by Eugène Sue
A flash of joy lighted the Frank’s eyes, and he answered with a firm voice: “Kill me!”
“My Vagres, this man belongs to me — it is my part of the booty.”
“He is yours, old Karadeucq — you may dispose of him at your pleasure. Say the word and we will strike him down dead.”
“I wish him to be unbound; I wish him to have the full use of his limbs — but make a strong circle around us two, so that he can not run away.”
“Here we are — a strong circle of swords’ points, axes, pikes and sharp scythes — he will not be able to break through.”
“A priest!” suddenly cried the count in accents of anguish. “I do not wish to die without the assistance of a priest! Will you assist me, hermit-laborer?”
“Father,” cried Loysik, “do not kill this man in that manner!”
“I do not ask you for my life, Gallic dogs! Slaves! But I do not wish to go to hell! I ask the absolution of a priest!”
“Take this axe, Count Neroweg; we shall be equally armed; the combat between us is to be to the death.”
“Father, in the name of your two sons, whom you have just saved, desist from this combat.”
“My sons, this axe does not weigh heavy in my hands — I shall extinguish in this Frank the stock of the Nerowegs.”
“I, a man of an illustrious family, do battle with a beggar, a Vagre, a revolted slave! No! I shall not bestow such an honor upon you, bastard dog — you may slay me.”
“Seize him, and shave his head smooth like a slave. Shame upon the coward!”
“I, shaved like a vile slave! I, undergo such an outrage! I prefer to do battle with you, vile bandit; give me the axe!”
“Here it is, count. And you, my brave Vagres, widen the circle — and long live Gaul!”
Neroweg precipitated himself upon the Vagre; the combat was engaged; it was frightful, stubborn. Loysik, Ronan, little Odille and the bishopess followed trembling and with anxious eyes the events of the struggle. It did not last long. Karadeucq spoke truly. The axe did not weigh heavy in his vigorous hand; it swung in the air and fell with a crash upon the forehead of Neroweg, who rolled down upon the grass with his skull cleaved in twain.
“Die!” cried Karadeucq with a triumphant air. “The stock of the Terrible Eagle will no longer pursue the stock of Joel!”
“You lie, Gallic dog! My stock is not extinct. I have a son of my second wife at Soissons — and my present wife, Godegisele, is with child. My stock will live!”
And with a feeble voice, the dying man added:
“Hermit laborer, give me paradise — my good Bishop Cautin, have pity upon me! Oh, I am going to hell! to hell! the demons!”
And Neroweg expired, his face contracted in diabolical terror.
Missing the count, his leudes must have concluded that he lay buried under the smoldering ruins; some feared that the revolted slaves captured and took him with them. If they searched for him, they must have found the count’s body at the outskirts of the forest, with his skull cleaved in twain by an axe blow, and stretched out at the foot of a tree, with the outward bark ripped off and on the bare trunk of which the following words were engraved with the point of a dagger:
“Karadeucq, the Vagre, a descendant of the Gaul Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak, killed this Frankish count, a descendant of Neroweg, the Terrible Eagle. Long live Gaul.”
PART IV. GHILDE.
CHAPTER I.
AT THE HEARTH OF JOEL.
TWO YEARS HAVE passed since the death of Count Neroweg. We are now in winter; the wind moans, the snow falls. It was on the day following a similar night that, nearly fifty years ago, Karadeucq, the grandson of old Araim left the paternal roof, under which the following narrative takes place, in order to run the Bagaudy, seduced thereto by a peddler’s story.
Old Araim died long ago, never ceasing to sorrow over the loss of Karadeucq, his pet. Jocelyn and Madalen, Karadeucq’s father and mother also are dead. His elder brother Kervan and his sweet sister Roselyk still live and inhabit the same homestead situated near the sacred stones of Karnak. Kervan is over sixty years of age; he married late; his son, now fifteen years of age, is called Yvon. The blonde Roselyk, sister of Kervan, is nearly as old as her brother; her hair has turned white; she has remained single and lives with her brother and his wife Martha.
It is night; out of doors the wind blows and the snow falls.
Kervan, his sister, his wife, his son and several of their relatives, who cultivate with them the identical fields that more than six hundred years ago Joel cultivated with his family, are engaged near the fireplace at several household tasks, the favorite pastimes during the long nights of winter. A violent gust of wind blows open the door and several windows. Kervan remarks to his sister:
“Good Roselyk, it was on such a night as this, many long years ago, that a cursed peddler came to our door. Do you remember the incident?”
“Alas, I do! The next morning our poor brother Karadeucq left us forever. His disappearance gave so much pain to our grandfather Araim that he died of a broken heart, and shortly after we lost our mother, who was almost crazed with grief. Our father Jocelyn alone withstood the bereavement. Oh, our brother Karadeucq was but too heavily punished for wishing to see the Korrigans!”
“The Korrigans, aunt Roselyk!” cried Yvon, Kervan’s son. “The little fairies of olden times, of which good old Gildas, the shearer of the sheep, often talks? They have not been seen in this country for a long time, neither the Korrigans nor the other little dwarfs, called Dus.”
“Fortunately, my boy, the country is now free from those evil sprites — but for them your uncle Karadeucq might now be in our midst by the fireplace.”
“And did you never hear from him, father?”
“Never, my son! He surely died in one of those civil wars, those disasters that continue to rend old Gaul under the reign of the descendants of Clovis.”
“May our Brittany be ever spared the ills that so cruelly afflict the other provinces!”
“Our old Armorica has until now been able to preserve her independence and repel all attempts at invasion from the Franks. Why should we be any less able to hold our own in the future? The chiefs of our tribes, whom we choose ourselves, are brave. The chief of the chiefs whom these have chosen, old Kando, and who keeps watch at our frontiers, is an intrepid and experienced man. Did we not triumphantly repel all the attacks of the Franks until now?”
“And already three times have you been called to take up arms, Kervan, and were forced to leave me, together with your sister Roselyk and our son Yvon, in mortal fear,” exclaimed Martha, Kervan’s wife.
“Come, come, you poor timid Gallic woman. Remember our family legends — Margarid, Joel’s wife; Meroë, the wife of Albinik the mariner; Ellen, the wife of Schanvoch — did they ever exhibit such weakness when their husbands took the field to fight for the freedom of Gaul?”
“Alas, no! And Margarid as well as Meroë met death on the battlefield, together with their husbands.”
“While I have been only once wounded in battle against the accursed Franks, whom we cut to pieces on our frontier.”
“But you seem, brother, to forget all about the danger that you ran during the last vintage. That was an odd vintage! It had to be garnered with the sword on the side and the axe ready in hand.”
“Nonsense! Those were mere pleasure parties. We sallied forth gaily, and went beyond our own borders to harvest the crops of grapes that the Franks make their slaves raise in the region of Nantes. By the beard of Joel! He would have laughed a hearty laugh at the sight of our troops recrossing our frontier gaily escorting our large carts full of red grapes! What a pleasing sight! The yokes of our oxen, the bridles of the horses and even the iron of our lances were festooned with green vine leaves. And we marched to the rhythmic measure of the chant that we sang in chorus:
“ ‘The Franks, they shall not drink it,
This wine of our old Gaul —
No, the F
ranks, they shall not drink it!
We make our vintage, sword and pruning-hook in hand.
Our chariots, used in war, are our rolling presses.
It is not blood that crimsons deep their axle-trees,
It is the purple juice of ruddy grapes.
The Franks, they shall not drink it,
This wine of our old Gaul —
No, the Franks, they shall not drink it!’”
“Father, I shall be sixteen years old next vintage in the country of Nantes — will you not take me with you?”
“Keep still, Yvon! Make not such requests. They frighten me,” cried the boy’s mother.
“Roselyk, dear sister, do not my wife’s words remind you of our mother scolding our brother Karadeucq because he wished to see the Korrigans? She used to say: ‘Hold your tongue, bad boy!’”
“Alas, brother, all mothers’ hearts are alike.”
“Father, I hear steps outside — it must be old Gildas. He promised to come this evening and teach us a new chant that he learned from a traveling tailor. Yes, it is he! Good evening, old Gildas!”
“Good evening, my boy; good evening to all.”
“Shut the door, old Gildas. The air is cold; come near the fire.”
“Kervan, I am not alone. A stranger accompanies me. He knocked at my door and asked for the house where Kervan, the son of Jocelyn, dwells. The traveler comes from Vannes, and even further. He wishes to see you.”
“Why does he not step in?”
“He is shaking off the snow that covers him from head to foot.”
“Good God, Gildas! Is the man a peddler?”
“Roselyk, Roselyk, does not that also sound like mother? You are right, all mothers’ hearts are alike.”
“No, Martha; the young man does not look like a peddler to me. Judging by his resolute mien, he would sooner be taken for a soldier. He carries a long dagger in his belt — here he is himself.”
“Step in, traveler. Did you ask for the dwelling of Kervan, the son of Jocelyn? Do you wish to see Kervan? I am Kervan.”
“Greeting to you and yours, Kervan. But why do you look at me so wonderingly?”
“Roselyk, look well at this young man — look at his eyes, his forehead, his bearing, his face.”
“Oh, brother, one sees strange resemblances at times. One would think that our brother Karadeucq himself stood before us — that is how he looked at the time that he ran away.”
“Roselyk, do you not notice that the stranger seems strangely affected? There are tears in his eyes. Say, young man, are you the son of Karadeucq?”
The answer of Ronan the Vagre was to throw himself on the neck of his father’s brother, after which he embraced no less effusively Martha, Roselyk and Yvon. After the tears were dried and the first emotion appeased, the first words that simultaneously parted from the lips of Kervan and Roselyk were:
“And our brother, our beloved Karadeucq? What tidings do you bring us from him?”
At this question Ronan the Vagre remained silent; his head drooped and tears again suffused his eyes.
Deep silence reigned hereat among the descendants of Joel. All eyes wept.
Kervan was the first to overcome his grief, and broke the silence, addressing his nephew:
“Is it long since my brother Karadeucq died?”
“Three months, dear uncle.”
“Was his end peaceful? Did he remember me and Roselyk, who loved him so dearly?”
“His last words were: ‘I die without having been able to fulfill my part of the duty imposed by my ancestor Joel upon his descendants. Promise me, my son Ronan, you who are familiar with my own life and that of your brother Loysik, to fulfill that duty in my stead, and to write down, without concealing aught, both the good and the evil that we have done. When you have done that, promise me that you will proceed to the cradle of our family, near the sacred stones of Karnak. My father Jocelyn and my mother Madalen are certainly dead by this time. You shall deliver the narrative that will have been written, either to my good brother Kervan, if he survives our aged parents, or to his eldest son. If Kervan should have died without posterity, ask his heirs or his wife’s to deliver to you, obedient to the orders of our ancestor Joel, our family’s legends and relics, and you are then to transmit them to your descendants. If, however, my brother Kervan and my sweet sister Roselyk still live, tell them that I die with their names upon my lips and dear to my heart.’ Such were the last words uttered by my father.”
“And have you the account of your own and my brother’s lives?”
“Here it is,” answered Ronan opening his traveling bag.
And he drew from it a parchment which he handed over to Kervan. The latter took the scroll with deep emotion, while, taking from his belt the long poniard with an iron hilt that Loysik and after him the Master of the Hounds had worn, and on the hilt of which were engraven the Saxon word Ghilde and the two Gallic words Friendship, Community, Ronan passed the weapon to his uncle, saying:
“It was my father’s wish that this poniard be added to our family relics. When you will have read this narrative you will admit that the weapon deserves being placed together with the other articles that our ancestors have bequeathed to us — pious relics, that I must ask you to show me and which I shall contemplate with veneration. It is now getting late. I must leave you again day after to-morrow morning. I must, therefore, request you to read this very evening the narrative that I have delivered to you. I shall relate to you to-morrow what remains to be said and that I have not had the time to write down. I, on my part, have a strong wish to read our family chronicles, the principal incidents of which my father often narrated to me.”
“Come,” said Kervan taking up a lamp.
Ronan followed him. The two stepped into one of the chambers of the house. On a table lay a small iron coffer, the gift of Victoria the Great to Schanvoch. Kervan took from the coffer the gold sickle of Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen, the little brass bell left by Guilhern, Sylvest’s iron collar, Genevieve’s silver cross and the casque’s lark of Victoria the Great. He deposited all these articles near the poniard of Loysik. Kervan also produced from the little coffer the several family parchments, ranked them in order before Ronan, and then rejoined his family.
That long winter’s night was spent by the Vagre reading the legends of his family.
On their part, Kervan, his wife and sister prolonged their reading until it was almost dawn. Contrary to their wont, they did not rise with the day. With the impressions of his family history fresh upon his mind, Ronan visited next morning the environs of the house. He found at every step mementos of his ancestors — the wide field on which his ancestor and his two sons, Guilhern and Mikael, indulged in the virile exercises of the mahrek-ha-droad still spread before his eyes; the living spring, at the edge of which Sylvest and Syomara had in their infantine games built their little hut to protect themselves from the heat of the sun, still babbled along its course.
The Vagre was drawn from his revery by the voice of his father’s brother.
“Ronan,” said Kervan, “the frost has hardened the ground and the cattle can not be let out to-day. We shall have wheat to pound in the house. Let us go in. While we are at work you can narrate to us the events that complete your narrative. I promise you that I shall faithfully transcribe them and append them to the narrative that you wrote.”
CHAPTER II.
ON THE HILL NEAR MARCIGNY.
THE FAMILY OF Kervan are reassembled together with Ronan in the large hall of the farmhouse. After the morning repast the women take up their distaffs, or some other domestic work. The men pound the wheat, which they pour out of one set of large bags and then drop into another. Huge logs of beech and oak burn in the fireplace, seeing that outside the cold is intense. While each pursues his work in silence they cast from time to time inquisitive looks at Ronan, the Vagre son of the Bagauder.
“Uncle,” says Ronan, “did you read through the narrative that I gave you
yesterday?”
“Yes, and all the rest of us here assembled heard it read. But there is no mention made of my poor brother’s death.”
“Before broaching that subject, uncle, I should inform you of what happened after the burning down of the burg of Neroweg.
“The complete success of our raid threw the Franks and bishops of the region into consternation. All the slaves who were not too besotted, the colonists whom the seigneurs rack-rented, in short, a considerable number of determined men joined our band. From day to day its numbers swelled and it became more redoubtable. With good or evil grace the seigneurs felt themselves forced to improve the condition of their slaves.
“My brother Loysik proved himself faithful to the principle of Jesus of Nazareth that it is the sick who stand in special need of a physician. He remained with us, and soon he had a decided ascendency over our troop. His good-heartedness, his courage, his eloquence, his love for Gaul, his horror of the Frankish conquest gained him all hearts. One day he took it into his head to undertake a journey the destination of which he kept a secret. Shortly after that we had letters from him urging us to draw near to the confines of Burgundy; he was to join us in the neighborhood of Marcigny, a town situated at the extreme end of that province. Before his departure he made us promise that we would set no more burgs and episcopal villas on fire; pillage, however, continued unabated and was distributed among the poor. Thus we administered strict justice upon the Frankish seigneurs, the bishops and abbots who enjoyed a reputation for cruelty.”
