by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER VI.
ON TO LANGUEDOC!
HAPPILY THROWN INTO the shade by the arrival of the eleven Crusaders from the Holy Land, Mylio and his companion profit by the address of Abbot Reynier to reach a stone stair that leads down to one of the canals, and to conceal themselves under the arch of the bridge. From their place of concealment the two hear the words of the Abbot of Citeaux and the acclamations of his audience. As much surprised as alarmed at the projected war, seeing that his brother Karvel le Brenn is one of the pastors, or Perfects, of the heretics of Languedoc, the trouvere hastens to leave the garden without being seen, and skirting the banks of the canal he finally arrives at a secluded spot near the ramparts of Blois.
Goose-Skin (who has followed his friend, and who observed profound silence during his hasty march, finally stops out of breath)— “Because you have the legs of a stag you feel not the least consideration for an honest man who is hampered in his walk by a big paunch that heaven has afflicted him with. Oh! Mylio, what a day this has been! It has made me boil over with rage! If water were not a sort of mortal poison to me, I would have rested on the edge of the garden. It is now night. What say you, shall we drop in at the tavern of my friend Gueulette and gather our spirits? Hey? Mylio? Do you not hear me? (strikes him on the shoulder) Helloa, my bold and brave trouvere! Are you dreaming with open eyes?”
Mylio (awakes from his revery and reaches out his hand to the juggler)— “Adieu, I bid you good-bye!”
Goose-Skin— “How! ‘Good-bye!’ You are going away? You leave a friend — what ingratitude!”
Mylio (rummages in his purse)— “I shall share my purse with you. I have not forgotten the service that you have just rendered me.”
Goose-Skin (pockets the money that the trouvere gives him)— “What! And with that you rid yourself of your old companion? And I promised myself so much pleasure running the country with you!”
Mylio— “It is impossible! I shall depart instantly, and take Florette along on the crupper of my horse.”
Goose-Skin— “I never indulged in the barbarity of crushing a horse under my weight. You have just given me money. I shall purchase an ass, and shall whip the brute so hard and so incontinently that he will be bound to follow close upon the heels of your horse.”
Mylio— “You wish to accompany me without first inquiring what my destination is?”
Goose-Skin— “Oxhorns! Your route will be from castle to castle to charm the ears and eyes of the beautiful ladies, to live high, to amuse yourself. Oh, let me follow you — Each to his role — You will enchant the noble dames, I their servants. Your harp will be for the large hall of the manor, my hurdy-gurdy for the kitchen. Long live joy, and glory to St. Joseph!”
Mylio— “No, no! I renounce this life of license and adventure. I am going back to my brother in Languedoc. I shall marry Florette, and, perhaps, hardly shall I be married, when I may have to leave my wife and go to war!”
Goose-Skin— “To war! Did you say to war?”
Mylio— “Did you not hear that sycophant of an Abbot Reynier preach the extermination of the heretics? My brother is one of their leaders, he is one of the Perfects. I am going to him and shall share the dangers that he runs. So, then, adieu! The journey that I am about to set out upon is not one of pleasure.”
Goose-Skin (scratching his ear)— “No! The greater the pity — and yet, if I were sure that I would be no trouble to you on the route, it would please me greatly to accompany you. How can I help it? Friendship, custom — I would be greatly grieved to separate from you. It seems to me that if I leave you I shall for long find the wine bitter and that not a song could issue out of my throat. I can not live without your company.”
Mylio— “Your attachment touches my heart. But to go to Languedoc is to plunge into the risks of war.”
Goose-Skin— “I shall not deny that I am as timid as a hare, but perhaps I may acquire a more martial turn if I remain near you. Courage, the saying goes, is contagious. Moreover, as you saw, at a pinch I can be good for something. I can render some slight services. I beg you, Mylio, allow that I follow you. Thanks to this money that you have so generously given me, I shall buy a mount — Hold! It occurs to me that my friend Gueulette’s father has a mule that he will be glad to sell for almost nothing. The beast is as stubborn as Gueulette herself; and by departing with you I shall prove to that tigress that I can make light of her attractions. That will be my revenge. So, then, I beg of you to let me accompany you.”
Mylio— “Very well, my old Goose-Skin! Go and purchase your mule. It is now dark. I shall run for Florette to the house of the worthy woman where I have concealed her. We must leave Blois at the earliest possible. Abbot Reynier or the friends of Foulques may give us trouble if we tarry.”
Goose-Skin— “Let them come! Oxhorns! I already feel bold and brave! So far from fearing danger, I would court it! Yes, I defy ye, giants, enchanters, and demons — dare to appear before me! Just dare!”
Mylio and Goose-Skin separate, the latter dancing and singing. Their journey to Languedoc is successfully made.
PART II. THE ALBIGENSIAN HERETICS.
CHAPTER I.
THE PERFECT’S HOME.
SON OF JOEL, you have been made acquainted with the morals of the noble ladies, of the seigneurs and of the abbots of the north of Gaul. To judge by their ardor in undertaking the Crusade preached by Abbot Reynier against Languedoc, the country infected by a devilish heresy, as the monk said, they must be good Catholics. Oh, Fergan, my ancestor! A century ago, you had occasion to shudder at the sight of the gigantic butchery committed by the Crusaders in Jerusalem, where seventy thousand defenceless Saracens were massacred within two days. The monstrosities of the old Crusaders are now repeated in Gaul herself. A war of extermination has been declared by the Pope, not now against the Saracens, but against the sons of our own country. You shall now be acquainted with the morals of these heretics of Languedoc, these honest and industrious people upon whose heads all the furies are to be unchained.
Lavaur, a flourishing city of the country of Albigeois, lies not far from Albi. Sacrovir le Brenn, the son of Colombaik, and grandson of Fergan the Quarryman, who was a tanner like his father, amassed a little property and settled down with his wife and children near Lavaur towards the year 1060. There he purchased a small tract of land which he cultivated with the aid of his children. One of these died young; the other grew to manhood, married and had a son named Conan le Brenn, who was the father of Karvel the Perfect and Mylio the Trouvere.
The scene is placed in the humble but bright home of Karvel. The house is situated at the extreme end of one of the suburbs of Lavaur, a fortified town about seven leagues from Toulouse, the capital of the marquisate of the same name, whose titulary master now is Raymond VII.
Karvel exercises the profession of physician. He consolidated his father’s heritage with a farmer who, together with his family, occupies one part of the house, while the other part is reserved to Karvel and his wife. Karvel is seated in a spacious chamber the narrow windows of which, made of small glass squares that are held fast in a frame of lead, open upon a meadow crossed by the river Agout. The Agout flows not far from the ramparts of Lavaur. A long table, littered with parchments, stands in the center of the chamber. On little shelves, ranged along the walls, are vases with leaves or flowers, or filled with bulbs of medicinal plants. In a corner is a stove over which several copper vessels, used in the distillation of certain herbs, are held over the fire by iron tripods. Morise, Karvel’s wife, is attending to these, while Karvel himself, leaning over the table, is poring over some manuscripts on the art of healing.
Karvel is about thirty-six years of age. His admirable face is rendered all the more remarkable by the expression of a high degree of intelligence and of inexhaustible kindness. A long robe of black cloth opening wide at his neck exposes the folds of his shirt that is fastened with silver buttons. His wife Morise is thirty. Her blonde hair, braided in plaits, crowns her lov
ely face, on which, thanks to a happy mixture, playfulness is combined with gentleness and firmness.
Morise interrupts her labors, remains thoughtful for a moment and, contemplating one of the copper vases which is rather more rounded than the rest, smiles and says to her husband:
“That copper vase reminds me of the capers of poor Mylio, your brother. He loved to put the basin over his head as a casque to make me laugh.”
Karvel (smiling sadly)— “But you, in turn, used to compel the giddy-headed boy to taste our bitterest decoctions. Good, dear, Mylio! If only our friend the Lombard merchant succeeded in meeting him in Touraine!”
Morise— “Our friend surely found him easily. All he had to do would be to inquire after the celebrated Mylio the Trouvere. Your brother’s name is so well known that its fame reached as far as here. Was it not only day before yesterday that Aimery was reciting to us some of Mylio’s songs translated into the language of this region?”
Karvel (smiling again)— “Giraude did not altogether share the enthusiasm of her brother Aimery for those licentious verses, and not that she affects prudery. I have never seen such lofty virtue joined to so much intelligence. Never — except — in yourself!”
Morise— “Fie, flatterer! The idea of comparing me with the Lady of Lavaur! That charming and virtuous woman, who, left a widow at twenty, and although as beautiful as day, and Countess of Lavaur besides, and having only to choose among the wealthiest seigneurs of Languedoc, still preferred to remain single in order to devote her attention wholly to the education of her son Aloys!”
Karvel— “Oh! Say all imaginable good things you please about our friend Giraude, you will still fall short of the full truth — Noble woman! How angelic is her heart! How inexhaustible her charity! Oh, the saying does not lie— ‘Never does a poor body knock at her door without leaving happy.’”
Morise— “It is she herself who supervises the school that she founded for little children in order to combat the ignorance and misery that breed all manner of vices. Boys and girls find there an asylum.”
Karvel— “And what a high degree of courage did she not display during last year’s great epidemic when the sick had to be tended! Noble and saintly woman!”
Morise— “I do admire the solid education that she gives to her son. I shall not soon forget the day when Aloys, about to be twelve, was taken to the City Hall of Lavaur by his mother who said to our consuls: ‘My friends, be the tutors of my son. His father would have brought him up, as he was himself, in the respect for the communal franchises. The only privilege that he will some day demand from you, will be to march in the front ranks in case the city is attacked, or of offering you a refuge in our castle. But thanks be to God, we shall continue to enjoy peace; and my son, ever following in the footsteps of his father, will cultivate his lands in common with our tenants. We shall have a holiday in Lavaur when Aloys will have cut his first furrow on our fields, guided by our oldest laborer. Aloys will ever feel proud of handling the food-yielding plow and of cultivating his fields.’”
Karvel— “And do you know that there was no abler farmer in all this region than the old Master of Lavaur? From far and wide they came for his advice. Oh, what a difference between the seigneurs of the north of Gaul and those of our happy region! The former think of nothing but to shine at tourneys and to indulge in a ruinous luxury which they are able to keep up only by overwhelming their serfs with taxes. Here, on the contrary, a few fools excepted, the seigneurs, almost all of whom have risen from the bourgeoisie, cultivate their lands in common friendship with their tenants, or equip vessels for commerce. And so we see here universal prosperity and affluence in our smiling country.”
Morise— “Aimery, the brother of the Lady of Lavaur, was telling us only yesterday: ‘Languedoc is the envy of all Gaul.’”
Karvel— “By the way of Aimery, is there anything more touching than the unalterable affection that links him to his sister Giraude? When I behold the two enjoying that delicious sentiment I regret all the more the absence of our Mylio, our dearly beloved brother.”
Morise— “Patience! Your brother has a good heart. When the first ardor of youth will have spent itself, he will return to us.”
Karvel— “I never doubted Mylio’s heart. He only yielded to the impetuosity of his age and the vivacity of his nature — to that craving for adventures that, it would seem, asserts itself from time to time in us, the sons of Joel.”
Morise— “Yes; in those legends of your family that we have so often read together we have seen Karadeucq the Bagauder, Ronan the Vagre, Amael, who was the favorite of Charles Martel, all of them, driven, like your brother, to adopt a vagabond life in early youth. I feel quite sure that Mylio will repent his light-headedness, and that we shall see him again.”
Karvel— “One pleasure only our union has until now been deprived of. We have no children. I should have liked to see Mylio married. The stock of Joel might not then run out.”
Morise— “I take charge of his marriage. When your brother comes back to us, he will be able to have his pick among the handsomest girls of Lavaur. Some one of them will know how to pin him down here.”
The door of the chamber is suddenly thrown open, and Karvel’s farmer neighbor enters precipitately, saying:
“Master Karvel, here are Dame Giraude, her brother and her son! They are carrying in their arms a young girl in a faint.”
CHAPTER II.
GIRAUDE OF LAVAUR.
JUST AS THE Perfect is about to step out of the chamber in which he and his wife Morise were discussing the prospects of Mylio, and to render assistance to the guests that were announced, Aimery, his sister Giraude and her son enter, carrying in Florette in a swoon. The Lady of Lavaur and her brother hold the young girl in their arms. Aloys, a lad of fourteen, holds her feet. Florette is gently deposited upon a couch of woven straw. While Morise runs into another room for a cordial, Karvel takes the sweet girl’s pulse. Her dusty clothes and tattered shoes reveal that she walked a long distance. Her forehead is bathed in perspiration. Her face is pale, her respiration troubled.
The Lady of Lavaur, her brother and son group themselves near the couch and await silent and uneasy the words from the lips of the physician. Giraude, who is of the same age as Morise and of striking beauty, is modestly dressed in a robe of green material. An orange-colored coif, from which hangs a white veil that partially covers her face, exposes her two heavy tresses of black hair. Her large and gentle blue eyes, now moistened with a tear, rest upon Florette, whom she contemplates with tender interest.
Aimery is forty years of age, and is dressed in field laborer’s clothes — a broad-brimmed felt hat, a blouse held around his waist by a leather belt, a cloth coat and heavy leather boots. His open, comely, and resolute physiognomy depicts deep concern in the girl’s condition.
Aloys, who is as rustically clad as his mother’s brother, strikingly resembles his parent. The only marked difference is that his youthful face, in contrast to his mother’s, is slightly browned by the sun. The education that his mother gives him is intended to inure the lad to manly and useful work, and to cultivate in him a taste for the same. The boy’s eyes are filled with tears as he contemplates Florette, into whose mouth the physician pours a cordial by introducing the head of a little flask between her lips. The group presents the picture of charming benevolence.
The Lady of Lavaur (holding up Florette’s head, speaks in a low voice to the Perfect and Aimery:)— “Poor child! She does not yet regain consciousness! How pale she is! What a sweet and charming face she has!”
Aimery— “The face of an angel, friend Karvel! What do you think can be the cause of her swoon? Do you think she is in danger?”
Karvel— “I see no trace of a fall or of a wound. The poor girl must have experienced some severe shock, or she may have succumbed to excessive fatigue. (Turning to his wife) Morise, fetch me some fresh water.”
Aloys has frequently been at the Perfect’s. He knows his way in
the house. He anticipates Morise, runs to an earthenware vase, dips out some water into a cup and brings the same to the physician. Touched by the attention of the boy, Karvel turns to Giraude with a look of approbation. The mother kisses her son on the forehead.
“In acting so thoughtfully, my friend, Aloys conducts himself obedient to your instructions. He seeks to be useful to others.”
Florette, whose temples the Perfect moistens with the fresh water that Aloys brought to him and into which he poured a few drops of an elixir, slowly regains consciousness. Her face gradually regains its color. She sighs twice. Presently tears gather slowly under her long eyelashes and she murmurs in a feeble voice:
“Mylio! Mylio! Help! Help!”
Karvel (amazed)— “What is that she says?”
Aimery— “She pronounces your brother’s name; she calls for help.”
Florette raises both her hands to her forehead. A profound silence reigns in the chamber. She sits up on the couch. Her large eyes wander timid and surprised hither and thither, all around her. She gathers her thoughts, and presently, breaking out in tears, she cries in a heart-rending voice:
“Oh! Have mercy! Save Mylio! Save him!”
Karvel (alarmed)— “What great danger does my brother run?”
Florette (clasping her hands)— “Are you Karvel the Perfect, Mylio’s brother?”
Karvel— “Yes; yes. But calm yourself, poor child, and tell me where my brother is. What danger threatens him? Tell us who you are, and how you happen to know my brother.”
Florette— “I am a poor serf of the country of Touraine. Mylio saved my life and my honor. He said to me: ‘Florette, I am going back to Languedoc. During our journey you will be my sister; when we arrive at my brother’s house you will be my wife — I wish him to bless our union.’ Mylio kept his promise. We traveled happy at heart. When we were about five leagues from here—” (sobs smother Florette’s voice; she is unable to utter another word.)
