by Eugène Sue
Then came the foreign invasion, and hand in hand with it war, a war without either mercy or pity, as waged by Caesar and the Romans; a war of iniquity, of carnage, of despoliation, of infamy, like all wars of invaders, and ending in the subjugation of our ancient fatherland, and the death or enslavement of its children. To this impious war the Gauls made reply with a holy war — for holy ever is war when waged by a people against its oppressors. You have seen with what loyal grandeur, with what sublime heroism our fathers defended their nation, their liberty, their soil, their hearths, their families and their gods. But in spite of these prodigies of devotion and of valor, the Roman arms were victorious; our Gallic family was, like so many others, wiped out by battle or by voluntary death, the supreme refuge from a frightful servitude. There remained of the sons of Joel the Brenn, only Guilhern and his two children, Sylvest and Syomara; all three were cast into slavery and sold.
The following story, “The Iron Collar,” is above all intended to impart to you a knowledge of the lot of our enslaved forefathers, and to what a degree of depravity and of ferocity had come the rich and the powerful of that Roman society implanted in Gaul by the conquest — a depravity and a ferocity of which the slaves of the town, of industry, or of the field, were the victims.
We have — although with regret toning them down a great deal — traced certain pictures which will give you at least an idea of the nameless horrors familiar to the men and women of that noble and opulent race which held our fathers and mothers under the double yoke of conquest and slavery. This portrait, horrible as it may be, is indispensable both for the proper understanding of the times depicted by it, and of the times succeeding it. Allow me to explain.
The epoch in which the present story is laid precedes by a few years the Christian era, and one will be unable to understand the sudden and tremendous echo which greeted the message of Christ, that sublime paraphrase of the eternal moral verities inscribed by the ages across the pages of the Bible, the sacred books of the Indies, and of Gaul; one will be unable to comprehend the almightiness of the appeal of Jesus, the poor carpenter of Nazareth, to the oppressed and the suffering, unless one is guided by the light of the frightful excesses of the Roman aristocracy, then sovereigns of the world, which, arriving at a stage of excess previously unknown to humanity, filled up the measure of social iniquity and torture, and thus spread the leaven for the revolt which was about to break forth at the word of Christ everywhere where there were to be found oppressed and oppressors.
It is our task, then, to picture this period, whose monstrous oppression caused all at once the divine Christian aspiration of emancipation to leap from the depths of the abyss where trembled whole populations despoiled, enslaved, tortured by implacable masters.
Accompanying this book, as with the others, you will find notes appended to the text. We strongly recommend them to your perusal, for thereby you will be enabled to see that, however strange, however exorbitant may appear to you the facts we employ, we have ever kept within the bounds of the most rigorous historical reality.
EUGÈNE SUE.
Paris, 1849.
CHAPTER I.
THE SONS OF THE MISTLETOE.
THE CITY OF Orange — one of the richest cities of Provencal or Narbonnese Gaul, taken by the Romans more than two hundred years ago, and kept ever since — has become completely a Homan settlement in point of ostentatious luxury, as well as in point of customs and depravity. In this region, which is infinitely less bleak than our own Brittany, the climate is as mild as the climate of Italy. Spring and summer seem perpetual. As in Italy, here the lemon, the orange, the pomegranate, the fig-tree and the laurel grow luxuriant amidst the colonnades of the marble temples, reared by the Romans during this long period of their masterhood over these delightful provinces of our country.
One summer night during the reign of the Emperor Octavius Augustus, and sixteen years after the dagger of Brutus visited punishment upon Julius Caesar — one summer night, that was brilliantly lighted by the full moon, a man, no, a slave, a Gallic slave — as appeared from his closely shaven head, a polished iron collar round his neck, and the livery of a menial — crept out of the suburb of Orange. Being assigned to the domestic service of his master, he was not chained, as is the practice with the agricultural slaves or in most of the factories, on account of which these slaves are called “ironed men.”
After passing by the immense circus, where the gladiatorial combats are held, and where the cages of the wild beasts are kept, lions, elephants and tigers, whose acrid odor is smelled at a distance, the slave followed at first the avenue of laurel and lemon trees in full bloom that surround the sumptuous villas of the Romans. Presently he branched off from the smiling road and dove into the forest. With no little risk he cleared a rapid and deep torrent by leaping from one to the other upon the rocks that strewed the stream; he reached the foot of a steep granite hill, climbed to its top, and descended on the opposite side into an uncultivated, wild, desert, treeless and barren valley that was no less rocky than the hill behind him. In the midst of the deep silence of the night, and of the solitude, illumined by the mellow light of the setting moon, the Gallic slave distinguished from opposite, and also from other directions, the distant sound of hurrying steps of men, at times also the clanking of the chains that they carried on their feet. He stopped and listened for a moment, and then resumed his rapid march. Finally he arrived before a dark grotto. Its mouth was so low that it could not be entered without creeping close to the ground. The slave stooped down and proceeded on his hands and feet. He had not long advanced in this way into the darkness when he was challenged in the Gallic tongue by a voice from within:
“Halt! The axe is raised over thy head.”
“The branch of the sacred oak-tree will shelter and protect me,” answered the slave.
“The branch of the oak-tree has shrivelled,” the voice resumed, “the blasts of the tempest have scattered its leaves. You can no longer be sheltered by its sacred shade. Who will protect you?”
“The branch of the oak-tree loses its leaves during the inclement season, but the sacred mistletoe remains ever green,” responded the slave. “The seven twigs of mistletoe will protect me.”
“What do those seven twigs of mistletoe represent?”
“Seven letters.”
“What word do those letters compose?”
“LIBERTY.”
“Pass.”
And still creeping along the ground, the slave passed on. Thanks to the increasing height of the grotto, he was presently enabled to proceed upon his feet — at first bent down, and finally erect. The darkness however remained unchanged, profound. Soon another voice addressed him from the bowels of the earth:
“Halt! The knife’s point is at your breast!”
“Seven twigs of mistletoe protect me.”
“At this hour,” resumed the voice, “the sacred mistletoe drips tears, sweat and blood.”
“Those tears, the sweat and blood, will one day change into a fruitful dew.”
“What will it fructify?”
“The independence of Gaul.”
“Who watches over Gaul, now shackled in chains?”
“Hesus, the almighty, and his venerable druids, who, wandering in the woods, hide in caverns like this one.”
“Your name?”
“Brittany.”
“What are you?”
“A son of the mistletoe.”
“Pass.”
After having made these answers to the questions that are always put to the “Sons of the Mistletoe” when they assemble in nocturnal meetings, the slave took a few more steps and stopped. The darkness in the cavern continued profound. Although silence prevailed, still the movements of several of the persons, all gathered at the spot, could be heard. Especially audible was the clanking of the chains borne by most of them. After a short interval, the voice of the druid who presided over the secret gathering broke through the gloom:
“Auvergne?�
�
“Present,” answered a voice.
“Artois?”
“Present.”
“Brittany?”
“Present,” cried the slave, after whom each me answered to the muster roll from almost all the presume, et Gaul, represented at this gathering of slaves who were sold and dragged away Item the several section, of Provencal Gaul. Silence ensued after the roll call, and the druid resumed:. “Artois end Brittony introduce a new member.
“Yes — yes,” answered the two voices.
“Has he been tried by blood and tears?”
“He has been tried.”
“Do you swear by Hesus?”
“We swear by Hesus!”
“Let him listen and answer,” the druid resumed, and added: “You newly arrived at this place, what do you want?”
“To be a ‘Son of the Mistletoe.’”
“For what purpose?”
“To secure justice — liberty — vengeance,” answered the neophyte’s voice.
“You who demand justice, liberty, vengeance,” said the druid, “are you plundered and enslaved by the stranger? Do you toil under his whip, the chain to your feet, the collar at your neck?”
“Yes.”
“Do your labors, that begin at dawn, end at dusk, and often are prolonged into the night, enrich the Roman who bought you like a head of cattle? Does he live in opulence, while you live in misery and slavery?”
“Yes, I toil, the Roman profits; I suffer, he enjoys.”
“Did the fields that you cultivate, from which to-day you gather the harvest for the stranger and conqueror, once belong to your free ancestors?”
“Yes.”
“Are the tender and pure joys of family life denied you? Is the sacrament of marriage forbidden to you? Can the Roman look upon you as an animal, separate at will the husband from the wife, the children from the mother, and sell them and send them far away from one another?”
“Yes.”
“Are your gods proscribed, their ministers pursued and tracked like wild beasts, and crucified like thieves?”
“Yes.”
“Can the Roman beat you at will, brand you in the forehead, mutilate your limbs and torture you and yours? Can he condemn you to perish in the midst of frightful agonies whenever it suits his wicked whim?”
“Yes.”
“Are you determined to cast off the abhorred yoke?”
“I am.”
“Do you desire that Gaul, once again free and powerful, shall be able to honor her heroes in peace, worship her gods, and insure the happiness of all her children?”
“I do — I do.”
“Are you aware that the task will be long, beset with sorrows strewn with trials and dangers?”
“I am.”
“Are you aware that you stake your life? I do not refer to death. This is not the season to shuffle off life by an easy and voluntary death, hoping to please Hesus, and resume life beyond, near to those whom we have loved. No! No! To die is nothing to the Gaul; what is galling to him is to live a slave. In order now to please Hesus, you must resign yourself to such a life, to the end that you may be able, slowly and however painfully, to labor in the deliverance of your race. Do you resign yourself to such a fate?”
“I do.”
“Whatever the ills may be that you and yours may be afflicted with, do you swear by Hesus not to raise a homicidal hand against yourself or them, and patiently to wait until the angel of death shall call yon to him?”
“I swear by Hesus!”
“Do you swear that when the signal for revolt and battle is given from the north to the south, from the east to the west of Gaul — do you swear to smite your Roman master, and to fight unto the end?”
“I swear.”
“Do you swear to await in patience and resignation for the day of terrible vengeance, and not to rise but at the voice of the druids, to the end that no precious blood flow in vain and isolated revolts?”
“I swear.”
“Do you swear to cover with a common hatred both the Romans and the craven Gauls, traitors to their own country, who have attached themselves to our oppressors with the view of overwhelming the brave Gallic plebs? Do you hate these perjured beings who have deserted the cause of liberty in order to enjoy their wealth in peace under Roman protection, and who sue for the title of Roman citizen?”
“I swear I shall hate these as inveterately as I shall the Romans, and, when the hour shall sound, cover them both with the same terrible vengeance.”
“Do you swear — and a rude trial it is for our race — to use dissimulation and ruse, the only weapons available to the slave, in order that your master may be lulled into security, and on the day of our vengeance awaken with terror?”
“I swear.”
“Do you swear to keep the nocturnal meetings of the Sons of the Mistletoe a secret from your master? Do you swear to endure all manner of tortures sooner than reveal the cause of your to-night’s absence, that, to-morrow, you will undoubtedly have to pay for under the whip or in prison?”
“I swear.”
“By Hesus! Be then admitted as one of the brave Sons of the Mistletoe, provided those that are here present in the dark are willing to accept you as a brother, as I do.”
There was a unanimity in favor of admitting the new member. This ceremony being over, another druides voice was heard:
“You all who are present and who hear me in the darkness of this cave — far away, perhaps, is the deliverance of Gaul — and yet, perhaps, close at hand, ye Sons of the Mistletoe! I, Ronan, the son of Talyessin, who was the most revered of all the druids of Karnak, I have happy tidings to impart to you. From that corner of our Brittany, whence — may you always remember the fact — the first cry went up for the holy war, and where stand the sacred stones once drenched in the generous blood of Hena, the virgin of the Isle of Sen, the glorious Gallic virgin whose courage and beauty are sung, to this day, by the bards—”
“Yes — Hena was a saint! The songs of the bards have taught us to know her,” came from several voices. “May her name shine in everlasting splendor — the name of the daughter of Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak!”
“Glory to her, the brave and sweet virgin who offered her innocent blood as a sacrifice to Hesus!”
“Glory to the songs of the bards, our only consolation in servitude. They keep alive the great deeds of our fathers!” The Gallic slave could no longer repress his tears; they flowed in the darkness; they flowed from a heart full of sorrow and gratitude. That Hena, so long sung about by the bards, Hena, the virgin of the Isle of Sen, whose name and memory was at that moment extolled, was the sister of Guilhern, the father of the slave who now wept. His name was Sylvest; his grandfather was Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak.
The druid resumed his address that the acclaim of Hena’s name had interrupted:
“Far away, perhaps, is the day of our deliverance, and, perhaps, close at hand. I, Ronan, the son of Talyessin, am freshly arrived from the center of Gaul. I traveled at night; during the day I concealed myself in the forests and the caves, which, as this one, serve for the secret meeting places of the Sons of the Mistletoe, because, as you should know, despite all obstacles and perils, the Sons of the Mistletoe meet everywhere in secret. Therein lies our strength — therein lies our hope. Let us have faith in the future. This is the good tidings: Reassured by the apparent quiet of the provinces since the last war, the Romans are recalling their large army back to Italy. The vanguard is on the march; it is moving towards the province that we are here in, in order to embark at Marseilles. The passage of the army through the regions that it will cross is to be the signal for the Sons of the Mistletoe to hold themselves in readiness for the holy night of revolt and vengeance.”
“We are ready!” cried several voices. “May that night soon come!”
“And that night of revolt and vengeance,” continued the druid, “will give the signal for the simultaneous uprising of all Gaul, fr
om the north to the south, from the east to the west. Aye, who is to give that nocturnal signal so as to be visible to all and at the same hour? It will be the sacred luminary of Gaul! Listen — listen. This night the moon begins to wane. In the measure that her orb pales, the army will be approaching its place of embarkation. Its military halts are numbered. When the moon will have waned completely the Romans will be on the eve of quitting Gaul, leaving only a feeble garrison behind.”
“On that night,” cried Sylvest in his impatient ardor, “all Gaul will rise.”
“No — not on that night,” answered the druid. “Although the winds are generally favorable at this season, a contrary breeze may spring up and retard the enemy’s departure.”
“And if the uprising followed too closely upon the heels of the embarkation of the Romans,” put in a voice, “a light skiff might hasten to the galleys out at sea and convey to them the order to return.”
“That is correct,” replied the druid. “The troops must be afforded sufficient time to leave the shores of Gaul far behind them. The revolt must not break out until the second night of the new moon. Oh! oppressed Gauls,” added the inspired druid, “Oh, you all, from all the sections of our land who groan under the yoke of slavery — meseems I see you on the eve of that solemn moment! Your eyes are turned heavenward, all looking but for one thing — the arrival of the signal. It appears — the golden crescent on the azure sky! I then hear but one sound from one end of Gaul to the other — the sound of snapping shackles! I hear but one cry — Liberty!”
“Vengeance and liberty!” repeated the Sons of the Mistletoe, shaking the irons on their limbs.
“All insurrection that has no chief to head it is without order, is barren and fatal,” the druid proceeded to say. “If the hour of deliverance strikes — will you be ready?”
“We are ready,” answered a field slave. “When the night of deliverance shall have arrived, the slaves of every isolated estate will forthwith kill their guards and the Romans—”