Hugh Lamb - The Invisible Eye - Tales of Terror by Emile Erckmann and Louis Alexandre Chatrian

‘After all,’ he said, ‘the burgomaster may have been ugly and dirty; that proves nothing against me.’

‘Are you any relation of his?’ asked the hostess in surprise.

‘I! I never even saw him. I only made the remark some are ugly, some good-looking; and if one happens to have one’s nose in the middle of one’s face, like your burgomaster, it does not prove any likeness to him.’

‘Oh no,’ said the gossip, ‘you have no family resemblance to him whatever.’

‘Moreover,’ my comrade added, ‘I am not by any means a miser, which proves I cannot be your burgomaster. Let us have two more bottles of your best wine.’

The hostess disappeared, and I profited by this opportunity to warn Hippel not to enter upon topics which might betray his incognito.

‘What do you take me for, Ludwig?’ cried he in a rage. ‘You know I am no more the burgomaster than you are, and the proof of it is my papers are perfectly regular.’

He pulled out his passport. The landlady came in.

‘Madame,’ said he, ‘did your burgomaster in any way resemble this description?’

He read out: ‘Forehead, medium height; nose, large; lips, thick; eyes, grey; figure, full; hair, brown.’

‘Very nearly,’ said the dame, ‘except that the burgomaster was bald.’

Hippel ran his hand through his hair, and exclaimed: ‘The burgomaster was bald, and no one dare to say I am bald.’

The hostess thought he was mad, but as he rose and paid the bill she made no further remark.

When we reached the door Hippel turned to me and said abruptly: ‘Let us be off!’

‘One moment, my friend,’ I replied; ‘you must first take me to the cemetery where the burgomaster lies.’

‘No!’ he exclaimed – ‘no, never! do you want to see me in Satan’s clutches? I stand upon my own tombstone! It is against every law in nature. Ludwig, you cannot mean it?’

‘Be calm, Hippel!’ I replied. ‘At this moment you are under the influence of invisible powers; they have enveloped you in meshes so light and transparent that one cannot see them. You must make an effort to burst them; you must release the burgomaster’s spirit, and that can only be accomplished upon his tomb. Would you steal this poor spirit? It would be a flagrant robbery, and I know your scrupulous delicacy too well to suppose you capable of such infamy.’

These unanswerable arguments settled the matter.

‘Well, then, yes,’ said he, ‘I must summon up courage to trample on those remains, a heavy part of which I bear about me. God grant I may not be accused of such a theft! Follow me, Ludwig; I will lead you to the grave.’

He walked on with rapid steps, carrying his hat in his hand, his hair in disorder, waving his arms about, and taking long strides, like some unhappy wretch about to commit a last act of desperation, and exciting himself not to fail in his attempt.

We first passed along several lanes, then crossed the bridge of a mill, the wheel of which was gyrating in a sheet of foam; then we followed a path which crossed a field, and at last we arrived at a high wall behind the village, covered with moss and clematis; it was the cemetery.

In one corner was the ossuary, in the other a cottage surrounded by a small garden.

Hippel rushed into the room; there he found the gravedigger, all along the walls were crowns of immortelles. The gravedigger was carving a cross, and he was so occupied with his work that he got up quite alarmed when Hippel appeared. My comrade fixed his eyes upon him so sternly that he must have been frightened, for during some seconds he remained quite confounded.

‘My good man,’ I began, ‘will you show us the burgomaster’s grave?’

‘No need of that,’ cried Hippel; ‘I know it.’

Without waiting for us he opened the door which led into the cemetery, and set off running like a madman, springing over the graves and exclaiming: ‘There it is; there! Here we are!’

He must evidently have been possessed by an evil spirit, for in his course he threw down a cross crowned with roses – a cross on the grave of a little child!

The gravedigger and I followed him slowly.

The cemetery was large; weeds, thick and dark-green in colour, grew three feet above the soil. Cypresses dragged their long foliage along the ground; but what struck me most at first was a trellis set up against the wall, and covered with a magnificent vine so loaded with fruit that the bunches of grapes were growing one over the other.

As we went along I remarked to the gravedigger; ‘You have a vine there which ought to bring you in something.’

‘Oh, sir,’ he began in a whining tone, ‘that vine does not produce me much. No one will buy my grapes; what comes from the dead returns to the dead.’

I looked the man steadily in the face. He had a false air about him, and a diabolical grin contracted his lips and his cheeks. I did not believe what he said.

We now stood before the burgomaster’s grave. Opposite there was the stem of an enormous vine, looking very like a boa-constrictor. Its roots, no doubt, penetrated to the coffins, and disputed their prey with the worms. Moreover, its grapes were of a red violet colour, while the others were white, very slightly tinged with pink. Hippel leaned against the vine, and seemed calmer.

‘You do not eat these grapes yourself,’ said I to the gravedigger, ‘but you sell them.’

He grew pale, and shook his head in dissent.

‘You sell them at Welcke, and I can tell you the name of the inn where the wine from them is drunk – it is The Fleur de Lis.’

The gravedigger trembled in every limb.

Hippel seized the wretch by the throat, and had it not been for me he would have torn him to pieces.

‘Scoundrel!’ he exclaimed, ‘you have been the cause of my drinking the quintessence of the burgomaster, and I have lost my own personal identity.’

But all on a sudden a bright idea struck him. He turned towards the wall in the attitude of the celebrated Brabançon Männe-Kempis.

‘God be praised!’ said he, as he returned to me, ‘I have restored the burgomaster’s spirit to the earth. I feel enormously relieved.’

An hour later we were on our road again, and my friend Hippel had quite recovered his natural gaiety.

At the death of my worthy uncle, Christian Haas, mayor of Lauterbach, I was already music conductor to the Grand Duke Yeri Peter, and I had fifteen hundred florins as salary. That did not prevent me from being in very low water. Uncle Christian, well aware of my position, never sent me a penny, so I cannot help shedding a few tears in learning his posthumous generosity. I inherited from him, alas!… two hundred and fifty acres of good plough-land, vineyards, orchards, a bit of forest, and his fine mansion of Lauterbach.

‘Dear uncle,’ I said to myself with much feeling, ‘now I see the extent of your wisdom, and glorify you for keeping your purse-strings tied up. If you had sent me any money, where would it be now? In the hands of the Philistines! Little Kate Fresserine alone could have given any news about it. But now, by your caution, you have saved the situation. All honour to you, dear Uncle Christian!… All honour to you!’

And having said all this and much more, not less touching or less sincere, I set off on horseback for Lauterbach, It was very odd! The demon of avarice, with whom I never had any dealings, almost made himself master of my soul.

‘Kasper,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘now you’re a rich man. Up to the present you have only pursued vain phantoms. Love and pleasure and the arts are only smoke. A man must be mad to think anything of glory. There is no solidity about anything except lands, houses, and money out on first mortgages. Give up your illusions! Push forward your fences, widen your fields, heap up your money, and you will be honoured and respected. You will become mayor like your uncle, and the people, when you approach, will take off their hats a mile away, saying, “Here comes Herr Kasper Haas … the rich man … the warmest gentleman in the country!”’