The Poniard's Hilt; Or, Karadeucq and Ronan. A Tale of Bagauders and Vagres

by Eugène Sue

  CHAPTER I.

  ARAIM.

  Occasionally they are long-lived, these descendants of the good Joel,who, five hundred and fifty years ago and more lived in this identicalregion, near the sacred stones of the forest of Karnak. Yes, thedescendants of the good Joel are, occasionally, long-lived, seeing thatI, Araim, who to-day trace these lines in the seventy-seventh year of mylife, saw my grandfather Gildas die fifty-six years ago at the advancedage of ninety-six, after having inscribed in his early youth a few linesin our family archives.

  My grandfather Gildas buried his son Goridek, my father. I was then tenyears old. Nine years later I lost my grandfather also. A few yearsafter his demise I married. I have survived my wife, Martha, and I haveseen my son Jocelyn become, in turn, a father. To-day he has a daughterand two boys. The girl is called Roselyk, she is eighteen; the elder ofthe two boys, Kervan, is three years his sister's senior; the younger,my pet, Karadeucq, is seventeen.

  When you read these lines, as you will some day, my son Jocelyn, youwill surely ask:

  "What can have been the reason that my great-grandfather Gildas made noother entry in our chronicles than the death of his father Amael? Andwhat can be the reason that my grandfather Goridek wrote not a line?And, finally, what can be the reason that my own father, Araim, waitedso long--so very long before fulfilling the wishes of the good Joel?"

  To that, my son, I would make this answer:

  Your great-grandfather had no particular liking for desks andparchments. Besides, very much after the style of his own father Amael,he liked to postpone for to-morrow whatever he could avoid doing to-day.For the rest, his life of a husbandman was neither less peaceful norless industrious than that of our fathers since the return of Schanvochto the cradle of our family, after such a very long line of generations,kept away from Armorica by the hard trials and the slavery that followedin the wake of the Roman conquest. Your great-grandfather was in thehabit of saying to my father:

  "There will always be time for me to add a few lines to our family'snarrative; besides, it seems to me, and I admit the notion is foolish,that to write 'I have lived', sounds very much like saying 'I am aboutto die'--Now, then, I am so happy that I cling to life, just as oystersdo to their rocks."

  And so it came about that, from to-morrow to to-morrow, yourgreat-grandfather reached his ninety-sixth year without increasing thehistory of our family with a single word. When he lay on his deathbed hesaid to me:

  "My child, I wish you to write the following lines for me in ourarchives:

  "'My grandfather Gildas and my father Goridek lived in our house quietlyand happy, like good husbandmen; they remained true to their love forold Gaul and to the faith of our fathers; they blessed Hesus for havingallowed them to be born and to die in the heart of Britanny, the onlyprovince where, for so very many years, the shocks that have elsewhereshaken Gaul have hardly ever been felt--those shocks died out before theimpregnable frontiers of Breton Armorica, as the furious waves of ourocean dash themselves at the feet of our granite rocks.'"

  That, then, my son Jocelyn, is the reason why neither your grandfatherGoridek nor his father wrote a line themselves.

  "And why," you will insist, "did you, Araim, my father, why did youwait so long, until you had a son and grandchildren, before you paidyour tribute to our chronicle?"

  There are two reasons for that: the first is that I never had enough tosay; the second is that I would have had too much to write.

  "Oh!" you will be thinking when you read this. "His advanced age hasderanged old Araim's mind. He says in one breath that he had too muchand too little to say. Is that sensible?"

  Wait a moment, my son; be not in a hurry to believe that your old fatherhas fallen into his second infancy. Listen, and you will discover how itis that I have at once too much and not enough to write upon.

  As to what concerns my own life, being an old husbandman, I have been inthe same predicament as my ancestors since Schanvoch--there never wassufficient matter for me to write about. Indeed, the interesting andcharming narrative would have run somewhat after this fashion:

  "Last year the autumn crop was richer than the winter crop; this year itis the reverse."

  Or, "The large black cow yields daily six pints of milk more than thebrindled cow."

  Or, "The January sheep have turned out more woolly than the sheep oflast March."

  Or, "Last year grain was so dear, so very dear, that a 'muid' of oldwheat sold at from twelve to thirteen deniers. The price of cattle andpoultry is also on the upward tack: we now pay two gold sous for a draftox, one gold sou for a milch-cow, six gold sous for a draft horse."

  Or, "Will not our descendants be delighted to know that in these days apig, if good and fat, fetches twelve deniers in autumn, which is neithermore nor less than the cost of a bell-wether? And will they not rejoiceto learn that our last coop of one hundred fat geese was sold lastwinter at the market of Vannes for a full pound of silver by theweight? And imagine how well posted they will feel when they learn thatthe day-laborers whom we hire during harvest time are paid by us onedenier a day."

  That would hardly be considered either a charming or a thrillingnarrative.

  On the other hand, would our descendants feel more elated if I were totell them:

  "That in which my pride lies is the knowledge that there is no betterfield-laborer than my son Jocelyn, no better housekeeper than hiswife Madalen, no sweeter creature than my granddaughter Roselyk, nohandsomer and more daring lads than my two grandsons, Kervan andKaradeucq--especially the latter, the youngest of the set, my ownpet!--a very demon for deviltry, bravery and attractiveness. One shouldsee him, at seventeen years of age, break in the wild colts of ourmeadows, dive into the sea like a fish, not lose an arrow out of tenwhen he shoots at the sea-gulls on the wing, along the beach, during astorm--or handling the 'pen-bas,' our redoubtable Breton stick! Five orsix soldiers armed with lances or swords would find more sores thanpleasure if they rubbed against my Karadeucq with his 'pen-bas.' He isso robust, so agile, so dexterous! And then, he is so handsome, with hisbeautiful blond hair cut round and falling over the collar of his Gallicblouse; his eyes of the blue of heaven, and his stout cheeks tanned bythe wind of the fields and the breeze of the sea!"

  No! By the glorious bones of old Joel. No! He could not have beenprouder of his three sons--Guilhern the field-laborer, Michael thearmorer, and Albinik the mariner; or of his daughter Hena, the Virgin ofthe Isle of Sen--a now deserted island that, at this moment, looking outat the window, I see yonder, far away, almost in the open sea, veiled inmist. No! The good Joel could not be any prouder of his family than I,old Araim, am of my grandchildren! But the sons of Joel either foughtvaliantly for freedom or remained dead on the battlefield; and hisdaughter Hena, whose saintly and sweet name is sung to this day and hascome down from century to century, disinterestedly laid her life on thealtars of Hesus for the welfare of her country, while the children of myson will die, obscure like their father, in this corner of Gaul. Atleast they will die free! The barbarous Franks have twice dashed forwardas far as the frontiers of our Britanny, but never dared to enter it;our impenetrable forests, our bottomless marshes, our inaccessible androcky mountains, above all our sturdy men, quickly up and in arms inresponse to the call of our ever-beloved druids, the Christian as wellas the non-Christian druids, have rolled back the Frankish marauders,who, however, have rendered themselves masters of our other provincessince nearly fifteen years ago.

  Alas! After nearly two centuries, the gloomy prophecy of the fostersister of our ancestor Schanvoch has been verified. Victoria the Greatpredicted it but too accurately. Long ago did the Franks pour over ourfrontier of the Rhine; they have since spread themselves over the wholeof Gaul and subjugated the land--except our Breton Armorica.

  These are the reasons why old Araim believed that neither as a fathernor a Breton did his obscure happiness deserve to be chronicled in ourfamily records, and these are the reasons why, alas! he had too much towrite as a Gaul. Is not the
account of the defeat, the shame, therenewed slavery of our common country, too much to write about, althoughwe here in Britanny are ourselves free from the misfortunes thatoverwhelm our brothers elsewhere?

  "But," meseems I hear you, my son Jocelyn, still insist, "why should oldAraim, who has too little or too much to say, why should he begin hisnarrative to-day, rather than yesterday, or why did he not postponestarting to write until to-morrow?"

  This is my answer, my son:

  Read the narrative that I am now writing on that winter's evening whenyou, your wife and your children will gather by the fire in the largehall of our farmhouse and await the return of my pet Karadeucq, who leftfor the chase early in the morning promising to bring home a stag. Readthis narrative, it will recall to your mind the family gathering of theprevious evening, my son Jocelyn--it will also inform you of somethingthat you do not know. You will not thereafter ask again:

  "Why did good Araim start this narrative to-day, and not yesterday?"