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The Poniard's Hilt; Or, Karadeucq and Ronan. A Tale of Bagauders and Vagres
CHAPTER VII
VAGRES AT FEAST
What delightful feasts are those held in Vagrery! Does, stags, wild-boars, killed by the Vagres the day before in the thickets of the forest that shade the fastness of Allange – all, together with the oxen from the wagons, have been dispatched and grilled over a roaring oven. What! An oven in a forest? An oven large enough to embrace oxen, does, stags and wild-boars? Yes; the good God has dug for the good Vagres a number of large pits in the secluded fastnesses of Allange. They are spacious craters, now extinct like other volcanic apertures in Auvergne. Is not one of these deep semi-circular grottoes, in which a man can stand upright, a veritable bake-house? Fill up the grotto with dry wood; one or two dead oaks will suffice; set the pyre on fire; it burns up high and becomes a brasier: the bottom, the walls, the lava vault – all are soon red hot, and into the chasm, ablaze like the mouth of hell, stags, does, whole wild-boars and oxen are rolled in to broil. That done, the opening of the grotto is closed with lava rocks, a huge oven of glowing embers. Four or five hours later, oxen and game, grilled to the point, are served steaming and toothsome upon the table. What! Tables also in Vagrery! Certes, and covered with the finest of green carpet. What table? What carpet? The lawn of a forest clearing. And for seats? Again that lawn. For tent the lofty oaks; for ornaments the arms suspended from the branches. For dome the starry sky. For chandelier the moon at her fullest. For perfumery the night odor of wild flowers. For musicians the nightingales and all the other songsters of the woods.
Several Vagres, placed on watch at the outskirt of the forest and near the approaches of the fastnesses of Allange, guarded the troop against a surprise in case that, the sack and burning of the villa becoming known, the Frankish counts and dukes of the region should fear an attack upon their own burgs, and start with their leudes in the pursuit of the Vagres.
Despite his ire, Bishop Cautin excelled himself as a cook. Long before had a certain sauce known to be a favorite with the bishop been the subject of talk in Vagrery. The holy man was ordered to produce it. He did. He filled with it a large caldron into which each one dipped his roast, whether of game or beef – it was a toothsome sauce, made of old wine and oil, aromated with wild thyme. It was pronounced delectable. Biting into her Vagre's roast with her white teeth the bishopess remarked:
"I now no longer wonder that he who was my husband always showed himself so implacable towards his kitchen slaves, and that he had them whipped for their slightest negligence – the seigneur bishop was a better cook than any of them. No wonder he was hard to please!"
Only two of the guests did not join in the spirit of the feast – the hermit-laborer and the young female slave who sat near Ronan. As to Ronan, he did ample justice to the repast; but the monk seemed to be absorbed in contemplation as he looked up at the starry vault overhead, and little Odille also dreamed – as she contemplated Ronan. The gold and silver vases, whatever their previous destination, circulated from hand to hand; the wine pouches collapsed in even measure as the stomachs of the drinkers became inflated; merry jokes, loud outbursts of laughter, kisses stolen and given from and by Vagres and Vagresses; – it was a mirthful and giddy festivity. Ever and anon, nevertheless, and generally on the subject of some pretty face, a dispute would break out between two Vagres, just as used to happen during the ancient banquets of the Gauls. Then swords would be taken down from the trees and crossed by the combatants, but never in hatred, ever in the exuberance of spirit:
"That thrust is for you – mine shall the pretty girl be!"
"And this other thrust is for you – the damsel shall be mine!"
"Hit! That is for her roguish eyes!"
"Parried! Mine remains the daisy!"
"I'm wounded! Help, my belle!"
"I die! Good-bye to my love!"
The wounded Vagre was attended to; the dead one was covered with leaves. Honor to the brave who will be born anew in yonder worlds, and long live the feasts of the Vagrery! And the exchange of repartees continued – some were mirthful, others strange, and not a few sad. The repartees reflected the state of affairs in Gaul, her people, and the miseries of the nation as she lay debased and demoralized at the feet of the conquerors; the repartees produced a picture better than chroniclers or historians could ever reproduce it, even if ever this country of iron should find its historian.
"Ah! What happy days these are!" exclaimed Wolf's-Tooth as he gnawed on the ivory of his second shoulder of doe. "Ah! what jolly days do we owe to these times of disorder, of pillage, of combats on the highways, of sieges of burgs and episcopal villas and of their smoldering embers that we leave behind! Ah! What rollicking times do not these Frankish Kings furnish us with!"
"Ronan said it – old Gaul is on fire – let us dance and drink upon the ruins – let us make love on the ashes of the palaces and upon the extinguished coals of the episcopal villas that we turned into bonfires!"
"Oh, great bishop! Oh, great St. Remi! Blessings upon you, who, at the basilica of Reims, in the midst of incense and flowers, now over fifty years ago baptized Clovis as a submissive son of the Roman Church! Blessings upon you, St. Remi, the patron of highwaymen and bandits!"
"Where is she? Aye, where is she, the proud and powerful Gaul of the days of the Chief of the Hundred Valleys, of the Sacrovirs, the Vindexes, the Civiles, the Victorias?"
"Who is the present inheritor of Gaul's one-time valor? The Vagres, the 'Wolves-Heads,' the 'Wolves!' It is they alone who still carry on the struggle against the barbarians!"
"And yet we are hunted like wild beasts, put to the rack and hanged if taken!"
"But our nails are sharp and our teeth trenchant to tear to pieces and devour our enemies!"
"And yet they call us robbers!"
"And murderers!"
"And sacrilegious wretches!"
"Brothers, we but follow the example of our glorious new masters – the Frankish kings, dukes and counts; they kill, we massacre; they pillage, we steal; they lay waste, we burn down. Death to the seigniory!"
"Sad are the times in which we live!" said the bishopess as she unloosened her long black tresses to the wind. "These are days of sanguinary fury! days of unbridled debauchery! days of vertigo, in which one rushes into evil paths with wild ecstasy. Oh, holy virtue of our mothers! tender chastity! noble and undefiled love! Where shall we look for you in these days? Shall we look for you in the hut of the female slave whom her masters outrage? Shall we look for you in the house of the free woman, whose very hearth is turned under her own eyes into a brothel? Oh! Let us shut our eyes, and die young! Will you die, my Vagre? To-morrow, at the first rays of the sun; to-morrow, at the hour when the birds awake; to-morrow put your hand in mine, and let us depart together for those unknown worlds, whither our ancestors bravely and willingly took their departure in order to live together!"
"Let love reign until to-morrow! And until then, a sweet kiss, my Vagress!"
The Master of the Hounds received the kiss, while his neighbor, grave like a man half-seas over, said in a magisterial voice:
"Brothers, I have an idea – "
"Your idea, Symphorien, seems to be to drain that amphora to the very bottom."
"Yes, to begin with – and then to prove to you —logice and a priori– "
"To the devil with your Roman tongue!"
"Brothers, not because one is a Vagre does it follow that he can not be versed in letters and philosophy. I used to teach rhetoric to the young clerks of the Bishop of Limoges. I received a call from the Bishop of Tulle for the same office. As I was crossing the Jargeaux mountains on the way from the one town to the other, I was captured in the woods by a band of bad Vagres – there are good and bad Vagres. And those Vagres sold me to a slave merchant, and he sold me again to the bishop of – "
"The devil take this rhetorician! Look at him traveling up hills and down dales."
"Such is frequently the effect of rhetoric. It carries one across the plains of imagination. But let me return to what I wanted to prove to you logice– it is this: We need not worry ourselves over the leudes nor any other armed bands that might be in pursuit of us, because, logice– the Lord God will perform a miracle in our favor to disengage us of our enemies."
"A miracle in favor of us, Vagres? Are we, perchance, on such good terms with heaven?"
"We are on all the better terms with heaven for living like wolves, like true wolves. Therefore, logice, the Lord will deliver us from our enemies by miracles. And that I shall now proceed to prove to you."
"To the proof, learned Symphorien – to the proof! We are waiting for your arguments."
CHAPTER VIII
THE MIRACLE OF ST. MARTIN
The rhetorician straightened himself up and proceeded to the proof.
"I'm at it," he said. "But first of all, brothers, answer me this question: Under whose royal claws did this beautiful land of Auvergne fall?"
"Under the claws of Clotaire, the last and worthy son of King Clovis. Having married the widow of his second nephew Theobald, Clotaire now owns Auvergne by double right. He is now in this year 558 the sole king of all conquered Gaul. Glory to the Saints in heaven! Now, then, that Clotaire is the wedder of the whole human race. The bishops have married him as many times as it has pleased him to celebrate fresh weddings; they remarried him even during the lives of most of his wives. They married him to Gundiogue, the wife of his own brother; they married him to Radegonde, to Ingonde and, a fortnight later to the latter's sister, called Aregonde; they married him to Chemesne, to several others, and finally to Waltrade, the widow of his second nephew Theobald. But all these are only peccadillos – "
"Learned, very learned Symphorien, you promised to prove to us logice that heaven would rain miracles in our favor; but your rhetoric tends to prove just one thing – that Clotaire is an eternal wedder – "
"My rhetoric first establishes the premises, you will presently see what conclusions flow from them —ergo, I shall establish one more prefigurement, which I shall also need for my argument. It is this: Among other crimes, this Clotaire committed one before which even Clovis might have recoiled. The affair happened in Paris in the year 533, in the old Roman palace inhabited by the Frankish kings. Now listen – "
"We are listening, learned Symphorien. It is pleasant to the ear to hear the praises of kings."
"Accordingly, it was about twenty-five years ago. Clovis had long before gone to paradise upon the recommendation of the bishops and after having partitioned Gaul between his four sons – Thierry, Childebert, Clodomir and this Clotaire, who is to-day the sole king of all these conquered provinces. Clodomir died shortly after and left two children. These were taken in charge by their grandmother, the widow of Clovis, old Queen Clotilde. She had her two little grandsons brought up beside her, until they should be of age to assure the inheritance of their father's kingdom. One day, when she was in Paris, Childebert, who lived in that city, sent secretly one of his confidential servants to the kind-hearted Clotaire with the message: 'Our mother Clotilde keeps the children of our brother near her, and she wishes them to enter into possession of his kingdom; come quickly to Paris in order that we may consider what is to be done with them, whether we shall have their hair cut short like the rest of the people, and have them locked up in a monastery, or whether we shall kill them and thus share among ourselves the kingdom of their father, our brother' – "
"The story begins to be affectionate."
"It is the fraternity in vogue among the Franks."
"What Vagre would ever think of killing his own brother's children in order to seize their property?"
"None! None would think of such a thing."
"We are wolves, and wolves do not devour one another – my brothers – "
"And were those children whom they sought to slay still young, learned Symphorien?"
"One was ten, the other seven – "
"Poor little creatures – "
"I pursue my narrative. Clotaire arrived in Paris, deliberated with his brother, and the two acting in concert visited old Queen Clotilde and said to her: 'Send us your grandchildren that we may embrace them, and forthwith announce them to the people as the heirs of their father's kingdom.' "
"Oh! These Frankish kings are ever as wily as they are bloodthirsty! It was a lure, was it not, learned Symphorien?"
"You will soon see what their project was. Clovis' widow was happy, and sent the little children to their uncles, saying to the little ones: 'I shall forget that I lost your father when I see you succeed him in his kingdom.' The moment the children arrived at their uncles' they were separated from their slaves and governors, and kept in close confinement. Clotaire and Childebert then sent an emissary to the children's grandmother. In one hand he carried a pair of shears, in the other a naked sword. He said to old Queen Clotilde: 'Glorious Queen, our lords, your sons, desire to know your preference with regard to your grandsons – do you wish them to be shorn, that is, locked up in a convent, or would you prefer to have them slain?' 'If they are to renounce their father's throne,' cried the old Queen indignant, 'I would prefer to see them dead rather than shorn.' The emissary returned and said to the two kings: 'You have the Queen's wishes to finish the work that you began.' Immediately thereupon King Clotaire takes the eldest by the arm, throws him on the ground, and plunges his knife under the boy's arm-pit."
"Poor, dear little one!" murmured Odille weeping. "He must have died calling to his mother for help – "
"The royal butcher knew the right spot to plunge his knife in the child's body," observed Ronan; "that is the proper way to kill lambkins. Proceed, learned Symphorien."
"At the cries of the child, his younger brother rushes in and throws himself at Childebert's feet, and clinging to his legs with all his strength, cries out to him: 'Uncle! Good uncle! Come to my help! Do not let me be killed like my brother!' "
"Touched to the heart for an instant, Childebert says to Clotaire: 'Grant me the life of this child.' But Clotaire answers enraged: 'Either push the child off your knees, or you will die in his stead! It is you who led me into this affair, and now your heart seems to fail you!' "
"The good Clotaire was right," put in Ronan. "First to scheme the assassination of the children, and then to recoil before the deed was to insult the stock of the glorious King Clovis. But Childebert thought better, in honor of his royal family, did he not, learned Symphorien?"
"What else could he? Childebert pushed the child off from his knees and threw him towards Clotaire, who plunged his knife under the boy's arm-pit as he had done with the other, and killed him. The two kings forthwith put all the slaves and governors of the two children to death, and divided their kingdom among them."
"That is the manner in which monarchies are founded," observed Ronan. "Oh, by Rita-Gaur, the inspired Gaul of olden days who had a blouse woven of the beard of the kings! All these monsters deserve to be exterminated, do you not think so, friend?" he added, addressing the hermit laborer, who had silently listened to the narrative. "Is it not the duty of all sons of Gaul to take the field in permanence against these wild beasts who have invaded our country, reduced us to vile slavery?"
"It is better to prevent the evil than to kill the criminal," answered the hermit.
"Hermit, could you prevent a Frankish king from being born a rapacious thief?"
"He must be prevented from being born king, duke, count or seigneur, and taught that he is not the master of the life and goods of other human beings. Jesus of Nazareth said it: we are all equal. From the equality of men their fraternity will one day be born. To each his part in the common heritage. Propagate that doctrine among your brothers, and the end will be reached without the spilling of blood."
Saying this the hermit-laborer relapsed into his previous silent revery.
"Twice have I camped on the trail of that last king of Auvergne – king by the grace of pillage and massacre," said Ronan, "and both times I failed to catch him. But, by Rita-Gaur, if ever Clotaire falls into my hands, I shall shave him – and so close to his shoulders that his head will never more grow again – "
"Ronan, you reckon without the demonstration of rhetoric. I have established the premises, let us now draw the conclusions. Therefore, logice, I shall prove to you that naught will avail you against Clotaire. The Lord protects him. Yes, the Lord has performed a miracle in favor of Clotaire, the butcher of children. Consequently, I was right when I said that I shall prove logice that the Lord will surely perform some miracle in our own favor, in favor of the good Vagres – "
"We were decidedly wrong in not hanging the bishop!"
"It will always be time to draw the Lord's attention upon as by some such pious deed. But tell us the miracle, learned Symphorien."
"It was in the year 537, about four years after Childebert and Clotaire stabbed their little nephews to death. Our two worthy sons of the stock of Clovis had no thought but of how to plunder and despatch each other. Accordingly, although united for a moment like loving brothers in the assassination of the two boys, Clotaire and Childebert declared war against each other. Theudebert, one of Clovis' grandchildren, joined Childebert; the two placed themselves at the head of their leudes, and, as was their wont, pillaged and laid waste the countries that they crossed, and marched against Clotaire. The good uncle did not consider his own forces strong enough to make head against the joint troops of his brother and his nephew; he declined battle and withdrew to the forest of Brotonne, between Rouen and the sea. Theudebert and Childebert girdled the forest, and quietly awaited the night, confident of catching the beloved brother and uncle in the net. In pursuit of their plan, Childebert and Theudebert advanced noiselessly at the head of their troops. The sun was rising. They had arrived to within two or three hundred paces from the spot where Clotaire was encamped with his leudes, when suddenly a frightful hailstorm of stones and fire dropped down from the sky. The troops of Childebert and Theudebert were crushed by the stones and consumed by the heavenly fire."
"And what became of Clotaire?"
"Oh! Clotaire, the favorite of the Lord, as the miracle proved, saw the troops of his brother and nephew annihilated only a few paces from him by the stones and fire that rained down from the sky, while over his own head, the sky, as pure, limpid and serene as his own conscience, was of a smiling blue. Not even a breath of wind agitated the tops of the trees in the forest, while all around there was a cataract of fire. And thereupon a further shower of stones dropped down from the bosom of the clouds, and buried all the enemies of Clotaire."
Symphorien stopped for a moment to contemplate the effect of the miracle on his audience and then proceeded:
"And above all, you must not fail to observe that the account of the miracle expressly states that it was the great St. Martin himself, who, in paradise, prayed to the Lord that he give such a token of friendship for Clotaire. Now, then, St. Martin did not intercede with the Lord on behalf of the felonious Clotaire, but at the fervent prayer of Queen Clotilde."
"What! The grandmother of the two poor little victims of that monster of a Clotaire?" exclaimed little Odille clasping her hands. "She prayed for a miracle in favor of the murderer of her two grandsons?"
"My Vagre," put in at this juncture the bishopess passing her slender fingers through the waivy hair of the young man, and placing her lips upon her lover's mouth, "is it not better to proceed to yonder worlds than to remain and live in this world of horrors?"
"Aye, horrible – horrible is this world," cried the hermit-laborer with profound grief and indignation. "Oh! To see the name of that God of mercy, of love and of justice thus profaned and daily soiled! Oh! To see these crimes, that cause nature to shudder, placed under divine protection! Oh, Jesus! Jesus of Nazareth! You the divinest of all sages, you did foresee that your Church would be ill-understood, when, with your spirit, afflicted unto death, you did, in your last and supreme watch, weep over the approaching future of the world! Jesus! Jesus! Centuries must elapse before your day shall arrive!"
"Be careful, friend!" said Ronan, "speak not so loud. Yonder holy man of a bishop, who sleeps not far from you, gorged with wine and meat, might excommunicate you if he heard you! But to the devil with sadness! We live in damnable days – let us live like the damned! Up, my Vagres, up! You are thrice holy! Let our Saturnalia cover all Gaul – let this land of our fathers be the grave of the Franks, even if it has to be the grave of ourselves. The ruins of our deserted cities will tell future centuries: 'Here lies a great people! Free, it was the pride of the world; enslaved by conquering kings, it one day knew how to vanish from the world as it dragged its tyrants with it into the abyss!' So, then, let us die rejoicing. Up, my Vagres and Vagresses – let us dance and make love until dawn! Let the Franks tremble in their burgs at our daring songs! Let bishops flee for refuge in their basilicas! Let them all whisper affrighted to one another: 'Woe is us! Woe is us to-morrow! They are feeling very happy to-night in Vagrery!"
And the Vagres and Vagresses screamed, and sang, and shouted. Wildly they tumbled about, and started a giddy reel upon the sward by the pale illumination of the moon.
