THE HALO
Copyright, 1907 By
Bettina von Hutten
Published October, 1907
TO THE MEMORY OF
A DEAR LOST FRIEND
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
Bettina von Hutten
Thun, Switzerland, September 5, 1907
PROLOGUE
A straight stretch of dusty Norman road dappled with grotesque shadowsof the ancient apple-trees that, bent as if in patient endurance of theweight of their thick-set scarlet fruit, edged it on both sides.
Under one of the trees, his back against its gnarled trunk, sat an oldman playing a cracked fiddle.
He played horribly, wrenching discords from the poor instrument,grinning with a kind of vacant malice as it shrieked aloud in agony, androlling in their scarred sockets his long-blind eyes.
Beside him, his tongue hanging out, his head bent, sat a yellow dog witha lead to his collar. Far and wide there was to be seen no other livingthing, and in the apple-scented heat the screeching of the violin waslike the resentful cries of some invisible creature being tortured.
"Papillon, mon ami," said the old man, ceasing playing for a moment,"we are wasting time; the shadows are coming. See the baby shadowapple-trees creeping across the road."
The yellow dog cocked an ear and said nothing.
"Time should never be lost, petit chien jaune—never be lost."
Then with a shrill laugh he ground his bow deep into the roughenedstrings, and the painful music began again.
The yellow dog closed his eyes....
Suddenly far down the road appeared a low cloud of white dust, advancingrapidly, and until it was nearly abreast of the fiddler, noiselessly,and then, with the cessation of a quick padding sound of bare feet,appeared a small, black-smocked boy, his sabots under his arm, his facewhite with anger.
"Stop it!" he cried, "stop it!"
The old man turned. "Stop what, little seigneur," he asked with surlyamusement. "Does the high road belong to you?"
"You must stop it, I say, I cannot bear it."
The fiddler rose and danced about scraping more hideously than before."Ho, ho," he laughed, "ho, ho, ho, ho!"
The child threw his arms over his head in a gesture of unconsciousmelodrama. "I cannot bear it—you are hurting it—I—I will kill you ifyou do not stop." And he flew at his enemy, using his close-croppedbullet-head as a battering ram.
For some seconds the absurd battle continued, and then, as unexpectedlyas he had begun it, the boy gave it up, and as the fiddler laughedharshly, and the fiddle screeched, threw himself on the warm, dustygrass and cried aloud.
There was a pause, after which, in silence, the old man groped his wayto the boy and knelt by him. "Hush, mon petit," he beseeched, "oldLuc-Ange is a monster to tease you. Do not cry, do not cry."
A curious apple, leaning over to listen, fell from its