Martin Guerre

A >> Alexandre Dumas, Pere >> Martin Guerre

CELEBRATED CRIMES, COMPLETE

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, PERE

IN EIGHT VOLUMES



MARTIN GUERRE

We are sometimes astonished at the striking resemblance existing between
two persons who are absolute strangers to each other, but in fact it is
the opposite which ought to surprise us. Indeed, why should we not
rather admire a Creative Power so infinite in its variety that it never
ceases to produce entirely different combinations with precisely the same
elements? The more one considers this prodigious versatility of form,
the more overwhelming it appears.

To begin with, each nation has its own distinct and characteristic type,
separating it from other races of men. Thus there are the English,
Spanish, German, or Slavonic types; again, in each nation we find
families distinguished from each other by less general but still
well-pronounced features; and lastly, the individuals of each family,
differing again in more or less marked gradations. What a multitude of
physiognomies! What variety of impression from the innumerable stamps of
the human countenance! What millions of models and no copies!
Considering this ever changing spectacle, which ought to inspire us with
most astonishment--the perpetual difference of faces or the accidental
resemblance of a few individuals? Is it impossible that in the whole
wide world there should be found by chance two people whose features are
cast in one and the same mould? Certainly not; therefore that which
ought to surprise us is not that these duplicates exist here and there
upon the earth, but that they are to be met with in the same place, and
appear together before our eyes, little accustomed to see such
resemblances. From Amphitryon down to our own days, many fables have
owed their origin to this fact, and history also has provided a few
examples, such as the false Demetrius in Russia, the English Perkin
Warbeck, and several other celebrated impostors, whilst the story we now
present to our readers is no less curious and strange.

On the 10th of, August 1557, an inauspicious day in the history of
France, the roar of cannon was still heard at six in the evening in the
plains of St. Quentin; where the French army had just been destroyed by
the united troops of England and Spain, commanded by the famous Captain
Emanuel Philibert, Duke of Savoy. An utterly beaten infantry, the
Constable Montmorency and several generals taken prisoner, the Duke
d'Enghien mortally wounded, the flower of the nobility cut down like
grass,--such were the terrible results of a battle which plunged France
into mourning, and which would have been a blot on the reign of Henry II,
had not the Duke of Guise obtained a brilliant revenge the following
year.

In a little village less than a mile from the field of battle were to be
heard the groans of the wounded and dying, who had been carried thither
from the field of battle. The inhabitants had given up their houses to
be used as hospitals, and two or three barber surgeons went hither and
thither, hastily ordering operations which they left to their assistants,
and driving out fugitives who had contrived to accompany the wounded
under pretence of assisting friends or near relations. They had already
expelled a good number of these poor fellows, when, opening the door of a
small room, they found a soldier soaked in blood lying on a rough mat,
and another soldier apparently attending on him with the utmost care.

"Who are you?" said one of the surgeons to the sufferer. "I don't think
you belong to our French troops."

"Help!" cried the soldier, "only help me! and may God bless you for it!"

"From the colour of that tunic," remarked the other surgeon, "I should
wager the rascal belongs to some Spanish gentleman. By what blunder was
he brought here?"

"For pity's sake!" murmured the poor fellow, "I am in such pain."

"Die, wretch!" responded the last speaker, pushing him with his foot.
"Die, like the dog you are!"

But this brutality, answered as it was by an agonised groan, disgusted
the other surgeon.

"After all, he is a man, and a wounded man who implores help. Leave him
to me, Rene."

Rene went out grumbling, and the one who remained proceeded to examine
the wound. A terrible arquebus-shot had passed through the leg,
shattering the bone: amputation was absolutely necessary.

Before proceeding to the operation, the surgeon turned to the other
soldier, who had retired into the darkest corner of the room.

"And you, who may you be?" he asked.

The man replied by coming forward into the light: no other answer was
needed. He resembled his companion so closely that no one could doubt
they were brothers-twin brothers, probably. Both were above middle
height; both had olive-brown complexions, black eyes, hooked noses,
pointed chins, a slightly projecting lower lip; both were
round-shouldered, though this defect did not amount to disfigurement: the
whole personality suggested strength, and was not destitute of masculine
beauty. So strong a likeness is hardly ever seen; even their ages
appeared to agree, for one would not have supposed either to be more than
thirty-two; and the only difference noticeable, besides the pale
countenance of the wounded man, was that he was thin as compared with the
moderate fleshiness of the other, also that he had a large scar over the
right eyebrow.

"Look well after your brother's soul," said the surgeon to the soldier,
who remained standing; "if it is in no better case than his body, it is
much to be pitied."

"Is there no hope?" inquired the Sosia of the wounded man.

"The wound is too large and too deep," replied the man of science, "to be
cauterised with boiling oil, according to the ancient method. 'Delenda
est causa mali,' the source of evil must be destroyed, as says the
learned Ambrose Pare; I ought therefore 'secareferro,'--that is to say,
take off the leg. May God grant that he survive the operation!"

While seeking his instruments, he looked the supposed brother full in the
face, and added--

"But how is it that you are carrying muskets in opposing armies, for I
see that you belong to us, while this poor fellow wears Spanish uniform?"

"Oh, that would be a long story to tell," replied the soldier, shaking
his head. "As for me, I followed the career which was open to me, and
took service of my own free will under the banner of our lord king, Henry
II. This man, whom you rightly suppose to be my brother, was born in
Biscay, and became attached to the household of the Cardinal of Burgos,
and afterwards to the cardinal's brother, whom he was obliged to follow
to the war. I recognised him on the battle-field just as he fell; I
dragged him out of a heap of dead, and brought him here."

During his recital this individual's features betrayed considerable
agitation, but the surgeon did not heed it. Not finding some necessary
instruments, "My colleague," he exclaimed, "must have carried them off.
He constantly does this, out of jealousy of my reputation; but I will be
even with him yet! Such splendid instruments! They will almost work of
themselves, and are capable of imparting some skill even to him, dunce as
he is!... I shall be back in an hour or two; he must rest, sleep, have
nothing to excite him, nothing to inflame the wound; and when the
operation is well over, we shall see! May the Lord be gracious to him!"

Then he went to the door, leaving the poor wretch to the care of his
supposed brother.

"My God!" he added, shaking his head, "if he survive, it will be by the
help of a miracle."

Scarcely had he left the room, when the unwounded soldier carefully
examined the features of the wounded one.

"Yes," he murmured between his teeth, "they were right in saying that my
exact double was to be found in the hostile army. . . . Truly one
would not know us apart! . . . I might be surveying myself in a
mirror. I did well to look for him in the rear of the Spanish army, and,
thanks to the fellow who rolled him over so conveniently with that
arquebus-shot; I was able to escape the dangers of the melee by carrying
him out of it."

"But that's not all," he thought, still carefully studying the tortured
face of the unhappy sufferer; "it is not enough to have got out of that.
I have absolutely nothing in the world, no home, no resources. Beggar by
birth, adventurer by fortune, I have enlisted, and have consumed my pay;
I hoped for plunder, and here we are in full flight! What am I to do?
Go and drown myself? No, certainly a cannon-ball would be as good as
that. But can't I profit by this chance, and obtain a decent position by
turning to my own advantage this curious resemblance, and making some use
of this man whom Fate has thrown in my way, and who has but a short time
to live?"

Arguing thus, he bent over the prostrate man with a cynical laugh: one
might have thought he was Satan watching the departure of a soul too
utterly lost to escape him.

"Alas! alas!" cried the sufferer; "may God have mercy on me! I feel my
end is near."

"Bah! comrade, drive away these dismal thoughts. Your leg pains
you--well they will cut it off! Think only of the other one, and trust
in Providence!"

"Water, a drop of water, for Heaven's sake!" The sufferer was in a high
fever. The would-be nurse looked round and saw a jug of water, towards
which the dying man extended a trembling hand. A truly infernal idea
entered his mind. He poured some water into a gourd which hung from his
belt, held it to the lips of the wounded man, and then withdrew it.

"Oh! I thirst-that water! . . . For pity's sake, give me some!"

"Yes, but on one condition you must tell me your whole history."

"Yes . . . but give me water!"

His tormentor allowed him to swallow a mouthful, then overwhelmed him
with questions as to his family, his friends and fortune, and compelled
him to answer by keeping before his eyes the water which alone could
relieve the fever which devoured him. After this often interrupted
interrogation, the sufferer sank back exhausted, and almost insensible.
But, not yet satisfied, his companion conceived the idea of reviving him
with a few drops of brandy, which quickly brought back the fever, and
excited his brain sufficiently to enable him to answer fresh questions.
The doses of spirit were doubled several times, at the risk of ending the
unhappy man's days then and there: Almost delirious, his head feeling as
if on fire, his sufferings gave way to a feverish excitement, which took
him back to other places and other times: he began to recall the days of
his youth and the country where he lived. But his tongue was still
fettered by a kind of reserve: his secret thoughts, the private details
of his past life were not yet told, and it seemed as though he might die
at any moment. Time was passing, night already coming on, and it
occurred to the merciless questioner to profit by the gathering darkness.
By a few solemn words he aroused the religious feelings of the sufferer,
terrified him by speaking of the punishments of another life and the
flames of hell, until to the delirious fancy of the sick man he took the
form of a judge who could either deliver him to eternal damnation or open
the gates of heaven to him. At length, overwhelmed by a voice which
resounded in his ear like that of a minister of God, the dying man laid
bare his inmost soul before his tormentor, and made his last confession
to him.

Yet a few moments, and the executioner--he deserves no other name--hangs
over his victim, opens his tunic, seizes some papers and a few coins,
half draws his dagger, but thinks better of it; then, contemptuously
spurning the victim, as the other surgeon had done--

"I might kill you," he says, "but it would be a useless murder; it would
only be hastening your last Sigh by an hour or two, and advancing my
claims to your inheritance by the same space of time."

And he adds mockingly:--

"Farewell, my brother!"

The wounded soldier utters a feeble groan; the adventurer leaves the
room.

Four months later, a woman sat at the door of a house at one end of the
village of Artigues, near Rieux, and played with a child about nine or
ten years of age. Still young, she had the brown complexion of Southern
women, and her beautiful black hair fell in curls about her face. Her
flashing eyes occasionally betrayed hidden passions, concealed, however,
beneath an apparent indifference and lassitude, and her wasted form
seemed to acknowledge the existence of some secret grief. An observer
would have divined a shattered life, a withered happiness, a soul
grievously wounded.

Her dress was that of a wealthy peasant; and she wore one of the long
gowns with hanging sleeves which were in fashion in the sixteenth
century. The house in front of which she sat belonged to her, so also
the immense field which adjoined the garden. Her attention was divided
between the play of her son and the orders she was giving to an old
servant, when an exclamation from the child startled her.

"Mother!" he cried, "mother, there he is!"

She looked where the child pointed, and saw a young boy turning the
corner of the street.

"Yes," continued the child, "that is the lad who, when I was playing with
the other boys yesterday, called me all sorts of bad names."

"What sort of names, my child?"

"There was one I did not understand, but it must have been a very bad
one, for the other boys all pointed at me, and left me alone. He called
me--and he said it was only what his mother had told him--he called me a
wicked bastard!"

His mother's face became purple with indignation. "What!" she cried,
"they dared! . . . What an insult!"

"What does this bad word mean, mother?" asked the child, half frightened
by her anger. "Is that what they call poor children who have no father?"

His mother folded him in her arms. "Oh!" she continued, "it is an
infamous slander! These people never saw your father, they have only
been here six years, and this is the eighth since he went away, but this
is abominable! We were married in that church, we came at once to live
in this house, which was my marriage portion, and my poor Martin has
relations and friends here who will not allow his wife to be insulted--"

"Say rather, his widow," interrupted a solemn voice.

"Ah! uncle!" exclaimed the woman, turning towards an old man who had just
emerged from the house.

"Yes, Bertrande," continued the new-comer, "you must get reconciled to
the idea that my nephew has ceased to exist. I am sure he was not such a
fool as to have remained all this time without letting us hear from him.
He was not the fellow to go off at a tangent, on account of a domestic
quarrel which you have never vouchsafed to explain to me, and to retain
his anger during all these eight years! Where did he go? What did he
do? We none of us know, neither you nor I, nor anybody else. He is
assuredly dead, and lies in some graveyard far enough from here. May God
have mercy on his soul!"

Bertrande, weeping, made the sign of the cross, and bowed her head upon
her hands.

"Good-bye, Sanxi," said the uncle, tapping the child's,' cheek. Sanxi
turned sulkily away.

There was certainly nothing specially attractive about the uncle: he
belonged to a type which children instinctively dislike, false, crafty,
with squinting eyes which continually appeared to contradict his honeyed
tongue.

"Bertrande," he said, "your boy is like his father before him, and only
answers my kindness with rudeness."

"Forgive him," answered the mother; "he is very young, and does not
understand the respect due to his father's uncle. I will teach him
better things; he will soon learn that he ought to be grateful for the
care you have taken of his little property."

"No doubt, no doubt," said the uncle, trying hard to smile. "I will give
you a good account of it, for I shall only have to reckon with you two in
future. Come, my dear, believe me, your husband is really dead, and you
have sorrowed quite enough for a good-for-nothing fellow. Think no more
of him."

So saying, he departed, leaving the poor young woman a prey to the
saddest thoughts.

Bertrande de Rolls, naturally gifted with extreme sensibility, on which a
careful education had imposed due restraint, had barely completed her
twelfth year when she was married to Martin Guerre, a boy of about the
same age, such precocious unions being then not uncommon, especially in
the Southern provinces. They were generally settled by considerations of
family interest, assisted by the extremely early development habitual to
the climate. The young couple lived for a long time as brother and
sister, and Bertrande, thus early familiar with the idea of domestic
happiness, bestowed her whole affection on the youth whom she had been
taught to regard as her life's companion. He was the Alpha and Omega of
her existence; all her love, all her thoughts, were given to him, and
when their marriage was at length completed, the birth of a son seemed
only another link in the already long existing bond of union. But, as
many wise men have remarked, a uniform happiness, which only attaches
women more and more, has often upon men a precisely contrary effect, and
so it was with Martin Guerre. Of a lively and excitable temperament, he
wearied of a yoke which had been imposed so early, and, anxious to see
the world and enjoy some freedom, he one day took advantage of a domestic
difference, in which Bertrande owned herself to have been wrong, and left
his house and family. He was sought and awaited in vain. Bertrande
spent the first month in vainly expecting his return, then she betook
herself to prayer; but Heaven appeared deaf to her supplications, the
truant returned not. She wished to go in search of him, but the world is
wide, and no single trace remained to guide her. What torture for a
tender heart! What suffering for a soul thirsting for love! What
sleepless nights! What restless vigils! Years passed thus; her son was
growing up, yet not a word reached her from the man she loved so much.
She spoke often of him to the uncomprehending child, she sought to
discover his features in those of her boy, but though she endeavoured to
concentrate her whole affection on her son, she realised that there is
suffering which maternal love cannot console, and tears which it cannot
dry. Consumed by the strength of the sorrow which ever dwelt in her
heart, the poor woman was slowly wasting, worn out by the regrets of the
past, the vain desires of the present, and the dreary prospect of the
future. And now she had been openly insulted, her feelings as a mother
wounded to the quirk; and her husband's uncle, instead of defending and
consoling her, could give only cold counsel and unsympathetic words!

Pierre Guerre, indeed, was simply a thorough egotist. In his youth he
had been charged with usury; no one knew by what means he had become
rich, for the little drapery trade which he called his profession did not
appear to be very profitable.

After his nephew's departure it seemed only natural that he should pose
as the family guardian, and he applied himself to the task of increasing
the little income, but without considering himself bound to give any
account to Bertrande. So, once persuaded that Martin was no more, he was
apparently not unwilling to prolong a situation so much to his own
advantage.

Night was fast coming on; in the dim twilight distant objects became
confused and indistinct. It was the end of autumn, that melancholy
season which suggests so many gloomy thoughts and recalls so many
blighted hopes. The child had gone into the house. Bertrande, still
sitting at the door, resting her forehead on her hand, thought sadly of
her uncle's words; recalling in imagination the past scenes which they
suggested, the time of their childhood, when, married so young, they were
as yet only playmates, prefacing the graver duties of life by innocent
pleasures; then of the love which grew with their increasing age; then of
how this love became altered, changing on her side into passion, on his
into indifference. She tried to recollect him as he had been on the eve
of his departure, young and handsome, carrying his head high, coming home
from a fatiguing hunt and sitting by his son's cradle; and then also she
remembered bitterly the jealous suspicions she had conceived, the anger
with which she had allowed them to escape her, the consequent quarrel,
followed by the disappearance of her offended husband, and the eight
succeeding years of solitude and mourning. She wept over his desertion;
over the desolation of her life, seeing around her only indifferent or
selfish people, and caring only to live for her child's sake, who gave
her at least a shadowy reflection of the husband she had lost.
"Lost--yes, lost for ever!" she said to herself, sighing, and looking
again at the fields whence she had so often seen him coming at this same
twilight hour, returning to his home for the evening meal. She cast a
wandering eye on the distant hills, which showed a black outline against
a yet fiery western sky, then let it fall on a little grove of olive
trees planted on the farther side of the brook which skirted her
dwelling. Everything was calm; approaching night brought silence along
with darkness: it was exactly what she saw every evening, but to leave
which required always an effort.

She rose to re-enter the house, when her attention was caught by a
movement amongst the trees. For a moment she thought she was mistaken,
but the branches again rustled, then parted asunder, and the form of a
man appeared on the other side of the brook. Terrified, Bertrande tried
to scream, but not a sound escaped her lips; her voice seemed paralyzed
by terror, as in an evil dream. And she almost thought it was a dream,
for notwithstanding the dark shadows cast around this indistinct
semblance, she seemed to recognise features once dear to her. Had her
bitter reveries ended by making her the victim of a hallucination? She
thought her brain was giving way, and sank on her knees to pray for help.
But the figure remained; it stood motionless, with folded arms, silently
gazing at her! Then she thought of witchcraft, of evil demons, and
superstitious as every one was in those days, she kissed a crucifix which
hung from her neck, and fell fainting on the ground. With one spring the
phantom crossed the brook and stood beside her.

"Bertrande!" it said in a voice of emotion. She raised her head, uttered
a piercing cry, and was clasped in her husband's arms.

The whole village became aware of this event that same evening. The
neighbours crowded round Bertrande's door, Martin's friends and relations
naturally wishing to see him after this miraculous reappearance, while
those who had never known him desired no less to gratify their curiosity;
so that the hero of the little drama, instead of remaining quietly at
home with his wife, was obliged to exhibit himself publicly in a
neighbouring barn. His four sisters burst through the crowd and fell on
his neck weeping; his uncle examined him doubtfully at first, then
extended his arms. Everybody recognised him, beginning with the old
servant Margherite, who had been with the young couple ever since their
wedding-day. People observed only that a riper age had strengthened his
features, and given more character to his countenance and more
development to his powerful figure; also that he had a scar over the
right eyebrow, and that he limped slightly. These were the marks of
wounds he had received, he said; which now no longer troubled him. He
appeared anxious to return to his wife and child, but the crowd insisted
on hearing the story of his adventures during his voluntary absence, and
he was obliged to satisfy them. Eight years ago, he said, the desire to
see more of the world had gained an irresistible mastery over him; he
yielded to it, and departed secretly. A natural longing took him to his
birthplace in Biscay, where he had seen his surviving relatives. There
he met the Cardinal of Burgos, who took him into his service, promising
him profit, hard knocks to give and take, and plenty of adventure. Some
time after, he left the cardinal's household for that of his brother,
who, much against his will, compelled him to follow him to the war and
bear arms against the French. Thus he found himself on the Spanish side
on the day of St. Quentin, and received a terrible gun-shot wound in the
leg. Being carried into a house a an adjoining village, he fell into the
hands of a surgeon, who insisted that the leg must be amputated
immediately, but who left him for a moment, and never returned. Then he
encountered a good old woman, who dressed his wound and nursed him night
and day. So that in a few weeks he recovered, and was able to set out
for Artigues, too thankful to return to his house and land, still more to
his wife and child, and fully resolved never to leave them again.

Having ended his story, he shook hands with his still wondering
neighbours, addressing by name some who had been very young when he left,
and who, hearing their names, came forward now as grown men, hardly
recognisable, but much pleased at being remembered. He returned his
sisters' carresses, begged his uncle's forgiveness for the trouble he had
given in his boyhood, recalling with mirth the various corrections
received. He mentioned also an Augustinian monk who had taught him to
read, and another reverend father, a Capuchin, whose irregular conduct
had caused much scandal in the neighbourhood. In short, notwithstanding
his prolonged absence, he seemed to have a perfect recollection of
places, persons, and things. The good people overwhelmed him with
congratulations, vying with one another in praising him for having the
good sense to come home, and in describing the grief and the perfect
virtue of his Bertrande. Emotion was excited, many wept, and several
bottles from Martin Guerre's cellar were emptied. At length the assembly
dispersed, uttering many exclamations about the extraordinary chances of
Fate, and retired to their own homes, excited, astonished, and gratified,
with the one exception of old Pierre Guerre, who had been struck by an
unsatisfactory remark made by his nephew, and who dreamed all night about
the chances of pecuniary loss augured by the latter's return.