Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  As Eidiol spoke the distant sound of clarions was heard mingling with the redoubled clanging of the nearby bells, and a wild clamor of joy went up from the crowd.

  “Here is the procession,” cried Rustic from his perch; “it has turned into the square; clarion blowers on horseback head the march; they are followed by Frankish cavaliers, armed with lances bearing streamers; they carry painted gilt bucklers hanging from their necks. Oh, here come the Northman pirates clad in their armor and carrying the standard of old Rolf. The standard has a seagull with open beak and claws for its device. Well may you screech your cry of triumph, old sea bird! Your prey is magnificent: a province of Gaul and the daughter of a King!”

  “Oh, Rustic, how can you joke in that way!” remarked Anne the Sweet in a tone of sad yet affectionate reproach. “Poor little Ghisèle! To wed that old monster! Do you see the poor girl? Poor victim!”

  “No; I see nothing of her as yet. Ah, here come the female pirates! How martial they look in their armor of steel scales, with their azure bucklers on their arms! Now come the seigneurs of the suite of the Count of Paris, in their long robes embroidered with gold and ornamented with fur. Hold! They stop! They are looking back uneasily. What can have happened?” and leaning against the wall Rustic raised himself on the tips of his feet in order to see further. A minute later he cried: “Oh, the poor girl! Anne, you were right! Although she is the daughter of a King the girl is to be pitied. She looks like a victim led to death!”

  “Is it of Ghisèle that you are talking, Rustic?” inquired the young girl. “What has happened to her? How I pity the poor child!”

  “She was marching, leaning on the arm of Charles the Simple and paler than a corpse under her white bridal robe, when suddenly her strength entirely failed her. She collapsed and fell in a swoon into the arms of the seigneurs who stood near her.”

  “Oh, father!” said Anne the Sweet to Eidiol, her eyes moist with tears, “Is not that wretched girl’s fate shocking!”

  “And yet less shocking than the fate of millions of the women of our own race who have been violated by the seigneurs and the ecclesiastics. Those wretched women left their master’s couch only to return to the exhausting and even crushing toils of servitude. Degraded, dejected, bought and sold like cattle, dying of grief or under their master’s blows, ignorant of the joys of family life and depraved, they were brutified by slavery. Such, for centuries past, has been the condition of the women of our race, and still continues to be. How many millions of the women of our class die macerated, body and soul!”

  “Alas! This poor King’s daughter is surely guiltless of all these crimes! She is much to be pitied!”

  “Master Eidiol,” resumed Rustic, “Charles the Simple’s daughter has regained consciousness; she now walks again, sustained by her father and the Count of Paris. Oh! Here comes Rolf! He wears a long white shirt over his armor. Behind Rolf marches our relative Gaëlo, together with the Beautiful Shigne. The procession has halted. It now resumes its march to the basilica. The clergy, with Archbishop Francon at the head, halt under the portal. Oh, Master Eidiol! I am dazzled! The precious stones glisten on the gilded copes of the priests, on their gold mitres, on the gold crosses! Gold, rubies, pearls, diamonds and emeralds glitter everywhere! The large cross, carried before the clergy, seems to be of massive gold! It is studded with precious stones! The wealth of Golconda!”

  “Oh, young man of Nazareth!” exclaimed Eidiol. “Oh, Jesus, the carpenter! The friend of the poor in rags! You, whom our ancestress Geneviève saw done to death in Jerusalem by the high priests of your day! Would you acknowledge as your disciples these priests, these bishops so gorgeously robed and surrounded by so much splendor? Oh, clergy, ye modern generation of vipers!”

  “Do you hear the chaunts of the priests and the sound of the portable organs, Master Eidiol? The clarions break in between. The bells are chiming with increased noise. The King, his daughter and old Rolf enter the portal of the basilica. Gold censers are being swung right and left and the smoke of incense mounts to the sky!”

  “They burned incense to Clovis, the firebrand and blood-thirsty monster; they burned incense to Charles the Great who dethroned the stock of Clovis! And to-day they burn incense to Rolf, to Rolf the old pirate, to Rolf the murderer, to Rolf the perpetrator of sacrilege! The god of the priests is gold!”

  The marriage of Rolf and Ghisèle was blessed and consecrated by Archbishop Francon in the princely cathedral of Rouen. The prelate also on the same day blessed the union of Shigne and Gaëlo. The ceremony of Ghisèle’s marriage was barely over when the wretched girl again swooned away — the third time on that day — and was carried into an adjoining chamber on the arms of her women in waiting. Rolf, Charles the Simple, the Count of Paris, together with the seigneurs of their respective suites proceeded to the vast hall of the chapter of the Archbishopric of Rouen. On his head the gold crown of the Frankish Kings, in his hand his scepter, and the long royal mantle trailing on the floor behind him, Charles the Simple ascended and remained standing on an elevated dais. The Archbishop of Rouen and the bishops of the neighboring dioceses placed themselves to the right, while to the left of the King were ranked Rothbert, Count of Paris and Duke of France, and the Viscounts of Monthery, of Argenteuil, of Pontoise, together with many other Frankish seigneurs, among and above whom towered the tall figure of Burchart, seigneur of the country of Montmorency. At the foot of the dais, and facing the King and this assemblage of seigneurs and prelates, stood Rolf, accompanied by Gaëlo and Shigne, together with the leading Northman chiefs. The old pirate still had on the white shirt of the neophyte over his armor. His demeanor was triumphant, insolent and sly. Charles the Simple, on the contrary, looked sad and dejected, and furtively wiped away the tears that insisted on forcing themselves to his eyes. Despite his imbecility, the man loved his daughter; and the fate of Ghisèle overpowered him with grief.

  Radiant with joy at having escaped the fresh disasters that Rolf had threatened to overwhelm Gaul with, the Count of Paris, the Archbishop of Rouen and all the other seigneurs and prelates enjoyed the abject state of the King. Nevertheless, however abased and hollow his title, still they envied it. Clad in the full magnificence of his episcopal robes, Archbishop Francon descended the steps of the dais with majestic tread, approached Rolf and said to him in a loud and solemn tone:

  “It has pleased Charles, King of the Franks, to bestow upon you and your men all the fields, forests, towns, burgs, villages, inhabitants and cattle of Neustria—”

  “If the King had refused to give me the province I would have taken it” put in Rolf, calmly interrupting the prelate. “You baptized me and my champions; we allowed ourselves to be dipped naked in a large basin of water, like so many fishes; we allowed you to sprinkle us with salt water, the genuine brine of the ocean; and we were then told to put long white shirts over our armor. I simply humored you in your priestly monkey shines.”

  “It is the sacred symbol of the purity of your soul, which has been cleansed of its soilure by the holy immersion of baptism,” replied the archbishop. “Henceforth you are a Catholic and son of the Church of Rome. It is a very distinguished honor done to you.”

  “Aye, but you demanded from me, in exchange, all the lands of the abbeys of my new duchy of Northmandy for your Church. I have since learned that they make up one-fourth of my province.”

  “The goods of the Church are the goods of God,” retorted the archbishop haughtily. “What is God’s, is God’s; no human power can lay hands on it.”

  “Priest!” cried Rolf puckering his brows with mingled anger and slyness, “take care lest the humor seize me to chase the whole pack of tonsured gentry from their nests in the abbeys, in order to prove to you once more that Rolf and his champions take and keep whatever it may please Rolf and his champions to take or to keep, without asking leave of your Church.”

  “To the devil with the man of the gold cap with two points!” chimed in several voices from among the freshly baptized pir
ates. “By the white horse of our god Thomarog! Does the fellow take us for fools? Death to the tonsured knave!”

  “Rolf!” said the Archbishop of Rouen insinuatingly in order to calm the old pirate, “the light of our faith has not yet sufficiently dispelled the darkness in which paganism held your soul imprisoned. I do not threaten you — I shall remain faithful to our compact.”

  “That’s then agreed!” replied Rolf. “It is give and take between us. If your priests serve me well, they shall keep their lands. But I must recoup myself for the property that I leave to your abbots;” and addressing the King, who, wholly indifferent to the conversation that was taking place before him, remained silent, somber and sad: “Charles, you gave me Ghisèle and Neustria. That is not now enough. A King’s daughter should be more richly dowered. My duchy of Northmandy borders on Brittany. I demand this province also, together with all its towns, abbeys and dependencies.”

  “You want Brittany!” cried Charles the Simple, for the first time awaking from his gloomy apathy. “Oh, you want Brittany! I give it to you with all my heart! You can have it. Go and take possession of it. It will be a bright day to me, the day that I shall hear that you set foot in that country. I gladly make you a present of Armorica, with its cities, abbeys and dependencies! All you have to do is to take possession!”

  Not a little astonished at the King’s eagerness to grant him so considerable a cession, the old pirate turned towards his men inquiringly. Gaëlo whispered to him:

  “Charles grants you the country of the Bretons because he knows that it is impregnable, being defended by a race of indomitable men.”

  “There is nothing impregnable to you, my champions! You will take charge of the task.”

  “Since six hundred years the Franks have been endeavoring to subjugate that land, and they have not yet succeeded in establishing themselves firmly in it. They have invaded it; they have vanquished its forces — but never yet have they subjugated it.”

  “The Northmans will subjugate those who have resisted the Franks.”

  “Armorica,” replied Gaëlo, “will be the grave of your best soldiers.”

  The old pirate shrugged his shoulders with incredulity and not a little impatience; he took two steps towards the King and said: “Well, then, Charles, that province also is mine—”

  “Yes — yes. It is yours — Duke of Northmandy and of Brittany — provided you can conquer it!”

  “Rolf,” resumed Gaëlo in a low voice, “renounce your pretensions over Armorica — you will otherwise have reasons to regret your obstinacy.”

  “Rolf wills what he wills!” answered the pirate haughtily.

  “From this day,” replied Gaëlo resolutely, “you must no longer count me among your men—”

  The Northman chief was on the point of inquiring from the young warrior the reason for his sudden resolution when the Archbishop of Rouen addressed the pirate:

  “Rolf, Charles has invested you with the sovereignty of the Duchies of Northmandy and Brittany. You must now take the pledge of fealty and homage to Charles, King of the Franks, as your suzerain seigneur. It is the custom. Your investiture will not be complete until after this formality.”

  “Very well; only waste no time about it. I am hungry, and I am anxious to join my wife — the royal little girl must be waiting for me.”

  “Rolf, repeat after me the consecrated formula,” said the Archbishop of Rouen, and he pronounced deliberately and slowly the following words which the Northman chief repeated in the measure that they fell from the prelate’s lips:

  “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, indivisible Trinity, I, Rolf, Duke of Northmandy and of Brittany, swear fealty and homage to Charles, King of the Franks. I swear absolute fealty to him, to render him assistance in all things, and never to give, to his prejudice, assistance to his enemies with my arms. I swear it in the presence of the Divine Majesty and of the souls of the blissful, hoping for eternal blessing as the reward for my fidelity. Amen!”

  Charles the Simple listened to the oath of fealty and homage with gloomy bitterness. He knew from experience the hollowness of the formula which had been invented by the priests.

  “Is it done, now?” asked the pirate of the archbishop. “This mummery tires me.”

  “There is one more formality to be filled,” answered the archbishop. “In token of respect you must kiss the King’s foot.”

  At these words, spoken loud enough by the Archbishop of Rouen to be heard all over the spacious hall, there followed an explosion of hisses, imprecations and threats from the assembled Northman warriors. They revolted at the mere thought of the humiliating act that the archbishop dared to exact from their chieftain. Rolf himself, whose face grew purple with indignation, answered Francon’s proposition with so threatening a gesture that the archbishop took fright and retreated precipitately from the immediate neighborhood of the Northman. However, after a second’s reflection, the pirate chieftain calmed with a sign the tumultuous manifestations of his men, approached the archbishop, and said in a savage tone, that but ill concealed the slyness that struggled to the surface:

  “Accordingly — I must kiss the feet of Charles?”

  “Usage demands that you give to the King this mark of respect and humility.”

  “My champions!” cried the Northman chieftain to his pirates, making them a sign of intelligence, “Rolf will, agreeable to usage, prove the magnitude of his respect for the Frankish Kings.” Saying this, Rolf stepped gravely towards the dais on which Charles stood and said to him: “Let me have your foot!”

  The poor simpleton reached his right foot to Rolf, but the old bandit, instead of bending to bestow the kiss of humility upon his suzerain, quickly seized the proffered limb by the ankle, and gave it so violent a pull that Charles the Simple lost his balance and fell backwards, measuring his full length on the floor of the dais. As the King rolled over, Rolf broke out in his wonted guffaw and cried:

  “This is the way that the Duke of Northmandy and Brittany shows his respect for the King of the Franks.”

  The pirate’s brutal horse-play was received with a loud outburst of joy by his Northmans, while the Frankish seigneurs and prelates, so far from thinking of avenging the outrage done to their King, remained silent and motionless. The descendant of Charles, the great emperor, rose unaided, weeping with humiliation and physical pain. He had hurt his head with the fall. The blood flowed.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  ON THE SWAN’S ROUTE.

  EIDIOL, HIS SON, his daughter, and Rustic the Gay, back from Rouen two days past, were congregated in the evening at their humble home in Paris. More than ever did they now realize the void made at their hearth by the death of Martha, good housekeeper that she was. The street was silent; the night dark. A rap was heard at the door. Rustic opened it and Gaëlo, accompanied by Shigne, now his wife, stepped in, with their cloaks closely wrapped over their armor. The old skipper had not met the young couple since the night when they returned to Eidiol’s house, in order there to await the return of Count Rothbert, who departed in hot haste to Compiegne in order to inform Charles the Simple of the pirate’s will.

  “Good father,” said Gaëlo to Eidiol, “my wife and I have come to bid you good-bye and to bring you tidings that will no doubt cheer your heart. I heard you deplore the sudden disappearance of a daughter, the first born of all your children. She is not dead. I have seen her—”

  “My daughter!” cried the old skipper in wonderment and clasping his hands. “What! Jeanike is alive! You have seen her?”

  “Where is our sister?” cried Anne and Guyrion at once. “Where can we see her?”

  “She is near Ghisèle, the wife of Rolf, Duke of Northmandy.”

  “Can it be possible!” again exclaimed Eidiol with increasing astonishment. “And how does she come to be near Ghisèle?”

  “According to her vague recollections, your daughter was carried off by some of those mendicants who kidnap children in order to sell them. She
was disposed of to the intendant of the royal domain. It therefore happened that she lived and grew up in Kersey-on-the-Oise. Later she was married to a serf of the place. Jeanike was soon afterwards attached to the palace among the domestics. There she gave birth to two children, a boy, who now is a forester serf of the forest of Compiegne, and a girl whom she had at her breast at the same time that the Queen-mother nursed Ghisèle. The Queen having died of fright on the occasion of one of the Northman descents upon Kersey, the baby was placed in charge of Jeanike, whose own baby thus shared its nourishment with the princess. Jeanike, as the princess’ foster-mother, was afterwards manumitted; but she never left the side of the poor creature, who to-day is the wife of Rolf.”

  “What a strange accident!” said Eidiol deeply moved. “But why did not Jeanike accompany you hither? Did you not inform her that we were relatives and that I lived in Paris?”

  “Ghisèle is on her deathbed. The horror that Rolf inspires in her is carrying her to the grave. She has requested your daughter not to leave her. Jeanike could not refuse.”

  “Oh, brother!” said Anne the Sweet weeping with joy and sorrow, “the sister whom we find again is also full of compassion for that unhappy King’s daughter.”

  “The woman who is cowardly enough to share the bed of a man whom she hates deserves Ghisèle’s fate,” put in the Beautiful Shigne with savage pride. “There must be no pity for despicable hearts!”

  “Alas!” exclaimed Anne the Sweet timidly without venturing to raise her eyes to the female warrior, “what could the unfortunate Ghisèle do?”

  “Kill Rolf!” promptly answered the heroine. “And if she did not deem her hand firm enough to strike the blow, she should have killed herself—”

  “Gaëlo!” interrupted the old skipper, “your wife speaks like our mothers of old, who preferred death to the shame of slavery. But how did you happen to recognize my daughter?”