by Eugène Sue
“Oh, I understand! Of course having had his tongue cut out he was not able to taste the sauces; but he is nevertheless a wretched cook. And I am not surprised; what can one expect of a cook who is picked up accidentally on the high road! You do not seem to know, count, that bad cooks spoil the best of dishes. Here, for instance, are some cranes — think of it, cranes! a toothsome meat, more succulent than any if properly prepared. Now just see how that ass, that churl of a cook serves them up — boiled in water!”
“Come, father, be not angry, we shall have them roasted next time.”
“Roasted! that would be still more criminal! roasted cranes! Come this way, steward, I will give you the recipe for the cook — if he is capable of carrying it out.”
“Oh, holy bishop, with the help of the whip the cook could not choose but carry out the recipe.”
“I must humbly declare that I am not the inventor of the way in which cranes must be prepared. I read it and learned it from the writings of Apicius, a celebrated Roman gourmand, who died, alas, many years ago, but his genius will live as long as cranes will fly.”
“Let us have the recipe, father.”
“Here it is: You wash and dress your crane, you then put it in an earthen pot, with water, salt and anise—”
“Well! that is just what my cook did; he washed the crane in water and salt—”
“But let me finish, barbarian, and you will soon enough see that the lazy ass stopped in the middle of the road instead of proceeding to the end. Now you must allow the water in which your crane is laid, to be boiled down one-half; thereupon you put it into a pan with olive oil broth flavored with wild marjoram and coriander; when your crane is done to the turn, pour in some wine mixed with honey and spices, a pinch of cumin, a taste of benzoin, a bit of rue and some caraway seed boiled in vinegar; pour in flour to give consistency to your sauce, which will then be of a handsome gold brown tint; you pour this over your crane after having placed the bird handsomely on a large platter with its round neck gently curled in a circle and holding in its long beak a spray of greens. And now I ask his glory, Prince Chram, I ask our illustrious friends here assembled — is there any comparison between a crane, prepared in such a style, and this shapeless, colorless thing that seems to be swimming in a bowl of greasy water?”
“If God, the Father, needed a cook, he would certainly choose you, sensuous bishop,” said the Lion of Poitiers; “you would be no disgrace in paradise as the chief of the celestial kitchens.”
At the impious jest the holy man made a grimace of rage, remembering only recently he had actually officiated as cook, but not in paradise — it was in Vagrery. He filled his cup and drained it at one draught, looking askance at the royal favorite.
“Come, Count Neroweg,” said Spatachair, “there is mercy for every sin; some other day you will treat us to a choicer feast — and you will promise your wife to preside at the banquet.”
“And by the faith of the Lion of Poitiers, I promise not to chuckle her under the chin too freely.”
“When you give that banquet, Neroweg,” added Imnachair, despite the glances of Chram to check the insolence of his favorites, “when you give us that banquet, you will not make us eat and drink, as you do to-day, out of copper and tin vessels, while you spread out before our dazzled eyes your gold and silver utensils in the center of the table — far from our reach. It almost looks, you vainglorious rustic, as if you took us for thieves.”
“Neroweg offers his hospitality in the way that suits him,” put in Sigefrid, the count’s leude, in a tone of muffled anger; “those who eat the meat and drink the wine of this house have no right to complain of the dishes — if these don’t suit them, let them go and fill up elsewhere.”
“Are we, the King’s men, to be chaffed for what we eat and drink at this burg?”
“That would be the height of impudence! As to me, I was surfeited before I touched a mouthful of these mountains of cold provisions.”
“Moreover, it is an insult,” cried another of the guests. “We members of the royal bodyguard will brook no insult.”
“Do you think yourselves above us, because we are leudes of a count? If you do, we may measure the distance between us, by measuring the length of our swords.”
“It is not swords, but hearts that we should measure.”
“Do you pretend to say that we, the faithful men of Neroweg, have smaller hearts than you?”
“A challenge let it be, thick-headed rustics!”
“The thick-headed rustic is more than a match for the effeminate court soldier. And you will find it out on the spot if you dare put your hands to your swords.”
“Six against six, or more, if you prefer.”
“Nothing will suit us better than to cross swords with you.”
The altercation between the half tipsy Franks had started at one end of the table; at first it was conducted in a low voice, but it soon reached such a pitch of loudness and exasperation that Chram, the bishop and the count hastened to interpose and restore peace among the table companions. It was with an ill grace and exchanging wild looks of hatred that the intoxicated leudes subsided.
Karadeucq and his bear, both preceded by the steward, had reached the threshold of the banquet hall when the disturbance between the leudes was silenced. The steward approached his master and said:
“Seigneur, the mountebank with his bear and monkey are ready.”
“What, count, have you bears in this place?”
“Chram, he is a strolling mountebank with his animals. I thought it would amuse you at the close of the banquet, and I ordered him to be brought in.”
The news of the proposed entertainment was joyfully received by all the Franks, and made them forget their recent quarrel and hard feelings. Some stood up, others rose on their haunches in order to be the first to see the man, his monkey, and his bear. When Karadeucq appeared, loud roars of laughter shook the walls of the hall. It was not that the aspect of the old Vagre was amusing, but nothing could be imagined more grotesque than the appearance of the lover of the bishopess under the bear’s skin. He stepped forward heavily, clad in the jacket with its hood thrown back and seemed dazed by the light of the torches, although all the thirty or forty of them cast but a flickering and subdued light over the vast hall. Thanks to this rather dim and unsteady light, and also to the wide jacket that half enveloped the Vagre, his ursine appearance was perfect. Moreover, in order to keep the curious at a distance, Karadeucq pulled in the chain to which the animal was attached and cried:
“Seigneurs, do not come too near the teeth of the bear, he is often sullen and ferocious.”
“Mountebank, keep close watch on your beast; should he unfortunately hurt anybody in this hall, I shall have him cut to pieces, and you will receive for your share fifty lashes on your back!”
“Seigneur count, have pity on me, poor old man that I am; I only have my animals to earn my bread with — I have requested your noble and very noble guests not to approach my bear too closely, in order to prevent any unfortunate accident.”
“Step forward; I wish to have a closer view of your jolly companion; he will not, I presume, dare to paw me, the son of King Clotaire.”
“Oh, very glorious Prince! these poor brutes are deprived of intelligence and cannot distinguish between the great seigneurs of the world and the humble slaves.”
“Step forward, step forward — a little closer.”
“Very glorious King, look out — it will be less dangerous to be close to the monkey — I can let him out of his cage.”
“Oh, monkeys, I am not very curious to see those wicked animals. I have pages, plenty of them. Ha, ha, ha — look at the droll fellow with his jacket. Look, Imnachair, how clumsily he carries himself — how he grunts — for all the world he looks like the Lion of Poitiers in his morning gown, after spending a night with women and wine.”
“What else should I do, Chram! I consider lost every night that I do not put to use in your style with wine and wo
men.”
“Lion, you are unjust — I have become temperate and chaste.”
“Through exhaustion — O, chaste and sober Prince — did you renounce the pure girls and good wine!”
“If so, you should rather pity than blame me. Ho, there, mountebank, what tricks can your bear perform? Is he clever?”
“If you order it, glorious King, my bear will ride on horseback on my cane, and myself holding him by the chain, he will gracefully gallop around the hall.”
“Good; let us see him do it.”
“Attention! Mont-Dore.”
“How do you call him?”
“Mont-Dore, glorious King. I give him that name because I caught him when he was still but a cub on one of the peaks of Mont Dore.”
“I am no longer surprised if your bear is ferocious. He was born in one of the most notorious lairs of the accursed Vagres, those wandering men, those wolves, those heads of wolves who haunt only rocks, forests and caverns. But as sure as this morning we put one of them to the torture, we shall end by wiping them all out, just as Count Neroweg did the other day with a band of them who took refuge in the defile of Allange.”
“Oh, glorious King, may the Almighty deliver us from these pestilential Vagres! May He grant me the favor of never running across any of them except as he hangs from the gibbet — the way I saw the first and last one whom I ever laid eyes upon — it was a terrible sight! The thought of it still makes me tremble.”
“Where did you see that Vagre on the gibbet?”
“Near the frontier of Limousin; over the gallows was this inscription: ‘This is Karadeucq the Vagre — so shall his likes be treated.’”
“Karadeucq! The old bandit who with his bedevilled band so long raided Limousin and Auvergne!”
“Pillaging burgs and episcopal mansions!”
“A worthy example, followed by the band of Ronan, the other dog that is to be executed to-morrow!”
“Well, I am glad to hear it, at last we are delivered from that Karadeucq! He was thought to be running the Vagrery in some other regions, but his return was always apprehended.”
“Oh, glorious Prince, he will never be back again — unless the bandit descended from his gibbet, and that is unlikely. When I saw him dangling in the air his corpse was already half eaten up by the carrion crows, and both his hands and feet were chopped off.”
“Are you quite certain you saw the name of Karadeucq on that gibbet? It would be truly a great deliverance for the country.”
“Glorious King, his name is so uncommon in our country that it struck me the moment I saw it; hence I remember it well.”
“It is a Breton name,” said Bishop Cautin; “it is one of the names common in those heretical and cursed regions that to this hour stubbornly resist the authority and orders of our councils. Oh, Chram, will the Frankish Kings never have the power and the will to reduce to obedience that savage Armorica, that hot-bed of druid idolatry, the only province of Gaul that until now has been able to withstand the arms of King Clovis, your grandfather, and his worthy sons and grandsons?”
“Bishop, you have an easygoing way of talking about such matters. More than once did Clovis and the Frankish Kings, my ancestors, dispatch their best warriors to the conquest of that pestilential country, and our troops were every time cut to pieces in the marshes, the defiles and the forests of Armorica. No, those indomitable Bretons are not human — they are demons! Oh, if all the other regions of Gaul had been peopled with that infernal race, ever rebellious to the Catholic church, we would still be struggling to maintain our power. But, old mountebank, you seem greatly affected; I noticed a tear roll down your grey beard; why so?”
“If only one tear did run down my grey beard, it is because old men’s eyes are stingy of tears.”
“And why would you have shed more?”
“Oh, King, I would have wept all the tears in my head over those unhappy Bretons whose detestable druid idolatry condemns them to the everlasting flames, as our holy bishop used to say: unhappy blind men who shut their eyes to the divine light of the faith! unhappy rebels, who dare turn their arms against our good seigneurs and masters, the Frankish Kings, whom our blessed bishops order us to obey in the name of the Church! Oh, Prince, I repeat it to you, but for that the eyes of an old man are stingy of tears, mine would flow in torrents at the thought of the damnable error of those unhappy heretics!”
“Mountebank, you are a pious man,” said Cautin; “kneel down and kiss my hand.”
“Holy bishop, blessed be the favor you grant me.”
“Rise, my son, and preserve your faith in our Church; have also confidence in the future; the accursed idolaters and rebellious Bretons will not much longer escape the just punishment that is in store for them.”
“Oh, no! As true as scissors have never touched my hair, I, Chram, son of Clotaire, King of France, I shall never rest so long as those Armorican demons are not crushed and drowned in their own blood. Too long have they resisted our arms. We shall soon make short work of them.”
“May the Almighty hear your vow, great Prince, and may He grant me, a poor old man, enough days to witness the submission of that Brittany that has so long remained stiffnecked and indomitable.”
“Now, mountebank, let us return to your bear; we had almost forgotten all about him, the wild fellow who was born in one of the lairs of the accursed Vagres.”
“Nothing strange in that, glorious King! Are not those accursed fellows wolves? Have not bears and wolves the same dens? Come Mont-Dore, up my lad, show your skill to our holy bishop, who is present, and to the illustrious King Chram; also to the very renowned count and the noble audience. Take this cane — it shall be your mount; get on horseback and gallop around this table as gracefully as you can, and with the gentlest airs that you can put on. Come, Mont-Dore, to horse, the courser will not run away with you. Make room, there, make room, there, noble seigneurs — above all, do not approach the animal too closely. Come, Mont-Dore, start galloping, my daring knight!”
The lover of the beautiful bishopess straddled the cane which he held between his two fore paws, and led by the chain which Karadeucq held he commenced to prance with grotesque clumsiness around the hall amid the loud laughter of the assembled leudes.
As he led him, the Vagre said to himself:
“I came dangerously near betraying myself when I heard the Frankish King speak of the bravery of the Breton race; my heart beat with pride fit to crack my ribs; then, besides, I thought of good old grandfather Araim, who used to call me his pet! I thought of my father Jocelyn, of my mother Madalen — both no doubt dead in the country that I ran away from more than forty years ago, and where my brother Kervan and my dear sweet sister Roselyk still live. At these thoughts tears came to my eyes despite myself. Oh, my sons! Ronan! Loysik! here I am near to you, but shall I manage your delivery! Hesus! Hesus! inspire me.”
The Master of the Hounds pranced all along astride of the cane, encouraged in his antics by the laughter that it provoked in the Franks. Remembering the success that had crowned his efforts during the nights of the calends of January, he indulged in gambols that delighted the blockish leudes and that carried their hilarity to the pitch of hysterics. Above all the count held his sides and laughed and laughed, fit to burst his dalmatica of silver cloth. Suddenly he checked his laughter and said to Chram:
“King, would you see still better sport?”
“Yes, count, what have you to propose? Your face is red to suffocation. You breathe like an ox. What new thought has just sprouted in your head?”
“It is this: I have a plan — we have in the burg enormous and ferocious mastiffs that we use to hunt wolves and wild boars with. We shall chain the bear to one of the beams of the hall.”
“And let loose some of your mastiffs against him? The idea is delicious.”
“Yes, Chram; I want to offer you a royal treat.”
“Long live Count Neroweg! Come, fetch the dogs! The more ferocious they are and sharp their tee
th, all the more amusing will be the sight.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the Franks with shouts of joy; “the dogs — the dogs — a combat between the bear and the dogs.”
“Hello! my master of the hounds, Gondolf! fetch in Mirff and Morff — if they leave a shred of skin and flesh on the bones of the bear I wish this goblet of wine may be poison to me.”
“Seigneur, I shall run to the kennel and bring the mastiffs Mirff and Morff.”
When he heard the count’s proposition, which was received with universal acclaim by the leudes, the lover of the bishopess, who, faithful to his role, was riding lustily on his cane around the table suddenly interrupted his antics and was on the point of expressing with some compromising gesture his refusal to serve as quarry for the fangs of Mirff and Morff. Fortunately by means of a gentle tug given at the chain, Karadeucq recalled the Vagre to prudence and the latter continued his gambols with the most indifferent air in the world; but his conductor, without letting the chain slip from his hands, threw himself at the feet of Neroweg and said:
“Seigneur count, illustrious seigneur!”
“What would you of me, old mountebank?”
“My bear is my bread winner — you will have him killed.”
“And I, do not I also run the risk of seeing the best two dogs of my pack hugged to death — or torn to pieces by your bear’s claws? You said yourself, your animal was ferocious.”
“Seigneur, you do not earn your living with your dogs; but my bear is my bread winner.”
“Dare you resist my will?”
“Oh, great Prince,” said Karadeucq on his knees, but turning towards Chram: “A poor old man addresses him to your glory; one word from you to this illustrious seigneur, who respects you as the son of his King, and he will renounce his project. I swear to you by my salvation, the other tricks of my bear which I have not exhibited will amuse a hundredfold more than the bloody combat that will deprive me of my bread winner.”
“Come, rise old mountebank, I shall not hinder you in the making of your living.”
