The Angel Asrael

by S. Henry Berthoud

  “But at least speak to me about Nephta, tell me that she is faithful to me; tell me that a memory of me sometimes summons a tear to her eye, and that the love of another cherub has not replaced the love of Asrael in Nephta’s heart...

  “You’re not replying to me; you’re veiling your faces and drawing away. Does a demon horrify you? Alas, it’s not fear, it’s pity that I ought to inspire. Adieu, then, beautiful children of Heaven, adieu forever! Adieu! For the sight of your happiness and your glory causes me a torture more cruel than the flames of Hell; it makes me remember the wealth that I have lost forever, lost without hope of ever possessing them again. Adieu! Adieu!”

  After that he resumed his errant life, incessantly pursued by the memory of the singing he had heard, which still seemed to be resonating in his ears. The sentiment of his misfortune was revealed more cruelly and more forcefully than ever, as on the day of his fall, when the laughter of the demons had told him that he was the victim of a perfidious lie.

  One evening when he delivered himself to such dolors and was mechanically following the banks of the Escaut, which, a feeble stream at first, gradually became a river, and then a veritable sea, he perceived near the shore one of those long flat boats named bilanders that navigate on the pure and fecund waters of the beautiful river. He drew nearer to the boat and saw a numerous company of people sitting on their folded knees, who were forming a circle, in order to listen to the story that an old boatman was getting ready to tell them.

  The bilander offered a truly singular scene. All of those who were there, by their strange garments and their no less strange physiognomy, seemed to be a class of beings apart, cast among the Flemings. Their blond and curly hair formed a bizarre contrast with their bronzed complexion, like the complexion of the inhabitants of India. Their ears were laden with large silver rings, embroideries covered their woolen jackets, and heir bare feet stuck out of breeches of an extreme width.

  The women presented an admirable perfection in their forms; they combined the slightly slender flexibility of Egyptian women with the nervous grace of the daughters of Italy. Their hair, put up and knotted at the top of the head, allowed a vast forehead to be seen in all its beauty and a profile worthy of Greek regularity. The sleeves of their narrow corset showed their arms, naked to the shoulders, and a skirt what descended a little below the knee, attested to the voluptuous proportions of their similarly bare legs. Finally, their voice, soft and accented like the voices of the Midi, sang rather than spoke the modulated language of Flanders, and rendered it even more harmonious.

  That race of boatmen was then the same as it still is today. Ten centuries have scarcely modified a few of its habits and softened a few of the prominent features of their primitive character. Dressed as in the thirteenth century, they live as in the thirteenth century, apart, without mingling with the inhabitants of the land they traverse. They retain their terrible passions and indolence of old; they spend more than they possess and never direct a prudent gaze toward the future. Sensual to the point of libertinage, jealous to the extent of murder, civilization has neither ameliorated nor bastardized them; it has not touched them. Their boat is their fatherland, the river their domain, their laws the will of the patriarch of their race.

  When evening comes they assemble on the largest of their boats that is in harbor; there, in order to occupy the interest of their fiery imagination, incessantly stimulated by idleness and solitude, it is necessary that they hear stories; the marvelous alone pleases them, the marvelous whose glare strikes, dazzles and causes shivers. Avid for strong emotions, they understand nothing of a story of mild and scantly pronounced interest. No, give them the catastrophes that cause weeping, the memory of which displays phantoms during slumber and makes one look behind in terror when one finds oneself alone; give them the thrill caused by a mysterious turn of events, and the expectation of a terrible denouement. Yes, those men who reach for their daggers and gaze at the waters of the river at the thought of a rival, those men require stories that stir them, that shake them and make them stand up with astonishment and fear.

  After having gazed for some time at his silent audience, which attached to him gazes full of attention, an old man lit the wick of a lamp that the wind caused to flicker, and which projected a red light and mobile, capricious shadows over the boatmen.

  Then he passed his coarse hand over his suntanned forehead two or three times, and he began to speak:

  “It only happened to me once in my life to spend the hour of midnight in the vicinity of Mont Brûlé; I shall never spend another there...

  “Yes, even if Monseigneur le Duc de Flandre promised me as a reward the castellany of his finest city, even if our Holy Father the Pope were to grant me a relic of the tree of the true cross with an indulgence of an entire year! For I would surely die, even before seeing again what I saw in that accursed place; my soul would depart from my body merely at the panic of expectation...

  “I saw on Mont Brûlé what no human eyes have ever seen.

  “I was coming back placidly from the village of Flesquières, and riding as fast as I could toward Estrées, spurring my horse with sharp thrusts of my heels, for it is scarcely good to find oneself outside one’s shelter at such an hour, on a black night with a cold north wind.

  “Now, when I had just passed close to Mont Brûlé, which, in broad daylight, merits that vile name only too well by virtue of its ruins of I know not what olden time, and its pitiful and sterile flanks, I felt anxious on seeing a red light shining there, reminiscent of a spearhead glinting in the moonlight. Although I took the light to be some shepherd’s lantern, I made use of the protective sign of our salvation just in case.

  “It was as well I did, for if, in spite of such a shield, I received such rude blows, what would have happened to a miscreant with no safeguard?

  “Suddenly, the little red light flared up, extended and, in the midst of a torrent of flame, allowed me to see a château of beautiful appearance, where men-at-arms, varlets and hunters were moaning piteously, not to mention damoiselles and chatelaines; their keening generated shivers, and there was enough to cause faintness in hearing them.

  “Little curious to see such a spectacle, I pressed my mount hard with my spurs, but it refused to take another step forward and remained motionless, as if retained by a magical and supernatural force.

  I began to commend my soul to God, for I believed that my last hour had sounded.

  “I believed that even more when I perceived, coming toward me as fast as his legs could carry him, a knight clad in armor as red as iron emerging from the forge.

  “He was holding a large loaf of bread in his hands, and from as far away as he could he shouted to me: ‘Take it! Take it!’

  “I only replied with urgent signs of the cross, but instead of being frightened, he approached more rapidly and fell to his knees before me, still holding out his loaf of bread to me and saying:

  “‘Take it! Take it!’

  “He remained there, at my knees, until daybreak.

  “Then the crow of a cock was heard in the distance; the flames of the château were extinguished incontinently. I saw the turrets and the ramparts vanish; then the voice of the specter with the red armor became feeble, and he sank into the ground.

  “My horse, covered with sweat and in a state of strange agitation, departed then at a fast gallop, and only stopped at the door of my lodgings.

  “My wife and my children were waiting for me in great emotion. When they saw me pale and distressed, they thought that I had been ambushed by thieves, and expected to find me wounded by some dagger-thrust.

  “Without telling them what I had seen, though, and offering the pretext of I know not what adventure, I sent in all haste for the saintly hermit Mathias, who lived in a grotto on Mont d’Arleux.

  “The holy man, believing that there was a risk to the salvation of a soul in peril of passing from this world to the other came running with the holy oils and the sacrament, surrounded by faith
ful followers carrying candles and holy box-wood, preceded by a petty cleric with a hand-bell.

  “I had the women and the young people withdraw and, in the presence of Père Mathias and the old men, I recounted the frightful things that I had seen.

  “The hermit listened to me, his forehead supported on his hand, and when I had finished he spoke, as you will see, to the great edification of each of us.

  “‘Many years ago, there was on Mont Brûlé the château of a noble and powerful seigneur named the Vicomte de Sainte-Hermine. The said castellan was only hospitable to sires of high lineage.

  “‘One winter evening two hermits came to clamor piteously under the towers, saying that they had lost their way and would perish of hunger and cold if no one granted them a shelter and a loaf of bread.

  “‘The Vicomte de Sainte-Hermine did not care about their laments; he even started to laugh, and added indecorous insults, by the advice that he gave the hermits to dance and curse, as an infallible means of warming themselves.

  “‘The following day, when the Vicomte de Sainte-Hermine had the drawbridge lowered in order to go hunting, he found the rigid cadavers of the two hermits.

  ‘Instead of feeling contrite, however and striking his breast with repentant mea culpas, he pricked his charger with his spurs in order to make it trample the bodies of the hermits underfoot.

  “‘At the same moment, two enormous serpents emerged from the ground hissing and enlaced the horseman with living knots, which he could not break.

  “‘And a terrible noise, like a tempest at sea, roared around him. Lightning flashed in all directions, the manor caught fire in a hundred different places, and soon, nothing any longer remained of it but ruins.

  “‘Then the great serpents released their prisoner, who stayed there, immobile, for three days, without making a movement, after which he died.

  “‘No one dared approach the place, and the cadaver of the Vicomte de Sainte-Hermine remained unburied, prey to the worms of the earth and the crows of the heavens.

  “‘The frightful spectacle that you have seen is surely nothing but the consequence of his punishment. Perhaps, if you had taken the bread that he offered you and you had recited a de profundis for the repose of his soul, he would have been delivered from punishment and admitted to purgatory, in order to reach from there the abode of the blissful.’

  “A few days after what I have recounted, Père Mathias went to Mont Brûlé by night, and the people of the locality are sure that the frightful apparitions at the hour of midnight have ceased since that time.

  “But how can one know whether that is true? For, since my misadventure, no one would dare to spend the night in the vicinity of Mont Brûlé.

  “For myself, I wouldn’t want to, as I said, even if Monseigneur le Duc de Flandre promised me as a reward the castellany of his finest city, even if our Holy Father the Pope were to grant me a relic of the tree of the true cross with an indulgence of an entire year!”

  X. The Ballad Singer

  The boatmen had listened to the old man’s story with an extreme interest. Throughout the duration of his story no voice had spoken, no one had breathed deeply. Sitting on their heels, the chin supported by the hands and the elbows resting on the knees, they might have been taken for statues but for the emotions painted on their expressive features and the vague terror shining with a yellow gleam in the dark eyes attached to the storyteller.

  When he had finished, they maintained for a few seconds more a silence produced by attention, a vague fear and a kind of expectation, which mingled with the regret of seeing the legend that had moved them so forcefully concluded.

  Afterwards, one voice hazarded a few curt words articulated in a low voice, which hissed in the midst of that great silence. Gradually, other voices responded to it in the same manner; little by little the slight buzz became a confused and noisy conversation in which everyone was speaking at the same time. Commentaries were made, analogous adventures cited to confirm the marvelous events of Mont Brûlé. Everyone had got up, everyone had drawn closer. Scattered groups covered the deck of the boat intermittently, and a private conversation was held in each group.

  At that point, the vague melody of a song became audible in the distance, of which a few feeble sounds arrived at intervals.

  “It’s Lorette! Here comes Lorette”” someone shouted. And that name produced a magical effect, for everyone immediately fell silent and pricked up their ears. Meanwhile the singer drew closer; her voice became more distinct, and the slow and melancholy rhythm of a popular ballad was already recognizable. Soon, it was even possible to distinguish the words of the ballad.

  I

  The Comte de Flandre Beauduin was known as Beauduin-à-la-Hache.30 He was a noble and just seigneur, was Comte Beauduin-à-la-Hache.

  II

  With Comte Beauduin, prompt and good justice did not take long; it was delivered within the hour. Whether one wore the golden spurs of a knight, the trousers of a villain or the head-dress of a widow, justice was granted to all.

  The Comte de Flandre Beauduin was known as Beauduin-à-la-Hache. He was a noble and just seigneur, was Comte Beauduin-à-la-Hache.

  III

  One day when the Comte à la Hache was returning alone to Winendale he met a poor woman weeping, sitting on the side of a ditch by the road. Her coat was in tatters, her hair unkempt, and lying beside her was a corpse slain by thrust of a sword, as could easily be seen.

  The Comte de Flandre Beauduin was known as Beauduin-à-la-Hache. He was a noble and just seigneur, was Comte Beauduin-à-la-Hache.

  IV

  Now the Comte à la Hache stopped his charger, which had been running at the gallop, and asked the weeping woman: “Woman, why are you weeping like that?

  The Comte de Flandre Beauduin was known as Beauduin-à-la-Hache. He was a noble and just seigneur, was Comte Beauduin-à-la-Hache.

  V

  “Oh,” she said, “nowhere in the land of Flanders is there woman who can shed tears worse than mine; for the first day of my marriage has been bloodied and if I do not lose my reason, the horrible memory will stay with me until the hour of my death.

  The Comte de Flandre Beauduin was known as Beauduin-à-la-Hache. He was a noble and just seigneur, was Comte Beauduin-à-la-Hache.

  VI

  “This day I married my friend Pierre Mahormoudt, who loved me with a faithful and honest amour for four full years. I was coming back from the monastery with him, we had escaped the wedding party to talk alone at our leisure, and were here, sitting on the edge of this ditch, when eleven knights wearing escutcheons with your colors passed by and started saying: ‘Here’s a pretty girl; she must grant a kiss to each of us.’

  The Comte de Flandre Beauduin was known as Beauduin-à-la-Hache. He was a noble and just seigneur, was Comte Beauduin-à-la-Hache.

  VII

  “‘Go on your way, Messeigneurs, I said to them, and leave a poor village bride alone, who surely does not merit the ugly insult you have made.’ But Pierre Mahormoudt did not take it so gently, and said to them, putting his hand on his dagger: ‘Let my wife alone, or by God and Our Lady, it will not be said that I let you insult me.’

  The Comte de Flandre Beauduin was known as Beauduin-à-la-Hache. He was a noble and just seigneur, was Comte Beauduin-à-la-Hache.

  VIII

  “The knights laughed in an insulting fashion and started striking Pierre Mahormoudt with their riding-crops, so long and hard that I saw him fall; for I was more dead than alive and did not even have the strength to flee. ‘If you want to save his life,’ one of them said to me, ‘you must be mine.’ At those uncouth words, Pierre got up and struck the knight with his dagger; eleven sword-thrusts immediately slew my husband.”

  The Comte de Flandre Beauduin was known as Beauduin-à-la-Hache. He was a noble and just seigneur, was Comte Beauduin-à-la-Hache.

  IX

  The Comte à la Hache asked the woman: “Would you recognize those knights.”

&
nbsp; “Yes, on my soul,” she said.

  “Then come with me right away.”

  And he walked slowly to his dwelling at Winendale, where he ordered all the seigneurs who answered to him to gather.

  The Comte de Flandre Beauduin was known as Beauduin-à-la-Hache. He was a noble and just seigneur, was Comte Beauduin-à-la-Hache.

  X

  And he said to the poor woman: “Show me all eleven.”

  Without hesitation she pointed her finger at them one by one.

  “Master Provost, put a rope around the neck of these disloyal men unworthy of the name of knights. Have them climb on to that table and attach the rope to the ceiling beam.”

  The Provost obeyed the Comte’s orders.

  The Comte de Flandre Beauduin was known as Beauduin-à-la-Hache. He was a noble and just seigneur, was Comte Beauduin-à-la-Hache.

  XI

  After that the Comte went on: “You are noble and do not have to blush at the hand that punishes you. To work!”

  Then he took the table in his own hands and pulled it from beneath the feet of the eleven knights, who remained hanged until death ensued.

  And everyone began to clamor: “God and the Holy Virgin aid the Comte à la Hache, for he does good and prompt justice!”

  The Comte de Flandre Beauduin was known as Beauduin-à-la-Hache. He was a noble and just seigneur, was Comte Beauduin-à-la-Hache.

  Lorette was still singing the last words of her refrain when she had already stopped her little boat alongside the larger vessel, and then, seizing the tiller, she climbed—or rather leapt—on to the deck. Immediately she found herself surrounded by all the young men, greeted with joyful acclamations.

  “Welcome, pretty Lorette!”