The Bagpipers

by George Sand

I wanted to find the spot where the muleteers had disappeared leading Huriel and carrying Malzac, but try as I would, I had been so confused in mind just then that I could not recall it. So I was forced to advance haphazard, and I marched in that way all night,—weary enough, as you may suppose, stopping often to listen, and hearing nothing but the owls hooting in the branches, or some poor hare who was more afraid of me than I of him.

Though the Chambérat wood was really at that time joined to those of Alleu, I did not know it, having only entered it once since coming to that part of the country. I soon got lost; which did not trouble me, however, because I knew that neither wood was extensive enough to reach to Rome. Besides, the Head-Woodsman had already taught me to take my bearings, not by the stars, which are not always to be seen in a forest, but by the bend of the leading branches, which, in our midland provinces, are lashed by north-westerly winds and lean permanently toward the east.

The night was very clear, and so warm that if I had not been goaded by worry of mind and fatigued in body, I should have enjoyed the walk. It was not moonlight, but the stars shone in a cloudless sky, and I saw my way quite plainly even under the foliage. I was much improved in courage since the time when I was so frightened in the little forest of Saint-Chartier; for, although I knew I was going wrong, I felt as easy as if on our own roads, and when I saw that the animals ran away from me, I had no anxiety at all. I began to see how it was that these covered glades, these brooks murmuring in the ravines, the soft herbage, the sandy paths, and the trees of splendid growth and lofty pride made this region dear to those who belonged to it. There were certain large wild-flowers the name of which I did not know, something like a foxglove, white with yellow spots, the perfume of which was so keen and delicious that I could almost have fancied myself in a garden.

Keeping steadily toward the west, I struck the heath and skirted the edge of it, listening and looking about me. But I saw no signs of human beings, and about daybreak I began to return toward the lodges without finding Thérence or anybody else. I had had enough of it, and seeing that I could not make myself useful, I tried a short cut through the woods, where, in a very wild place, beneath a large oak, I saw something which seemed to me a person. Day was beginning to light up the bushes, and I walked noiselessly forward till I recognized the brown garment of the Carmelite friar. The poor man, whom in my heart I had suspected, was virtuously and devoutly on his knees, saying his prayers without thought of evil.

I coughed as I approached, to let him know I was there and not to frighten him; but there was no need of that, for the monk was a worthy soul who feared none but God,—neither devil nor man. He raised his head and looked at me without surprise; then burying his face in his cowl he went on muttering his orisons, and I could see nothing but the end of his beard, which jerked up and down as he spoke, like that of a goat munching salt.

When he seemed to have finished, I bade him good-morning, hoping to get some news out of him, but he made me a sign to hold my tongue; then he rose, picked up his wallet, looked carefully at the place where he had been kneeling, and with his bare feet poked up the grass and levelled the sand he had disturbed; after which he led me to a little distance, and said in a muffled voice:—

"Inasmuch as you know all about it, I am not sorry to talk to you before I go on my way."

Finding he was inclined to talk, I took care not to question him, which might have made him mistrustful; but just as he was opening his mouth to speak, Huriel appeared, and seemed so surprised and even annoyed to see me that I was greatly embarrassed, as if I had in some way done wrong.

I must also remark that Huriel would probably have frightened me if I had met him alone in the gloom of the morning. He was more daubed with black than I had ever seen him, and a cloth bound round his head hid his hair and his forehead, so that all one saw of his face was his big eyes, which seemed sunken and as if they had lost their usual fire. In fact, he looked like his own spirit rather than his own body, and he glided gently upon the heather as if he feared to awaken even the crickets and the gnats which were asleep in it.

The monk was the first to speak; not as a man who accosts another, but as one who continues a conversation after a break in it.