Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “‘Then, be it so,’ said she.

  “Thereupon, himself taking the buckler where the little child lay, smiling and stretching out its chubby arms to him, Vindorix walked into the river up to his waist, raised the buckler and child for a moment over his head, and looked back a last time towards his wife, as if to threaten her with what he was about to do. With her forehead high and a steady countenance, Albrege remained erect at the river bank, motionless like a statue, her arms crossed upon her bosom. When her husband now turned to her she stretched out her right hand towards him as if to say:

  “‘Do it!’

  “At that moment a shudder ran over the crowd. Vindorix deposited upon the stream the buckler on which lay the child, and in that frail craft left the infant to the mercy of the eddies.”

  “Oh, the wicked man!” cried Mamm’ Margarid deeply moved by the story as were the other hearers. “And his wife!... his wife ... who remained on the bank?—”

  “But what was the reason of such a barbarity, friend guest?” asked Henory, the young wife of Guilhern embracing her two children, little Sylvest and little Syomara, both of whom she took on her knees as if fearing to see them exposed to a similar danger.

  With a gesture the stranger put an end to the interrogatories, and proceeded:

  “The stream had barely carried away the buckler on which the child lay, than the father raised both his trembling hands to heaven as if to invoke the gods. He followed the course of the buckler with sullen anxiety, leaning, despite himself, to the right when the buckler dipped to the right, and to the left when the buckler dipped on that side. The mother, on the contrary, her arms crossed over her bosom, followed the buckler with firm eyes, and as tranquil as if she had nothing to fear for her child.”

  “Nothing to fear!” cried Guilhern. “To see her child thus exposed to almost certain death ... it is bound to go under....”

  “That must have been an unnatural mother,” cried Henory.

  “And not one man in all that crowd to jump into the water and save the child!” observed Julyan thinking of his friend. “Oh, that will surely anger the heart of Armel, when I tell him that.”

  “But do not interrupt every instant!” cried Joel. “Proceed, my guest; may Teutates, who presides over all journeys made in this world and in the others, guard the poor little thing!”

  “Twice,” the stranger proceeded, “the buckler threatened to be swallowed up by the eddies of the rapid stream. Of all present, only the mother moved not a muscle. Presently the buckler was seen riding the waters like an airy skiff and peacefully following the course of the stream beyond the rapids. Immediately the crowd cried, beating their hands:

  “‘The boat! The boat!’

  “Two men ran down the bank, pushed off a boat, and swiftly plying their oars, quickly reached the buckler, and took it up from the water together with the child that had fallen asleep—”

  “Thanks to the gods! The child is saved!” exclaimed almost in chorus the family of Joel, as if delivered from a painful apprehension.

  Perceiving that he was about to be again interrupted by fresh questions, the stranger hastened to resume his narrative.

  “While the buckler and child were being taken from the water, its father Vindorix, whose face was now as radiant with joy as it was somber until then, ran to his wife, and stretching out his arms to her said:”

  “‘Albrege!... Albrege!... You told me the truth.... You were faithful!’”

  “But repelling her husband with an imperious gesture, Albrege answered him proudly: ‘Certain of my honor, I did not fear the trial.... I felt at ease on my child’s fate. The gods could not punish an innocent woman with the loss of her child.... But ... a woman suspected is a woman outraged.... I shall keep my child. You never more shall see us, nor him, nor me.... You have doubted your wife’s honor!’”

  “The child was just then brought in triumph. Its mother threw herself upon it, like a lioness upon her whelp; pressed it closely to her heart; so calm and peaceful as she had been until then, so violent was she now with the caresses that she showered upon the baby, with whom she now fled away.”

  “O, that was a true daughter of Gaul!” said Guilhern’s wife. “A woman suspected is a woman outraged. Those are proud words.... I like to hear them!”

  “But,” asked Joel, “is that trial one of the customs of the Gauls along the Rhine?”

  “Yes,” answered the stranger; “the husband who suspects his wife of having dishonored his bed, places the baby upon a buckler and exposes it to the current of the river. If the child remains afloat, the wife’s innocence is proved; if it sinks under the waves, the mother’s crime is considered established.”

  “And how was that brave wife clad, friend guest?” asked Henory. “Did she wear a tunic like ours?”

  “No,” answered the stranger; “the tunics in that region are very short and of two colors. The corsage is generally blue, the skirt red. The latter is often embroidered with gold and silver thread.”

  “And their head-gear?” asked one of the young girls. “Are they white and cut square like our own?”

  “No; they are black and bell-shaped, and they are also embroidered in gold and silver.”

  “And the bucklers?” queried Guilhern. “Are they like ours?”

  “They are longer, and they are painted with lively colors, usually arranged in squares. Red and white is a very common combination.”

  “And the marriages, how are they celebrated?” inquired another young girl.

  “And the cattle, are they as fine as ours?” an old man wanted to know.

  “And have they like us brave fighting cocks?” asked a child.

  The stranger was being assailed with such a shower of questions that Joel said to the questioners:

  “Enough; enough.... Let our friend regain his breath. You are screaming around him like a flock of sea-gulls.”

  “Do they pay, as we do, the money they owe the dead?” asked Stumpy, despite Joel’s orders to cease questioning the stranger.

  “Yes; their custom and ours is the same as here,” answered the stranger; “and they are not idolaters like a man from Asia whom I met at Marseilles, and who claimed that, according to his religion, we continued to live after death, but not clad in human shape, according to him we were clad in the form of animals.”

  “Her! ... Her!” cried Stumpy in great trouble. “If it were as those idolatrous people claim, then Gigel, who departed instead of old Mark, may be now inhabiting the body of a fish; and I would have sent him three pieces of silver with Armel who might now be inhabiting the body of a bird. How could a bird deliver silver pieces to a fish. Her! ... Her!”

  “Our friend told you that that belief is idolatry, Stumpy,” put in Joel with severity; “your fear is impious.”

  “It must be so,” said Julyan sadly. “What would I become who am to proceed to-morrow to meet Armel by oath and out of friendship, were I to find him turned into a bird while I may be turned into a stag of the woods or an ox of the fields?”

  “Fear not, young man,” said the stranger to Julyan, “the religion of Hesus is the only true religion; it teaches us that after death we are reclad in younger and handsomer bodies.”

  “I pin my hopes on that!” said Stumpy.

  CHAPTER V.

  THE STORY OF SYOMARA.

  THE STORM OF questions had spent itself and the thirst for fresh stories returned among the assembled family of Joel, whose head remarked with wonderment: “What a thing traveling is? How much one learns; but we must not lag behind our guest. Story for story. Proud Gallic woman for proud Gallic woman. Friend guest, ask Mamm’ Margarid to tell you the beautiful story and deed of one of her own female ancestors, which happened about a hundred and thirty years ago when our fathers went as far as Asia to found a new Gaul, because you must know that few are the countries on earth that their soles have not trod upon.”

  “After your wife’s story,” answered the stranger, “and seeing that you wish
to speak of our own ancestors, I shall also speak of them ... and by Ritha Gaür!... never would the time be fitter. While we are here telling stories, you do not seem to know what is going on elsewhere in the land; you do not know that perhaps at this very moment—”

  “Why do you interrupt yourself?” asked Joel wondering at the suddenness with which his guest broke off in the middle of the sentence. “What is going on while we are here telling stories? What better can we do at the corner of our hearth during an autumn evening?”

  Instead of answering Joel, the stranger respectfully said to Mamm’ Margarid:

  “I shall listen to the story of Joel’s wife.”

  “It is a very short and simple story,” answered Margarid plying her distaff. “The story is as simple as the action of my ancestral grandmother. Her name was Syomara.”

  “And in honor of her,” said Guilhern breaking in upon his mother and proudly pointing the stranger to an eight year old child of surprising beauty, “in honor of our ancestral grandmother Syomara, who was as beautiful as she was brave, I have given her name to this little girl of mine.”

  “This is indeed a most charming child,” remarked the stranger struck by the lovely face of little Syomara. “I am sure she will have her grandmother’s valor in the same degree that she is endowed with her beauty.”

  Henory, the child’s mother blushed with joy at these words and said smiling to Mamm’ Margarid:

  “I dare not blame Guilhern for having interrupted you; it brought on the pretty compliment.”

  “The compliment is as sweet to me as to you, my daughter,” answered Mamm’ Margarid; saying which she began her story:

  “My grandmother’s name was Syomara; she was the daughter of Ronan. Her father had taken her into lower Languedoc whither his traffic called him. The Gauls of the neighborhood were just preparing for the expedition to the East. Their chief, Oriegon by name, saw my grandmother, was fascinated by her beauty, won her love and married her. Syomara departed with her husband on the expedition to the East. At first they triumphed. Afterwards, the Romans, who were ever jealous of the Gallic possessions, attacked our fathers. In one of the battles, Syomara, who, led thereto both by duty and love, accompanied Oriegon, her husband, to battle in a war-chariot, was separated from her husband during the fray, taken prisoner, and placed under the guard of a Roman officer, who was a miser and a libertine. The Roman, who was captivated by the beauty of Syomara, attempted to seduce her; but she repelled his advances with contempt. He then surprised his captive during her sleep and outraged her—”

  “Listen, Joel!” cried the stranger indignantly. “Listen to that!... A Roman subjects an ancestor of your wife to such indignity!”

  “Listen to the end of the story, friend guest,” said Joel; “you will see that Syomara is the peer of the Gallic woman of the Rhine.”

  “The one and the other,” Margarid proceeded, “showed themselves true to the maxim that there are three kinds of chastity among the women of Gaul: The first, when a father says in the presence of his daughter that he grants her hand to him whom she loves; the second, when for the first time she enters her husband’s bed; and the third, when she appears the next morning before other men. The Roman had outraged Syomara, his prisoner. His passion being satisfied, he offered her freedom upon payment of a ransom. She accepted the offer and induced the Roman to send her servant, a prisoner like herself, to the camp of the Gauls and tell Oriegon or, in his absence, any of his friends, to bring the ransom to an appointed place. The servant departed to the camp of the Gauls. The miserly Roman, wishing himself to receive the ransom and not share it with anyone else, led Syomara alone to the appointed place. The friends of Oriegon were there with the gold for the ransom. While the Roman was counting the gold, Syomara addressed the Gauls in their own tongue and ordered them to kill the infamous man. Her orders were executed on the spot. Syomara then cut off his head, placed it in a fold of her dress and returned to the camp of her people. Oriegon, who had himself been also taken prisoner and managed to escape, arrived in camp at the same time as his wife. At the sight of her husband, Syomara dropped the head of the Roman at his feet and addressed Oriegon saying: ‘That is the head of a man who outraged me.... There is none but you who can say that he possessed me.’”

  At the close of her narrative, Mamm’ Margarid continued to spin in silence.

  “Did I not tell you, friend,” said Joel, “that Syomara, Margarid’s grandmother, was the peer of your Gallic woman of the Rhine?”

  “And must not the noble name bring good luck to my daughter!” added Guilhern tenderly kissing the blonde head of the child.

  “That powerful and chaste story is worthy of the lips that told it,” said the stranger. “It also proves that the Romans, our implacable enemies, have not changed. Avaricious and debauched were they once — and are to-day. And seeing that we are speaking of the avaricious and debauched Romans and that you love stories,” he added with a bitter smile, “you must know that I have been in Rome ... and that I saw ... Julius Cæsar ... the most famous of the Roman generals, as also the most avaricious and the most debauched man of all Italy. I would not venture to speak of his infamous acts of libertinage before women and young girls.”

  “Oh! Did you see that famous Julius Cæsar? What kind of a looking man is he?” asked Joel with great inquisitiveness.

  The stranger looked at the brenn as if greatly surprised at the question, and answered with an effort to suppress his anger:

  “Cæsar is nearing old age; he is tall of stature; his face is lean and long; his complexion pale; his eyes black; his head bald. Seeing the man combines in his person all the vices of the worst women of the Romans, he is possessed, like them, of extraordinary personal vanity. Accordingly, in order to conceal his baldness, he ever carries a chaplet of gold leaves on his head. Is your inquisitiveness satisfied, Joel? Would you want more details about Cæsar’s infirmities? That he is subject to epileptic fits?... That—”

  But the stranger did not finish his sentence. Letting his eyes wander over the assembled family of the brenn, he cried with towering rage:

  “By the anger of Hesus! Can it be that all of you — as many as you are here capable of seizing the sabre and the sword but insatiable after idle stories — can it be you do not know that a Roman army, after having invaded under the command of Cæsar one-half of our provinces, has taken winter quarters in the country of Orleans, of Touraine and of Anjou?”

  “Yes, yes; we have heard about it,” calmly said Joel. “People from Anjou, who came here to buy beef and pork, told us about it.”

  “And it is with such unconcern that you speak of the Roman invasion of Gaul?” cried the traveler.

  “Never have the Breton Gauls been invaded by strangers,” proudly answered the brenn of the tribe of Karnak. “We shall remain spotless of the taint. We are independent of the Gauls of Piotou, of Touraine, of Orleans and of the other sections of the land, just as they are independent of us. They have not asked for our help. We are not so constituted as to offer ourselves to their chiefs and to fight under them. Let everyone guard his own honor and his own province. The Romans are in Touraine ... but it is a long way from Touraine to here.”

  “So that if the pirates of the North were to kill your son Albinik the sailor and his brave wife Meroë, it would no wise concern you because the murder was committed far from here?”

  “You are joking. My son is my son.... The Gauls of provinces other than mine are not my sons!”

  “Are they not, like yourself, the sons of the same god, as the druid religion teaches you? If that is so, are not all the Gauls your brothers? And does not the subjugation, does not the blood of a brother cry for vengeance? Are you unconcerned because the enemy is not at the very gates of your own homestead? On that principle, the hand, even when it knows that the foot is gangrened, could say to itself: ‘As to me, I am well, and the foot is far from the hand — I need not worry over the disease.’ And the gangrene, not being stopped, rises from
the foot to the other members, until the whole body perishes.”

  “Unless the healthy hand take an axe,” said the brenn, “and cut off the foot from which the evil proceeds.”

  “And what becomes of the body that is thus mutilated, Joel?” put in Mamm’ Margarid who all the while had been listening in silence. “When the best regions of the country shall have been invaded by the stranger, what will then become of the rest of Gaul? Thus mutilated and dismembered, how will she defend herself against her enemies?”

  “The worthy spouse of my host speaks wisely,” said the traveler respectfully to Mamm’ Margarid; “like all Gallic matrons she holds her place at the public council as well as at her hearth.”

  “You speak truly,” rejoined Joel, “Margarid has a brave heart and a wise head. Often her opinion is better than mine.... I gladly say so.... But this time I am right. Whatever may happen to the rest of Gaul, never will the Romans set foot in our old Britanny. There are her rocks, her marshes, her woods, her sand banks — above all her Bretons to defend her.”

  At these words of her husband Mamm’ Margarid shook her head disapprovingly; all the men of the family, however, loudly applauded their brenn’s words.

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE STORY OF GAUL.

  WHEN THE NOISY and martial ardor, evoked by the boastful words of the brenn of the tribe of Karnak had subsided, the traveler was seen sitting in somber silence. He looked up and said:

  “Very well, one more and last story, but let this one fall upon the hearts of you all like burning brass, seeing that the wise words of this household’s matron have proved futile.”

  All looked with surprise at the stranger, who with somber and severe mien began his story with these words:

  “Once upon a time, as far back as two or three thousand years, there lived a family here in Gaul. Whence did it come, to fill the vast solitudes that to-day are so populous? It doubtlessly came from the heart of Asia, that ancient cradle of the human races, now, however, hidden in the night of antiquity. That family ever preserved a type peculiar to itself, and found with no other people of the world. Loyal, hospitable, generous, vivacious, gay, inclined to humor, loving to tell, above all, to hear stories, intrepid in battle, daring death more heroically than any other nation, because its religion taught it what death was — such were that family’s virtues. Giddy-headed, vagabond, presumptuous, inconsistent, curious after novelty, and greedier yet of seeing than of conquering unknown countries, as easily uniting as falling apart, too proud and too fickle to adjust its opinions to those of its neighbors, or if consenting thereto, incapable of long marching in concert with them, although common and vital interests be at stake — such are that family’s vices. In point of its virtues and in point of its vices, thus has it always been since the remotest centuries; thus is it to-day; thus will it be to-morrow.”