DEDICATION.
INTRODUCTION.
THE PURPLE EMPEROR.
POMPE FUNÈBRE.
THE MESSENGER.
THE WHITE SHADOW.
PASSEUR.
THE KEY TO GRIEF.
A MATTER OF INTEREST.
ENVOI.
THE PURPLE EMPEROR.
Un souvenir heureux est peut-être, sur terre,Plus vrai que le bonheur.A. de
Musset.I.The Purple Emperor watched me in silence. I cast again,
spinning out six feet more of waterproof silk, and, as the line
hissed through the air far across the pool, I saw my three flies
fall on the water like drifting thistledown. The Purple Emperor
sneered."You see," he said, "I am right. There is not a trout in
Brittany that will rise to a tailed fly.""They do in America," I replied."Zut! for America!" observed the Purple Emperor."And trout take a tailed fly in England," I insisted
sharply."Now do I care what things or people do in England?" demanded
the Purple Emperor."You don't care for anything except yourself and your
wriggling caterpillars," I said, more annoyed than I had yet
been.The Purple Emperor sniffed. His broad, hairless, sunburnt
features bore that obstinate expression which always irritated me.
Perhaps the manner in which he wore his hat intensified the
irritation, for the flapping brim rested on both ears, and the two
little velvet ribbons which hung from the silver buckle in front
wiggled and fluttered with every trivial breeze. His cunning eyes
and sharp-pointed nose were out of all keeping with his fat red
face. When he met my eye, he chuckled."I know more about insects than any man in Morbihan—or
Finistère either, for that matter," he said."The Red Admiral knows as much as you do," I
retorted."He doesn't," replied the Purple Emperor angrily."And his collection of butterflies is twice as large as
yours," I added, moving down the stream to a spot directly opposite
him."It is, is it?" sneered the Purple Emperor. "Well, let me
tell you, Monsieur Darrel, in all his collection he hasn't a
specimen, a single specimen, of that magnificent butterfly, Apatura
Iris, commonly known as the 'Purple Emperor.'""Everybody in Brittany knows that," I said, casting across
the sparkling water; "but just because you happen to be the only
man who ever captured a 'Purple Emperor' in Morbihan, it doesn't
follow that you are an authority on sea-trout flies. Why do you say
that a Breton sea-trout won't touch a tailed fly?""It's so," he replied."Why? There are plenty of May-flies about the
stream.""Let 'em fly!" snarled the Purple Emperor, "you won't see a
trout touch 'em."My arm was aching, but I grasped my split bamboo more firmly,
and, half turning, waded out into the stream and began to whip the
ripples at the head of the pool. A great green dragon-fly came
drifting by on the summer breeze and hung a moment above the pool,
glittering like an emerald."There's a chance! Where is your butterfly net?" I called
across the stream."What for? That dragon-fly? I've got dozens—Anax Junius,
Drury, characteristic, anal angle of posterior wings, in male,
round; thorax marked with——""That will do," I said fiercely. "Can't I point out an insect
in the air without this burst of erudition? Can you tell me, in
simple everyday French, what this little fly is—this one, flitting
over the eel grass here beside me? See, it has fallen on the
water.""Huh!" sneered the Purple Emperor, "that's a Linnobia
annulus.""What's that?" I demanded.Before he could answer there came a heavy splash in the pool,
and the fly disappeared."He! he! he!" tittered the Purple Emperor. "Didn't I tell you
the fish knew their business? That was a sea-trout. I hope you
don't get him."He gathered up his butterfly net, collecting box, chloroform
bottle, and cyanide jar. Then he rose, swung the box over his
shoulder, stuffed the poison bottles into the pockets of his
silver-buttoned velvet coat, and lighted his pipe. This latter
operation was a demoralizing spectacle, for the Purple Emperor,
like all Breton peasants, smoked one of those microscopical Breton
pipes which requires ten minutes to find, ten minutes to fill, ten
minutes to light, and ten seconds to finish. With true Breton
stolidity he went through this solemn rite, blew three puffs of
smoke into the air, scratched his pointed nose reflectively, and
waddled away, calling back an ironical "Au revoir, and bad luck to
all Yankees!"I watched him out of sight, thinking sadly of the young girl
whose life he made a hell upon earth—Lys Trevec, his niece. She
never admitted it, but we all knew what the black-and-blue marks
meant on her soft, round arm, and it made me sick to see the look
of fear come into her eyes when the Purple Emperor waddled into the
café of the Groix Inn.It was commonly said that he half-starved her. This she
denied. Marie Joseph and 'Fine Lelocard had seen him strike her the
day after the Pardon of the Birds because she had liberated three
bullfinches which he had limed the day before. I asked Lys if this
were true, and she refused to speak to me for the rest of the week.
There was nothing to do about it. If the Purple Emperor had not
been avaricious, I should never have seen Lys at all, but he could
not resist the thirty francs a week which I offered him; and Lys
posed for me all day long, happy as a linnet in a pink thorn hedge.
Nevertheless, the Purple Emperor hated me, and constantly
threatened to send Lys back to her dreary flax-spinning. He was
suspicious, too, and when he had gulped down the single glass of
cider which proves fatal to the sobriety of most Bretons, he would
pound the long, discoloured oaken table and roar curses on me, on
Yves Terrec, and on the Red Admiral. We were the three objects in
the world which he most hated: me, because I was a foreigner, and
didn't care a rap for him and his butterflies; and the Red Admiral,
because he was a rival entomologist.He had other reasons for hating Terrec.The Red Admiral, a little wizened wretch, with a badly
adjusted glass eye and a passion for brandy, took his name from a
butterfly which predominated in his collection. This butterfly,
commonly known to amateurs as the "Red Admiral," and to
entomologists as Vanessa Atalanta, had been the occasion of scandal
among the entomologists of France and Brittany. For the Red Admiral
had taken one of these common insects, dyed it a brilliant yellow
by the aid of chemicals, and palmed it off on a credulous collector
as a South African species, absolutely unique. The fifty francs
which he gained by this rascality were, however, absorbed in a suit
for damages brought by the outraged amateur a month later; and when
he had sat in the Quimperlé jail for a month, he reappeared in the
little village of St. Gildas soured, thirsty, and burning for
revenge. Of course we named him the Red Admiral, and he accepted
the name with suppressed fury.The Purple Emperor, on the other hand, had gained his
imperial title legitimately, for it was an undisputed fact that the
only specimen of that beautiful butterfly, Apatura Iris, or the
Purple Emperor, as it is called by amateurs—the only specimen that
had ever been taken in Finistère or in Morbihan—was captured and
brought home alive by Joseph Marie Gloanec, ever afterward to be
known as the Purple Emperor.When the capture of this rare butterfly became known the Red
Admiral nearly went crazy. Every day for a week he trotted over to
the Groix Inn, where the Purple Emperor lived with his niece, and
brought his microscope to bear on the rare newly captured
butterfly, in hopes of detecting a fraud. But this specimen was
genuine, and he leered through his microscope in vain."No chemicals there, Admiral," grinned the Purple Emperor;
and the Red Admiral chattered with rage.To the scientific world of Brittany and France the capture of
an Apatura Iris in Morbihan was of great importance. The Museum of
Quimper offered to purchase the butterfly, but the Purple Emperor,
though a hoarder of gold, was a monomaniac on butterflies, and he
jeered at the Curator of the Museum. From all parts of Brittany and
France letters of inquiry and congratulation poured in upon him.
The French Academy of Sciences awarded him a prize, and the Paris
Entomological Society made him an honorary member. Being a Breton
peasant, and a more than commonly pig-headed one at that, these
honours did not disturb his equanimity; but when the little hamlet
of St. Gildas elected him mayor, and, as is the custom in Brittany
under such circumstances, he left his thatched house to take up an
official life in the little Groix Inn, his head became completely
turned. To be mayor in a village of nearly one hundred and fifty
people! It was an empire! So he became unbearable, drinking himself
viciously drunk every night of his life, maltreating his niece, Lys
Trevec, like the barbarous old wretch that he was, and driving the
Red Admiral nearly frantic with his eternal harping on the capture
of Apatura Iris. Of course he refused to tell where he had caught
the butterfly. The Red Admiral stalked his footsteps, but in
vain."He! he! he!" nagged the Purple Emperor, cuddling his chin
over a glass of cider; "I saw you sneaking about the St. Gildas
spinny yesterday morning. So you think you can find another Apatura
Iris by running after me? It won't do, Admiral, it won't do, d'ye
see?"The Red Admiral turned yellow with mortification and envy,
but the next day he actually took to his bed, for the Purple
Emperor had brought home not a butterfly but a live chrysalis,
which, if successfully hatched, would become a perfect specimen of
the invaluable Apatura Iris. This was the last straw. The Red
Admiral shut himself up in his little stone cottage, and for weeks
now he had been invisible to everybody except 'Fine Lelocard who
carried him a loaf of bread and a mullet or langouste every
morning.The withdrawal of the Red Admiral from the society of St.
Gildas excited first the derision and finally the suspicion of the
Purple Emperor. What deviltry could he be hatching? Was he
experimenting with chemicals again, or was he engaged in some
deeper plot, the object of which was to discredit the Purple
Emperor? Roux, the postman, who carried the mail on foot once a day
from Bannalec, a distance of fifteen miles each way, had brought
several suspicious letters, bearing English stamps, to the Red
Admiral, and the next day the Admiral had been observed at his
window grinning up into the sky and rubbing his hands together. A
night or two after this apparition the postman left two packages at
the Groix Inn for a moment while he ran across the way to drink a
glass of cider with me. The Purple Emperor, who was roaming about
the café, snooping into everything that did not concern him, came
upon the packages and examined the postmarks and addresses. One of
the packages was square and heavy, and felt like a book. The other
was also square, but very light, and felt like a pasteboard box.
They were both addressed to the Red Admiral, and they bore English
stamps.When Roux, the postman, came back, the Purple Emperor tried
to pump him, but the poor little postman knew nothing about the
contents of the packages, and after he had taken them around the
corner to the cottage of the Red Admiral the Purple Emperor ordered
a glass of cider, and deliberately fuddled himself until Lys came
in and tearfully supported him to his room. Here he became so
abusive and brutal that Lys called to me, and I went and settled
the trouble without wasting any words. This also the Purple Emperor
remembered, and waited his chance to get even with me.That had happened a week ago, and until to-day he had not
deigned to speak to me.Lys had posed for me all the week, and to-day being Saturday,
and I lazy, we had decided to take a little relaxation, she to
visit and gossip with her little black-eyed friend Yvette in the
neighbouring hamlet of St. Julien, and I to try the appetites of
the Breton trout with the contents of my American fly
book.I had thrashed the stream very conscientiously for three
hours, but not a trout had risen to my cast, and I was piqued. I
had begun to believe that there were no trout in the St. Gildas
stream, and would probably have given up had I not seen the sea
trout snap the little fly which the Purple Emperor had named so
scientifically. That set me thinking. Probably the Purple Emperor
was right, for he certainly was an expert in everything that
crawled and wriggled in Brittany. So I matched, from my American
fly book, the fly that the sea trout had snapped up, and
withdrawing the cast of three, knotted a new leader to the silk and
slipped a fly on the loop. It was a queer fly. It was one of those
unnameable experiments which fascinate anglers in sporting stores
and which generally prove utterly useless. Moreover, it was a
tailed fly, but of course I easily remedied that with a stroke of
my penknife. Then I was all ready, and I stepped out into the
hurrying rapids and cast straight as an arrow to the spot where the
sea trout had risen. Lightly as a plume the fly settled on the
bosom of the pool; then came a startling splash, a gleam of silver,
and the line tightened from the vibrating rod-tip to the shrieking
reel. Almost instantly I checked the fish, and as he floundered for
a moment, making the water boil along his glittering sides, I
sprang to the bank again, for I saw that the fish was a heavy one
and I should probably be in for a long run down the stream. The
five-ounce rod swept in a splendid circle, quivering under the
strain. "Oh, for a gaff-hook!" I cried aloud, for I was now firmly
convinced that I had a salmon to deal with, and no sea trout at
all.Then as I stood, bringing every ounce to bear on the sulking
fish, a lithe, slender girl came hurriedly along the opposite bank
calling out to me by name."Why, Lys!" I said, glancing up for a second, "I thought you
were at St. Julien with Yvette.""Yvette has gone to Bannalec. I went home and found an awful
fight going on at the Groix Inn, and I was so frightened that I
came to tell you."The fish dashed off at that moment, carrying all the line my
reel held, and I was compelled to follow him at a jump. Lys, active
and graceful as a young deer, in spite of her Pont-Aven sabots,
followed along the opposite bank until the fish settled in a deep
pool, shook the line savagely once or twice, and then relapsed into
the sulks."Fight at the Groix Inn?" I called across the water. "What
fight?""Not exactly fight," quavered Lys, "but the Red Admiral has
come out of his house at last, and he and my uncle are drinking
together and disputing about butterflies. I never saw my uncle so
angry, and the Red Admiral is sneering and grinning. Oh, it is
almost wicked to see such a face!""But Lys," I said, scarcely able to repress a smile, "your
uncle and the Red Admiral are always quarrelling and
drinking.""I know—oh, dear me!—but this is different, Monsieur Darrel.
The Red Admiral has grown old and fierce since he shut himself up
three weeks ago, and—oh, dear! I never saw such a look in my
uncle's eyes before. He seemed insane with fury. His eyes—I can't
speak of it—and then Terrec came in.""Oh," I said more gravely, "that was unfortunate. What did
the Red Admiral say to his son?"Lys sat down on a rock among the ferns, and gave me a
mutinous glance from her blue eyes.Yves Terrec, loafer, poacher, and son of Louis Jean Terrec,
otherwise the Red Admiral, had been kicked out by his father, and
had also been forbidden the village by the Purple Emperor, in his
majestic capacity of mayor. Twice the young ruffian had returned:
once to rifle the bedroom of the Purple Emperor—an unsuccessful
enterprise—and another time to rob his own father. He succeeded in
the latter attempt, but was never caught, although he was
frequently seen roving about the forests and moors with his gun. He
openly menaced the Purple Emperor; vowed that he would marry Lys in
spite of all the gendarmes in Quimperlé; and these same gendarmes
he led many a long chase through brier-filled swamps and over miles
of yellow gorse.What he did to the Purple Emperor—what he intended to
do—disquieted me but little; but I worried over his threat
concerning Lys. During the last three months this had bothered me a
great deal; for when Lys came to St. Gildas from the convent the
first thing she captured was my heart. For a long time I had
refused to believe that any tie of blood linked this dainty
blue-eyed creature with the Purple Emperor. Although she dressed in
the velvet-laced bodice and blue petticoat of Finistère, and wore
the bewitching white coiffe of St. Gildas, it seemed like a pretty
masquerade. To me she was as sweet and as gently bred as many a
maiden of the noble Faubourg who danced with her cousins at a Louis
XV fête champêtre. So when Lys said that Yves Terrec had returned
openly to St. Gildas, I felt that I had better be there
also."What did Terrec say, Lys?" I asked, watching the line
vibrating above the placid pool.The wild rose colour crept into her cheeks. "Oh," she
answered, with a little toss of her chin, "you know what he always
says.""That he will carry you away?""Yes.""In spite of the Purple Emperor, the Red Admiral, and the
gendarmes?""Yes.""And what do you say, Lys?""I? Oh, nothing.""Then let me say it for you."Lys looked at her delicate pointed sabots, the sabots from
Pont-Aven, made to order. They fitted her little foot. They were
her only luxury."Will you let me answer for you, Lys?" I asked."You, Monsieur Darrel?""Yes. Will you let me give him his answer?""Mon Dieu, why should you concern yourself, Monsieur
Darrel?"The fish lay very quiet, but the rod in my hand
trembled."Because I love you, Lys."The wild rose colour in her cheeks deepened; she gave a
gentle gasp, then hid her curly head in her hands."I love you, Lys.""Do you know what you say?" she stammered."Yes, I love you."She raised her sweet face and looked at me across the
pool."I love you," she said, while the tears stood like stars in
her eyes. "Shall I come over the brook to you?"II.That night Yves Terrec left the village of St. Gildas vowing
vengeance against his father, who refused him shelter.I can see him now, standing in the road, his bare legs rising
like pillars of bronze from his straw-stuffed sabots, his short
velvet jacket torn and soiled by exposure and dissipation, and his
eyes, fierce, roving, bloodshot—while the Red Admiral squeaked
curses on him, and hobbled away into his little stone
cottage."I will not forget you!" cried Yves Terrec, and stretched out
his hand toward his father with a terrible gesture. Then he whipped
his gun to his cheek and took a short step forward, but I caught
him by the throat before he could fire, and a second later we were
rolling in the dust of the Bannalec road. I had to hit him a heavy
blow behind the ear before he would let go, and then, rising and
shaking myself, I dashed his muzzle-loading fowling piece to bits
against a wall, and threw his knife into the river. The Purple
Emperor was looking on with a queer light in his eyes. It was plain
that he was sorry Terrec had not choked me to death."He would have killed his father," I said, as I passed him,
going toward the Groix Inn."That's his business," snarled the Purple Emperor. There was
a deadly light in his eyes. For a moment I thought he was going to
attack me; but he was merely viciously drunk, so I shoved him out
of my way and went to bed, tired and disgusted.The worst of it was I couldn't sleep, for I feared that the
Purple Emperor might begin to abuse Lys. I lay restlessly tossing
among the sheets until I could stay there no longer. I did not
dress entirely; I merely slipped on a pair of chaussons and sabots,
a pair of knickerbockers, a jersey, and a cap. Then, loosely tying
a handkerchief about my throat, I went down the worm-eaten stairs
and out into the moonlit road. There was a candle flaring in the
Purple Emperor's window, but I could not see him."He's probably dead drunk," I thought, and looked up at the
window where, three years before, I had first seen Lys."Asleep, thank Heaven!" I muttered, and wandered out along
the road. Passing the small cottage of the Red Admiral, I saw that
it was dark, but the door was open. I stepped inside the hedge to
shut it, thinking, in case Yves Terrec should be roving about, his
father would lose whatever he had left.Then, after fastening the door with a stone, I wandered on
through the dazzling Breton moonlight. A nightingale was singing in
a willow swamp below, and from the edge of the mere, among the tall
swamp grasses, myriads of frogs chanted a bass chorus.When I returned, the eastern sky was beginning to lighten,
and across the meadows on the cliffs, outlined against the paling
horizon, I saw a seaweed gatherer going to his work among the
curling breakers on the coast. His long rake was balanced on his
shoulder, and the sea wind carried his song across the meadows to
me:St. Gildas!St. Gildas!Pray for us,Shelter us,Us who toil in the sea.Passing the shrine at the entrance of the village, I took off
my cap and knelt in prayer to Our Lady of Faöuet; and if I
neglected myself in that prayer, surely I believed Our Lady of
Faöuet would be kinder to Lys. It is said that the shrine casts
white shadows. I looked, but saw only the moonlight. Then very
peacefully I went to bed again, and was only awakened by the clank
of sabres and the trample of horses in the road below my
window."Good gracious!" I thought, "it must be eleven o'clock, for
there are the gendarmes from Quimperlé."I looked at my watch; it was only half-past eight, and as the
gendarmes made their rounds every Thursday at eleven, I wondered
what had brought them out so early to St. Gildas."Of course," I grumbled, rubbing my eyes, "they are after
Terrec," and I jumped into my limited bath.Before I was completely dressed I heard a timid knock, and
opening my door, razor in hand, stood astonished and silent. Lys,
her blue eyes wide with terror, leaned on the threshold."My darling!" I cried, "what on earth is the matter?" But she
only clung to me, panting like a wounded sea gull. At last, when I
drew her into the room and raised her face to mine, she spoke in a
heart-breaking voice:"Oh, Dick! they are going to arrest you, but I will die
before I believe one word of what they say. No, don't ask me," and
she began to sob desperately.When I found that something really serious was the matter, I
flung on my coat and cap, and, slipping one arm about her waist,
went down the stairs and out into the road. Four gendarmes sat on
their horses in front of the café door; beyond them, the entire
population of St. Gildas gaped, ten deep."Hello, Durand!" I said to the brigadier, "what the devil is
this I hear about arresting me?""It's true, mon ami," replied Durand with sepulchral
sympathy. I looked him over from the tip of his spurred boots to
his sulphur-yellow sabre belt, then upward, button by button, to
his disconcerted face."What for?" I said scornfully. "Don't try any cheap sleuth
work on me! Speak up, man, what's the trouble?"The Purple Emperor, who sat in the doorway staring at me,
started to speak, but thought better of it and got up and went into
the house. The gendarmes rolled their eyes mysteriously and looked
wise."Come, Durand," I said impatiently, "what's the
charge?""Murder," he said in a faint voice."What!" I cried incredulously. "Nonsense! Do I look like a
murderer? Get off your horse, you stupid, and tell me who's
murdered."Durand got down, looking very silly, and came up to me,
offering his hand with a propitiatory grin."It was the Purple Emperor who denounced you! See, they found
your handkerchief at his door——""Whose door, for Heaven's sake?" I cried."Why, the Red Admiral's!""The Red Admiral's? What has he done?""Nothing—he's only been murdered."I could scarcely believe my senses, although they took me
over to the little stone cottage and pointed out the
blood-spattered room. But the horror of the thing was that the
corpse of the murdered man had disappeared, and there only remained
a nauseating lake of blood on the stone floor, in the centre of
which lay a human hand. There was no doubt as to whom the hand
belonged, for everybody who had ever seen the Red Admiral knew that
the shrivelled bit of flesh which lay in the thickening blood was
the hand of the Red Admiral. To me it looked like the severed claw
of some gigantic bird."Well," I said, "there's been murder committed. Why don't you
do something?""What?" asked Durand."I don't know. Send for the Commissaire.""He's at Quimperlé. I telegraphed.""Then send for a doctor, and find out how long this blood has
been coagulating.""The chemist from Quimperlé is here; he's a
doctor.""What does he say?""He says that he doesn't know.""And who are you going to arrest?" I inquired, turning away
from the spectacle on the floor."I don't know," said the brigadier solemnly; "you are
denounced by the Purple Emperor, because he found your handkerchief
at the door when he went out this morning.""Just like a pig-headed Breton!" I exclaimed, thoroughly
angry. "Did he not mention Yves Terrec?""No.""Of course not," I said. "He overlooked the fact that Terrec
tried to shoot his father last night, and that I took away his gun.
All that counts for nothing when he finds my handkerchief at the
murdered man's door.""Come into the café," said Durand, much disturbed, "we can
talk it over, there. Of course, Monsieur Darrel, I have never had
the faintest idea that you were the murderer!"The four gendarmes and I walked across the road to the Groix
Inn and entered the café. It was crowded with Bretons, smoking,
drinking, and jabbering in half a dozen dialects, all equally
unsatisfactory to a civilized ear; and I pushed through the crowd
to where little Max Fortin, the chemist of Quimperlé, stood smoking
a vile cigar."This is a bad business," he said, shaking hands and offering
me the mate to his cigar, which I politely declined."Now, Monsieur Fortin," I said, "it appears that the Purple
Emperor found my handkerchief near the murdered man's door this
morning, and so he concludes"—here I glared at the Purple
Emperor—"that I am the assassin. I will now ask him a question,"
and turning on him suddenly, I shouted, "What were you doing at the
Red Admiral's door?"The Purple Emperor started and turned pale, and I pointed at
him triumphantly."See what a sudden question will do. Look how embarrassed he
is, and yet I do not charge him with murder; and I tell you,
gentlemen, that man there knows as well as I do who was the
murderer of the Red Admiral!""I don't!" bawled the Purple Emperor."You do," I said. "It was Yves Terrec.""I don't believe it," he said obstinately, dropping his
voice."Of course not, being pig-headed.""I am not pig-headed," he roared again, "but I am mayor of
St. Gildas, and I do not believe that Yves Terrec killed his
father.""You saw him try to kill him last night?"The mayor grunted."And you saw what I did."He grunted again."And," I went on, "you heard Yves Terrec threaten to kill his
father. You heard him curse the Red Admiral and swear to kill him.
Now the father is murdered and his body is gone.""And your handkerchief?" sneered the Purple
Emperor."I dropped it, of course.""And the seaweed gatherer who saw you last night lurking
about the Red Admiral's cottage," grinned the Purple
Emperor.I was startled at the man's malice."That will do," I said. "It is perfectly true that I was
walking on the Bannalec road last night, and that I stopped to
close the Red Admiral's door, which was ajar, although his light
was not burning. After that I went up the road to the Dinez Woods,
and then walked over by St. Julien, whence I saw the seaweed
gatherer on the cliffs. He was near enough for me to hear what he
sang. What of that?""What did you do then?""Then I stopped at the shrine and said a prayer, and then I
went to bed and slept until Brigadier Durand's gendarmes awoke me
with their clatter.""Now, Monsieur Darrel," said the Purple Emperor, lifting a
fat finger and shooting a wicked glance at me, "Now, Monsieur
Darrel, which did you wear last night on your midnight
stroll—sabots or shoes?"I thought a moment. "Shoes—no, sabots. I just slipped on my
chaussons and went out in my sabots.""Which was it, shoes or sabots?" snarled the Purple
Emperor."Sabots, you fool.""Are these your sabots?" he asked, lifting up a wooden shoe
with my initials cut on the instep.