by Eugène Sue
“The man did not keep his promise,” said Rosen-Aër. “No tidings from you ever reached me.”
“I am not surprised at his breach of promise. That Jew was greedy and faithless. He took me to Duke Bodegesil. That Frank did indeed raise superb horses on the immense meadows of his domain, and one of the halls of his burg, an ancient Roman castle, was fitted out with splendid armors. But the Jew had lied to me on the duke’s character. He was a violent, cruel man. Still, struck almost immediately after my arrival at the manner in which I broke in a savage colt that had until then been the terror of the stable slaves, he treated me with less severity than he did my Gallic or Frankish companions, because, you know, mother, that, thanks to the ups and downs of the times, a large number of the descendants of the conquerors of the Gauls have fallen into poverty, and from poverty into slavery. Bodegesil was as cruel towards his slaves of his own German extraction as towards those of the Gallic race. Always on horseback, always busy furbishing and handling weapons, I now steadily pursued an idea that was destined to be realized. The renown of Charles, the steward of the palace, had reached my ears; I had heard some of the Frankish friends of Bodegesil say that Charles, being compelled to defend Gaul in the north against the Frisians and in the south against the Arabs, and finding himself ill-supported by the old lay and clerical seigneurs, who furnished him little money and only small forces, gave a friendly reception to adventurers, several of whom by bravely fighting under his orders, had arrived at unexpected wealth. I was twenty years old when I learned that Charles was approaching Poitiers for the purpose of driving back the Arabians, who then threatened to invade the region. The moment, long dreamed of by my ambition, had arrived. One day I took the handsomest suit of armor from Bodegesil’s racks, I sequestered a sword, a battle-axe, a lance and a buckler. When night fell I picked out of the stable the finest and most spirited horse. I put on the armor, and rode rapidly away from the castle. I wished to join Charles and decided to conceal my extraction and pass for the son of a Frankish seigneur so as to interest Charles in my fortunes. About five or six leagues from the castle, I was attacked early the next morning by bandits who infested the roads. I defended myself vigorously. I killed two of the robbers and said to the others: Charles needs brave men. He leaves a large part of the booty to them. Come with me. It is better to fight in an army than to attack travelers on the road. The danger is the same, but the profit is larger! The bandits took my advice and followed me. Our little troop was increased on the route by other idle but determined men. We arrived at the camp of Charles on the eve of the battle of Poitiers. I claimed to be the son of a noble Frank who died poor and left me his horse and arms as only inheritance. Charles received me with his habitual roughness. ‘There will be a fight to-morrow,’ he answered me, ‘if you and your men behave well you will be pleased with me.’ Accident willed it that at that battle against the Arabs I saved the life of the Frankish chief by helping him to defend himself against a group of Berbery riders who attacked him furiously. I was wounded in several places. That day secured the affection of Charles to me. I shall not tell you, mother, of the many proofs of favor that he gave me. My great fortune was ever poisoned by the thought ever present in my mind: ‘I have lied; I have denied my race; I have allied myself to the oppressors of Gaul; I have given them the aid of my sword in repelling the Saxons and Arabs, who are neither more nor less barbarous than our accursed Frankish conquerors.’ More than once, during the incessant struggles between the seigneurs of Austrasia and those of Neustria or Aquitaine — impious wars in which the counts, the dukes, and the bishops drafted their Gallic colonists as soldiers — I fought against the men of my own race.... I reddened my sword with their blood. These are crimes.”
“Oh, shame and sorrow,” murmured Rosen-Aër, covering her face with her hands, “to be the mother of such a son!”
“Yes, shame and sorrow ... not for you only, but also for me. Alack! I yielded to the consequence of a first false step; I fought the men of my race, out of fear to be taken for a coward by Charles, out of fear to betray my extraction. Pride intoxicated me when I saw myself admiringly surrounded by the proudest of our conquerors — I, the son of that conquered and subjugated people. But after such moments of vertigo were over, I often envied the fate of the most miserable slave. They at least were entitled to the respect that undeserved misfortune inspires. Vainly did I look for death in battle. I was condemned to live. Only in the intoxication of battle, in perilous undertakings did I find temporary relief from the remorse that haunted me. Oh, how often did I not think with sorrow of our valley of Charolles, where my family lived! When I afterward learned of the ravages of the region by the Arabs, of the desperate resistance that its inhabitants had offered ... my relatives, my friends; when I thought that my sword might have defended you, or at least avenged you, mother, from that time forward remorse embittered my life. I never since had one instant of happiness.”
“Your father fought up to his last breath for freedom and for the freedom of his kin. I saw him fall at my feet riddled with wounds! Where were you when your father was defending his hearth, his freedom and his family?... Near the Frankish chief, fawning for his favor! Perchance even fighting your own brothers!”
Amael covered his face with his hands and answered only with a smothered sob.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, do not overwhelm him!” said Septimine to Rosen-Aër. “See how wretched he feels ... how contrite he is!”
“Rosen-Aër,” added the old man, “remember that yesterday your son was still the favorite of the sovereign chief of Gaul, and that to-day he renounces the favors that intoxicated him. He is no less wretched than we, and has no other wish than to live a poor and hard but free life in the old Armorica that is the cradle of our family.”
“By Hesus!” cried Rosen-Aër. “Did my son voluntarily renounce those goods, those lands, those favors, the accursed gifts of Charles? Did you not extract him from a prison, where, without you, he would have perished? Oh! The gods are just. My son owed his fortune to an impious ambition ... and the fortune came near being fatal to him. Glorified and enriched by the Franks, he has been shamefully punished and stripped of all by a woman of their race.”
“Oh!” cried Septimine, breaking down in tears, “do you believe that Amael, even if in full possession, would not have renounced all to follow you, his mother?”
“The man who falls away from his duty to his country and his race can also fall away from his duty to his mother! I am justified to question the goodness of my son’s heart!”
“Master Bonaik,” suddenly cried one of the apprentices in an accent of fear, “look down below there, at the turning of the road ... there are soldiers. They are approaching rapidly. They will be here within short!”
At these words of the lad the fugitives jumped to their feet. Amael himself, forgetting for a moment the sorrow into which his mother’s just severity plunged him, dried his face that was moist with tears and took a few steps forward to reconnoiter.
“Great God!” cried Septimine. “They may be in pursuit of Amael.... Good father Bonaik, let us hide in this thicket — —”
“My child, that would be to expose ourselves to being pursued. The riders have seen us.... Our flight would awaken their suspicion. Besides, they come from the side opposite to Nantes; they cannot have been sent in our pursuit.”
“Master Bonaik,” said one of the apprentices, “three of the riders are hastening their horses’ steps, and motion us with their hands to come to them.”
“Perhaps a new danger now threatens us!” said Septimine, drawing close to Rosen-Aër, who had alone remained seated, and seemed indifferent to what went on around her. “Alack, what is to become of us!”
“Oh, poor child!” said Rosen-Aër, “I care little for life at this moment!... And yet the mere hope of some day finding again my son, served to sustain my sad life!”
“But you have found again that son whose loss you so tenderly regretted. He is here, near you!”
“No!” answered the Gallic mother with sorrow, “no, that is not my son!”
Feeling not a little uneasy, Amael had walked toward the three Frankish horsemen, who rode at the head of a more numerous troop. One of them reined in his steed, and said to Rosen-Aër’s son: “Does this road lead to Nantes?”
“Yes; it is the nearest road.”
“Does it also lead to the abbey of Meriadek?”
“Yes,” answered Amael, as much surprised at the meeting as at the questions.
“Arnulf,” said the rider to one of his companions, “ride back and tell Count Bertchram that we are on the right road; while waiting for your return to us, I shall let my horse drink at this stream.”
The rider departed, and while his two companions were allowing their horses to take a few throatfuls of water, Amael, who had not been able to overcome the growing curiosity that seized him at hearing the name of Count Bertchram, asked the two riders: “What brings Count Bertchram to this country?”
“He comes as a messenger of Charles, the chief of the Franks. Tell us, young man, whether we still have a long way to ride before we reach the abbey of Meriadek.”
“You could not reach the place until late to-night.”
“Is that abbey as rich as they claim?”
“It is rich.... But why do you ask?”
“Why?” said the soldier with a merry smile, “because Bertchram and we are to take possession of the abbey, which the good Charles has bestowed upon us.”
“But I heard it said that Charles had bestowed the monastery and all its dependencies upon one Berthoald.”
During this conversation the other riders had joined their vanguard, followed by several carts drawn by mules and a few horses led by the bridle. The carts were loaded with baggage. Bertchram rode at the head of the main body. He was an elderly warrior of rude and stupid physiognomy. Amael took a few steps toward the count. The latter suddenly stopped his horse, dropped the reins, and rubbed his eyes as if he could not believe the evidence of their sense. He contemplated the son of Rosen-Aër for a few seconds in utter amazement, and then cried: “Berthoald! Count Berthoald!”
“Yes, it is I.... Good-day to you, Bertchram!”
Bertchram alighted from his horse and ran toward the young man to contemplate him closer. “It is he ... and no mistake! And what are you doing here, valiant count, in the company of these beggars?”
“Speak not so loud. I am on a mission from Charles.”
“Bareheaded in that way? Without arms, your clothes soiled with mud and almost in rags?”
“It is a disguise that I have assumed.”
“You are a wily customer! Whenever the good Charles had some delicate matter in hand, it was always you he charged with it, because you are more subtle than any of us others. Charles always said to me: ‘Bertchram, you would be a terrible man if your brain were as powerful as your fist!’ You probably do not know that I am the bearer of a message to you?”
“What is the message about?”
“Simply this, that I come to replace you as abbot at the abbey of Meriadek.”
“Charles is master, he can give and take back again.”
“Do not look upon the substitution as a disgrace, Berthoald! Far from it! Charles raises you to the rank of duke, and he reserves for you the command of his vanguard in the war he is about to undertake against the Frisians. ‘Upon the word of the Hammerer,’ he said to us, ‘I was a fool in confining to an abbey one of my youngest captains, and at this season when wars break out so unexpectedly; it is now, when I have not Berthoald at my side, that I feel how much I need him. The post I gave him is good for an aged soldier; it fits you better than him, old Bertchram, go and take the place of Berthoald and his men; you shall give him this letter from me, and as a pledge of my constant friendship, take to him two of my best horses; besides that, take to him from me a magnificent armor of Bordeaux. He loves fine armor and fine horses. It will please him.’ And there they are with me,” added Bertchram. “The horses are led by the bridle. They are beautiful, one is as black as a raven, the other white as a swan. As to the armor, it is carefully packed up in my baggage, I cannot show it to you now. It is a masterpiece of the most famous armorer of Bordeaux. It is enriched with gold and silver ornaments. The casque is a marvel.”
“I am truly touched with this fresh proof of Charles’ affection,” answered Amael, “I shall report to him as soon as I have fulfilled his mission.”
“But he wishes you to join him immediately, as you will see by the letter that I have carefully put away in my cuirass,” said the warrior hunting for the parchment.
“Charles will not regret to see me arrive a day or two later if I return to him after successfully attending to the mission that he confided to me. I shall find the horses and the armor at the abbey, where I shall see you again, and now I shall move on with my men. But you must have made a wide circuit, to judge by the road you are on!”
“Charles gave me the command of a large troop that he has cantonned on the frontiers of Brittany.”
“Does he expect to attack Armorica?”
“I do not know. I left the troops entrenched in two old Roman camps, one to the right, the other to the left of a long road that winds up there.”
“Is the troop large?”
“About two thousand men distributed in two camps.”
“Charles can undertake nothing against Brittany with so small a number of soldiers.”
“All he expects to do is to reconnoiter the frontier of the country until after the war with the Frisians is ended, when he will be able to give his attention in person to the accursed Armorica. This province has resisted our arms for more than three centuries, since the glorious Clovis conquered Gaul. Indeed it is a shame to us!”
“Yes, the independence of Armorica is a shame to the arms of the Franks.”
“Here is Charles’ letter,” said Bertchram pulling from under his cuirass a scroll of parchment that he delivered to Amael, and ordering the two horses which his slaves had unsaddled to be brought forward, he added: “Look at them! Are there any nobler or more spirited animals in the world?”
“No,” answered Amael unable to avoid admiring the two superb stallions, that were with difficulty held by the slaves. The horses reared and caracoled, daintily striking the ground with their hoofs; one was ebony black, with a bluish tinge; the other, white as snow, shone like silver. Their nostrils were inflated, their eyes sparkled under their long manes, and they lashed the air with their flowing tails.
“These are noble horses!” said Amael smothering a sigh; and motioning to the slaves to re-cover the animals with their housings, he muttered: “Adieu, fine battle horses! Adieu magnificent armors!” Turning to the Frank, Amael said: “I wish you a happy journey.... I shall see you again at the abbey of Meriadek where I hope you may enjoy yourself.”
“Adieu, Berthoald; but ... a thought strikes me. Should your men refuse to admit me during your absence, what shall I do?”
“Keep Charles’ letter; it will notify my men of Charles’ pleasure. You may break the seal before them.”
“I shall do it that way. Adieu, I shall take your place at the abbey, where I expect to have a dull time until your return. Adieu, and come back soon.”
“One more question.... Who are the chiefs of the troops that are cantonned near the frontiers of Brittany?”
“Two friends of yours, Hermann and Gondulf. They asked me to remember them to you.”
“Now, good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Berthoald.”
The chief of the Frankish troops, having resumed his march, followed by his troops and train, soon disappeared before the eyes of the fugitives. Amael returned to the tree under which his traveling companions were assembled. Hardly had he taken a few steps towards them when his mother opened her arms to him: “Come, my son; I have heard every word. Now, at least, your renunciation of a brilliant career, that might have dazzled you, is voluntary!”
�
��You were near me, mother, and yonder I saw the frontiers of Brittany. Could I be dazzled by any favors from Charles against my mother and my country?”
“Oh!” cried the matron tenderly pressing Amael to her breast. “This day makes me forget all that I have suffered!”
“And this, mother, is the first happy day that I have had in years — a day of unalloyed happiness.”
“You see I was right, your son’s heart remained true,” said Septimine to Rosen-Aër with touching kindness.
“Septimine!” replied Amael with a look of tenderness, “would you doubt my heart in the future?”
“No, Amael,” she answered naïvely, looking at the young man with an expression of timidity and surprise. “I shall never doubt you.”
“Mother, this sweet and brave girl saved your life; she is now a fugitive, forever separated from her family. If she should consent to give me her hand, would you accept her as a daughter?”
“Oh, with joy! With thankfulness!” said Rosen-Aër. “But would you consent to the union, Septimine?”
Blushing with surprise, with happiness and confusion, the girl threw herself on the neck of Amael’s mother, and holding her face on the matron’s breast, murmured:
“I loved him since the day he showed himself so generous toward me at the convent of St. Saturnine. Did he not there protect me?”
“Oh, Rosen-Aër!” now exclaimed the old man who had stood near wrapped in thought, “the gods have blessed my old age, seeing they reserved such a day for me.” And after a few seconds of silent emotion, shared in by the young apprentices, the old man proceeded, saying: “My friends, if you will take my advice, let us resume our march. We shall have to walk briskly in order to arrive to-morrow evening at the frontier of Armorica.”
“Mother,” said Amael, “lean upon me; you will not now refuse the support of my arm?”