by Eugène Sue
“I shall keep this last scion of Clovis?” cried Berthoald, at first stupefied, but immediately thrilled with savage joy. “I shall keep him? The boy who has among his ancestors a Clotaire, the murderer of children! a Chilperic, the Nero of the Gauls! a Fredegonde, a second Messalina! a Clotaire II, the executioner of Brunhild, and so many other crowned monsters! Shall I be the jailor of their last issue?... The fate of man is often strange.... I to be the guardian of the last descendant of that conqueror of Gaul so much abhorred by my fathers!... Oh, the gods are just!”
“Berthoald, are you going crazy? What is there so astonishing in your becoming the watcher of this child?”
“Excuse me, Charles,” answered Berthoald recollecting and fearing to betray himself. “I was greatly struck with the thought that I, an obscure soldier, should watch and hold as a prisoner the last scion of so many kings! Is it not a strange fate?”
“Indeed this stock of Clovis, once so valiant, ends miserably!... But how else could it be! These kinglets — fathers before fifteen, decayed at thirty, brutified by wine, dulled by idleness, unnerved by youthful debauchery, emaciated, stunted, and stupid — could not choose but end this-wise.... The stewards of the palace, on the contrary — rough men, always on the march from north to south, from east to west, and back again, always on horseback, always fighting, always governing — they run out into a Charles, and he is not frail, he is not stunted! Not he! His beard is not artificial; he will be able to raise a breed of true kings.... Upon the word of Martel, this second breed of kings will not allow themselves to be exhibited in carts neither before nor after the assemblies of the Field of May by any stewards of palaces!”
“Who can tell, Charles! It may happen that if you raise a breed of kings, their stock will run down just as that of Clovis has done, whose last scion you wish to put under my charge.”
“By the devil! By the navel of the Pope! Do you see any sign of decay in us, the sons of Pepin of Old, who have been the hereditary stewards of the palace since the reign of Queen Brunhild?”
“You were not kings, Charles; and royalty carries with it a poison that in the long run enervates and kills the most virile stock—”
At this moment Father Clement came tumbling into the room in great excitement, and broke the thread of the conversation between Charles Martel and Berthoald.
CHAPTER III.
FATHER CLEMENT’S REFECTORY.
“SEIGNEUR,” SAID FATHER Clement to Charles, as he precipitately broke into the room, “I have just discovered a plot! The young prince obstinately refused to accompany me hither—”
“A plot! Ho, ho! The folks of your abbey indulge in conspiracies!”
“Thanks be to heaven, seigneur, myself and brothers are utter strangers to the unworthy treason. The guilty ones are the miserable slaves who will be punished as they deserve!”
“Explain yourself! And stop circumlocutions!”
“I must first of all inform you, sir, that when the young prince first arrived at this convent, Count Hugh who brought him, recommended to me to place near the child some young female slave, a pretty girl, if possible, above all one that would provoke love ... and who would be willing to submit to the consequences—”
“In order, I suppose, that he be educated after the fashion that old Queen Brunhild followed towards her own grandchildren.... Count Hugh exceeded my orders; and you, holy man, did you not blush at the role of coupler in the infamous scheme?”
“Oh, seigneur! What an abomination! The two children remained pure as angels.... To make it short, I placed a young female slave near the prince. The girl, an innocent creature, together with her father and mother took pity on the fate of Childeric. They listened to detestable propositions, and this very night and by means of a rope, the child was to slip from his room with the connivance of the porter slave, and join some faithful adherents of the deceased King Thierry who are lying in hiding near the convent. That was the plot.”
“Ha! Ha! The old royal party is stirring! They thought I would be long kept busy with the Arabs! They planned to restore the royalty in my absence!”
“A minute ago, as I entered the room of the young prince, my suspicions were awakened. The confusion he was in and the redness in his face told of his guilt. He would not take his eyes from his bed. A sudden idea occurred to me. I raised the mattress, and there I found a rope carefully stowed away. I pressed the child with questions, and amidst tears he confessed to me the full project of escape.”
“Treason!” cried the chief of the Franks, affecting more rage than he really felt. “How came I to confide this child to the care of monks who are either traitors or incapable of defending their prisoner!”
“Oh, seigneur!... We traitors!”
“How many men did this abbey contribute to the army?”
“Seigneur, our colonists and slaves are hardly enough to cultivate the land; our vines are neglected; our fields lie fallow. We could not spare a single man for the army.”
“How much did you pay into the treasury towards the expenses of the war?”
“All our revenues were employed in charitable works ... in pious foundations.”
“You extend fat charities to yourselves. Such are these churchmen! Always receiving and taking, never giving or returning! Ye are a race of vipers! Under whom does this old abbey hold the land?”
“From the liberalities of the pious King Dagobert. The charter of our endowment is of the year 640 of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Do you, monk, believe that the Frankish kings made these endowments to you of the tonsured fraternity to the end that you might grow fat in idleness and abundance, and without ever contributing towards the expenses of the war with either men or money?”
“Seigneur ... remember the obligations of the monastery ... keep in mind the expenses of the cult!”
“I confide an important prisoner to you and you prove unable to watch him ... you miserable tonsured idlers ... topers and do-nothings!”
“Seigneur, we are innocent and incapable of betraying you!”
“That will never do. I shall settle soldiers on the domain ... men who will be able to watch the prisoner, and, when need be, defend the abbey, if the folks of the royal party should attempt to carry off the prince by force,” and turning to Berthoald, Charles said: “You and your men will take possession of this abbey. I present it to you!”
The abbot raised his hands to heaven in sign of mute desolation, while Berthoald, who had pensively stood near, said to Charles Martel:
“Charles, the commission of jailor is repugnant to my character of a soldier. I feel thankful to you, but I must decline the gift.”
“Your refusal afflicts me. You have heard the monk. I need here a vigilant guardian. This abbey is, by its position, an important military post.”
“Charles, there are other soldiers in your army whom you can charge with the child and to whom you can confide the defence of the post. You will find men enough who will not be restrained by any scruples such as restrain me.”
For a few minutes the chief of the Franks remained silent and thoughtful, then he said: “Monk, how much land, how many colonists and slaves have you?”
“Seigneur, we have five thousand eight hundred acres of land, seven hundred colonists, and nineteen hundred slaves.”
“Berthoald ... you hear it! That is what you decline for yourself and your men. Moreover, I would have created you count of the domain.”
“Reserve for others than myself the favor you meant to bestow upon me. I absolutely refuse the function of jailor.”
“Seigneur,” put in Father Clement with a holy resignation that, however, but ill-concealed his anger at Charles: “You are the chief of the Franks and all-powerful. If you establish your armed men on this domain, we shall have to obey, but what will become of us?”
“And what will become of my companions in arms, who have valiantly served me during the war while you were counting your beads?... Are they to steal or beg their bread
along the roads?”
“Seigneur ... there is a way of satisfying both your companions in arms and ourselves. You wish to change this abbey into a military post. I admit it, your armed men would be better keepers of the young prince than we poor monks. But since you dispose of this abbey, deign, illustrious seigneur, to bestow another one upon us. There is near Nantes the abbey of Meriadek. One of our brothers, who died recently, lived there several years as the intendant. He left with us an inventory containing an exact list of the goods and persons of that abbey. It was at the time under the rule of St. Benoit. We have learned that later it was changed into a community of women. But we have no positive information on that head. But that would matter little.”
“And that abbey,” Charles asked, rubbing his beard with a sly look, “you ask me for it as a charity to you and your monks?”
“Yes, seigneur; since you dispossess us of this one, we solicit indemnity.”
“And what is to become of the present holders of the abbey of Meriadek?”
“Alack! what we would have become. The will of God be done. Charity begins at home.”
“Yes, provided the will of God turn in your favor. Is the abbey rich?”
“Seigneur, with the aid of God, we could live there humbly and in seclusion and prayer and with a little privation.”
“Monk, no false pretences! Is that abbey worth more or is it worth less than this one? I wish to know whether it is a cow or a goat I am giving away. If you deceive me, I may some day go back upon my gift. Moreover, you just said you had an exact inventory of the abbey’s havings. Come, speak up, you old dotard!”
“Yes, seigneur,” answered the abbot biting his lips and proceeding to look in a drawer among several rolls of parchment for the inventory of the abbey of Meriadek. “Here,” said he, producing the document, “you will see from this that the revenues of Meriadek are worth about as much as those that we draw here.... We may even, by retrenching upon our good works, by reducing our charities, contribute two hundred gold sous annually to your treasury.”
“You say that rather late,” replied Charles turning the leaves of the inventory which did, indeed, accurately set forth the extent and limits of the domain of Meriadek. “Have you parchments to write on? I wish to make the bequest in due form.”
“Yes, seigneur,” cried the monk in great glee, running to his trunk and believing himself in full possession of the abbey of Meriadek. “Here is a roll of parchment, gracious seigneur. Be kind enough to dictate the terms of the bequest ... unless you prefer to adopt the usual formula.”
Saying this the abbot was about to sit down and take pen in hand, when, pushing him away from the table, Charles said: “Monk, I am not like the do-nothing and ignorant kings; I know how to write; and I like to transact my business myself.”
Consulting from time to time the parchments that the abbot had handed to him, and from time to time casting a look upon Berthoald, who had remained steeped in thought and a stranger to what was going on near him, Charles began to write. A few steps from the table, and following the hand of Charles with greedy eyes, the monk was congratulating himself upon his having thought of the abbey of Meriadek, and he no doubt was computing the advantage that would accrue to himself by the exchange. Addressing the chief of the Franks, who was silently writing, the monk said: “Mighty seigneur, my names are Bonaventure Clement, an unworthy priest and monk of the order of St. Benoit.”
Charles raised his head, looked fixedly at the abbot and a singular smile played around his lips. He then proceeded to write, and a few minutes later said: “Wax!... I wish to place my seal on this charter as a last formality.”
The abbot hastened to fetch what he was ordered; Charles pulled from his finger a large gold ring and placed it on the burning wax. “Now the charter of the bequest is in good shape.”
“Gracious seigneur,” cried the abbot extending his hands, “we shall every day pray that heaven may protect you.”
“You have my thanks, monk; disinterested prayers are particularly agreeable to the Almighty;” and turning towards his young officer: “Berthoald, by this charter I make you count of the county of Nantes, and I donate to you and your men the abbey of Meriadek, together with its dependencies.”
The abbot remained petrified. Berthoald trembled with joy, and cried in accents of profound gratitude: “Charles, will your generosity never tire?”
“No, no, my valiant boy! No more than your arm tires in battle.... And now, to horse, noble count. Should the abbey of Meriadek turn out to be a convent of tonsured friars with some fighting abbot at their head who refuses to make room for you, you have your sword; your men have their lances. If it happens to be a convent of women and that the nuns are young and handsome, by the devil!—”
Again the conversation in the monk’s refectory was suddenly broken in upon; this time by Septimine.
CHAPTER IV.
MORDECAI THE SLAVE-DEALER.
PALE, AFFRIGHTED, HER face in tears, her hair unloosened, Septimine broke into the room and threw herself at the feet of the abbot, crying:
“Mercy, Father, mercy!”
Close upon the heels of Septimine entered two slaves armed with whips, and carrying rolls of rope. They had run after the young girl, but now stood respectfully awaiting the abbot’s orders. Septimine was so beautiful, her distress so touching, her suppliant attitude, accentuated by the tears that flowed down her charming face, so pathetic, that Berthoald was struck with admiration and suddenly felt an irrepressible interest in the distracted girl. Charles Martel himself could not hold back the cry of admiration: “My faith, what a pretty girl!”
“What do you want here?” brutally asked Father Clement, smarting under the pain of having seen the gift of the abbey of Meriadek slip from him; and turning to the two slaves, who remained motionless at the door: “Why have you not punished this wretch?”
“Father, we were about to strip off her clothes and tie her to the whipping-post. But she fought us so hard that she slipped away from us.”
“Oh, Father!” cried Septimine in a voice suffocated with sobs and raising her suppliant hands to the abbot; “order me killed, but spare me the disgrace!”
“Charles,” said Father Clement, “this slave girl sought to help the young prince to escape!... Drag her away!” he added to the slaves at the door; “Have her well whipped!”
The slaves took a step forward, but Berthoald held them back with a menacing gesture. Approaching Septimine he took her hand and said: “Fear not, poor child; Charles the chief of the Franks will not allow you to be punished.”
The young woman, not yet daring to rise, turned her charming face towards Berthoald, and remained no less struck by the generosity of the young man than by his comely looks. Their eyes met. Berthoald felt a profound emotion, while Charles said to Septimine: “Come, I pardon you; but why the devil, my little girl, did you want that royal urchin to run away?”
“Oh, seigneur, the child is so unhappy! My father and mother, the same as myself, felt pity for him.... That is all our crime, seigneur.... I swear by the salvation of my soul;” and sobs again choked her voice. Again joining her hands, she could only utter the words: “Mercy; mercy for my father and mother! Have pity upon us, noble seigneur!”
“You are weeping fit to choke yourself,” said Charles, touched, despite his roughness, at the sight of such youth, anguish and beauty: “I forbid that your father and mother be punished.”
“Seigneur ... they want to sell me and to separate me from my parents.... Have pity upon us!”
“What about that, monk?” asked Charles, while Berthoald, who felt his sorrow, admiration and pity increase by the second, could not take his eyes from the charming maid.
“Seigneur,” answered Father Clement, “I gave orders that, after being severely whipped, the three slaves, father, mother and daughter, be sold and taken far away from the convent. One of those slave-dealers who travel through the country came this morning to offer me two carpenters and a smi
th that we stand in need of. I offered him the young girl in exchange together with her father and mother. But Mordecai refused the exchange.”
“Mordecai!” involuntarily exclaimed Berthoald, whose face, suddenly turning pale, now expressed as much fear as anxiety. “That Jew!”
“What the devil is the matter with you?” said Charles to the young man. “You look as white as your cloak.”
Berthoald sought to control his emotions, dropped his eyes and answered in a quivering voice: “The horror that these accursed Jews inspire me with is such ... that I can not see them, or even hear their names mentioned, without shuddering, despite myself.” Saying this, Berthoald quickly took his casque from the table and put it on his head, pushing it down as far as he could so that the visor might conceal his face.
“I can understand your horror for the Jews,” replied Charles; “I share your aversion for that race. Proceed, monk.”
“Mordecai consented to take the girl, for whom he has a place; but he does not want either the father or the mother. I, accordingly, sold him the girl, reserving the right of having her punished before delivery to him. I shall sell her parents to some other slave-dealer.”
“Seigneur!” cried Septimine breaking out into a fresh flood of tears, “slavery is a cruel condition, but it seems less hard when borne in the company of those whom we love—”
“The bargain is closed,” said the abbot. “Mordecai paid me earnest money; he has my word; he is waiting for the girl.”
When Berthoald heard that the Jew was in the convent he trembled anew, retreated into a niche in the wall, and threw the cape of his long Arabian cloak over his casque so as to conceal his face. He then addressed the Frankish chief in a hurried voice like a man in fear of some imminent danger and anxious to leave the place: