Rigoberto Rodríguez Souquet: Un cuento de horror

Felipa no hacía otra cosa que quejarse, llorar y maldecir a todo lo largo del día y la noche. Los fantasmas se preguntaban si acaso no estaría embrujada la casa. 

Robert W. Chambers: Destiny

I came to the bridge which few may pass.

"Pass!" cried the keeper, but I laughed, saying, "There is time;" and he smiled and shut the gates.

To the bridge which few may pass came young and old. All were refused. Idly I stood and counted them, until, wearied of their noise and lamentations, I came again to the bridge which few may pass.

Those in the throng about the gates shrieked out, "He comes too late!" But I laughed, saying, "There is time."

"Pass!" cried the keeper as I entered; then smiled and shut the gates.

Horacio Quiroga: La mancha hiptálmica

-¿Qué tiene esa pared?

Levanté también la vista y miré. No había nada. La pared estaba lisa, fría y totalmente blanca. Sólo arriba, cerca del techo, estaba oscurecida por falta de luz.

Otro a su vez alzó los ojos y los mantuvo un momento inmóviles y bien abiertos, como cuando se desea decir algo que no se acierta a expresar.

-¿P... pared? -formuló al rato.

Esto sí; torpeza y sonambulismo de las ideas, cuánto es posible.

-No es nada -contesté-. Es la mancha hiptálmica.

-¿Mancha?

-...hiptálmica. La mancha hiptálmica. Éste es mi dormitorio. Mi mujer dormía de aquel lado... ¡Qué dolor de cabeza!... Bueno. Estábamos casados desde hacía siete meses y anteayer murió. ¿No es esto?... Es la mancha hiptálmica. Una noche mi mujer se despertó sobresaltada.

-¿Qué dices? -le pregunté inquieto.

-¡Qué sueño más raro! -me respondió, angustiada aún.

-¿Qué era?

-No sé, tampoco... Sé que era un drama; un asunto de drama... Una cosa oscura y honda... ¡Qué lástima!

-¡Trata de acordarte, por Dios! -la insté, vivamente interesado. Ustedes me conocen como hombre de teatro. . .

Mi mujer hizo un esfuerzo.

-No puedo... No me acuerdo más que del título: La mancha tele... hita... ¡hiptálmica! Y la cara atada con un pañuelo blanco.

-¿Qué? . . .

Antón Chéjov ( Антон Чехов ): НАДУЛ

Во время оно в Англии преступники, присуждённые к смертной казни, пользовались правом при жизни продавать свои трупы анатомам и физиологам. Вырученные таким образом деньги они отдавали своим семьям или же пропивали. Один из них, уличённый в ужасном преступлении, позвал к себе учёного медика и, вдоволь поторговавшись с ним, продал ему собственную особу за две гинеи. Но получивши деньги, он вдруг принялся хохотать…

— Чего вы смеётесь?! — удивился медик.

— Вы купили меня, как человека, который должен быть повешен,— сказал, хохоча, преступник,— но я надул вас! Я буду сожжён! Ха-ха!

José de la Colina: El Perdido

Tras arduas buscas un aviador lo percibió a la mitad del desierto, allá abajo, en la gran extensión de fulgurante arena y muy lejos del avión caído. En el viaje de retorno fue hundiéndose en un terco silencio, fijando la mirada en las nubes que pasaban como gigantescas ballenas espectrales tras la redonda ventanilla del avión del rescate. Se mantuvo indiferente a los flashes de los fotógrafos y a las preguntas de los reporteros, a las exclamaciones de sorpresa y de alegría de los amigos, a los abrazos de los hermanos y a los besos de la esposa y las caricias de los hijos. Tardó meses en adaptarse a la, como suele decirse, vida común y corriente, y a la ciudad, a la oficina, a la tertulia, a los partidos de fútbol vistos por la tele y al coito conyugal del sábado en la noche. Y todo, al parecer, iba bien, pero a veces, en la alta noche, salía del lecho procurando no despertar a la esposa, iba a la salita, se servía una copa de coñac, fumaba un lento cigarrillo y se enfrentaba al gran espejo de encima del trinchador para escudriñarse la mirada, y si aquella era su noche feliz veía surgir de sus ojos reflejados en el espejo un vasto, un silencioso, un soleado desierto, al que retornaba durante el tiempo de un parpadeo, y, así, en pijama, con la copa en la mano y el cigarrillo en los labios, tarareando mentalmente una vieja y querida cancioncilla, caminaba gozosamente sin rumbo y se perdía en el horizonte de infinita arena que se confundía con el horizonte de infinito cielo que era en realidad (¿en realidad?) el horizonte del infinito espejo.

Valerio Evangelisti: Fluidità corporea

1

Vi hanno mai detto “Guarda che faccia da delinquente”? Io me lo sono sentito dire tante volte che ho perso il conto, da quando una graffetta tiene ferma la mia effigie in un dossier criminale. Ciò che è paradossale è che, ora che sono morto, di me non è rimasta che la faccia, destinata a sopravvivere, per decenni se non per secoli, nella foto segnaletica che mi fece la polizia quando mi arrestò.

E per decenni o per secoli chiunque vedrà quella foto ripeterà: “Guarda che faccia da delinquente”.

2

Non aspiravo a questa semi-immortalità. Me la sono ritrovata addosso senza averla preventivata. Direte: è ciò che accade normalmente con le fotografie. Sì, però una foto segnaletica non è una rappresentazione oggettiva. Ti raffigura in un attimo della tua vita particolarmente drammatico.

Non c’è oggettività: se l’identikit è essere prigionieri della soggettività altrui, la foto segnaletica è l’essere prigionieri del proprio tormento e della propria umiliazione.

3.

Chissà dove sono finite le tante foto che mi fecero da ragazzo. Lì ero sempre sorridente. Fino ai 12 anni di età, io, Graham Young, intenerivo le vecchie signore e venivo coperto di complimenti. “Un cherubino biondo”, così mi chiamavano. Una delle meraviglie dell’angolo verde del Berkshire in cui ero cresciuto. Da parte mia, ero incuriosito da tutti. Pur senza avere malattie particolari, provavo difficoltà a muovere bene gli arti. Li sentivo estranei. Invece, chi avevo attorno sembrava avere sul corpo un dominio perfetto.

4.

Mi piaceva la gente. Proprio così. Come si muoveva, come agiva. Naturalmente, oggetto privilegiato della mia curiosità erano i miei familiari. Mi sentivo goffo, rispetto a loro. Ammiravo mio padre quando sedeva con disinvoltura in poltrona, le gambe accavallate e il giornale tra le mani. Ammiravo mia madre, mentre si muoveva con eleganza nella piccola cucina di casa nostra.

NON STARE SEMPRE IMPALATO A GUARDARMI, GRAHAM. GIOCA, FAI QUALCOSA.

5.

Soprattutto mi incantava la mia sorellina. Un batuffolo biondo, grazioso quanto me, ma molto più mobile. La pelle delle sue manine mi sembrava trasparente, e adoravo la motilità delle sue dita. Ci doveva essere un segreto dietro a tanta grazia. Non poteva trattarsi di un fattore meccanico. Quello lo possedevo anch’io. Doveva essere questione di fluidi, di composizione chimica.

6.

Lo constatavo soprattutto in Alex, il mio migliore amico. Agile, elastico, pronto al salto e alla corsa. Una sola volta lo vidi perdere la sua meravigliosa energia. Gli avevo fatto bere certa birra scadente, dimenticata in cantina. Fu la conferma che era la chimica a governare muscoli e nervi. Impadronirsi della chimica significava dominare il moto e la sua assenza.

STO MALE! NON RIESCO NEMMENO AD ALZARMI!

Algernon Blackwood: A Confession

The fog swirled slowly round him, driven by a heavy movement of its own, for of course there was no wind. It hung in poisonous thick coils and loops; it rose and sank; no light penetrated it directly from street lamp or motorcar, though here and there some big shop window shed a glimmering patch upon its ever-shifting curtain.

O’Reilly’s eyes ached and smarted with the incessant effort to see a foot beyond his face. The optic nerve grew tired, and sight, accordingly, less accurate. He coughed as he shuffled forward cautiously through the choking gloom. Only the stifled rumble of crawling traffic persuaded him he was in a crowded city at

all—this, and the vague outlines of groping figures, hugely magnified, emerging suddenly and disappearing again, as they fumbled along inch by inch towards uncertain destinations.

The figures, however, were human beings; they were real. That much he knew. He heard their muffled  voices, now close, now distant, strangely smothered always. He also heard the tapping of innumerable sticks, feeling for iron railings or the kerb. These phantom outlines represented living people. He was not alone.

It was the dread of finding himself quite alone that haunted him, for he was still unable to cross an open space without assistance. He had the physical strength, it was the mind that failed him.

Midway the panic terror might descend upon him, he would shake all over, his will dissolve, he would shriek for help, run wildly—into the traffic probably—or, as they called it in his North Ontario home, “throw a fit” in the street before advancing wheels. He was not yet entirely cured, although under ordinary conditions he was safe enough, as Dr. Henry had assured him.

When he left Regent’s Park by Tube an hour ago the air was clear, the November sun shone brightly, the pale blue sky was cloudless, and. The assumption that he could manage the journey across London Town alone was justified. The following day he was to leave for Brighton for the week of final convalescence: this little preliminary test of his powers on a bright November afternoon was all to the good. Doctor Henry furnished minute instructions: “You change at Piccadilly Circus—without leaving the underground station, mind—and get out at South Kensington. You know the address of your V.A.D. friend. Have your cup of tea with her, then come back the same way to Regent’s Park. Come back before dark—say six o’clock at latest. It’s better.” He had described exactly what turns to take after leaving the station, so many to the right, so many to the left; it was a little confusing, but the distance was short. “You can always ask. You can’t possibly go wrong.”

Félix J. Palma: El valiente anestesista

En una mañana de verano se encontraba un sastrecillo sentado frente a su mesa, cerca de la ventana; estaba de muy buen humor y cosía con entusiasmo. Por la calle subía una campesina pregonando:

-¡Buena mermelada vendo! ¡Buena mermelada vendo!

Al sastrecillo aquello le sonó a música celestial. Se asomó por la ventana y la llamó. La mujer subió las escaleras que conducían a casa del sastrecillo, llevan­do sus pesados cestos, y tuvo que sacarle y enseñarle cuantos tarros traía. El sastrecillo miró y remiró todos los tarros, metiendo en ellos las narices, tal vez tentado de introducir también un dedo, el índice, si no el pulgar, para extraerlo luego bien embadurnado de dulce e ir a posarlo sobre los labios de la mujer, respaldando el atrevimiento con una sonrisa de conquistador en decli­ve, porque el sastrecillo era un hombre, por mucho que viviera de las puntadas, y ningún hombre puede escapar a su condición, Elenita, ninguno.

Mejor que lo aprendas desde ya, cielo. Así sufrirás menos. No hay demasiada diferencia entre un hombre y una rata. Tal vez te cueste creerlo en un principio, por­que ellos, los muy ladinos, saben disimularlo. Nada más te conviertas en la hermosa muchachita que tus rasgos prometen te asediarán ejércitos de ellos, ocultando su naturaleza de sabandijas bajo sonrisas baratas y regalos caros. Pero una vez obtengan lo que quieren, compro­barás cómo los más se abandonarán a la inercia, y los menos ni se molestarán en seguir con la farsa aunque sea cansinamente, sino que se arrancarán la máscara y se mostrarán ante ti sin truco ni cartón, egoístas, insensi­bles, pero sobre todo infieles. Así que, de no ser esto un cuento infantil sino la vida misma, mi Elenita, el sastrecillo no podría resistirse a la tentación de comprobar si su atractivo continúa aún vigente, si todas esas canas no han hecho más que prestigiarlo y, después de todo, las caricias quincenales de su esposa no esconden, como viene sospechando de un tiempo a esta parte, ningún reyes de asco u obligación. Se untaría el índice, si no el pulgar, y así untado de albaricoque lo aproximaría a los labios de la vendedora, que lo acogería sin sorpresa, juguetona, involucrando la lengua, entregándose como en trance al eficaz lameteo, porque si esto fuese la vida y no un cuento para niños, Elenita, puedes estar segura de que la vendedora sería una jovencita orillada en los veintipocos, de esas que han aprendido a medrar a golpe de caderas y honduras de escote. Una lagarta de las que andan a la caza de hombres maduros con anillo que la rieguen con sabiduría y promesas y que, nada más reba­sar la puerta y sentir el cálido abrazo del lujo, el guiño del dinero allí donde mirase, habría echado mano de todos sus encantos para barrer cualquier remordimiento

que el hombre pudiese tener y convertirlo a golpe de pestaña en un títere del deseo, porque si esto fuera la vida lo único raro de la historia sería que la zorrita no vendiese enciclopedias ilustradas en vez de esa estúpida mermelada. 

Clark Ashton Smith: The Black Abbot of Puthuum

Let the grape yield for us its purple flame,

And rosy love put off its maidenhood:

By blackening moons, in lands without a name,

We slew the Incubus and all his brood.

-- Song of King Hoaraph's Bowmen

Zobal the archer and Cushara the pikebearer had poured many a libation to their friendship in the sanguine liquors of Yoros and the blood of the kingdom's enemies. In that long and lusty amity, broken only by such passing quarrels as concerned the division of a wine-skin or the apportioning of a wench, they had served amid the soldiery of King Hoaraph for a strenuous decade. Savage warfare and wild, fantastic hazard had been their lot. The renown of their valor had drawn upon them, ultimately, the honor of Hoaraph's attention, and he had assigned them for duty among the picked warriors that guarded his palace in Faraad. And sometimes the twain were sent together on such missions as required no common hardihood and no disputable fealty to the king.

Now, in company with the eunuch Simban, chief purveyor to Hoaraph's well-replenished harem, Zobal and Cushara had gone on a tedious journey through the tract known as Izdrel, which clove the western part of Yoros asunder with its rusty-colored wedge of desolation. The king had sent them to learn if haply there abode any verity in certain travelers' tales, which concerned a young maiden of celestial beauty who had been seen among the pastoral peoples beyond Izdrel. Simban bore at his girdle a bag of gold coins with which, if the girl's pulchritude should be in any wise commensurate with the renown thereof, he was empowered to bargain for her purchase. The king had deemed that Zobal and Cushara should form an escort equal to all contingencies: for Izdrel was a land reputedly free of robbers, or, indeed, of any human inhabitants. Men said, however, that malign goblins, tall as giants and humped like camels, had oftentimes beset the wayfarers through Izdrel, that fair but ill-meaning lamiae had lured them to an eldritch death. Simban, quaking corpulently in his saddle, rode with small willingness on that outward journey; but the archer and the pike bearer, full of wholesome skepticism, divided their bawdy jests between the timid eunuch and the elusive demons.

Without other mishap than the rupturing of a wine-skin from the force of the new vintage it contained, they came to the verdurous pasture-lands beyond that dreary desert. Here, in low valleys that held the middle meanderings of the river Vos, cattle and dromedaries were kept by a tribe of herders who sent biannual tribute to Hoaraph from their teeming droves. Simban and his companions found the girl, who dwelt with her grandmother in a village beside the Vos; and even the eunuch acknowledged that their journey was well rewarded.

Gerardo Deniz: Necroforia

Cuando Fulgencio, aún joven, murió de asco, Tomasa –la viuda- y sus pocos amigos, tan pobres como él, lo vistieron con su único traje y afrontaron la situación con realismo.

Las posibilidades tradicionales parecían escasas; al grado de que bastó un rato de conversación, entrecortada por hondos suspiros, para persuadir a todos de que sólo había una: el endeudamiento casi de por vida. Aun aparte de eventuales problemas de cementerio, los simples gastos de ataúd y traslado de Fulgencio serían ruinosos. Entonces decidieron preparar un café y pensar más despacio.

El proyecto de llevar el cadáver por la calle tuvo que ser descartado. Habría que atravesar nueve ejes viales y el periférico. El único vehículo imaginable era la camioneta del vecino repartidor de piñatas, pero tendrían que esperar el domingo, y era martes.

Fue entonces cuando el primo Galo, recién llegado al velorio, sacó del bolsillo un papel arrugado con el plano de la red del metro, que le habían regalado en otro día, y propuso un plan que al principio fue recibido con escepticismo. A un par de calles de la vecindad donde se hallaban estaba la discreta estación de metro Aconcagua, y en el extremo de la línea la terminal Mictlan, reino azteca de los muertos. Después de una noche entera de razonamiento cartesiano, al amanecer hubieron de convenir en que no existía otro recurso y decidieron preparar el quinto café, ya casi agua caliente.

Eran las nueve de la mañana cuando, pasado el congestionamiento de público, ungrupo de personas llegó con decisión a la entrada de las estación Aconagua. Modestos, no iban apiñados; cinco o seis incluso hacían lo posible por parecer ajenos, mientras repartían ojeadas inquietas y hacían a los demás señas misteriosas.

En el centro iba Fulgencio, sostenido en vilo por dos amigos vigorosos. Para que pareciese que era ciego, le habían puesto unos lentes negros, trabajosamente conseguidos y llevaba un bastón bien sujeto a la mano, vendada. Aparte su inercia, tal vez excesiva, no tenía mal aspecto.

Esperaron un momento solitario e hicieron descender a Fulgencio resbalando sobre los talones, con notable soltura. Una vez abajo, lo apoyaron en la pared, para tomar un respiro, y se le cayó el sombrero. Tomasa lo recogió y se abanicó con él. Uno de los dolientes, fingiendo esperar a alguien, emprendió una lenta inspección circular por las estación. A la vuelta estaba el policía, solo, manifestando una indeferencia que casi se antojaba sospechosa.

Ambrose Bierce: The Coup de Grâce

The fighting had been hard and continuous; that was attested by all the senses. The very taste of battle was in the air. All was now over; it remained only to succor the wounded and bury the dead—to "tidy up a bit," as the humorist of a burial squad put it. A good deal of "tidying up" was required. As far as one could see through the forests, among the splintered trees, lay wrecks of men and horses. Among them moved the stretcher-bearers, gathering and carrying away the few who showed signs of life. Most of the wounded had died of neglect while the right to minister to their wants was in dispute. It is an army regulation that the wounded must wait; the best way to care for them is to win the battle. It must be confessed that victory is a distinct advantage to a man requiring attention, but many do not live to avail themselves of it.

The dead were collected in groups of a dozen or a score and laid side by side in rows while the trenches were dug to receive them. Some, found at too great a distance from these rallying points, were buried where they lay. There was little attempt at identification, though in most cases, the burial parties being detailed to glean the same ground which they had assisted to reap, the names of the victorious dead were known and listed. The enemy's fallen had to be content with counting. But of that they got enough: many of them were counted several times, and the total, as given afterward in the official report of the victorious commander, denoted rather a hope than a result.

At some little distance from the spot where one of the burial parties had established its "bivouac of the dead," a man in the uniform of a Federal officer stood leaning against a tree. From his feet upward to his neck his attitude was that of weariness reposing; but he turned his head uneasily from side to side; his mind was apparently not at rest. He was perhaps uncertain in which direction to go; he was not likely to remain long where he was, for already the level rays of the setting sun straggled redly through the open spaces of the wood and the weary soldiers were quitting their task for the day. He would hardly make a night of it alone there among the dead. Nine men in ten whom you meet after a battle inquire the way to some fraction of the army—as if any one could know. Doubtless this officer was lost. After resting himself a moment he would presumably follow one of the retiring burial squads.

When all were gone he walked straight away into the forest toward the red west, its light staining his face like blood. The air of confidence with which he now strode along showed that he was on familiar ground; he had recovered his bearings. The dead on his right and on his left were unregarded as he passed. An occasional low moan from some sorely-stricken wretch whom the relief-parties had not reached, and who would have to pass a comfortless night beneath the stars with his thirst to keep him company, was equally unheeded. What, indeed, could the officer have done, being no surgeon and having no water?

Ednodio Quintero: Tatuaje

Cuando su prometido regresó del mar, se casaron. En su viaje a las islas orientales, el marido había aprendido con esmero el arte del tatuaje. La noche misma de la boda, y ante el asombro de su amada, puso en práctica sus habilidades: armado de agujas, tinta china y colorantes vegetales dibujó en el vientre de la mujer un hermoso, enigmático y afilado puñal.

La felicidad de la pareja fue intensa, y como ocurre en esos casos: breve. En el cuerpo del hombre revivió alguna extraña enfermedad contraída en las islas pantanosas del este. Y una tarde, frente al mar, con la mirada perdida en la línea vaga del horizonte, el marino emprendió el ansiado viaje a la eternidad.

En la soledad de su aposento, la mujer daba rienda suelta a su llanto, y a ratos, como si en ello encontrase algún consuelo, se acariciaba el vientre adornado por el precioso puñal.

El dolor fue intenso, y también breve. El otro, hombre de tierra firme, comenzó a rondarla. Ella, al principio esquiva y recatada, fue cediendo terreno. Concertaron una cita. La noche convenida ella lo aguardó desnuda en la penumbra del cuarto. Y en el fragor del combate, el amante, recio e impetuoso, se le quedó muerto encima, atravesado por el puñal.

Edgar Allan Poe: Bon-Bon

Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac,

Je suis plus savant que Balzac -

Plus sage que Pibrac ;

Mon brass seul faisant l'attaque

De la nation Coseaque,

La mettroit au sac ;

De Charon je passerois le lac,

En dormant dans son bac ;

J'irois au fier Eac,

Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac,

Présenter du tabac.

French Vaudeville

That Pierre Bon-Bon was a restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, no man who, during the reign of ---, frequented the little Câfé in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree, skilled in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more especially undeniable. His patés à la fois were beyond doubt immaculate; but what pen can do justice to his essays sur la Nature - his thoughts sur l'Ame - his observations sur l'Esprit ? If his omelettes - if his fricandeaux were inestimable, what littérateur of that day would not have given twice as much for an " Idée de Bon-Bon " as for all the trash of " Idées " of all the rest of the savants? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no other man had ransacked - had more than any other would have entertained a notion of reading- had understood more than any other would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although, while he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen to assert "that his dicta evinced neither the purity of the Academy, nor the depth of the Lyceum" - although, mark me, his doctrines were by no means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that they were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of their self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon - but let this go no farther - it is to Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The former was indeed not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an Aristotelian - nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those precious hours which might be employed in the invention of a fricasée or, facili gradu , the analysis of a sensation, in frivolous attempts at reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic - Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned à priori - He reasoned also à posteriori . His ideas were innate - or otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizonde - He believed in Bossarion [Bessarion]. Bon-Bon was emphatically a - Bon-Bonist.

I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of restaurateur. I would not, however, have any friend of mine imagine that, in fulfilling his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was impossible to say in which branch of his profession he took the greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the intellect held intimate connection with the capabilities of the stomach. I am not sure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed with the Chinese, who held that the soul lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all events were right, he thought, who employed the same words for the mind and the diaphragm. {*1) By this I do not mean to insinuate a charge of gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice of the metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings - and what great man has not a thousand? - if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they were failings of very little importance - faults indeed which, in other tempers, have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues. As regards one of these foibles, I should not even have mentioned it in this history but for the remarkable prominency - the extreme alto relievo - in which it jutted out from the plane of his general disposition. He could never let slip an opportunity of making a bargain.

Charles Baudelaire: Le gâteau

Je voyageais. Le paysage au milieu duquel j'étais placé était d'une grandeur et d'une noblesse irrésistibles. Il en passa sans doute en ce moment quelque chose dans mon âme. Mes pensées voltigeaient avec une légèreté égale à celle de l'atmosphère ; les passions vulgaires, telles que la haine et l'amour profane, m'apparaissaient maintenant aussi éloignées que les nuées qui défilaient au fond des abîmes sous mes pieds ; mon âme me semblait aussi vaste et aussi pure que la coupole du ciel dont j'étais enveloppé ; le souvenir des choses terrestres n'arrivait à mon cœur qu'affaibli et diminué, comme le son de la clochette des bestiaux imperceptibles qui paissaient loin, bien loin, sur le versant d'une autre montagne. Sur le petit lac immobile, noir de son immense profondeur, passait quelquefois l'ombre d'un nuage, comme le reflet du manteau d'un géant aérien volant à travers le ciel. Et je me souviens que cette sensation solennelle et rare, causée par un grand mouvement parfaitement silencieux, me remplissait d'une joie mêlée de peur. Bref, je me sentais, grâce à l'enthousiasmante beauté dont j'étais environné, en parfaite paix avec moi-même et avec l'univers ; je crois même que, dans ma parfaite béatitude et dans mon total oubli de tout le mal terrestre, j'en étais venu à ne plus trouver si ridicules les journaux qui prétendent que l'homme est né bon ; — quand la matière incurable renouvelant ses exigences, je songeai à réparer la fatigue et à soulager l'appétit causés par une si longue ascension. Je tirai de ma poche un gros morceau de pain, une tasse de cuir et un flacon d'un certain élixir que les pharmaciens vendaient dans ce temps-là aux touristes pour le mêler dans l'occasion avec de l'eau de neige.

Je découpais tranquillement mon pain, quand un bruit très-léger me fit lever les yeux. Devant moi se tenait un petit être déguenillé, noir, ébouriffé, dont les yeux creux, farouches et comme suppliants, dévoraient le morceau de pain. Et je l'entendis soupirer, d'une voix basse et rauque, le mot : gâteau ! Je ne pus m'empêcher de rire en entendant l'appellation dont il voulait bien honorer mon pain presque blanc, et j'en coupai pour lui une belle tranche que je lui offris. Lentement il se rapprocha, ne quittant pas des yeux l'objet de sa convoitise ; puis, happant le morceau avec sa main, se recula vivement, comme s'il eût craint que mon offre ne fût pas sincère ou que je m'en repentisse déjà.