by Eugène Sue
“No, my friend; I have not seen your dove. I do not care for such small birds. A fine hen suits me better.”
“But some neighbors informed me that she alighted in your yard. I entreat you, friend, go in and inquire after my little dove. If I do not find her, I assure you my poor pigeon will die of sadness in my dovecote.”
“In order to satisfy you, friend, I shall inquire after your dove.”
Saying these words, the Brotaer went back into the bride’s house, closed the door after him, and reopened it after a short interval holding in his hand and leading out a little girl of about five years. He presented her to the Baz-valan and said:
“I went into my yard. I did not see your dove there, but I saw a large number of fresh buds of eglantine. Here,” pointing to the child, “is one of them. She will gladden the eyes of your pigeon, and he will feel consoled for his loss. I make you a present of the little bud, in the place of your dove.”
The Baz-valan embraced the child and answered: “Fresh and charming is the little bud — but my pigeon is too sad — too sad is he over the loss of his dove — too sad to forget her at the sight of a little flower, however pretty it be. Go in again, my friend, and look and see if perhaps my dove did not fly into your garret.”
“Be satisfied — but as true as every time that he sets out — the good old mother of the ferocious Marquis of Guerrand — rings, with tears and shudderings — the alarm bell of the castle — to warn the vassals of the Marquis to be on their guard against her merciless son — just so stubborn are you in the search of your dove — as stubborn as the taxcollectors in pursuit of the poor folks.”
With these words Madok the Brotaer re-entered the house of the bride, and speedily reappeared, leading by the hand a buxom matron of about thirty years of age, saying: “I climbed into my garret. The tithes, the taxes and the imposts extorted from us by the King, the castle and the curate, leave nothing for us to glean but wisps after the harvest. Nevertheless, in my garret did I find, escaped by accident from the rapacity of the tax-gatherers, this beautiful ripe ear of tasteful and golden wheat,” and he pointed to the matron. “This beautiful ear of wheat will console your pigeon, and he will cease to pine for his dove. I give you my ripe ear of wheat to replace your dove. Take it with you.”
“However tasteful, however golden they be, the grains of that beautiful ripe ear will never tempt my pigeon. Alas, with the loss of his little white dove he lost the taste for both eating and drinking. Friend, friend, I entreat you, go down into your cellar. See if, perchance, my white dove did not seek refuge there. Search in all the corners of your cellar, you may find my white dove there.”
“Be at your ease, but, by heaven! the men of the royal fisc, when they pounce upon our poor houses, in pursuit of taxes and imposts, even they are not skilful as you in rummaging a dwelling from the cellar to the garret. I shall go look again, and see whether, by accident, your dove has fled into my cellar.”
For a third time Madok the Brotaer re-entered the bride’s house, whence he soon again emerged holding by the hand a very old and venerable looking woman, and said: “Into my cellar I went; I did not see your dove there. But I did find a good old fruit,” pointing to the old grandmother, “that was gathered long, very long ago. Despite its wrinkles, however, it has preserved its taste and flavor. Good fruit gains with time. I offer it to you for your pigeon.”
“Certes, my friend, the wrinkles of good fruit do far from hurt its quality. Always nourishing and wholesome, such fruit ever seems more precious, and sweeter, when, winter having come, the summer fruits are gone. But, alas! my pigeon cares not either for your good fruit, or for your beautiful ear of ripe wheat, or for your fresh bud of eglantine. Go, if you please, and sow your pearls before monseigneur our Governor. What my pigeon wants is his own white dove. She is here; I know she is. You only refuse to return her to me. I shall go in and look for her myself. I must have my dear white dove, and I shall have her.”
“Friend, I shall save you the trouble. Come with me, Baz-valan, come. Your little dove is not lost. I kept her safe myself, for you. I kept her in an ivory cage, a cage with bars of gold and silver. Yes, your dove is here. She is here, gentle, beautiful, and decked quite gaily. Your handsome pigeon need not die.”
Saying this, the Brotaer opened the house door to the Baz-valan. The latter beckoned to Nominoë to alight from his mount, took him by the hand, and led him into the house of his bride, followed by his relatives and friends. Tina soon appeared, led by the Brotaer and accompanied by her father and grandmother. The first looks of the young girl were for Nominoë; and he, seeing her so charming, above all so radiant with happiness, no longer regretted having overpowered his reluctance to contract the marriage. He thought to himself: “My father was right — my refusal would have been death to her!” Beside Nominoë stood Salaun and his brother Gildas Lebrenn, a vassal of the Count of Plouernel on the farm of Karnak. The more distant relatives and friends ranked themselves along the wall of the blacksmith’s shop, leaving an empty space in the middle in which the bride and bridegroom were placed by the Baz-valan and the Brotaer. The faces of these two officials looked no less roguish than jovial, yet serious and solemn. The touching expression on the face of Paskou the Long caused his ridiculous thinness to be for a moment lost sight of. Tankeru and Salaun each delivered a silver ring to the Baz-valan, which he put upon the fingers of Nominoë and Tina. After this ceremony the Brotaer said to them:
“On your knees, my children!”
The couple knelt down upon the bare floor, and the Brotaer proceeded:
“Exchange the rings given to you by the Baz-valan, in token of your indissoluble alliance.”
The bride and bridegroom exchanged rings, and the Brotaer added in a grave voice:
“Nominoë Lebrenn, Tina Tankeru, do you swear to be joined on earth, the one to the other as your finger to your ring?”
“Oh, I swear!” answered Tina with an expression of celestial bliss, and she approached to her lips the ring which her bridegroom had temporarily carried on his finger.
“I swear!” responded Nominoë.
At the moment of binding his life to his cousin’s, Nominoë was constrained to wrestle for a last time with his irresolution. Before pronouncing the irrevocable oath he was silent for an instant. The interval was imperceptible to all except Salaun Lebrenn. The father of the bridegroom realized that, at that solemn moment, his son underwent a supreme struggle with himself. His heart was gripped with pain.
“Tina Tankeru, Nominoë Lebrenn,” resumed the Brotaer, “be you two for evermore united, as the ring is to the finger. We live in evil days, oppressed and harassed as we are by the men of the King, the seigneurs and the clergy. Lean upon each other in your journey through these sad times. May your children see better days. And now, let us proceed to the temple. The Lord will bless those whom man has united. Let us all proceed.”
The ceremony being over, Paskou the Long took Nominoë’s horse by the bridle and led the animal to the door of the house. A lighter saddle, provided behind the principal one, enabled the husband to take his wife on the crupper of his mount. The two were considered married with the exchange of rings. Nominoë leaped upon his horse. The Brotaer, in the exercise of his office, raised Tina, light and supple as a child, in his arms, and placed her behind her husband. The nuptial procession again put itself in motion, now back to Mezlean, whither it was preceded by a band of Armorican bag-pipers, playing lustily. Behind them came Paskou the Long, cantering on his little white horse, and Madok the miller astride of his ass. They were followed by Nominoë with little Tina behind him — happy — Oh, as happy as one may think, at having her arms around the waist of her well-beloved husband. Salaun Lebrenn and Tankeru rode behind the married couple upon hired horses, while Gildas Lebrenn, his wife, and all the other relatives and friends were seated in wagons drawn by heavy Breton oxen. A large crowd of men, women and children on foot brought up the rear.
CHAPTER III.
THE RED-COATS.
THE NUPTIAL PROCESSION wended its way slowly. All thought to themselves, and freely expressed the view to their friends, that a better matched couple could not be. She was sweet and charming, and he of a virile bearing which was enhanced by his Breton costume — round hat with wide brim; long black waistcoat and upper vest; wide, white, floating hose that descended to the knees and were held around the waist by a broad belt of scarlet serge; and grey cloth stockings, displaying Nominoë’s well-shaped calves, which were glued to the sides of his strong grey horse. Tina, whose fresh and rosy countenance was framed in her coif surmounted with her nuptial ribbons, wore a corsage of green cloth embroidered with white thread and cut square over her linen gorgerette which betrayed the coy pulsations of her virginal bosom, seeing that, in order to keep her balance, one of her arms encircled Nominoë. The sweet child had been silent since her departure from the paternal roof. Now she spoke, and, blushing, said timidly to Nominoë:
“Nominoë — I have a confession to make to you—”
“A confession of what, dear Tina?” answered the young man affectionately, turning his head to his wife in order to see her over his shoulder.
But Tina, foreseeing the move, put in: “I beg you, do not look at me! If you do I would not dare to say a word!”
“It shall be as you desire, sweet girl;” and smiling, he added: “What can be that redoubtable secret that you fear to confess to my face? Speak, my dear Tina; reveal your secret to me.”
“A sad secret — that I am ashamed of, very much ashamed. I pray to God you may pardon me for it. I have been very guilty.”
Tina’s voice was so moved as she spoke these words, that Nominoë was surprised, and involuntarily moved in his saddle in order to turn around to his wife. But once more she stopped him, saying:
“I entreat you, do not look at me,” and she proceeded after a short pause: “I am your wife — you must not be ignorant of any of my thoughts, be they good or bad. No! nothing must remain hidden from my husband.”
“A bad thought in your mind, you angelic creature! That is impossible. You surely exaggerate some trifle, my dear Tina.”
“And yet it is so, Nominoë. I doubted you — I doubted your love.”
“And why? And when was that?”
“This morning, seeing you delayed in arriving, I said to myself: ‘Nominoë does not want me for his wife’— ‘Nominoë does not love me’—”
And noticing that an involuntary shudder ran over the young man’s frame, Tina interjected, almost alarmed:
“Do you feel hurt at my mistrust? I knew you would! I deserve your reproof. That is the very reason that I accuse myself. I prefer to be blamed by you, rather than to conceal aught from my husband. May the sincerity of my confession earn your pardon for me.”
The young man remained silent, surprised and struck by the correctness of Tina’s presentiment. To himself he thought: “What a fatality hovers over this marriage! My union is consecrated before man, it will shortly be before God. Let me at least reassure the poor child.”
Nominoë was about to answer his young wife when an unexpected incident suddenly changed the course of his thoughts. His attention being at first turned to Tina’s words, and being immediately afterwards absorbed in his own meditations, Nominoë had not noticed the approach of a detachment of soldiers that seemed to be hastening to meet the nuptial procession. Suddenly the captain of the troop waved to the peasants to stop.
“Fire and flames! Let us face these red-coats!” said Tankeru to Salaun.
“We are unarmed, and we have women and children with us,” answered Salaun. “No imprudence — let us wait till the hour shall have come. I shall ride forward and ascertain what these soldiers want.”
“Father,” said Nominoë overhearing Salaun’s words, “I shall accompany you. You must not go alone.”
“You forget that you have your wife on your crupper. Both of you remain near Tankeru,” answered Salaun, and making his horse jump forward, he rode towards the soldiers.
Paskou the Long and Madok the miller, the one in his capacity of Baz-valan, the other of Brotaer, both official representatives of the wedding, joined Salaun Lebrenn. The three trotted briskly towards the armed force in order to ascertain the reason for the hold-up.
The King’s soldiers, fifteen in number and commanded by a sergeant, belonged to the Crown Regiment, and wore the red uniform. The sergeant in command of the detachment had an assumed military name. He called himself La Montagne. He was an athletic man, tall of stature and in the prime of life. His uniform consisted of a scarlet coat embroidered with alternate blue and silver threads. His hose, his stockings and the lining of his cloak were blue and of the color of his shoulder knot. His sword hung from a white baldric that matched the cockade in his three-cornered hat, which was surmounted by red and blue feathers, gallooned in silver, and challengingly tipped on his hair which, agreeable to the new military regulation, was dressed in the fashion called cadenette. His hair was curled on his temples, and was twisted behind his neck in a thick queue, tied with a leather thong. The face of the weather-beaten soldier — clean shaven, except for his moustache, and furrowed by a deep scar — bore the stamp of hardihood, daring and insolence. In his hand he carried a long cane with an ivory head. His soldiers, clad in a uniform like his own, except that a simple galloon of white wool ornamented their coats and hats, were armed with a new pattern of guns that replaced the old muskets. A triangular and pointed blade of steel, resembling the long poniards used by the people of Bayonne, and therefore called a bayonet, was attached to the muzzle of these guns.
A drummer and a man clad in a blouse, who carried on his back a ball of rope and in his hand a bell which he rang when the drum beat, preceded the troop. The sergeant marched at its head; behind him came two men clad in black. One was the bailiff of the Seigneur of Plouernel and Mezlean, the other the usher of the fisc. Salaun Lebrenn, the Baz-valan and the Brotaer, the last mounted on his ass, and his two companions on their horses, reined in a few paces from the detachment. Obedient to the suggestion of Salaun, and anxious to avoid a collision, all three alighted, and approached the sergeant, holding their mounts by the bridle. The soldiers had halted upon the command of their chief, and, drawn up in a semi-circle, they leaned upon the barrels of their guns.
“Messieurs,” said Salaun courteously, “we are peaceful people; we are celebrating a wedding; I am the father of the bride; our company consists of our relatives and friends.”
“And I,” put in Paskou the Long with an air of importance, “I am the Baz-valan of the wedding, the master of ceremonies.”
“And I,” added Madok the miller without lowering his eyes before the piercing looks of the sergeant, “I am the Brotaer. You ordered our procession to stop — it obeyed — what do you want? Speak. We shall be pleased to accommodate you.”
“By God’s death! Here is a pack of inquisitive rustics!” observed Sergeant La Montagne to the bailiff and the usher, after measuring Salaun, Paskou the Long and Madok the miller with his eyes.
And addressing his two acolytes over his shoulder, La Montagne added, pointing with the tip of his cane at those whom he was referring to: “Are not these the ragamuffins whom you are looking for?”
“No,” answered the bailiff and the usher. “The delinquents, whom we are after, are among the other people of the wedding.”
“Soldiers, load your guns — and fire upon the woolen caps if they but budge!” ordered the sergeant. “Drummer, beat the march, and forward! Soldiers, fire upon these peasants at the slightest resistance!”
“And you, ring the bell — and forward!” said the usher to his subaltern. “The bell is to the civilian what the drum is to the military. Forward, and ring loud, so that those ragamuffins may hear you, and be notified of our approach.”
Grieved and alarmed at seeing their pacific intervention so rudely brushed aside, the three Bretons exchanged a few words in a low voice, and when the troop was about to resume its
march, Salaun Lebrenn addressed the sergeant, the bailiff and the usher in carefully measured words: “Messieurs, I do not know the purpose of your coming here. But be your purpose whatever it may, I entreat you to postpone until after the marriage ceremony the measures that you intend to take. Do not alarm and throw our relatives, friends, wives and children into a fright. Are you in quest of any one? I give you my word of honor that no one will attempt to escape. I invite you to escort us back to the burg of Mezlean—”
Salaun Lebrenn broke off. He noticed that he and his two companions had fallen into a sort of ambush. While simulating great attention to what was being said to him, the sergeant had whispered a few words to his corporal, and the latter, obeying the orders given him, had disposed his soldiers in such manner that the three Bretons found themselves surrounded from all sides, and unable to rejoin their friends. Addressing himself thereupon to Salaun Lebrenn, who, no less surprised than his two friends at finding himself obviously treated as a prisoner, looked at his companions in amazement, the sergeant said sneeringly:
“Your promise notwithstanding, that none of those woolen bonnets will be allowed to run off, I prefer something more substantial than a promise, rather than to have to chase all over this devilish country that is so cut up with moats and hedges. I shall hold you as hostages, you and your two companions. You are the chiefs of the band. You will be a guarantee for the rest. If any one of them escapes, you will go to prison, and stay there until each of you will have paid me two gold louis — besides six pistoles for my men. That’s the end of it. I want no answer or further remarks from you. Forward!”
“So, then, you arrest us?” observed Salaun calmly. “Besides, you place us under ransom. But what do you charge us with? What crime are we guilty of, sergeant?”