by Eugène Sue
“And you have seen him since?” asked Septimine.
“Never again. The carts resumed their march to this country, where I arrived with my fellow female slaves. All the women must have perished this morning ... and without the efforts of this brave girl I would have perished also.”
“The Jew Mordecai,” replied the goldsmith reflecting, “that dealer in the flesh of Gauls, a great friend of the intendant Ricarik, arrived here a few days ago. He was at the convent of St. Saturnine when the donation of this abbey was made to your son and his band. He must, undoubtedly, have run ahead to warn the abbess, and she, accordingly, made her preparations of defence against the warriors who came to dispossess her.”
“The Jew was in a great hurry to arrive here after his departure from the convent of St. Saturnine, where he took me from,” replied Septimine. “We were only three slaves and he packed us on his light wagon that was drawn by two horses. He must have arrived here two or three days ahead of the troop of the seigneur Berthoald, who must have been delayed on his march by his large baggage.”
“So that the Jew must have notified Meroflede in advance, and must also have revealed to her the secret of the alleged Frankish chief being of the Gallic race,” observed Bonaik. “Hence the terrible vengeance of the abbess, who must have had your son cast into that subterranean prison, expecting to expose him to certain death. The thing now is how to save him, and to protect ourselves from the vengeance of Meroflede. To remain here after your son’s escape would be to expose these poor apprentices and Septimine to death.”
“Oh, good father! What shall we do?” put in Septimine, joining her hands. “No one can penetrate into the building under which the seigneur Berthoald is imprisoned.”
“Call him Amael, my child,” said Rosen-Aër bitterly. “The name of Berthoald constantly reminds me of a shame that I would forget.”
“To extricate Amael out of the cavern is not an impossible feat,” said the old goldsmith, raising his head. “I have just been thinking it over. We have a fair chance of success.”
“But, good father,” asked Rosen-Aër, “what about the iron bars at the window of this workshop, and those at the air-hole of the cave in which my son is confined? And then that large and deep moat? What obstacles!”
“These are not the most difficult obstacles to surmount. Suppose night has set in and Amael is with us, free. What then?”
“Leave the abbey,” said Septimine; “escape ... we shall all flee—”
“And how, my child? Do you forget that with nightfall the gate of the jetty is locked? A watchman is there on guard. But, even if we cleared the gate, the inundation covers the road. It will take two or three days for the waters to withdraw. Until then this abbey will remain surrounded by water like an island.”
“Master Bonaik,” said one of the young apprentices, “there are the fishing boats.”
“Where are they usually fastened, my boy, at what part of the pond?”
“On the side of the chapel.”
“To reach them we would have to cross the interior court of the cloister, and its door is every evening bolted and barred from within!”
“Alack!” exclaimed Rosen-Aër, “must we renounce all hope of escape?”
“Never give up hope. Let us first think of Amael. Whatever may happen, once he is out of the cavern, his fate will not be worse. Now, my lads,” the goldsmith added, addressing the apprentices, “what we are about to attempt is grave ... your lives and ours are at stake. You have no choice but to help us or betray us. To betray us would be a base act. Nevertheless your only interest in this flight is the uncertain hope of recovering your freedom. Do you prefer to betray us? Say so frankly, and now.... In that event I shall not undertake anything, and the fate of the worthy woman and her son is sealed.... If, on the contrary, we succeed with your help to save Amael and leave this abbey, this is my plan: I am told it is about four days’ march from here to Armorica, the only territory in all Gaul that is still free. Arrived in Brittany, we shall take the road to Karnak. There we shall find my brother or his descendants. My tribe will receive us all as children of its own family. From goldsmith’s apprentices you will become apprentices in field-labor, unless you should prefer to pursue your trade in some town of Brittany, only no longer as slaves but as free artisans. Reflect ripely, and decide. The day is slipping by. Time is precious.”
Justin, one of the apprentices, consulted with his companions in a low voice, and then answered: “Our choice is not doubtful, Master Bonaik. We shall join you in restoring a son to his mother; hap what hap may, we shall share your fate.”
“Thank you, my generous boys!” said Rosen-Aër, with her eyes full of tears. “Alack! All I can offer you in exchange for your noble conduct is the gratitude of a mother!”
“Now,” said the goldsmith, who seemed to have regained the agility and vivacity of his youth, “no more words! To work! Two of you will see to the sawing of the bars of the window. But do it so that they remain in position.”
“We understand, Father Bonaik,” said Justin; “the bars will remain in position; all that will be needed to throw them down will be a slight tap of the hammer when you tell us.”
“There is no fear of being seen from without. The opposite building has no windows facing us.”
“But how are the bars of the air-hole to be sawed?”
“The prisoner will do that himself with the aid of this file that I shall throw over to him wrapped in another note directing him what to do.” Saying this the old man sat down upon his work-bench and wrote the following lines which Septimine, leaning over his shoulders, read aloud as fast as he wrote:
“Saw off with this file the iron bars of the air-hole, keeping them, however, in position. When it is dark remove them. Three pulls given to the string, one end of which you hold, will announce to us that you are ready. You will then draw towards the air-hole an empty barrel that we shall have tied to the end of the string.”
“What! Good father! You had so much presence of mind as to think of all these means of escape and prepare for them? How grateful my heart is to you!”
“We must find means of escape,” answered the old man, starting to write; “the lives of us all are now at stake — —”
“And we who are of the trade, we really believed you were preparing these articles for the cast,” said Justin. “This is a fine trick! The wicked Ricarik will himself have furnished us the barrel and ropes.”
Septimine continued to read as Bonaik wrote:
“When the barrel is near enough to the air-hole, you will take firm hold of a rope that is wound around the barrel and throw yourself into the water. You will push the barrel, and we will pull it gently toward the window, which you will then be able to scale easily with our help. We shall consider the rest.”
“Oh, good father,” exclaimed Rosen-Aër tenderly, “thanks to you, my son is saved!”
“Alack! Not so fast, poor woman! I told you before, to take him out of the cavern is possible; but after that the need will be to get out of this accursed convent.... Well, we shall try!” and he proceeded to write these last lines:
“Perhaps you can swim; no imprudence! The best swimmers get drowned. Reserve your strength so as to be able to help your mother to escape from this abbey. When you receive this parchment tear it up in little bits; the same with the first, throw them into the darkest corner of your prison because it is possible that you may be sent for and taken from there before evening.”
“Oh, God!” exclaimed Rosen-Aër joining her hands in terror. “We never thought of that. Such a misfortune is possible.”
“We must foresee every eventuality,” replied the old man closing his letter with these words:
“Do not despair, and place your hope in Hesus, the God of our fathers!”
“Oh!” murmured Rosen-Aër in distress, “the faith of his fathers, the teachings of his family, the sufferings of his race, and the hatred for the stranger — he has forgotten it all!”
“But the sight of his mother will have brought all back again to him,” answered the old man. Saying this he gave a pull to the string to notify Amael. The latter answered the signal in the same way. Bonaik then wrapped the file in the parchment and threw it to the other side of the moat. The aim was again accurate. The missive, together with the file, flew through the air-hole and dropped on the floor of the cavern. After having informed himself on these further instructions from the old man, Amael showed himself behind the bars. His eager eyes seemed to ask for his mother.
“He is looking for you,” said Septimine to Rosen-Aër; “show yourself to him; do not deny him this consolation.”
The Gallic matron sighed, and leaning upon Septimine took two steps towards the window. There, with a solemn and resigned mien, she raised a finger to heaven, as if to say to her son to trust the God of his fathers. At the sight of his mother and Septimine, the sweet image of whom had never left him since he first saw her at the convent of St. Saturnine, Amael joined his hands, and raised them above his head. His face indicated at once resignation, respect and happiness.
“And now, my boys,” the goldsmith said to the young apprentices, “take your files and start filing off the bars of the window; I and one of you shall place the crucible on the brasier and melt the metal. Ricarik may come back. He must be made to believe that we are busy at the cast. The door is bolted inside. You, Rosen-Aër, remain near the entrance of the vault so as to escape into it quickly should that accursed intendant take it into his head to return here, a probable thing. His early morning round being done, we hardly ever see him again, thanks to God! But the least imprudence may be fatal.”
CHAPTER X.
MISTRESS AND MAN.
NIGHT HAS RETURNED. Clad in her monastic vestments, the abbess Meroflede reclines on the lounge in the banquet hall where the evening before Amael was seated near her. The woman’s pale face has a sinister aspect. Seated opposite her at the table lighted by a wax taper, Ricarik had been writing under the dictation of the abbess.
“Madam,” said Ricarik, “you need only to attach your signature to the letter for the Bishop of Nantes,” and seeing that, absorbed in her own thoughts, Meroflede did not answer, the intendant repeated in a louder voice: “Madam, I am waiting for your signature.”
Her forehead resting on her hand, her eye fixed, her bosom heaving, Meroflede said to her intendant in a slow and hollow voice: “What did Berthoald have to say this morning when you went to see him in his prison?”
“He remained silent and somber.”
The abbess rose brusquely and paced the hall in great agitation. Overpowering the storm within her breast she said to the intendant:
“Go and bring me Berthoald.”
“Madam!... Is it you who issue such an order?”
“I have commanded; obey without delay.”
“But the messenger whom you sent for is waiting for this letter to the Bishop of Nantes. The boat is ready with its oarsmen.”
“The Bishop of Nantes will receive my missive a day later. Fetch me Berthoald!”
“I obey the orders of my noble mistress.”
Ricarik walked slowly towards the entrance of the hall and was about to disappear behind the curtain when, after another equally violent struggle, Meroflede called to him: “No ... come back!” and letting herself heavily down upon the lounge, the abbess covered her face with her hands, uttering prolonged and woeful moans that resembled the howlings of a wounded she-wolf. The intendant drew near and waited in silence for the crisis that was convulsing his mistress to spend itself. A few seconds later the abbess rose again. Her cheeks were inflamed; her eyes shot fire, her lips curled disdainfully. “I am too weak!” she cried. “Oh, that man! that man! He shall pay dearly for what he makes me suffer!” Again Meroflede paced the hall in violent agitation, but presently she grew calmer, sat down upon the lounge and said to the intendant: “Read me the letter over again.... I was temporarily insane!”
The intendant read:
“Meroflede, the maid-servant of the maid-servants of the Lord, to her beloved father in Christ, Arsene, Bishop of the diocese of Nantes, respectful greeting. Very beloved father, the Lord has shown by a wonderful miracle what terrible punishment he reserves for the wicked who wrong him in the person of his poor hand-maids. Charles, the chief of the Franks, contemner of all divine laws, desolator of the Church, devastator of faithful women, had the sacrilegious audacity of bestowing upon a band of his warriors the possession of this abbey, a patrimony of God. The chief of these adventurers summoned me outrageously to vacate this monastery, adding that if I did not obey, he would attack us by main force at daybreak. In order to be nearer to their damnable work, these accursed men camped over night behind one of the approaches of the abbey. But the eye of the Lord watched over us. The Almighty has known how to defend us against the ravishing wolf. During the night the cataracts of heaven opened with a frightful crash. The waters of the ponds, miraculously swollen, swallowed up the sacrilegious warriors. Not one of them escaped the punishment of heaven! It was a terrible prodigy! Red lights shimmered at the bottom of the waves as if a mouth of hell had opened to recover its detestable prey. The justice of the Lord being accomplished, the waters again became calm and limpid, and peacefully returned to their bed. So that, after the deluge the white dove of peace and hope winged its flight out of the holy ark. This letter, oh, my venerable father in Christ, is to notify you of the miracle. This fresh proof of the omnipotence of the Lord will serve to edify, comfort, console and delight all pious, and terrify the impious. I close asking your apostolic benediction.”
After Ricarik had finished reading this pious letter he again said to the abbess: “Madam, may it please you to sign.”
Meroflede took the pen and wrote at the bottom, “Meroflede, Abbess of Meriadek,” after which she said with a satanic leer: “The Bishop of Nantes is a skilful man; he will know how to make the miracle tell; a century hence people will speak of the prodigy to which the virgins of the convent of Meriadek owed their deliverance.” An instant later she said distractedly: “The fires of hell are burning in my veins!”
“What, madam, are you still thinking of Berthoald? How strong an impression must he have made upon you!”
“What I feel for that man is a mixture of contempt, hatred and amorous frenzy.... I am frightened at my own feelings.... No other man ever inspired me with such a passion!”
“There is a very simple method of ridding yourself of these agonies.... I proposed the method to you.... I am ready to apply it.”
“Take care! No violence upon him! Your life answers to me for his!”
“What are your intentions?”
“I do not know what to decide upon.... One moment I wish him to undergo a thousand deaths ... the next I am ready to fall at his knees, and ask pardon.... I am out of my mind ... out of my mind with love!” And the abbess wrung her hands, bit into the cushions of the lounge, and tore them with her nails in savage fury. Suddenly rising, her eyes wet with tears and glistening with passion, she cried: “Give me the key of Berthoald’s prison!”
“It is on this bunch,” answered the intendant pointing to several keys that hung from his belt.
“Give me that one quick!”
“Here it is,” said the intendant, detaching a large iron key from the bunch. Meroflede took the key, contemplated it in silence, and fell into a revery.
“Madam,” said Ricarik, “I shall order the messenger in waiting to depart with your letter to the Bishop of Nantes.”
“Go.... Go.... Take the letter and return!”
“I shall also take a look at the old goldsmith’s shop.... He is to cast the large silver vase to-day!”
“Oh! What do I care!”
“There is a vague suspicion in my mind. I imagined this morning I noticed a sign of embarrassment on the face of the wily old man. He told me he was to lock himself in the whole day. I suspect he has a plot with his apprentices to pilfer a portion of the metal. He also n
otified me the casting would not commence until night. I wish to see how it is done. I shall then come back, madam. Have you any other orders for me, my abbess?”
Meroflede remained plunged in revery, holding in her hand the key of Amael’s prison. After a few seconds of silence, and without raising her eyes that remained fixed upon the floor, she said to the intendant:
“When you go out, tell Madeleine to bring me my cloak and a lighted lamp.”
“Your cloak, madam? Do you expect to go out? Do you need it to go to Berthoald in his prison —— ?”
Meroflede interrupted the intendant by stamping her foot in a rage, and pointed him to the door with an imperious gesture, saying:
“Begone, vile slave!”
CHAPTER XI.
THE FLIGHT.
BONAIK, HIS APPRENTICES, Rosen-Aër, and Septimine, confined since morning in the workshop, had impatiently waited for night. Everything was in readiness for the escape of Amael from the cavern when darkness should set in. The glare of the brasier in the forge and the furnace alone lighted the workshop.
“You are young and strong,” said the old man to his apprentices; “for want of better weapons, the iron bars that have been removed from the window may serve you to defend us. Deposit them in a corner. Now pass the barrel out of the window, and fasten to one of the hoops this string, the other end of which is in Amael’s hands. He is ready. He has just answered my signal.”
Their hearts beating with hope and anxiety, Rosen-Aër and Septimine stood near the window in a close embrace. The apprentices pushed out the barrel. The darkness was thick. Not even the whiteness of the building in whose lower part lay Amael’s prison, was distinguishable. Drawn towards himself by the latter, the barrel soon disappeared in the dark. In the measure that it went, one of the apprentices paid out the rope attached to it. The rope was to help pull the barrel back as soon as Amael had seized it. At that critical moment a profound silence reigned in the workshop. All seemed to hold their breath. Despite the pitchy darkness of the night that prevented anything being seen without, the eyes of all sought to penetrate the obscurity. Finally, after a few minutes of anxiety, the apprentice, who, leaning out of the window, held the cord that was to pull the barrel back, said to the old man: “Master Bonaik, the prisoner is out of the cavern; he is holding the barrel; I feel the cord tighten.”
