by Eugène Sue
“Poor, dear little one!” murmured Odille weeping. “He must have died calling to his mother for help—”
“The royal butcher knew the right spot to plunge his knife in the child’s body,” observed Ronan; “that is the proper way to kill lambkins. Proceed, learned Symphorien.”
“At the cries of the child, his younger brother rushes in and throws himself at Childebert’s feet, and clinging to his legs with all his strength, cries out to him: ‘Uncle! Good uncle! Come to my help! Do not let me be killed like my brother!’”
“Touched to the heart for an instant, Childebert says to Clotaire: ‘Grant me the life of this child.’ But Clotaire answers enraged: ‘Either push the child off your knees, or you will die in his stead! It is you who led me into this affair, and now your heart seems to fail you!’”
“The good Clotaire was right,” put in Ronan. “First to scheme the assassination of the children, and then to recoil before the deed was to insult the stock of the glorious King Clovis. But Childebert thought better, in honor of his royal family, did he not, learned Symphorien?”
“What else could he? Childebert pushed the child off from his knees and threw him towards Clotaire, who plunged his knife under the boy’s arm-pit as he had done with the other, and killed him. The two kings forthwith put all the slaves and governors of the two children to death, and divided their kingdom among them.”
“That is the manner in which monarchies are founded,” observed Ronan. “Oh, by Rita-Gaur, the inspired Gaul of olden days who had a blouse woven of the beard of the kings! All these monsters deserve to be exterminated, do you not think so, friend?” he added, addressing the hermit laborer, who had silently listened to the narrative. “Is it not the duty of all sons of Gaul to take the field in permanence against these wild beasts who have invaded our country, reduced us to vile slavery?”
“It is better to prevent the evil than to kill the criminal,” answered the hermit.
“Hermit, could you prevent a Frankish king from being born a rapacious thief?”
“He must be prevented from being born king, duke, count or seigneur, and taught that he is not the master of the life and goods of other human beings. Jesus of Nazareth said it: we are all equal. From the equality of men their fraternity will one day be born. To each his part in the common heritage. Propagate that doctrine among your brothers, and the end will be reached without the spilling of blood.”
Saying this the hermit-laborer relapsed into his previous silent revery.
“Twice have I camped on the trail of that last king of Auvergne — king by the grace of pillage and massacre,” said Ronan, “and both times I failed to catch him. But, by Rita-Gaur, if ever Clotaire falls into my hands, I shall shave him — and so close to his shoulders that his head will never more grow again—”
“Ronan, you reckon without the demonstration of rhetoric. I have established the premises, let us now draw the conclusions. Therefore, logice, I shall prove to you that naught will avail you against Clotaire. The Lord protects him. Yes, the Lord has performed a miracle in favor of Clotaire, the butcher of children. Consequently, I was right when I said that I shall prove logice that the Lord will surely perform some miracle in our own favor, in favor of the good Vagres—”
“We were decidedly wrong in not hanging the bishop!”
“It will always be time to draw the Lord’s attention upon as by some such pious deed. But tell us the miracle, learned Symphorien.”
“It was in the year 537, about four years after Childebert and Clotaire stabbed their little nephews to death. Our two worthy sons of the stock of Clovis had no thought but of how to plunder and despatch each other. Accordingly, although united for a moment like loving brothers in the assassination of the two boys, Clotaire and Childebert declared war against each other. Theudebert, one of Clovis’ grandchildren, joined Childebert; the two placed themselves at the head of their leudes, and, as was their wont, pillaged and laid waste the countries that they crossed, and marched against Clotaire. The good uncle did not consider his own forces strong enough to make head against the joint troops of his brother and his nephew; he declined battle and withdrew to the forest of Brotonne, between Rouen and the sea. Theudebert and Childebert girdled the forest, and quietly awaited the night, confident of catching the beloved brother and uncle in the net. In pursuit of their plan, Childebert and Theudebert advanced noiselessly at the head of their troops. The sun was rising. They had arrived to within two or three hundred paces from the spot where Clotaire was encamped with his leudes, when suddenly a frightful hailstorm of stones and fire dropped down from the sky. The troops of Childebert and Theudebert were crushed by the stones and consumed by the heavenly fire.”
“And what became of Clotaire?”
“Oh! Clotaire, the favorite of the Lord, as the miracle proved, saw the troops of his brother and nephew annihilated only a few paces from him by the stones and fire that rained down from the sky, while over his own head, the sky, as pure, limpid and serene as his own conscience, was of a smiling blue. Not even a breath of wind agitated the tops of the trees in the forest, while all around there was a cataract of fire. And thereupon a further shower of stones dropped down from the bosom of the clouds, and buried all the enemies of Clotaire.”
Symphorien stopped for a moment to contemplate the effect of the miracle on his audience and then proceeded:
“And above all, you must not fail to observe that the account of the miracle expressly states that it was the great St. Martin himself, who, in paradise, prayed to the Lord that he give such a token of friendship for Clotaire. Now, then, St. Martin did not intercede with the Lord on behalf of the felonious Clotaire, but at the fervent prayer of Queen Clotilde.”
“What! The grandmother of the two poor little victims of that monster of a Clotaire?” exclaimed little Odille clasping her hands. “She prayed for a miracle in favor of the murderer of her two grandsons?”
“My Vagre,” put in at this juncture the bishopess passing her slender fingers through the waivy hair of the young man, and placing her lips upon her lover’s mouth, “is it not better to proceed to yonder worlds than to remain and live in this world of horrors?”
“Aye, horrible — horrible is this world,” cried the hermit-laborer with profound grief and indignation. “Oh! To see the name of that God of mercy, of love and of justice thus profaned and daily soiled! Oh! To see these crimes, that cause nature to shudder, placed under divine protection! Oh, Jesus! Jesus of Nazareth! You the divinest of all sages, you did foresee that your Church would be ill-understood, when, with your spirit, afflicted unto death, you did, in your last and supreme watch, weep over the approaching future of the world! Jesus! Jesus! Centuries must elapse before your day shall arrive!”
“Be careful, friend!” said Ronan, “speak not so loud. Yonder holy man of a bishop, who sleeps not far from you, gorged with wine and meat, might excommunicate you if he heard you! But to the devil with sadness! We live in damnable days — let us live like the damned! Up, my Vagres, up! You are thrice holy! Let our Saturnalia cover all Gaul — let this land of our fathers be the grave of the Franks, even if it has to be the grave of ourselves. The ruins of our deserted cities will tell future centuries: ‘Here lies a great people! Free, it was the pride of the world; enslaved by conquering kings, it one day knew how to vanish from the world as it dragged its tyrants with it into the abyss!’ So, then, let us die rejoicing. Up, my Vagres and Vagresses — let us dance and make love until dawn! Let the Franks tremble in their burgs at our daring songs! Let bishops flee for refuge in their basilicas! Let them all whisper affrighted to one another: ‘Woe is us! Woe is us to-morrow! They are feeling very happy to-night in Vagrery!”
And the Vagres and Vagresses screamed, and sang, and shouted. Wildly they tumbled about, and started a giddy reel upon the sward by the pale illumination of the moon.
CHAPTER IX.
LOYSIK AND RONAN.
WRAPPED IN SILENCE the hermit-laborer had listened to the
conversation of the Vagres. Seated beside little Odille, he seemed to shield her with a paternal protection. The child seemed a stranger to what happened around her. When at the close of the repast Ronan gave his companions the signal for the songs and dance, they ran away tumultuously from the place of the recent banquet to give a loose to their bacchic gayety and indulge in a giddy dance on the sward of another and nearby clearing.
Approaching the hermit-laborer and the little girl, both of whom had kept their places as they gazed up at the sky, Ronan said to her in a merry voice:
“Will you dance, little Odille? The reel is started; it will last until dawn.”
The young girl shook her head melancholically, made no answer, and continued to gaze at the sky.
“Odille, what is it you are dreaming about as you gaze at the moon? Whither do your thoughts fly, my child?”
“Sleep is overpowering me, and my thoughts are running over an old druid chant that my mother used to sing to me, to rock me asleep when I was little.”
“What chant was that?”
“Oh! It is old, very, very old — my mother used to tell me. It has been sung in Gaul for over five or six hundred years.”
“And what is its name?”
“The chant of Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen.”
“The chant of Hena!” cried the Vagre and the hermit simultaneously with a tremor of delight.
Both grew immediately silent, while Odille, astonished at their visible emotion, looked from the one to the other, and asked:
“You also seem to know the chant of Hena?”
“Sing it, my child,” answered Ronan in a tremulous voice.
More and more astonished, little Odille was hardly able to recognize her friend. The dare-devil and merry Vagre had become pensive and grave.
“Yes, yes, my child! Recite that chant to us with your sweet voice of fifteen years,” put in the hermit. “But not here — the dance and yonder wild carousal, although far enough away, would drown your voice—”
“The hermit is right. Come with us, little Odille, to yonder large oak. It will be far enough away from the dancers. It is surrounded by a soft moss carpet. You will be able to sleep there. I shall cover you up with my cloak to protect you from the damp.”
From the foot of the oak tree where the girl took her seat between Ronan and the hermit, only the dim noise was heard of the giddy dance and songs of Ronan’s companions, the Vagres and Vagresses. The moon, now on her decline, shed her silvery rays under the somber verdure of the leaves and lighted the hermit, Ronan and the young slave as if the sun shone through the trees. The child-like voice of Odille was soon heard striking up the first couplet of the chant:
“She was young, she was fair, and holy was she; Hena her name, Hena the maid of the Island of Sen.”
At these words both the hermit and the Vagre lowered their heads, and without noticing the tears that the other was shedding, both wept. Odille sang the second couplet, but broken with the fatigue of the last twenty-four hours, and yielding to the influence of the chant’s melancholy rhythm, that so often had lulled and rocked her to sleep on her mother’s knees, the little slave’s voice became fainter and fainter, while, at the distance the Vagres suddenly struck up in chorus and with resonant voices the refrain of another ancient chant of Gaul. These latter accents sent a new thrill through the frames of Ronan and the hermit. Without wholly drowning Odille’s voice, the words reached their ears:
“Flow, flow, thou blood of the captive! Drop, drop, thou dew of gore! Germinate, sprout up, thou avenging harvest!”
The two men seemed struck with the singular coincidence: at a distance, the chant of revolt, of war and blood; close to them, the girl’s angelic voice, singing the praises of Hena, one of the sweetest glories of Armorican Gaul. Presently, however, as Odille yielded more and more to the gentle pressure of slumber, her voice was heard ever fainter until from a murmur, it became hardly audible. The girl’s head drooped on her breast, and with her back sustained by the trunk of the tree she fell into profound sleep.
“Poor child!” said Ronan as he covered her with his cloak. “She is overcome with fatigue. May her sleep give her rest and strength!”
“Ronan,” observed the hermit fastening a penetrating look upon the Vagre, “the chant of Hena made you weep—”
“It is true, good hermit.”
“What is the reason of such emotion?”
“A family remembrance — if a Vagre, a ‘Wand’ring Man,’ a ‘Wolf,’ a ‘Wolf’s-Head’ can be at all said to have a family—”
“And what is that family remembrance?”
“The sweet Hena, to whom the chant refers, was one of my ancestresses.”
“How do you know that?”
“My father often told me so; in my childhood he used to relate to me the histories of olden days, of centuries ago.”
“Where is your father now?”
“I do not know. He used to run the Bagaudy, perhaps he now runs the Vagrery, unless he has died the brave death of a brave man. I do not expect to be enlightened upon that until he and I meet again elsewhere—”
“Where?”
“In those mysterious worlds that none knows and that we shall all know — seeing that we shall all continue to live there—”
“You have, then, preserved the faith of our ancestors?”
“My father taught me that to die was to change vestments, because we leave this world to be re-born in yonder ones. Death is but a transformation.”
“Is it long since you were separated from your father?”
“Let us drop that subject — it is a sad one. I prefer to keep up a cheerful mood. And yet, I feel drawn towards you, although you are not cheerful—”
“We live in days when, in order to be cheerful, one’s soul must be either very weak or very strong.”
“Do you think me weak?”
“I think you are both strong and weak. But as to your father — what has become of him?”
“Well, my father was a Bagauder in his youth; later, after the Franks christened us ‘Vagres,’ he became a Vagre. The name was changed, the pursuit remained the same.”
“And your mother?”
“In Vagrery one knows but little of his mother. I never knew mine. The furthest back that I can carry my memory, I must have been seven or eight years old. I then accompanied my father in his raids, now in Provence, and now here in Auvergne. If I was tired of foot, either my father or one of his companions carried me on his back. It is thus that I grew up. We often had days of enforced rest. Sometimes the Frankish counts were so exasperated at us that they gathered their leudes and hunted us. Informed of their movements by the poor folks of the fields who loved us dearly, we would then retire to our inaccessible fastnesses, and there lie low for several days while the Franks beat the field without encountering even the shadow of a Vagre. At such intervals of rest in the seclusion of some solitary retreat, my father used to narrate to me, as I told you, the histories of olden days. Thus I learned that our family originated in Britanny, where the main stock lived and perhaps still lives to this very hour, free and in peace, seeing that the Franks have never yet been able to place their yoke upon that rugged province — its granite rocks are too hard, and its Bretons are like the granite of its rocks.”
“I know the saying: ‘He is intractable as an Armorican.’”
“My father often used the saying.”
“But what induced him to leave that peaceful province, that still enjoys the boon of freedom, thanks to the indomitable bravery that continues to uphold the druid faith, which the evangelical morality of the young master of Nazareth has regenerated?”
“My father was about seventeen years of age when one day his family extended hospitality to a peddler during a stormy night. The peddler’s trade took him all over Gaul; he knew and he told them of the country’s trials; he also spoke of the life of adventure led by the Bagauders. My father was tired of the life of the fields; his heart was warm, an
d from his cradle he had drunk in the hatred for the Franks. Struck by the peddler’s account, he considered the opportunity good for waging war upon the barbarians by joining the Bagauders. He left the paternal roof and joined the peddler by appointment about a league away. After a few days’ march the two reached Anjou and met a troop of Bagauders. Young, robust and daring, my father was an acceptable recruit. He joined the band, and — long live the Bagaudy! Raiding from province to province, he came as far as Auvergne, which he never left. The country was favorable for his pursuit — forests, mountains, rocks, caverns, torrents, extinct volcanos! It is the paradise of the Bagaudy, the promised land of the Vagrery!”
“How came you to be separated from your father?”
“It was about three years ago — agents of the king, they were called antrustions, collected the revenues of the royal domain. They were numerous, well armed, and traveled only by day. We were waiting for the end of their reaping to gather in our harvest. One night they halted at Sifour, a little unprotected village. The opportunity tempted my father. We sallied forth believing that we would take the Franks by surprise. They were on their guard. After a bloody encounter we had to flee before the Frankish lances that followed us in hot pursuit. I was separated from my father during that midnight affray. Was he killed or was he merely wounded and taken prisoner I do not know. All my efforts to ascertain his fate have been vain. Since then my companions elected me their chief. You wanted to know my history — I have told it to you. You now know it.”