by Eugène Sue
WHAT WERE THE prelate and the count engaged in while the Vagres were approaching the ecclesiastical villa through the underground gallery? What were they engaged in? They were emptying cup upon cup. The count’s leude had returned to the burg in quest of the pretty blonde slave girl. While waiting for him, Bishop Cautin, hardly able to contain himself for the joy that he anticipated in the possession of the girl whom he coveted, had returned to his seat at the table. Neroweg had not yet recovered from his recent fright; ever and anon a shiver would run over him. Every time it occurred to him that hell had just yawned at his very feet and might be located under the very room in which he found himself, he would gladly have left the banquet hall. He dared not. He believed himself protected by the holy presence of the bishop against the attacks of the devils, who might elsewhere fall upon him. In vain did the man of God urge his guest to drain another cup; the count pushed the cup back with his hand while his gimlet eyes, resembling the eyes of a frightened bird of prey, rolled uneasily over the hall.
Impassible in his seat, the hermit laborer remained sunk in meditation, or observed what took place around him.
“What ails you?” the bishop asked the count. “You look downcast and drink no more! A minute ago you were a fratricide, and now, thanks to the absolution that I gave you, you are white as snow. Is your conscience still uneasy? Can it be that you hid some other crime from me? If you did, you chose your time ill — as you saw, hell is not far away—”
“Keep still, father! Keep still! I feel so weak just now that I could not carry a lamb on my back — I who can otherwise raise a wild-boar. Do not leave your son in Christ alone! You are able to conjure the demons away — I shall not leave you till it is broad day—”
“You will nevertheless have to leave me the moment the pretty blonde slave arrives; I must take her to the women’s section of the house near Fulvia.”
“As truly as one of my ancestors was called the Terrible Eagle in Germany, I shall not quit you any more than your shadow.”
“An ancestor of that Neroweg was called the Terrible Eagle in Germany — the meeting is odd,” thought the hermit to himself. “It does seem that our two hostile families, the one Frank the other Gaul, having crossed each other’s path in the past, must cross it again — and are to recross it, perhaps, again and again through the centuries to come—”
“Count, your terror proves to me that your soul is not at ease — I mistrust that your confession was not complete.”
“Yes, yes; I confessed everything!”
“I hope to God it be so, for the salvation of your soul. But cheer up! Let us talk of the hunt. Oh! By the way of the hunt, I have a complaint against you and your forester slaves. The other day they pursued three stags into the very heart of the Church’s forest — in that part of the wood that is separated from the rest of your domains by the river.”
“If my forester slaves pursued any stag into your forest, I shall allow yours to pursue one into mine; our woods are separated only by a narrow road.”
“A better boundary would be the river itself.”
“In that case I would have to abandon to you fully a thousand acres of woodland, which lie on this side of the stream.”
“Do you place much store by that little corner of your forest? The trees do not thrive very well at that spot.”
“Not as poorly as you would make out. There are among them oak trees more than twenty feet around; besides, it is that portion of my domains that game seems to like best.”
“You boast of the beauty of your trees; it is your right; but your domains would have a better and safer boundary if you took the river, and if you consented to yield to the Church that corner of a thousand acres.”
“What makes you speak of my woods? I have no need of any further absolution from you—”
“No — you killed one of your wives, one of your concubines and your brother Ursio — you have expiated those crimes by endowing the Church — you have received absolution. Nevertheless, coming to think of it, there is one thing that both of us have overlooked — and it is of capital importance—”
“What is it, father?”
“Your fourth wife, Wisigarde, died a violent death at your hands. She did not receive priestly assistance at her death — her soul is in pain. She might come to torment you during the night in the shape of some frightful phantom until you will have drawn her poor soul from purgatory—”
“How can I do that?”
“Through the holy mass and through the prayers of a priest of the Lord.”
“Well, father, I wish you to make those prayers for the soul of the departed.”
“I shall grant your request. For twenty years prayers shall be recited at the altar for the repose of the soul of Wisigarde, but only under condition that you pass over to me the corner of your woods that is separated from your domains by the stream—”
“Give again to your Church! Ever give! Ever!”
“Would you prefer to be tormented by nocturnal phantoms?”
The Frank looked at the bishop with an angry and defiant eye:
“Rapacious Gaul! You are seeking to pluck piece by piece from me the share of the conquests that our kings have presented to my family as our hereditary possessions. Endow the Church still more! I will sooner endow the devil! Yes, by all the horns of Lucifer!”
“Do! Endow him! Here he is!” came from a rude loud voice that seemed to issue from the center of the earth.
At the sound of the voice the hermit started from his seat; the bishop threw himself back and quickly crossed himself, but a reassuring thought flashed through his mind, and he said to himself aloud in Latin:
“It must be my good assistant who remained below — the trick is good!”
The count, however, struck with terror and believing himself pursued by the archfiend in person, screamed aloud and fled from the banquet hall distracted. So precipitate was his flight and headlong his bewilderment that he nearly upset the leude who, back at that moment from his errand to the count’s burg, entered the hall pushing before him the young blonde slave whom he was sent in quest of:
“Here is the slave girl, Odille,” said the leude.
The bishop started to run towards the poor lass, but at the very moment when he dashed forward to seize her, a vigorous hand that rose from the opening of the now again removed mosaic slab held the prelate back by the fold of his robe, and a voice shouted:
“A profligate you shall no longer be, holy man of God! That pretty lass is not for you!”
When the startled bishop looked around, he saw with terror Ronan issuing from the underground recess at the head of his companions, all of whom were yelling at the top of their voices. In order to carry on the humor of the trick that the bishop played upon the count, the Vagres had all blackened their faces with the charred remains of the fagots that shortly before furnished the “flames of hell.”
At the sight of those black men rising from under the ground, and yelling as if possessed, the leude who brought in the young slave also believed that they issued from hell, and rushed out close upon Neroweg’s heels, crying:
“The demons! The demons!”
More and more frightened by these cries, the count ran to the stable, leaped upon his horse, and dashed full tilt away from the episcopal villa. His leudes followed his example; they, in turn, took to their mounts, and leaving their arms behind in the banquet hall, fled tumultuously, repeating in terror:
“The demons! The demons!”
CHAPTER V.
VAGRES IN JUDGMENT.
THE EPISCOPAL VILLA has been invaded by the Vagres. They carried the place, and they did so without striking a blow.
Who is he who is celebrating night mass in the bishop’s chapel? The wax candles are lighted on the altar with all the gorgeousness of an Easter Sunday. Their brilliant light illumines the near vault, while the rest of the chapel is thrown into the shade, down to the Gothic main entrance, that now and then a ruddy gleam flickers through l
ike the reflection of an extinguishing bonfire. What bonfire was that? It was the bonfire of the episcopal villa in flames.
Was, then, the villa set on fire by the Vagres? Certes; for what other reason should they have brought along torches and straw?
In the center of the yard the riches of the bishop lie in a high heap — gold and silver vases, holy chalices, together with drinking goblets, Bible cases of precious wood, together with platters of the banquet table, patines, together with bowls used for cooling the bishop’s wine; good sized and ripped-up bags, from which silver and gold sous roll out; costly cloth, purple and blue, that but awaited the tailor’s scissors; warm and rare furs, some black as crows, others white as doves. In the way of trophies, the axes, bucklers and pikes of the leudes, who ran away out of fear for the devil, are stacked up at the four corners of the superb heap of booty. Gold, silver, steel, the brilliant colors of the cloths — they all scintillate and sparkle, each with its own lustre, and all with the resplendence that is so pleasing to the eye of the Vagre.
The Vagres are there! They are in the holy chapel of the episcopal villa, where they do that which all Vagres do after they have drunk their fill, ravaged and pillaged. Some are snoring at the foot of the altar exhausted by their labors or overcome by the fumes of wine; others balance themselves on their unsteady limbs and cast loving glances at the wealth which they are about to scatter on their route and that will make so many poor people happy. The Vagres of Ronan are ever faithful to the sacred commandments of the Vagrery:
“Let us take from the rich and give to the poor. The Vagre who preserves a sou for the morrow ceases to be a Vagre, a ‘Wolf’s-head,’ a ‘wand’ring man.’ He ever divides the booty of the previous evening among the poor, so that he be compelled to pillage fresh renegade bishops, and Frankish oppressors of old Gaul. Nor peace nor truce to the oppressors!”
And as to those other Vagres, who lean against the shafts of the pillars, or are seated on the step of the altar near the snorers — their eyes are as steady as their limbs; have they perchance, not also tasted the old wines of the episcopal villa?
Oh! They did drink, twice, ten times more than the others; but they are veterans at the trade, old Vagres, sturdy customers who drain a pouch at one gulp, and immediately after are able to walk with steady step over a beam across the conflagration that they have lighted in the burg of a Frank, or the villa of a bishop.
And these others — men with shaven heads, wan, clad in rags; these women and these girls, some of whom are pretty — who are they?
They are the slaves of the Church; they look happy at the sight of their day of justice and vengeance. But other slaves there are, not a few in number, who fled terrified into the woods. They imagined they saw the fires of heaven roll down upon the Vagres, who could be sacrilegious enough to put to the sack and fire the house of the vice-regent of God on earth, their holy bishop.
And what is Ronan doing? There he sits in full gala on the episcopal bench, decked in sacerdotal garb, and coiffed in the fur cap which count Neroweg left behind when he fled demented out of the banquet hall. Four Vagres assist Ronan. They are odd-looking clerks! Jolly deacons! Among them is Wolf’s-Tooth, the giant whose waist a barrel’s hoop would hardly encircle.
“Brother, are we all together?”
“Ronan, only the Master of the Hounds is missing. When the conflagration was at its height, he was seen by one of our men running towards the door of the bishopess; he leaped through the flames and re-issued at the garden door running with a fainting woman in his arms.”
“He is doubtlessly engaged in making her regain consciousness. Well, while the bishopess is being revived, shall we try the bishop?”
“The holy man has tried people, whom he said were under his jurisdiction, as bishop of the city of Clermont. He is now under our jurisdiction. Let us try him!”
Louder than the Vagres themselves, the slaves of the prelate set up the cry:
“Let us judge the bishop!”
“Bring him forward, on the spot!”
Two Vagres went out in quest of the holy man of God, who had been kept locked up in a contiguous compartment. He was brought in pinioned. Pale and wrathful he was pushed before the tribunal of Ronan and his four Vagre clerks.
“Seigneur bishop,” said Ronan to him, “thy ‘charity,’ thy ‘piety,’ thy ‘exalted chastity’ (thou seest I am giving thee all the honorary titles that thou and thine bestow upon one another, holy men that ye are) thy ‘exalted chastity’ will be kind enough to inform us of thy name?”
“Incendiary! Pillager! Sacrilegious wretch! Those are your names! I damn and excommunicate you, you, together with your whole band! You stand excommunicated in this world and in the next, where you will suffer everlasting tortures!”
“Thy ‘exalted chastity’ answers my question with insults. Seeing that thou refusest to state thy name, I shall answer for thee. Thy name is Cautin—”
“May my name burn your tongue!”
“Slaves of the bishopric,” proceeded Ronan addressing those who surrounded him, “what charges have you to prefer against your bishop?”
“He grinds us down with toil and with taxes. He oppresses us from morning till night all the year long!”
“For food he lets us have a handful of beans, for clothes rags, and for shelter rickety mud huts!”
“Our slightest oversights are visited with the whip!”
“He violates our daughters! What resistance can the female slave offer when threatened? She submits with a shudder — she weeps—”
“That a Frank should be ready to subjugate us and whelm us with misery we can understand: he is a conqueror who abuses his power. But that bishops, Gauls like ourselves, should join the Frank in order to share with him the plunder that he levies upon us — that we cannot understand; such action must draw down the severest punishment upon the heads of the perpetrators. Oh! Our old priests, the venerated druids, never allied themselves with the Roman conquerors of Gaul. No! No! With the sword in one hand, the mistletoe twig in the other, they were ever the first to give the signal for war against the foreigner; they roused the peoples to revolt with the words: ‘The country and freedom!’ The response came swift from the masses; out of their midst arose the Chief of the Hundred Valleys, Sacrovir, Vindex, Marik, Civilis! And the Romans trembled in their very Capitol!”
“Bishop,” Ronan proceeded, “has thy exalted truthfulness anything to answer to the accusations of thy slaves?”
“They are all damned criminals, sacrilegious wretches who will have to answer for their crimes when they appear before the throne of God, on the day of last judgment. Ever after they will gnash their teeth—”
“Bishop, has thy exalted purity nothing else to say than utter insults?”
“And may it please the Lord to turn these insults into so many tongues of fire to pierce your bodies, ye accursed men!”
“While waiting for the fulfillment of thy wishes, listen to the further indictment against thee: Thou didst covet the goods of one of thy priests named Anastasius; he declined to let thee have them; thou didst inveigle him to Clermont; thou didst there have him seized, bound hand and foot and thrown alive into a grave with a decomposing corpse. Wilt thou dare deny that thou art guilty of that felony?”
“A wonderful council this is, made up of beggars, sacrilegious wretches and slaves, to interrogate a bishop!”
“We shall proceed. Thy exalted poverty, in its rage to augment its wealth, conceived this evening, under guise of a miracle, a veritable bandit’s trick: thou didst plunder Count Neroweg under pressure of the fear of the devil. Under the code of the Vagrery, to plunder a Frank is a pious act. But if the Vagres delight in pillaging our conquerors, it is only in order to administer to the wants of the poor by making them sharers in the plunder. On the other hand, to plunder a thief for self-gain is a sin according to the code of the Vagrery. Moreover, thou didst absolve the count of a crime in order that thou mightst possess a young slave, a girl of barel
y fifteen years. Now, then, under the code of the Vagrery, such episcopal profligacy also is a damnable sin that demands punishment.”
And addressing himself to the Vagres, Ronan added:
“Bring in the young slave!”
Ronan was right. To impute fifteen years to the girl was to add to her actual age. Her blonde hair that was parted in two long and thick braids, reached almost down to her feet, which were bare, like her arms and shoulders. In fetching her from the burg, the brutal leude had barely given her time to dress before lifting her on the crupper of his horse. Accordingly, now that she faced the Vagres what suppliant fear was not readable in the large blue eyes of the poor child, who still trembled visibly! Her nocturnal ride on the crupper of the Frankish warrior’s horse, the burning of the episcopal villa, the strange aspect of the Vagres — how many subjects of alarm to her young heart! The young girl’s cheeks must once have been full and rosy; they now were hollow and pale. The infantine figure, bearing the stamp of suffering, was painful to behold. As the young slave stepped into the chapel a feeling of sadness came over Ronan; his very voice betrayed his emotion when he addressed her:
“What is your name, my child?”
“I am called Odille.”
“Where were you born?”
“Far from here — in one of the uplands of the Mont-Dore.”
“How old are you, little Odille?”
“My mother said to me this spring: ‘Odille, it is to-day fourteen years that you have been the joy of my life.’”
“How did you become the slave of the Frankish count? Tell us your history.”
“My father died young. I lived in the mountain with my grandfather, my brother and my mother. We lived off the yield of our herd, and we spun wool. No sorrow had ever befallen us except my father’s death. One day the Franks scaled the mountain in arms. They took our herd and said to us: ‘We shall carry you to the burg of our count to restock his domain with slaves and cattle.’ My brother attempted to defend us. The Franks killed him. They tied my mother and me to one rope, and drove us together with our herd of sheep before them. My grandfather begged them on his knees to allow him to follow us. But the Franks said to him: ‘You are too old to gain your bread as a slave.’ ‘But if I am left alone, I shall die of hunger on the mountain!’ ‘Die, then!’ was their answer, and they made us move on before them. My grandfather followed us, weeping, at a distance. The Franks stoned him to death. On their way they captured other slaves, took in other droves of cattle, and killed other people of the mountain when they refused to follow. They descended into the valley; there they made some further captures of people and cattle. There were about fifty of us, men, women and girls. The Franks slaughtered all the children as being worthless. The first night we slept in a wood. On that night the Franks violated the women despite all their entreaties. I heard the sobs of my mother. They separated me from her in the evening and did me no harm. The chief of the band kept me, he said, for the count. The next morning we resumed our march, with me separated from my mother. More people were killed who did not wish to march on — more slaves and cattle were taken. After that the troop marched to the burg. Before arriving there a second night was spent in the woods. The chief who reserved me for the count made me sleep beside his horse. Early the next morning we proceeded on our route. I tried to discover my mother in the crowd — the Frank said to me: ‘She died; two warriors contended for her last night; in the tussle she was killed.’ I wished to lie down and die, but the chief raised me on his horse, and we arrived on the count’s domain—”