Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Without answering, the sorceress continued her magic incantations, at the conclusion of which, holding up to Neroweg VI. the two puppets, representing a bishop and a warrior, she said: “Tell me again, which are the enemies whom you dread and hate the most?”

  “The Bishop of Nantes and Draco, Sire of Castel-Redon. These are my worst enemies.”

  “Yesterday I shaped a figure like this. Has it been placed as I ordered, between the teeth of one about to expire on the gallows?”

  “One of my serfs struck my bailiff. She was hanged this morning from my seigniorial forks. At the moment when she gave up the ghost, the executioner placed the wax puppet between her teeth. Your orders have been carried out.”

  “In keeping with my promise, your enemies will soon be in your power. Nevertheless, in order to complete the charm, these other two little figures will have to be buried under the root of a tree, that grows at the bank of a river, in which some man or woman was drowned.”

  “That’s easily done. There are large old willows growing on the banks of my river, and often do my men drown in it the stubborn sailors, or the men or women who refuse to pay the toll for my rights of navigation.”

  “That magic spell must be cast by yourself. You will have to place these little figures in the designated place to-night, when the moon goes down, and you will pronounce three times the names of Jesus, of Astaroth and of Judas. The charm will then be at its full.”

  “I do not like to see the name of Christ mixed up in all this. Are you, perchance, seeking to lead me into some sacrilege?”

  A sardonic smile played over the white lips of Azenor the Pale. “So far from that, I have placed the magic charm under the invocation of Christ; I pronounced a verse from the gospels with each needle that I buried in these puppets. The Lord will thus be our protector.”

  “Had you not driven me to kill my chaplain, I might have been able to consult him and learn from him whether I would be committing sacrilege.”

  “You killed the tonsured fellow because you suspected that holy man of improper relations with your wife, and of probably being the father of Guy — —”

  “Hold your tongue!” cried Neroweg, with a voice full of anger. “Hold your tongue, accursed woman! Since that murder I have had no chaplain. No priest, consents to dwell here. Enough of that. Is the philter ready?”

  “Not yet. Have patience, seigneur Count.”

  “What else do you want to concoct it? You wanted the blood of a young child; the young son of one of my serfs has been delivered to you — —”

  “The child must be prepared for the sacrifice by magic formulas.”

  “In a word, can you tell me when will that marvelous philter, that you have promised me, be ready?”

  “I shall work upon it this very night, during the hours between the rising and the going down of the moon; that’s to say, for several hours.”

  “That’s another delay! My ailment grows apace! I suspect you of having cast upon me the evil spell under which I struggle, and which drives me to deeds of furious folly.”

  “You are wrong in attributing to me such an influence over your fate.”

  “Was it not you who incited me to kill my eldest son Gonthram?”

  “Your son tried to violate me. Of course I had to appeal to your intervention for protection against fresh outrages.”

  “Had not my equerry Eberhard the Tricky thrown himself between me and Gonthram, I would have killed my son on his return from the hunt. He has insisted that you offered to yield yourself to him if he consented to stab me to death.”

  “That was a dastardly calumny!”

  “Perhaps I should have plunged my dagger in your heart and be done with you.”

  “And why did you not?”

  “Because you read in the stars that our lives were bound together, and that your death would precede mine by only three days. But if I am to die of the distemper that oppresses me, a curse upon you, sorceress! You shall not survive me. Garin the Serf-eater is charged with my vengeance. Oh, you will not leave this castle alive!” Neroweg pressed his forehead with both hands and proceeded in a spirit more and more dejected as he spoke: “The philter — Will it heal me? Since you cast your diabolical spell upon me, the days seem endless. I am indifferent to everything. After I make the rounds of my domains, shut in among the seigniories of my neighbors, all of them my enemies; after I have ravaged their lands, burned their houses, killed their serfs; after I have levied ransom on the travelers, had justice executed by my bailiff, my provost and my hangman; after all that I feel sadder, wearier, more than ever tired of life. I have even surprised myself wishing for death!”

  “You wage war, you eat, you drink, you hunt, you sleep and you take your female serfs to your bed when they marry. What is it you lack?”

  “I am tired, cloyed with gross enjoyments. Wine tastes sour to me. I feel uneasy when I hunt in my forests, fearful of some ambush prepared by my neighbors. I find my donjon sepulchral like a tomb. I choke under its stone vaults. If I leave the manor, I have ever under my eyes the same saddening landscape.”

  “Leave the country, you stupid and savage wolf!”

  “Whither shall I go and be happier? Here I am master. What would my fate be elsewhere? During my absence, my neighbors would descend upon my domains like a flock of vultures. The devil! I am bound to my seigniory like my serfs to the glebe!”

  “Your fate is that of all the nobles, your peers.”

  “But they are not weighed down by their existence like I. Only a few years ago, during the life of my wife Hermengarde, I attacked my neighbors as much for the pleasure of it as to appropriate their lands and to sack their castles. I went on the hunt for caravans of merchants with joy and spirit. I put the prisoners to the torture and delighted at their grimaces. In short, I felt that I lived; I was happy; I ate and drank enormously, and then fell asleep in the arms of one of my female serfs. The next morning I attended mass and departed for the chase, to battle or on a pillaging expedition; that is, on a new round of pleasures.” After a moment’s silence the seigneur of Plouernel added, with a sigh: “Those days I was a good Catholic! I practiced the faith of my fathers, and every morning, after mass, the chaplain gave me absolution for the deeds of the previous day! To-day, thanks to your wicked contrivances, all my beliefs are overthrown. I have become a pagan! — Aye, a pagan!”

  “You, poor imbecile, who carry under your hauberk four relics blessed by the Pope!”

  “Will you dare to mock me for my faith in relics?” bellowed Neroweg in a towering rage. “Without the relics that I carry about me you might by this time have dragged me to the bottom of hell, you worthy wife of Satan!”

  “Maychance you speak truth, seigneur Count!”

  “There is nothing human about you! Your lips are cold as marble; your kisses are frozen!”

  “When a reciprocal love shall inflame my veins, then my lips will grow purple, and my kisses will be of fire!”

  “Oh, I know it; you never loved me!”

  “As well love a wolf of the forest as a Neroweg. You carried me off by force, and I have had to submit to your lust. The man whom I adore, whom I have long loved, even without seeing him, is William the Ninth, the handsome Duke of Aquitaine.”

  “William!” exclaimed Neroweg in an accent of ferocious jealousy. “That sacrilegious wretch, who carries on his shield the portrait of Malborgiane, his mistress!”

  “William is a poet; he is young, handsome, bold, bright and gay. All women dream of, and all men dread him. You are his vassal. Woe unto you should you dare cross him! He would leave not one stone on the other in your castle. He would make you grovel on the ground on hands and knees; he would clap a saddle on you and ride on your back a hundred steps at a stretch, agreeable to the right of a sovereign over his revolted vassal. You are as far removed from the handsome Duke of Aquitaine as the dull buzzard is from the noble falcon that darts towards the sun making its golden bells tinkle!”

  Neroweg uttered
a cry of rage, and, drawing his dagger, rushed upon Azenor. But her marble figure remained impassive, her white lips curled in disdainful smile. “Kill me, coward knight, assassin!”

  After a moment of savage irresolution, Neroweg returned his dagger to the scabbard: “Oh, damned be the day I captured you on the road to Angers. It is you who brought down the curse that rests upon this castle. But will ye, nill ye, you shall yourself break the spell you have thrown upon me and my children, who, like their father, are becoming somber and silent.”

  “That’s the business of the philter, which I am preparing.”

  The conversation was at this point interrupted by two raps on the door from without. Neroweg asked roughly: “Who’s that?”

  “Seigneur Count,” a voice answered, “you are waited to open the session of the court in the stone hall!”

  Neroweg made a gesture of impatience, and, donning the iron casque which he had laid on a settee, replied: “Once the homage of my vassals pleased my vanity. To-day everything annoys, everything is irksome to me. Oh, sad is my life!”

  “To-morrow, thanks to my philter, nothing more will weigh upon you — nor upon yours,” observed Azenor, and, placing in the Count’s hands the two little wax images, she added: “Your two enemies — the Sire of Castel-Redon and the Bishop of Nantes — will soon fall into your hands, provided you yourself place these magic figures where I have told you, while you pronounce three times the names of Judas, of Astaroth and of Jesus.”

  “It is hard for me to pronounce the name of Jesus in connection with this sorcery,” remarked Neroweg, raising his head and receiving almost fearfully the two little figures. “To-night the philter; if not, you die to-morrow!” Then, bethinking himself, “Where is the child?”

  “In that alcove,” answered Azenor.

  Neroweg walked towards the turret, raised the curtain and saw little Colombaik, the son of Fergan the Quarryman, lying on the floor. The innocent creature was sound asleep at the foot of a stand loaded with vases of bizarre form. The walls of the turret, paneled with marble slabs, rose bare to the ceiling, the floor of whose upper story was on a level with the platform of the donjon. Neroweg, after contemplating the child for an instant, stepped out of the donjon, double-locking the door after him, and taking care to withdraw the key and place it in his jerkin.

  CHAPTER VI.

  FEUDAL JUSTICE.

  EBERHARD THE TRICKY, one of the equerries of the seigneur of Plouernel, awaited his master outside of the retreat of Azenor, in company with Thiebold, justiciary provost of the seigniory. The latter addressed Neroweg, who was slowly descending the stone staircase.

  “The chatelain of the fort of Ferte-Mehan signed the relinquishment of his fief of Haut-Menil at the third wedge struck into his knee by the gaoler. The Sire of Breuil-le-Haudoin died of the results of the torture. The Abbot Guilbert offers three hundred silver sous for his ransom. But he has not yet been put to the torture, and such offers mean nothing. We shall proceed in order.”

  “And then? What other cases are there?”

  “That’s all. There is to-day nothing else on hand.”

  While carrying on this conversation the Seigneur of Plouernel, his provost and his equerry, descended to the basement of the donjon-keep, at the corner where the staircase landed. A narrow window, guarded with enormous iron bars, alone lighted this vast hall, bare, somber and vaulted. In the inside yard several men-at-arms held themselves ready to mount their horses. Near the center of the hall, which served as a court of pleas, stood, according to custom, a large stone table, behind which ranged themselves the officers of the house of the Count — the master of the horse, the master of the chamber, the master of the dogs, of the falcons, of the table, and several other dignitaries. These people, instead of being paid by the seigneurs, bought from them these hereditary offices in their families, an inheritance that at times became odd by the contrast it presented between the function and the incumbent. It happened that a post of runner, sold in fief to an agile and vigorous man, often descended as the inheritance of a son, as unfit for the post as a broken-winded ox. The seigneurs, with an eye to revenue, multiplied these offices all they could, and the purchasers yielded, not so much to the pride of belonging to the seigniorial households as to the desire of sheltering themselves from the master’s lawlessness, and of sharing the fruits of his brigandage. In those dark days, the choice was between oppressing or being oppressed; submitting to the horrors of serfdom, or becoming the instruments of the feudal tyrants; joining them in doing violence, robbing and torturing one’s fellows, or resigning oneself to undergo all these sufferings himself. Such were the sad results of the Frankish conquest. The seigneurs imposed servitude, the friars preached resignation, and the people of Gaul became cowardly, selfish and cruel. They rent themselves with their own hands by turning accomplices to their gaoler.

  Besides the head domestics of Neroweg, present at these law courts, — which took the place of the Germanic “malhs” of the reign of Clovis — there was also the provost, the bailiff and the scribe of the seigniory. The latter, seated on a stool, his parchment rolls on his knees, his desk beside him, his pen between his teeth, awaited the opening of the session. The first domestics of the Count, respectful and timid, remained standing in a semi-circle behind their master. Since four of five centuries back, the class of the leudes, who, in the early days of the Frankish conquest, lived in common with and as equals of their chiefs, had ceased to exist. In the measure that the conquest became more firmly fixed, the titulary and beneficiary seigneurs of the soil of Gaul, shocked at the idea of equality contracted by their old companions in arms, evicted them little by little from the domains where chiefs and leudes had lived in common. The descendants of these obscure Frankish warriors, sacrificed to the pride and cupidity of the beneficiaries, soon fell into misery, and from misery into a servitude equal to that of the Gauls. Since then, Franks and Gauls — the former disinherited by ingratitude, the latter by conquest, and now joined in misery and servitude — felt a common hatred towards the church and the seigneurs. There were then but two classes — the common people, serfs, peasants and bourgeois or townsmen; and nobles, knights and seigneurs. The latter, isolating themselves ever more, lived like absolute sovereigns in their strongholds, having no equals, but only menials, the accomplices of their acts of brigandage; or serfs, stupefied by terror or besotted by the friars.

  Gonthram and Guy, the two sons of Neroweg, the younger at the left, the elder at the right of their father, attended the court. The latter had just reached the age of knighthood, a glorious event, so dearly paid for by the serfs of the seigniory. Gonthram resembled his father greatly. A look at the whelp told what he would be when age would have made of him a wolf. Guy, the younger, seventeen years of age, recalled the sardonic and vindictive features of his mother, Hermangarde. These two youths, brought up in the midst of this life of strife, of rapine and of debauchery, left to the violence of their passions, disposing as masters over an abject population, had none of the charms that are the attribute of adolescence. Away in a corner of the hall stood several bourgeois of the little town of Plouernel, who had come to complain of the exactions of the Count’s men; or to excuse themselves for failure to pay the imposts in money and goods that it had pleased their seigneur to lay upon them; or to plead that the dues credited to the seigneur had long been met or exceeded; or yet to announce that they had removed from their roofs the weather-vanes, placed there in ignorance of the seigniorial rights, and taken down the pigeon houses they had started to raise in violation of the prescriptions of the feudal law.

  The court was also attended by noble vassals of Neroweg, owners of smaller fortified places or of manors, held under the Count of Plouernel, the suzerain of these fiefs, the same as Neroweg, a vassal of William IX., Duke of Aquitaine, held under that suzerain, who, as vassal of Philip I., in turn held of that French King, the supreme sovereign. This hierarchy of all feudal seigniories existed in name only, never in fact. The great vassa
ls, veritable sovereigns, entrenched in their duchies, laughed at the impotent authority of the King. In turn, the sovereignty of the dukes was almost despised, contested or attacked by their vassals, who were absolute masters in their seigniories, as the dukes in their duchies. The immediate vassalage, however, such as rested on the vassals of the seigniory of Plouernel, was ever enforced in all its fullness and tyrannic severity. There, at any time, the implacable vengeance of the suzerain could reach directly the goods and chattels of the recalcitrant vassal. Among the people who had come from the city, from the fortified cities or from their manors, was a handsome young girl, accompanied by her mother. Sad and uneasy, the two exchanged alarmed looks when the seigneur of Plouernel, entering the law court with a somber mien, sat down on a throne, one son at his right, the other at his left, and ordered Garin the Serf-eater to call the roll of cases entered for the session.

  The bailiff bore no further mark of the wound he had received from Pierrine the Goat than a plaster on his forehead. He took up a scroll and commenced calling up the list of cases:

  “Gerhard, son of Hugh, who died last month, succeeds his father in the fief of Heute-Mont, held under the Count of Plouernel. He comes to acquit the right of relief, and to pledge fealty and homage to his suzerain.”

  Thereupon, a man still young, covered with a leather casque and carrying at his side a long sword, stepped forth from the group of persons who had come to the session of the court. He came forward holding in his hand a large purse filled with money, and placed it on the stone table, thus acquitting the right of relief due the seigneur by all vassals who take possession of their inheritance. Then, upon a sign of the bailiff, the new castellan of Heute-Mont, taking off his casque and unbuckling the belt of his sword, placed himself humbly on both knees before the seigneur of Plouernel. The bailiff, however, noticing that the country squire, having come on horseback, retained his spurs, addressed him in an angry tone: “Vassal, dare you take the pledge of fealty and homage to your seigneur with the spurs at your heels?”