Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Shortly after her husband’s death, my foster-sister told me that she would never marry again, it being her intention to consecrate her life entirely to Victorin. The last and insane hope that I nursed when I saw her a widow and free again, was dashed. With time I recovered my senses. I suppressed my ill-starred love and gave no thought but to the service of Victoria and her son. A simple horseman in the army, I served my foster-sister as her secretary. Often she confided important state secrets to me. At times she even charged me with confidential embassies to the military chiefs of Gaul.

  I taught Victorin to ride, to handle the lance and the sword. Soon I came to love him as an own son. A kinder and more generous disposition than that of the lad could not be imagined. Thus he grew up among the soldiers, who became attached to him by a thousand bonds of habit and of affection. At the age of fourteen he made his first campaign against the franks, who were fast becoming as dangerous enemies to us as the Romans once were. I accompanied him. Like a true Gallic woman his mother remained on horseback and surrounded by the officers, on a hill from which the battle field could be seen on which her son was engaged. He comported himself bravely and was wounded. Being thus from early youth habituated to the life of war, the youth developed great military talents. Intrepid as the bravest of the soldiers, skilful and cautious as a veteran captain, generous to the full extent that his purse allowed it, of a joyful disposition, open and kind to all, he gained ever more the attachment of the army that soon divided with him its adoration for his mother.

  The day finally arrived when Gaul, already almost independent, demanded to share with Rome the government of our country. The power was then divided between a Gallic and a Roman chief. Rome appointed Posthumus, and our troops unanimously acclaimed Victorin as the Gallic chief and general of the army. Shortly after, he married a young girl by whom he was dearly loved. Unfortunately she died within the year, leaving him a son. Victoria, now a grandmother, devoted herself to her son’s child as she had done before to himself, and surrounded the babe with all the cares that the tenderest solicitude could inspire.

  My early resolve was never to marry. I was nevertheless gradually attracted by the modest graces and the virtue of the daughter of one of the centurions of our army. She was your mother, Ellen, whom I married five years ago.

  Such has been my life until this day, when I start the narrative that is to follow. Certain remarks of Victoria decided me to write it both for your benefit and the benefit of our descendants. If the expectations of my foster-sister, concerning several incidents in this narrative, are eventually realized, those of our relatives who in the centuries to come may happen to read this story will discover that Victoria, the Mother of the Camps, was gifted, like Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen, and Velleda, the female druid and companion of Civilis, with the holy gift of prevision.

  What I am here about to narrate happened a week ago. In order to fix the date with greater accuracy I certify that it is written in the city of Mayence, defended by our fortified camp on the borders of the Rhine, on the fifth day of the month of June, as the Romans reckon, of the seventh year of the joint principality of Posthumus and Victorin in Gaul, two hundred and sixty-four years after the death of Jesus of Nazareth, the friend of the poor, who was crucified in Jerusalem under the eyes of our ancestress Genevieve.

  The Gallic camp, composed of tents and light but solid barracks, is massed around Mayence, which dominates it. Victoria lodges in the city; I occupy a little house not far from the one that she inhabits.

  PART I. FOREIGN FOES.

  CHAPTER I.

  SCHANVOCH AND SAMPSO.

  THE MORNING OF the day that I am telling of, I quitted my bed with the dawn, leaving my beloved wife Ellen soundly asleep. I contemplated her for an instant. Her long loose hair partly covered her bosom; her sweet and beautiful head rested upon one of her folded arms, while the other reclined on your cradle, my son, as if to protect you even during her sleep. I lightly kissed both your foreheads, fearing to awake you. It required an effort on my part to refrain from tenderly embracing you both again and again. I was bound upon a venturesome expedition; perchance, the kiss that I hardly dared to give you was the last you were ever to receive from me. I left the room where you slept and repaired to the contiguous one to arm myself, to don my cuirass over my blouse, and take my casque and sword. I then left the house. At our threshold I met Sampso, my wife’s sister, as gentle and beautiful as herself. She held her apron filled with flowers of different colors; they were still wet with the dew. She had just gathered them in our little garden. Seeing me, she smiled and blushed surprised.

  “Up so early, Sampso?” I said to her. “I thought I was the first one stirring. But what is the purpose of these flowers?”

  “Is it not to-day a year ago that I came to live with my sister Ellen and you — you forgetful Schanvoch?” she answered with an affectionate smile. “I wish to celebrate the day in our old Gallic fashion. I went out for the flowers in order to garland the house-door, the cradle of your little Alguen, and his mother’s head. But you, where are you bound to this morning in full armor?”

  At the thought that this holiday might turn into a day of mourning for my family I suppressed a sigh, and answered my wife’s sister with a smile that was intended to allay suspicion.

  “Victoria and her son charged me yesterday with some military orders for the chief of a detachment that lies encamped some two leagues from here. It is the military custom to be armed when one has such orders in charge.”

  “Do you know, Schanvoch, that you must arouse jealousy in many a breast?”

  “Because my foster-sister employs my soldier’s sword during war and my pen during truces?”

  “You forget to say that that foster-sister is Victoria the Great, and that Victorin, her son, entertains for you the respect that he would have for his mother’s brother. Hardly a day goes by without Victoria’s calling upon you. These are favors that many should envy.”

  “Have I ever sought to profit by these favors, Sampso? Have I not remained a simple horseman, ever declining to be an officer, and requesting the only favor of fighting at Victorin’s side?”

  “Whose life you have already twice saved when he was at the point of perishing under the blows of those barbarous Franks!”

  “I did but my duty as a soldier and a Gaul. Should I not sacrifice my life to that of a man who is so necessary to our country?”

  “Schanvoch, we must not quarrel; you know how much I admire Victoria; but—”

  “But I know your uncharitableness towards her son,” I put in with a smile, “you austere and severe Sampso!”

  “Is it any fault of mine if disorderly conduct finds no favor in my eyes — if I even consider it disgraceful?”

  “Certes, you are right. Nevertheless I can not avoid being somewhat indulgent towards the foibles of Victorin. A widower at twenty, should he not be excused for yielding at times to the impulses of his age? Dear but implacable Sampso, I let you read the narrative of my ancestress Genevieve. You are gentle and good as Jesus of Nazareth, why do you not imitate his charity towards sinners? He forgave Magdalen because she had loved much. In the name of the same sentiment pardon Victorin!”

  “There is nothing more worthy of forgiveness than love, when it is sincere. But debauchery has nothing in common with love. Schanvoch, it is as if you were to say to me that my sister and I could be compared with those Bohemian girls who recently arrived in Mayence.”

  “In point of looks they might be compared with you or Ellen, seeing that they are said to be ravishingly beautiful. But the comparison ends there, Sampso. I trust but little the virtue of those strollers, however charming, however brilliantly arrayed they may be, who travel from town to town singing and dancing for public amusement — even if they indulge not in worse practices.”

  “And for all that, I make no doubt that, when you least expect it, you will see Victorin the general of the army, one of the two Chiefs of Gaul, accompany on horseback th
e chariot in which these Bohemian girls promenade every evening along the borders of the Rhine. And if I should feel indignant at the sight of the son of Victoria serving as escort to such creatures, you would surely say to me: ‘Forgive the sinner, just as Jesus forgave Magdalen the sinner.’ Go to, Schanvoch, the man who can delight in unworthy amours is capable of—”

  But Sampso suddenly broke off.

  “Finish your sentence,” I said to her, “express yourself in full, I pray you.”

  “No,” she answered after reflecting a moment; “the time has not yet come for that. I would not like to risk a hasty word.”

  “See here,” I said to her, “I am sure that what you have in mind is one of those ridiculous stories about Victorin that for some time have been floating about in the army, without its being possible to trace the slanders to their source. Can you, Sampso, you, with all your good sense and good heart, make yourself the echo of such gossip, such unworthy calumnies?”

  “Adieu, Schanvoch; I told you I was not going to quarrel with you, dear brother, on the subject of the hero whom you defend against all comers.”

  “What would you have me do? It is my foible. I love his mother as an own sister. I love her son as if he were my own. Are you not as guilty as myself, Sampso? Is not my little Alguen, your sister’s son, as dear to you as if he were your own child? Take my word for it, when Alguen will be twenty and you hear him accused of some youthful indiscretion, you will, I feel quite sure, defend him with even more warmth than I defend Victorin. But we need not wait so long, have you not begun your role of pleader for him, already? When the rascal is guilty of some misconduct, is it not his aunt Sampso whom he fetches to intercede in his behalf? He knows how you love him!”

  “Is not my sister’s son mine?”

  “Is that the reason you do not wish to marry?”

  “Surely, brother,” she answered with a blush and a slight embarrassment. After a moment’s silence she resumed:

  “I hope you will be back home at noon to complete our little feast?”

  “The moment my mission is fulfilled I shall return. Adieu, Sampso!”

  “Adieu, Schanvoch!”

  And leaving his wife’s sister engaged in her work of garlanding the house-door, Schanvoch walked rapidly away, revolving in his mind the topic of the conversation that Sampso had just broached.

  CHAPTER II.

  ON THE RHINE.

  I HAD OFTEN asked myself why Sampso, who was a year older than Ellen, and as beautiful and virtuous as my wife, had until then rejected several offers of marriage. At times I suspected that she entertained some secret love, other times I surmised she might belong to one of the Christian societies that began to spread over Gaul and in which the women took the vow of virginity, as did several of our female druids. I also pondered the reason for Sampso’s reticence when I asked her to be more explicit concerning Victorin. Soon, however, I dropped all these subjects and turned my mind upon the expedition that I had in charge.

  I wended my way towards the advance posts of the camp and addressed myself to an officer under whose eyes I placed a scroll with a few lines written by Victorin. The officer immediately put four picked soldiers at my disposal. They were chosen from among a number whose special department was to manoeuvre the craft of the military flotilla that was used in ascending or descending the Rhine in order, whenever occasion required, to defend the fortified camp. Upon my recommendation the four soldiers left their arms behind. I alone was armed. As we passed a clump of oak trees I cut down a few branches to be placed at the prow of the bark that was to transport us. We soon arrived at the river bank, where we found several boats that were reserved for the service of the army, tied to their stakes. While two of the soldiers fastened on the prow of the boat the oak branches that I had furnished them with, the other two examined the oars with expert eyes in order to assure themselves that they were in fit condition for use. I took the rudder, and we left the shore.

  The four soldiers rowed in silence for a while. Presently the oldest of them, a veteran with a grey moustache and white hair, said to me:

  “There is nothing like a Gallic song to make time pass quickly and the oars strike in rhythm. I should say that some old national refrain, sung in chorus, renders the sculls lighter and the water more easy to cleave through. Are we allowed to sing, friend Schanvoch?”

  “You seem to know me, comrade?”

  “Who in the army does not know the foster-brother of the Mother of the Camps?”

  “Being a simple horseman I thought my name was more obscure than it seems to be.”

  “You have remained a simple horseman despite our Victoria’s friendship for you. That is why, Schanvoch, everybody knows and esteems you.”

  “You certainly make me feel happy by saying so. What is your name?”

  “Douarnek.”

  “You must be a Breton!”

  “From the neighborhood of Vannes.”

  “My family also comes from that neighborhood.”

  “I thought as much, your name being a Breton name. Well, friend Schanvoch, may we sing a song? Our officer gave us orders to obey you as we would himself. I know not whither you are taking us, but a song is heard far away, especially when it is struck up in chorus by vigorous and broad-chested lads. Perhaps we must not draw attention upon our bark?”

  “Just now you may sing — later not — we shall have to advance without making any noise.”

  “Well, boys, what shall we sing?” said the veteran without either himself or his companions intermitting the regular strokes of their oars, and only slightly turning his head towards them, seeing that, seated as he was on the first bench, he sat opposite to me. “Come, make your choice!”

  “The song of the mariners, will that suit you?” answered one of the soldiers.

  “That is rather long,” replied Douarnek.

  “The song of the Chief of the Hundred Valleys?”

  “That is very beautiful,” again replied Douarnek, “but it is a song of slaves who await their deliverance; by the bones of our fathers, we are now free in old Gaul!”

  “Friend Douarnek,” said I, “it was to the refrain of that slaves’ song— ‘Flow, flow, thou blood of the captive! Drop, drop, thou dew of gore!’ that our fathers, arms in hand, reconquered the freedom that we enjoy to-day.”

  “That is true, Schanvoch, but that song is very long, and you warned us that we were soon to become silent as fishes.”

  “Douarnek,” one of the soldiers spoke up, “sing to us the song of Hena the Virgin of the Isle of Sen. It always brings tears to my eyes. She is my favorite saint, the beautiful and sweet Hena, who lived centuries and centuries ago.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the other soldiers, “sing the song of Hena, Douarnek! That song predicts the victory of Gaul — and Gaul is to-day triumphant!”

  Hearing these words I was greatly moved, I felt happy and, I confess it, proud at seeing that the name of Hena, dead more than three hundred years, had remained in Gaul as popular as it was at the time of Sylvest.

  “Very well, the song of Hena it shall be!” replied the veteran. “I also love the sweet and saintly girl, who offered her blood to Hesus for the deliverance of Gaul. And you, Schanvoch, do you know the song?”

  “Yes — quite well — I have heard it sung—”

  “You will know it enough to repeat the refrain with us.”

  Saying this Douarnek struck up the song in a full and sonorous voice that reached far over the waters of the Rhine:

  “She was young, she was fair,

  And holy was she.

  To Hesus her blood gave

  That Gaul might be free.

  Hena her name!

  Hena, the Maid of the Island of Sen!

  “ — Blessed be the gods, my sweet daughter, —

  Said her father Joel,

  The brenn of the tribe of Karnak.

  — Blessed be the gods, my sweet daughter,

  Since you are at home this night


  To celebrate the day of your birth! —

  “ — Blessed be the gods, my sweet girl, —

  Said Margarid, her mother.

  — Blessed be your coming!

  But why is your face so sad? —

  “ — My face is sad, my good mother;

  My face is sad, my good father,

  Because Hena your daughter

  Comes to bid you Adieu,

  Till we meet again. —

  “ — And where are you going, my sweet daughter?

  Will your journey, then, be long?

  Whither thus are you going? —

  “ — I go to those worlds

  So mysterious, above,

  That no one yet knows,

  But that all will yet know.

  Where living ne’er traveled,

  Where all will yet travel,

  To live there again

  With those we have loved.—”

  And myself and the three other oarsmen replied in chorus: