoxicates with its first illusions. Ali received Yousouf with all the respect he owed to the Pasha’s son; he thanked him, and in good terms, for his honorable proposal; but on the substance of things he was inexorable. No job, no marriage; it was take it or leave it. The young man counted on Charme-des-Yeux coming to his aid; but Charme-des-Yeux was invisible; and there was a good reason why she should not disobey her father: the prudent Ali had not said a word to her about marriage. Since the jester’s visit, he had kept her carefully locked up in the house. The Pasha’s son came down from the mountain with his head bowed. What to do? Return to Damascus, to be the butt of his father’s mockery, a task Yousouf would never resign himself to. Lose Charme-des-Yeux? Death rather. Change the mind of this stubborn old shepherd? Yousouf could not hope for it; and he almost came to regret having lost his way through too much kindness! In the midst of these sad reflections, he realized that his horse, left to its own devices, had led him astray. Yousouf was on the edge of an olive grove. In the distance was a village; the bluish smoke rose above the roofs; one could hear the barking of dogs, the singing of workers, the sound of anvil and hammer. An idea seized Yousouf. What was stopping him from learning a trade? Was it so difficult? Wasn’t Charm-des-Yeux worth all the sacrifices? The young man tied his horse, his weapons, his embroidered jacket, his turban to an olive tree . At the first house he complained of having been robbed by the Bedouins, bought a coarse suit, and, thus disguised, he went from door to door offering himself as an apprentice. Yousouf looked so good that everyone welcomed him warmly; but the conditions imposed on him frightened him. The blacksmith asked for two years to instruct him, the potter for one year, the mason for six months; it was a century! The pasha’s son could not resign himself to this long servitude, when a shrieking voice called him: “Hola, my son,” they shouted, “if you are in a hurry and have no ambition, come with me: in eight days I will make you earn your living. ” Yousouf raised his head. A few steps in front of him, sitting on a bench, his legs crossed, was a fat little man with a rounded belly and a cheerful face: he was a basket weaver. He was surrounded by strands of straw and rushes, dyed in all colors; with a nimble hand he wove mats, which he then sewed to make baskets, baskets, rugs, hats of various shades and designs. It was a sight that charmed the eyes. “You are my master,” said Yusuf, taking the basket-maker’s hand. “And if you can teach me your trade in two days, I will pay you handsomely for your labor. Here is my deposit. ” Saying this, he threw two gold coins to the astonished worker. An apprentice who sows gold by the handful is not seen every day; the basket-maker had no doubt that he was dealing with a prince in disguise; so he performed marvelously. And, as his pupil lacked neither of intelligence or good will, before evening he had taught him all the secrets of the trade. –My son, he said to him, your education is done, you will judge for yourself if your master has earned his money. Here is the sun setting; it is the hour when everyone leaves his work and passes in front of my door. Take this mat that you have braided and sewn with your own hands, offer it to the buyers. Either I am very mistaken, or you can have four paras. For a start, it is a nice penny. The basket maker was not mistaken: the first buyer offered three paras, he was asked for five, and it did not take more than an hour of debate and shouting for him to decide to give four. He took out his long purse, looked at the mat several times, criticized it, and finally decided to count his four copper coins, one after the other. But, instead of taking this sum, Yousouf gave a gold coin to the buyer, he counted ten to the basket maker, and, seizing his masterpiece, he left the village running like a madman. Arriving near his horse, he spread the mat on the ground, wrapped his head in his burnous and slept the most restless, yet the sweetest sleep he had ever tasted in his life. At daybreak, when Ali arrived at the pasture with his sheep, he was very astonished to see Yousouf installed before him under the old carob tree. As soon as he saw the shepherd, the young man got up, and taking the mat on which he was lying: “My father,” he said to him, “you asked me to learn a trade; I have been instructed; here is my work, examine it. ” “It is a pretty piece,” said Ali; If it is not yet very well braided, it is honestly sewn. What can one gain by making a braid like that a day? “Four paras,” said Yousouf, “and with a little practice I will make at least two in a day. ” “Let us be modest,” replied Ali; “modesty suits talent that is beginning. Four paras a day is not much; but four paras today and four paras tomorrow, that makes eight paras, and four paras the day after tomorrow, that makes twelve paras. In short, it is a profession that makes a living for its man, and if I had had the sense to learn it when I was pasha, I would not have been reduced to becoming a shepherd. ” Who was astonished by these words? It was Yousouf. Ali told him his whole story; it was risking his head, but one must forgive a little pride in a father. In marrying off his daughter, Ali was not sorry to inform his son-in-law that Charme-des-Yeux was not unworthy of the hand of a pasha’s son. That day the sheep were brought in early. Yousouf wanted to thank the honest farmer himself who had received poor Ali and his daughter; he gave him a purse full of gold to reward him for his charity. Nothing is more liberal than a happy man. Charme-des-Yeux, presented to the mountain hunter, and warned of Yousouf’s plans, declared that the first duty of a daughter was to obey her father. In such cases, it is said, daughters are always obedient in Turkey. That same evening, in the cool of nightfall, they set out for Damascus. The horses were light, the hearts even lighter, they went like the wind; before the end of the second day they had arrived. Yousouf wanted to present his fiancée to his mother. What was the Sultana’s joy, it is hardly necessary to say. After the first caresses, she could not resist the pleasure of showing her husband that she had more intelligence than he, and was delighted to reveal to him the birth of the beautiful Charme-des-Yeux. “By Allah!” cried the Pasha, stroking his long beard in order to give himself some countenance and hide his confusion, “do you imagine, Madam, that a statesman such as myself could be surprised! Would I have consented to this union if I had not known this secret which astonishes you? Know that a Pasha knows everything?” And immediately he returned to his study to write to the Sultan, so that he might decide Ali’s fate. He did not care to displease His Highness for the sake of a proscribed family. Youth loves romance in life, but the Pasha was a serious man, who wanted to live and die a Pasha. All sultans love stories, if we are to believe the Arabian Nights. Ali’s protector had not degenerated from his ancestors; he expressly sent a ship to Syria to bring him to Constantinople the former governor of Baghdad. Ali, dressed in his rags, and his crook in his hand, was led to the seraglio, and, before a large audience, he had the glory of amusing his master for an entire afternoon. When Ali had finished his story, the Sultan had him dressed in a pelisse of honor. His Highness had made a shepherd out of a pasha; now she wished to astonish the world with a new miracle of her omnipotence, and out of a shepherd she made a pasha again. At this dazzling testimony of favor, the whole court applauded. Ali threw himself at the feet of the Sultan to decline an honor that no longer seduced him. He did not want, he said, to run the risk of displeasing the Master of the world a second time, and asked to grow old in obscurity, blessing the generous hand that was pulling him out of the abyss into which he had justly fallen. Ali’s boldness frightened the audience, but the Sultan smiled: “God is great,” he cried, “and keeps a new surprise for us every day. In the twenty years that I have reigned, this is the first time that one of my subjects has asked me to be nothing. For the rarity of the fact, Ali, I grant you your prayer; All I require is that you accept a gift of a thousand purses[1]. No one must leave me empty-handed. [Note 1: About three hundred thousand francs.] Back in Damascus, Ali bought a beautiful garden, filled with oranges, lemons, apricots, plums, and grapes. Digging, weeding, grafting, pruning, and watering—that was his pleasure; every night, he went to bed with a tired body and a peaceful soul; every morning, he got up with a refreshed body and a light heart. Charme-des-Yeux had three sons, all more beautiful than their mother. It was old Ali who took charge of raising them. He taught them all gardening; each of them he taught a different trade. To engrave in their hearts the truth that he had only understood in exile, Ali had the most beautiful passages of the Koran molded on the walls of his house and his garden, and below he had placed these maxims of wisdom that the Prophet himself had not disavowed: Work is the only treasure that never fails. Use your hands at work, you will never offer them for alms. When you know what it costs to earn a para, you will respect the good and the pain of others. Work gives health, wisdom and joy. Work and boredom have never lived under the same roof. It was in the midst of these wise teachings that the three sons of Charme-des-Yeux grew up. All three were pashas. Did they profit from the advice of their grandfather? I like to believe so, although the annals of the Turks say nothing of it. One does not forget these first lessons of childhood; It is to education that we owe three-quarters of our vices and half of our virtues. Good men, remember what you owe to your fathers and tell yourselves that, most of the time, the wicked and the pashas are only badly brought up children. PERLINO. Chapter 21. LA SIGNORA PALOMBA. Cato, that true sage, said, I know not where, that in his whole life he had repented of three things: the first, was having confided his secret to a woman; the second, of having spent an entire day doing nothing; the third, of having gone by sea when he could have taken a more solid and safer route . The first two regrets of Cato, I Leave it to whoever wants to take it upon themselves: it is never prudent to get on bad terms with the more gifted half of the human race, and speaking ill of laziness is not for everyone; but the third maxim should be written in gold letters on the deck of all ships, as a warning to the imprudent. For want of thinking about it, I have often embarked; the experience of others is of no more use to us than our own. But, scarcely out of port, my memory returned to me at once; and how many times, at sea as elsewhere, have I not felt, but too late, that I was not a Cato! One day, in particular, I still remember, I did full justice to the wisdom of the old Roman. I had left Salerno in admirable sunshine; but, scarcely at sea, the squall surprised us and pushed us towards Amalfi with a speed we hardly desired. In an instant I saw the crew turn pale, gesticulate, shout, swear, cry, pray, then I saw nothing more. Beaten by the wind and the rain, wet to the skin, I was lying in the bottom of the boat, my eyes closed, my heart sick, completely forgetting that I was traveling for my pleasure, when, a sudden jolt brought me back to myself, I felt myself seized by a strong hand. Above me, and pulling me by the shoulders, was the skipper, with a joyful air and a fiery look. Courage, Excellency, he shouted to me as he set me on my feet, the boat is ashore ; we are at Amalfi. Up! A good dinner will restore your spirits; the storm is over, this evening we will go to Sorrento! The weather, the sea, the madman, the forest, and fortune Turn like the wind, change like the moon. I left the boat dripping more than Ulysses after his shipwreck, and, like him, very ready to kiss the earth that does not move. Before me were the four sailors, oars on their shoulders, ready to escort me in triumph to the Inn of the Moon, which could be seen on the heights. Its whitewashed walls shone in the daylight, like snow on the mountains. I followed my procession, but not with the pride of a victor; I climbed sadly and slowly a staircase that never ended, watching the waves breaking on the shore, as if furious at having abandoned us. I entered, finally, the osteria, it was noon: everyone was asleep, even the kitchen was deserted; there was, to receive me, only a brood of thin chickens which, at my approach, began to cry like the geese of the Capitol. I crossed their frightened band to take refuge on a terrace of arches, full of sunlight; there, seizing a chair which I straddled, and resting my arms and my head on the back, I began, not to reflect, but to dry myself, while the house, and the city, and the sea, and the heavens themselves continued to dance around me. I was lost in my reveries, when the landlady of the osteria advanced towards me, dragging her slippers with the nobility of a queen. Whoever has visited Amalfi will never forget the enormous and majestic Palomba. “What does Your Excellency desire?” she asked me in a voice more sour than usual ; and making the request and the answer herself: “Dinner is impossible; the fishermen have not gone out in this unhappy weather, there are no fish.” “Signora,” I replied without raising my head, “give me whatever you want: soup, macaroni, it doesn’t matter! I need sun more than dinner. ” The worthy Palomba looked at me with astonishment mingled with pity. “Pardon, Excellency,” she said to me; “from the red book that came out of your pocket, I took you for an Englishman. Since that cursed book, which says it all, recommended the Amalfi fish, there is not a single lord who wants to dine otherwise than that paper orders him to. But, since you understand reason, we will do our best to please you. Only have a little patience.” And immediately the excellent woman, catching two of the chickens as she passed, who were shouting around me, cut their necks before I had time to oppose this assassination in which I was an accomplice; then, sitting down near me, she began to pluck the two victims with the composure of a great heart. “Signore,” she said after a moment, “the cathedral is open; all the foreigners are going to admire it before dinner.” For all reply, I sighed. “Excellency,” added the worthy Palomba, whom I was no doubt hindering in her culinary preparations, “have you not visited the new road which leads to Salerno? There is a magnificent view of the sea and the islands. ” “Alas!” I thought, “it is this morning, and in a carriage, that we should have taken this road; and I did not reply. “Excellency,” said in a louder voice the landlady, very determined to get rid of me, “the market is being held today. Beautiful spectacle, beautiful costumes!” And merchants who have such sharp tongues! And oranges! We get twelve for a pug! It’s a waste of time: I wouldn’t have gotten up for the Queen of Naples herself ! “Well!” cried the hostess, whose patience was slipping away, “you’re more sleepy than Perlino when he was drinking his potable gold! ” “Perlino of whom? Perlino of what?” I murmured, opening a languid eye. “Which Perlino?” resumed Palomba. “Are there two in the story? And, if you couldn’t find a four-year-old child here who didn’t know his adventures, can a man as well-informed as Your Excellency be ignorant of them? ” “Pretend I know nothing, tell me Perlino’s story, excellent Palomba, I listen to you with the liveliest interest.” The good woman began with the gravity of a Roman matron. The story was beautiful; Perhaps the chronology left a little to be desired, but in this touching tale the wise Palomba showed such perfect knowledge of things and men, that little by little I raised my head, and, fixing my eyes on the one who was no longer looking at me, I listened attentively to what followed. Chapter 22. VIOLET. If the ancients were to be believed, Paestum would not always have been what it is today. There are now, say the fishermen, only three old ruins where one finds only fever, buffaloes and Englishmen; formerly it was a great city, inhabited by a numerous people. A long time ago, as one would say in the century of the patriarchs, when the whole country was in the hands of the pagan Greeks, whom others call Saracens. In those days, there was in Paestum a merchant as good as bread, sweet as honey, rich as the sea. He was called Cecco; He was a widower and had only one daughter whom he loved like his right eye. Violette, that was the name of this darling child, was white as milk and pink as a strawberry. She had long black hair, eyes bluer than the sky, a cheek as velvety as a butterfly’s wing, and a beauty mark just at the corner of her lip. Add to that the wit of a demon, the grace of a Madeline, the figure of Venus and the fingers of a fairy, and you will understand that at first sight young and old could not help loving her. When Violette was fifteen, Cecco thought of marrying her off. It was a great worry for him. The orange tree, he thought, gives its flower without knowing who will pick it, a father brings a daughter into the world, and for many years cares for her like the apple of his eye, only for one fine day a stranger to steal his treasure, without even thanking him. Where can I find a husband worthy of my Violette? No matter, she is rich enough to choose whoever she pleases; beautiful and fine as she is, she could tame a tiger if she got involved. Often, good Cecco tried cleverly to talk marriage to his daughter; it would have been as good as throwing his speeches into the sea. As soon as he touched this chord, Violette lowered her head and complained of having the migraine; the poor father, more troubled than a monk who loses his memory in the middle of his sermon, would immediately change the conversation and take from his pocket some gift he always had in reserve. It was a ring, a rosary, a golden thimble; Violette would kiss him, and the smile would return like the sun after the rain. One day, however, when Cecco, more shrewd than usual, had begun where he usually ended, and Violette had in her hands such a beautiful necklace that it was difficult for her to be saddened, the good man returned to the charge. O love and joy of my heart, he said to her, caressing her, staff of my old age, crown of my white hair, will I never see the hour when I will be called grandfather? Don’t you feel that I am getting old? My beard is turning gray and tells me every day that it is time to choose a protector for you. Why not do as all women do? Do you see that they die from it? What is a husband? He is a bird in a cage, who sings whatever one wishes. If your poor mother were still alive, she would tell you that she never cried to do her will; she was always queen and empress at home. I dared not breathe before her, any more than before you, and I cannot console myself for my freedom. “Father,” said Violette, taking his chin, “you are the master, it is up to you to command. Dispose of my hand, choose for yourself. I will marry when you wish, and to whomever you wish. I ask only one thing of you. ” “Whatever it may be, I grant it to you,” cried Cecco, charmed by a wisdom to which he had not been accustomed. “Well, my good father, all I desire is that the husband you give me does not look like a dog.” “That’s a little girl’s idea!” cried the merchant, beaming with joy. ” It’s right to say that beauty and folly often go together. If you didn’t have all your mother’s wit, would you talk such nonsense? Do you think a sensible man like me, do you think the richest merchant in Poestum, will be foolish enough to accept a son-in-law with a dog’s face ? Don’t worry, I’ll choose for you, or rather you’ll choose for yourself, the most handsome and amiable of men. If you needed a prince, I’m rich enough to buy one for you.” A few days later, there was a grand dinner at Cecco’s; he had invited the flower of youth for twenty leagues around. The meal was magnificent; they ate a lot, they drank more; everyone made themselves comfortable and spoke from the abundance of their hearts. When dessert was served, Cecco withdrew to a corner of the room, and taking Violette on his knees: “My dear child,” he said to her in a low voice, “look at that pretty young man with blue eyes, who has a parting in the middle of his head. Do you think a woman would be unhappy with such a cherub? ” “You don’t think so, father,” said Violette, laughing, “he looks like a greyhound. ” “That’s true,” cried good Cecco, “a real greyhound’s face! Where did I have the eyes not to see that? But that handsome captain with the shaved forehead, the tight neck, the eyes set high in his head, the rounded chest, he’s a man, what do you say? ” “My father, he looks like a mastiff; I should always be afraid he would bite me. ” “It’s true he has a false air of a mastiff,” replied Cecco, sighing . “Let’s not talk about it anymore.” Perhaps you would prefer a more serious and mature person. If women knew how to choose, they would never take a husband who was less than forty years old. Until then, women only find fools who allow themselves to be adored; it is truly only after forty that a man is mature to love and obey. What do you say about this legal advisor who speaks so well and listens to himself while speaking? His hair is turning gray, what does it matter? With gray hair one is no wiser than with black hair. –Father, you do not keep your word. You see clearly that with his red eyes and the white curls that curl over his ears, this lord has the appearance of a poodle. Of all the guests it was the same, not one escaped Violette’s tongue . This one, who sighed and trembled, resembled a Turkish dog; that one, who had long black hair and caressing eyes, had the face of a spaniel; no one was spared. It is said, in fact, that among you men there is not one who does not look like a dog when you put your hand under his nose, hiding his mouth and chin; you must know this, you signori, who are all learned, for it is said that, if you come to move the stones of our Italy, it is to ask our dead for wisdom which, in my opinion, should not be a common commodity in your country. –Violette has too much wit, thought Cecco, I will never overcome her by reason. At which he flew into a white rage; he called her ungrateful, wooden-headed, foolish daughter, and ended by threatening to put her in a convent for the rest of her life. Violette wept; he threw himself at her knees, begged her forgiveness, and promised never to speak to her of anything again. The next day, he got up without having slept, kissed his daughter, thanked her that her eyes were not red, and waited for the wind that turns the weathervanes to blow in the direction of his house. This time he was not wrong. With women more things happen in an hour than in ten years with men; it is never for them that it is written: One does not pass by this road. Chapter 23. BIRTH AND ENGAGEMENT OF PERLINO. One day when there was a festival in the neighborhood, Cecco asked his daughter what he could bring her to please her. “Father,” she said, “if you love me, buy me half a cantaro of Palermo sugar and as many sweet almonds; add to them five or six bottles of scented water, a little musk and amber, about forty pearls, two sapphires, a handful of garnets and rubies; bring me also twenty skeins of gold thread, ten ells of green velvet, a piece of cherry silk, and above all, don’t forget a trough and a silver trowel.” Who was astonished at this whim? It was the merchant; but he had been too good a husband not to know that with women it is easier to obey than to reason; he returned home that evening with a fully laden mule. What would he not have done for a smile from his child? As soon as Violet had received all these presents, she went up to her room and began to make a paste of sugar and almonds, sprinkling it with rose water and jasmine. Then, like a potter or a sculptor, she kneaded this paste with her silver trowel and molded from it the most beautiful young man anyone had ever seen. She made his hair with gold thread, his eyes with sapphires, his teeth with pearls, his tongue and lips with rubies. After this she dressed him in velvet and silk and named him Perlino, because he was white and pink like a pearl. When she had finished her masterpiece, which she had placed on a table, Violet clapped her hands and began to dance around Perlino; she sang the most tender airs to him, she said the sweetest words to him, she blew him kisses that would heat marble: but to no avail, the doll did not move. Violette was crying with vexation when she remembered that she had a fairy for a godmother. What godmother, especially when she is a fairy, rejects the first wish that is made to her? And here is my young daughter who prayed so much that her godmother heard her from two hundred leagues away and took pity on her. She sighed; it doesn’t take more for fairies to perform a miracle. Suddenly Perlino opens one eye, then two; he turns his head to the right, to the left; then, he sneezes like a natural person; then, while Violette laughed and cried with pleasure, there is my Perlino walking on the table, gravely, with small steps, like a dowager who returns from church or a bailiff who is going up to court. More joyful than if she had won the kingdom of France in the lottery, Violette carried Perlino in her arms, kissed him on both cheeks, and gently placed him on the ground; then, taking her dress in both hands, she began to dance around him, singing: Dance, dance with me, Dear Perlino of my soul; Dance, dance with me, If you want to have me as your wife; Dance, dance with me, I will be the Queen, and you will be the King. We are both in the prime of life. Pleasure of my eyes, let us enter into marriage. To run and jump, To dance and sing, That is all life has to offer! If you always do everything I want, My little husband, you will be happy To make the gods of heaven envious . Dance, dance with me, Dear Perlino of my soul; Dance, dance with me, If you want to have me as your wife; Dance, dance with me, I will be the Queen and you will be the King. Cecco, who was counting his goods, because it seemed hard to earn only a million ducats a year, heard from his counter the noise being made above his head: Per Baccho! he cried, something strange is happening up there; it seems to me that they are quarreling. He went up, and, pushing open the door, saw the most beautiful sight in the world. In front of his daughter, flushed with pleasure, was Cupid himself, Cupid in a velvet and silk doublet. With both hands in the hands of his little mistress, Perlino, jumping with both feet at once, danced, danced, as if he would never stop. As soon as Violette saw the author of her days, she made a humble bow to him, and presenting her beloved to him: “My lord and father,” she said, “you have always told me that you wished to see me married. To obey and please you, I have chosen a husband according to my heart. ” “You did well, my child,” replied Cecco, who guessed the mystery; ” all women should take your example. I know more than one who would cut off a finger, and not the smallest, to make a husband to her liking, a little husband all candied with sugar and orange blossom. Give them your secret, you will dry many tears. They have been complaining for two thousand years, and in two thousand years they will still be complaining of being misunderstood and sacrificed.” Whereupon he embraced his son-in-law, betrothed him immediately, and asked for two days to prepare the wedding. It was enough to invite all the friends around and prepare a dinner that would not be unworthy of the richest merchant in Paestum. Chapter 24. THE ABDUCTION OF PERLINO. To see such a novel marriage, people came from far and wide: from Salerno and Cava, from Amalfi and Sorrento, even from Ischia and Pozzuoli. Rich or poor, young or old, friends or jealous, everyone wanted to know Perlino. Unfortunately, there was never a wedding without the devil getting involved; Violette’s godmother had not foreseen what was to happen. Among the guests, a person of note was expected: she was a marchioness from the area who called herself the Lady of the Sounding Shields. She was as wicked and as old as Satan; she had yellow, wrinkled skin , sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, a hooked nose, and a pointed chin; but she was so rich, so rich, that everyone adored her as they passed by and vied for the honor of kissing her hand. Cecco bowed to her as far as the ground and made her sit on his right, happy and proud to present his daughter and son-in-law to a woman who, having more than a hundred millions, was doing him the favor of eating his dinner. Throughout the meal, the lady of the Écus-Sonnants did nothing but look at Perlino; lust burned in her heart. The marquise lived in a castle worthy of fairies; the stones were of gold, and the paving stones of silver. In this castle, there was a gallery where all the curiosities of the earth had been gathered: a clock that always struck the desired hour, an elixir that cured gout and migraine, a philtre that changed sorrow into joy, an arrow of love, the shadow of Scipio, the heart of a coquette, the religion of a doctor, a stuffed mermaid, three unicorn horns, the conscience of a courtier, the politeness of a rich man, Orlando’s hippogriff, all things that have never been seen and will never be seen anywhere else; but this treasure lacked a ruby: it was this cherub of Perlino. They were not at dessert when the lady had resolved to seize it. She was very stingy; but what she desired, she had to have immediately, and at any price. She bought everything that was for sale, and even what was not for sale; the rest she stole, quite certain that in Naples justice is done only for the common people. From an ignorant doctor, a sulky mule and a wicked woman, libera nos, Domine, says the proverb. As soon as they had risen from the table, the lady approached Perlino, who, born three days earlier, had not yet opened his eyes to the malice of the world; she told him all that was beautiful and rich in the castle of the Écus-Sonnants: Come with me, dear little friend, she said to him, I will give you in my palace the place you wish: choose; would you like to be a page with clothes of gold and silk, a chamberlain with a diamond key in the middle of his back, a Swiss with a silver halberd and a large gold belt that will make your breast brighter than the sun? Say the word, it’s all yours. The poor innocent was completely dazzled; but, however little he had breathed of his native air, he was already Neapolitan, that is to say, the opposite of a beast. “Madame,” he replied naively, “they say that working is the job of oxen; there is nothing healthier than resting. I would like a position where there was nothing to do and much to earn, like the canons of Saint-Janvier. ” “What!” said the Lady of the Ecus-Sonnants, “at your age do you already want to be a senator? ” “Exactly, Madame,” interrupted Perlino, “and rather twice than once, to have double pay. ” “Never mind,” continued the Marchesa; “in the meantime, come and let me show you my carriage, my English coachman, and my six gray horses.” And she led him toward the steps. “And Violette?” said Perlino weakly. “Violette is following us,” replied the lady, pulling the imprudent man, who let him do so. Once in the courtyard, she showed him her horses , which, as they pawed the ground, shook their beautiful red silk nets studded with golden bells; then she made him get into the carriage to try the cushions and admire himself in the mirrors. Suddenly she closed the door; whip, coachman! They were off to the Château des Écus-Sonnants. Violette, meanwhile, received the compliments of the assembly with perfect grace ; soon, astonished at no longer seeing her fiancé, who hardly left her side more than her shadow, she ran into all the rooms: no one; she climbed onto the roof of the house to see if Perlino had gone there to get some fresh air: no one. In the distance a cloud of dust could be seen, and a carriage fleeing towards the mountains at a gallop with six horses. No doubt about it: Perlino was being carried off. At this sight, Violette felt her heart weaken. Immediately, without thinking that she was bareheaded, in a bridal headdress, in a lace dress, in satin shoes, she left her father’s house and began to run after the carriage, calling loudly to Perlino and holding out her arms to him. Vain words carried away by the wind. The ungrateful man was entirely absorbed in the honeyed words of his new mistress; he played with the rings she wore on her fingers, and already believed that the next day he would would waken prince and lord. Alas! there are those older than him who are no wiser! When do we know that at home kindness and beauty are worth more than riches? It is when it is too late, and when we no longer have teeth to gnaw the irons that we put ourselves to the test. Chapter 25. NIGHT AND DAY. Poor Violette ran all day: ditches, streams, thickets, brambles, thorns, nothing stopped her; who suffers for love does not feel the pain. When evening came, she found herself in a dark wood, overcome with fatigue, dying of hunger, her feet and hands bleeding. Fear seized her: she looked around her without moving; it seemed to her that from the middle of the night came thousands of eyes that followed her, threatening her. Trembling, she threw herself at the foot of a tree, calling Perlino in a low voice to bid him a last farewell. As she held her breath, so afraid that she dared not breathe, she heard the neighboring trees talking to each other. It is the privilege of innocence, that it understands all of God’s creatures . “Neighbor,” said a carob tree to an olive tree that had only the bark left, “here is a young girl who is very imprudent to lie down on the ground. In an hour, the wolves will come out of their den; if they spare her, the dew and the cold of the morning will give her such a fever that she will not get up. Why not climb into my branches; she could sleep in peace there, and I would gladly offer her some of my pods to revive her exhausted strength. ” “You are right, neighbor,” replied the olive tree. The child would do even better if, before going to bed, she stuck her arm into my bark. They have hidden there the clothes and the zampogne[1] of a pifferaro. When one braves the cool of the nights, a goatskin is not to be disdained; and, for a girl who travels the world, a lace dress and satin shoes are a light costume. [Note 1: A kind of bagpipe.] Who was reassured? It was Violette. When she had groped for the homespun jacket, the goatskin coat, the zampogne and the pointed hat of the pifferaro, she bravely climbed the carob tree, ate some sweet fruit, drank the evening dew, and, after wrapping herself up well, she arranged herself between two branches as best she could. The tree surrounded her with its paternal arms, wood pigeons emerging from their nests covered her with leaves, the wind rocked her like a child, and she fell asleep thinking of her beloved. When she awoke the next day, she was afraid. The weather was calm and beautiful; but in the silence of the woods the poor child felt her solitude better. Everything was alive, everything loved one around her; who was thinking of the poor abandoned one? So she began to sing to call to her aid everything that passed by her without looking at her. O wind, that blows of dawn, Have you not seen my beloved, Among the flowers that the night has made bloom in its fragrant silence? Did he weep for my absence? Did he pray for my return? Give me back joy and hope, Tell me his pain and his love. Gay butterfly, light bee, Pursue the ingrate who flees from me! The most marvelous pomegranate, The freshest jasmine, it is he! He is purer than verbena, His forehead is white as the lily; The violet has his breath; His eyes are blue as the iris. Seek him for me, good swallow, Seek him for me, little birds, Among the thyme and the asphodel, Deep in the woods, at the water’s edge. Far from him I suffer and I cry, I tremble with fear and emotion; If you do not want me to die, O dear friends, give him back to me! The wind passed murmuring, the bee left to seek its prey, the swallow pursued the flies to the top of the heavens, the birds shouting and singing became agitated in the foliage, no one worried about Violette. She came down from the tree with a sigh, and walked straight ahead, trusting her heart to find Perlino. Chapter 26. THE THREE ENCOUNTERS. There was a torrent falling from the mountain, its bed was half dried up; this was the path that Violette took. Already the oleanders were emerging from the depths of the water, their heads covered with flowers; Cecco’s daughter plunged into this verdure, followed by the butterflies that fluttered around her as around a lily stirred by the wind. She walked faster than an outcast returning home; but the heat was heavy: around noon, she had to stop. Approaching a puddle of water to cool her burning feet, she saw a drowning bee. Violet stretched out her little foot; the creature climbed up. Once dry, the bee remained motionless for a while as if to catch its breath, then it shook its wet wings; then, passing its legs, finer than a silk thread, over its entire body, it dried itself, preened itself, and, taking flight, came to buzz around the one who had saved its life. “Violet,” she said to her, “you have not obliged an ungrateful woman. I know where you are going, let me accompany you. When I am tired, I will land on your head. If ever you need me, just say: Nebuchadnezzar, peace of heart is worth more than gold; perhaps I will be able to serve you. ” “Never,” thought Violet, “will I be able to say: Nebuchadnezzar… ” “What do you want?” asked the bee. “Nothing, nothing,” Cecco’s daughter continued, “I only need you with Perlino.” She set off again, her heart lighter; after a quarter of an hour, she heard a little cry: it was a white mouse that a hedgehog had wounded and that had escaped from its enemy only covered in blood and half dead. Violette took pity on the poor creature. As much as she was in a hurry, she stopped to wash its wounds and give it one of the carobs she had kept for its lunch. “Violet,” the mouse told her, “you have not obliged an ungrateful woman. I know where you are going. Put me in your pocket with the rest of your carobs. If ever you need me, just say: Tricchè varlacchè, golden clothes , lackey hearts; perhaps I can be of use to you.” Violette slipped the mouse into her pocket so that she could nibble at it at her leisure, and continued up the torrent. Towards the mist, she was approaching the mountain, when suddenly, from the top of a large oak, a squirrel, pursued by a horrible owl, fell at her feet. Cecco’s daughter was not afraid; she struck the owl with her stinger and put it to flight; then she picked up the squirrel, more stunned than injured by its fall; with great care, she revived it. “Violet,” said the squirrel, “you have not obliged an ungrateful man: I know where you are going. Put me on your shoulder, and pick me some hazelnuts so that I do not let my teeth grow long. If ever you need me, just say: Patati, patata, look carefully and you will see; perhaps I can be of use to you.” Violette was a little astonished by these three encounters; She hardly counted on this gratitude in words; what could such weak friends do for her? What does it matter! she thought, good is always good. Come what may: I felt sorry for the unfortunate. At that moment the moon came out of a cloud, and its white light illuminated the old castle of Écus-Sonnants. Chapter 27. THE CASTLE OF ÉCUS-SONNANTS. The sight of the castle was not reassuring. On the top of a mountain, which was only a pile of crumbling rocks, one could see golden battlements, silver turrets, roofs of sapphire and ruby, but surrounded by large ditches full of greenish water, but defended by drawbridges, portcullises, parapets, enormous bars and loopholes from which emerged the muzzles of cannons, all the paraphernalia of war and murder. The beautiful palace was nothing but a prison. Violette climbed painfully along winding paths, and finally arrived through a narrow passage in front of an iron gate armed with an enormous lock. She called out: no response; she rang a bell: immediately a kind of jailer appeared, blacker and uglier than the dog of hell. “Go away, beggar,” he shouted, “or I’ll knock you down! Poverty does not dwell here. At the castle of the Écus-Sonnants, alms are only given to those who need nothing. ” Poor Violette went away in tears. “Be brave!” the squirrel told her, while cracking a nut; play the zampogne. “I’ve never played it,” replied Cecco’s daughter. “All the more reason,” said the squirrel; “unless you have tried something, you don’t know what you can do.” Keep blowing. Violet began to blow with all her might, moving her fingers and singing into the instrument. “Here is the zampogne inflating itself and playing a tarantella that would make the dead dance.” At this sound, the squirrel jumps to the ground, the mouse doesn’t stay behind; there they are, dancing and jumping like true Neapolitans, while the bee buzzes around them . It was a spectacle that would have paid a pug for its place, and without regret. At the sound of this pleasant music, the black shutters of the castle were soon seen opening. The Lady of the Ecus-Sonnants had maids of honor with her , who were not sorry to look from time to time to see if the flies always flew in the same way. Even if one is not curious, it is not every day that one hears a tarantella played by a shepherd as pretty as Violette. “Little one,” said one, “come this way! ” “Shepherd,” cried another, “come to my side!” And they all smiled at him, but the door remained closed. “Ladies,” said Violette, taking off her hat, “be as good as you are beautiful. Night has surprised me in the mountains; I have neither lodging nor supper. A corner in the stable and a piece of bread; my little dancers will amuse you all evening. At the Château des Écus-Sonnants, the rules are strict. They fear thieves so much that, once the mist has passed, they do not open the door to anyone. These young ladies knew this well; but, in this honest house, there is always a hangman’s rope. A piece of it was thrown out of the window. In an instant, Violette was hoisted into a large room with all her menagerie. There she had to breathe for long hours, and dance, and sing, without being allowed to open her mouth to ask where Perlino was. No matter! She was happy to feel under the same roof; it seemed to her that at that moment the heart of her beloved must beat as hers did. She was an innocent: she believed that it is enough to love for one to love you. God knows what beautiful dreams she had that night! Chapter 28. NEBUCHADNEZZAR. The next day, early in the morning, Violette, who had been put to bed in the attic, went up onto the roofs and looked around her; but no matter how much she ran in all directions, she saw only barred towers and deserted gardens. She went downstairs in tears, whatever her three little friends did to console her. In the courtyard, paved all over with silver, she found the maids of honor sitting in a circle and spinning gold and silk tow. “Go away,” they cried to her; “if madame saw your rags, she would chase us away. Get out of here, you nasty gambler, and never come back, unless you are a prince or a banker. ” “Get out!” said Violette; “not yet, beautiful young ladies: let me serve you; I will be so gentle, so obedient, that you will never regret having kept me near you. ” For all reply, the first young lady stood up: she was a great girl, thin, dry, yellow, pointed: with a gesture she showed the door to the little shepherd, and called the jailer, who came forward frowning and brandishing his halberd. “I am lost,” cried the poor girl; “I will never see my Perlino again! ” “Violet,” said the squirrel gravely, “one tests gold in the furnace and friends in misfortune. ” “You are right,” cried Cecco’s daughter: “Nebuchadnezzar, peace of heart is worth more than gold.” Immediately the bee flew away, and there in the middle of the courtyard there entered, I know not where, a beautiful crystal carriage, with a ruby pole and emerald wheels. The carriage was drawn by four black dogs, as big as a fist, which walked on their ears. Four large beetles mounted as jockeys drove this cute team with a light hand . At the back of the carriage, lying limply on blue satin tiles , lay a young woodcock wearing a little pink hat and a taffeta dress so loose that it spilled over the two wheels. In one paw the lady held a fan, in the other a bottle and a handkerchief embroidered with her coat of arms and trimmed with wide lace. Beside her, half buried under the waves of taffeta, was an owl, with a bored air, a dead eye, a bald head, so old that its beak crossed like open scissors. They were a young married couple making their wedding visits, a fashionable household, such as the lady of the Écus-Sonnants likes. At the sight of this masterpiece, a cry of joy and admiration awakened all the echoes of the palace. In astonishment, the jailer dropped his pipe, while the young ladies ran after the carriage, which fled at a gallop with its four spaniels, as if it were carrying the Emperor of the Turks or the devil himself. This strange noise worried the Lady of the Écus-Sonnants, who always feared being robbed; she ran up, furious, and resolved to throw all her maids of honor out. She paid to be respected, and wanted to get her money’s worth. But when she saw the carriage, when the owl had saluted her with a sign of its beak and the woodcock had three times stirred its handkerchief with adorable nonchalance, the lady’s anger vanished into thin air. “I must have it!” she cried. “How much is it selling for?” The Marchioness’s voice frightened Violette, but Perlino’s love gave her courage; She replied that, poor as she was, she loved her whim better than all the gold in the world; she valued her carriage, and would not sell it for the Château des Écus-Sonnants. “Foolish vanity of the beggars!” murmured the lady. “It is truly only the rich who have the holy respect for gold and who are ready to do anything for a crown. I must have this carriage!” she said in a threatening tone; ” whatever the cost, I will have it. ” “Madame,” replied Violette, very moved, “it is true that I do not want to sell it, but I would be happy to offer it as a gift to Your Lordship, if you would honor me with a favor. ” “It will be expensive,” thought the Marquise. “Speak,” she said to Violette, “what do you ask?” “Madame,” said Cecco’s daughter, “it is said that you have a museum where all the curiosities of the earth are gathered; show it to me; If there is anything more marvelous than this carriage, my treasure is yours. In reply, the Lady of the Ecus-Sonnants shrugged her shoulders and led Violette into a large gallery that had never been equaled. She showed her all her riches: a star fallen from the sky, a necklace made with a moonbeam, braided and plaited in three rows, black lilies, green roses, eternal love, fire that did not burn, and other rarities; but she did not show the only thing that touched Violette: Perlino was not there. The Marquise looked in the eyes of the little shepherd for admiration and astonishment; she was surprised to see only indifference. “Well!” she said, “all these marvels are something other than your four lapdogs: the carriage is mine. ” “No, Madame,” said Violette. “All that is dead, and my equipage is alive. You cannot compare stones and pebbles to my owl and my woodcock, characters so real, so natural, that it seems as if someone had just left them in the street. Art is nothing compared to life. ” “Is that all?” said the Marquise. “I will show you a little man made of sugar and marzipan, who sings like a nightingale and reasons like an academician. ” “Perlino!” cried Violette. “Ah!” said the Lady of the Ecus-Sonners, “my maids of honor have spoken. ” She looked at the zampogne player with the instinct of fear. “All things considered,” she added, “get out of here; I don’t want any more of your children’s toys. “Madame,” said Violette, trembling, “let me talk with that miracle Perlino, and take the carriage. ” “No,” said the Marchesa, “go away and take the animals with you.” “Just let me see Perlino. ” “No! No!” replied the lady. “Just sleep one night at his door,” replied Violette, all in tears. “See what jewel you refuse,” she added, going down on one knee and presenting the carriage to the Lady of the Ecus-Sonners. “At this sight, the Marchesa hesitated, then she smiled; in an instant she had found a way to deceive Violette and have for nothing what she coveted. “Deal concluded,” she said, seizing the carriage; “you will sleep tonight at Perlino’s door, and you will even see him; but I forbid you to speak to him.” When evening came, the Lady of the Écus-Sonnants called Perlino to supper with her. When she had him well fed and well drunk, which was easy with a man of easy temper, she poured some excellent white Capri wine into a silver-gilt cup, and, taking a crystal bottle from her pocket, she took a reddish powder from it and threw it into the wine. “Drink this, my child,” she said to Perlino, “and give me your taste.” Perlino, who did everything he was told, swallowed the liqueur in one gulp. “Ugh!” he cried, “this beverage is abominable, it smells of mud and blood; it’s poison!” “Silly!” said the Marchesa, “it’s drinkable gold; he who has drunk it once will drink it forever. Take this second glass, you will find it better than the first.” The lady was right: the child had hardly emptied the cup when he was seized with a burning thirst. “More!” he said, “more!” He no longer wanted to leave the table. To persuade him to lie down, the Marchesa had to make him a large cone of this marvelous powder, which he carefully put in his pocket, like a remedy for all ills. Poor Perlino! It was indeed poison he had taken, and the most terrible of all. Whoever drinks potable gold, his heart freezes as long as the fatal beverage is in the stomach. One no longer knows anything, one no longer loves anything, neither father, nor mother, nor wife, nor children, nor friends, nor country; one thinks only of oneself; one wants to drink, and one would drink all the gold and all the blood on earth without calming a thirst that nothing can quench. Meanwhile, what was Violette doing? Time seemed as long to her as a day without bread to a poor man. So, as soon as night had put on its black mask to open the ball of the stars, Violette ran to Perlino’s door, sure that on seeing her Perlino would throw himself into her arms. How her heart beat when she heard him come up! What grief when the ungrateful man passed in front of her without even looking at her! The door double-locked and the key removed, Violette threw herself on a mat that had been given to her out of pity; there she began to burst into tears, closing her mouth with her hands to stifle her sobs. She did not dare to complain, for fear of being chased away; but, when the hour came when only the stars have their eyes open, she scratched softly to the door and sang in a low voice: Perlino, can you hear me? It is I who deliver you, Open to me! Come quickly, I am waiting for you, friend, I cannot live Far from you. Open to me! My heart desires you; I burn, I am cold, I sigh; All day long It is with love,
And at night It is with boredom. Alas! she sang in vain, nothing stirred in the room. Perlino snored like a ten-year-old husband, and dreamed only of his gold dust. The hours dragged slowly, without bringing any hope. However long and painful the night was, the morning was even sadder. The lady of the Écus-Sonnants arrived at daybreak. “You are now happy, handsome zampogne player,” she said to him with a sly smile, “the carriage is paid for at the price you asked me.” “May you have such contentment all the days of your life!” murmured poor Violet, “I spent such a bad night that I will not soon forget it.” Chapter 29. TRICCHE VARLACCHÉ. Cecco’s daughter withdrew sadly; there was no hope, she had to return to her father, and forget the one who no longer loved her. She crossed the courtyard, followed by the maids of honor who mocked her for her simplicity. Arriving near the gate, she turned around as if waiting for a last look; seeing herself alone, her courage abandoned her, she burst into tears and hid her head in her hands. “Come out, you miserable beggar!” shouted the jailer, seizing Violet by the collar and shaking her vigorously. “Come out!” said Violet, “never! Tricche varlacchè!” she cried. ” Golden clothes, lackeys’ hearts!” And there the mouse throws itself at the jailer’s nose and bites him until he bleeds; then, in front of the very gate, rises an aviary as big as a Chinese pavilion. The bars are silver, the feeders diamonds; instead of millet, there are pearls; instead of trinkets, ducats threaded into ribbons of every color. In the middle of this magnificent cage, on a ladder-shaped pole that turns in all the winds, jump and twitter thousands of birds of every size and from every country: hummingbirds, cardinal parrots, blackbirds, linnets, canaries, and the rest; all this feathered world whistled the same tune, each in its own jargon. Violette, who understood the language of birds as well as that of plants, listened to what all these voices were saying, and translated the song to the maids of honor, who were very astonished to find such rare prudence among parrots and canaries. This is what the choir of birds sang: Fie to freedom! Long live the cage! When one is good, Here one is well fed, well treated, Well provided for, Warm in winter, cool in summer: One pays in warbling For hospitality. Long live the cage! Fie to freedom! After these joyful cries, there was a great silence; an old red and green parrot, with a grave and serious air, raised its leg, and, while turning, sang in a nasal tone, or rather croaked the following: The nightingale is a gentleman dressed in black, Very unpleasant to see, Who only comes out in the evening. To sing to the moon; He is a proud man Who lives like a beggar And calls himself happy; His voice bothers us. We should, between us, Nail with four nails, Like owls, These fools Who do not worship fortune. And all the birds, delighted by this eloquence, began to whistle in a piercing voice: Fie to freedom! Long live the cage! etc., etc. While the magic aviary was being surrounded, the lady of the Écus-Sonnants came running. As one can well imagine, she was not the last to covet this marvel. “Little one,” she said to the zampogne player, “will you sell me this cage for the same price as the carriage?” “Willingly, Madam,” replied Violette, who had no other wish. “Deal concluded!” said the lady; “only beggars allow themselves such follies.” That evening, everything happened as it had the day before. Perlino, drunk on potable gold, entered his room without even raising his eyes; Violette threw herself on her mat, more miserable than ever. She sang as she had on the first day; she wept until the stones split: a useless effort. Perlino slept like a dethroned king; his mistress’s sobs rocked him like the sound of the sea and the wind. Towards midnight, Violette’s three friends, afflicted by her grief, held a council: “It is not natural for this child to sleep like this,” said my friend the squirrel. “We must go in and wake him,” said the mouse. “How can we get in?” asked the bee, who had been searching in vain for a crack all along the wall. “That’s my business,” said the mouse. “And quickly, and quickly, she gnaws a little corner of the door; that was enough for the bee to slip into Perlino’s room. He was there, peacefully asleep on his back, snoring with the regularity of a canon taking a nap. This calm irritated the bee; it stung Perlino on the lip; Perlino sighed and slapped himself on the cheek, but he did not wake up. “They’ve put the child to sleep,” said the bee, who had come back to console Violet. “There’s magic. What can we do?” “Wait,” said the mouse, who hadn’t let her teeth rust, “I ‘ll go in too; I’ll wake him, even if I have to eat his heart. ” “No, no,” said Violet; I don’t want anyone to hurt my Perlino. The mouse was already in the room. Jumping onto the bed, creeping under the covers, was a game for the cousin of rats. She went straight to Perlino’s chest; but, before making a hole, she listened: his heart wasn’t beating: no more doubt! Perlino was delighted. As she reported this news, dawn was already lighting up the sky; the wicked lady arrived, still smiling. Violette, furious at having been tricked, and who was eating her hands in anger, nevertheless made a beautiful bow to the marquise, saying in a low voice: See you tomorrow. Chapter 30. PATATI PATATA. This time, Violette went down with more courage. Hope returned to her. As the day before, she found the maids of honor in the courtyard, still spinning their tow. “Come on, you handsome zampogne player,” they cried to him, laughing, “give us another tour of your trade! ” “To please you, beautiful young ladies,” replied Violette. “Patati, patata,” she said, “look carefully and you’ll see.” Instantly, Compère the squirrel throws one of his nuts to the ground; immediately a puppet theater appears. The curtain draws: the scene represents a chamber of justice: the audience of Rominagrobis. In the background, on a throne covered with red velvet, and all starry with gold claws, is the bailiff, a large cat with a respectable face, although there is a remnant of cheese on his long whiskers. Always withdrawn into himself, his hands crossed in his long sleeves, his eyes closed, one would say that he is sleeping, if ever justice slept in the kingdom of the… To one side is a wooden bench on which are chained three mice, whose teeth have been clipped and their ears cut off as a precaution. They are suspected, which, in Naples, means convicted of having looked too closely at a piece of old bacon. Facing the guilty is a canopy of black cloth, on the forehead of which is inscribed, in gold letters, this sentence from the great poet and magician Virgil: Crush the mice, but spare the cats. Under the canopy stands the tax collector; he is a weasel with a receding forehead, red eyes, and a pointed tongue; he has his hand on his heart and delivers a fine speech asking the law to strangle the mice. His words flow like water from a fountain; it is with a voice so tender, so penetrating that the good lady implores and solicits death of these dreadful little beasts, let us truly be indignant at their hardening. It seems that they are failing in all their duties by not offering their criminal heads themselves to calm the emotion and dry the tears of this excellent weasel, who has so many tears in her throat. When the fiscal had finished his funeral oration, a young rat, barely weaned, stood up to defend the guilty. He had already secured his glasses, taken off his cap and shaken his sleeves, when, out of respect for the free defense and in the interest of the accused, the cat forbade him to speak. Then and in a solemn voice, Master Rominagrobis scolded the accused, the witnesses, society, the sky, the earth and the rats; then, covering himself, he issued a vengeful decree and condemned these criminal beasts to be hanged and flayed immediately, with confiscation of property, abolition of memory and condemnation to all costs, the imprisonment limited, however, to five years; for one must be humane, even with scoundrels. The farce played, the canvas closed. “How alive it is!” cried the lady of the Écus-Sonnants. “It is the justice of cats caught in the act. Shepherd or sorcerer, whoever you are, sell me your Starry Room. ” “Always at the same price, Madame,” replied Violette. “See you this evening then!” resumed the marquise. “See you this evening!” said Violette. And she added in a low voice: “May you pay me for all the harm you have done me!” While the comedy was being performed in the courtyard, the squirrel had not wasted his time. By dint of trotting over the roofs, he had finally discovered Perlino, who was eating figs in the garden. From the roof, Master Squirrel had jumped onto a tree, from the tree onto a bush. Still tumbling, he reached Perlino who was playing morra [1] with his shadow, a sure way to always win. [Note 1: In the game of morra each player opens one or more fingers; it is this number of open fingers that the opponent must guess.] The squirrel did a somersault and sat down in front of Perlino with the gravity of a notary. “Friend,” he said to him, “solitude has its charms, but you don’t seem to have much fun playing alone; let’s play a game together. ” “Phew!” said Perlino, yawning, “your fingers are too short, and you ‘re just a beast. ” “Short fingers are not always a fault,” continued the squirrel; I have seen more than one hanged, whose only crime was to have fingers that were too long; and, if I am a beast, Lord Perlino, at least I am an awake beast. That is better than having so much wit and sleeping like a log. If ever happiness knocks at my door during the night, at least I shall be up to open it. “Speak clearly,” said Perlino; “for two days something strange has been happening within me . My head is heavy and my heart is unhappy; I have bad dreams. Where does it come from? ” “Look!” said the squirrel. “Don’t drink, you won’t sleep; don’t sleep , you’ll see many things. A word to the wise, goodbye!” With that, the squirrel climbed onto a branch and disappeared. Since Perlino had been living in seclusion, reason came to him; nothing makes one wicked like being bored together, nothing makes one wise like being bored alone. At supper, he studied the face and smile of the lady of the Écus-Sonnants; he was as cheerful a guest as usual; but each time the cup of forgetfulness was presented to him, he approached the window to admire the beauty of the evening, and each time he threw the drinkable gold into the garden. The poison fell, it is said, on white worms that bored into the earth; it is since that time that cockchafers have been golden.
Chapter 31. RECOGNITION. Entering his room, Perlino noticed the zampogne player looking at him sadly, but he did not ask any questions; he was in a hurry to be alone to see if happiness would knock at his door and in what form it would enter. His anxiety did not last long. He was not yet in bed when he heard a soft and plaintive voice: it was Violette who, in the most tender terms, reminded him how she had made and molded him with her own hands, how it was to her prayers that he owed his life; and yet, he had allowed himself to be seduced and carried away, while she had run after him with a pain that God spares everyone. Violette told him again, with a more painful and penetrating accent, how for two nights she had been watching at his door; how, to obtain this favor, she had given treasures worthy of kings without getting a single word from him, how this last night was the end of his hopes and the term of his life. Listening to these words that pierced his soul, it seemed to Perlino that he was being roused from a dream: it was a cloud being torn away before his eyes. He gently opened the door and called Violette; she threw herself into his arms, sobbing. He wanted to speak: she closed his mouth; we always believe the one we love, and there are moments when we are so happy that we have no need to cry. “Let us go,” said Perlino; “let us leave this cursed dungeon. ” “Leaving is not easy, Lord Perlino,” replied the squirrel. “The Lady of the Ringing Shields does not willingly give up what she holds; to awaken you, we have used all our gifts; it would take a miracle to save you . ” “Perhaps I have a way,” said Perlino, to whom spirit came like sap to the trees in spring. He took the cone containing the magic powder and went to the stable, followed by Violette and the three friends. There, he saddled the best horse, and, walking very slowly, he arrived at the lodge where the jailer slept, the keys at his belt. At the sound of footsteps, the man awoke and wanted to cry out; he had not opened his mouth when Perlino threw the drinkable gold into it, at the risk of suffocating him; but, far from complaining, the jailer began to smile and fell back on his chair, closing his eyes and holding out his hands. Seizing the bunch of keys, opening the gate, closing it with a triple turn, and throwing into the abyss these keys of perdition to lock covetousness forever in its prison, was for Perlino the work of an instant. The poor child had reckoned without the keyhole : it doesn’t take much more for lust to escape from its retreat and invade the human heart. Finally, there they were on their way, both on the same horse: Perlino in front, Violette behind. She had put her arms around her beloved ‘s neck and held him tightly to make sure that his heart was still beating. Perlino constantly turned his head to see his dear mistress’s face again, to find that smile he was always afraid of forgetting. Goodbye to fear and caution! If the squirrel hadn’t more than once pulled the bridle to prevent the horse from faltering or getting lost, who knows if the two travelers would not still be on their way? I leave you to imagine the joy that good Cecco felt on finding his daughter and son-in-law again. He was the youngest of the house; he laughed all day long without knowing why, he wanted to dance with everyone ; he had lost his mind so much that he doubled the salaries of his clerks and gave a pension to his cashier, who had only served him for thirty-six years. Nothing blinds like happiness. The wedding was beautiful, but this time they took care to select the friends. From twenty leagues around, bees came and brought a beautiful honey cake; the ball ended with a mouse tarantella and a squirrel saltarello that was long talked about in Paestum. When the sun chased the guests away, Violette and Perlino were still dancing; nothing could stop them. Cecco, who was wiser, gave them a fine sermon to prove to them that they were not no more children and that one does not marry for fun; they threw themselves into his arms laughing. A father always has a weak heart: he took them by the hand and began to dance with them until evening. Chapter 32. THE MORAL. –That is the story of Perlino, which is as good as any other, said my fat hostess, getting up, quite moved by the adventures she had just recounted. –And the lady of the Écus-Sonnants, I cried, what has become of her? –Who knows? replied Palomba. Whether she cried or tore out a side of her hair, who cares? Deceit always ends by falling into its own trap; it serves well. The devil’s flour goes away all in bran, so much the worse for those who serve the devil, so much the better for honest people! –And the moral? –What moral! said Palomba, looking at me with a surprised air. If Your Excellency wants a moral, it is two o’clock, there is a Capuchin Father preaching at vespers, and you can see the cathedral from here. “It is the moral of the tale that I ask of you. ” “Sir,” she said to me, emphasizing the final notes, “the soup is served, the chicken fried, the macaroni cooked, N, I, ni, my story is finished. Children are lulled with songs, and men with tales: what more do you want?” I sat down at the table, but I was not satisfied. While chipping my knife on a chicken breast, I said to my hostess: “Your story is touching, and this is a macaroni that has an admirable aroma; but, when I tell the children of my country the adventures of Perlino, I will not serve them dinner at the same time; they will demand a moral.” “Well, Your Excellency, if there are any of those delicate souls among you who dare not laugh for fear of showing their teeth, let them come and taste my macaroni. Send them to Amalfi, and let them ask for the Moon. We will serve them more morality on a plate than all of Paris could provide. By the way,” she added, “they are waiting for you to leave; the wind is rising, the sailors fear that Your Lordship will be inconvenienced as this morning. It seems that this news saddens you. Good luck! The past evil is only a dream, and although the future evil has long arms, it does not hold us yet. You were not thinking of that just now. ” “Thank you, my good Palomba, you have found what I was looking for.” A moment of forgetfulness between long sorrows, a little rest amidst the wind and the sea, work and boredom, that is what tales and dreams give. A fool is he who asks for more of them! Ecco la moralità! THE WISDOM OF NATIONS or THE VOYAGES OF CAPTAIN JEAN. Chapter 33. CAPTAIN JEAN. When I was a child (a long time ago), I lived with my grandfather, in a beautiful countryside on the banks of the Seine. I remember that we had for a neighbor a singular character who was called Captain Jean. He was, they said, an old sailor who had sailed around the world five or six times. I can still see him. He was a short, stocky, fat man; his face was yellow and wrinkled; he had a hooked nose like an eagle’s beak, white mustaches, and large gold earrings. He was
always dressed the same way: in summer, all in white, from head to toe, with a large straw hat; in winter, all in blue, with a waxed hat, buckled shoes, and mottled stockings. He lived alone, with no company other than a large black dog, and spoke to no one. So he was looked upon as a kind of bogeyman. When I was naughty, my maid never failed to threaten me with the terrible neighbor, a threat that immediately made me obedient. Despite everything, I felt drawn to the captain. I didn’t dare look him in the face; it seemed to me that a flame came from his small eyes, hidden by thick eyebrows, whiter than his mustaches; but I followed him behind, and, without knowing how, I always found myself in his path. The sailor was not a man like the others. Every morning, he was in a meadow of my grandfather, sitting at the edge of the water, fishing with a line with a happiness that never failed. While he was there, motionless and watching for his gudgeon, I sighed with envy, I who was forbidden to approach the river. And what joy when the captain called his dog, put a lighted match in its mouth, and calmly filled his pipe while looking at the frightened face of Fidèle. It was a sight that amused me more than my rudiment. At ten years old, one hardly hides what one feels; the captain noticed my admiration and guessed the ambition that was eating away at my heart. One day , as I stood on tiptoe, I was looking over the fisherman’s shoulder, holding my breath and following with a long gaze the line he was casting on the water: “Come here, young man,” he said to me in a voice that rang out in my ear like a cannon shot; “you’re an amateur, I see. If you can keep still for five minutes, take this line that’s there beside me. Let’s see how you do.” To describe what passed in my soul would be difficult; I have had some pleasure in my life, but never such strong emotion. I blushed, tears came to my eyes; and there I was sitting on the grass, holding the line that the sailor had cast, more motionless than Fidèle, and looking at his master with no less gratitude. The hook thrown, the cork trembled: “Look out! Young man,” the captain whispered to me , “there’s something.” Give back your hand, bring it back to you gently, stretch out, and now pull it slowly towards you; tire this fellow out for me. I obeyed and soon I brought a fine barb, with whiskers as white and almost as long as the captain’s. O glorious day, no success has erased you from my memory! You have remained my greatest and sweetest victory! From that fortunate hour, I became the captain’s friend. The next day, he addressed me informally, ordered me to do the same, and called me his sailor. We were inseparable; he would have been seen without his dog rather than without me. My mother noticed this budding passion. As the sailor was a good man, she took good advantage of my friendship. When my reading was poor, when there was a fanciful spelling in my dictation, I was forbidden the company of my good friend. The next day (which was even harder), I had to explain to him the cause of my absence. God knows how he swore at me! Thanks to this salutary terror, I made rapid progress. If I don’t make too many mistakes when I write, I owe it to the excellent man who, in matters of spelling, knew a little less than I did. One day, when I had not obtained permission to join him without difficulty, and when my heart was still heavy with the reproaches I had received: “Captain,” I said to him, “when do you read? When do you write? ” “Really,” he replied, “that would be difficult for me; I know neither read nor write. ” “You are very lucky!” I cried. “You have no masters, you, you are always amusing yourself, you know everything without having learned it. ” “Without having learned it?” he continued, “don’t believe it; what I know costs me dearly, you would not want my knowledge at the price I had to pay for it. ” “How so, Captain?” You were never scolded, you always did what you wanted. “That’s what’s wrong with you, my child,” he said to me, softening his tone in a deep voice and looking at me with a look of shame; “I did what others wanted, and I had a terrible mistress who doesn’t give her lessons for nothing: she’s called experience. She’s not worth your mother, I can guarantee you that. ” “Is it experience that has made you learned, Captain? ” “Learned, no; but it has taught me the little I know. You, my child, when you read a book, you profit from the experience of others; I learned everything by the sweat of my own flesh. I don’t read, it’s true, unfortunately for me; but I have a library that’s as good as any other. It’s here,” he added, striking his forehead. “What’s in your library? A little of everything: travel, industry, medicine, proverbs, tales. Does that make you laugh? My little man, there is often more moral in a tale than in all the Roman histories. It is the wisdom of nations that invented them. Great or small, young or old, everyone can profit by them. ” “If you told me one or two, Captain, you would make me as wise as yourself.”
–Willingly, continued the sailor; but I warn you that I am not a talker of fine words; I will recite my tales to you as they were recited to me; I will tell you on what occasion and what profile I drew from them. Listen then to the story of my first voyage. Chapter 34. FIRST VOYAGE OF CAPTAIN JEAN. I was twelve years old, and I was in Marseilles, my native city, when I was taken on board as a cabin boy aboard a merchant brig called the Belle-Émilie. We were going to Senegal to carry those blue cloths called guineas, we were to bring back gold dust, elephant teeth and peanuts. During the first fifteen days, the voyage was not interesting; I hardly remember anything except the beatings they gave me without counting, to form my character and give me wit, they said. Around the third week, the brig approached the coast of Andalusia, and one evening, we dropped anchor some distance from Almeria. When night fell, the ship’s mate took his rifle and amused himself by shooting swallows, which I did not see , for the sun had long since set. There happened to be some no less obstinate hunters who were walking along the beach, and from time to time shot at their invisible quarry. Suddenly, the boat was lowered into the sea, and I was thrown in rather than lowered; there I was, busy receiving and arranging the bales that were passed to us from the ship, then the sail was set, and we headed for land, without making a sound. I did not understand what the point of this walk could be on a starless night; but a cabin boy hardly reasons; he obeys without saying anything; otherwise, watch out for the shots. The boat landed on a deserted beach, far from the port of Almeria. The second, who commanded us, began to whistle; we answered him, and soon I heard the footsteps of men and horses. We unloaded bales and loaded them onto horses, donkeys, and mules, which happened to be there very conveniently; then the second, having told the sailors to wait for him until daybreak, set off and ordered me to follow him. I was hoisted onto a mule, between two baskets; there we were, on our way to I don’t know where. After an hour, we saw a small light, towards which we headed. A voice shouted: “Who’s here!” and we answered: “The old ones.” A door opened; we entered an inn inhabited by people who didn’t look like very good Christians. They were, I soon learned , gypsies and smugglers. We were engaged in a forbidden trade , which exposed us to the galleys. My opinion had not been asked . The captain entered, with the gypsies, into a low room, the door of which was closed; I was left alone with an old woman who was preparing supper: she was the ugliest witch I had ever seen in my life. She took me by the arm, looked me right up to the whites of my eyes: I was trembling in spite of myself. When she had examined me carefully, the old woman spoke to me. I was quite astonished to hear her warbling, which resembled the dialect of Marseille. She tied a greasy cloth around my body, made me sit beside her, legs crossed on a rush mat, and, throwing me a chicken, ordered me to pluck it. A cabin boy must know everything, or he will be beaten: I began to pluck the animal’s feathers, imitating as best I could the old woman, who, for her part, was doing as much as I was. From time to time, to encourage me, she smiled pleasantly, showing me each time three large, chipped yellow teeth, the only treasure left in her mouth. Once the chickens were plucked, it was necessary to chop onions, peel garlic, prepare the bread and the meat. I did my best, as much out of fear of the old woman as out of friendship. “Well, mother, are you satisfied?” I said to her when all our preparations were completed. “Yes, my son,” she said to me, “you are a good boy, I want to reward you. Give me your hand.” She took my hand, turned it over, and began to follow all its lines, as if she were going to tell me my fortune. “Enough, mother!” I said to her, withdrawing my hand. “I am a Christian, I do not believe in all that. ” “You are wrong, my son, I would have told you a lot; for, poor and old as I am, I belong to a people who know everything. We persona romanís hear voices that escape you; we speak with the animals of the earth, the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea. ” “Then,” I said to her, laughing, “you know the story and the misfortunes of this chicken that I plucked? ” “No,” said the old woman, “I did not bother to listen to it; but, if you like, I will tell you the story of its brother; you will see that sooner or later one is punished by where one has sinned, and that an ungrateful person never escapes punishment. She said these last words to me in such a somber voice that I shuddered; then she began the following tale. Chapter 35. STORY OF COQUERICO. [Note 1: This story, very popular in Spain, is told with great wit in one of Fernand Caballero’s prettiest novels, La Gaviotta or The Seagull.] Once upon a time there was a beautiful hen who lived like a lady in the farmyard of a rich farmer; she was surrounded by a large family who clucked around her, and no one crippled louder and snatched the seeds from her beak faster than a small, deformed and crippled chicken. It was precisely the one the mother loved best; that’s how all mothers are made; their favorites are the ugliest. This runt had only one eye, one leg, and one wing intact; one would have said that Solomon had executed his memorable sentence on Coquerico (that was the name of this puny individual) and had cut him in two with the edge of his famous sword. When one is one-eyed, lame, and one-armed, it is a fine opportunity to be modest; our Castilian beggar was prouder than his father, the best-spurred, most elegant, bravest, and most gallant cock ever seen from Burgos to Madrid. He believed himself a phoenix of grace and beauty, he spent the most beautiful hours of the day admiring himself in the stream. If one of his brothers happened to bump into him, he would look for him, call him envious or jealous, and risk in combat the only eye he had left; If the hens clucked at the sight of him, he said it was to hide their annoyance, because he did not even deign to look at them. One day, when his vanity was getting to his head more than usual, he said to his mother: “Listen to me, Madam Mother: Spain bores me, I am going to Rome; I want to see the Pope and the cardinals. ” “Are you thinking, my child?” cried the poor hen. “Who put such madness into your head? Never, in our family, has anyone left their country; so we are the honor of our race; we can show our genealogy. Where will you find a farmyard like this, mulberry trees to shelter you, a whitewashed henhouse, a manure heap magnificent, worms and grains everywhere, brothers who love you, and three dogs who guard you from the fox? Do you think that in Rome itself you will not regret the abundance and sweetness of such a life? Coquerico raised his one-armed wing in disdain. My mother, he said, you are a good woman; everything is beautiful to one who has never left his dunghill; but I already have enough wit to see that my brothers have no ideas, and that my cousins are boors. My genius is suffocating in this hole, I want to travel the world and make a fortune. “But, my son,” resumed the poor mother hen, “have you ever looked at yourself in the pond? Don’t you know that you are missing an eye, a leg, and a wing? To make a fortune, you need the eyes of a fox, the legs of a spider, and the wings of a vulture. Once out of here, you are lost.” “My mother,” replied Coquerico, “when a hen is hatching a duck, she is always frightened to see it run into the water. You don’t know me any better. My nature is to succeed through my talents and my wit; I need an audience capable of perceiving the charms of my person; my place is not among the common people.” When the hen saw that all the sermons were useless, she said to Coquerico: “My son, at least listen to your mother’s last advice. If you go to Rome, avoid passing in front of the church of Saint Peter; the saint, they say , does not like roosters very much, especially when they crow. Also flee from certain people called cooks and kitchen boys: you will recognize them by their white caps, their rolled-up aprons, and the girdles they wear at their sides. They are licensed assassins who hunt us down without pity; they cut our necks before we have time to say miserere!” And now, my child, she added, raising her paw, receive my blessing and may Saint James protect you; he is the patron saint of pilgrims. Coquerico did not pretend to see that there was a tear in his mother’s eye, nor did he worry about his father, who , however, raised his crest in the wind and seemed to be calling him. Without caring about those he was leaving behind, the ungrateful man slipped through the half-open door; barely outside, he beat his wings and sang three times to celebrate his freedom: Coquerico, coquerico, coquerico! As he ran across the fields, half flying, half jumping, he arrived at the bed of a stream that the sun had dried up. However, in the middle of the sand a trickle of water was still visible, but so thin that two fallen leaves stopped it in its tracks. When the stream saw our traveler, it said to him: “My friend, you see my weakness; I don’t even have the strength to carry away these leaves that block my path, much less to make a detour, for I am exhausted. With a peck you can give me back my life. I am not ungrateful; if you oblige me, you can count on my gratitude on the first rainy day, when the water from the sky has restored my strength. “You’re joking!” said Coquerico. “Do I have the face of a stream sweeper? Speak to people of your kind,” he added; and with his good paw he jumped over the trickle of water. “You will remember me when you least expect it!” murmured the water, but in a voice so weak that the proud man did not hear it. A little further on, our master cock saw the wind all beaten down and out of breath. “Dear Coquerico,” he said to him, “come to my aid; down here we need each other.” You see where the heat of the day has reduced me. I, who in other times uprooted olive trees and stirred up the seas, am now killed by the heatwave. I let myself be lulled to sleep by the scent of these roses with which I was playing, and here I am on the ground almost fainting. If you would lift me two inches from the ground with your beak, and fan me a little with your wing, I would have the strength to rise up to these white clouds that I see up there, pushed by one of my brothers, and I would receive from my family some help that would allow me to exist until I inherit the first hurricane. “My Lord,” replied the cursed Coquerico, “Your Excellency has amused yourself more than once by playing dirty tricks on me. It is not eight days since, slipping treacherously behind me, Your Lordship amused yourself by opening my tail like a fan, and covered me with confusion in the face of the nations. Patience then, my worthy friend, the mockers have their turn; it is good for them to do penance and learn to respect certain people who, by their birth, their beauty and their wit, should be safe from the jokes of a fool. ” Whereupon Coquerico, strutting about, began to sing three times in his hoarseest voice: Coquerico, coquerico, coquerico! and he proudly passed on his way. In a newly harvested field where the plowmen had gathered freshly pulled weeds, smoke rose from a mound of darnel and gladiolus. Coquerico approached to peck at it and saw a small flame blackening the still green stalks, without being able to light them. “My good friend,” the flame cried to the newcomer, “you have come just in time to save my life; for lack of food, I am dying. I don’t know where my cousin the wind is having fun, he never makes any more; bring me a few strands of dry straw to revive me. It is not an ungrateful woman you will oblige. ” “Wait for me,” thought Coquerico, “I will serve you as you deserve, you insolent woman who dares to address yourself to me!” And there was the chicken jumping on the pile of damp grass and pressing it so hard against the ground that the crackling of the flame was no longer heard and no more smoke came out. Whereupon, Master Coquerico, as was his custom, began to sing three times: Coquerico, coquerico, coquerico! Then he flapped his wings as if he had completed the exploits of Amadis. Always running, always clucking, Coquerico finally arrived in Rome; that is where all roads lead. Hardly had he entered the city than he ran straight to the great church of Saint Peter. He hardly thought of admiring it; he placed himself in front of the main door, and although in the middle of the colonnade he looked no bigger than a fly, he hoisted himself up on his spur and began to sing: Coquerico, coquerico, coquerico! just to enrage the saint and disobey his mother. He had hardly finished when a Swiss man from the Holy Father’s guard, who heard him cry, laid hands on the insolent fellow and carried him home to make him his supper. “Here,” said the Swiss man, pointing at Coquerico to his housekeeper, ” quickly give me some boiling water to pluck this penitent.” “Pardon! Pardon, Madame Water!” cried Coquerico. “Water so sweet, so good, the most beautiful and best thing in the world, for pity’s sake, don’t scald me ! ” “Did you have pity on me when I implored you, ungrateful man?” replied the water, boiling with anger. In one fell swoop, it flooded him from top to bottom, and left not a single strand of down on his body. “The Swiss man took the unfortunate chicken and put it on the grill. “Fire, don’t crush me!” shouted Coquerico. Father of light, brother of the sun, cousin of the diamond, spare a wretch, contain your ardor, soften your flame, do not roast me. “Did you have pity on me when I implored you, ungrateful?” replied the fire , which crackled with anger; and with a jet of flame it made Coquerico a coal. When the Swiss saw his roast in this sad state, he pulled the chicken by the leg and threw it out the window. The wind carried it onto a pile of manure. “O wind!” murmured Coquerico, who was still breathing, “beneficial zephyr, protective breath, here I am returned from my vain follies; let me rest on the paternal dunghill. ” “Rest!” roared the wind. Wait, I will teach you how I treats the ungrateful. And with a breath he sent it so high into the air that Coquerico, falling back, skewered himself on the top of a bell tower. –It was there that Saint Peter was waiting for him. With his own hand, the saint nailed Coquerico to the highest bell tower in Rome. It is still shown to travelers. However high it may be, everyone despises it because it turns at the slightest wind. It is black, dry, featherless, beaten by the rain; it is no longer called Coquerico, but Weathercock; this is how it pays and will pay eternally for its disobedience to its mother, its vanity, its insolence, and above all its wickedness. Chapter 36. THE GYPSY WOMAN. When the old woman had finished her tale, she took supper to the second and his friends; I helped him in this task, and for my part I placed on the table two large goatskins full of wine; after which, I returned to the kitchen with the gypsy, it was our turn to eat. Our meal had already been finished for some time, I was chatting amicably with my old hostess, when suddenly we heard noise, curses, oaths in the supper room. The second soon came out; he had in his hand the axe that he usually wore at his belt, he was threatening his table companions, who all held their knives half hidden in their hands. They were quarreling over the accounts, because one of the smugglers was holding a bag full of piastres that he refused to give up; interest and drunkenness prevented us from understanding each other. What is singular is that they came to seek the old woman to settle the question. She had great authority over these men , which she doubtless owed to her reputation as a witch; she was despised, but she was feared. The gypsy listened to all these cries that crossed , then she counted bundles and piastres on her fingers, and finally found the second in the wrong. “Wretch!” he cried, “it is you who will pay for this bunch of thieves.” He raised his axe; I threw myself forward to stop his arm, and I received a blow that crippled my thumb for the rest of my days. The first lesson that experience sold me, and which gave me the horror of drunkenness for the rest of my days. Furious at having missed the victim, the second knocked me to the ground with a kick; he was throwing himself again on the old woman, when, suddenly, I saw him stop, put his hands to his stomach, pull out a long, bloody knife, cry out that he was a dead man, and fall. This horrible scene did not last the time I took to recount it. There was silence around the corpse; then soon the screams began again, but this time they were speaking a language I did not understand, the language of the gypsies. One of the smugglers showed the bag of money, another shook me by the collar as if he wanted to strangle me, a third took me by the arm and pulled me towards him. In the midst of this uproar, the old woman went from one to the other, shouting louder than the whole group, putting her hands to her head, then taking my arm and showing my bloody and almost detached thumb; I began to understand. Evidently there were smugglers who thought of taking advantage of the opportunity, and who, in order to get everything we brought cheaply, offered to get rid of me and keep the money. I was going to pay with my life for the mistake of finding myself, despite myself, in bad company; This is another lesson that cost me dearly, but which served me well. Fortunately for me, the old woman won; a great scoundrel whose hangable face would have made him recognizable among all these honest people became my defender; he placed me near him with the gypsy, and, holding the second’s axe in his hand, he made a speech that I did not hear, but of which I did not miss a word; I could have translated it thus: This child saved my mother; I am taking him into my care; the first one who touches him, I will kill him. It was the only eloquence that could save me; a quarter of an hour after all this noise, my wound was dressed with powder and brandy; I was mounted on a mule; in one of the baskets was the bundle of piastres, beside me, across, they had placed a large bag that hung on both sides. The Bohemian, my savior, accompanied me alone, a pistol in each hand. When we arrived at the beach, my driver called the captain who was in the boat, he had a long and lively conversation with him on land . After which he embraced me, gave me the money and said to me: A roumi [1] pays good with good, and evil with evil. Not a word about what you have seen, or you are dead. [Note 1: This is the name that the Bohemians give each other. ] –I then entered the boat with the captain, who had the bag thrown into a corner, carried by two sailors. Once on board, I was sent to bed, I had great difficulty falling asleep, but fatigue overcame agitation; when I awoke, it was noon. I feared being beaten; but I learned that they had not weighed anchor: a misfortune that had happened on board was the cause, the second, I was told, had died suddenly of a stroke from drinking too much brandy; that very morning they had thrown him into the sea, sewn into a bag, with a ball and chain around his feet. His death saddened no one; he was very wicked, and they took advantage of his part in the expedition. An hour after this funeral, they set sail , we marched towards Malaga and Gibraltar. Chapter 37. BLACK TALES. The rest of the voyage passed without incident. Once assured of my discretion, the captain took me into his friendship; when we went ashore at Saint-Louis in Senegal, he kept me in his service, and made me live with him. During the time I remained in this new country, I wanted to neglect nothing that could instruct me. The Negroes who surrounded us on all sides spoke a language that no one wanted to take the trouble to learn: They are savages, repeated my captain; after that, everything was said. As for me, who prowled around the city, I soon made friends among these poor Negroes, so affectionate and so good. Half patois, half signs, we always ended up understanding each other; I chatted with them so often about this and that, that I came to speak their language, as if the good Lord had made me born with a mole’s skin. – He who embarks without knowing the language of the country where he is going, says a proverb, does not go on a journey, he goes to school. – The proverb was right, I learned by experience that the Negroes were neither less intelligent nor less shrewd than we. Among those I saw most often, was a tailor who loved to talk; he never missed an opportunity to prove to me, in his language, that the Blacks had more wit than the Whites. – Do you know, he said to me one day, how I got married? – No, I said to him, I know that you have a wife who is one of the most skilled workers in Saint-Louis, but you have not told me how you chose her.
– It was she who chose and not I, he said to me; This alone proves to you how much intelligence and sense our women have. Listen to my story, it will interest you. THE STORY OF THE TAILOR Once upon a time there was a tailor (he was my future father-in-law) who had a very beautiful daughter to marry; all the young men were looking for her because of her beauty. Two rivals (you know one) came to find the beauty and said to her: “It is for you that we are here. ” “What do you want from me?” she replied, smiling. “We love you,” the two young men replied, “each of us wants to marry you. ” The beauty was a well-bred girl, she called her father who listened to the two suitors and said to them: “It is getting late, go away and come back tomorrow; then you will know who of the two will have my daughter. The next day, at daybreak, the two young men returned. “Here we are,” they shouted to the tailor; “remember what you promised us yesterday. ” “Wait,” he replied, “I’m going to the market to buy a piece of cloth; when I bring it home, you’ll know what I expect from you. ” When the tailor returned from the market, he called his daughter, and when she came, he said to the young men: “My sons, you are two, and I have only one daughter. To whom should I give her? To whom should I refuse her? Look at this piece of cloth: I will cut two identical garments from it; each of you will sew one, the one who finishes first will be my son-in-law. ” Each of the two rivals took his task and prepared to sew before the master’s eyes. The father called his daughter and said to her: “Here is some thread, you will prepare it for these two workers.” The girl obeyed her father, she took the ball and sat down near the two young men. But the beauty was slender; the father did not know who she loved, the young men did not know either; but the girl already knew. The tailor went out; the girl prepared the thread, the young men took their needles and began to sew. But to the one she loved (you hear me) the beauty gave short needles, while she gave long needles to the one she did not love. Each one sewed, sewed with extreme ardor, at eleven o’clock the work was barely halfway done; but at three o’clock in the afternoon, my friend, the young man with the short needles, had completed his task, while the other was far from finished. When the tailor returned, the victor brought him the finished garment; his rival was still sewing. “My children,” said the father, “I did not want to favor either of you, that is why I divided this piece of cloth into two equal portions, and I told you: The one who finishes first will be my son-in-law. Did you understand that correctly? ” “Father,” replied the two young men, “we have understood your word and accepted the test; what is done is well done.” The tailor had reasoned thus: The one who finishes first will be the most skilled worker, consequently he will be the one who will best support his household; he had not guessed that his daughter would make long needles for the one she did not want. It was the spirit that decided the test, it was the beauty who chose her own husband. And now, before telling my story to the beautiful ladies of Europe, ask them what they would have done in the place of the negress, you will see if the finest is not embarrassed. While the tailor was telling me about his marriage, his wife had come in and was working without saying a word, as if this story did not concern her. “The girls of your country are not stupid,” I said to her, laughing; “it seems to me that they have more intelligence than their husbands. ” “It is because we have received a good education from our mothers,” she replied. “We have all been drilled with the story of the Weasel.” “Tell me this story, I beg you; I will take it to Europe, for the benefit of my wife, when I marry. ” “Willingly,” she said to me; this story is: THE WEASEL AND HER HUSBAND Lady Weasel gave birth to a son, then she called her husband and said to him: “Find me some swaddling clothes such as I like and bring them to me.” The husband listened to his wife’s words and said to her: “What swaddling clothes do you like?” And the Weasel replied: “I want the skin of an elephant.” The poor husband was astonished at this demand, and asked his dear half if by any chance she had lost her mind; for all reply, the Weasel threw the child into her arms and left immediately. She went to find the Earthworm and said to him: “My friend, my land is full of grass, help me to turn it over.” Once the Worm was digging, the Weasel called the Hen: “My Godmother,” she said, “my lawn is full of worms, we will need your help.” The Hen ran at once, ate the Worm and began to scratch the ground. A little further on, the Weasel met the Cat: “My Godmother,” she said, “there are Hens on my land; in my absence, you should take a walk over there.” A moment later, the Cat had eaten the Hen. While the Cat was enjoying himself, the Weasel said to the Dog: ” Boss, will you let the Cat have possession of this land?” The furious Dog ran and strangled the Cat, not wanting there to be any other master in this country but himself. As the lion was passing by, the Weasel greeted him respectfully: My lord, she said, do not approach this field, it belongs to the Dog, whereupon the Lion, full of jealousy, pounced on the Dog and devoured him. It was the Elephant’s turn: the Weasel asked for his support against the Lion; the Elephant entered as a protector onto the land of the one who implored him. But he did not know the perfidy of the Weasel, who had dug a large hole and covered it with leaves. The Elephant fell into the trap and fell to his death; the Lion, who was afraid of the Elephant, fled into the forest. The Weasel then took the Elephant’s skin and showed it to her husband, saying to him: “I asked you for the Elephant’s skin; with God’s help, I got it , and I bring it to you.” The Weasel’s husband had not guessed that his wife was more cunning than all the beasts of the earth; even less had he thought that the lady was more cunning than he. He understood it then, and that is why we say today: he is as cunning as the Weasel. The story is over. It was not only tales that I learned with the Negroes; I soon knew their way of doing business, their ideas, their habits, their morals, their proverbs, and I profited from their wisdom. For example, these good people, who like me know neither read nor write, have, like the Arabs and the Indians, a way of engraving things in the memory of their children, by making them guess riddles; there are some that are worth a large book for the teaching they contain. “So,” added the captain, patting me on the head, which was his great sign of friendship, “guess this one for me: Tell me what I like, what loves me, and who always does what I like. ” “It’s your dog, Captain,” you looked at Fidèle as you spoke. “Bravo, my sailor. Let’s continue: Tell me what you like a little, what loves you a lot, and who always does what you like. You give up; it’s your mother, my little man; you don’t think she always does what you want, experience will teach you that it’s never of her that she thinks when it comes to you. Tell me the one your father loves very much, who loves him very much, and makes him do everything she likes. ” “You never make papa do what he doesn’t want, Captain; Mama says it every day. But my sister is badly brought up, she always laughs when Mama says that.” “Your sister has guessed the answer to the riddle, my sailor. Ah! If I had had a daughter, I would have forced her to command me at her whim from morning to night. There remains one more riddle: What is it that one likes or dislikes, that loves you or doesn’t love you, but always makes you do everything that pleases him? ” “I don’t know, captain. ” “Well,” he said to me mockingly, “ask your papa this evening.” I did not fail to heed the sailor’s recommendation; I recounted at table everything I had learned during the day; the Negro tales amused my mother greatly; the riddles were a complete success, but when I came to the last one, my father began to laugh. “It’s not difficult to guess, my boy, I’ll tell you…” At which my mother looked at my father; I don’t know what he read in her eyes, but he remained short. “Tell me, Papa, I want to know. ” “If you don’t shut up, sir,” my mother said to me, and in a stern tone, “I’ll send you to the garden without dessert. ” “Ah!” said my father. This “ah!” gave me courage, I banged my fist on the table: “But speak, Papa! ” My mother made as if to get up; my father warned her: in an instant I found myself in the garden, all in tears, with a large slice of dry bread in my hand. That’s how I never knew the answer to the last riddle. If there are any more clever than me, let them guess it; if not, let them go to Senegal; perhaps the tailor’s wife will teach them the secret that my mother never told me. Chapter 38. THE SECOND VOYAGE OF CAPTAIN JEAN. My conversations with the Negroes had made me an interpreter and a broker; the captain had complete confidence in my zeal; despite my young age, it was I who dealt with all the merchants. The cargo was soon made on excellent terms, and, on my return to Marseilles, I received, in addition to my share, a handsome and rich gift from the shipowners. My reputation was beginning, and, after a few voyages in the Mediterranean, I was offered a place in the East as supercargo on a brig of the finest size: I was not yet twenty years old. What had earned me such a good condition? My work. Everywhere I landed, I had made the acquaintance of sailors from every country: Greeks, Levantines, Dalmatians, Russians, Italians, and I spoke a little of the language of all these people. The ship was going to fetch grain in the Black Sea, at the mouth of the Danube: a man was needed who could speak all the dialects; I was found on hand, and, although I hardly had a beard on my chin, I was taken. So here I am at sea, and this time on my own account, carrying on a fair trade and being the slave only of my duty. God knows if I took the trouble to defend the interests of my shipowners! Arriving in Constantinople, I found a way to place our cargo of various articles on advantageous terms, and we all left for Galatz, well equipped with Spanish piastres and bills of exchange. Entering the Black Sea, our ship carried passengers of every language and nation. One of the most unusual was a Dalmatian who was returning home by the Danube. He sat all day in the bow, holding between his legs a long violin with only one string, what the Serbs call the guzla; he scraped this string with a bow and sang in a plaintive tone and in a sweet and sonorous language the songs of his country: these, for example, which he recited every evening by the light of the stars, and which I have not forgotten : THE SOLDIER’S SONG –I am a young soldier, always, always abroad. –When I left my good father, the moon shone in the sky. –The moon shines in the sky, I hear my father weeping for me. –When I left my good mother, the sun shone in the sky. –The sun shines in the sky, I hear my mother weeping for me. –When I left my beloved brothers, the stars shone in the sky. –The stars shine in the sky, I hear my brothers weeping for me. –When I left my beloved sisters, the peonies were in bloom. –Here is the peony blooming, I hear my sisters weeping for me. –When I left my beloved, the lilies were blooming in the garden. –Here is the lily in bloom, I hear my beloved weeping for me. –These tears must dry, tomorrow I want to leave here. –I am a young soldier, always, always abroad. THE SONG OF THE FIANCÉ –See this bird, see this falcon that rises to the highest heavens. If I could take him and lock him in my room! –Dear bird, falcon with beautiful plumage, bring me some news. –Willingly, but I will not say anything happy. Your beloved is engaged to another . –Valet, saddle my chestnut; I too want to be there. When she entered the church, she was still a simple girl; now, seated on this magnificent bench, she is a great lady. –Do you see the moon rising between two small stars? It is my beloved between her two sisters-in-law. When she goes to be engaged, I stop her in her tracks. –Dear child, give me back the ring I bought. –Go now, go, my child, and no reproach: yes, it is my poor heart that weeps, but it is not of you that it complains. The Black Sea is not always easy; I have crossed the two Oceans more than once , I know their storms; but I fear less their long waves which break against the ship than these small, hurried waves which roll and tire a vessel, and which, suddenly, open up like an abyss. For two days and two nights we were in distress, no one could stay on deck, except my Dalmatian, who had tied himself to one of the benches by the belt, and who, wet as he was, was still singing the airs of his country. “Lord Dalmatian,” I said to him at a moment when the wind and the sea allowed us a little breathing, “I see that you are a brave man, you are not afraid of shipwreck. ” “Who can prevent his destiny?” he said to me, scraping his violin; “the wisest thing is to resign oneself to it. ” “That is speaking like a Turk,” I replied; “a Christian is not so patient.” “Why should we not be Christians and resigned to the divine will?” he continued. “What God promises us is heaven, if we are honest people; he has never promised us health, wealth, safety at sea, and other fleeting things. All this is abandoned to a secondary power that has dominion only over the earth; those who have seen it call it Destiny. ” “What?” I cried, “those who have seen it? Do you then believe that Destiny exists? ” “Why not?” he replied calmly. “If you doubt it, listen to this story; the principal actors still live in Cattare; they are my cousins; I will show them to you when you return. ” Chapter 39. DESTINY. Once upon a time, there were two brothers who lived together in the same household; one did everything, while the other was an indolent man, who only cared for food and drink. The harvests were always magnificent, they had an abundance of oxen, horses, sheep, pigs, bees and the rest. The eldest, who did everything, said to himself one day: Why work for this indolent man? It is better for us to separate; I will work for myself alone, and he will then do what he pleases. So he said to his brother: “My brother, it is unfair that I take care of everything, while you want to help me with nothing and think only of drinking and eating; we must separate. ” The other tried to dissuade him from this plan by saying: “Brother, do not do this; we are so well off. You have everything in your hands, as well what is yours as what is mine, and you know that I am always pleased with what you do and what you order.” But the eldest persisted in his resolution, so that the younger had to give in, and said to him: “Since that is so, I will not hold it against you for that; divide as you please. Once the division was made, each chose his lot. The indolent man took a drover for his oxen, a shepherd for his horses, a shepherd for his sheep, a goatherd for his goats, a swineherd for his pigs, a keeper for his bees, and said to them all: “I entrust my property to you, may God watch over you!” And he continued to live in his house without any more worry than before. The elder, on the contrary, toiled for his part as much as he had done for the common good: he looked after his flocks himself, keeping an eye on everything; despite this, he found everywhere only bad success and damage. Day by day everything turned bad for him, until at last he became so poor that he no longer had even a pair of opanques[1], and he went barefoot. Then he said to himself: [Note 1: This is the shoe of the Serbians, which is made with leather thongs .] –I will go to my brother’s house to see how things are going at home. His path led him to a meadow where a flock of sheep was grazing, and when he approached it, he saw that the sheep had no shepherd. Near them alone sat a beautiful young girl spinning a thread of gold. After greeting the daughter of a God protect you! he asked her whose flock it was; She answered him: “To whom I belong, these sheep also belong. ” “And who are you?” he continued. “I am your brother’s fortune,” she replied. Then he was seized with anger and envy, and cried out: “And my fortune, where is it?” The girl answered him: “Ah! It is very far from you. ” “Can I find it?” he asked. She answered him: “You can, only look for it.” When he heard these words and saw that his brother’s sheep were so beautiful that no finer ones could be imagined, he did not want to go any further to see the other flocks, but went straight to his brother. As soon as his brother saw him, he took pity on him and said to him, bursting into tears: “Where have you been for so long?” And, seeing him in rags and barefoot, he gave him a pair of opanques and some money. After staying three days with his brother, the poor man left to return home; but, once home, he threw a bag over his shoulders, put a piece of bread in it, took a stick in his hand, and thus went out into the world to seek his fortune. After walking for some time, he found himself in a large forest, and met a horrible old woman who was sleeping under a bush. He began to dig the earth with his stick, and, to wake the old woman, he struck her on the back. However, she moved only with difficulty, and, only half opening her bleary eyes, she said to him: “Thank God that I fell asleep, for, if I had been awake, you would not have these opanques.” Then he said to her: “Who are you, then, who would have prevented me from having these opanques? ” The old woman said to him: “I am your fortune.” Hearing these words, he beat his chest and cried: “What! You are my fortune? May God destroy you! Who gave you to me?” And the old woman said to him: “It is Destiny. ” “Where is Destiny?” he asked. “Go and seek him,” she replied, falling asleep again. So he left and went to seek Destiny. After a long, very long journey, he finally arrived in a wood, and in this wood he found a hermit, whom he asked if he could have any news of Destiny. The hermit said to him: “Go to the mountain, you will come straight to his castle; but, when you are near Destiny, do not dare to speak to him; only do everything you see him do until he questions you.” The traveler thanked the hermit and took the path to the mountain. And when he arrived at the castle of Destiny, there he saw beautiful things! It was a royal luxury, there was a crowd of servants and maids always moving about and doing nothing. As for Destiny, he was sitting at a table spread and he was having supper. When the stranger saw this, he also sat down at the table and ate with the master of the house. After supper, Destiny went to bed, the other did the same. Around midnight, there was a terrible noise in the castle, and at Amidst the noise a voice was heard crying: “Destiny, Destiny, there are so many souls who have come into the world today: give them something as you please!” And there Fate rises; he opens a golden chest and scatters shining ducats in the room, saying: “As I am today, so shall you be all your lives!” At daybreak, the beautiful castle vanished, and in its place there was an ordinary house, but where nothing was missing. When evening came, Destiny resumed his supper, his host did the same; no one said a word. After supper, both went to bed. Towards midnight, there began a terrible noise again in the castle, and amidst the noise a voice was heard crying: “Destiny, Destiny, there are so many souls who have seen the light today, give them something as you please!” And here Fate rises, he opens a chest of money; but this time there were no ducats, only silver coins mixed here and there with a few gold pieces. Fate scattered this money on the earth, saying: “As I am today, so you will be all your lives!” By daybreak the house had disappeared, and in its place there was another, smaller one. Thus passed each night; each morning the house diminished, until at last there was nothing left but a miserable hut. Fate took a spade and began to dig the earth; his host did the same, and they dug all day. When evening came, Fate took a crust of hard bread, broke off half of it, and gave it to his companion. This was their entire supper: when they had eaten it, they went to bed. Around midnight, a terrible noise began again, and in the midst of the noise a voice could be heard saying: “Destiny, Destiny, so many souls have come into the world this night: give them something as you please.” And there Fate got up; he opened a chest and began to scatter pebbles, and among these pebbles some small coins, and, as he did so, he said: “As I am today, so shall you be all your lives.” When morning came again, the cabin had changed into a great palace as on the first day. Then for the first time Fate spoke to his guest and said to him: “Why have you come?” He recounted in detail his misery; and how he had come to ask Fate himself why he had given him such bad luck. Fate answered him: “You saw how the first night I scattered ducats, and what followed.” As I am on the night a man is born, so that man will be all his life. You were born on a night of poverty, you will remain poor all your life. Your brother, on the contrary, came into the world on a happy night. He will remain happy until the end. But, since you have taken so much trouble to look for me, I will tell you how you can help yourself. Your brother has a daughter named Miliza, who is as fortunate as her father. Take her as your wife when you return home, and whatever you acquire, be sure to say that it is your wife’s. The host thanked Destiny many times and left. When he returned home, he went straight to his brother and said to him: “Brother, give me Miliza, you see that without her I am alone in the world!” And the brother replied: “That pleases me; Miliza is yours.” The new husband took his brother’s daughter into his house, and he became very rich, but he always said: “All I have is Miliza’s.” One day, he went to the fields to see his wheat, which was so beautiful that nothing more beautiful could be found. A traveler happened to pass by on the road and asked him: “Whose wheat is this?” And he, without thinking, replied: “It’s mine.” But hardly had he spoken when the wheat burst into flames and the field was all on fire. Quickly he ran after the traveler and shouted to him: “Stop, brother; this wheat does not belong to me, it belongs to Miliza, my brother’s daughter. ” The fire stopped immediately, and from then on our man was happy, thanks to Miliza. “Lord Dalmatian,” I said to my storyteller, “your story is pretty, although it smacks terribly of Turkey. In my country, we have other ideas: far from trusting in fortune, we count on ourselves, on our wit even more than on our arm, on our prudence more than on our boldness. Also, in my homeland, good advice is priced dearly. ” “That’s how it is at home,” the Dalmatian replied, adjusting his leather cap which was falling over his eyes; “listen to what happened last year to one of my neighbors.” Chapter 40. THE PRUDENT FARMER. There was a farmer near Ragusa who also dabbled in commerce. One day he set out for the town, taking all his money with him, in order to make some purchases. Arriving at a crossroads, he asked an old man who was there which road he should take. “I’ll tell you if you give me a hundred crowns,” replied the stranger. “I don’t speak for less; each of my advices is worth a hundred crowns. ” “The devil!” thought the farmer, looking at the stranger’s face, who looked like a fox, “what can an advice be that is worth a hundred crowns? It must be something very rare, for, in general, advice is given to you for nothing; it is true that it is not worth more. Come on,” he said to the man, “speak, here is your hundred crowns. ” “Listen then,” continued the stranger; “this road that goes straight ahead is the road for today; the one that makes a bend is the road for tomorrow. I have one more advice to give you,” he continued; but you must also pay me a hundred crowns. The farmer thought for a long time, then he made up his mind. “Since I paid for the first piece of advice, I can certainly pay for the second. ” And he gave another hundred crowns. “Listen now,” the stranger said to him: “When you are traveling and you enter an inn, if the guest is old and the wine is young, leave as quickly as possible if you do not want anything bad to happen to you. Give me another hundred crowns,” he added, “I still have something to say to you. ” The farmer began to think. “What is this new advice? Bah! since I bought two, I can certainly pay for the third. ” And he gave his last hundred crowns. ” Listen now,” the stranger said to him: “if ever you get angry, keep half of your anger for the next day; do not use up all your anger in one day.” The farmer returned to his house, where he arrived empty-handed. “What did you buy?” his wife asked him. “Only three notices,” he replied, “each of which cost me a hundred crowns. ” “Good! Squander your money, throw it to the wind, as is your custom. ” “My dear wife,” the farmer replied gently, “I don’t regret my money; you will see what words I paid for. ” And he told her what he had been told; whereupon the wife shrugged her shoulders and called him a madman who was ruining his house and leaving his children on the straw. Some time later, a merchant stopped at the farmer’s door with two carts full of merchandise. He had lost a partner on the way, and offered the farmer fifty crowns if he would take charge of one of the carts and come with him to the city. “I hope,” the farmer’s wife said to her husband, “that you will not refuse; This time, at least, you’ll gain something. They set off; the merchant drove the first cart, the farmer the second. The weather was bad, the roads were broken, and they were making progress with great difficulty. They finally arrived at the two roads, and the merchant asked which one to take. “It’s tomorrow’s,” said the farmer; “it’s longer, but it ‘s safer. ” The merchant wanted to take today’s road. ” Even if you gave me a hundred crowns,” said the farmer, “I wouldn’t go by this path. So they parted ways. The farmer, who had chosen the longer route, nevertheless arrived well before his companion, without his carriage having suffered any damage. The merchant did not arrive until nightfall; his carriage had fallen into a marsh, the entire load was damaged, and the owner was injured, to boot. In the first inn where they stayed, there was an old innkeeper; a fir branch announced that they were selling new wine. The merchant wanted to stop there to spend the night. “I wouldn’t do it if you gave me a hundred crowns!” cried the farmer. And he left as quickly as possible, leaving his companion. Towards evening, some idle youths who had tasted too much of the new wine quarreled over a trivial matter. Knives were drawn; the host, weighed down by years, did not have the strength to separate or appease the combatants. A man was killed, and, as they feared justice, the body was hidden in the merchant’s carriage. The latter, who had slept well and had heard nothing, got up early in the morning to harness his horses. Frightened to find a dead man in his carriage, he wanted to flee as quickly as possible to avoid being involved in an unpleasant trial; but he had not reckoned on the Austrian police; they ran after him. While waiting for justice to clarify the matter, my man was thrown in prison and all his belongings confiscated. When the farmer learned what had happened to his companion, he wanted, at least, to secure his carriage, and returned to his house. As he approached the garden, he saw in the mist a young soldier mounted on one of his finest plum trees, calmly harvesting someone else’s property. The farmer armed his rifle to kill the thief; but he thought better of it. “I paid a hundred crowns,” he thought, “to learn that one should not spend all one’s anger in one day. Let us wait until tomorrow, my thief will return.” He took a detour to enter the house from another side, and, as he knocked at the door, the young soldier threw himself into his arms, crying: “Father, I took advantage of my leave to surprise you and embrace you. ” The farmer then said to his wife: “Now listen to what happened to me, you will see if I paid too dearly for my three pieces of advice.” He told her the whole story; and, as the poor merchant was hanged, whatever he might do, the farmer found himself the heir of this imprudent man. Having become rich, he repeated every day that one never pays too dearly for good advice, and, for the first time, his wife was of his opinion. Chapter 41. THE THREE STORIES OF THE DALMATIAN. “Lord Dalmatian,” I said to him when he had finished his story, “this is undoubtedly a fine tale, but it was not Destiny that made the fortune of this wise farmer, it was calculation, reason. Your second story destroys the first, and very fortunately, for it would be sad if the lazy made their fortune, and if the active people who sow the grain reaped only the wind. ” “The lazy sometimes succeed,” he replied gravely; “I know of one example that I can tell you. ” “So you have tales about everything?” I cried. “Tales and songs are all life is made of,” he replied coldly. THE LAZY GIRL Once upon a time, there was a mother who had a very lazy daughter who had no taste for any kind of work. She took her into a wood, near a crossroads, and began to beat her with all her might. Nearby, by chance, a lord was passing by and asked the mother why this harsh punishment. “My dear lord,” she replied, “my daughter is an insufferable worker: she spins us even the moss that adorns the walls. ” “Give her to me,” said the lord, “I will give her enough to spin all her envy. ” “Take her,” said the mother, “take her, I don’t want her anymore.” And the lord takes her to his house, delighted with this beautiful acquisition. That same evening, he locked the young girl all alone in a room where there was a large barrel full of hemp. There she found herself in great distress. “What can I do? I don’t want to spin, I don’t know how to spin! But, towards nightfall, three old witches knocked at the window, and the girl brought them in quickly. “If you want to invite us to your wedding,” they said to her, “we will help you spin this evening. ” “Spin, ladies,” she replied quickly, “I invite you to my wedding.” And there were the three witches spinning and spinning everything that was in the barrel, while the lazy girl slept at her leisure. In the morning, when the lord entered the room, he saw the whole wall covered with thread, and the young girl sleeping. He went out on tiptoe and forbade anyone to enter the room, so that the spinner could rest from such great work. This did not prevent him from having a second barrel full of hemp brought that very day, but the witches returned at the appointed time, and everything happened as on the first day. The lord was amazed, and, as there was nothing left to spin in the house, he said to the young girl: “I want to marry you, for you are the queen of the spinners.” The day before the wedding, the supposed spinner said to her husband: “I must invite my aunts.” And the lord replied that they would be welcome. Once they had entered, the three witches sat down by the stove; they were horrible; when the lord saw them in all their ugliness, he said to his fiancée: “Your aunts are not beautiful.” Then, approaching the first witch, he asked her why she had such a long nose. “My dear nephew,” she replied, “it is from spinning.” When one is always spinning, and all day long one shakes one’s head, one’s nose gradually lengthens. The lord went to the second and asked her why she had such large lips. “My dear nephew,” she replied, “it’s from spinning. When one is always spinning, and all day long one wets one’s thread, one’s lips gradually grow larger. ” Then he asked the third why she was hunchbacked. “My dear nephew,” she said, “it’s from spinning. When one sits and bends all day long, one’s back gradually bends.” And then the lord was very afraid that from spinning his wife would become as horrible as these three Fates, so he threw the distaff and spindle into the fire. If the lazy woman was upset about it, I leave it to those who resemble her to guess. “My tale is over. ” “I see with pleasure,” I said to my Dalmatian, “that in your happy country women succeed without difficulty and without wit.” “Not at all,” cried my insufferable storyteller, “there is no place in the world where women are both more subtle and wiser. Don’t you know how the daughter of a beggar married the Emperor of Germany, and, emperor though he was, proved herself more skillful and better than him? ” “Another tale!” I cried. “No, not a tale,” he replied, “but a story; you will find it in all books that tell the truth. OF THE DAUGHTER THAN THE EMPEROR Once upon a time there was a poor man who lived in a hut: he had only one daughter with him, but she was very wise. She went everywhere seeking alms and also taught her father to speak wisely and obtain what she needed. One day it happened that the poor man went to the Emperor and begged him to give him something . The Emperor, surprised at the way this beggar spoke, asked him who he was and who had taught him to express himself in this way. “She is my daughter,” he replied. “And your daughter, who taught her?” asked the Emperor; to which the poor man replied: “It is God who taught her, as well as our extreme poverty.” Then the Emperor gave him thirty eggs and said to him: “Take these eggs to your daughter, and tell her to hatch some chickens for me; if she doesn’t hatch them, bad things will happen to her.” The poor man went back to his hut in tears and told his daughter the whole thing. The daughter immediately recognized that the eggs were cooked; but she told her father to go and rest and that she would take care of everything. The father followed his daughter’s advice and went to sleep; for her, taking a pot, she filled it with water and beans and put it on the fire; The next day, when the beans were boiled, she called her father, told him to take a plow and some oxen and go and plow along the road where the Emperor was to pass: “And,” she added, “when you see the Emperor, take some beans, sow them and say aloud: Come on, my oxen, may God protect me and make my boiled beans grow!” And if the Emperor asks you how it is possible to grow boiled beans, answer him: “It is as easy as hatching a chicken from a hard-boiled egg.” The poor man did as his daughter wanted; he went out, he plowed, and when he saw the Emperor, he began to cry: “Come on, my oxen, may God protect me and make my boiled beans grow!” As soon as the Emperor heard these words, he stopped on the road and immediately said: “Poor fool, how is it possible to grow boiled beans?” And the poor man replied: “Gracious Emperor, it is as easy as hatching a chicken from a hard-boiled egg. ” The Emperor guessed that it was the daughter who had pushed the father to act in this way; he told his servants to take the poor man and bring him before him; then he gave him a small bundle of hemp and said: “Take this, and make me sails, ropes, and everything else needed for a ship, or I will have your head cut off.” The poor man took the bundle in great turmoil and returned in tears to his daughter, to whom he told her what had happened. His daughter told him to go to sleep, promising that she would put everything right.
The next day, she took a piece of wood, woke her father, and said to him: “Take this match and take it to the Emperor; let him carve me a spindle, a shuttle, and a loom; after that, I will do what he has asked. ” The poor man once again followed his daughter’s advice; he went to the Emperor and recited to him everything he had been taught. When the Emperor heard this, he was astonished and sought to find what he could do. Then, taking a glass to drink, he gave it to the poor man, saying: “Take this glass and take it to your daughter, so that she may drain the sea for me and make it a field to plow. ” The poor man obeyed, weeping, and took the glass to his daughter, repeating the Emperor’s words word for word. And his daughter told him to wait until the next day and that she would arrange everything. The next morning she called her father, gave him a pound of tow, and said to him: “Take this to the Emperor so that he may stop up all the sources and all the mouths of all the rivers on earth, after which I will dry up the sea for him.” And the poor man went to tell the Emperor everything. Then the latter saw clearly that the young lady knew more than he did; he ordered that she be brought in, and when the father had brought his daughter, and they both had greeted the Emperor, the latter said: “My daughter, guess what is heard from further away.” And the young lady replied: “Gracious Emperor, what is heard from further away is thunder and lies. ” Then the Emperor took his beard in his hand, and turning to his advisers: “Guess,” he said to them, “how much my beard is worth.” And when they had all estimated it, some more and some less, The young lady maintained to their faces that none of them had guessed, and she said: “The Emperor’s beard is worth as much as three rains in the drought of summer. ” The Emperor was delighted, and said: “She guessed best.” And he asked her if she wanted to be his wife, adding that he would not let her go until she had consented. The young lady bowed and said: “Gracious Emperor, may your will be done! I only ask you to write on a sheet of paper, and in your own hand, that if one day you become unkind to me, and want to take me away from you and send me away from this castle, I will have the right to take with me whatever I like best. ” The Emperor consented, and gave her a writing sealed with red wax and stamped with the great seal of the Empire. After some time it happened that the Emperor became so spiteful to his wife that he said to her: “I no longer want you to be my wife; leave my castle and go where you wish. ” The Empress replied: “Illustrious Emperor, I will obey you; only allow me to spend one more night here; tomorrow I will leave. ” The Emperor granted her this request, and then the Empress, before supper, put brandy and fragrant herbs into the wine; then she urged the Emperor to drink, saying to him: “Drink, Emperor, and be merry; tomorrow we will part, and, believe me, I will be more cheerful than the day I was married. ” The Emperor had no sooner drunk this beverage than he fell asleep. Then the Empress had him put in a carriage that was kept ready, and she took him to a cave cut into the rock. When the Emperor awoke in this cave and saw where he was, he cried out: “Who brought me here?” To which the Empress replied: “It was I who brought you here. ” And the Emperor said to her: ” Why did you do this? Did I not tell you that you were no longer my wife ?” But then she handed him the paper, saying: “It is true that you told me this, but see what you have granted me by this paper. In leaving you, I have the right to take with me what I love best from your castle.” When the Emperor heard this, he embraced her and returned to his castle with her, never to leave her again. “Excellent, Mr. Storyteller,” I said to him; “I take back what I said about the ladies of Dalmatia; On the other hand, I see that on the shores of the Adriatic, as in Senegal and perhaps elsewhere, it is the women who are mistresses in the house. This is not a bad thing. Happy are those who exercise this sweet empire! Happier are those who allow themselves to be governed! “Not at all,” replied my Dalmatian, always ready to contradict me; ” in our country, it is the men who are masters of the house; we dine alone at the table, and our wife, standing behind us, is there to serve us. ” “This proves nothing,” I replied; “there is more than one man who, married or not, obeys whoever serves him; the slave is not always the one who wears the chain. ” “If you need proof,” cried my incorrigible Dalmatian, “listen to what my father told me. I have always suspected that the excellent man was the hero of this story. ” “Another tale!” I continued impatiently. “Lord,” he said to me, “this is the last and the best; here we are in sight of the mouths of the Danube, tomorrow we will part and never see each other again here below. Listen patiently to one last lesson. THE LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS Once upon a time there was a shepherd who for many years had served his master with as much zeal as fidelity. One day while he was watching his sheep, he heard a whistling coming from the woods; not knowing what it was, he entered the forest, following the noise to find out its cause. As he approached, he saw that the grass was withering and the leaves The fallen ones had caught fire, and in the middle of a circle of flames he saw a hissing snake. The shepherd stopped to see what the snake would do, for everything around the animal was in flames, and the fire was getting closer and closer. As soon as the snake saw the shepherd, it cried out to him: In the name of God, shepherd, save me from this fire! The shepherd held out his staff over the flame; the snake coiled itself around the staff and climbed up to the shepherd’s hand; from his hand it slid down to his neck and encircled it like a necklace. When the shepherd saw this, he was afraid and said to the snake: “Woe is me! Have I saved you for my own destruction? ” The animal answered him: “Do not be afraid, but take me back to my father, the king of the snakes. ” The shepherd began to apologize because he could not leave his sheep without a guardian; But the snake said to him, “Don’t worry him about your flock; no harm will come to it; just go as fast as you can. ” The shepherd began to run through the woods with the snake around its neck, until at last he came to a door made of intertwined snakes. The snake hissed, and immediately the snakes separated. Then he said to the shepherd, “When we get to the castle, my father will offer you everything you could possibly desire: silver, gold, jewels, and everything precious on earth ; accept none of this; ask him to understand the language of animals. He will refuse you this favor for a long time, but in the end he will grant it to you.” As they talked, they arrived at the castle, and the snake’s father said to him, weeping, “In God’s name, my child, where have you been?” The snake told him how he had been surrounded by fire, and how the shepherd had saved him. The king of the serpents then turned to the shepherd and said to him: “What do you want me to give you for saving my child? ” “Teach me the language of animals,” replied the shepherd, “I want to speak, like you, with the whole earth.” The king said to him: “It is of no use to you, for if I gave you the ability to understand this language, and you said nothing about it to anyone, you would die immediately; ask me for something else that would be more useful to you, and I will give it to you. ” But the shepherd answered him: “If you want to pay me, teach me the language of animals; if not, farewell, and may heaven protect you: I want nothing else.” And he made as if to leave. Then the king called him back, saying: “Stop, and come here, since you absolutely want it. Open your mouth.” The shepherd opened his mouth, the king of the serpents breathed into it, and said to him: “Now, in your turn, breathe into mine.” And when the shepherd had done as he was commanded, the king of the serpents breathed a second time into his mouth. And when they had each breathed three times, the king said to him: “Now you understand the language of animals; may God be with you; but if you value your life, beware of ever betraying this secret, for if you say a word to anyone, you will die instantly.” The shepherd returned. As he passed through the wood, he heard what the birds, the grass, and everything on the ground were saying. When he came to his flock, he found it complete and in order; so he lay down on the ground to sleep. Scarcely had he lain down when two crows came and perched on a tree and began to say in their own language: “If this shepherd knew that where this black lamb is, there is a vault under the earth full of gold and silver!” As soon as the shepherd heard this, he went to his master, took a cart with him, and while digging they found the door of the vault, and they carried away the treasure. The master was an honest man, he left everything to the shepherd, saying to him: “My son, this treasure is yours, for it is God who has given it to you.” The shepherd took the treasure, built a house, and, having married, he lived joyfully and contentedly: he was soon the richest not only in the village, but in the surrounding area. For ten leagues around, one would not have found a second to compare with him. He had flocks of sheep, oxen, horses, and each flock had its shepherd; he had, moreover, a lot of land and great wealth. One day, precisely on Christmas Eve, he said to his wife: “Prepare the wine and the brandy and everything that is needed; tomorrow we will go to the farm, and we will take all this to the shepherds so that they can have fun. ” The woman followed this order and prepared everything that had been ordered. The next day, when they were at the farm, the master said to the shepherds in the evening: “Friends, gather together, eat, drink, and have fun: I will stay up tonight to watch over the flocks in your place.” He did as he had said, and watched over the flocks. When midnight came, the wolves began to howl and the dogs to bark; The wolves said in their own language: “Let us come and do some damage; there will be meat for you.” And the dogs answered in their own language: “Come, we want to have our fill once and for all.” But among these dogs there was an old mastiff who only had two fangs left in his mouth, and he said to the wolves: “As long as I have two fangs left in my mouth, you will not harm my master. ” The father of the family had heard and understood all these words. When morning came, he ordered all the dogs to be killed and only the old mastiff to be left alive. The astonished servants said: “Master, this is a great pity.” But the father of the family replied: “Do as I say.” He prepared to return home with his wife, and the two of them set off; the husband mounted on a beautiful gray horse, the wife seated on a hackney, which she covered entirely with the long folds of her dress. As they walked, it happened that the husband went ahead, and the wife remained behind. The horse turned and said to the mare: “Forward! Faster! Why slow down?” The hackney replied: “Yes, that’s easy for you, you who only carry the master; but I, with my mistress, carry necklaces, bracelets, skirts and petticoats, keys and bags without end. It would take four oxen to drag all this woman’s paraphernalia.” The husband turned around laughing; the wife, having remarked this, urged the mare on and, after catching up with her husband, asked him why he had laughed. “But for nothing; a madness that crossed my mind.” The wife did not find the answer right, she pressed her husband to tell her why he had laughed. But he resisted, and said to her: “Leave me alone, woman; what does it matter to you? Good God! I don’t know myself why I laughed.” The more he defended himself, the more she insisted on knowing the cause of his gaiety. At last, he said to her: “Know then that if I revealed what made me laugh, I would die immediately .” But this did not stop the lady; more than ever she tormented her husband to make him speak. They arrived at the house. Dismounting, the husband ordered a bier to be made for him; when it was ready, he placed it in front of the house and said to his wife: “See, I am going to get into this bier, then I will tell you what made me laugh; but as soon as I have spoken, I will be a dead man.” And then he got into the coffin, and as he looked around him one last time, there came the old dog from the farm, who came up to his master and wept. When the poor man saw this, he called his wife and said to her: “Bring a piece of bread and give it to the dog.” The woman threw a piece of bread to the dog, who didn’t even look at him. And there came the rooster of the house, who ran up and pecked at the bread, and the dog said to him: “Wretched glutton, can you eat when you see that the master is going to die?” And the rooster answered him: –Let him die, since he’s stupid enough for that. I have a hundred wives; I call them all when I find the smallest grain, and as soon as they arrive, I eat it; if one of them thought it was bad, I would correct her with my beak; and he, who has only one wife, doesn’t have the sense to bring her to reason! As soon as the husband hears this, he jumps out of the coffin, takes a stick, and calls his wife into the bedroom: –Come, I’ll tell you what you so desperately want to know. And then he reasons with his stick, saying: –There, my wife, there! That’s how he answered her, and never since has the lady asked her husband why he laughed. CONCLUSION Such was the last story of the Dalmatian; it was also the last of those that the captain told me that day. The next day there were others, and still others the day after. The sailor was right, his library was inexhaustible, his memory never failed, his speech never stopped; but by always telling stories one bores the reader, besides one must keep something for next year. Perhaps then we shall meet the captain again, and seek lessons from his gentle wisdom. In the meantime, dear readers, I part with you with the farewells that the excellent sailor addressed to me every day: My friend, be good, obey your mother, do your homework well, so that tomorrow you may be allowed to hear my tales; pleasure is good only after pain: only he who has worked hard enjoys himself. And now, he added, taking my hand, I commend you to God. Farewell then, dear readers, as our old books say, farewell, dear readers; May Captain John’s wisdom benefit you enough to make each of you as good and as hardworking as your father; as gentle and as kind as your mother; this is the last wish of your old friend. THE CASTLE OF LIFE. Chapter 42. Some years ago, finding myself at Capri, the most charming of the islands in the Gulf of Naples, on one of those beautiful autumn days, which are full of calm and light, I had the desire to go by boat to Paestum, stopping at Amalfi and Salerno. The thing was easy; there were fishermen on the beach who were returning to land and were only too happy to take the stranger with them. On entering the boat, I found four sailors of good appearance, sinewy arms, faces tanned by the sun, and in their midst a little girl of eight or ten years old, with a strong, arched figure, a ruddy face, and lively black eyes, who alternately commanded or prayed the crew with the majesty of an Italian or the grace of a child. She was the skipper’s daughter ; I could not doubt it from the proud smile with which he showed her to me when I entered the boat. Once at sea, and each one at the oars, as I found myself alone doing nothing in the boat, I took the child on my knees to talk with her and to hear from her pretty lips that Neapolitan dialect which sounds so sweet to the ear. “Speak to her, Excellency,” the skipper shouted to me with a triumphant air; “do not be afraid to listen to the marchesina either; However small she may be, she is already as learned as a canon. Whenever you wish, she will tell you the story of the king of Starza Longa, who marries his daughter to a serpent, or that of Vardiello, whose foolishness procures fortune. Do you prefer the Enchanted Hind, or the Ogre who gives Antuono of Maregliano the staff that does his duty, or the Castle of Life…? “Go for the Castle of Life!” I cried, in order to interrupt a parade of tales as numerous as the beads of a rosary. “Nunziata, my child,” said the fisherman in a solemn tone, “tell His Excellency the story of the Castle of Life, as your mother has recited it to you so many times; and you,” he added, addressing the oarsmen, try not to stir the water too much, so that we can hear. Thus, for more than an hour, while the boat glided noiselessly over the motionless waves, and a gentle October sun crimsoned the mountains and made the sea sparkle, all five of us, attentive and silent, listened to the child who spoke to us of enchantment, in the midst of an enchanted nature. Chapter 43. THE CASTLE OF LIFE. Once upon a time, began Nunziata gravely, there was once in Salerno a good old woman, a fisherwoman by profession, whose only possession and support was a boy of twelve, her grandson, a poor orphan whose father had been drowned in a stormy day, and whose mother had died of grief. Gracieux, that was the child’s name , loved only his grandmother in the world: he followed her every morning before dawn to gather shellfish, or to pull the net to the shore, waiting until he was strong enough to go fishing himself , and brave the waves that had killed all his family. He was so handsome, so well made, so pleasant that, as soon as he entered the town, with his basket of fish on his head, everyone ran after him; he had sold his share even before arriving at the market. Unfortunately, the grandmother was very old; she had only one tooth left in the middle of her mouth, her head was shaking, her eyes were so red that she could no longer see. Every morning she had more trouble getting up than the day before, she felt that she would not go far. So, every night, before Gracieux wrapped himself in his blanket to sleep on land, she gave him good advice for the day when he would be alone; she told him which fishermen he should see and which he should avoid; how, by always being gentle and hardworking, prudent and resolute, he would make his way in the world, and would end up having his own boat and nets; the poor boy hardly listened to all this wisdom; as soon as the old woman began to take a serious tone: “Grandmother,” the child cried, “grandmother, don’t leave me. I have arms, I am strong, soon I will be able to work for two; but if, when I come back from the sea, I don’t find you at home, how do you expect me to live?” And he embraced her, weeping. “My child,” the old woman said to him one day, “I will not leave you as alone as you fear; after me, you will have two protectors whom more than one prince would envy you.” It has been a long time since I obliged two great ladies who will not forget you when the time comes to call them, and it will be soon. “Who are these two ladies?” asked Gracieux, who had never seen anything but fishermen’s wives in the cabin. “They are two fairies,” replied the grandmother, “two great fairies: the water fairy and the wood fairy. Listen to me carefully, my child; it is a secret that I must confide to you, a secret that you will keep as I did, and which will give you fortune and happiness. Ten years ago, the very year that your father died, when your mother also left us, I went out before daybreak to surprise the crabs sleeping in the sand; I was leaning over the ground and hidden by a rock, when I saw a halcyon sailing gently towards the beach. It is a sacred bird that must always be treated with care; I therefore let him approach and did not move, for fear of frightening him. At the same time, from a cleft in the mountain I saw a beautiful green snake come out and crawl on the sand, stretching out its large coils to approach the bird. When they were close to each other, without either of them appearing surprised by the encounter, the snake coiled itself around the neck of the halcyon, as if it had embraced him tenderly; they remained thus entwined for a few minutes; then they separated abruptly, the snake to return to the stone, the bird to plunge into the wave, which carried it away. Greatly astonished by what I had seen, I returned the next day at the same time, and at the same time also the halcyon arrived on the sand, the snake came out of its retreat. They were fairies, there was no doubt about it, perhaps enchanted fairies to whom I could be of service. But what could I do? To show myself would displease them and expose myself greatly; it was better to wait for a favorable opportunity that chance would undoubtedly bring. For a month I lay in wait, witnessing the same spectacle every morning, when one day I saw a large black cat who arrived first at the rendezvous, and who hid behind the rock, almost under my hand. A black cat could only be an enchanter, according to what I had been taught in my youth: I promised myself to watch for it. And, indeed, scarcely had the halcyon and the snake embraced, when the cat gathered itself up, swelled up, and sprang upon these innocents. It was my turn to throw myself upon the brigand, who already held his victims in his murderous claws; I seized him in spite of all his convulsions, although he made my hands bleed, and there, without pity, knowing with whom I was dealing, I took the knife which I used to open sea chestnuts, and I cut off the monster’s head, legs, and tail, confidently awaiting the success of my devotion. I did not wait long; as soon as I had thrown the body of the beast into the sea, I saw before me two beautiful ladies, one crowned with white feathers, the other who had a snakeskin for a scarf; they were, as I have already told you, the water fairy and the wood fairy. Enchanted by a miserable genie who had surprised their secret, they had to remain a halcyon and a snake until a generous hand freed them; it was to me that they owed their freedom and power. Ask us what you wish, they told me, your wishes will be granted. I reflected that I was old and that I had suffered enough from life not to begin it again, while you, my child, a day would come when nothing would be too good for your desire, when you would like to be rich, noble, general, marquis, perhaps a prince. On that day, I said to myself, I will be able to give it everything, a single moment of such happiness will repay me for eighty years of pain and misery. I therefore thanked the fairies and begged them to keep their good will for me for the hour when I would need it. The water fairy removed a small feather from her crown; the wood fairy detached a scale from the snake’s skin. Good woman, they said to me, when you want us, place this feather and this scale in a vase of pure water, at the same time call us by making a wish; even if we were at the ends of the earth, in an instant you will see us before you, ready to pay today’s debt . I lowered my head in gratitude; when I raised it, everything had disappeared; there were no more wounds or blood on my arms; I would have believed that a dream had deceived me, if I had not had in my hand the scale of the snake and the feather of the halcyon. “And these treasures,” said Gracieux, “where are they, grandmother? ” “My child,” replied the old woman, “I hid them carefully, wanting to show them to you only the day when you would be a man and able to use them; but, since death is going to separate us, the moment has come to give you these precious talismans. At the bottom of the hutch you will find a wooden box hidden under some rags; in this box is a small cardboard box wrapped in tow; open this box, you will find the tortoiseshell and the feather carefully wrapped in cotton. Be careful not to break them, take them with respect, I will tell you what remains to be done. Gracieux brought the box to the poor woman, who could no longer leave her pallet; it was she herself who took the two objects. “Now,” she said to her son, giving them to him, “place them in the middle from the room a plate full of water; in the middle of the water, place the scale and the feather, then make a wish; ask for fortune, nobility, wit, power, whatever you wish, my son; only, as I feel that I am dying, kiss me, my child, before expressing this wish which will separate us forever, and receive one last time my blessing. It will be one more talisman to bring you luck. But, to the surprise of the old woman, Gracieux came neither to kiss her nor to ask for her blessing; he quickly put the plate full of water in the middle of the room, threw the feather and the scale in the middle of the plate, and cried from the bottom of his heart: I want grandmother to live forever: appear, fairy of the waters; I want grandmother to live forever: appear, fairy of the woods! And then the water bubbles, bubbles, the plate becomes a large basin that the walls of the cottage can barely contain, and from the bottom of the basin Gracieux sees two beautiful young women emerge, whom by their wand he immediately recognized as fairies. One had a crown of holly leaves mixed with red grains, with diamond earrings that resembled acorns in their cup; she was dressed in a dress green like an olive leaf, and over it she had a tiger skin that was tied in a sash on her right shoulder: she was the fairy of the woods. As for the fairy of the waters, she had a headdress of reeds, with a white dress all edged with grebe feathers, and a blue scarf that at times rose on her head and swelled like the sail of a ship. Grand ladies though they were, both looked with a smile at Gracieux, who had taken refuge in his grandmother’s arms, and who was trembling with fear and admiration. Here we are, my child, said the water fairy, who spoke as the eldest; we have heard what you said; the wish you have made does you honor; but, if we can help you in the project you have conceived, you alone can carry it out. We can indeed prolong your grandmother’s existence for a while; but, for her to live forever, you must go to the Castle of Life, four long days’ journey from here, on the side of Sicily. There is the fountain of immortality. If you can complete each of these four days without turning from your path, if, upon arriving at the castle, you can answer the three questions that an invisible voice will ask you, you will find there what you desire; But, my child, think carefully before you take this step, for there is more than one danger on the road. If you fail to reach your day’s goal even once, not only will you not obtain what you wish for, but you will never leave this country, from which no one has returned. “I am leaving, Madame,” replied Gracieux. “But,” said the woodland fairy, “you are very young, my child, and you do not even know the way. ” “No matter!” replied Gracieux; “you will not abandon me, fair ladies, and to save my grandmother, I would go to the ends of the earth. ” “Wait,” said the woodland fairy; and, detaching the lead from a broken windowpane, she put it in the palm of her hand. And here the lead begins to melt and boil without the fairy appearing to be bothered by the heat, then she throws the metal onto the hearth, which solidifies there in a thousand varied forms. “What do you see in all this?” said the fairy to Gracieux. “Madame,” he replied, after looking carefully, “it seems to me that I see a spaniel dog with a long tail and large ears. ” “Call him,” said the fairy. ” At once, barking is heard, and from the middle of the metal comes out a black and fire-colored dog, which begins to frolic and jump around Gracieux. “He will be your companion,” said the fairy; “you will name him Fidèle; he will show you the way, but I warn you that it is for you to lead him, and not for him to lead you. If you make him obey, he will serve you; if you Obey him, he will ruin you. “And I,” said the water fairy, “shall I give you nothing, my poor Gracieux?” And, looking around her, the lady saw on the ground a piece of paper which she pushed into the hearth with her little foot. The paper caught fire; when the flame had passed, thousands of little sparks were seen running one after the other, like nuns who on Christmas night go to the chapel, each holding a candle in their hand. The fairy followed all these sparks with a curious eye; when the last one was about to go out, she blew on the paper; suddenly a little bird cry was heard ; a swallow flew out, all frightened, went to strike every corner of the room and finally landed on Gracieux’s shoulder . “She will be your companion,” said the water fairy, “you will name her Pensive;” She will show you the way, but I warn you that it is up to you to lead her, and not for her to lead you. If you make her obey, she will serve you; if you obey her, she will ruin you. “Stir up this black ash,” added the good water fairy, “perhaps you will find something there.” Gracieux obeyed; from beneath the ashes of the paper, he took a rock crystal flask that shone like a diamond; it was in this, the fairy told him, that he was to collect the water of immortality: it would have broken any vessel made by the hands of men. Beside the flask, Gracieux found a dagger with a triangular blade. It was something quite different from the stiletto of his father the fisherman, which he was forbidden to touch; with this weapon one could brave the fiercest enemy. “My sister, you will not be more generous than I,” said the other fairy; and, taking a straw from the only chair in the house, she blew on it. The straw swelled immediately, and, in less time than it takes to say it, formed an admirable rifle, all encrusted with mother-of-pearl and gold; a second straw made a cartridge belt that Gracieux put around his body and which suited him perfectly: it looked like a prince going hunting. He was so handsome that his grandmother wept with joy and tenderness. The two fairies having disappeared, Gracieux embraced the good old woman, recommending her to wait for him, and he got down on both knees to ask for her blessing. The grandmother gave him a fine sermon, recommending him to be patient, just, charitable, and above all to never stray from the right path, not for me, added the old woman, who accepts death with all his heart, and who regrets the wish you have made, but for you, my child, so that you may return; I do not want to die without you closing my doors. It was late; Gracieux lay down on the ground, too agitated, he thought, to doze off. But sleep would soon have overtaken him; he slept all night, while the poor grandmother looked at the face of her dear child lit by the flickering light of the lamp, and could not tire of admiring him with a sigh. Chapter 44. Early in the morning, when dawn was barely breaking, the swallow began to chirp and Fidèle began to pull back the blanket. “Let’s go, master, let’s go,” said the two companions in their language, which Gracieux understood by the gift of the fairies; “already the sea is whitening on the beach, the bird is singing, the fly is buzzing, the flower is opening to the sun; let’s go, it’s time.” Gracieux kissed his old friend one last time and took the road that leads to Paestum; Pensive fluttered from right to left, chasing away the midges; Fidèle caressed her young master or ran ahead of him. They were not yet two leagues from the city when Gracieux saw Fidèle talking with the ants. They were walking in regular bands, dragging all their provisions with them. “Where are you going?” Gracieux asked them; and they answered: “To the Castle of Life.” A little further on, Pensive met the cicadas, who had also set off on a journey, with the bees and the butterflies; all were going to Château de la Vie, to drink from the fountain of immortality. They walked together, like people who follow the same road. Pensive introduced Gracieux to a young butterfly who chattered pleasantly. Friendship comes quickly in youth; after an hour, the sweet companions were inseparable. Going straight is not to the taste of butterflies; so Gracieux’s friend was constantly getting lost in the middle of the grass; Gracieux, who had never been free in his life, and who had never seen so many flowers or so much sun, followed all the butterfly’s zigzags, he was no more worried about the day than if it would never end. But after a few leagues his new friend felt tired. “Let’s not go any further,” he said to Gracieux. “See how beautiful this nature is! How sweet these flowers smell! How fragrant these fields are! Let’s stay here; this is where life is.” “Let’s walk,” said Fidèle, “the day is long and we are only at the beginning. ” “Let’s walk,” said Pensive, “the sky is clear, the horizon infinite; let’s go ever forward. ” Gracious, withdrawn into himself, reasoned wisely with the butterfly that was still fluttering from right to left, but it was in vain. “What does it matter to me?” said the insect; “yesterday I was a caterpillar, tonight I will be nothing, I want to enjoy myself today.” And it fell upon a rose of Paestum, wide open. The perfume was so strong that the poor butterfly was asphyxiated; Gracious tried in vain to bring it back to life, and, after mourning it, he pinned it to his hat like a cockade. Towards noon, it was the cicadas’ turn to stop. “Let’s sing,” they said; “the heat will overwhelm us if we struggle against the force of the day. It is so good to live in sweet repose!” Come, Gracious, we will cheer you up, and you will sing with us. “Let’s listen to them,” said Pensive, “they sing so well!” But Fidèle did not want to stop; he had fire in his veins, he barked so much and so much, that Gracious forgot the cicadas to run after the intruder. When evening came, Gracious met the honey bee laden with booty. “Where are you going?” he said to her. “I’m going home,” replied the bee, “and I don’t want to leave my hive. ” “What!” resumed Gracious, “hardworking as you are, are you going to do like the cicada and renounce your share of immortality? ” “Your castle is too far away,” replied the bee, “I don’t have your ambition. My daily work is enough for me, I understand nothing of your travels; for me, work is life.” Gracious was a little moved to have lost so many traveling companions on the first day ; but, thinking with what ease he had completed the first stage, his heart was filled with joy; he caressed Fidèle, caught some flies that Pensive took in her hand, and fell asleep full of hope, dreaming of his grandmother and the two fairies. Chapter 45. The next day, at dawn, Pensive warned her young master. “Let’s go,” she said. “Already the sea is whitening on the beach, the bird is singing, the fly is buzzing, the flower is opening to the sun; let’s go, it’s time. ” “Just a moment,” replied Fidèle; “the day is not long; before noon we will see the temples of Paestum, where we must stop this evening. ” “The ants are already on their way,” resumed Pensive: “the road is more difficult than yesterday and the weather heavier; let’s go.” Gracieux had seen his grandmother smiling at him in his dream; so he set out with a greater ardor than the day before. The day was splendid: to the right, the sea gently pushing its bluish waves and rolling them murmuring on the sand; to the left, in the distance, mountains edged with a pinkish hue; in the plain, tall grasses all dotted with flowers, a path planted with aloes, jujube trees and acanthus; opposite, a cloudless horizon. Graceful, ravished with pleasure and hope, believed himself already at the goal of the journey. Faithful leaped in the middle of the fields and put the frightened partridges to flight; Pensive lost herself in the sky and played with the light. Suddenly, in the middle of the reeds, Gracieux saw a beautiful doe looking at him with languid eyes, as if calling him. The child approached; the doe leaped, but without going far away . Three times she repeated the same routine, as if she were annoying Gracieux. “Let’s follow her,” said Fidèle; “I’ll cut her off, we’ll soon have her. ” “Where is Pensive?” said the child. “What does it matter, master?” replied Fidèle; “it’s a matter of a moment. Trust me, I was born for hunting; the doe is ours.” Gracieux didn’t need to be told twice; While Fidèle made a detour, he ran after the doe, which stopped between the trees, as if to be caught, and jumped as soon as the hunter’s hand touched it. Courage, master! cried Fidèle, flushing it out; but with a headbutt the doe threw the dog into the air and fled faster than the wind. Gracieux dashed after it; Fidèle, his eyes and mouth blazing, ran and barked like a madman; they crossed ditches, furrows, branches, without anything stopping their audacity. The tired doe lost ground; Gracieux redoubled his ardor, already stretching out his hand to seize his prey, when suddenly, the ground giving way under his feet, he rolled with his imprudent companion into a trap that had been covered with leaves. He had not yet recovered from his fall when the goat, approaching the edge, cried out to them: “You have been betrayed; I am the wife of the King of the Wolves, who will eat you both. ” Saying this, she disappeared. “Master,” said Fidèle, “the fairy was right in recommending you not to follow me; we have done something foolish, it is I who have lost you. ” “At least,” said Gracieux, “we will defend our lives.” And, taking his rifle, he loaded it with a double charge to await the King of the Wolves. Calmer then, he looked at the deep pit into which he had fallen; it was too high for him to get out; it was in this hole that he must receive his death. Fidèle understood his friend’s looks. “Master,” he said, “if you would take me in your arms and throw me with all your strength, perhaps I would reach the edge; once outside, I would help you. ” Gracieux did not have much hope. Three times he tried to push Fidèle, three times the poor animal fell back; finally, on the fourth effort, the dog caught hold of some roots, and helped himself so well with his mouth and paws, that he got out of this tomb. Immediately he pushed some cut branches that were at the edge into the pit: “Master,” he said, “stick these branches in the ground and make yourself a ladder. Hurry, hurry,” he added, “I hear the howls of the king of the wolves.” Gracieux was skillful and agile. Anger doubled his strength; in less than an instant he was outside. There, he secured his dagger in his belt, changed the cap of his rifle, and, placing himself behind a tree, he waited firmly for the enemy. Suddenly he heard a frightful cry: a horrible beast, with fangs as big as a wild boar’s tusks, was running towards him in enormous leaps; Gracieux aimed it with a moved hand and fired. The shot had landed, the animal spun around howling; but immediately it resumed its momentum. Reload your rifle, hurry, master, cried Fidèle, who threw himself courageously in the face of the monster, and took it by the neck with both teeth. The wolf had only to shake its head to throw the poor dog to the ground; it would have swallowed it in one bite, if Fidèle had not slipped into its mouth, leaving an ear there. It was Gracieux’s turn to save his companion; he advanced boldly and read his second shot, aiming at the shoulder. The wolf fell; but, getting up with a supreme effort, it threw himself upon the hunter, whom he knocked down beneath him. Upon receiving this terrible shock, Gracieux thought himself lost; but, without losing courage, and calling the good fairies to his aid, he took his dagger and plunged it into the heart of the animal, which, ready to devour its enemy, suddenly stretched out its limbs and died. Covered in blood and foam, Gracieux got up trembling and sat down on a fallen tree. Fidèle dragged himself near him without daring to caress him, for he felt how guilty he was. “Master,” he said, “what will become of us? Night is approaching, and we are so far from Paestum! ” “We must leave,” cried the child; and he got up; but he was so weak that he was obliged to sit down again. A burning thirst devoured him; he had a fever, everything was spinning around him. Then, thinking of his grandmother, he began to cry. To have forgotten so soon such beautiful promises and to die in this land from which one does not return, all for the beautiful eyes of a little goat: what remorse poor Gracieux felt! How sadly it ended, this day so well begun! Soon sinister howls were heard; it was the brothers of the king of the wolves who were calling him and running to his aid. Gracieux embraced Fidèle, he was his only friend; he forgave him an imprudence for which they were both going to pay with their lives; then he poured an ingot into his rifle, said his prayer to the good fairies, recommended his grandmother to them and prepared to die. “Gracieux! Gracieux! Where are you?” cried a little voice which could only be Pensive’s. And the swallow came, fluttering, to land on its master’s head. “Be of good cheer!” she said; The wolves are still far away. There is a spring nearby to quench your thirst and stop the bleeding from your wounds, and I saw in the grass a hidden path that can lead us to Paestum. Gracious and Fidel dragged themselves to the stream, trembling with fear and hope; then they set out on the covered path, a little revived by the sweet twittering of Pensive. The sun had set; they walked in the shadows for a few hours, and when the moon rose, they were out of danger. There remained a difficult and dangerous road for those who no longer had the ardor of the morning: marshes to cross, ditches to leap, thickets where one tore one’s face and hands; but, thinking that he could repair his fault and save his grandmother, Gracious’s heart was so light that with each step his strength redoubled with his hope. Finally, after a thousand fatigues, they arrived at Paestum as the stars were about to mark midnight. Gracious threw himself on a slab of the temple of Neptune, and, after thanking Pensive, he fell asleep with Fidèle at his feet, bruised, bleeding and silent. Chapter 46. The sleep was not long; Gracious was up before daybreak, which was still late. As he descended the steps of the temple, he saw the ants who had raised a heap of sand, and were burying there the grains of the new harvest. The whole republic was in motion. Each ant came and went, spoke to its neighbor, received or gave orders; strands of straw were dragged, small pieces of wood were carted, dead flies were carried away, provisions were piled up: it was a complete establishment for the winter. “What!” said Gracious to the ants, “are you no longer going to the Castle of Life? Are you renouncing immortality?” “We have worked enough,” one of the workers replied; “the day of the harvest has come. The road is long, the future uncertain, and we are rich. It is for fools to count on tomorrow, the wise man uses the present hour; when one has honestly gathered, true philosophy is to enjoy.” Fidele found that the ant was right; but, as he no longer dared to give advice, he contented himself with shaking his head as he left; Pensive, on the contrary, said that the ant was only selfish; if there was nothing to do in life but enjoyment, the butterfly was wiser than she. At the same time, and more lively than ever, Pensive flew off at full speed to light the way. Gracious walked in silence. Ashamed of the follies of the day before, although he regretted the little goat a little, he promised himself that, on the third day, nothing would divert him from his route. Faithful, with a torn ear, limped along behind his young master, and seemed no less dreamy than he. Towards noon they looked for a suitable place to stop for a few moments. The weather was less scorching than the day before; it seemed as if they had changed country and season. The road crossed meadows recently mown for the second time, or beautiful vineyards laden with grapes; It was lined with large fig trees covered in fruit, buzzing with thousands of insects; there were golden vapors on the horizon, the air was soft and warm; everything invited one to rest. In the most beautiful of the meadows, near a stream that spread freshness far and wide, in the shade of the plane and ash trees, Gracious saw a herd of buffaloes ruminating. Lying softly on the ground, they formed a circle around an old bull that seemed to be their leader and their king. Gracious approached civilly and was received with politeness. With a nod of the head, he was invited to sit down, and large bowls full of cheese and milk were shown to him. Our traveler admired the calm and gravity of these peaceful and powerful animals. They looked like Roman senators on their curule chairs. The gold ring they wore on their noses added to the majesty of their appearance. Gracious, who felt calmer and more settled than the day before, reflected in spite of himself that it would be good to live in the midst of this peace and abundance; if happiness was anywhere, it was undoubtedly there that it should be sought. Fidèle shared his master’s opinion. It was at the time when the quails pass over to Africa; the earth was covered with tired birds regaining their strength before crossing the sea. Fidèle had only to bend down to hunt like a prince; sated with game, he lay down at Gracious’s feet and began to snore. When the buffaloes had finished chewing their cud, Gracieux, who until then had feared being indiscreet, began a conversation with the bull, who showed a cultivated mind and had great experience. “Are you,” he asked him, “the masters of this rich domain? ” “No,” replied the old buffalo; We belong, like all the rest, to the fairy Crapaudine, queen of the Vermilion Towers, the richest of all the fairies. “What does she require of you?” Gracieux continued. “Nothing but to wear this gold ring on your nose, and to pay her a milk tax,” the bull continued; “at most, to give her from time to time one of our children to regale her guests. At this price we enjoy our abundance in perfect security; also we have nothing to envy on earth; there is no one happier than we. ” “Have you never heard of the Castle of Life and the Fountain of Immortality?” Gracieux said timidly, who, without knowing why, blushed to ask this question. “Among our fathers,” replied the bull, “there were some ancients who still spoke of these chimeras; Wiser than our ancestors, we know today that there is no other happiness than to ruminate and sleep. Gracious got up sadly to set off again and asked what those square, reddish towers were that he saw in the distance.
“They are the Vermilion Towers,” replied the bull; “they block the road; you must pass by the castle of Crapaudine to continue your journey. You will see the fairy, my young friend, she will offer you hospitality and fortune. Do as your predecessors did, believe me; all accepted the blessings of our mistress, all were glad to renounce their dreams to live happily. “And what became of them?” asked Gracious. “They became buffaloes like us, ” the bull calmly continued, not having finished his nap, lowered his head and fell asleep. Gracious started and woke Fidèle, who only got up grumbling. He called Pensive; Pensive did not answer: she was talking with a spider who had spread between two ash branches a large web that shone in the sun and was full of midges. “Why,” said the spider to the swallow, “why this long journey? What is the use of changing climate and waiting for your life from the sun, the weather, or a master? Look at me, I depend on no one and get everything from myself.” I am my mistress, I enjoy my art and my genius: it is to me that I bring the world back, nothing can disturb either my calculations or a happiness that I owe only to myself. Three times Gracious called Pensive who did not hear him; she was in admiration before her new friend. At each moment some giddy midge threw itself into the web, and each time the spider, like an attentive hostess, offered the new prey to its astonished companion, when suddenly a breath passed, a breath so light that the swallow’s feather was not even touched. Pensive looked for the spider; the web was thrown to the winds, and the poor creature was hanging by one leg from its last thread, when a bird carried it off as it passed. Chapter 47. Once again on the march, they arrived in silence at Crapaudine’s palace; Gracious was ushered in with great ceremony by two handsome greyhounds caparisoned in purple and wearing large necklaces sparkling with rubies around their necks. After passing through a great many rooms filled with paintings, statues, gold and silk fabrics, and chests overflowing with money and jewels, Gracious and his companions entered a round temple which was Crapaudine’s salon. The walls were of lapis lazuli; the vault, of azure enamel, was supported by twelve fluted columns of solid gold, which bore for capitals acanthus leaves in white enamel edged with gold. On a large velvet armchair was placed a toad as big as a rabbit: it was the goddess of the place. Draped in a large scarlet cloak edged with dazzling sequins, the amiable Toad had on her head a ruby diadem whose brilliance slightly enlivened her large cheeks marbled with yellow and green. As soon as she saw Gracieux, she held out her four fingers covered in rings; the poor boy was obliged, out of respect, to raise them to his lips while bowing. “My friend,” said the fairy to him in a hoarse voice that she tried to soften, “I was waiting for you, I do not want to be less generous to you than my sisters have been. In coming to me, you have seen a small part of my riches. This palace with its paintings, its statues, its chests full of gold, these immense domains, these innumerable herds, all this is yours, if you wish; it is up to you to be the richest and happiest of men.” “What must be done for that?” asked Gracieux, quite moved. “Less than nothing,” replied the fairy: “chop me into fifty pieces and eat me with gusto. That’s not a frightening thing,” she added with a smile; and, looking at Gracieux with eyes even redder than usual, Crapaudine began to drool pleasantly. “Can we at least season you?” said Pensive, who had not been able to look at the fairy’s beautiful gardens without envy. “No,” said Crapaudine, “you must eat me raw; but you can walk around my palace, look at and touch all my treasures, and tell yourself that by giving me this proof of devotion you will have everything. ” “Master,” sighed Fidèle in a supplicating voice, “a little courage, we are so comfortable here!” Pensive said nothing, but her silence was a confession. As for Gracieux, who was thinking of the buffaloes and the golden ring, was wary of the fairy; Crapaudine guessed it. “Don’t think,” she said to him, “that I want to deceive you, my dear Gracieux. In offering you all that I possess, I also ask you for a service that I want to worthily reward. When you have accomplished the work I propose, I will become a young girl, beautiful as Venus, except that I will still have my toad’s hands and feet. That’s not much when you are rich. Already ten princes, twenty marquises, thirty counts beg me to marry them as I am; once I become a woman, it is to you that I will give preference, we will enjoy my immense fortune together. Do not blush at your poverty, you have on you a treasure that is worth all mine: it is the bottle that my sister gave you,” and she stretched out her slimy fingers to grasp the talisman. “Never,” cried Gracieux, stepping back, “never! I want neither rest nor fortune; I want to get out of here and go to the Castle of Life. ” “You will never go, wretch!” cried the fairy in a fury. Immediately the temple disappeared; a circle of flames surrounded Gracieux, an invisible clock began to strike midnight. At the first stroke, the traveler shuddered; at the second, and without hesitation, he threw himself headlong into the midst of the flames. To die for his grandmother, was that not for Gracieux the only way to show her his repentance and his love? Chapter 48. To Gracieux’s surprise, the fire moved away without touching him; he suddenly found himself in a new country with his two companions beside him. This country was no longer Italy; it was Russia, it was the end of the earth. Gracieux was lost on a mountain covered with snow. Around him he saw only large trees covered in frost, dripping water from all their branches; a damp, penetrating fog chilled him to the bone; the sodden earth sank beneath his feet; to add insult to injury, he had to descend a steep slope at the bottom of which a torrent could be heard crashing noisily against the rocks. Gracious took his dagger and cut a tree branch to support his uncertain steps. Fidèle, with her tail between her legs, barked weakly; Pensive never left her master’s shoulder ; her bristling feathers were covered with little icicles. The poor creature was half dead, but it encouraged Gracieux and did not complain. When, after endless trouble, they reached the bottom of the mountain, Gracieux found a river covered with enormous icicles that clashed against each other and swirled in the current. This river had to be crossed, without a bridge, without a boat, without help. “Master,” said Fidèle, “I will go no further. Cursed be the fairy who put me at your service and pulled me from nothingness! ” Having said this, he lay down on the ground and did not move; Gracieux tried in vain to give him courage, and called him his companion and his friend. All the poor dog could do was to respond one last time to his master’s caresses by wagging his tail and licking his hands; then his limbs stiffened, he expired. Gracieux put Fidèle on his back to carry him to the Castle of Life, and resolutely climbed onto an ice floe, still followed by Pensive. With his stick he pushed this frail raft to the middle of the current, which carried him away with frightful speed. “Master,” said Pensive, “do you hear the sound of the sea?” We are going to the abyss that will devour us! Give me one last caress, and farewell! “No,” said Gracieux; “why should the fairies have deceived me? Perhaps the shore is near here; perhaps above the cloud there is the sun. Rise, rise, my good Pensive, perhaps above the fog you will find the light and see the Castle of Life.” Pensive spread her half-frozen wings, and courageously she rose amidst the cold and the mist. Gracieux followed the noise for a moment. of its flight; then silence fell, while the ice floe continued its furious course through the night. Gracious waited for a long time; but, finally, when he felt alone, hope abandoned him; he lay down to await death on the tottering ice floe. Sometimes a livid flash pierced the cloud; horrible claps of thunder were heard: it seemed like the end of the world and of time. Suddenly, in his despair and abandonment, Gracious heard the cry of the swallow: Pensive fell at his feet. “Master, master,” she said, “you were right; I saw the shore, the dawn is up there: courage! ” Saying this, she convulsively opened her exhausted wings and remained motionless and lifeless. Gracious, who had jumped up, placed on his heart the poor bird that had sacrificed itself for him, and, with superhuman ardor, he pushed the ice floe forward to finally find salvation or destruction. Suddenly he recognized the sound of the sea rushing in, roaring. He fell to his knees and closed his eyes, waiting for death. A wave as high as a mountain crashed down on his head and threw him unconscious onto the shore where no living thing had landed before him. Chapter 49. When Gracious regained his senses, there was no longer any ice, no clouds, no darkness: he had run aground on the sand in a smiling country, where the trees were bathed in pure light. In front of him was a beautiful castle from which a gushing spring flowed, gushing into a blue sea, calm, transparent, like the sky. Gracious looked around him; He was alone, alone with the remains of his two friends, whom the tide had carried to the shore. Tired of so much suffering and emotion, he dragged himself to the stream, and, leaning over the waves to refresh his parched lips, he recoiled in fear. It was not his face that he had seen in the water, it was that of an old man with white hair who resembled him. He turned around… behind him there was no one… He approached the fountain: he saw the old man again, or, rather, there was no doubt, the old man was him. Great fairies, he cried, I understand you; it is my life that you wanted for that of my grandmother, I accept the sacrifice with joy! And, without worrying any longer about his old age and his wrinkles, he plunged his head into the waves and drank greedily. When he got up, he was astonished to see himself as he had been the day he had left his father’s house: younger, his hair blacker, his eyes brighter than ever. He picked up his hat, which had fallen near the spring and had been accidentally touched by a drop of water. Oh surprise! The butterfly he had attached to it was flapping its wings and trying to fly away. Gracious ran to the beach to pick up Fidèle and Pensive; he plunged them into the blessed fountain. Pensive escaped with a cry of joy and went to lose herself in the attic of the castle. Fidèle, shaking the water from her two ears, ran to the palace stables, from which came out magnificent guard dogs who, instead of barking and jumping after the newcomer, made him happy and welcomed him like an old friend. It was the fountain of immortality that Gracieux had finally found, or rather it was the stream that flowed from it, a stream already very weakened, and which gave at most two or three hundred years of life to those who drank from it; but nothing prevented him from starting again. Gracieux filled his flask with this beneficial water and approached the palace. His heart pounded, for he had one last test left; so close to succeeding, one fears much more to fail. He climbed the steps of the castle; everything was closed and silent; there was no one to receive the traveler. When he was at the last step, about to knock at the door, a voice rather gentle than severe stopped him. “Did you love?” said the invisible voice. “Yes,” replied Gracieux; “I loved my grandmother more than anything in the world. The door opened so that someone could have put their hand through it. “Have you suffered for the one you loved?” the voice continued. “I have suffered,” said Gracieux, “much through my own fault, no doubt, but a little for the one I want to save.” The door opened halfway, and the child saw an infinite perspective: woods, waters, a sky more beautiful than anything he had dreamed of. “Have you always done your duty?” the voice continued in a harsher tone. “Alas! no,” Gracieux continued, falling to his knees; “but when I failed, I was punished by my remorse even more than by the harsh trials I went through. Forgive me, and if I have not yet atoned for all my faults, punish me as I deserve; but save what I love, keep my grandmother for me.” At once the door flew open without Gracieux seeing anyone. Drunk with joy, he entered a courtyard surrounded by arches adorned with foliage; in the middle was a jet of water issuing from a clump of flowers more beautiful, larger, more fragrant than those of the earth. Near the spring was a woman dressed in white, of noble figure, and who did not appear to be more than forty years old; she walked to meet Gracieux and received him with such a sweet smile that the child felt touched to the bottom of his heart and tears came to his eyes. “Do you not recognize me?” said the lady to Gracieux. “Oh, grandmother, is it you?” he cried. “How are you at the Castle of Life? ” “My child,” she said to him, pressing him to her breast, “the one who brought me here is a fairy more powerful than the fairies of the waters and the woods. I will not return to Salerno; I receive here the reward of the little good I have done, by tasting a happiness that time will not dry up. “And me, grandmother,” cried Gracieux, “what will become of me? After seeing you here, how can I return there to solitude? ” “Dear son,” she replied, “one can no longer live on earth when one has glimpsed the celestial delights of this dwelling. You have lived, my good Gracieux; life has nothing more to teach you. Happier than I, you crossed in four days this desert where I languished for eighty years: henceforth nothing can separate us.” The door closed; since then, neither Gracieux nor his grandmother has ever been heard of . It was in vain that the King of Naples searched for the enchanted palace and fountain in Calabria ; they were never found on earth. But, if we understood the language of the stars, if we felt what they tell us, each evening, pouring their sweet rays upon us, they would have taught us long ago where the Castle of Life and the Fountain of Immortality are. Chapter 50. Nunziata had finished her story when I was still listening to her; I admired those eyes where a naive faith shone in the wonders that her mother had recited to her; I followed the gesture of those little hands that seemed to paint men and things. “Well! Excellency,” the fisherman called to me, “you say nothing? The marchesina has charmed you as she has charmed so many others. It is also that these are not tales; we will show you the house of Gracieux in Salerno. ” “That is good, patron,” I replied, a little ashamed of having amused myself with such fables. The child tells a pleasant story, and, to thank her, as soon as we are on land, I want to buy her an ivory rosary with large silver beads. She blushed with pleasure, I kissed her, which made her blush even more, while the father looked at me and turned towards his companions eyes shining with joy. “Tomorrow,” he said, “tomorrow, if you allow it, Excellency, she will tell you an even more beautiful story, one that will make you laugh and cry. The next day, we were going from Almalfi to Salerno, and Nunziata… But this is a secret that I will keep for next year, if the tale of Gracious didn’t bore the reader too much. We hope these ‘New Blue Tales’ by Édouard Laboulaye have enchanted and inspired you. Each story is an invitation to reflection, reminding us of the importance of humility, humanity, and wisdom. Thank you for listening, and don’t forget to subscribe for more fascinating stories. See you soon on Audiobooks.