by Eugène Sue
“No, oh, no! my child!” answered the matron with tenderness, and brimful of happiness, taking her son’s arm.
“And you, good father,” said Septimine to the old goldsmith, “you lean on me.”
The fugitives resumed their march. After having traveled without accident until night and the following day, they arrived at moon-rise not far from the first spurs of the wild and high mountains that serve both as boundary and as ramparts to Armorica. The sight of his native soil awoke in Bonaik the recollections of his boyhood days as if by enchantment. Having before now crossed the frontiers with his father in order to attend the Breton fairs, he remembered that four druid stones of colossal size rose not far from a path that was cut between the rocks, and that was so closely hemmed in, that it allowed only one person to march abreast. The fugitives entered the path one after the other and began climbing the steep ascent. Amael marched first. Presently they arrived at a little clearing or platform, surrounded by precipices and beetled over by huge rocks.
Suddenly the fugitives heard from a far distance above their heads a sonorous voice, that, quivering through the surrounding and profound silence of the night, melancholically chanted these words:
“She was young,
She was fair,
And holy was she;
Hena her name,
Hena, the Maid of the Island of Sen.”
Rosen-Aër, Bonaik and Amael, the three descendants of Joel, remained for a moment transfixed with exaltation, and yielding to an irresistible impulse all three fell upon their knees. Tears ran down their cheeks. Septimine and the apprentices, sharing the emotion which they were unable to account for, also fell upon their knees, and all listened, while the sonorous voice which seemed to descend from the skies, concluded the Gallic chant now eight centuries old.
“Oh, Hesus!” finally exclaimed Rosen-Aër, raising her tear-stained face toward the starry vault where the sacred luminary of Gaul was shining in its splendor, “Oh, Hesus! I see a divine omen in this chant, so dear to the descendants of Joel.... Blessed be the chant! It salutes us at this solemn hour when, at last setting foot on this free soil, we return to the ancient cradle of our family!”
Guided by the old goldsmith, Amael, his mother, Septimine and the apprentices, arrived in the vicinity of the sacred stones of Karnak, and were tenderly received by the sons of Bonaik’s brother. Amael became a field laborer, the young apprentices followed his example and settled in the tribe. At the death of Bonaik, the abbatial crosier, which he had finished at his leisure, was joined to the relics of the family of Joel accompanied by this narrative which I, Amael, the son of Guen-Ael, who was the son of Wanoch, who was the son of Alan a grandson of Ronan the Vagre through Ronan’s son Gregory, wrote shortly after our return to Brittany.
THE END
The Carlovingian Coins
OR, THE DAUGHTERS OF CHARLEMAGNE. A TALE OF THE NINTH CENTURY
Translated by Daniel de Leon
Decades later, towards the end of 811CE, we find Charles Martel’s grandson is now the ruler. Following a successful war against Brittany, Vortigern, a young hostage, is being taken by road to Aix-la-Chapelle and the sumptuous palace of the great Emperor, Charles, which is as full of beautiful women and tales of romance, as it is of proud warriors. Vortigern and his very elderly grandfather, Amael (the son of Septimine), who has accompanied the hostage, are housed in a room in the palace. Before long, the Emperor learns that the grandfather is a more illustrious warrior than his grandson and true to character, Amael courageously challenges the Emperor in an audience, calling him a tyrant: ‘already have you ravished and vanquished Brittany. You may ravage and vanquish her over again — but subjugate her, never.’ As he respects the old man, whose reputation is the stuff of legend, the Emperor tries to persuade Amael that he is a strong ruler, a good husbandman and a philanthropist. As hostages, Amael and Vortigern have no choice, but to listen and observe as the Emperor takes them on a tour of his palace. But will Charles’s ‘charm offensive’ have any effect?
CONTENTS
TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE
PART I. AIX-LA-CHAPELLE
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
PART II. THE CONQUEST OF BRITTANY
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
EPILOGUE
TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE
The Age of Charlemagne is the watershed of the history of the present era. The rough barbarian flood that poured over Western Europe reaches in that age a turning point of which Charlemagne is eminently the incarnation. The primitive physical features of the barbarian begin to be blunted, or toned down by a new force that has lain latent in him, but that only then begins to step into activity — the spiritual, the intellectual powers. The Age of Charlemagne is the age of the first conflict between the intellectual and the brute in the principal branches of the races that occupied Europe. The conflict raged on a national scale, and it raged in each particular individual. The colossal stature, physical and mental, of Charlemagne himself typifies the epoch. Brute instincts of the most primitive and savage, intellectual aspirations of the loftiest are intermingled, each contends for supremacy — and alternately wins it, in the monarch, in his court and in his people.
The Carlovingian Coins; or, The Daughters of Charlemagne is the ninth of the brilliant series of historical novels written by Eugène Sue under the title, The Mysteries of the People; or, History of a Proletarian Family Across the Ages. The age and its people are portrayed in a charming and chaste narrative, that is fittingly and artistically brought to a close by a veritable epopee — the Frankish conquest of Brittany, and, as fittingly, serves to introduce the next epopee — the Northman’s invasion of Gaul — dealt with in the following story, The Iron Arrow Head; or, The Buckler Maiden.
Daniel de Leon.
New York, May, 1905.
PART I. AIX-LA-CHAPELLE
CHAPTER I.
AMAEL AND VORTIGERN.
TOWARDS THE COMMENCEMENT of the month of November of the year 811, a numerous cavalcade was one afternoon wending its way to the city of Aix-la-Chapelle, the capital of the Empire of Charles the Great — an Empire that had been so rapidly increased by rapidly succeeding conquests over Germany, Saxony, Bavaria, Bohemia, Hungary, Italy and Spain, that Gaul, as formerly during the days of the Roman Emperors, was again but a province among the vast domains. The ambitious designs of Charles Martel had been realized. Childeric, the last scion of the Merovingian dynasty, had been got rid of. Martel’s descendants took his seat, and now the Hammerer’s grandson wielded the sceptre of Clovis over an immensely wider territory.
Eight or ten cavalry soldiers rode in advance of the cavalcade. A little apart from the smaller escort, four cavaliers ambled leisurely. Two of them wore brilliant armor after the German fashion. One of these was accompanied by a venerable old man of a martial and open countenance. His long beard, snow white as his hair that was half hidden under a fur cap, fell over his chest. He wore a Gallic blouse of grey wool, held around his waist by a belt, from which hung a long sword with an iron hilt. His ample hose of rough white fabric reached slightly below his knees and left exposed his tightly laced leather leggings, that ended in his boots whose heels were armed with spurs. The old man was Amael, who under the assumed Frankish name of Berthoald had, eighty years before, saved the life of Charles Martel at the battle of Poitiers against the Arabs, had declined the post offered him by Charles, as jailer of the last descendant of Clovis, and, finally, smitten by conscience, had renounced wealth and dignity under the Frankish enslavers of Gaul, and returned t
o his people and country of Brittany, or Armorica, as the Romans named it. Amael now touched his hundredth year. His great age and his somewhat portly stature notwithstanding, he still looked full of vigor. He handled with dexterity the black horse that he rode and whose spirit seemed no wise abated by the long road it had traveled. From time to time, Amael turned round upon his saddle in order to cast a look of paternal solicitude upon his grandson Vortigern, a lad of hardly eighteen years, who was accompanied by the other of the two Frankish warriors. The face of Vortigern, of exceptional beauty for a man, was framed in long chestnut ringlets, that, escaping from his scarlet coif, tumbled down below a chin that was as dainty as a woman’s. His large blue eyes, fringed with lashes black as his bold arched eyebrows, had an air at once ingenuous and resolute. His red lips, shaded by the down of adolescence, revealed at every smile two rows of teeth white as enamel. A slightly aquiline nose, a fresh and pure complexion somewhat tanned by the sun, completed the harmonious make-up of the youth’s charming visage. His clothes, made after the fashion of his grandfather’s, differed from them only in a touch of elegance that bespoke a mother’s hand, tenderly proud of her son’s comely appearance. Accordingly, the blue blouse of the lad was ornamented around the neck, over the shoulders and at the extremities of the sleeves with embroideries of white wool, while a calfskin belt, from which hung a sword with polished hilt, encircled his supple waist. His linen hose half hid his deerskin leggings, that were tightly laced to his nervy limbs and rejoined his boots, made of tanned skin and equipped with large copper spurs that glistened like gold. Although his right arm was held in a scarf of some black material, Vortigern handled his horse with his left hand with as much ease as skill. For traveling companion he had a young warrior of agreeable mien, bold and mercurial, alert and frolicsome. The mobility of his face recalled in nothing the stolidity of the German. His name was Octave. Roman by birth, in appearance and character, his inexhaustible Southern wit often succeeded in unwrinkling the brow of his young companion. The latter, however, would soon again relapse into a sort of silent and somber revery. Thus for some time absorbed in sadness, he walked his horse slowly, when Octave broke in gaily in a tone of friendly reproach:
“By Bacchus! You still are preoccupied and silent.”
“I am thinking of my mother,” answered the youth, smothering a sigh. “I am thinking of my mother, of my sister and of my country.”
“Come now; you should, on the contrary, chase away, such saddening thoughts. To the devil with sadness. Long live joy.”
“Octave, gayness ill beseems a prisoner. I cannot share your light-heartedness.”
“You are no prisoner, only a hostage. No bond binds you but your own word; prisoners, on the contrary, are led firmly pinioned to the slave market. Your grandfather and yourself ride freely, with us for your companions, and we are escorting you, not to a slave market, but to the palace of the Emperor Charles the Great, the mightiest monarch of the whole world. Finally, prisoners are disarmed; your grandfather as well as yourself carry your swords.”
“Of what use are our swords now to us?” replied Vortigern with painful bitterness. “Brittany is vanquished.”
“Such are the chances of war. You bravely did your duty as a soldier. You fought like a demon at the side of your grandfather. He was not wounded, and you only received a lance-thrust. By Mars, the valiant god of war, your blows were so heavy in the melee that you should have been hacked to pieces.”
“We would not then have survived the disgrace of Armorica.”
“There is no disgrace in being overcome when one has defended himself bravely — above all when the forces that one resisted and decimated, were the veteran bands of the great Charles.”
“Not one of your Emperor’s soldiers should have escaped.”
“Not one?” merrily rejoined the young Roman. “What, not even myself? Not even I, who take such pains to be a pleasant traveling companion, and who tax my eloquence to entertain you? Verily, you are not at all grateful!”
“Octave, I do not hate you personally; I hate your race; they have, without provocation, carried war and desolation into my country.”
“First of all, my young friend, I am not of the Frankish race. I am a Roman. Gladly do I relinquish to you those gross Germans, who are as savage as the bears of their forests. But, let it be said among ourselves, this war against Brittany was not without reason. Did not you Bretons, possessed of the very devil as you are, attack last year and exterminate the Frankish garrison posted at Vannes?”
“And by what right did Charles cause our frontiers to be invaded by his troops twenty-five years ago? His whim stood him instead of right.”
The conversation between Vortigern and Octave was interrupted by the voice of Amael, who, turning in his saddle, called his grandson to him. The latter, anxious to hasten to his grandfather, and also yielding to an impulse of anger that the discussion with the young Roman had provoked, brusquely clapped his spurs to the flanks of his charger. The animal, thus suddenly urged, leaped forward so violently that in two or three bounds it would have left Amael behind, had not Vortigern, restraining his mount with a firm hand, made the animal rear on its haunches. The youth then resumed his walk abreast of his grandfather and the other Frankish warrior, who, turning to the old man, remarked:
“I do not marvel at the superiority of your Breton cavalry, when a lad of the age of your grandson, and despite the wound that must smart him, can handle his horse in such a manner. You yourself, for a centenarian, are as firm in your saddle as the lad himself. Horns of the devil!”
“The lad was barely five years old when his father and I used to place him on the back of the colts raised on our meadows,” answered the old man. The recollection of those peaceful happy days now ended, cast a shadow of sorrow upon Amael’s face. He remained silent for a moment. Thereupon, addressing Vortigern, he said:
“I called you to inquire whether your wound had ceased smarting.”
“Grandfather, I hardly feel it any longer. If you allow me, I would free my arm of the embarrassing scarf.”
“No; your wound might open again. No imprudence. Remember your mother, and also your sister and her husband, both of whom love you like a brother.”
“Alas! Will I never see that mother, that sister, that brother whom I love so dearly?”
“Patience!” answered Amael in an undertone, so as not to be heard by the Frankish warrior at his side. “You may see Brittany again a good deal sooner than you expect — prudence and patience!”
“Truly?” inquired the youth impetuously. “Oh, grandfather, what happiness!”
The old man made a sign to Vortigern to control himself, and then proceeded aloud: “I am always afraid lest the fatigue of traveling inflame your wound anew. Fortunately, we must be approaching the end of our journey. Not so, Hildebrad?” he added, turning to the warrior.
“Before sunset we shall be at Aix-la-Chapelle,” answered the Frank. “But for the hill that we are about to ascend, you could see the city at a distance.”
“Return to your companion, my child,” said Amael; “above all, place your arm back in its scarf, and be careful how you manage your horse. A too-sudden lurch might re-open the wound that is barely closed.”
The young man obeyed and gently walked his horse back to Octave. Thanks to the mobility of the impressions of youth, Vortigern felt appeased and comforted by the words of his grandfather that had made him look forward to a speedy return to his family and country. The soothing thought was so visibly reflected in his candid features that Octave met him with the merry remark:
“What a magician that grandfather of yours must be! You rode off preoccupied and fretful, angrily burying your spurs into the flanks of your horse, who, poor animal, had done nothing to excite your wrath. Now, behold! You return as placid as a bishop astride of his mule.”
“The magic of my grandfather has chased away my sadness. You speak truly, Octave.”
“So much the better. I shall now
be free, without fear of reviving your chagrin, to give a loose to the increasing joy that I feel at every step.”
“Why does your joy increase at every step, my dear companion?”
“Because even the dullest horse becomes livelier and more spirited in the measure that he approaches the house where he knows that he will find provender.”
“Octave, I did not know you for such a glutton!”
“In that case, my looks are deceptive, because a glutton, that am I — terribly gluttonous of those delicate dainties that are found only at court, and that constitute my provender.”
“What!” exclaimed Vortigern ingenuously. “Is that great Emperor, whose name fills the world, surrounded by a court where nothing is thought of but dainties and gluttony?”
“Why, of course,” answered Octave gravely and hardly able to refrain from laughing outright at the innocence of the young Breton. “Why, of course. And what is more, more so than any of the counts, of the dukes, of the men of learning, and of the bishops at court, does the Emperor himself lust after the dainties that I have in mind. He always keeps a room contiguous to his own full of them. Because in the stillness of the night—”
“He rises to eat cakes and, perhaps, even sweetmeats!” exclaimed the lad with disdain, while Octave, unable longer to contain himself, was laughing in his face. “I can think of nothing more unbecoming than guzzling on the part of one who governs empires!”
“What’s to be done, Vortigern? Great princes must be pardoned for some pecadillos. Moreover, with them it is a family failing — the daughters of the Emperor—”
“His daughters also are given to this ugly passion for gormandizing?”
“Alas! They are no less gluttonous than their father. They have six or seven dainties of their own — most appetizing and most appetized.”