Ninety-Three. Victor Hugo

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      The Marquis questioned the man.

      "So it is all one to you, whatever happens?"

      "Pretty much. It is for you who are lords to look out for that sort of business."

      "But then, what is going on now, for instance—"

      "It is all going on over my head."

      The beggar added—

      "Besides, there are things happening still higher; the sun rises, the moon waxes and wanes. That is the kind of thing that interests me."

      He took a swallow from the jug and said—

      "Good fresh water!"

      Then he continued—

      "How do you like this water, my lord?"

      "What is your name?" asked the Marquis.

      "My name is Tellmarch, but they call me the Caimand."

      "I understand. Caimand is a local word."

      "Which means beggar. I am also called Le Vieux."

      He went on—

      "I have been called Le Vieux for forty years."

      "Forty years! But you must have been young then!"

      "I was never young. You are young still, Marquis. You have the legs of a man of twenty; you can climb the great dune, while I can hardly walk. A quarter of a mile tires me out. Yet we are of the same age; but the rich have an advantage over us—they eat every day. Eating keeps up one's strength."

      After a silence the beggar went on:—

      "Wealth and poverty—there's the mischief; it seems to me that that is the cause of all these catastrophes. The poor want to be rich, and the rich do not want to become poor. I think that is at the bottom of it all, but I do not trouble myself about such matters; let come what may, I am neither for the creditor nor for the debtor. I know that there is a debt, and somebody is paying it; that is all. I would rather they had not killed the king, and yet I hardly know why. And then one says to me, 'Think how they used to hang people for nothing at all! Think of it! For a miserable shot fired at one of the king's deer, I once saw a man hung: he had a wife and seven children.' There is something to be said on both sides."

      He was silent again, then resumed:—

      "Of course you understand. I do not pretend to know just how matters stand; men go to and fro, changes take place, while I live beneath the stars."

      Again Tellmarch became thoughtful, then went on:—

      "I know something of bone-setting and medicine. I am familiar with herbs and the use of plants; the peasants see me preoccupied for no apparent reason, and so I pass for a wizard. Because I dream, they think that I am wise."

      "Do you belong to the neighborhood?" asked the Marquis.

      "I have never left it."

      "Do you know me?"

      "Certainly. The last time I saw you, you were passing through this part of the country on your way to England; that was two years ago. Just now I saw a man on the top of the dune—a tall man. Tall men are not common hereabouts; Brittany is a country of short men. I looked more closely; I had read the notice, and I said to myself, 'See here!' And when you came down, the moon was up and I recognized you."

      "But I do not know you,"

      "You have looked at me, but you never saw me." And Tellmarch the Caimand added—

      "I saw you. The passer-by and the beggar look with different eyes."

      "Have I ever met you before?"

      "Often, for I am your beggar. I used to beg on the road, below your castle. Sometimes you gave me alms; he who gives takes no notice, but he who receives looks anxiously and observes well. A beggar is a born spy. But though I am often sad, I try not to be a malicious spy. I used to hold out my hand, and you saw nothing but that, into which you threw the alms that I needed in the morning to keep me from dying of hunger at night. Frequently I went twenty-four hours without food. Sometimes a penny means life itself. I am paying you now for the life I owe you."

      "True, you are saving my life."

      "Yes, I am saving your life, monseigneur."

      The voice of Tellmarch grew solemn:—

      "On one condition."

      "What is that?"

      "That you have not come here to do harm."

      "I have come here to do good."

      "Let us sleep," said the beggar.

      They lay down side by side on the bed of sea-weed. The beggar dropped to sleep at once. The Marquis, although much fatigued, remained awake for some time, thinking and watching his companion in the darkness; finally he lay back. Lying upon the bed was equivalent to lying on the earth, and he took advantage of this to put his ear to the ground and listen. He could hear a hollow subterranean rumbling. It is a fact that sound is transmitted into the bowels of the earth; he could hear the ringing of the bells.

      The tocsin continued.

      The Marquis fell asleep.

      V.

      WHEN HE AWOKE IT WAS DAYLIGHT.

      The beggar was standing up—not in his den, for it was impossible to stand erect there, but outside on the threshold. He was leaning on his staff, and the sunshine fell upon his face.

      "Monseigneur," said Tellmarch, "it has just struck four from the belfry of Tanis. I heard it strike—therefore the wind has changed; it comes from the land, and as I heard no other sound the tocsin must have ceased. All is quiet at the farm and in the village of Herbe-en-Pail. The Blues are either sleeping or gone. The worst of the danger is over; it will be prudent for us to separate. This is my time for going out."

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