"Not that way, Monsieur Gaspard. Never look rogues1 in the face if you can see their backs, and perhaps old Babette has news."
Caution was wisest, and I followed him upstream. Five minutes' delay could matter little to Solignac, and Babette's curiosity might be trusted to have kept her informed of Jan Meert's doings. But we drew the copse blank, though we hunted through it, crying her name cautiously, there was no answer. To me silence was assurance. Jan Meert and his fellow-rogues had left the chateau2, having done their worst, and the way was clear. No doubt we would find her waiting helplessly before the ruin wrought3 by the Hollander, for she, too, loved Solignac. The wonder was we had not already heard her outcry.
"Come," said I, driving Roland through the bushes.
"Better leave the horses behind," advised Martin.
But I would not.
"No," I answered curtly4. "If Jan Meert is yonder we shall need their legs; if not, why leave them?"
The time, be it remembered, was the verge5 of summer, almost summer itself, with the foliage6 full and green, so it was not until the trees thinned that I got my first sight of Solignac, a grey bulk of weather-beaten stone between the columns of the oaks and pines. But it was only when we had fairly cleared the wood that it dawned upon me what and how much I owed the Hollander.
Through Martin's message, delivered at a time when no man likes to be interrupted—for I talked with Brigitta in the shade, Roland's bridle7 hooked over my arm—there had been a covert8 satisfaction that blunted its edge. My recollection of what passed there differed from Martin's.
"Come, Monsieur Gaspard," said he, his sour look turned not on me, but on the girl, "Solignac's a-fire, and there's a man's work to do."
"Solignac a-fire?" Not only I, but Brigitta echoed the words. As she said them she laid her hands on my shoulders with a little high-pitched laugh that set my heart beating even more than did the touch. The peasant girl could feel as keenly as any fine lady, though of fine ladies I knew nothing. My own thought was that Martin coined some clumsy excuse to draw me home, anywhere away from Brigitta, whom he hated malignantly9, as only a narrow peasant can hate. So I added, joining in the laugh, "Let who lit the fire put it out, and go thou and help him."
"That's not Jan Meert's way," answered Martin, his voice rougher than I had heard it since I had grown a man. "Come Monsieur Gaspard, come for God's sake. You can find a face of brass10 any hour, but there's only one Solignac."
"Is it serious?"
"Is Jan Meert serious? Is the devil serious? Solignac is hell, I tell you, hell to-day, and Jan Meert its devil."
Even then, being, thank God, a man of no imagination, I did not understand, and though we rode fast enough—too fast to please Martin—it was the gallop11 that warmed my blood and not rage against Jan Meert. Understand! How could I understand? How could any man understand who has not seen the like? But now, as we broke the last cover, I cried I do not know what curse, and spurred Roland forward at a pace that cared never a jot12 whether or no the devil Jan Meert had quitted that smoking hell of his own making. What three hundred grim adventurous13 years had failed to do three hours had done, and the house of my fathers was a hollow wreck14. The walls still stood sheer, even Jan Meert's malignancy had not strength to thrust stone from stone, but the hewn mullions that divided the Norman windows were cracked with fire, and from every blackened casement15 smoke blew out in little vicious puffs16 as the great heat within poured up and out where once the roof had been. There was neither flash nor glow of flame, no cataract17 of fire, no roar of life swelling18 in destruction, nothing but the sullen19, steady flooding upwards20 of the reek21. Solignac was already dead, stripped and stretched on its funeral pyre, and the smoke of its ashes cried to God for vengeance22.
Martin, riding at my elbow, was speechless, but I could hear him whimpering and whinging under his breath, as if a rough finger on a new wound fretted23 him. To me, almost a peasant, as he had said, the sight was a new one; but Martin had been my father's squire25 in wars south, east, and west, and had seen both sack and siege. Then it was a matter of course that the pride of ten generations should dissolve in one hour's smoke and men and women go homeless, a thing to be borne philosophically26 being the loss of others; but this was Solignac, this was the birth-house of us both, and the cradle of his master's race, and though he spoke27 no words, I knew well that every choked fret24 in the throat was a curse that language could not match for expression or better for force.
Round the north-west of the smoking house we dashed, our horses' mouths frothing even in that short furlong; round to the grey fa?ade where stood the great door flush with the huge stone pillars from which it hung.
"Babette!" I called out as we pulled up, "Babette! Babette! Where are you, Babette?"
"Jan Meert!" cried Martin. "Lord God! Give me Jan Meert! What matters Babette? There are a thousand Babettes, a thousand, but only one Solignac, and—heavens of grace! See there!"
I saw, but because I saw, I answered nothing. Babette? At the sight of Jan Meert's work I had forgotten Babette even while her name was on my lips. I would not give a fig28 for the patriotism29 of the man who does not hold his father's house dearer even than his country. In it every stick and stone is sacred, hallowed not alone by many a tradition, but by a thousand personal memories. Since the Lord God had taken my mother to Himself Solignac had been the one dearest thing in life, and behind the door that hung fretting30 on wrenched31 hinges Solignac lay in profanation32, its great square hall a heaped mass of reeking33 filth34. Not much was visible, but through the reeling uprights there showed a suggestion of charred35 beams, rent furnishings, and half-burnt tapestry36 strewn and scattered37 through with rubble38 from the upper walls; no! not much, but enough! How ruthless would be the destruction, how irreparable the ruin, when a casual clouded glance through sluggish39 smoke could tell so vile40 a tale!
Dismounting, we knotted our reins41 together and turned the horses loose. Blown as they were, they might be trusted not to stray, nor, so soundless was Solignac, its silence broken only by the crackle of fire or the rasp of wood on wood as the wreckage42 settled down, was there need to provide a way of escape. Jan Meert was no longer to be feared. He had done his worst, and moved on to other mischief43.
At the threshold we paused, striving to measure that worst and failing miserably44. It was like death, and who, in the first numbness45 of his sorrow, can weigh death in a balance to appraise46 the loss, or reckon up the sum of its significance? The method of devastation47 we could understand, but not the measure of its effects, and the thoroughness, the grim malignancy of the method appalled48 me.
It was Martin who first made the process clear. As I have said, he had seen war, and much of what was hidden from my ignorance was plain to his experience.
"See, Monsieur Gaspard," said he, as we stood beneath the lintel, and the sullen heat, acrid50 with the smell of smouldering wood, puffed51 and eddied52 into our faces. He was frankly53 weeping now, but, as I believe, unconsciously, his tears half grief, half rage at his helplessness. "See with what a system and to what an end these devils went to work. Not to burn Solignac, but to gut54 it beyond use was their object. Good and well if it burned, but to destroy was the chief thought. What have you done to Jan Meert that he should do this thing to Solignac? If there was a debt it's paid and the reckoning is due on our side now. They must have fired the house at a score of places; a score? two, three score, but not to burn. Look how it is always the same; the ends of the beams have gone, and then, pouf! down came the floor, down came the middle walls, down came the roof, beam upon beam, rafter on rafter, tearing the plaster and the copings with them till the very weight of all choked the fire to a smoulder and a smoke. But what mattered that! There is nothing left of Solignac but sheer walls, with here and there a splintered spear of wood thrust out for the bats to swing from, and that's what they worked for."
"In three hours?" said I helplessly; "three hours or four; how could that be?"
"What Jan Meert does not know at such work no man knows. A smear55 of fiery56 stuff here, a smear there, a touch under this beam, a touch under that; the furnishings piled to the middle of the floor for weight, the wood dry with the the dryness of three hundred years—but what does it matter how he did it; there it is."
Yes, there it was, and neither guesswork nor cry of the heart could make the disaster less complete, or lighten the weight of the blow. Three hundred years of tradition, three hundred years of life and death, man's honour and woman's pureness, mother's love and child's reverence57, all ended, as it were, in a breath, ended by a brutal58 rogue's undeserved, unnatural59, and unprofitable violence. Such an end to such a place was as horrible as a wolf's rending60 out the life of an innocent babe.
The heat was less than would have been supposed from such a pyramid of smoking stuff, and, Martin leading by a foot or two, we crossed the threshold. God! What a sight it was! Solignac was no mean house, and there upon the flags lay not alone the roof, but the ruin of two floors heaped in a pile whose ragged61 crests62 almost overtopped the jutting63 points of the nearer joists. Beams, rafters, marble panelling, roof tiles, rubble, rough-hewn masonry64 that had not seen the light for ten generations, all flung together in an inextricable confusion that beggars words. But whenever I hear it said that the glory of this world perisheth, and my mind gropes for a picture of the last and awful day of the Lord when the elements shall melt in fervent65 heat, back there comes a vision of that sheer and naked shaft66 crammed67 high with formless ruin, its blackened walls hung here or there with tattered68 curtain-ends, the shredded69 gauds and remnants of our pride, and over all a heavy pall49 of smoke whose acrid vapours stank70 smarting in the nostrils71. Over all? No, not quite. At times the drifted reek eddied aside, and through the rift72 God's clear blue shone down.
Martin had entered a foot or two in advance, and that position he still held, one arm thrust out and behind in the unconscious attitude of protection. Suddenly I felt his hand shake with a jump, and his fingers, still unconsciously, closed on my breast, pressing me back.
"We have seen enough, Monsieur Gaspard," said he, looking vaguely73 round, "this thing hurts; why—why—stay any longer?"
Why indeed, seeing that I was beginning to understand, and every sharp rasp of the disordered timbers as they settled down was the galling74 of a wound, every smouldering glow of the grudging75 fire an eye of derision? Only because his very touch was a warning, and that day was Gaspard Hellewyl's second day of birth.
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1
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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2
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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3
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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8
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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malignantly
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| 怀恶意地； 恶毒地； 有害地； 恶性地 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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11
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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12
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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14
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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15
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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16
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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17
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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19
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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20
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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21
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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22
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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23
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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25
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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26
philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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27
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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28
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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29
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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30
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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31
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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32
profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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33
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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34
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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35
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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36
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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37
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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38
rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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39
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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40
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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41
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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42
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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43
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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44
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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45
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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46
appraise
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| v.估价，评价，鉴定 | |
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47
devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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48
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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49
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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50
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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51
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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52
eddied
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| 起漩涡，旋转( eddy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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54
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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55
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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56
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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57
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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58
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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59
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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60
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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61
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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62
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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63
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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64
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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65
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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66
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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67
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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68
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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69
shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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70
stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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71
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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72
rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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73
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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74
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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75
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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