by Eugène Sue
The page grew pale and bowed, but before leaving the chamber he cast a look of pity upon the old man. Left alone with Loysik, the Queen paced the room for a minute in silence and with agitated steps, and then turning abruptly upon the hermit laborer said to him in a short, sharp voice:
“So you are Loysik?”
“I am Loysik, the abbot and superior of the monastery of Charolles.”
“How did you penetrate into this room?”
“This morning I met near the castle a slave merchant named Samuel; I had recently bought several slaves from him; he informed me that he was coming here; knowing that it was difficult to obtain access to the palace, I asked Samuel to allow me to accompany him; at first he hesitated; two gold pieces put an end to his hesitation.”
“And as the gateman had received orders to admit Samuel and his slaves, you passed along with his merchandise! And did you remain in the room below while the Jew was showing me the two slave girls?”
Loysik nodded his head in the affirmative.
“And after Samuel left the palace?”
“The Jew having informed me that this room was reached from below by the spiral staircase, I came up a short time ago and concealed myself behind the curtain; I was a witness of your conversation with one of your women. I heard everything.”
Brunhild looked at the monk with a questioning and threatening mien:
“And so you overheard everything that was said between us?”
“Yes; I listened and heard everything.”
“Old man — do you know who Pog and his assistants are?”
“The executioner and his men.”
“How old are you?”
“The age of a man about to die.”
“You expect death?”
Loysik shrugged his shoulders without answering.
“You are right,” proceeded Brunhild with a satanic smile. “To bring such tidings as you did was to run into the jaws of death.”
“I came here of my own free will; your chamberlain and his men remain prisoners at the monastery. No harm will be done them.”
“You are mistaken. A terrible punishment awaits them! Infamy, cowardice, shame and treachery! An officer, Brunhild’s men-at-arms made prisoners by a handful of monks! Pog and his men will have work to do.”
“Your men-at-arms were not cowardly; even had they been more numerous, they could not have resisted the men of the monastery and the colonists of the Valley of Charolles.”
“Why, they must be redoubtable men!”
“Not that. But they are people who are determined to die free, to bury themselves under the ruins of their homes if you ignore the rights guaranteed to them by the charter of the late King Clotaire.”
“How dare you invoke such a charter in my presence! A charter of him who was Fredegonde’s father-in-law! A charter of the grandfather of Clotaire II, the son of Fredegonde and no less a mortal enemy of mine than his mother herself! You dare mention to me a charter signed by the grandfather of a man whom I shall pursue into his grave! Insensate old man! I would burn down the tree that lent its shade to Fredegonde’s son! I would have the spring poisoned that quenched that man’s thirst! In your instance, the question is not about inanimate objects, but of men, women and children who owe their freedom to the grandfather of Fredegonde’s son. It is in my power to make their souls and bodies, their whole generation, writhe with pain! Oh, no later than to-morrow all the inhabitants of that accursed valley will be sent as slaves to the savage tribes that have come from Germany. It will be but an advance payment on the pillage that was promised them.”
“Very well. You will send troops to the Valley. They will force their way in, arms in hand; they will crush our inhabitants despite any resistance that they may offer, and however heroic. Men, women and children will know how to die. After a stubborn fight, your soldiers will find upon their entrance into the Valley only corpses and ashes. But you seem to forget that war has been declared between you and Fredegonde’s son, that the moment is critical, and that you require all your available forces in order to resist your enemies. Execrated by the people, execrated by the seigneurs, the leading ones of whom have already joined the standard of Clotaire II, you are hardly certain of the loyalty of your own army, seeing that you have been obliged to call savage tribes to your aid and to allure them with the prospect of pillage. You seem to forget that, guided by an unerring instinct, and seeing the power of the mayors of the palaces on the ascendant, the people look upon these as the natural enemies of the Frankish Kings and are ready to revolt in support of the former. Despite the heroic resistance that they will offer, our people of the Valley will be crushed. I admit it. But do you imagine that the surrounding populations, however timid and cowed they may be, will remain impassive when they will see people of their own race slaughtered to the last man in the defense of their freedom? The horror of conquest, the hatred for slavery, the unbearable hardships of poverty have more than once driven people steeped in deeper degradation than our own to serious and stubborn revolt. To-morrow, who knows! some frightful insurrection may break out against you, called into being by the voice of the grandees who abhor you.”
“And are the seigneurs, perchance, not the enemies of your race as much as the kings?”
“Yes; after their purpose is attained, after your ruin is accomplished, the seigneurs will crush the people just as you are doing now. After the first explosion of its rage is over, the unhappy people will resume its old yoke with docility — because the time has not yet arrived for their liberation! But what does that matter! Such a revolt at this time, in the very heart of your kingdom, when your most implacable enemy threatens your frontiers, at an hour when treason surrounds you at every turn — such a revolt would to-day mean your utter annihilation — it would deliver you and your kingdoms to your ferocious enemy, Fredegonde’s son!”
At the sound of that name Brunhild trembled with rage. With her head inclined and her eyes fixed upon the ground, the Queen seemed to listen with increased attention to the words of Loysik, who continued with bitter disdain:
“Behold, then, that Queen, the audacity of whose policy has rendered her so famous! In order to cement her empire she has perpetrated crimes that will one day cause the veracity of history to be doubted. And she is about to endanger her kingdom, aye, her very life, out of hatred for a handful of inoffensive people! Did these people at all injure her? No; they were unknown to her until now; her attention was drawn to them by the cupidity of a bishop who coveted their goods. Are the people whom she wishes to drive to the heroism of despair, perchance, dangerous enemies to her? No; they only ask to be allowed to continue to live in freedom, peace and industry; if they can ever become dangerous it could only be by the example of their resistance — not unlikely, their martyrdom will provoke uprisings of which she herself will be the first and leading victim. And yet this woman would rouse them to acts of despair! She meditates punishing them on the ground that their freedom is guaranteed by a king who has lain nearly half a century in his grave! Oh, vertigo of crime! With what joy would I not see this woman throw herself headlong into the abyss of her own digging were it not that her feet must slide over the blood of my brothers!”
“Monk — it is an annoying circumstance that your age is that of a man who is about to die. I would have made you the councillor to whose words I would have given greatest weight. I shall follow your advice. Your valley shall be spared — for the present. You speak truly. At this hour when war threatens, when my grandees but await the opportune moment to rebel against me — at such a time to drive the inhabitants of your valley to despair, to martyrdom, would be an act of folly on my part.”
Loysik promptly replied:
“My mission is accomplished; I demand of you no promises regarding the monastery and the inhabitants of the Valley of Charolles; your own interests are my best guarantee. I would now request of you a sheet of parchment for me to write to my brother — and to my monks — just a few lines. You are free t
o read them — it is my farewell words to my family; I also wish to request my monks to set your chamberlain, the archdeacon, and their men-at-arms free. One of your own messengers may carry the letter.”
“There is writing material on this table — you may sit down.”
Loysik took a seat at the table and proceeded to write serenely. Nevertheless such was his joy at having carried the difficult matter to so successful an issue that his hand betrayed a slight tremor. Brunhild followed him attentive and somber:
“You tremble — you must be afraid, old man!”
“The gratification of having warded off so many evils from the heads of my brothers affects me and causes my hand to tremble. Here is the letter — read it.”
Brunhild read, and said as she rolled up the parchment:
“These words of farewell are simple, they are dignified and touching. I understand better and better the powerful influence that you exercise over those people — they are the arms, you the head. Within shortly they will be a headless and, therefore, lifeless body. After the war is over I shall find it easier to reduce them to obedience. Have you anything to ask of me?”
“Nothing — except that you hasten my execution.”
“I shall be magnanimous; your unshakable firmness pleases me; I shall spare you the torture and I shall leave to you the choice of death. You may choose between poison, iron, fire or water.”
“Have my throat cut.”
“It shall be as you wish, monk. Have you any other favor to ask?”
“Yes,” said Loysik slowly stepping towards the ivory stand on which lay the case of medals, “I would like to take with me this bronze medal; I would like to keep it with me during the short time of life that is left me. It will be sweet to me to die with my eyes fixed upon this glorious effigy.”
“Let me see what medal that is — they are all mere antique curiosities. Truly, this woman is handsome, and proud under her Amazonian casque. What is the inscription here below? Victoria, Emperor. A woman an emperor?”
“The sovereign title was bestowed upon her after her death.”
“She surely was of royal race?”
“She was of plebeian race.”
“What was her life?”
“Simple — austere — illustrious! Her great soul was visible in her serenely grave features — an august countenance that this bronze has preserved for posterity. Her life was that of a chaste wife — a sublime mother — a brave Gallic woman. She never left her modest home but to follow her son to war, or to the camps. The soldiers worshipped her; they called her their mother. She brought up her son manfully in the love for his country and set him the example of the loftiest virtues. Her ambition—”
“This austere woman was ambitious!”
“As much as a mother may be for her son. Her ambition was to render that son a great citizen, the ardent desire of rendering him worthy of being chosen chief of Gaul by the people and the army.”
“Brought up by so incomparable a mother, was he elected?”
“Citizens and soldiers acclaimed him with one voice. By choosing him they glorified Victoria — his stout-hearted preceptress. The brilliant qualities that they honored in him were her work. The son’s election consecrated the sovereign influence of the mother — truly a sovereign in point of courage, genius and goodness. An era of glory and prosperity then opened to the country. Emancipating herself from the yoke of Rome, Gaul, free and strong, drove the Franks far away from her borders and began to enjoy the blessings of peace. And thus it came about that, from one end of our territory to the other there was one name everywhere idolized. That name — the first that the mothers taught their children after that of God — that name, so popular, that name wreathed in veneration and devoted love, was the name of Victoria!”
“In short, this woman, this incomparable mother, this divinity, this object of veneration — reigned in her son’s name!”
“Yes, as virtue reigns over the world! Invisible to the eyes, it is to the heart that virtue reveals itself. As modest in her tastes as the obscurest matron in the land, Victoria fled from the glamor of honors. Living privately in a humble dwelling at Treves or Mayence, she delighted in the glory of her son, and in the well-being of Gaul — but not in order to reign as Queen — she despised royalty.”
“And what was the cause of her haughty disdain for the great of the earth?”
“She held that the right which kings arrogated to themselves of transmitting to their children the ownership of the country with its people, like a private domain with its cattle, was an outrage to the majesty of man and a crime before God. She furthermore held that hereditary rule depraves the best dispositions, and produces the monsters that have horrified the world. Faithful to her principles, she refused to render the power hereditary in her grandson.”
“She had a grandson?”
“Like you, Victoria was a grandmother.”
And Loysik looked fixedly at the Queen. There was, in the manner in which Loysik accented the words addressed to Brunhild: Like you, Victoria, was a grandmother — there was in his tone so crushing an emphasis, so withering a condemnation of the shocking means employed by the monster in order to deprave, enervate and morally kill her own grandsons, whose lives she was nevertheless compelled to respect in order that she might reign in their name, that Brunhild turned livid with rage, but controlling herself so as not to expose the wound inflicted upon her pride, dropped her eyes before the aged monk. Loysik proceeded:
“Victoria was a grandmother, and, while ruling Gaul with her genius she never dropped her distaff, which she ever plied near the cradle of her grandson; she watched over him as she had done over the child’s father, with solicitous firmness; her hope was to render that child also a good citizen and brave soldier. Her hope was dashed. A frightful plot dragged into their graves both the son and grandson of the august woman. They both perished in a popular uprising.”
“Ha! Ha!” cried Brunhild breaking forth into a burst of sardonic laughter, as if her gathering hatred for the Gallic heroine was assuaged. “Such, then, is the justice of God!”
“Such is the justice of God — the crime enabled Victoria to bequeath to the admiration of posterity a noble example of patriotism and abnegation! After the death of her son and grandson, and being urgently requested by the people, the army and the senate to govern Gaul — Victoria refused. Aye,” added Loysik in answer to a gesture of surprise that escaped Brunhild, “aye, Victoria refused twice. She designated the men whom she considered worthiest of being chosen chiefs of the country, and rendered to them the all-powerful support of her own popularity and the advice of her exceptional wisdom for the good of the country. Victoria continued to live modestly in her retreat, and so long as her life lasted, Gaul remained powerful and prosperous, rid both of the Romans and the Franks. Victoria died. Her death was the climax of a series of crimes of which her son and grandson were the first victims. The illustrious woman died poisoned.”
“Ha! Ha!” cried Brunhild breaking forth anew in a burst of sardonic laughter. “Monk — monk — ever the justice of God!”
“Ever the justice of God — never was the death of the greatest geniuses that ever shed splendor upon the world wept as the death of Victoria was wept! One would have thought it was the funeral of Gaul! In the largest cities, in the obscurest villages, tears flowed from all eyes. Everywhere these words were heard, broken with sobs: ‘We have lost our mother!’ The soldiers, those rough warriors of the legions of the Rhine, whose faces a hundred battles had bronzed — those soldiers wept like children. The mourning was universal; imposing as death itself. At Mayence, where Victoria died, the spectacle of sorrow was sublime. Reclining upon an ivory couch draped in gold cloth, Victoria lay in state a week. Men, women, children, the army, the senate crowded the street of her house. Each came to contemplate for a last time in pious grief the august features of her who was the dearest, the most admired glory of Gaul—”
“Monk!” cried Brunhild seizing the
arm of the venerable old man and seeking to drag him after her; “the executioners must be waiting—”
Loysik exerted only the force of inertia to resist the Queen; he remained motionless and continued in a calm and solemn voice:
“The mortal remains of Victoria the Great were placed upon the pyre and disappeared in a flame, pure, brilliant and radiant as the life that she had lived. Finally, in order to do honor to her virile genius across the ages, the people of Gaul decreed to her the sovereign title that she had ever declined out of her sublime modesty. It is now more than four centuries ago since that bronze was cast in the effigy of Victoria, Emperor.”
As he uttered these last words, Loysik took the medal in his hands. Brunhild, whose rage now reached a paroxysmal pitch, snatched the august image from the old monk’s hands, dashed it on the floor, and trampled upon it in blind rage.
“Oh, Victoria! Victoria!” cried Loysik, his face beaming with exalted enthusiasm. “Oh, woman Emperor! Heroine of Gaul! I can now die! Your life will have been to Brunhild the punishment for her crimes!” And turning toward the Queen, who continued a prey to the frenzied vertigo that had seized her, he exclaimed triumphantly: “The glory of Victoria, like the bronze that you are trampling under foot, defies your impotent rage!”
At this point Warnachaire burst into the chamber crying:
“Madam — madam — disastrous tidings! A second messenger has just arrived from the army. By a skilful manoeuvre Clotaire II surrounded our German allies; the prospect of booty carried them over to the enemy’s banners; he is now advancing with forced marches upon Chalon. Your presence, together with that of the young princes, in the army, is indispensible at this critical moment. I have just issued the necessary orders for your immediate departure. Come, madam, come! The safety of your kingdoms, perhaps your own life, is at stake — as you know, the son of Fredegonde is implacable!”
Struck with stupor at the sudden news Brunhild at first remained petrified, with her foot still resting upon the medal of Victoria. An instant later she had recovered herself, and in a clamorous voice, that sounded like the roar of an infuriate lioness, she cried: