by Eugène Sue
The Gallic matron seemed surprised and replied: “If I am not to see you again, I still shall remember you. I am your slave, but you have been kind and generous to me. I shall never forget that six years ago, when the Arabians invaded Burgundy and raided the valley of Charolles, where my family lived in happiness for more than a century, you respected me when I was taken to your tent. I declared to you then that at the first act of violence on your part, I would kill myself ... you ever treated me as a free woman—”
“Mercy is the badge of the believer. I only obeyed the voice of the prophet. But you, Rosen-Aër, did you not, shortly after you were brought here a prisoner and Ibraham, my youngest son, was nearly dying, did you not ask to take care of him the same as a mother would? Did you not watch at his bedside during the long nights of his illness as if he were your own son? It was, accordingly, in recompense for your services, as well as in obedience to the behest of the Koran — deliver your brothers from bondage — that I offered you your freedom.”
“What else could I have done with my freedom? I am all alone in the world.... I saw my brother and husband killed under my own eyes in a desperate fight with your soldiers when they invaded the valley of Charolles; and before those days I wept my son Amael, who had disappeared six years before. I wept him then, as I do still every day, inconsolable at his absence.”
Rosen-Aër spoke these words and could not keep back the tears that welled in her eyes and inundated her face. Abd-el-Kader looked at her sadly and replied: “Your motherly sorrow has often touched me. I can neither console you, nor give you hope. How could your son now be found, seeing he disappeared when barely fifteen years of age! It is a question whether he still lives.”
“He would now be twenty-five; but,” added Rosen-Aër drying her tears, “let us not now talk of my son; I am afraid he is lost to me forever.... But why say you that we see each other to-day, perhaps, for the last time?”
“Charles Martel, the chief of the Franks, is advancing with forced marches at the head of a formidable army to drive us out of Gaul. I was notified yesterday of his approach. Within two days, perhaps, the Franks will be upon the walls of Narbonne. Abd-el-Malek, our new emir, is of the opinion that our troops should go out and meet Charles.... We are about to depart. The battle will be bloody. God may wish to send me death. That is why I came to tell you we may never meet again.... If God should will it so, what will become of you?”
“You have several times generously offered me freedom, money and a guide to travel through Gaul and look for my child. But I lacked the courage and strength, or rather my reason told me how insane such an undertaking would be in the midst of the civil wars that are desolating our unhappy country. If I am not to see you again and I must leave this house, where at least I have been able to weep in peace, free from the shame and the trials of slavery, there will be nothing left to me but to die.”
“I do not like to see you despair, Rosen-Aër. This is my plan for you. During my absence you shall leave Narbonne. My forces are to take the field against the Franks; my army is brave, but the will of God is immovable. If it be his pleasure that victory fall to Charles and that the Franks prevail over the Crescent, they may lay siege to this town and take it. In that event you and all its inhabitants will be exposed to the fate of people in a place carried by assault — death or slavery. It is with an eye to withdrawing you from so sad a fate that I would induce you to leave the town, and to take temporary shelter in one of the Gallic colonies nearby that cultivate my fields.”
“Your fields!” exclaimed Rosen-Aër with bitterness; “you should rather say the fields that your soldiers seized by force and rapine, the inseparable companions of conquest.”
“Such was the will of God.”
“Oh, for the sake of your race and of yourself, Abd-el-Kader, I hope the will of God may save you the pain of some day seeing the fields of your fathers at the mercy of conquerors!”
“God ordains ... Man submits. If God decrees against Charles Martel at the approaching battle and we are victorious, you can return here to Narbonne; if we are vanquished, if I am killed in the battle, if we are driven out of Gaul, you shall have nothing to fear in the retreat that I am providing for you. You can remain with the family of my servant. Here is a little purse with enough gold pieces to supply your wants.”
“I shall remember you, Abd-el-Kader, as a generous man, despite the wrong your race has done mine.”
“God sent us hither to cause the religion preached by Mahomet to triumph, the only true religion. May his name be glorified.”
“But the Christian bishops, priests and monks also pretend that their religion is the only true one.”
“Let them prove it ... we leave them free to preach their belief. Barely a century since its foundation, the Musselman faith has subjugated the Orient almost entirely, Spain and a portion of Gaul. We are instruments of the divine will. If God has decided that I shall die in the approaching battle, then we shall not meet again. Should I die and yet our arms triumph, my sons, if they survive me, will take care of you.... Ibraham venerates you as his own mother.”
“Do you take Ibraham to battle?”
“The youth who can manage a steed and hold a sword is of battle age.... Do you accept my offer, Rosen-Aër?”
“Yes; I tremble at the very thought of falling into the hands of the Franks! Sad days these are for us. We have only the choice of servitudes. Happy, at least, are those who, like myself, meet among their masters compassionate hearts.”
“Make yourself ready.... I myself shall depart in an hour at the head of a part of my troops. I shall come for you. We shall leave the house together; you to proceed to the colonist who occupies my country house, and I to march against the Frankish army.”
When Abd-el-Kader returned for Rosen-Aër, he had donned his battle costume. He wore a brilliant steel cuirass, and a red turban wrapped around his gilded casque. A scimitar of marvelous workmanship hung from his belt; its sheath as well as its handle of massive gold was ornamented with arabesques of corals and diamonds. The Arab warrior said to Rosen-Aër with suppressed emotion: “Allow me to embrace you as a daughter.”
Rosen-Aër gave Abd-el-Kader her forehead, saying: “I pray that your children may long retain their father.”
The Arab and the Gallic woman left the harem together. Outside they met the five sons of the chief — Abd-Allah, Hasam, Abul-Casem, Mahomet and Ibraham, the youngest, all in full armor, on horseback and carrying over their arms long and light white woolen cloaks with black tufts. The youngest of the family, a lad of barely fifteen, alighted from his horse when he saw Rosen-Aër, took her hand, kissed it respectfully and said: “You have been a mother to me; before departing for battle I greet you as a son.”
The Gallic woman thought of her son Amael, who also was fifteen years when he departed from the valley of Charolles, and answered the young man: “May God protect you, you who are now to incur the risk of war for the first time!”
“‘Believers, when you march upon the enemy, be unshakable,’ says the prophet,” the lad replied with mild yet grave voice. “We are going to deliver battle to the infidel Franks. I shall fight bravely under the eyes of my father.... God alone disposes of our lives. His will be done.”
Once more kissing the hand of Rosen-Aër, the young Arab helped her mount her mule that was led by a black slave. From the distance the martial bray of the Saracen clarions was heard. Abd-el-Kader waved his last adieu to Rosen-Aër, and the Arab, with whom age had not weakened the martial ardor of younger years, leaped upon his horse and galloped off, followed by his five sons. For a few moments longer the Gallic woman followed with her eyes the long white cloaks that the rapid course of the Arab and his five children raised to the wind. When they had disappeared in a cloud of dust at a turning of the street, Rosen-Aër ordered the black slave to lead the mule towards the main gate of the town in order to ride out and reach the colonist’s house.
PART I. THE CONVENT OF ST. SATURNINE
; CHAPTER I.
THE LAST OF THE MEROVINGIANS.
ABOUT A MONTH had elapsed since the departure of Abd-el-Kader and his five sons to meet Charles Martel in battle.
A boy of eleven or twelve years, confined in the convent of St. Saturnine in Anjou, was leaning on his elbows at the sill of a narrow window on the first floor of one of the buildings of the abbey, and looking out upon the fields. The vaulted room in which the boy was kept was cold, spacious, bare and floored with stone. In a corner stood a little bed, and on a table a few toys roughly cut out of coarse wood. A few stools and a trunk were its only furniture. The boy himself, dressed in a threadbare and patched black serge, had a sickly appearance. His face, biliously pale, expressed profound sadness. He looked at the distant fields, and tears ran down his hollow cheeks. While he was dreaming awake, the door of the room opened and a young girl of about sixteen stepped in softly. Her complexion was dark brown but extremely fresh, her lips were red, her hair as well as her eyes jetty black, and her eyebrows were exquisitely arched. A more comely figure could ill be imagined, despite her drugget petticoat and coarse apron, the ends of which were tucked under her belt and which was full of hemp ready to be spun. Septimine held her distaff in one hand and in the other a little wooden casket. At the sight of the boy, who remained sadly leaning on his elbows at the window, the young girl sighed and said to herself: “Poor little fellow ... always sorry ... I do not know whether the news I bring will be good or bad for him.... If he accepts, may he never have cause to look back with regret to this convent.” She softly approached the child without being heard, placed her hand upon his shoulder with gentle familiarity and said playfully: “What are you thinking about, my dear prince?”
The child was startled. He turned his face bathed in tears towards Septimine, and letting himself down with an air of utter dejectment on a stool near the window, said: “Oh, I am weary!... I am weary to death!” and the tears flowed anew from his fixed and red eyes.
“Come now, dry those ugly tears,” the young maid replied affectionately. “I came to entertain you. I brought along a large supply of hemp to spin in your company while talking to you, unless you prefer a game of huckle-bones—”
“Nothing amuses me. Everything tires me.”
“That is sad for those who love you; nothing amuses you, nothing pleases you. You are always downcast and silent. You take no care of your person. Your hair is unkempt ... and your clothes in rags! If your hair were well combed over your forehead, instead of falling in disorder, you would not look like a little savage.... It is now three days since you have allowed me to arrange it, but to-day, will ye, nill ye, I shall comb it.”
“No; no; I won’t have it!” said the boy stamping his foot with feverish impatience. “Leave me alone; your attentions annoy me.”
“Oh, oh! You can not frighten me with your stamping,” Septimine replied mirthfully. “I have brought along in this box all that I need to comb you. Be wise and docile.”
“Septimine.... Leave me in peace!”
But the young girl was not to be discouraged. With the authority of a “big sister” she turned around the chair of the recalcitrant boy and forced him to let her disentangle his disordered hair. While thus giving him her care with as much affection as grace, Septimine, standing behind him said: “Are you not a hundred times better looking this way, my dear prince?”
“What is the difference, good looking or not?... I am not allowed to leave this convent.... What have I done to be so wretched?”
“Alack, poor little one ... you are the son of a king!”
The boy made no answer, but he hid his face in his hands and fell to weeping, from time to time crying in a smothered voice: “My father.... Oh, my father.... Alas!... He is dead!”
“Oh, if you again start crying, and, worst of all, to speak of your father, you will make me also cry. Although I scold you for your negligence, I do pity you. I came to give you some hope, perhaps.”
“What do you mean, Septimine?”
Having finished dressing the boy’s hair, the young girl sat down near him on a stool, took up her distaff, began to spin and said in a low and mysterious voice: “Do you promise to be discreet?”
“Whom do you expect I can talk to? Whom could I reveal secrets to? I have an aversion to all the people in this place.”
“Excepting myself.... Not true?”
“Yes, excepting you, Septimine.... You are the only one who inspires me with some little confidence.”
“What distrust could a little girl, born in Septimany, inspire you with? Am not I as well as my mother, the wife of the outside porter of this convent, a slave? When eighteen months ago you were brought to this place and I was not yet fifteen, I was assigned to you, to entertain you and play with you. Since then we have grown up together. You became accustomed to me.... Is it not of course that you should have some confidence in me?”
“You just told me you had some hope to give me.... What hope can you give me? I want to hear?”
“Do you first promise to be discreet?”
“Be easy on that score. I shall be discreet.”
“Promise me also not to begin to weep again, because I shall have to speak about your father, a painful subject to you.”
“I shall not weep, Septimine.”
“It is now eighteen months since your father, King Thierry, died on his domain in Compiegne, and the steward of the palace, that wicked Charles Martel, had you taken to this place and kept imprisoned ... poor dear innocent boy!”
“My father always said to me: ‘My little Childeric, you will be a king like myself, you will have dogs and falcons to hunt with, handsome horses, chariots to ride in, slaves to serve you’; and yet I have none of these things here. Oh, God! Oh, God! How unhappy I am!”
“Are you going to start weeping again?”
“No, Septimine; no, my little friend.”
“That wicked Charles Martel had you brought to this convent, as I was saying, in order to reign in your place, as he virtually reigned in the place of your father, King Thierry.”
“But there are in this country of Gaul enough dogs, falcons, horses and slaves for that Charles to have an abundance and I also. Is it not so?”
“Yes ... if to reign means simply to have all these things ... but I, poor girl, do not understand these things. I only know that your father had friends who are enemies of Charles Martel, and that they would like to see you out of this convent. That is the secret that I had for you.”
“And I, Septimine, would also like to be out of here! The devil take the monks and their convent.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the young girl stopped spinning and said to the young prince in a still lower voice and looking around as if fearing to be heard: “It depends upon you to get out of this convent.”
“Upon me!” cried Childeric. “That would be quickly done on my part. But how?”
“Mercy! Do not speak so loud,” replied Septimine uneasily and casting her eyes towards the door. “I always fear some one is there listening.” She rose and went on tip-toe to listen at the door and peep through the keyhole. Feeling reassured by the examination, Septimine returned to her seat, again started to spin, and went on talking with Childeric: “You can walk in the garden during the day?”
“Yes, but the garden is surrounded by a high wall, and I am always accompanied by one of the monks. That is why I prefer to remain in this room to walking in such company.”
“They lock you up at night—”
“And a monk sleeps outside before my door.”
“Just look out of this window.”
“What for?”
“To see whether the height of the window above the ground would frighten you.”
Childeric looked out of the window. “It is very high, Septimine; it is really very high.”
“You little coward! It is only eight or ten feet at most. Suppose a rope with large knots were fastened to that iron bar yonder, would you have the courage to desc
end by the rope, helping yourself with your feet and hands?”
“Oh, I never could do that!”
“You would be afraid? Great God, is it possible!”
“The attempt looks to me above my strength.”
“I would not be afraid, and I am only a girl.... Come, have courage, my prince.”
The boy looked once more out of the window, reflected and proceeded to say: “You are right.... It is not as high as it looked at first. But the rope, Septimine, how am I to get it? And then, when I am down there, at night.... What shall I do then?”
“At the bottom of the window you will find my father. He will throw upon your shoulders the caped cloak that I usually wear. I am not really much taller than you. If you wrap the mantle well around you and lower the cape well over your face, my father could, with the help of the night, make you pass for me, traverse the interior of the convent, and reach his lodge outside. There, friends of your father would be waiting on horseback. You would depart quickly. You would have the whole night before you, and in the morning, when your flight was discovered, it would be too late to start in your pursuit.... Now answer, Childeric, will you have the courage to descend from this window in order to regain your freedom?”
“Septimine, I have a strong desire to do so ... but—”
“But you are afraid.... Fie! A big boy like you! It is shameful!”
“And who will give me a rope?”