by George Moore
And they rode on and on through endless aisles, losing heart, for it seemed to them that they were under a spell. At last Madelon cried: somebody is living yonder, for I see a drying shirt, and Abélard answered: a drying shirt is a good token of a man. And they rode towards the shirt, but on their way thither a great dog bounded forward, causing Madelon’s pony to shy violently, bringing down the drying shirt. Whereupon a savage fellow came out of a hole or cavern in the hillside flourishing a great club, causing Madelon’s pony to rear. Abélard cried to him to withhold, but he did not seem to understand and continued to flourish the club. At last the strap that held Madelon to the pillion broke, and at the same moment a woman came from the dwelling-hole towards them, her face aflame, but seeing that her mate was not in danger and that a woman had tumbled heavily, she called the dog off and returned to the cavern for water. The water or the sound of her own language, or both, brought Madelon back to herself, and she murmured thanks in Breton, their common language bringing them into a reconciliation, which was quickly passed on to Héloïse and Abélard. Tell them, said Abélard, that we are on our way to Saint-Jean-de-Bràie and lost our way yesterday in the forest. Tell him that he will be rewarded if he will lead us to the Village we are seeking. The man appeared not to understand Abélard’s French, but as soon as the French was translated into Breton a brighter light broke upon his face, and he seized the bridle of Madelon’s horse and called upon the others to follow him. His house, said Abélard, seems to have been begun by the dislodging of a rock from the hillside, but it must be a poor sort of place to live in; and what his purpose is in living in this wild forest is not clear, for he is not a charcoal-burner, and what other trade may be practised here it is not easy to guess. The woman, said Héloïse, is his wife, but how did he persuade her to follow him? Wherever a man goes he will find a woman to follow him, Madelon answered; and she began to put questions to their guide, and on their way to Saint-Jean-de-Braie they learnt that the man was a wolf-hunter, and on hearing that such was his trade they told Madelon to tell him that they had seen a she-wolf bring her young from the river and lodge them in the bole of a great beech-tree, not far from the sheeling of a whilom charcoal-burner. Tell him, said Héloïse, that it will be a kindness to kill those cubs and save them from a lingering death. But when this message was transmitted to the wolf-hunter a bleakness came into his face, and it was some while before it became clear to them that he was unwilling to kill the cubs. Madelon was bidden to inquire out the reason, and she reported that he was minded not to kill the cubs but to feed them, a gentleness of heart that they did not think to find in the hunter. At which Madelon was charged to return to the Breton language and to keep to it throughout, it being the only language in which he could make plain his reasons for preferring to feed the cubs rather than to kill them, and the story he had to tell, translated from Breton into French by Madelon, was that he owed his appointment to his skill in imitating the cry of the wolf; his business was to counterfeit the wolf from the top of a fir. The cry begins, he said, low down in the throat and rises into the howl that you know of. For a long time I get no answer to my cry; I repeat it now and again from the fir-tree, and sooner or later the wolf prowling in search of lambs or fawns to feed his mate begins to think that she is calling to him for help; and leaving his quest he comes, and the hunters who are stationed at various corners of the wood have fair shots at him as he passes.
Men do strange things for a livelihood, Abélard answered, after having had the story transmitted to him; and in all my travels I have never heard of a stranger way of getting a livelihood. But why will he feed the cubs? Ask him that, Madelon. The wolf-hunter’s answer was that wolves were scarcer now than they were formerly, and that if they continued to lessen in numbers he might lose his job.
CHAP. XVII.
ONCE MORE SAYING that they were weary of their pillions Héloïse and Madelon dismounted, and giving their horses in charge of the guide they walked through the darkening forest, hoping to be safely in the inn at Saint-Jean-de-Braie before the rain fell. The guide seemed doubtful, saying that they might be caught in the first shower of rain, but he hoped, however, to arrive in the village before the storm broke. But thou’lt get the full force of the storm on thy way back, said Abélard, at which the guide smiled vaguely, his shoulders, face and gesture seeming to say that rain could not hurt a serf. A deeper twilight gathered and a faint pattering was heard on the leaves overhead, and the forest, hitherto so morose, seemed to become friendly, even sociable, the pattering seeming to Héloïse like the feet of the fairies. Or the voices of the fairies themselves, Abélard answered. The forest welcomes the rain, he continued; it was parched, and all the young leaves are opening to receive the warm shower: the rain will freshen the waters of the streams and ponds.
A green snake hissed through the grass, showing a beautiful mottled belly as it went by, and a little bird sang despite the rain. A robin, Madelon said, and she began to tell stories; but in answer to the guide, who seemed puzzled at the travellers’ sudden delay, she called upon Héloïse and Abélard to mount their horses. We must hasten, she said, or we shall be caught in all the storm. But the rain is so pleasant to listen to, Abélard answered. The guide warned them that it would be well to get out of the forest before the wind rose, but they took no heed of his warnings till the wind sent down all the rain that had collected in the leaves above them, drenching them to the skin. How far are we now, Abélard asked, from Saint-Jean-de-Braie? The guide answered: less than a third of a league. Anything to be away from those drenching trees, Abélard answered, and the women drew the hoods of their cloaks low down over their faces. But the rain penetrated everywhere, and very soon they began to talk of rain behind their ears, of rain on their necks, of rain flowing down their backs. They seemed to be sitting in water, so they said, and their shoes were filled with rain. My ankles and legs are soaked, there’s no part of me that isn’t wet, Héloïse cried. It matters little how much more falls, for we are as wet as we can be, said Abélard. But ten minutes later Héloïse answered: I am much wetter than I was ten minutes ago, and seem to be getting wetter every moment. I am wetter than I was, he answered, but we are out of the drip of the forest at last and within sight of Saint-Jean-de-Braie. Ask the guide if the inn is a good one; and while Madelon was translating French into Breton and Breton into French again, the trees were again shaken, this time so roughly that it was as if a cistern had been emptied over them. Never were human beings as wet as we, Abélard said; and when they reached the skirts of the forest the rain fell so fiercely that it was hard to force the horses through the downpour.
So a welcome moment it was when the innkeeper came forward to meet them and took charge of the horses, and Abélard, after rewarding the guide with money, and thanking him, followed Héloïse and Madelon into the inn kitchen, where there was a fire burning on a great hearth built into the middle of the floor, the smoke curling and escaping as best it could through a hole in the roof sheltered from the wind by a louvre, a sort of tin screen shapen like a conical hat. And the fire being a big one, they were already enveloped in a cloud of steam, whereupon Abélard warned them of their wanton disregard of their health. God will look after his own, Madelon murmured humbly, and the innkeeper’s wife said: but this kitchen is used by carriers, pedlars and gleemen; and it is in truth no place for such as you, turning to Madelon and Héloïse; nor is it a place for you, reverend sir. Alas there are no guest-chambers, so I will bring the sisters to my room, and you, reverend sir, will dry your garments as best you may before this fire, and make yourself easy on one of the couches. My husband will see you get a good rug and a pillow. And then, turning to Héloïse and Madelon, she said: you will eat something before you lie down to sleep? A little milk is all that I could swallow to-night, said Héloïse; we have come a long way from our convent at Saint-Denis and are too tired to eat, but hope to reach, with God’s good will, a convent of our Order near Nantes. As soon as you see one of my omelets, appetite will come to
you, the innkeeper’s wife answered. To-morrow I will eat an omelet, but to-night I am too tired to eat, Héloïse replied. We have ridden twenty miles through the forest; we were lost in it till we came upon the sheeling of a wolf-hunter, and it was he who led us out of the wilderness. It seemed to her that this was a sufficient account of their journey, but Madelon could not withhold her tongue and began a long narrative, to Héloïse’s great weariness, who was thinking only of when she could rid herself of her clothes and lie down. You too, reverend sir, will sleep better if you have something in your stomach. Abélard promised that he would allow her to cook him an omelet, and she led Héloïse and Madelon to a spiral staircase at the end of the kitchen. In about half-an-hour I shall be with you again, reverend sir, and in this half-hour Abélard stripped himself of all his clothes and laid them out to dry, and was within the sheets of a couch in an alcove before he caught sight of the long, lean shanks of the innkeeper’s wife descending the spiral staircase. You have promised to eat an omelet if I make one, and should it be to your liking, you Will remember me, good father, in your prayers. Like the good sister who has left us, I am too weary to show a good appetite even for your omelet, said Abélard; but I will remember you in my prayers. And he set up a mumble that would pass for a prayer while the innkeeper’s wife prepared the omelet. Your omelet, my good woman, is the tastiest that I have ever eaten, he said. My omelets are liked by all who come hither, she interjected; and he handed her back the empty plate, saying: my prayers to-night will be that God will send you much custom every night of the year, but to-night I would that you lacked some, for your custom is no doubt gleemen, pardoners and carriers, wandering folk that make much noise before getting into their beds. Have no fear lest you should be roused from the sleep you need, she replied; should any vagrant come to our door after dark, he will enter my house under promise that he does not raise his voice above a whisper and draws off his boots noiselessly. Nor delays long between the right and the left boot, said Abélard. We must make the good father easy, she said to her husband, who had just come in from the stables, for he is going to pray that God may have mercy upon my soul, and send us good custom. My soul is as important as thine, the innkeeper grumbled, a small, red-headed man, with weak eyes like a ferret. I have relics that I would show him if he be not too weary, he said. Abelard’s eyes were closing and he was asleep before the innkeeper returned, and the wife began a grumble that the promised prayers were forgotten. But that is no reason why he should not have a pillow and rug, the innkeeper answered, and Abélard slept till the voices of some-gleeman who came in overnight awoke him with talk of distances and loads. The new-comers could not be else than gleemen, for their talk rolled on the money that they might gather from the pilgrims they hoped to meet, but whom they might miss, the forest being well-nigh impassable. The words: heavy muddy roads, reached his ears, and later a river was spoken of which he could not but think was the one by whose banks himself, Héloïse and Madelon had slept. A green, shallow stream, a gleeman said, in dry weather, but rising after rain into a swift race of water. We shall not cross it to-day, nor to-morrow; we should lose our bear and our dogs in the current, and ourselves, mayhap, and the gleemen began to mutter against their evil luck till Héloïse and Madelon stepped down the staircase in garments borrowed from the innkeeper’s wife.
The sight of women restored confidence to the gleemen, and they called to the innkeeper for his permission to train their animals in the kitchen during the afternoon, saying that if the pleasant company assembled cared to reward the animals with a small coin or two, the animals and their owners would be grateful. The innkeeper laughed and shrugged his shoulders for answer, saying from the foot of the stairs that they might train their animals, but his guests must not be pestered nor asked to move out of their places, and of all, he would have no hat going round his inn kitchen. We are not bullies or cut-purses, the gleemen answered, whereupon the false friar and his nuns retired into a distant corner to read their breviaries and watch the performance furtively till the company in the kitchen became oppressive, which it did during the course of the afternoon. The rain has stopped, or nearly stopped, Héloïse said; let us get a mouthful of fresh air or I choke. And rising to their feet they went towards the door, Abélard rewarding the vagrants with some money, hoping thus to gain their good will and courtesy. As they passed out the innkeeper and his wife warned the friar and his nuns that the rain had not stopped and would begin before long to fall heavily as before, but Abélard answered: we must get a breath of fresh air, and will go no farther than the stables. The talk of the ostlers will be a change from the talk we have been hearing all the morning, he whispered to Héloïse, who was asking for bread for their horses, and when the bread was eaten, naught remained but to return to the kitchen or follow the single street which seemed to be the entire village. The dropping chestnut-trees with all their standing bloom seem to lament the bad weather, Héloïse said; how sad they are under the low sky — Like the lid of a pan, Madelon interjected, with the pan simmering underneath it. For the life of you look at the rain jumping out of the puddles. We shall be wet to our skins. But neither Héloïse nor Abélard could return to the kitchen. We must go to the end of the street, said Abélard, and at the end of the avenue they found other streets striking right and left; and it was while standing in the middle of these, asking each other how it would be to hire a house and live all their lives in Saint-Jean-de-Braie, that the rain began to fall, very dree, straight through the still air without mercy for man or beast. From the eaves, from the gutters between the low gables it flowed, making the street look like a brook, said Abélard. It will be no use taking shelter in a doorway, sooner or later we shall have to run to our inn. Summer rain hurts nobody, cried Madelon. Abélard answered that the innkeeper’s wife would not be able to provide them with a second change. But if we hasten we shall escape a soaking, Héloïse replied, as she ran down the street past the patient cattle come under the chestnut-trees for shelter.
Everybody was running for shelter, any porch, any door; and on returning to the inn they perceived some newcomers, wet and miserable as themselves, crowding round the hearth drying their clothes. One of these arrived at the same moment as themselves, and after shaking himself like a dog who has been into a river, he began to unstrap his pack, his goods, which were many, making a fine show upon the floor. Now I would that all here should cast an eye over the good things that I bring you, he said; for all that you see is of the best quality, and all were made in the fair land of France, which is enough guarantee for everything that you may be minded to buy. You all lack something, and here you will find everything you lack. All of the best quality, I say again, for everything you see was made in the fair land of France, and all things made in France are the best in the world. Let not the evil luck I met with in the forest follow me into this fine kitchen, where I am glad to be, though it would have been better for me if the sun were shining, for the sun brings us all out of our houses, and the women of this village, were they to see it, would not leave any of this fine thread for the next village, nor any of these needles, the finest I have ever known, and I have been on the road these thirty years.
A thick-set man he was, whose bulk and build may have inspired the belief in him that he had been cast for a pedlar’s life, and Abélard began to look upon his cozening talk and self-depreciation as a concomitant of his trade. The lads of this village will find knives, he continued, of all kinds and sorts in my pack; all blades and handles; little knives handy to cut a goose quill into a pen, long-bladed knives to slice up a loaf or a cheese with, sheath knives to wear in your girdles to put a robber to flight with, knives that a girl can defend herself with when her lover begins to handle her knees; knives, knives, knives, and girdles too. Girdles and gloves for wenches and wives, all things that you need you will find in my pack; tell me what you lack, girls and boys, tell me what you lack. Now, gentle sir, what will you give to your lady? A comb for her hair, a purse for her girdle, a ring for he
r finger, a brooch for her bosom? And if none of these suit you, I will return to-morrow with a little dog, who will love her as dearly as you do, sir, for dogs love their mistresses, and your lady would like a small, gentle dog to keep her company when a bad cold is upon her, for I can see the lady there is sniffing; three times has she sneezed, and a finer neckerchief than this she will not find to wear, and as long as she wears it no cold will dare to attack her, for it has been blessed by many a holy man, and the blessing and the quality of the silk will keep her from colds for evermore. The ladies to whom thou speakest, pedlar, Abélard answered, are nuns dressed in the casual raiment of the innkeeper’s wife; we all came last night soused to the skin after a long journey through the forest. Take no offence, good sir, said the pedlar, for I only know a nun by her habit; and if the nuns that wear the clothes that have been lent to them would like a scapular or a rosary, I can let them have either at a fair price. My goods are cheaper than those sold by any other pedlar on the road. But nuns, reverend father, have nieces, and I would offer the nuns silk coifs for their nieces. You too, reverend sir, have nieces, and here is a fine comb of tortoise-shell. I will have thy tortoise-shell comb, pedlar, Abélard replied, for my niece whom I shall meet at Tours; meanwhile, I will give it in charge of the good sister whom I am conducting thither. No fault have I to find; but thanks, thanks, thanks, the customer is never wrong, never, he cried, as he wrapped the comb in a parcel, which Abélard handed to Héloïse. The man speaks well, he said in Latin, and a moment after, in French: there is a hoarseness in your throat, sister; get you to your bed, for should a sudden illness fall upon you we are undone. I had counted to reach Orléans to-morrow. You speak wise words, reverend sir, Madelon answered. I will see that our sister keeps to her bed and has plenty of warm drinks. With the help of these and God’s help she will be able to travel to-morrow. Whereupon the women withdrew to the staircase, and were about to mount it when another arrival stayed them, one who looked as if he had come a long way, some five and twenty miles; more than that, maybe, so wearily did he let down his pack. But he had not laboured in vain, for he had come upon generous pilgrims who had money and had purchased something, if no more than a little dust from the bones of the saints, some teeth that they had shed, some parings of their nails, some hair from their heads and beards.
