Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “She was young, she was fair,

  And holy was she.

  To Hesus her blood gave,

  That Gaul might be free.

  Hena her name!

  Hena, the Maid of the Island of Sen!”

  Douarnek then proceeded with the song:

  “Hearing Hena speak these words,

  Sadly gazed upon her her father

  And her mother, aye, all the family,

  Even the little children,

  For Hena loved them very dearly.

  “ — But why, dear daughter,

  Why now quit this world,

  And travel away beyond

  Without the Angel of Death having called you? —

  “ — Good father, good mother,

  Hesus is angry.

  The stranger now threatens our Gaul so beloved.

  The innocent blood of a virgin

  Offered by her to the gods

  May their anger well soften.

  Adieu, then, till we meet again,

  Good father, good mother,

  Adieu till we meet again,

  All, my dear ones and friends.

  These collars preserve, and these rings

  As mementoes of me.

  Let me kiss for the last time your blonde heads,

  Dear little ones. Good bye till we meet.

  Remember your Hena, she waits for you yonder,

  In the worlds yet unknown.—”

  And the other oarsmen and I replied in chorus to the rythmical sound of the oars:

  “She was young, she was fair,

  And holy was she.

  To Hesus her blood gave

  That Gaul might be free.

  Hena her name.

  Hena, the Maid of the Island of Sen!”

  Douarnek proceeded:

  “Bright is the moon, high is the pyre

  Which rises near the sacred stones of Karnak;

  Vast is the gathering of the tribes

  Which presses ‘round the funeral pile.

  “Behold her, it is she, it is Hena!

  She mounts the pyre, her golden harp in hand,

  And singeth thus:

  “ — Take my blood, O Hesus,

  And deliver my land from the stranger.

  Take my blood, O Hesus,

  Pity for Gaul! Victory to our arms! —

  And it flowed, the blood of Hena.

  “O, holy Virgin, in vain ‘twill not have been,

  The shedding of your innocent and generous blood.

  Bowed beneath the yoke, Gaul will some day rise erect,

  Free and proud, and crying, like thee,

  — Victory and Freedom!”

  And Douarnek, along with the three other soldiers, repeated in a low voice, vibrating with pious admiration, this last refrain:

  “So it was that she offered her blood to Hesus,

  To Hesus for the deliverance of Gaul!

  She was young, she was fair,

  And holy was she,

  Hena her name!

  Hena, the Maid of the Island of Sen!”

  I alone did not join in the last refrain of the song. I was too deeply moved!

  Noticing my emotion and my silence, Douarnek said to me surprised:

  “What, Schanvoch, have you lost your voice? You remain silent at the close of so glorious a song?”

  “Your speech is sooth, Douarnek; it is just because that song is particularly glorious to me — that you see me so deeply moved.”

  “That song is particularly glorious to you? I do not understand you.”

  “Hena was the daughter of one of my ancestors.”

  “What say you!”

  “Hena was the daughter of Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak, who died, together with his wife and almost all his family, at the great battle of Vannes — a battle that was fought on land and water nearly three centuries ago. From father to son, I descend from Joel.”

  “Do you know, Schanvoch,” replied Douarnek, “that even kings would be proud of such an ancestry?”

  “The blood shed for our country and for liberty by all of us Gauls is our national patent of nobility,” I said to him. “It is for that reason that our old songs are so popular among us.”

  “When one considers,” put in one of the younger soldiers, “that it is now more than three hundred years since Hena, the saintly maid, surrendered her own life for the deliverance of the country, and that her name still reaches us!”

  “Although it took the young virgin’s voice more than two centuries to rise to the ears of Hesus,” replied Douarnek, “her voice did finally reach him, seeing that to-day we can say — Victory to our arms! Victory and freedom!”

  We had now arrived at about the middle of the river, where the stream is very rapid.

  Raising his oar, Douarnek asked me:

  “Shall we enter the strong current? That would be a waste of strength, unless we are either to ascend or descend the river a distance equal to that that now separates us from the shore.”

  “We are to cross the Rhine in its full breadth, friend Douarnek.”

  “Cross it!” cried the veteran with amazement. “Cross the Rhine! And what for?”

  “To land on the opposite shore.”

  “Do you know what that means, Schanvoch? Is not the army of those Frankish bandits, if one can honor those savage hordes with the name of army, encamped on the opposite shore?”

  “It is to those very barbarians that I am bound.”

  For a few moments all the four oars rested motionless in their oarlocks. The soldiers looked at one another speechless, as if they could not believe what they heard me say.

  Douarnek was the first to break the silence. With a soldier’s unconcern he said to me:

  “Is it, then, a sacrifice that we are to offer to Hesus by delivering our hides to those hide-tanners? If such be the orders, forward! Bend to your oars, my lads!”

  “Have you forgotten, Douarnek, that we have a truce of eight days with the Franks?”

  “There is no such thing as a truce to those brigands.”

  “As you will notice, I have made the signal of peace by ornamenting the prow of our bark with green boughs. I shall proceed alone into the enemy’s camp, with an oak branch in my hand.”

  “And they will slay you despite all your oak branches, as they have slain other envoys during previous truces.”

  “That may happen, Douarnek; but when the chief commands, the soldier obeys. Victoria and her son have ordered me to proceed to the Frankish camp. So thither I go!”

  “It surely was not out of fear that I spoke, Schanvoch, when I said that those savages would not leave our heads on our shoulders, nor our skins on our bodies. I only spoke from the old habit of sincerity. Well, then, my lads, fall to with a will! Bend to your oars! We have the order from our mother — the Mother of the Camps — and we obey. Forward! even if we are to be flayed alive by the barbarians, a cruel sport that they often indulge in at the expense of their prisoners.”

  “And it is also said,” put in the young soldier with a less unperturbed voice than Douarnek’s, “it is also said that the priestesses of the nether world who follow the Frankish hordes drop their prisoners into large brass caldrons, and boil them alive with certain magic herbs.”

  “Ha! Ha!” replied Douarnek merrily, “the one of us who may be boiled in that way will at least enjoy the advantage of being the first to taste his own soup — that’s some consolation. Forward! Ply your oars! We are obeying orders from the Mother of the Camps.”

  “Oh! We would row straight into an abyss, if Victoria so ordered!”

  “She has been well named, the Mother of the Camps and of the soldiers. It is a treat to see her visiting the wounded after each battle.”

  “And addressing them with her kind words, that almost make the whole ones regret that they have not been wounded, too.”

  “And then she is so beautiful. Oh, so beautiful!”

  “Oh! When she rides through the
camp, mounted on her white steed, clad in her long black robe, her bold face looking out from under her casque, and yet her eyes shining with so much mildness, and her smile so motherly! It is like a vision!”

  “It is said for certain that our Victoria knows the future as well as she knows the present.”

  “She must have some charm about her. Who would believe, seeing her, that she is the mother of a son of twenty-two?”

  “Oh! If the son had only fulfilled the promise that his younger years gave!”

  “Victorin will always be loved as he has been.”

  “Yes, but it is a great pity!” remarked Douarnek shaking his head sadly, after the other soldiers had thus given vent to their thoughts and feelings. “Yes, it is a great pity! Oh! Victorin is no longer the child of the camps that we, old soldiers with grey moustaches, knew as a baby, rode on our knees, and, down to only recently, looked upon with pride and friendship!”

  The words of these soldiers struck me with deeper apprehension than Sampso’s words did a few hours before. Not only did I often have to defend Victorin with the severe Sampso, but I had latterly noticed in the army a silent feeling of resentment towards my foster-sister’s son, who until then, was the idol of the soldiers.

  “What have you to reproach Victorin with?” I asked Douarnek and his companions. “Is he not brave among the bravest? Have you not watched his conduct in war?”

  “Oh! If a battle is on, he fights bravely, as bravely as yourself, Schanvoch, when you are at his side, on your large bay horse, and more intent upon defending the son of your foster-sister than upon defending yourself. ‘Your scars would declare it, if they could speak through the mouths of your wounds,’ as our old proverb says!”

  “I fight as a soldier; Victorin fights as a captain. And has not that young captain of only twenty-two years already won five great battles against the Germans and the Franks?”

  “His mother, well named Victoria, must have contributed with her counsel towards his victories. He confers with her upon his plans of campaign. But, anyhow, it is true, Victorin is a brave soldier and good captain.”

  “And is not his purse open to all, so long as there is anything in it? Do you know of any invalid who ever vainly applied to him?”

  “Victorin is generous — that also is true.”

  “Is he not the friend and comrade of the soldiers? Is he ever haughty?”

  “No, he is a good comrade, and always cheerful. Besides, what should he be proud about? Are not his father, his glorious mother and himself from the Gallic plebs, like the rest of us?”

  “Do you not know, Douarnek, that often it happens that the proudest people are the very ones who have risen from the lowest ranks?”

  “Victorin is not proud!”

  “Does he not, during war, sleep unsheltered with his head upon the saddle of his horse, like the rest of us horsemen?”

  “Brought up by so virile a mother as his, he was bound to grow up a rough soldier, as he is.”

  “Are you not aware that in council he displays a maturity of judgment that many men of our age do not possess? In short, is it not his bravery, his kindness, his good judgment, his rare military qualities as a soldier and captain that caused him to be acclaimed general by the army, and one of the two Chiefs of Gaul?”

  “Yes, but in electing him, all of us knew that his mother Victoria would always be near him, guiding him, instructing him, schooling him in the art of governing men, without neglecting, worthy matron that she is, to sew her linen near the cradle of her grandson, as is her thrifty habit.”

  “No one knows better than I how precious the advices of Victoria to her son are to our country. But what is it, then, that has changed? Is she not always there, watching over Victorin and Gaul that she loves with equal and paternal devotion? Come, now, Douarnek, answer me with a soldier’s frankness. Whence comes the hostility that, I fear, is ever spreading and deepening against Victorin, our young and brave general?”

  “Listen, Schanvoch. I am, like yourself, a seasoned soldier. Your moustache, although younger than mine, begins to show grey streaks. Do you want to know the truth? Here it is: We are all aware that the life of the camp does not make people chaste and reserved like young girls who are brought up by our venerated female druids. We also know, because we have emptied many a cup, that our Gallic wines throw us into a merry and riotous humor. We know, furthermore, that when he is in a garrison, the young soldier who proudly carries a cockade on his casque and caresses his brown or blonde moustache, does not long preserve the friendship of fathers who have handsome daughters, or of husbands who have handsome wives. But, for all that, you will have to admit, Schanvoch, that a soldier who is habitually intoxicated like a brute, and takes cowardly advantage of women, would deserve to be treated to a hundred or more stripes laid on well upon his back, and to be ignominiously driven from camp. Is not that so?”

  “That is all very true, but what connection has it with Victorin?”

  “Listen, friend Schanvoch, and then answer me. If an obscure soldier deserves such treatment for his shameful conduct, what should be done to an army chief who disgraces himself in such fashion?”

  “Do you venture to say that Victorin has offered violence to women and that he is daily drunk?” I cried indignantly. “I say that you lie, or those who carried such tales to you lied. So, these are the unworthy rumors that circulate in the camp against Victorin! And can you be credulous enough to attach faith to them?”

  “Soldiers are not quite so credulous, friend Schanvoch, but they are aware of the old Gallic proverb— ‘The lost sheep are charged to the shepherd.’ Now, for instance, you know Captain Marion, the old blacksmith?”

  “Yes, I know the brave fellow to be one of the best officers in the army.”

  “The famous Captain Marion, who can carry an ox on his shoulders,” put in one of the soldiers, “and who can knock down the same ox with a blow of his fist — his arm is as heavy as the iron mace of a butcher.”

  “And Captain Marion,” added another oarsman, “is a good comrade, for all that, despite his strength and military renown. He took a simple soldier, a former fellow blacksmith, for his ‘friend in war,’ or, as they used to say in olden times, took the ‘pledge of brotherhood’ with him.”

  “I am aware of the bravery, modesty, good judgment and austerity of Captain Marion,” I answered him, “but why do you now bring in his name?”

  “Have a little patience, friend Schanvoch, I shall satisfy you in a minute. Did you see the two Bohemian girls enter Mayence a few days ago in a wagon drawn by mules covered with tinkling bells and led by a Negro lad?”

  “I did not see the women, but have heard them mentioned. But I must insist upon it, what has all this got to do with Victorin?”

  “I have reminded you of the proverb— ‘The lost sheep are charged to the shepherd.’ It would be idle to attribute habits of drunkenness and incontinence to Captain Marion, would it not? Despite all his simpleness, the soldier would not believe a word of such slanders; not so? While, on the other hand, the soldier would be ready to believe any story of debauchery about the said Bohemian strollers, and he would trust the narrator of the tale, do you understand?”

  “I understand you, Douarnek, and I shall be frank in turn. Yes, Victorin loves wine and indulges in it with some of his companions in arms. Yes, having been left a widower at the age of twenty, only a few months after his marriage, Victorin has occasionally yielded to the headlong impulses of youth. Often did his mother, as well as myself, regret that he was not endowed with greater austerity in morals, a virtue, however, that is extremely rare at his age. But, by the anger of the gods! I, who have never been from Victorin’s side since his earliest childhood, deny that drunkenness is habitual with him; above all I deny that he ever was base enough to do violence to a woman!”

  “Schanvoch, you defend the son of your foster-sister out of the goodness of your heart, although you know him to be guilty — unless you really are ignorant of what you
deny—”

  “What am I ignorant of?”

  “An adventure that has raised a great scandal, and that everybody in camp knows.”

  “What adventure?”

  “A short time ago Victorin and several officers of the army went to a tavern on one of the isles near the border of the Rhine to drink and make merry. In the evening, being by that time drunk as usual, Victorin violated the tavern-keeper’s wife, who, in her despair, threw herself into the river and was drowned.”

  “The soldier who misdemeaned himself in that manner,” remarked one of the oarsmen, “would speedily have his head cut off by a strict chief.”

  “And he would have deserved the punishment,” added another oarsman. “As much as the next man, I would find pleasure in bantering with the tavern-keeper’s wife. But to offer her violence, that is an act of savagery worthy only of those Frankish butchers, whose priestesses, veritable devil’s cooks, boil their prisoners alive in their caldrons.”

  I was so stupefied by the accusation made against Victorin that I remained silent for a moment. But my voice soon came to me and I cried:

  “Calumny! A calumny as infamous as the act would have been. Who is it dares accuse Victoria’s son of such a crime?”

  “A well informed man,” Douarnek answered me.

  “His name! Give me the liar’s name!”