START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PONIARD'S HILT*** E-text prepared by Chuck Greif and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from scanned images of public domain material generously made available by the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com/) Note: Images of the original pages are available through the the Google Books Library Project. See http://books.google.com/books?vid=kNMrAAAAMAAJ&id THE PONIARD'S HILT * * * * * THE FULL SERIES OF The Mysteries of the People OR History of a Proletarian Family Across the Ages By EUGENE SUE _Consisting of the Following Works:_ THE GOLD SICKLE; or, _Hena the Virgin of the Isle of Sen_. THE BRASS BELL; or, _The Chariot of Death_. THE IRON COLLAR; or, _Faustine and Syomara_. THE SILVER CROSS; or, _The Carpenter of Nazareth_. THE CASQUE'S LARK; or, _Victoria, the Mother of the Camps_. THE PONIARID'S HILT; or, _Karadeucq and Ronan_. THE BRANDING NEEDLE; or, The _Monastery of Charolles_. THE ABBATIAL CROSIER; or, _Bonaik and Septimine_. THE CARLOVINGIAN COINS; or, _The Daughters of Charlemagne_. THE IRON ARROW-HEAD; or, _The Buckler Maiden_. THE INFANT'S SKULL; or, _The End of the World_. THE PILGRIM'S SHELL; or, _Fergan the Quarryman_. THE IRON PINCERS; or, _Mylio and Karvel_. THE IRON TREVET; or Jocelyn the Champion. THE EXECUTIONER'S KNIFE; or, Joan of Arc. THE POCKET BIBLE; or, _Christian the Printer_. THE BLACKSMITH'S HAMMER; or, _The Peasant Code_. THE SWORD OF HONOR; or, _The Foundation of the French Republic_. THE GALLEY SLAVE'S RING; or, _The Family Lebrenn_. Published Uniform With This Volume By THE NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO. 28 CITY HALL PLACE NEW YORK CITY * * * * * THE PONIARD'S HILT Or Karadeucq and Ronan A Tale of Bagauders and Vagres by EUGENE SUE Translated from the Original French by Daniel De Leon New York Labor News Company, 1907 Copyright, 1908, by the New York Labor News Co. INDEX. TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 3 PART I. THE KORRIGANS. CHAP. I. ARAIM 9 II. FAIRIES AND HOBGOBLINS 15 III. HEVIN, THE PEDDLER 25 IV. OFF TO THE BAGAUDY! 37 PART II. THE VAGRES. CHAP. I. "WOLVES'-HEADS" 45 II. BISHOP AND COUNT 49 III. AT THE CHAPEL OF ST. LOUP 61 IV. THE DEMONS! THE DEMONS! 66 V. VAGRES IN JUDGMENT 71 VI. TO THE FASTNESS OF ALLANGE 85 VII. THE VAGRES AT FEAST 101 VIII. THE MIRACLE OF ST. MARTIN 107 IX. LOYSIK AND RONAN 114 X. THE MIRACLE OF ST. CAUTIN 129 PART III. THE BURG OF NEROWEG. CHAP. I. LEUDES AT HOME 139 II. THE MAHL 151 III. THE SPECTRE OF WISIGARDE 161 IV. THE LION OF POITIERS 170 V. IN THE TREASURE-CHAMBER 184 VI. THE BEAR OF MONT-DORE 194 VII. IN THE ERGASTULA 203 VIII. IN THE BANQUET HALL 211 IX. THE RESCUE 235 X. COUNT AND VAGRE 242 PART IV. GHILDE. CHAP. I. AT THE HEARTH OF JOEL 251 II. ON THE HILL NEAR MARCIGNY 258 III. THE DEATH OF CHRAM 272 EPILOGUE 281 TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE The invasion of Gaul by Clovis introduced feudalism in France, which is equivalent to saying in Europe, France being the teeming womb of the great historic events of that epoch. It goes without saying that so vast a social system as that of feudalism could not be perfected in a day, or even during one reign. Indeed, generations passed, and it was not until the Age of Charlemagne that feudalism can be said to have taken some measure of shape and form. Between the Ages of Clovis and Charlemagne a period of turbulence ensued altogether peculiar to the combined circumstances that feudalism was forced to struggle with two foes--one internal, the disintegrating forces that ever accompany a new movement; the other external, the stubborn and inspiring resistance, on the part of the native masses, to the conqueror from the wilds of Germania. Historians, with customary levity, have neglected to reproduce this interesting epoch in the annals of that social structure that is mother to the social structure now prevalent. The task was undertaken and successfully accomplished by Eugene Sue in this boisterous historic novel entitled _The Poniard's Hilt; or, Karadeucq and Ronan_, the sixth of his majestic series of historic novels, _The Mysteries of the People; or, History of a Proletarian Family Across the Ages_. The leading characters are all historic. It required the genius, the learning, the poetry, the tact, withal the daring of a Sue to weave these characters into a fascinating tale and draw a picture as vivid as the quartos, from which the facts are gathered, are musty with old age. DANIEL DE LEON. January, 1908. PART I THE KORRIGANS CHAPTER I. ARAIM. Occasionally they are long-lived, these descendants of the good Joel, who, five hundred and fifty years ago and more lived in this identical region, near the sacred stones of the forest of Karnak. Yes, the descendants of the good Joel are, occasionally, long-lived, seeing that I, Araim, who to-day trace these lines in the seventy-seventh year of my life, saw my grandfather Gildas die fifty-six years ago at the advanced age of ninety-six, after having inscribed in his early youth a few lines in our family archives. My grandfather Gildas buried his son Goridek, my father. I was then ten years old. Nine years later I lost my grandfather also. A few years after his demise I married. I have survived my wife, Martha, and I have seen my son Jocelyn become, in turn, a father. To-day he has a daughter and two boys. The girl is called Roselyk, she is eighteen; the elder of the two boys, Kervan, is three years his sister's senior; the younger, my pet, Karadeucq, is seventeen. When you read these lines, as you will some day, my son Jocelyn, you will surely ask: "What can have been the reason that my great-grandfather Gildas made no other entry in our chronicles than the death of his father Amael? And what can be the reason that my grandfather Goridek wrote not a line? And, finally, what can be the reason that my own father, Araim, waited so long--so very long before fulfilling the wishes of the good Joel?" To that, my son, I would make this answer: Your great-grandfather had no particular liking for desks and parchments. Besides, very much after the style of his own father Amael, he liked to postpone for to-morrow whatever he could avoid doing to-day. For the rest, his life of a husbandman was neither less peaceful nor less industrious than that of our fathers since the return of Schanvoch to the cradle of our family, after such a very long line of generations, kept away from Armorica by the hard trials and the slavery that followed in the wake of the Roman conquest. Your great-grandfather was in the habit of saying to my father: "There will always be time for me to add a few lines to our family's narrative; besides, it seems to me, and I admit the notion is foolish, that to write 'I have lived', sounds very much like saying 'I am about to die'--Now, then, I am so happy that I cling to life, just as oysters do to their rocks." And so it came about that, from to-morrow to to-morrow, your great-grandfather reached his ninety-sixth year without increasing the history of our family with a single word. When he lay on his deathbed he said to me: "My child, I wish you to write the following lines for me in our archives: "'My grandfather Gildas and my father Goridek lived in our house quietly and happy, like good husbandmen; they remained true to their love for old Gaul and to the faith of our fathers; they blessed Hesus for having allowed them to be born and to die in the heart of Britanny, the only province where, for so very many years, the shocks that have elsewhere shaken Gaul have hardly ever been felt--those shocks died out before the impregnable frontiers of Breton Armorica, as the furious waves of our ocean dash themselves at the feet of our granite rocks.'" That, then, my son Jocelyn, is the reason why neither your grandfather Goridek nor his father wrote a line themselves. "And why," you will insist, "did you, Araim, my father, why did you wait so long, until you had a son and grandchildren, before you paid your tribute to our chronicle?" There are two reasons for that: the first is that I never had enough to say; the second is that I would have had too much to write. "Oh!" you will be thinking when you read this. "His advanced age has deranged old Araim's mind. He says in one breath that he had too much and too little to say. Is that sensible?" Wait a moment, my son; be not in a hurry to believe that your old father has fallen into his second infancy. Listen, and you will discover how it is that I have at once too much and not enough to write upon. As to what concerns my own life, being an old husbandman, I have been in the same predicament as my ancestors since Schanvoch--there never was sufficient matter for me to write about. Indeed, the interesting and charming narrative would have run somewhat after this fashion: "Last year the autumn crop was richer than the winter crop; this year it is the reverse." Or, "The large black cow yields daily six pints of milk more than the brindled cow." Or, "The January sheep have turned out more woolly than the sheep of last March." Or, "Last year grain was so dear, so very dear, that a 'muid' of old wheat sold at from twelve to thirteen deniers. The price of cattle and poultry is also on the upward tack: we now pay two gold sous for a draft ox, one gold sou for a milch-cow, six gold sous for a draft horse." Or, "Will not our descendants be delighted to know that in these days a pig, if good and fat, fetches twelve deniers in autumn, which is neither more nor less than the cost of a bell-wether? And will they not rejoice to learn that our last coop of one hundred fat geese was sold last winter at the market of Vannes for a full pound of silver by the weight? And imagine how well posted they will feel when they learn that the day-laborers whom we hire during harvest time are paid by us one denier a day." That would hardly be considered either a charming or a thrilling narrative. On the other hand, would our descendants feel more elated if I were to tell them: "That in which my pride lies is the knowledge that there is no better field-laborer than my son Jocelyn, no better housekeeper than his wife Madalen, no sweeter creature than my granddaughter Roselyk, no handsomer and more daring lads than my two grandsons, Kervan and Karadeucq--especially the latter, the youngest of the set, my own pet!--a very demon for deviltry, bravery and attractiveness. One should see him, at seventeen years of age, break in the wild colts of our meadows, dive into the sea like a fish, not lose an arrow out of ten when he shoots at the sea-gulls on the wing, along the beach, during a storm--or handling the 'pen-bas,' our redoubtable Breton stick! Five or six soldiers armed with lances or swords would find more sores than pleasure if they rubbed against my Karadeucq with his 'pen-bas.' He is so robust, so agile, so dexterous! And then, he is so handsome, with his beautiful blond hair cut round and falling over the collar of his Gallic blouse; his eyes of the blue of heaven, and his stout cheeks tanned by the wind of the fields and the breeze of the sea!" No! By the glorious bones of old Joel. No! He could not have been prouder of his three sons--Guilhern the field-laborer, Michael the armorer, and Albinik the mariner; or of his daughter Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen--a now deserted island that, at this moment, looking out at the window, I see yonder, far away, almost in the open sea, veiled in mist. No! The good Joel could not be any prouder of his family than I, old Araim, am of my grandchildren! But the sons of Joel either fought valiantly for freedom or remained dead on the battlefield; and his daughter Hena, whose saintly and sweet name is sung to this day and has come down from century to century, disinterestedly laid her life on the altars of Hesus for the welfare of her country, while the children of my son will die, obscure like their father, in this corner of Gaul. At least they will die free! The barbarous Franks have twice dashed forward as far as the frontiers of our Britanny, but never dared to enter it; our impenetrable forests, our bottomless marshes, our inaccessible and rocky mountains, above all our sturdy men, quickly up and in arms in response to the call of our ever-beloved druids, the Christian as well as the non-Christian druids, have rolled back the Frankish marauders, who, however, have rendered themselves masters of our other provinces since nearly fifteen years ago. Alas! After nearly two centuries, the gloomy prophecy of the foster sister of our ancestor Schanvoch has been verified. Victoria the Great predicted it but too accurately. Long ago did the Franks pour over our frontier of the Rhine; they have since spread themselves over the whole of Gaul and subjugated the land--except our Breton Armorica. These are the reasons why old Araim believed that neither as a father nor a Breton did his obscure happiness deserve to be chronicled in our family records, and these are the reasons why, alas! he had too much to write as a Gaul. Is not the account of the defeat, the shame, the renewed slavery of our common country, too much to write about, although we here in Britanny are ourselves free from the misfortunes that overwhelm our brothers elsewhere? "But," meseems I hear you, my son Jocelyn, still insist, "why should old Araim, who has too little or too much to say, why should he begin his narrative to-day, rather than yesterday, or why did he not postpone starting to write until to-morrow?" This is my answer, my son: Read the narrative that I am now writing on that winter's evening when you, your wife and your children will gather by the fire in the large hall of our farmhouse and await the return of my pet Karadeucq, who left for the chase early in the morning promising to bring home a stag. Read this narrative, it will recall to your mind the family gathering of the previous evening, my son Jocelyn--it will also inform you of something that you do not know. You will not thereafter ask again: "Why did good Araim start this narrative to-day, and not yesterday?" CHAPTER II. FAIRIES AND HOBGOBLINS. The January snow and hail are falling in torrents; the wind moans; at a distance the sea roars and dashes inshore as far as the sacred stones of Karnak. It is only four o'clock in the afternoon, and yet it is night to all intents and purposes; the warmly stalled cattle are locked in; the gates of the farmyard are closed tightly out of fear of prowling wolves; a large fire shoots up its flames in the fireplace of the hall; old Araim is seated in his armchair, at the chimney-corner, with his large grey dog, its head streaked with the white of old age, stretched out at his feet. The old man is at work on a net for fishing; his son Jocelyn is fashioning a plough handle; Kervan is adjusting new thongs to a yoke; Karadeucq is sharpening the points of his arrows on a flint-stone. The tempest will last till morning if not longer, because the sun went down like a ball of fire behind thick black clouds that wreathed the isle of Sen like a dense fog. Whenever the sun sets in that fashion and the wind blows from the west the tempest lasts two, three, sometimes four and five days. The next morning Karadeucq will be out on the beach to shoot sea-gulls while they graze with their wings the still raging waves. It is the lad's amusement--my pet is such a skilful and expert archer! The sea roars from the distance like rumbling thunder; the house rocks in the gale; the hail is heard clattering in the chimney. Roar, tempest! Blow, sea gale! Drop, both snow and hail! Ah! How good it feels to hear the ice-laden blast thunder, when one sees his family merrily gathered in the house around a blazing fireplace! And then, the young lads and their sister whisper things to one another that make them shiver and smile at once. For it does, indeed, look as if during the last century all the hobgoblins and all the fairies of Gaul have taken refuge in Britanny. Is it not a positive pleasure to hear tell during a tempest and by the fire those wonders to which one gives a lingering credence if one has not seen them himself, and more so if one has seen them? This is what the young folks are saying to one another. My grandson Kervan starts the ball rolling as he shakes his head: "The traveler who has lost his way and who should happen to pass to-night by the cavern of Pen-March will hear the hammers clang--" "Yes, the hammers that beat in time while the devilish hammerers themselves sing their song, the burden of which ever is: 'One, two, three, four, five, six, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday--'" "And it is said they even add 'Thursday,' 'Friday' and 'Saturday,' but never 'Sunday,' the day of the mass--of the Christians." "And the traveler may prize himself happy if the little Dus do not drop their false coiners' hammers and start to dance, compelling him to join in their reel until death closes upon him." "What dangerous demons those Dus must be, dwarfs no taller than barely two feet high! Meseems I see them, with their hairy and shriveled faces, their cats' claws, their goats' hoofs and their eyes flashing fire. The bare thought of them is enough to make one shiver." "Look out, Roselyk! There is one under the bin. Look out!" "How imprudent you are, brother Karadeucq, to sport in that way over the Dus! Those hobgoblins are spiteful things. I tremble when I think of them." "As for me, were I to come across a band of these customers, I would capture two or three brace of them, I would tie them together by the legs like partridges--and off I would make with them--" "Oh! You, Karadeucq, are not afraid of anything." "Justice should be done the little Dus. Although they do coin false money in the cavern of Pen-March, they are said to be excellent blacksmiths, and matchless in the shoeing of horses." "Yes, you may rely on that! From the moment a horse has been shod by those devilish dwarfs, he shoots fire out of his nostrils; and as to running--as to running without ever stopping for breath--either night or day--to even take a look at his rider--" "Children, what a tempest! What a night!" "Fine night for the little Dus, mother! They love storms and darkness! But it is a bad night for the poor little Korrigans, who love only the mild nights of the month of May." "Certes, I am dreadfully afraid of the hairy and clawy dwarfs with their purses full of false coin dangling from their belts and their blacksmith's hammers on their shoulders. But I would be still more afraid if I were to run across a Korrigan, only two feet high, combing her hair, and looking at herself in some secluded fountain, in the clear water of which she is admiring those blonde tresses that they are so proud of." "What! Afraid of those pretty little fairies, brother Kervan! I, on the contrary, have often tried to meet one of them. It is said positively that they assemble at the fountain of Lyrwac'h-Hen, which lies in the thickest of the large oak forest that shades several druid stones. I have gone thither three times--and all the three times I saw nothing--" "Luckily for you that you saw nothing Karadeucq, because it is said that the Korrigans never meet for their nocturnal dances except near the sacred stones. Woe to him who sees them!" "I gather that they are expert musicians and that they sing like nightingales." "It is also said of them that they like to pilfer food like cats. Yes, Karadeucq, you may laugh--but you should believe me; I am no fibber," observed his sister indignantly. "I have heard the rumor that at their nocturnal feasts they spread upon the sward, but always near a fountain, a cloth white as snow, and woven of the dainty thread that we find in summer on the meadows. In the very center of the cloth they place a crystal cup that shines so brightly, so very brightly, that it serves the fairies for a torch. People add that a single drop of the liquid in the cup would make one as wise as God." "And what do the Korrigans eat on that table cloth as white as snow? Do you know, Karadeucq, you who love them so much?" "The dear little darlings! It can not be costly to nourish their rosy and transparent bodies that are hardly two feet high. Sister Roselyk says they are gourmands. What is it they eat? The juice of night flowers, served upon gold grass blades?" "Gold grass blades? That superb grass that, if you step upon it, puts you to sleep and imparts to you the knowledge of the language of birds--" "And what do the Korrigans drink?" "The dew of heaven in the azure shell of wrens' eggs--what boozers they are! But at the slightest sound of human feet--off they vanish. They vanish into the fountain and return to their crystal and coral palace at the bottom of the water. It is to the end of being able to escape quickly the sight of men that they always stay near the water. Oh, the pretty little fairies! I would give my best bow and twenty arrows, I would give all my fishing nets, I would give ten years, twenty years of my life to see a Korrigan!" "Karadeucq, my son, make not such impious vows on such a stormy night as this--it may bring ill luck--I have never heard the enraged sea roar like this--it sounds like thunder--" "Good mother, I would brave murky darkness, tempest and thunder to see a Korrigan!" "Hold your tongue, rash boy, hold your tongue--do not say such words!" "What a bold and venturesome lad you are, my boy!" "Grandfather, you should join us in scolding my brother Karadeucq instead of encouraging him in his dangerous wishes. Do you not know--" "What, my blonde Roselyk?" "Alas! grandfather, the Korrigans steal the children of poor mothers and put little monsters in their place. The song so has it--" "Let's hear that song, my little Roselyk." "It runs this way, grandfather: "Mary is very sad; she has lost her little Laoik; the Korrigan snatched him away. "As I went to the spring for water I left my Laoik in his cradle; when I came back to the house, my little one was gone far away. "And in its place the Korrigan left me this monster--with a face as red as a toad's; he scratches and bites. "And all day he wants to be nursed, and yet he is seven years old--and yet he wants to be nursed. "Mary is very sad; she has lost her little Laoik; the Korrigan snatched him away! "That is the song, grandfather. And will brother still want to meet the wicked things, these Korrigan fairies who snatch away babes?" "What have you now to say in defense of your fairies, my pet?" "Grandfather, my sweet sister Roselyk has been imposed upon by evil tongues. All mothers with ugly urchins for children declare that the Korrigans substituted a little monster for their darling." "Well answered, my grandson!" "And, on my part, I maintain that the Korrigans are, on the contrary, sweet and serviceable. Do you know the valley of Helle?" "Yes, my dare-devil." "One time the finest hay in the world was to be got in that valley-- "'Hay from Helle, perfumed hay.'" "Well, that was thanks to the Korrigans--" "Indeed? Tell me how--" "When the time for mowing and haymaking came around, the Korrigans arrived and camped on the crests of the rocks around the valley to watch over the meadow. If during the day the sun parched the grass too much, the Korrigans caused a plentiful dew to drop. When the grass was mowed, they scattered the clouds that might have interfered with the making of hay. A foolish and wicked bishop wanted to chase away the pretty and kind fairies. He caused a large heather fire to be kindled early one night all over the rocks; when these were sufficiently hot, the ashes, were all carefully removed. At their regular hour, and suspecting nothing, the dear Korrigans came to hold watch over the meadow, but they instantly burned their feet on the hot rocks. They then wept and cried: 'Oh! Wicked world! Oh! Wicked world!' Since then they never more returned to the place, and as a consequence, ever since, the hay has been either rotted by the rain, or burned by the sun in the valley of Helle. That is what comes of being unkind to the Korrigans. No, I shall not die happy if I do not see at least one of them--" "Children, children, put no faith in such witcheries; above all never wish to witness any. It brings bad luck--" "What, mother, simply because I desire to see a Korrigan, some misfortune will befall me? What kind of misfortune?" "Hesus only knows, wild boy! I wish you would keep still; your talk frightens me." "What a tempest! The house shakes!" "And it is on such a night that Karadeucq dared to say he would give his life to see a Korrigan." "Come, dear wife, your fears only show weakness." "Mothers are weak and timid, Jocelyn. We must not tempt God--" Old Araim stops working for a moment at his net; his head drops on his chest. "What is the matter, folks? You seem to be in a brown study! Do you fear, like Madalen, that danger may threaten Karadeucq just because, on such a tempestuous night as this, he wishes to see a Korrigan?" "I am not thinking of the fairies; I am thinking of this frightful storm, Jocelyn. I read to you and your children the narrative of our ancestor Joel, who lived about five hundred and odd years ago, if not in this very house, at least in the neighborhood of where we now are. I was thinking that on a somewhat similar stormy night, Joel and his son, both greedy after stories like the inquisitive Gauls that they were--" "Did the trick of stopping a traveler at the pass of Craig'h, binding him fast, and carrying him home to tell stories--" "And the traveler happened to be the Chief of the Hundred Valleys--a hero!" "Oh! Oh! How your eyes sparkle as you speak, Karadeucq." "If they sparkle, grandfather, it is because they are moist. Whenever I hear you speak of the Chief of the Hundred Valleys tears come to my eyes." "What is the matter with Erer, father? The dog growls between his teeth and pricks up his ears." "Grandfather, do you hear the watchdog bark?" "Something must be going on outside of the house--" "Alas! If it is the gods who wish to punish my son for his audacious wishes, their anger is swift--Karadeucq, come near me." "What! Madalen--there you are weeping and embracing the boy, as if really misfortune threatened him. Come, be more sensible!" "Do you not hear the dogs barking louder and louder? And there is Erer now running to the door. There is something wrong going on outside--" "Fear not, mother; it is some wolf prowling about. Where is my bow?" "Karadeucq, you stay here--" "Dear Madalen, be not in such fear for your son, nor you my sweet Roselyk for your brother. Perhaps it is better not to challenge the hobgoblins and fairies on a stormy night, but your fears are idle. There is no wolf prowling about here; if there were, Erer would long ago have bitten off the panel of the door and rushed to the encounter of the unwelcome guest--" "Father is right--it may be a stranger who lost his way." "Come, Kervan, come brother, let's to the gate of the yard." "My son, you stay here by my side--" "But, mother, I cannot allow my brother Kervan to go out alone." "Hark! Hark! It seems to me I hear a voice calling--" "Alas! mother, some misfortune threatens our house--you said it--" "Roselyk, my child, do not add fuel to your mother's fright. What is there astonishing in a traveler calling from without to have the door opened to him--" "His cries are not human--I am frozen with fear--" "You come with me, Kervan, seeing that your mother wishes to keep Karadeucq near her. Although this is a quiet neighborhood, hand me my 'pen-bas,' and take yours along, my boy." "My husband, my son, I conjure you, do not go out--" "Dear wife, suppose some stranger is outside in such weather as this! Come Kervan!" "Alas! I tell you the cries that I heard are not human. Kervan! Jocelyn! They will not listen--they are gone--Alas! Alas!" "My father and brother go out to face danger, and I remain here--" "Do not stamp your feet that way, bad boy! You are the cause of all this evil with your impious wishes--" "Calm yourself, Madalen--and you, my pet, do not put on, if you please, the air of a wild colt that seeks to snap his reins; just obey your mother." "I hear steps--they are drawing near--Oh! grandfather!" "Well, my dear Roselyk, why tremble? What is there frightful in the steps that are approaching? Good--do you hear them laughing aloud? Are you now at ease?" "Laughing!--on such a night!" "It is frightful to hear, is it not, my sweet Roselyk, especially when the laughers are your own father and brother? Well--here they are. Well, my children?" "The misfortune that threatened our house--" "The cries that were not human--" "Will you be done laughing? Just look at them! The father is as crazy as the son! Will you speak?" "The great misfortune is a poor peddler who lost his way--" "The voice that was not human was his voice--" And father and son laughed merrily, it must be admitted, like people who are happy to find their apprehensions unfounded. The mother's fears, however, were not so quickly allayed; she did not join the laughter; but both the boys, the girl and even Jocelyn himself, all cried out joyously: "A peddler! A peddler!" "He has pretty ribbons and fine needles." "Iron for arrows, strings for bows, scissors to clip the sheep." "Nets for fishing, seeing that he comes to the seashore." "He will tell us the news of outlying places." "But where is he? Where is the good peddler that Hesus sends to us to help enliven this long winter's night?" "What a happiness to be able to see all his merchandise at one's ease!" "But where is he? Where is he?" "He is shaking off the ice that his clothes are frozen stiff with." "Good mother, now see the misfortune that threatened us because I wished to see a Korrigan!" "Be still, son! To-morrow rests with God!" "Here is the peddler! Here he is!" CHAPTER III. HEVIN THE PEDDLER. The man who stepped into the house gave at the threshold a last shake to his traveling boots, which were so covered with snow that he seemed to be clad in white hose. He was of a robust frame, but squat and square, in the full strength of manhood, jovial and of an open yet determined face. Still uneasy, Madalen did not take her eyes from him, and twice she made a sign to her son to return to her side. Removing the hood from his thick, ice-pearled coat, the peddler laid down his bulky bale, a heavy burden that, however, seemed light to his sturdy shoulders. He then removed his cap and stepped towards Araim, the oldest member of the household: "Long life and happy days to hospitable people! This is Hevin the Peddler's wish to yourself and your family. I am a Breton. I was going to Falgoët, when the night and the tempest overtook me on the beach. I saw the light of this house from a distance; I came, I called, and the door was opened to me. Thanks to you all, thanks to hospitable people!" "Madalen, what gives you that absent and pensive look? Do not the peddler's pleasant face and kind words set you at ease?" "Father, to-morrow rests with God--I feel all the more uneasy since the stranger's arrival." "Speak lower, lower still, dear daughter. The poor fellow might overhear you and be grieved. Oh! these mothers! these mothers!" And addressing the stranger: "Draw near the fire, you sturdy peddler. The night is rough. Karadeucq, while we wait for supper, fetch a pot of hydromel for our guest." "I accept, good old man! The fire will warm me from without, the hydromel from within." "You seem to be a gay stroller." "So I am. Joy is my companion; however long or rough my road may be, joy never tires of following me." "Here--drink--" "Your health, good mother and sweet girl; to the health of you all--" And clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth: "This is the best hydromel I ever tasted. A cordial hospitality renders the best of potions still better." "Do you come from afar, gay stroller?" "Do you mean since I started this morning or since the beginning of my journey?" "Yes, since the beginning of your journey." "It is now two months since I departed from Paris." "From the city of Paris?" "Does that surprise you, good old man?" "What! Cross half Gaul in such times as these, when the cursed Franks overrun the country?" "I am an old roadster. For the last twenty years I have crossed Gaul from end to end. Is the main road hazardous, I take the by-path. Is the plain risky, I go over the mountain. Is it dangerous to travel by day, I journey by night." "And have you not been rifled a hundred times by those thievish Franks?" "I am an old roadster, I tell you. Accordingly, before entering Britanny, I bravely donned a priest's robe, and painted on my pack a big cross with flames red as hell-fire. The Frankish thieves are as stupid as they are savage; they fear the devil, whom the bishops frighten them with in order to share with them the spoils of Gaul. They would not dare to attack me, taking me for a priest." "Come, supper is ready--to table," said old Araim; and addressing his son's wife, who continued to give signs of preoccupation, he said to her in a low voice: "What is the matter, Madalen? Are you still thinking of the Korrigans?" "This stranger who disguises himself in the robe of a priest without being one will bring misfortune over our house. The tempest's fury seems to have redoubled since he came in." It is an impossible thing to allay a mother's apprehensions once they are aroused. The family and the guest sat down to table, ate and drank. The peddler drank and ate like a man to whom the road imparts a good appetite. The jaws did their ample duty; teeth and tongues played their parts well; the family was in good spirits. It is not every long winter's night that one has a peddler from Paris in his company. "And what is going on in Paris, brave roadster?" "The most satisfactory thing that I have seen in the city was the burying of the King of the cursed Franks!" "Ah! Is their King dead?" "He died more than two months ago--on the 25th of November of last year, of the year 512 of the 'Incarnation of the Word,' as the bishops say who blessed and gave sepulchre to the crowned murderer in the basilica of the Holy Apostles at Paris." "Ah! He is dead, that Frankish King! And what was his name?" "He had a devil of a name, Hlode-Wig." "It must choke one to pronounce it--" "Hlode-Wig was his name. His wife, whom they call the Queen, is no less happily endowed--her name is Chrotechild--and her four children are named Chlotachaire, Theudeber--" "Enough! Friend peddler! A truce of those savage names! Those who wear them are worthy of them." "Right you are, as you may judge by the deceased Hlode-Wig, or Clovis, as he is popularly pronounced; and his family bids fair to surpass even him. Imagine gathered in that monster, whom St. Remi baptised a son of the Church--imagine gathered in that one monster the cunning of the fox and the cowardly ferocity of the wolf. To enumerate to you the murders that he committed with his dagger or his axe would take too long. I shall only mention some of the leading ones. An old Frankish chief, a hunchback named Sigebert, was King of Cologne. This is the way these bandits become Kings: they pillage and ravage a province at the head of a band, massacre or sell like so many heads of cattle men, women and children, reduce the rest of the inhabitants to slavery, and then they say: 'Here we are Kings'; the bishops echo back: 'Yes, our friends the Franks are Kings here; we shall baptize them into the Church; and you, people of Gaul, obey them or we will damn you!" "And has there never been found any courageous man to plant a dagger in the heart of such a King?" "Karadeucq, my pet, do not heat yourself in that manner. Thanks to God, that Clovis is dead. That is, at any rate, one less. Proceed, good peddler!" "Well, as I was saying, Sigebert the hunchback was King of Cologne. He had a son. Clovis said to him: 'Your father is old--kill him and you will inherit his power.' The son sympathized with the idea and killed his father. And what does Clovis do but kill the parricide and appropriate the kingdom of Cologne!" "You shudder, my children! I can well imagine it. Such are the new Kings of Gaul!" "What, you shudder, my hosts, at so little? Only wait. Shortly after that murder, Clovis strangled with his own hands two of his near relatives, father and son, named Chararic, and plundered them of what they themselves had plundered Gaul of. But here is a still worse incident: Clovis was at war with another bandit of his own royal family named Ragnacaire. He ordered a set of necklaces and baldrics to be made of imitation gold, and sent them through one of his familiars to the leudes who accompanied Ragnacaire with the message that, in exchange for the present, they deliver to him their chief and his son. The bargain was struck, and the two Ragnacaires were delivered to Clovis. This great King thereupon struck them both down with his axe like oxen in the slaughter house; he thus at one stroke committed two crimes--cheated the leudes of Ragnacaire and murdered their chiefs." "And yet the Catholic bishops preach to the people submission to such monsters?" "Certes, seeing that the crimes committed by these monsters are the source of the Church's wealth. You can figure it out for yourself, good old man, the murders, fratricides, parricides and acts of incest committed by the great Frankish seigneurs yield more gold sous to the fat and do-nothing bishops than all the lands, that your hard and daily toil fructifies, yield deniers to you. But listen to another of Clovis' prowesses. In the course of time he had either himself despatched or ordered others to massacre all his relatives. One day he gathers around him his forces and says with a moan: "'Woe is me! I am now left all alone, like a traveler among strangers; I have no relatives left to help me in case adversity overtake me.'" "Well, so at last he repented his many crimes--it is the least of the punishments that await him." "He repent? Clovis? He would have been a big fool if he had, good old man! Do you forget that the priests relieve him of the burden of remorse in consideration of good round pounds of gold or silver?" "And why, then, did he use those terms; why did he say: 'Woe is me! I am now left all alone, like a traveler among strangers; I have no relatives left to help me in case adversity overtake me?'" "Why? Another trick of his. No, in the language of a bishop himself who chronicled the life of Clovis, it was not that Clovis grieved over the death of all the relatives whom he had caused to be put to death; no, it was a ruse on his part when he held that language, malefactor that he was; he only wished thereby to ascertain whether there was any relative left, and then to kill him." "And yet was there not a single man resolute enough to plant a dagger in the monster's breast?" "Keep quiet, bad boy! This is the second time that you have given vent to those sentiments of murder and vengeance! You only do so to frighten me!" "Dear wife, our son Karadeucq is indignant, like anyone else, at the crimes of that Frankish King. By my father's bones! I who am not of an adventurous disposition, I say myself--it is a shame to Gaul that such a monster should have reigned fourteen years over our country--Britanny fortunately excepted." "And I, who in my trade of peddler have crossed Gaul from end to end, and seen the country's wretchedness and the bloody slavery that oppresses it, I say that the people's hatred should fall as heavily upon the bishops! Was it not they who called the Franks into Gaul? Was it not they who baptised the murderer a son of the Roman Church? Did they not propose to canonize the monster with the title of 'Saint Clovis?'" "God in heaven! Is it craziness or cowardly terror on the part of those priests?" "It is unbridled ambition and inveterate cupidity, good old man. At first, allied to the Roman emperors from the time that Gaul became again a Roman province, the bishops succeeded by underhanded means to secure large endowments for themselves and their churches and to occupy the leading magistracies in the cities. That did not satisfy them; they counted upon being better able to dominate the barbarous Franks than the civilized Romans. They betrayed the Romans to the Franks. The latter came; Gaul was ravaged, pillaged and subjugated, and the bishops shared the plunder with the conquerors whom they speedily placed under their thumb through the fear of the devil. And so it happens that these sanctimonious men have become richer and more powerful under the Frankish than under the Roman rule. Now old Gaul has become their quarry jointly with the barbarians; they now possess vast domains, all manner of wealth, innumerable slaves--slaves that are so well chosen, trained and docile to the whip that an 'ecclesiastical slave' generally fetches twenty gold sous in the market, while other slaves fetch only twelve sous. Would you form an idea of the wealth of the bishops? This identical St. Remi, who baptised Clovis in the basilica of Reims, and thus approved him a worthy son of the holy Roman Church, was so fatly remunerated that he was able to pay five thousand pounds of silver by the weight for the domain of Epernay." "Oh! Thus to traffic in the blood of Gaul! It is horrible! It is shocking!" "Oh! That is still nothing, good father. Had you traveled as I have done over regions that were once so flourishing, and seen them now, ravaged and burned down by the Franks! Had you seen the bands of men, women and children, bound two by two, marching among the cattle and wagons heaped with booty of all sorts, that the barbarians drove before them after they conquered the country of Amiens, which I then happened to cross--had you seen that, you would have felt your heart bleed as mine did." "And where did they take those men, women and children whom they carried away as slaves?" "Alas! good mother, they took them to the banks of the Rhine, where the Franks keep a large market of Gallic flesh. All the barbarians of Germany who have not yet broken into our unhappy country, repair thither to supply themselves with slaves of our race--men, women and children." "And what becomes of those who remain in Gaul?" "The men of the fields are enslaved and made to cultivate under the rod of the Franks their own ancestral estates that King Clovis divided with his leaders, his old comrades in pillage and massacre, and whom he since has made dukes, marquises and counts of our country. But there are still some drops of generous blood left in the veins of old Gaul. Even if the rule of the Franks and the bishops is to endure, they will, at least, not enjoy their conquest in peace." "How so?" "Did you ever hear of the Bagaudy?" "Certainly, and praisefully, too." "What is the Bagaudy, grandfather?" "Let me first answer our friend the peddler--it will be information to you also. My grandfather Gildas told me that he heard from his father that, a few years after the death of Victoria the Great, the first Bagaudy took place, not in Britanny, but in the other provinces. Irritated at seeing herself again reduced to the level of a Roman province, as a result of the treason of Tetrik, and of being obliged to pay heavy imposts into the empire's fisc, Gaul rose in rebellion. The uprisings were called 'Bagaudies.' They threw the emperor Diocletian into such consternation that he hurried an army into Gaul to combat them; at the same time, however, he remitted the imposts, and granted almost everything that the Bagauders demanded. As you see, it is only a question of knowing how to present one's demand to kings and emperors. Bend your back and they will load it to the breaking point; show your teeth and they remove the load--" "Well said, old father--beg them with clasped hands, and they laugh; make your demand with clenched fists, and they yield--that was another good feature of the Bagaudy." "Well, there were so many good features about it, that, towards the middle of last century, it was started against the Romans anew. That time it spread as far as Britanny, to the very heart of Armorica. But we only talked about it, there was no occasion for serious action. The time was well chosen; if my memory serves me right, I was one of those who accompanied our venerated druids to Vannes, to the curia of that town which consisted of Roman magistrates and officers. To them we said: "'You govern us Breton Gauls in the name of your emperor; you lay rather heavy imposts upon us, always in the name and for the benefit of the same emperor. For a long time we have found that very unjust. We enjoy, it is true, our freedom and citizen rights. Nevertheless our subjection to Rome galls us. We think the hour has come for us to emancipate ourselves. The other provinces are of the same mind, seeing that they are rebelling against your emperor. Accordingly, it now pleases us to become free once more, as independent of Rome as we were before the Conquest of Caesar, as we were at the time of Victoria the Great. Accordingly, ye Roman officials and tax-gatherers, pack yourselves off. Britanny will henceforth keep her silver and gold to herself, and will govern herself without your help. A happy journey to you, and do not come back again; if you do, you will find us in arms ready to receive you with our swords, and, if need be, our scythes and forks.' "The Romans went, their garrisons along with them. Without troops to enforce their decrees, the magistrates took their departure, and never returned. The Bagaudy in Gaul and the Franks on the Rhine kept their hands full. This second Bagaudy, like the first, had
{'title': "The Poniard's Hilt; Or, Karadeucq and Ronan. A Tale of Bagauders and Vagres by Sue", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}