by Eugène Sue
“At the same moment I saw another warrior draw near the hut with a burning brand.”
“But what was the death that Clotaire reserved for his son and his son’s family?”
“The hut was constructed of wood and thatched with reeds. The three warriors of the King heaped around it bunches of dry seaweed and dead tree branches.”
“Oh, I can guess what is to come. Oh, Ronan — that is horrible. The father is going to burn his son, granddaughters and his son’s wife!”
“When a sufficient mass of these combustible materials was heaped up all around the hut, Clotaire made a sign. The warrior who held the burning brand blew upon it, and soon as it was in flame held it to the heap of dry wood and weed. In an instant the hut disappeared behind a roaring sheet of fire. The cries of the unfortunate beings who were about to perish in the flames became heartrending. I turned my head away in involuntary horror, and, as my eyes fell upon the high sea, I saw the light vessel speeding away under full sail and vanishing in the distant horizon — it carried away Imnachair, together with the treasury of Chram.
“Clotaire has four sons left to him — Charibert, Gontran, Sigebert and Chilperik. It is said that the last of these seems to have inherited the ferocity of his father Clotaire and his grandfather Clovis!”
EPILOGUE.
ON THE MORNING after the day when Ronan, my brother Karadeucq’s son gave us this account, he left us. These were his last words:
“Kervan, I leave this house happy at having fulfilled the last wishes of my father and the orders of Joel.”
Ronan the Vagre left, accordingly, early in the morning to return to his beloved Valley of Charolles. My nephew promised that, in the event of any matters of importance, he would inform us if he finds a traveler bound for Brittany. He would address any further narrative either to myself or my son Yvon, should I have left this world.
May Ronan, my brother’s son, arrive safely in the Valley of Charolles and find his family happy and peaceful.
If before my death I should have nothing to add to these chronicles, I bequeath them, together with our family relics, to my son Yvon.
* * * * * * *
I, Yvon, son of Kervan and grandson of Jocelyn, enter at this place the date of my father’s death in the month of June of the year 561.
From travelers we have learned that King Clotaire died this year at Compiegne in the fifty-first year of his reign, and was interred in the basilica of St. Medard at Soissons with the blessings of the bishops.
I have received no tidings from Ronan. May he still be alive and happy and free in the Valley of Charolles, as we are here in Brittany, which still remains free from the Frankish yoke. May it please Hesus never to allow our beloved province to experience such a calamity.
The Branding Needle
OR, THE MONASTERY OF CHAROLLES. A TALE OF THE FIRST COMMUNAL CHARTER
Translated by Daniel de Leon
About half a century has elapsed since the last tale and it is the year 613 CE. We rejoin the saga in a rural idyll, with well tended fields, a cosy homestead and a cheerful company of free Gauls preparing for a celebration. The festivities begin at the homestead and include Rona from the sixth story and his wife, Odile. After a short time the happy group makes its way to the nearby monastery of Charolle to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of its foundation. Loysik is the abbot; he has managed the monastery well and is popular with the monks.
This innocent revelry is not to last, however, as two of the monks have enabled the arrival of a Frankish archdeacon and a company of Frankish warriors, who vow to take over the monastery. The hostile group arrives at the religious house and presents a damning letter of reproach to the abbot, who is to be removed from office immediately. A fight breaks out between Ronan and his kinship group and the hostile forces. Loysik resolves to travel to meet with Queen Brunhild, the mastermind behind the takeover, to plead his case and refute accusations of immorality at the monastery; Ronan is dismayed and begs him not to go. The Queen is notoriously haughty and cruel and Loysik is gentle and devout. Surely he cannot survive a sojourn at the court of the Frankish tyrants?
CONTENTS
TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE
PART I. THE VALLEY OF CHAROLLES
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
PART II. THE CASTLE OF BRUNHILD
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
PART III. THE CAMP OF CLOTAIRE.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
EPILOGUE
TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE
Semiramis, Brunhild, Catherine of Medicis constitute a trinity of historic women unique in their greatness. Their ambition was boundless, their intellectual powers matchless, the depths of their immorality unfathomable. As such they were the scourges of their respective ages. Queen Brunhild, a central figure in this superb story, may be said to be the Sixth Century heiress of the Semiramis of over ten centuries earlier, and the progenitor of the Catherine of nearly ten centuries later, who figures later in the sixteenth story of this series of Eugène Sue’s of historic novels named by him The Mysteries of the People; or, History of a Proletarian Family Across the Ages.
This story — The Branding Needle; or The Monastery of Charolles — is the seventh of the series. Both in the tragic picture of Brunhild, and of the rustic, industrial and peaceful picture of the settlement of Charolles, the story constitutes a connecting link between the turbulence of the previous story — The Poniard’s Hilt; or, Karadeucq and Ronan — and the renewed turbulence of the age depicted in the story that follows — The Abbatial Crosier; or, Bonaik and Septimine.
With much color of truth does Eugène Sue look upon the settlement of Charolles as the remote yet initial step to the Communes which, a few centuries later, constituted a marked feature of the history of France, and ultimately led to historic events of world-wide importance. The circumstances under which the royal charter of Charolles was granted, described with historic accuracy, its perils and its vicissitudes, unfold a page of history of no slight value to the student of history, and of fascinating interest to the lover of historic narratives.
Daniel de Leon.
New York, February, 1908.
PART I. THE VALLEY OF CHAROLLES
CHAPTER I.
THE SIGNAL.
ABOUT FIFTY YEARS have elapsed since King Clotaire had his son Chram burned alive together with the latter’s wife and daughters. Let us forget the spectacle of desolation that conquered Gaul continues to present under the descendants of Clovis for the last fifty years, and rest our eyes upon the Valley of Charolles.
Oh, the fathers of the happy inhabitants who people that corner of the land did not bend their necks under the yoke of either Frankish seigneurs or Gallic bishops. No, no — they proved the old Gallic blood still flowed in their veins. The consequence is noticed in the picture of dignified felicity that the valley offers. Behold on the slope of the hill the cosy homes half shaded by vines, that carpet the walls and the ripe maturity and luxuriant quality of which are attested by their leaves and grapes that the autumn sun has reddened and gilt. Each of the houses is surrounded by a garden of flowers with a clump of shade-giving trees. Never did the eye of man dwell upon a more smiling village. A village? No; it rather resembles a large borough. From at least six to seven hundred houses are scattered on the slope of that hill, without counting the vast thatched structures that are situated below on the meadow, which is watered by a river that rises to the north of the valley, crosses it and forms its boundary far away where the horizon dips. Yonder the river parts in two arms; one flows eastward, the other westward, after bathing in its course the feet of a forest of gigantic chestnut trees from between the tops of which the roof of a tall stone building is perceived, surmounted by a cross of iron.
; No, never yet was promised land better calculated to reward industry with abundance. Half way up the slope of the hill, the purple colored vines; above the vineyards, the agricultural fields, on which the stubble of rye and wheat left from the last harvest is here and there seen burning. The fertile acreage stretches up to the skirts of the forests that crown the surrounding eminences, within which the spacious valley is locked. Below the vineyards are meadowlands watered by the river. Numerous flocks of sheep and herds of horses browse and graze upon the succulent pasture. The bells of the bulls and wethers are heard tinkling their rural melody. Here and yonder carts drawn by oxen slowly roll over the ground where the stubble was burned the day before, or four-wheeled wagons slowly descend the slopes of the vineyards and wend their way towards the common wine-presses, which, together with the stables, the sheep-folds and the pig-sties, all alike common, are located in the neighborhood of the river. Several workshops also lie contiguous to the river; the wash and spinning houses, where the flax is prepared and the wool washed preparatorily to being transformed into warm clothing; there also are situated the tanneries, the forges, the mills equipped with enormous grind-stones. Peace, security, contentment and work are seen everywhere reflected in the valley. The sound of the beetles of the washerwomen and the curriers, the clang of the blacksmiths’ hammers, the joyful cries of the men and women engaged at the vintage, the rythmic chant of the husbandmen keeping time to the even and slow gait of the draft-oxen, the rustic flute of the shepherds, — all these sounds, including the hum of the swarming bees, another set of indefatigable toilers, who are busily gathering the honey from the last autumnal flowers, — all these different sounds, from the furthest and vaguest to the nearest and loudest, mingle into one harmony that is at once sweet and imposing; it is the voice of labor and happiness rising heavenward as a continuous thanksgiving.
What is it that is going on in yonder house, which, although constructed like all the others, nevertheless, being nearest to the crest of the hill, seems to be the culminating point of the settlement, and commands a full view of the valley? Dressed in festive garb, the dwellers of that house are seen going in and out. They are seen heaping dry vine twigs in a sort of pyre at a goodly distance from the door. Young girls and children are seen and heard merrily bringing in their arms their contributions of dry wood, and running off again for more combustibles. A short old woman, with hair as white as silver, dainty, comely and still quick despite her advanced age, superintends the preparation of the pyre. As all old women are apt to do, she finds fault and sermonizes — but not in anger, on the contrary. Listen to her:
“Oh, those young girls, those young girls! Always giddy-headed! Work more and laugh less; the pyre is not yet high enough. What does it avail that you rose at early dawn in order to finish your daily tasks before your companions, if you now only frolic instead of hastening the work on the pyre? I am quite sure that more than one impatient look is being cast up here from the valley below, and that more than one voice is saying: ‘What may they be up to on the hill that they do not yet give us the signal? Can they be asleep as in winter?’ I am certain such are the serious suspicions that you are exposing yourselves to, you eternal gigglers! Such are the pranks of your age. I know it, I should not blame you; but remember that the days are short at this season; before our good men shall have had time to lead the cattle back from the fields, stalled the draft-oxen and the wagons, and put on their holiday clothes, the sun will be down. We shall not be able to reach the monastery until after dark, and the community expects the signal from us before sunset.”
“A few more armfuls of dry wood, dame Odille, and all that will be left to do will be to set it on fire,” answered a handsome lassie of sixteen years with blue eyes and black hair; “I shall take charge of lighting the pyre; you will see how bold I can be!”
“Oh, Fulvia, your grandmother, my old friend the Bishopess, is right, indeed, when she says that you are a dare-devil.”
“My good grandmother is like yourself, dame Odille; her scoldings are but caresses; she loves all that is young and gay.”
“And I presume you act so crazily merely in order to please her?”
“Yes, dame Odille; because you must know that it costs me a good deal, it is awfully hard for me to be gay! Alas! Alas!”
And the lass punctuated each exclamation with such a hearty outburst of laughter and droll action, that the good little old woman could not refrain from following the example. Whereupon she said:
“As true as this is the fiftieth time that we celebrate the anniversary of our settling in the Valley of Charolles, I never saw a girl of a more unalterably happy disposition than yours, my lovely Fulvia.”
“Fifty years! How awfully long that is, dame Odille. It seems to me I could never live to see fifty years!”
“It looks that way at your charming age of sixteen; but to me, Fulvia, these fifty years of peace and happiness have sped like a dream — except, of course, the evil year when I saw Ronan’s father die, and lost my first-born son.”
“Look, dame Odille! There are your consolations, now coming up from the field!”
These “consolations” were her husband Ronan himself and his second son Gregory, a man now of mature age who was, in turn, accompanied by his two children, Guenek, a strapping lad of twenty, and Asilyk, a handsome girl of eighteen. Despite his white hair and beard, and despite his seventy-five years, Ronan the Vagre was still quick of motion, vigorous and frolicsome as ever.
“Good evening,” he called out to his wife as he embraced her; “good evening, little Odille.”
And after him it was the turn of Gregory and his children to embrace the dame.
“Good evening, dear mother.”
“Good evening, dear grandmother.”
“Do you hear them?” put in Ronan’s wife with that smile that sits so charming on the lips of happy elderly people. “Do you hear them? To these two I am ‘grandmother,’ and for this one here I am ‘Little Odille.’”
“Even when you will be a hundred years old, and you will surely reach that age, by the faith of Ronan! I shall always call you ‘Little Odille’ just as, my little Odille, I shall always call these two friends who are approaching the ‘Master of the Hounds’ and the ‘Bishopess.’”
Just then the Master of the Hounds and his wife joined the group where Ronan stood; the heads of both the new arrivals had been whitened with age, but their faces beamed with happiness.
“Ho! Ho! How fine you look, my old companion, with your new blouse and embroidered cap! And you, beautiful Bishopess, you are no less gorgeously arrayed!”
“Ronan, by the faith of an old Vagre!” said the Master of the Hounds, “I love my Fulvia, in the matron’s dress that she now wears, with her brown robe and her coif as white as her hair, as much as I did when she wore her orange skirt, blue sash, gold necklace and silver embroidered red stockings. Do you remember, Ronan? Do you?”
“Odille, if my husband and yours begin to talk about olden days, we shall not arrive at the monastery until to-morrow morning. But Loysik is waiting for us. Let us start.”
“Beautiful and wise Bishopess, we shall hearken unto you,” merrily replied Ronan. “Come, Gregory; come, my children; let us start, that will take us all the quicker to my good brother Loysik.”
A minute later, Fulvia, the grandchild of the Bishopess, came out of the house with several of her girl friends, with a lighted brand in her hand, wherewith she set the pyre on fire. The gladsome cries of the girls and children greeted the bright and sparkling column of fire that mounted heavenward. At the signal, the people down in the valley who were still at work in the fields, started homeward, and an hour later they marched in a body, men, women and children, the old and the young, in festive groups to the monastery of Charolles.
CHAPTER II.
THE ANNUAL CELEBRATION.
THE MONASTIC ESTABLISHMENT of Charolles was a large sized and solid stone building, without any ornamentation whatever. Besides the cells of
the monks, it contained within its precincts a granary, a chapel, a hospital for the male patients of the valley, and a school for young children. During the fifty years of the existence of the settlement, the monk laborers re-elected Loysik every year their superior, and, a strange thing in these days, they all remained lay, Loysik having ever warned them against rashly binding themselves by eternal vows and confounding themselves with the clergy. The monks of the monastery of Charolles lived under rules which they established for themselves and rigorously observed. The discipline of the Order of St. Benoit, which was adopted by a large number of the monasteries of Gaul, seemed to Loysik, by reason of some of its statutes, to either annihilate or at least, degrade human conscience, reason and dignity. If, for instance, the superior ordered a monk to do a thing that was physically impossible, then the monk, after having humbly informed his chief of the impossibility of what was demanded of him, was in duty bound to bow before the order. Another of the statutes provided literally: “It is not allowed to a monk to have his own body and will under his own command.” Worst of all it was formally forbidden a monk “to either defend or protect his fellow monk, even though they be united by the bonds of consanguinity.” Such a voluntary renunciation of the tenderest and self-respecting impulses; such an abnegation of conscience and of human reason, carried to the point of imbecility; such passive obedience, which turns man into a soulless machine, a species of corpse, seemed too absurd to Loysik, and he resisted the invasion of Charolles by the rules of the Order of St. Benoit, however generally accepted they otherwise were in Gaul.
Loysik presided over the labors of the monastery, and himself took part in them until with old age his strength no longer permitted him to do so. He tended the sick, and assisted by several other brothers he taught the children of the inhabitants of the valley. In the evening, after the hard work of the day, he gathered the brothers around him; in summer, under the vault of the gallery that surrounded the inside yard of the cloister; in winter, in the refectory. There, faithful to the traditions of his family, he narrated to his brothers the glories of ancient Gaul, and the deeds of the valiant heroes of olden times, thus keeping alive in the hearts of all the sacred cult of the fatherland, and combating the feeling of discouragement that often seized upon the firmest spirits at the sight of the abject plight in which all the Gallic provinces subject to Frankish rule found themselves.
