LITMIR.BIZ

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that case, march,’ said the burgomaster, grasping him by the nape of the neck. ‘You’ll spend the night in prison.’

      The little man struggled but in vain. Completely exhausted, he said (not without some nobility), ‘Let me go, sir. I yield to force. I shall follow you.’

      The burgomaster, who wasn’t lacking in manners himself, became calmer in his turn.

      ‘Your word?’ he said.

      ‘My word!’

      ‘Fine … Quick march!’

      And that is how on the night of 29 July 1835 the burgomaster captured a small red-haired man, as he emerged from the cave of Geierstein.

      On their return to Hirchwiller, the vagabond was double-locked in, not forgetting the outside bolt and the padlock. Afterwards everyone went to recover from their exertions. Pétrus Mauerer, once in bed, pondered over this strange adventure till midnight.

      The next day, about nine o’clock, Hans Goerner, the constable, having received orders to bring the prisoner to the town-hall, so that he could undergo a new examination, went with four sturdy lads to the cell. They opened the door, quite curious to look at the will-o’-the-wisp. They saw him hanging by his tie from the bars of the skylight. Several say that he was still kicking … others that he was already stiff. Whichever it was, someone ran off to get Pétrus Mauerer, to inform him of the fact. What is certain is that at the arrival of the latter, the little man had breathed his last.

      The magistrate and the doctor of Hirchwiller drew up a formal report of the catastrophe. The unknown man was buried and all was settled.

      Now about three weeks after these events, I went to see my cousin Pétrus Mauerer. I am his closest relative and, consequently, his heir. This circumstance maintains an intimate relationship between us. We were dining together, chatting of this and that, when the burgomaster told me the little story as I have just related it.

      ‘It’s strange, cousin,’ I said to him, ‘really strange. And you have no other information on this unknown man?’

      ‘None.’

      ‘Have you found anything that could put you on the track of his intentions?’

      ‘Absolutely nothing, Christian.’

      ‘But after all, what could he have been doing in the chamber? What was he living on?’

      The burgomaster shrugged his shoulders, filled our glasses, and answered me: ‘Your health, cousin.’

      ‘And yours.’

      We remained silent for some moments. It was impossible for me to accept the sudden end of the adventure. In spite of myself I gloomily pondered over the sad fate of certain men who appear and disappear in this world, like the grass in the fields, without leaving the slightest memory or the slightest regret.

      ‘Cousin,’ I resumed, ‘how long would it take from here to the ruins of Geierstein?’

      ‘Twenty minutes at the most. Why?’

      ‘Because I would like to see them.’

      ‘You know that today we have a meeting of the town council and I cannot accompany you.’

      ‘Oh! I shall be able to find them on my own.’

      ‘No, the constable shall show you the way, he has nothing better to do.’ My dear cousin called his servant.

      ‘Katel, get Hans Goerner … make him hurry up … It’s two o’clock. I must go.’

      The servant went out and the constable wasn’t long in coming. He received orders to guide me to the ruins.

      While the burgomaster was making his way solemnly to the council chamber, we were already going up the hill. Hans Goerner pointed out the remains of the aqueduct. At this point the rocky ridges of the plateau, the bluish distances of the Hundsrück, the dismal dilapidated walls, covered in a dark ivy, the tolling of the bell of Hirchwiller, summoning the dignitaries to the meeting, the constable panting, clinging to the brushwood … took on in my eyes a sad, harsh hue. It was the story of this poor hanged man which stained the horizon.

      The stairway to the chamber appeared very strange, its spiral elegant. The prickly bushes in the clefts of each step, the deserted appearance of the surroundings, all were in harmony with my sadness. We descended. Soon the bright point of the opening which seemed to grow narrower and narrower and to assume the form of a star with curved rays, alone sent us its pale light.

      When we reached the bottom of the chamber what a superb view awaited us of those stairs lit up underneath, throwing their shadows with wonderful regularity. Then I heard the buzzing which Pétrus had told me about; the huge granite conch had as many echoes as stones!

      ‘Since the little man, has anyone come down here?’ I asked the constable.

      ‘No, sir. The peasants are afraid. They think that the hanged man will return.’

      ‘And you?’

      ‘Me, I’m not curious.’

      ‘But the magistrate … his duty was …’

      ‘Humph! What would he be doing in the “Owl’s Ear”?’

      ‘They call this the Owl’s Ear?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘It is almost that,’ I said, looking up. ‘This inverted vault forms the outer ear very well, the underneath part of the steps represents the drum, and the bends of the stairway the cochlea, the labyrinth and the opening of the ear. That then explains the murmuring that we can hear: we are at the bottom of a colossal ear.’

      ‘That is very possible,’ said Hans Goerner, who seemed to understand nothing of my observations.

      We were on our way back up. I had already taken the first steps when I felt something snap beneath my foot. I bent down to see what it could be and I noticed at the same time a white object in front of me. It was a sheet of torn paper. As for the hard matter that had been pulverized, I recognized a sort of pot made of glazed stoneware.

      ‘Ho! Ho!’ I said to myself, ‘this will be able to throw some light on the burgomaster’s story for us.’

      And I joined Hans Goerner, who was by now waiting for me at the kerb of the cistern.

      ‘Now, sir,’ he shouted to me, ‘where would you like to go?’

      ‘First of all let us sit down a little, we shall see presently.’

      And I found a place on a large stone, while the constable let his hawk-like eyes gaze all around the village, to discover marauders in the gardens, if there were any.

      I carefully examined the stoneware vessel, of which no more than a fragment remained. This fragment took the shape of a funnel, lined with down on the inside. It was impossible for me to make out its purpose. Next I read the piece of paper, which was written on in a very steady hand. I transcribe it here according to the text. It seems to be a continuation of another sheet, for which I have since searched in the vicinity of the ruin, but in vain.

      My ‘microeartrumpet’ has therefore the double advantage of multiplying ad infinitum the intensity of sounds, and of being able to fit the ear, which in no way impedes the observer. You cannot imagine, my dear master, the charm that one feels on hearing these thousands of imperceptible sounds which, on fine summer days, blend into one mighty buzzing. The bee has his song like the nightingale, the wasp is the warbler of the mosses, the cicada is the lark of the tall grasses, in this the mite is the wren – it has only a sigh, but this sigh is melodious!

      This discovery which, from the sentimental point of view, makes us live the life of universal nature, surpasses in its importance all that I could say about it.

      After so many sufferings, privations, and worries how happy it is in the end to gather the rewards of our labours! With what leaps the soul rises up to the divine

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