LITMIR.BIZ

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presented himself before the burgomaster, Pétrus Mauerer, who had just finished his supper and was having a glass of Kirsch to help his digestion.

      The burgomaster, tall and wiry, with his upper lip covered with a huge grey moustache, had in days gone by served in the armies of the arch-duke Charles. His was a bantering disposition, he had the village under his thumb, it was said, and ruled it with a rod of iron.

      ‘Mr Burgomaster!’ exclaimed the shepherd.

      But Pétrus Mauerer, without waiting for the end of his speech, frowned and said to him: ‘Kasper Boeck, start by removing your hat, remove your dog from the room, and then speak clearly, intelligibly, without stammering, so that I can understand you.’

      Kasper took out his dog and returned with his hat off.

      ‘Ah well!’ said Pétrus, seeing him silent. ‘What’s going on?’

      ‘What’s going on is that the “ghost” has appeared again in the ruins of Geierstein!’

      ‘Ah! I suspected it. Did you get a good look at it?’

      ‘Very good, Mr Burgomaster.’

      ‘Without shutting your eyes?’

      ‘Yes, Mr Burgomaster. I had my eyes wide open. It was a fine moonlit night.’

      ‘What shape did it have?’

      ‘That of a small man.’

      ‘Good!’ And turning towards a glass door on his left, ‘Katel!’ the burgomaster shouted.

      An old female servant half-opened the door.

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘I am going to take a walk on the hill. You will wait for me till ten o’clock. Here is the key.’

      ‘Yes, master.’

      Then the old soldier took down a gun from above the door, checked its priming, and slung it across his shoulder; then addressing Kasper Boeck: ‘You will alert the constable to meet me in the small holly bush lane behind the mill,’ he said. ‘Your “ghost” must be some marauder … but if it turns out to be a fox, I will have myself a magnificent hat with long flaps made of it.’

      Mauerer and the humble Kasper went out. The weather was splendid, the stars clear and innumerable. While the shepherd went and knocked at the constable’s door, the burgomaster disappeared up a small lane of alder trees, which wound its way behind the old church. Two minutes later Kasper and the constable Hans Goerner, a pistol at his hip, ran to join Master Pétrus in the holly-lined lane. The three of them proceeded together to the ruins of Geierstein.

      These ruins, situated some twenty minutes from the village, seemed quite insignificant; they were some pieces of dilapidated walls, four to six feet high, which stretched out in the midst of the heather. Archaeologists call them the aqueducts of Seranus, the Roman camp of the Holderlock, or the remains of Théodoric, according to their whim. The only thing which was really remarkable in these ruins was the stairway of a chamber hewn from the rock.

      In a manner contrary to spiral stairs, instead of concentric circles narrowing at each step, the spiral of this one got wider, so that the bottom of the cistern was three times wider than the entrance. Was it a whim of architecture, or rather some other reason which gave rise to this bizarre structure? Little does it matter! The fact is that there resulted from it in the cistern this vague roaring such as can be heard by pressing a seashell to one’s ear, and that one can hear the steps of the travellers on the gravel, the stirring of the air, the rustling of the leaves, and even the distant words of those passing along at the foot of the hill.

      And so our three characters climbed the little path, between the vines and the kitchen-gardens of Hirchwiller.

      ‘I can see nothing,’ said the burgomaster, raising his nose mockingly.

      ‘Nor I,’ repeated the constable, imitating the tone of the other.

      ‘It is in the hole,’ murmured the shepherd.

      ‘We shall see, we shall see,’ took up the burgomaster.

      Thus it was that after a quarter of an hour they arrived at the entrance to the chamber. The night was bright, clear, and perfectly calm. As far as the eye could see the moon outlined nocturnal landscapes of bluish lines, studded with slender trees, whose shadows seem sketched in black pencil. The heather and the broom in blossom perfumed the air with their sharp smell and the frogs of a neighbouring pool sang their full-throated chorus, interrupted with silences. But all these details escaped our fine countrymen. Their sole thoughts were of catching the ‘spirit’.

      When they reached the stair, all three stopped and listened, then looked into the darkness. Nothing appeared, nothing stirred.

      ‘Confound it,’ said the burgomaster. ‘We have forgotten to bring a candle. You go down, Kasper, you know the way better than me. I’ll follow.’

      At this suggestion the shepherd stepped back suddenly. If left to his own devices the poor man would have taken flight. His woeful countenance made the burgomaster burst out laughing.

      ‘Ah well, Hans, since he doesn’t want to go down, you show me the way,’ he said to the constable.

      ‘But, master burgomaster,’ said the latter, ‘you are well aware that there are steps missing. We would risk breaking our necks!’

      ‘Well then, what are we to do?’

      ‘Yes, what are we to do?’

      ‘Send your dog,’ resumed Pétrus.

      The shepherd whistled for his dog, showed him the stairs, urged him down; but he was no more willing than the rest to try his luck.

      At that moment a bright idea struck the constable.

      ‘Hey, Mr Burgomaster,’ he said. ‘If you were to fire a shot into it …’

      ‘Indeed,’ exclaimed the other, ‘you are right. One will see clearly, at least.’

      And without hesitation the good fellow approached the stair, levelling his gun.

      But because of the acoustic effect described earlier, the ‘spirit’, the marauder, the individual, who was actually in the chamber, had heard everything. The idea of being shot at didn’t appeal to him, for in a piercing, high-pitched voice he shouted out: ‘Stop! Don’t shoot! I’m coming up!’

      Then the three dignitaries looked at each other, chuckling, and the burgomaster, leaning forward again into the opening, exclaimed in a coarse voice: ‘Hurry up, you rogue, or I’ll shoot! Hurry up!’

      He cocked his gun. The click appeared to hasten the ascent of the mysterious character. Stones could be heard rolling. However it took another minute before he appeared, the chamber being over sixty feet deep.

      What was this man doing in the midst of such darkness? He must be some great criminal! Thus at least thought Pétrus Mauerer and his assistants.

      At last a vague shape emerged from the shadow, then slowly a small man, four and a half feet tall at the most, thin, in rags, his face wizened and yellow, his eyes sparkling like those of a magpie and his hair untidy, came out shouting: ‘What right have you to come and trouble my studies, you wretches?’

      This grandiloquence hardly matched his clothes and his appearance, so the indignant burgomaster replied: ‘Try and show some respect, you rogue, or I’ll start by giving you a thrashing.’

      ‘A thrashing!’ said the little man, hopping with anger and standing right under the burgomaster’s nose.

      ‘Yes,’ resumed the former, who couldn’t help but admire the courage of the pygmy, ‘if you don’t answer satisfactorily the questions that I am going to put to you. I am the burgomaster of Hirchwiller, here is the village constable and the shepherd with his dog. We are stronger than you … be sensible and tell me who you are, what you are doing here, and why you don’t dare appear in broad daylight. Then we can

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