Short Fiction

moments I shall so shortly lose forever.” Wishing to make the most of this good resolve, at that instant I leaned forward so as to throw myself courageously into the breach, and I made that clacking noise, which has been used from time immemorial to urge on horses, but which it is quite impossible to describe in writing according to the rules of orthography.

gh! gh! gh!

and so I finished my ride with a gallop.

XXXIX

I was lifting my right foot, in order to get off, when I felt myself rather roughly struck on the shoulder. It would be untrue to say that I was not frightened by this accident, and this is a good opportunity to explain and prove to the reader, without incurring the reproach of vanity, how very difficult it would be for anybody but myself to undertake a journey like mine. Even if another traveller had a thousand times the means and power of observation that I have, could he reasonably expect to meet with adventures as striking and as numerous as those which happened to me in the space of four hours, and in which the finger of destiny was so clearly visible? If anyone doubts this, let him try and guess who it was that struck me.

In my first distress, not reflecting on my real position, I fancied that my horse had kicked me or crushed me against a tree. Heaven knows how many dismal thoughts passed through my mind in the short space of time occupied in turning my head so as to look into my room. As often happens when things seem most extraordinary the cause of my alarm was a very natural one. The same gust of wind which at the beginning of my journey had blown open my window and banged too my door as it passed, and part of which rustled amongst the curtains of my bed, had just re-entered my room, making a mighty bustle. It rudely flung open the door and rushed out of the window, pushing the casement against my shoulder, and that it was which gave me the alarm of which I have just spoken.

You will remember that it was that same gust of wind which invited me to leave my bed. The blow I now received was clearly an invitation to return thither, and I found myself at once compelled to accede to it.

How grand it is to be on a familiar footing with the night, the heavens, and the meteors, and to be in a position to benefit by their influence! Alas, the relations we are compelled to hold with men are much more dangerous.

How often have I been duped by my trust in them? Here I was about to say something on this point, in a note which I have suppressed, because it was longer than all the text put together, and would have ruined the just proportions of my journey, whose brevity is its greatest merit.

The Leper of the City of Aosta

The southern part of the city of Aosta is well-nigh forsaken, and appears to have been at no time very thickly inhabited. The tilled fields and green meadows are bounded on one side by the old ramparts thrown up by the Romans to shelter the city, and on the other by a few garden walls. This lonely spot is not, however, quite without interest to the traveller. Near the city gate are to be seen the ruins of an ancient castle, in which, according to popular tradition, in the fifteenth century, Count René of Chalans, goaded by the fury of jealousy, starved Marie of Braganza, his wife; and hence the name of Bramafan, “Hunger Cry,” which the people of the neighbourhood have conferred upon it. This tale, the authenticity of which is very questionable, inspires credulous and sensitive people with an interest in what is left of the building. Some hundred steps further on is a square tower, which leans against a part of the ancient walls, and is built of the marble with which they were formerly encased. This is called the “Tower of Terror,” it having long been believed to be haunted. The old women of Aosta remember very well how that, on dark nights, a tall woman in white came from it, holding a lamp in her hand.

About fifteen years ago, this tower was repaired, and enclosed by government authority as a retreat for a leper, who, while thus separated from society, might enjoy such solace as was compatible with his sad condition. The hospital of Saint Maurice was to supply him with food and clothing; and he was provided with a few articles of furniture, and such tools as he might require for the cultivation of his garden. There he had lived for some time, shut up in himself, and seeing no one except the priest, who came from time to time to minister to his spiritual wants, and the messenger, who brought his weekly provisions from the hospital. During the war of the Alps, in the year 1797, a military man, who chanced to be at Aosta, happened to pass by the leper’s garden, and had the curiosity to enter it through the half-open gate. He found there a man, simply clad, leaning against a tree, and buried in deep thought. On hearing the sound made by the officer in entering, he said in a sad tone, but without looking round:⁠—

“Who is there?⁠—what do you want of me?”

“Pardon a stranger,” replied the officer, “who has been tempted, by its pleasing appearance, to intrude himself into your garden, but who has no wish to disturb you.”

“Come no further,” answered the occupant of the tower, making a motion with his hand, “come no further; you are in the presence of an unfortunate man suffering from leprosy.”

“Whatever your misfortune may be,” answered the traveller, “I will not withdraw on that account. I have never fled from those in