by Eugène Sue
“You shall have the barrel, the rope and string.”
“These young folks and I shall be forced to spend part of the night at the work. The days are short at this season. Order a pouch of wine for us, who otherwise drink only water. The good cheer will keep up our strength during our hard night’s work. On casting days, at the workshops of the great Eloi, the slaves were always treated to something extra.... Eatables were not spared.”
“You shall have your pouch of wine ... seeing that this is a holy-day at the convent. A miracle has taken place—”
“A miracle! Tell us about it!”
“Yes.... A just punishment of heaven has struck a band of adventurers upon whom Charles the accursed had the audacity of bestowing this abbey that is consecrated to the Church. They camped last night upon the jetty, expecting to attack the monastery at daybreak. But the Lord, by means of a redoubtable and astonishing prodigy opened the cataracts of heaven. The ponds swelled and the whole band of criminals was drowned!”
“Glory be to the Lord!” cried the old goldsmith, making a sign to his apprentices to imitate him. “Glory be to the Lord, who drowns impious wretches in the cataracts of his wrath!”
“Glory be to the Lord!” repeated the young slaves in chorus at the top of their voices. “Glory be to the Lord, who drowns impious wretches in the cataracts of his wrath! Amen!”
“It is a miracle that does not at all surprise me, Ricarik,” added the goldsmith; “it is surely due to the teeth of St. Loup, to the holy relic that you brought me yesterday.”
“That’s probable ... it is certain.... You do not need anything else?”
“No,” answered the old man, rising and looking into several boxes; “I have here for the mold enough sulphur and bitumen, there is also enough charcoal; one of my apprentices shall go with you, Ricarik, and bring the barrel, rope and cord, and do not forget the pouch of wine and the victuals, seigneur intendant!”
“You will get them later, together with your pittances at double rations.”
“Ricarik, we shall not be able to leave the workshop one instant, on account of the mold. Let us have our daily pittance this morning, if you please, so that the work may not be interrupted. We shall lock the door to keep out intruders.”
“Let one of your apprentices come with me; he shall bring all the things, but be sure and have the vase cast to-morrow so as to please our holy abbess; if you fail your backs will have to pay for it.”
“You may assure our holy and venerable abbess that when the vase shall come out of the mold it will be worthy of an artisan who saw the great Eloi handle the file and burin.” Bonaik then said in a low voice to one of the apprentices, while Ricarik was moving towards the door: “Pick up on your way a dozen stones of the size of walnuts; keep them in your pockets, and bring them to me.” He then said aloud: “Accompany the seigneur intendant, my boy; and be sure not to loiter on the way back.”
“Rest assured, master,” said the apprentice with a significant gesture to the old man while following the intendant out of the shop; “your orders will be obeyed to the letter.”
CHAPTER IX.
BRENN — KARNAK.
THE GOLDSMITH REMAINED a few moments at the threshold of the workshop listening to the retreating steps of the intendant; he then closed and bolted the door and went to the vault where Rosen-Aër was in hiding, while Septimine ran to the window to see whether Berthoald was still in sight. But the sight that presented itself to her eyes made her exclaim with terror: “Great God, the young chief is lost!... The water has reached the air-hole!”
“Lost!... My son!” cried Rosen-Aër in despair, rushing to the window despite the old man’s efforts to restrain her. “Oh, my son! To have seen you again only to lose you.... Amael, Amael!... Answer your mother!”
“The woman will betray us ... if she is heard outside!” said the fear-stricken old man, vainly endeavoring to drag Rosen-Aër from the window bars to which the distracted woman clung, hysterically calling out to her son. But Amael did not reappear. The flood had gained the opening of the air-hole, and despite the width of the moat that separated the two buildings, the muffled sound of the water was heard pouring through the opening and falling into the cavern. Pale as death, Septimine could not utter a word. In the frenzy of her despair, Rosen-Aër sought to break the stout iron bars of the window, while she sobbed aloud: “To know that he is there ... in agony ... dying ... and we unable to save him!”
“Have hope!” cried the old man with tears in his eyes at the sight of the mother’s anguish; “hope!... I have been watching the moss-covered stone at the corner of the air-hole. The water does not rise to it.... It has stopped rising.... See for yourselves!”
Septimine and Rosen-Aër dried their tears and looked at the stone that Bonaik pointed out. In fact it was not submerged. Presently even the noise of the water flowing down through the air-hole sounded with less distinctness, and finally ceased altogether. The flood seemed checked.
“He is saved!” cried Septimine. “Thank God, the young chief will not drown!”
“Saved!” stammered Rosen-Aër in a heart-rending tone of doubt. “And if enough water has poured into the cavern to drown him.... Oh! If he were still alive he would have answered my voice.... No, no! He is dying! He is dead!”
“Master Bonaik, some one knocks,” an apprentice said. “What shall I do? Open?”
“Return to your hiding place,” the old man said to Rosen-Aër, and as she did not seem to hear, he added: “Are you determined to perish and have us all perish with you, we who are ready to sacrifice ourselves for you and your son?” Rosen-Aër left the window and returned to the vault, while the old man walked to the door and inquired: “Who is there?”
“I,” answered from the outside the voice of the apprentice who had gone out with Ricarik; “I, Justin, I have executed your commissions, Father Bonaik.”
“Come in, quick,” said the goldsmith to the lad who carried an empty barrel on his shoulders and had in his hand a basket of provisions, the wine pouch, and a large roll of rope and cord. Re-bolting the door, the old man took the wine pouch out of the basket and going to the vault where Rosen-Aër was hiding said to her: “Take a little wine to comfort you.”
But Amael’s mother pushed the pouch aside, crying in despair: “My son! My son! What has become of my son Amael?”
“Justin,” the old man said to the apprentice, “give me the stones I told you to pick up.”
“Here, Master Bonaik, are they. I filled my pockets with them.”
The old man picked out a small stone and went to the window, saying: “If the unfortunate man is not drowned, he will understand, when he sees this stone drop into the cave, that it is a signal.” Father Bonaik took accurate aim and threw the stone through the air-hole. Rosen-Aër and Septimine awaited the result of Bonaik’s attempt in mortal anguish. Even the apprentices observed profound silence. A few seconds of intense anxiety passed. “Nothing,” murmured the old goldsmith with his eyes fixed upon the air-hole.
“He is dead!” cried Rosen-Aër, held by Septimine in her arms. “I shall never more see my son!”
The old man threw a second stone. Another interval of anxiety ensued. All held their breath. A few seconds later, as Rosen-Aër raised herself on tip-toe, she cried: “His hands! I see his hands! He is holding to the bar of the air-hole. Thanks, Hesus! Thanks! You have saved my son!” and the woman fell upon her knees in an attitude of prayer.
Bonaik thereupon saw the pale face of Amael, framed in his long black hair that now streamed with water, rise between the iron bars of the air-hole. The old man made him a sign to withdraw quickly, while saying in a low voice as if he expected to be heard by the prisoner: “Now, hide yourself, disappear and wait!” and turning to Rosen-Aër: “Your son has understood me. No imprudence. Be calm.” Bonaik then went to his work-bench, took a piece of parchment from a little roll that he used to trace his models on, and wrote these words:
“If the water has not invaded the
cavern so that you cannot stay there without danger until night, then give three pulls to the string at the end of which will be attached the stone tied in this note. This cord can then serve as a means of communicating. When you see it shake get ready for further information. Until then do not show yourself at the air-hole. Courage!”
Having written these words, the goldsmith rolled the stone in the parchment, happily impermeable to water, and tied both in a knot to one end of the string, at about the middle of which he attached a piece of iron in order that the body of the rope might be held under water, and thus the means of communication between the workshop and the cavern remain invisible. Bonaik slung the stone through the air-hole, retaining in his hand the other end of the string. Almost immediately after, three pulls given to the string announced to Bonaik that Amael could remain until evening without danger in his prison, and that he would follow the orders of the old man. Hope revived the spirits of Rosen-Aër. In the fulness of her thanks she took the goldsmith’s hands and said to him: “Good father, you will save him, will you not? You will save my son?”
“I hope so, poor woman! But let me collect my thoughts.... At my age, you know, such experiences are trying. In order to succeed, we must be prudent. The task is difficult.... We cannot be too cautious.”
While the goldsmith, leaning on his elbows at his work-bench, held his head in his hands, and the apprentices remained silent and uneasy, Rosen-Aër, struck by a sudden recollection, said to Septimine: “My child, you said my son had been good to you, like an angel from heaven.... All that concerns you interests me. Where did you meet him?”
“Near Poitiers, at the convent of St. Saturnine.... My family and I, touched with pity for a young prince, a boy, who was kept confined in the monastery, wished to help him to escape; all was discovered, they meant to punish me in a shameful, infamous manner,” Septimine said blushing; “and they decided to sell me and separate me from my father and mother.... It was at that moment that your son, a favorite of Charles, the Chief of the Franks, interceded in my behalf and took me under his protection—”
“My son, say you, dear child?”
“Yes, madam, the seigneur Berthoald.”
“You call him Berthoald?”
“That is the name of the young Frankish chief who is locked up in that cavern—”
“My son Amael with the name of Berthoald! My son a favorite of the Frankish chief!” cried Rosen-Aër struck with amazement. “My son, who was raised in horror for the conquerors of Gaul, those oppressors of our race! My son one of their favorites! No, no.... It is impossible!”
“Live a hundred years, and never shall I forget what happened at the convent of St. Saturnine — the touching kindness of the seigneur Berthoald towards me, whom he had never seen before. Did he not obtain my liberty from Charles, and also the liberty of my father and mother? Was he not generous enough to give me gold to meet my family’s wants?”
“I am lost in the attempt to penetrate this mystery. The troop of warriors, that brought us slaves in their train, did indeed stop at the abbey of St. Saturnine,” replied Rosen-Aër in great agony, and she added: “but if he whom you call Berthoald obtained your freedom from the chief of the Franks, how come you to be a slave here, my poor child?”
“The seigneur Berthoald trusted the word of Charles, and Charles trusted the word of the abbot of the convent. But after the departure of the chief of the Franks and your son, the abbot, who had previously sold me to a Jew named Mordecai, kept his bargain with the Jew.... In vain did I beseech the warriors whom Charles left behind in possession of the monastery, and as a guard over the little prince, to stand by me. I was torn away from my family. The Jew kept the gold that your son had generously given me, and brought me to this country. He sold me to the intendant of this abbey that was donated by Charles to the seigneur Berthoald, as I learned at the convent of St. Saturnine.”
“This abbey was donated to my son!... He a companion in arms of these accursed Franks!... He a traitor! a renegade! Oh, if you speak truly, shame and perdition upon my son!”
“A traitor! A renegade!... The seigneur Berthoald! The most generous of men! You judge your son too severely!”
“Listen, poor child, and you will understand my sorrow.... After a great battle, delivered near Narbonne against the Arabs, I was taken by the warriors of Charles. The booty and slaves were divided by lot. I and my female fellow prisoners were told that we belonged to the chief Berthoald and his men.”
“You, a slave of your own son!... But, God, he did not know it!”
“Yes, the same as I did not know that my new master, the young Frankish chief Berthoald, was my son Amael.”
“And probably your son, who marched at the head of his troop, did not see you on the journey.”
“We were eight or ten female slaves in a covered cart. We followed the army of Charles. Occasionally the men of chief Berthoald visited us, and ... but I shall spare your blushes, poor child, and shall not dilate upon their infamous conduct!” added Rosen-Aër shuddering at the disgusting and horrible recollection. “My age protected me from a shame that, however, I was determined to escape by death.... My son never joined in those orgies, frequently stained with blood and moistened in tears — the men beat the girls to the point of shedding their blood when they sought to resist being outraged. In that way we arrived in the vicinity of the convent of St. Saturnine. We stopped there several hours. The Jew Mordecai happened to be at the monastery. Learning, no doubt, that there were slaves to buy in the train of the army, he came to us accompanied by some men of the band of Berthoald. You were sold, poor child; you know the disgraceful examination that these dealers in Gallic flesh submit the slaves to.”
“Yes, yes; I had to undergo the shame before the monks of the abbey of St. Saturnine when they sold me to the Jew,” answered Septimine, hiding her face, purple with shame.
Rosen-Aër proceeded:
“Women and young girls, despite their prayers and resistance, were stripped of their clothes, profaned and spoiled by the looks of the men who wanted either to sell or to buy us. My age could not spare me this general disgrace—” and breaking out into tears and wringing her arms in despair, the mother of Amael added amidst moans: “Such are the Franks whose companion of war my son is!”
“It is horrible!”
“The baseness confounds my senses and makes my heart to sicken. At the age of fifteen my son disappeared from the valley of Charolles, where he lived free and happy ... before the Saracen invasion. What happened since? I do not know.”
Hearing the name of the valley of Charolles, Bonaik, who had remained steeped in thought, trembled and listened to the conversation between Septimine and the mother of Amael, who proceeded to say: “Perhaps the Jew holds the secret of my son’s life.”
“That Jew?... How?”
“When, despite the pain it gave me, the Jew came to inspect me, I had to undergo the fate of the rest. I was stripped of my clothes.... Oh, may my son never know of my shame! The thought alone would haunt him as a perpetual remorse through life, if he should live,” Rosen-Aër interjected in a low voice. “While I underwent the fate of my companions in slavery ... the Jew observed with a start on my left arm these two words traced in indelible letters: ‘Brenn,’ ‘Karnak.’”
“‘Brenn,’ ‘Karnak’!” cried the old goldsmith.
“The custom of doing so was adopted in my family several generations back, because, alack, in those troubled days of continuous war, families were exposed to being rent apart and dispersed far and wide. ’Twas an indelible sign which might help them to recognize one another.”
Rosen-Aër had hardly pronounced these words when, drawing near her in deep emotion, Bonaik cried: “Are you of the family of Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak?”
“Yes, father!”
“Did you live in Burgundy in the valley of Charolles, once ceded to Loysik, the brother of Ronan, by King Clotaire I?”
“But, good father, how do you know all tha
t?”
For only answer, the old man rolled up the sleeve of his blouse and pointed with his finger to two words indelibly traced on his left arm: “Brenn,” “Karnak.”
Rosen-Aër remained stupified, and recovering said: “You also?... You also.... You, good father.... Are you of the family of Joel?”
“One of my ancestors was Kervan, the uncle of Ronan. That is my affiliation.”
“Does your family live in Brittany, near Karnak?”
“My brother Allan or his children remained at the cradle of our stock.”
“And how did you fall into slavery?”
“Our tribe crossed the frontier and came, according to their custom from time immemorial, to trade arms for the vines of the Franks near the county of Rennes. I was then fifteen, and accompanied my father on his journey. A troop of Franks attacked us. I was separated during the fight from my father, was captured and taken far away into bondage. Sold from one master to another, accident brought me to this country where I am now twelve years. Alack! Often have my eyes wandered towards the frontier of our old Brittany, ever free! My advanced age coupled to the habit of a profession that I love and that consoles me, have kept me from thinking of escape. And so we are relatives!... The unhappy young man yonder, near us, imprisoned in the cavern, is of our blood?... But how did he become chief of this Frankish troop that the inundation has just swallowed up?”
“I was telling this poor child that a Jew, a dealer in slaves, having noticed these two words— ‘Brenn,’ ‘Karnak’ — on my arm seemed astonished, and said to me: ‘Have you not a son who must be about twenty-five years old, and who carries like you, those two words traced on his arm?’ But despite the horror that the Jew inspired me with, his words revived in me the hope of finding my son again. ‘Yes,’ I answered him, ‘ten years ago my son disappeared from the place where we lived.’ ‘And you lived in the valley of Charolles?’ the Jew asked. ‘Do you know my son?’ I cried. But the infamous man refused to answer me, and he walked away casting a cruel look upon me.”
