by Eugène Sue
“It is done!” said Nominoë to himself while his father was calling to the Baz-valan. “Adieu, insane hopes! Adieu, deceitful, senseless visions, yet so dear to my heart! Adieu, gilded dream, a dream as distant from reality as heaven is from the pit! This morning, when I learned of the arrival of Mademoiselle Plouernel at Mezlean, I intended to break off this match. Poor fool! Return to your senses, to earth! Your marriage will put an end to the visions that led your mind astray!”
“Let us depart, my son! Make haste! Poor Tina must have begun to feel uneasy,” observed Salaun to his son. “All our relatives and friends are waiting for us. Quick, to horse!”
A moment later the nuptial procession, headed by the Baz-valan and Nominoë, left the burg of Mezlean and took the road to the house of Tankeru the blacksmith, the father of Tina, the bride.
CHAPTER II.
A BRETON WEDDING.
TANKERU WAS BOTH blacksmith and wheelwright. After having long resided at Vannes with his mother and daughter, he moved with them and settled down in an isolated house situated about a league outside of Mezlean in a hollow, at the crossing of two roads one of which skirted the forest of Mezlean. Several reasons had combined to determine Tankeru’s choice of the lonesome locality. The first was that the house stood at the foot of two bluffs which rose over a granite soil, rough, rocky and uneven, where the horses and oxen that drew the heavy wagons over the road could not choose but lose some nails of their shoes as they climbed the steep ascent; the blacksmith would be on the spot ready to repair the damage. In the second place, Tankeru counted upon indulging in the hunt in the forest of Mezlean, a sport to which he was passionately addicted. In the teeth of all the punishments decreed against illegal hunting — the prison, the whipping post, the galley, even the gallows — Tankeru gave a loose to his controlling passion in full security of conscience, claiming that the wandering beasts of the forests belonged to the best marksman, and that, moreover, it was a good office to keep down the number of wild beasts. Game belongs to all — to the villein as to the nobleman.
On this day there was great animation in Tankeru’s home. His smithy and wheelwright shop were full of relatives, friends and vassals of the neighborhood — a pale and haggard crowd, pinched by privation, all dressed in their best rags, and, for a moment, oblivious of their misery as they came to rejoice over the wedding of Tina and Nominoë. They emptied the pots of cider, ate the bacon from the salt-tub, and the cakes of black bread. The daughters and wives of the invited guests, congregated in the upstairs room of the house, were lending a hand in the last touches of the bride’s toilet. Tankeru was a man of about forty years of age, of an open and resolute face, tall of stature, and endowed with an athletic strength that often won for him the prize in the wrestling matches at the rustic festivals. The host was fulfilling at his best the duties of hospitality.
“Friends,” said the blacksmith, “let us empty the barrel, the salt-tub and the bread-bin. Whatever is eaten and drunk escapes the clutches of the King’s men, the seigneurs and the clergy!” And Tankeru added sardonically: “Fire and flames! The devil take the armed troopers and the tonsured gentry! Comrades, we are honest folks, may Satan take the Pope!”
“If we are honest folks, Tankeru, we are also poor folks!” replied a white-haired peasant. “Very poor folks! The royal taxes, the seigniorial imposts, the tithes of the church are ever on the increase — and still I hear rumors of fresh taxes. Why, they took almost everything away from us. If they take still more, what will be left to us?”
“Why, our skin will be left to us — and who knows but they may want that also to turn it into hose for themselves!” put in Tankeru. “Listen, by force of forging, shoeing, mending wagons and saving from my daily bread for twenty years and more, I laid by a little sum for my daughter’s dower. In less than twenty months three-fourths of the sum has passed into the bag of the tax collectors. Fire and flames! We are honest folks! Let us empty the barrel, the salt-tub and the bread-bin! What has been drunk and eaten is not seized! The devil take the tonsured fraternity and the troopers!”
“Tankeru, you are always saying— ‘We are honest folks,’” again put in the old peasant. “You mean by that, I suppose, that we are a lot of fools to allow ourselves to be plucked to the quick. But what would you have us do, otherwise than repeat with you— ‘The devil take the troopers and the tonsured fraternity!’”
Tankeru’s eyes fell upon a yoke used for oxen. Its nails had fallen out, and it stood against the wall. He took it up, showed it to the vassals, broke it over his knees, and throwing the pieces at his feet said: “The devil take the tonsured fraternity and the troopers! That’s what’s to be done!”
These short words, together with the energetic expression of the blacksmith’s countenance, produced upon the vassals an instantaneous effect. They all rose simultaneously, clenched their fists threateningly, and some of them stamped angrily with their heels upon the fragments of the yoke that Tankeru had broken. Desirous that his guests remain under the sway of the thoughts that the incident had awakened in their minds, Tankeru said to them:
“I am going upstairs to see whether my daughter is ready with her toilet. It will not be long before her bridegroom will be here.”
Tina, the betrothed of Nominoë, surrounded with her friends and relatives who joined her grandmother in prinking up the girl, was seated in their midst in the old dame’s bedroom. It would be hard to depict to oneself a more charming and dainty girl than “Little Tina,” as she was commonly called by her companions. Her blonde hair shone like gold in the sun; her eyes, bluer than the cornflower, reflected the sweetness of her angelic disposition. Everything breathed gladness around her, and yet her delicate features, full of candor and grace, were expressive of profound sadness. Alas! Her moist eyes, piercing the glass in the leaden frame of the narrow window in the room, wandered far away, vainly expecting for a long time to see the nuptial procession at the head of which her betrothed was to appear. Tina’s friends exchanged a few words in a low voice, while the grandmother held in her hands the nuptial ribbons — white, signifying the innocence of the bride; red, her beauty; and black, her sorrow at leaving her family. As the grandmother was about to tie the symbolic bunting on Tina’s head, the girl emerged from her revery, took the knot of ribbons in her hand, gazed upon it in silence, and pointing with her finger to the black, said with a heartrending sigh:
“Grandma, this should be the only color of my nuptial ribbons — black, like the wings of a crow.”
“Still harping on the memory of that presage of evil!” said the grandmother in a voice of affectionate reproach. “To entertain such sad thoughts on such a beautiful day is to offend God.”
“It is to listen to God, grandma! In His goodness He sends us omens in order to prepare us for misfortune,” answered Tina pensively. “Early this morning I stood at the window. The sun had hardly risen, but already my eyes wandered in the direction of Mezlean. From that quarter I saw flying towards me, with wings outstretched — a crow. He flew over my head and circled over our house emitting his lugubrious screech. A little turtle dove, nestled among the leaves of the large apple tree that shades our well, was at the time cooing its song of love and tenderness. The moment she heard the cawing of the crow she hid herself from sight among the foliage. The crow detected and pounced down upon her. In her attempt to escape she fluttered about, and happening to stumble near the edge of the well, fell in and was drowned,” Tina mused aloud to herself. “God sends us omens to prepare us for misfortune! Black should be the only color of my nuptial ribbons, grandma! Only black! Nominoë does not come. The hour has passed — he will not come.”
The belief in omens was so general in Brittany that, however singular or unreasonable in appearance, Tina’s persistency in her presentiments impressed her companions. Nevertheless, Janik, the dearest of her friends, sought to reassure the bride and said, forcing a smile upon her own lips:
“That you should take the sweet little turtle dove to pers
onify yourself, I agree to, little Tina; but to see your betrothed, Nominoë, so handsome, so good and so enamoured a youth — aye, to see him in that ugly and wicked crow — fie, little Tina, fie! How can such a thought occur to you!”
“Janik is right,” put in the grandmother. “Your cousin has loved you since your childhood. You have been long betrothed. As late as yesterday he was here. Did he not say, as he was taking leave: ‘Till to-morrow, my sweet Tina. Fools are they who are often seen to look for happiness at a distance when they can have it near at hand. Happiness to me consists in joining my fate to yours. Till to-morrow, my sweet Tina!’ And after such words, you foolish child, and simply on account of a delay of perhaps an hour in the arrival of the nuptial procession, you begin to have evil dreams and to talk to us of black ribbons, crows and birds of death! Come, cast off such mournful thoughts!”
“In the crow I see bad luck, grandma,” persisted Tina, more and more absorbed in her sad presentiments, and her eyes ever resting on the desert road of Mezlean. “I see in the crow the bad luck that threatens, and perhaps is to punish me.”
“Punish you!” replied the grandmother no less surprised than the bride’s companions. “What harm have you ever done to anybody, dear, innocent creature, as pure and innocent as a dove?”
“I had the vanity and pride of imagining myself beloved of Nominoë. Alas! I know it; I am his own cousin; often did we sleep together, as children, in the same cradle; but I am only a poor, ignorant girl, while Nominoë is clever and cultured like a clerk. He has traveled and seen distant countries. He and my uncle Salaun Lebrenn are the best mariners of Vannes. They own their own vessel. They are rich, compared to my father, who only has his forge and a few gold coins that he deprived himself of for my sake.” Tina paused and then proceeded in a tone of bitter self-reproach: “Oh, what I have just said is not right — it is a wrong to Nominoë. He desert me out of avarice! No! no! His heart is too generous for that. Seeing how much I loved him, he took pity upon me. He feared to grieve me if he did not love me. He is so good! Yes, last night, as he thought of his coming here to-day to take me for his wife, he must have realized that he loved me only out of compassion. That is the reason of his absence!”
“Nominoë to put such an affront upon you! upon your father! upon your family!” cried the grandmother interrupting Tina. “My child, you are losing your senses! What nonsense, to imagine such cruel things simply because your bridegroom is a little late in coming! Return to your senses!”
“Why,” remarked Janik, “I can easily guess the reason of his delay. It must be the fault of the Baz-valan. That Paskou the Long, the longest and most talkative of all tailors that I have ever seen, must have had the notion of composing a new song in honor of your wedding, and he is trying to commit it to memory. That is the reason of the delay. But they must now be on the way.”
Suddenly Tina, who, unmindful of the consoling words with which her grandmother and friends strove to allay her fears, did not remove her fixed and moist eyes from the deserted Mezlean road — suddenly Tina seemed electrified; she rose, uttered a slight cry of joy, and, transfigured and radiant, stretched out both her arms towards an object in the distance. The shock of joy, the sudden revulsion from despair, caused her to turn pale and stagger. She leaned upon her grandmother, embraced her effusively, and muttered in a voice that gladness seemed to choke: “Nominoë is coming! There he is now! There he comes!”
The bride’s friends crowded to the window. At a distance they saw the front ranks of the nuptial procession descending the slope of the highway, preceded by the Baz-valan, who bestrode his little white horse and held aloft the sprig of broom in blossom. Tankeru entered at that moment, announcing gaily:
“Attention! There comes the procession! Are you ready, my little daughter? What! Your nuptial ribbons are not yet tied in your hair!”
Only at that moment did the blacksmith notice the pallor of Tina’s face, and the traces of recent tears in her eyes. Turning to the grandmother, uneasy and even alarmed, he inquired: “Mother! What has happened? The girl has been weeping. She weeps — and on such a day as this! What is the cause of her grief?”
“Good father!” answered Tina to whose plump and chaste cheeks the roses were rapidly returning, “I was crazy! A sad presage oppressed me this morning, despite myself. The procession was delayed so long in coming — I thought Nominoë had deserted me!”
“Fire and flames!” cried the blacksmith, his face assuming an ominous appearance. “Such an outrage!” But immediately interrupting himself he addressed his daughter in a tone of affectionate reproof: “It is you, dear child, who, surely without intending it, wronged Nominoë and his father, the husband of your mother’s sister, in believing them capable of breaking faith.”
“Friend Tankeru, they are waiting for you!” said one of the peasants, stepping into the room. “The Baz-valan has alighted. He has knocked twice at the house door. Cousin Madok, in his capacity of ‘Brotaer,’ is going to answer the summons of Paskou the Long. The one is as pert as the other. The answer will match the demand.”
“Quick, quick, little Tina!” said the grandmother. “Let me adjust the ribbons in your hair. The Brotaer will call for you in a minute. Come! Make haste! We must be ready when called!”
“Oh! Grandma,” said Tina, bending to her grandmother her virginal forehead, “the Brotaer will not have to call me twice!” And radiant with joy and pink with agitation, she raised to heaven her limpid eyes, that a moment before were veiled in sadness, but now shone sweetly, like a cornflower glistening in the morning dew.
When the nuptial procession was near the house of the bride it stopped. The guests alighted from their rustic wagons and formed a circle. Paskou the Long leaped to the ground, entrusted his mount to one of his apprentices who officiated as a page, and holding in his hand his fresh sprig of broom, and swaying his long body with the conscious importance of a personage upon whom all eyes are centered, the Baz-valan stepped alone to the house door, which was kept closed, and knocked. The door opened; a relative of Tankeru, a miller named Madok, a pert and jolly fellow, appeared at the threshold. He was to fill the office of “Brotaer,” or god-father to the bride, and meet and answer the Baz-valan, the bridegroom’s messenger. Paskou the Long began his oration, modulating his voice to a slow rythm, that imparted to his sentences the sound of a measured recitative:
“In the name of the Lord God — peace to this house, and blessings upon its roof-tree — and greater bliss than I enjoy on earth.”
“What is the matter with you, friend?” mischievously interrupted Madok the Brotaer. “Why should not your heart be glad — the heart of one who causes others to laugh so much — to laugh at your long neck and your long legs, and your long arms! Paskou the Long, my friend, what is the grief that you nurse at your heart?”
“Tut! Tut! Tut! my friend Madok,” the Baz-valan replied, “very long are my legs; still, they do not prevent the King’s men from catching me, from grabbing me by the neck and saying: ‘Pay! pay! pay! — pay over again! pay all the time!’ Very long are my arms, but the arms of the bailiff of our seigneur, and of the tithes-collector of the curate are longer still! They are so long that they can reach down to the very bottom of my pockets, even if they were as bottomless as the wells of Melusine! Quite long is my neck — and yet, Monseigneur the Governor of Brittany could stretch it out still longer — aye, my poor long neck! That is the reason, my friend, why I am not among the most gladsome of earth.”
“Oh! how true is the proverb — how squarely the proverb hits the nail upon the head when it says: It takes nine tailors to make one man. The proverb is applicable to you,” replied Madok.
“It takes just as many asses to make one miller, friend Brotaer — or, I should rather say, Seigneur Windmill!” returned Paskou the Long. “Go to, and grind your grain!”
“Well answered, Seigneur of the Needle and Thread!” said Madok. “And yet, I repeat it — what a poor, inconsequential one-ninth of a man you are! Th
ere you are, whimpering and all in a fright as you speak of monseigneur, of monseigneur our Governor. Aye, your long face frowns and becomes still longer. And yet, just tell me, when you start to speak of a good fat pig, good and fat, a pig with such a belly that he can hardly move his body, so club-cheeked that one can no longer see his little peepers, hidden under three folds of fat — tell me, is it not true that then your long face grows longer still — so much do you rejoice, so brimful of admiration are you when you speak of such a fat and incomparable pig? How comes it, then, my friend, that you do not likewise rejoice when you speak of monseigneur — of monseigneur our Governor? Answer my question.”
The wedding guests received with loud outbursts of laughter the allusion of Madok the miller to the enormous obesity of Monseigneur the Duke of Chaulnes, the Governor of Brittany, whom the people nicknamed the Fat Pig, and whom all classes execrated on account of his severity, his haughtiness and his merciless exactions. Paskou the Long waited until the hilarity of the audience subsided, and then proceeded:
“Certes, friend Brotaer, I rejoice greatly at the thought of a big and honest pig — provided his profitable body is intended for the salt-tub. But, Lord, when I think of a huge boar, wicked and unprofitable, who fattens, pastures and wallows upon and in my own meager pittance, in return for which the gormandizer grunts, steps upon my feet, turns me black and blue butting against me, and bites me — is it at all astonishing if then my long face should grow still longer and look sad? But that is not the cause of my grief.”
“What may be the cause of your grief? Speak! Let me know it, friend Baz-valan,” demanded the Brotaer.
Instead of answering the Brotaer’s question, Paskou the Long replied: “I had in my dovecote a beautiful pigeon — its plumage turned to all imaginable colors. I also had a little white dove, the constant love of my handsome pigeon. But, alas! my dove flew away — she flew away from my dovecote. Did you, perhaps, see her around here?”