Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Set her on the ground. Leave only her arms tied behind her back.”

  The riders obeyed, and the cords that bound Brunhild to the saddle were unfastened. But the long pressure of the ligaments had so benumbed her limbs that she was unable to stand upon her legs and forced her to drop upon her knees. Immediately she cried out, lest her fall be construed as an evidence of weakness or fear:

  “My limbs are numb — Brunhild does not fall upon her knees before her enemies!”

  The Frankish warriors raised and held the Queen. Her favorite palfrey, the same that she rode on the day of the battle, and from which she had just alighted, stretched out its intelligent head and gently licked the Queen’s hands, tied up behind her. For the first time, but only for a moment, were Brunhild’s features expressive of aught but savage pride and concentrated rage. Turning her head over her shoulder, she said to the animal in a voice that sounded almost tender:

  “Poor animal; you did your best to save me with the swiftness of your flight — but your strength gave out; and now you bid me adieu in your own way; you entertain no hatred for Brunhild; but Brunhild is proud of being hated by all others — because she is feared by all—”

  Clotaire II drew slowly near to the old Queen. A wide circle consisting of Frankish seigneurs, warriors of the army and the mob that had followed formed itself around the son of Fredegonde and her mortal enemy. What with the sight of that King, and what with her own determination not to falter in his presence, Brunhild summoned an energy and strength that seemed superhuman. Addressing the warriors who held her under the arms she shouted savagely:

  “Back — take your hands from me — I can stand alone!”

  Indeed, she stood unsupported, and took two steps towards the King as if to prove to him that she felt neither weakness nor fear. Thus Clotaire II and Brunhild found themselves face to face in the center of a circle that drew closer and closer. The vast crowd was hushed in profound silence; with bated breath the issue of the terrible interview was awaited. With his arms crossed over his heaving breast, Fredegonde’s son contemplated his victim wrapt in silent and savage joy. Brunhild broke the silence. With head erect and intrepid mien she said in her sharp, penetrating voice that resounded clearly at a distance:

  “First of all, good morning to good Warnachaire, the cowardly soldier, who ordered my army to flee. Thanks to your infamous treachery, here am I — I, the daughter, wife and mother of Kings — with my arms pinioned, my face bruised with the fist-blows given me, soiled with dung, mud and ordure thrown at me by the people along the road. — Triumph, son of Fredegonde! Triumph, young man! For two days the populace have been whelming with hisses, contempt and dirt the Frankish royalty, your own, the royalty of your own family in my person! You have vanquished me, but never will the royalty recover from the blow that you have dealt me!”

  “Glorious King,” said the Bishop of Troyes to Clotaire II in a low voice, “order that woman to be gagged; her tongue is more venomous than an asp’s.”

  “On the contrary, I wish her to speak; I shall enjoy the torture that her pride undergoes.”

  While the prelate and the King were exchanging these words, Brunhild had proceeded with an ever more resonant voice, waving her head at the crowd of warriors:

  “Stupid people! Besotted people! — You respect us, you fear us, us of the royal family, — and yet it is a royal face that you see before you, bruised with fist-blows, like that of any vile slave! The mother of your King — that Fredegonde who was prostituted to all the lackeys of Chilperic’s palace — must often have looked as I do now, every time that she was beaten by one of her vulgar associates!”

  “Dare you speak of prostitution, you old she-wolf bleached in debauchery!” cried Clotaire II in a no less resonant voice than Brunhild.

  “Your mother Fredegonde had my husband Sigebert and my son Childebert stabbed to death by her pages—”

  “And you, miscreant, did not you have Lupence, the Bishop of St. Privat murdered by Count Oabale, one of your lovers?”

  “And did not Fredegonde in turn cause Pretextat to be assassinated in the basilica of Rouen, as a punishment for his having married me to your brother Merovee—”

  “My brother Merovee married you, thanks to your sorceries, abominable witch! And after you abused his youth you goaded him to parricide — you armed him against his own father, who was also mine.”

  “And a loving father! Not content with having his son Merovee’s throat cut at Noisy, Chilperic delivered to the dagger and the poison of Fredegonde all the children whom he had from his other wives.”

  “You lie, monster! You lie!” cried Clotaire II livid with rage and grinding his teeth.

  “Seigneur King, do order the woman to be gagged,” again whispered the Bishop of Troyes to the King.

  “Of the many wives whom your father Chilperic repudiated there still remained one alive, Andowere,” Brunhild proceeded; “Andowere had two children, Clodwig and Basine; the mother was strangled, the son stabbed to death, and the daughter delivered to the pages of Fredegonde!”

  “Hold your tongue, infamous woman, who introduce concubines into your grandsons’ chamber for the purpose of enervating them and reigning in their stead; who order the assassination of whatever honorable people revolt at such a crime — as happened to Berthoald, the mayor of the palace of Burgundy, whom you ordered killed; as happened to Bishop Didier whom you had stoned to death.”

  “After Chilperic had my husband assassinated, he seized my relative Sigila and ordered the joints of his limbs to be burned with red-hot irons, his nose cut off, his eyes put out, red-hot irons thrust under his nails, and finally his hands, then his arms, then his lower legs and finally his upper legs cut off — every imaginable torture!”

  “Warnachaire!” cried Clotaire purple with rage, “remember all those tortures; forget not one; we shall presently find whom to apply them to;” and addressing Brunhild, “And did not you yourself stain your hands with the blood of your grandson Theudebert after the battle of Tolbiac? And was not the head of his son, a child of five years dashed against a stone at your orders?”

  “And what blood is that, still fresh, with which your own robe is bespattered? It is the innocent blood of three children, my grandsons, whose kingdoms you have secured to yourself by their murder! And that is the manner in which we all of us, people of the royal family, act. In order to reign we kill our children, our relatives, our mates. Chilperic stood in the way of your mother Fredegonde’s vulgar pleasures, and she had him despatched!”

  “Gag that woman!” commanded Clotaire in a paroxysm of rage.

  “Oh, my dear sons in Christ,” shouted the Bishop of Troyes, endeavoring to drown the panting voice of Brunhild; “place no faith in the words of this execrable woman in matters that concern the family of our glorious King Clotaire II. — These are infamous calumnies!”

  “Warriors, I wish before I die, to unveil to you all the crimes of your Kings.”

  “Hold your tongue, demon! Female Beelzebub!” again broke in the Bishop of Troyes in a thundering voice, and he added in a lower voice to Clotaire: “Glorious King, do you not think it is high time to have the woman gagged? If you do not, you must prepare to hear even worse accusations.”

  Two leudes, who at the first orders of Clotaire had looked for a scarf, threw it over Brunhild’s mouth and tied it behind her head.

  “Oh, monster, spewed out of Hell!” the Bishop of Troyes thereupon proceeded to apostrophise Brunhild, “if this glorious family of Frankish Kings, to whom the Lord granted the possession of Gaul in reward for their Catholic faith and their submission to the Church, if these Kings had committed the crimes that you have the audacity of charging them with in your diabolical spirit of mendacity, could they, as the visible support given to them by God in overpowering their enemies, shows them to be — could they be the beloved sons of our holy Church? Would we, the fathers in Christ of the people of Gaul, order these to obey their Kings and masters, and to submit to their w
ill? — would we do so if they were not the elect of the Lord? Go to — witch! You are the horror of the world! The world now spews you back into hell, where you come from. Return thither, Oh, monster, who sought to unnerve your grandsons with debauchery, in order that you might reign in their place! Oh, my brothers in Christ, who of you all does not shudder with horror at the base thought of the unheard-of crime that this execrable woman has gloried in?”

  That crime, the most execrable of all that the infamous Queen had admitted, aroused so profound an indignation among the assembled crowd that one, unanimous cry of vengeance issued from its midst: —

  “Death to Brunhild! Let the earth be rid of her! Let her perish amidst tortures!”

  CHAPTER III.

  THE DEATH OF BRUNHILD.

  THREE DAYS HAD elapsed since Brunhild fell into the power of Clotaire II. The sun had crossed the zenith. A man with a long white beard, clad in a hooded brown robe, and mounted upon a mule was following the road, upon which, escorted by the armed men of her mortal foe, and leading behind her a mob that rent the air with execrations, Brunhild had shortly before ridden to the village of Ryonne. The venerable old man was Loysik. He had escaped death by reason of the Queen’s precipitate departure from the castle. One of the young brothers of the community accompanied the old monk on foot, guiding his mule by the bridle. From the opposite direction, a warrior, armed cap-a-pie, was climbing on horseback the rough road that Loysik was at the same time slowly descending with his mule. When the Frank had come within a few paces of the old man, the latter opened up a conversation with him:

  “Are you of King Clotaire’s suite?”

  “Yes, holy man.”

  “Is he still at the village of Ryonne?”

  “Yes; he will be there till this evening. — I am to ride ahead and prepare his lodgings on the route.”

  “Is Duke Roccon among the seigneurs who accompany the King?”

  “Yes, monk; Duke Roccon is with the King.”

  “Is it true, as I hear, that Queen Brunhild has been taken prisoner and carried to King Clotaire, who has also captured her grandchildren?”

  “That is all old news. Where do you come from that you do not know what has happened?”

  “I come from Chalon. — What did the King do with his prisoner and her grandchildren?”

  “The steep ascent has taken the wind out of my horse and he needs a little rest. So I shall tell you what has happened — all the more willingly, seeing that it is a good augury to meet a priest, especially a monk, at the start of a journey.”

  “Do let me know, I beg you; what has been done with Brunhild and her grandchildren?”

  “There were only three of the children captured on the banks of the Saone. The fourth, Childebert, could be found nowhere. — Was he killed in the melee? — Did he escape? — No one can tell.—”

  “And the other three?”

  “The eldest and the second one were killed.”

  “In the battle?”

  “No — no. — They were killed in the village — yonder. The King had them killed under his own eyes, in order to be certain of their death; he wanted to obviate having them turn up some day, and demand their kingdom back from him. But it is said that the King granted his life to the third. — I think he was wrong in that. — But what ails you, holy father; you seem to shiver. To be sure, the morning is rather chilly.”

  “And what became of Queen Brunhild?”

  “She arrived at the village with a magnificent escort! A veritable triumphal march! Dung for incense, and hootings for acclamation!”

  “I suppose the King ordered her to be put to death immediately upon her arrival?”

  “No; she is still alive.”

  “Did Clotaire have mercy upon her?”

  “Clotaire — have mercy upon Brunhild! — Holy man, you must come from far away to talk as you do! Brunhild was taken three days ago to that village that you see yonder; she was taken to the house where her grandchildren were killed. Two expert executioners and four assistants, equipped with all manner of instruments, were locked up with the old Queen; that was three days ago, and she is not yet dead. I must add that she was not tortured at night; the nights were left to her to recover strength. Moreover, seeing that she undertook to starve herself, food was forced down her throat — spiced wines and flour soaked in milk. That has kept her sufficiently alive. — But what makes you shiver so? It is not so chilly!”

  “Yes; the morning is chilly. — And did Clotaire witness the tortures that were inflicted upon the Queen during those three days?”

  “The door of the house was locked and guarded by sentinels. But there is a little window through which one can look inside. Through that opening, the King, the dukes, the leudes, the Bishop of Troyes and a few other preferred personages went from time to time to contemplate the victim in her agony. Being a connoisseur, Clotaire never took a look inside when Brunhild was screaming; at times the woman screamed loud enough to be heard clean across the village; he never went to see her at such times; but the moment she began to moan, he walked to the window and peeped in; it is said the sufferings of victims in the torture are intenser when they moan than when they scream out aloud. It was a protracted holiday for the whole village. Like the generous King that he is, Clotaire allowed a large number of people, who followed Brunhild to the village, to remain to the end of the tortures, and had provisions distributed among them. Oh, holy man, you should have heard how they kept time with their hootings to the screams of the Queen. — But I see my horse has regained his wind — adieu, holy man. If you wish to witness a spectacle that you never saw and never will see again you would better hurry. They say there are yet to be some extraordinary incidents to wind up the torture. The King has sent for one of the camels that carry his baggage. What he purposes to do with the camel is still a secret. Adieu, give me your blessing.”

  “I wish you a happy journey.”

  “Thank you, holy man; but you had better hurry, because as I was leaving the village they went for the camel and took him out of his stable.”

  Pricking his horse with his spurs, the rider rode off at a brisk pace. Shortly afterwards, Loysik arrived at the entrance of the village of Ryonne. The aged monk alighted from his mule and asked the young brother to wait for him. A leude, from whom Loysik inquired after Duke Roccon, took him to the tent of the Frankish seigneur, contiguous to that of the King. Almost immediately afterwards the monk was taken to the duke, who said to him in a tone of respectful deference:

  “You here, my good father in Christ?”

  “I come with a just petition to you.”

  “If it is at all in my power, the matter is granted.”

  “Are you a friend of King Clotaire? Have you any influence with him?”

  “If you have any favor to prefer to him, you could hardly arrive at a better time.”

  “I come for no favors from the King — I come for justice. Here is a charter given by his grandfather Clotaire I. As a matter of law, it requires no confirmation, seeing that the concession is absolute. But the Bishop of Chalon is giving us trouble. He is laying claims upon the goods of the monastery, upon those of the inhabitants of the Valley, and, as a consequence, upon their freedom, notwithstanding both their goods and their freedom are guaranteed by this charter. — Would you be willing to request Clotaire, who is now the King of Burgundy, to attach his seal to the charter issued by his grandfather, in order to insure its enforcement?”

  “Is that all you wish to ask of the King? — The King honors the memory of his glorious grandfather too highly to fail to confirm a charter issued by that great Prince. Clotaire must now be in his tent. Wait for me here, my father in Christ. I shall be back soon.”

  During the short absence of the Frankish seigneur, Loysik could hear the uproar of the impatient crowd and warriors calling aloud for Brunhild. Duke Roccon returned quickly with the old charter of Clotaire I, to which Clotaire II had attached his seal under the following freshly written words:
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  “We will it, and we so order all our leudes, dukes, counts and bishops, that the above charter, signed by our glorious grandfather Clotaire, be upheld in force and respected in all its provisions in the present and in the future, and we do so in the belief that we thereby do honor to our glorious ancestor. And those who are to succeed me will uphold this donation inviolate, if they wish to share the life everlasting, and if they wish to be saved from the everlasting flames. Whoever in any manner does violence to this donation, may the gateman of heaven diminish his share of heaven; whoever may add to the donation, may the gateman of heaven add something unto him.”

  The aged monk inquired from the duke who it was that wrote the last words to the charter, and was not a little surprised to hear that it was the Bishop of Troyes.

  “You must, then, have said nothing to the King concerning the pretensions of the Bishop of Chalon—”

  “I did not consider that necessary. I said to Clotaire: ‘I request you to confirm this charter, which your grandfather granted to a holy man of God.’ ‘I can refuse nothing to my loyal servitors,’ he answered, and he charged the bishop to write what was proper. That being done, the King attached his royal seal under the writing.”

  “Roccon,” said the venerable monk, “I thank you — adieu—”

  But recollecting himself, Loysik added:

  “You told me that the moment was favorable to obtain favors from the King — promise me that you will ask him to enfranchise a few slaves of the royal fisc, and to send them to me to the monastery of the Valley of Charolles.”

  “Ah, my father in Christ! I knew full well that our conversation would not be done without your making some demand of enfranchisement.”

  “Roccon, you have a wife and children — the accidents of war are changeable. Brunhild is now vanquished and a prisoner; but, if that implacable Queen, who has emerged so often victorious from the field of battle, had not been betrayed by her own army and her auxiliaries — had she, on the contrary, vanquished Clotaire, what would your lot have been, what the lot of all the seigneurs of Burgundy, who took the side of the King? What would have become of your wife, of your daughters?”