Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 192
“Always sparing the women and children,” interrupted the druid. “Women and children are not foes, we hold them sacred—”
“There are women who deserve death,” broke in another voice; “they surpass the men in ferocity.”
“That is true!” chimed in other voices. “How many grand Roman dames are there not who vie with the seigneurs in monstrous debaucheries and cruelty towards their slaves!”
“Would you, perchance, spare Faustina?” came again from that Son of the Mistletoe who had first reminded his associates of the ferocity of certain women. “Would you spare Faustina of Orange, that noble dame who traces her nobility back to Juno, one of the pagan divinities?”
At the mention of Faustina’s name, whom Sylvest execrated, a murmur of horror and even terror went up from the Sons of the Mistletoe, several of whom cried:
“No! No mercy for her, nor for those who are like her! Death shall be their portion also! The death that they have inflicted upon so many of their slaves!”
“Faustina and the other women of her stamp are monsters of debauchery and ferocity,” explained the druid. “Their infamous and bloodthirsty passions are nameless in the language of mankind. Let the blood that they have shed fall upon their heads. I spoke of the wives and children of the Romans who are your masters. Although they may often be merciless towards you, and their cupidity may crush you under heavy burdens, still they are weak and defenceless beings — spare them — take pity upon them—”
“Such women — yes — we shall spare them,” rejoined the field slave. “But our Roman masters and watchers, them we shall mercilessly slay! With them out of the way, we, the slaves on isolated farms, will seize the arms in the houses, the provisions and the wagons; we will choose a leader; and we will seize and fortify ourselves in the burg—”
“In that burg,” broke in a slave who was employed partly in field and partly in factory work, “the artisan slaves, who will at the same signal have rid themselves of the Romans, will likewise have seized the arms and chosen a leader. They will receive their brothers of the field, and jointly with them will fortify the burg, and then wait to hear from the neighboring town.”
“In the town,” said Sylvest, who was a town slave, “the domestic and artisan slaves, jointly with those who are hired out to the factories, will also have meted out justice to the Romans at the same signal. The feeble garrison will be wiped out. They will quickly organize themselves into companies with their chiefs, and a general chief over all; they will seize the military posts, close the gates of the city and then wait for the orders from the supreme council of the Sons of the Mistletoe.”
“Nor will you have long to wait for such orders” said the druid. “The supreme council will assemble at the same signal in the forest of Chartres, in the heart of Gaul. Its instructions will be issued in all directions. We shall find strength in the unity of our action. Mass uprisings will be organized in order to put us in condition to sustain a supreme struggle with Rome, in case the empire should seek to invade us anew. With all of us this time united against the enemy, victory will not be doubtful — Gaul will resume her freedom, and that great day will have finally arrived when she will be again able to honor her heroes in peace, worship her gods, and insure the happiness of all her children.”
“There is hope for Gaul!” the Sons of the Mistletoe cried in chorus.
“Oh! If that night were only to-morrow!” exclaimed one of them.
“My sons,” resumed the druid, “no impatience. You have been warned. Near at hand may the deliverance of Gaul be, and, perhaps, far away. The Roman army, now on the march to return to Italy, may halt and may decide to remain where it is — and may thus prolong the occupation of the country for a long time! For thirty years, the best and most generous blood of Gaul has flowed in frightful struggles. To-day, exhausted, disarmed and fettered, our country can not think of attacking this veteran and disciplined Roman army in the open. We would be crushed. Should the stranger’s troops deceive our expectations and remain in the country, we shall have to adjourn our project. So, then, patience — patience, my sons — patience and calmness and resignation! Let our faith in the justice of our cause be the inexhaustible source of our strength. Let us ever be mindful of the streams of their own blood that our fathers have shed! Let the memory of their martyrdom and their heroism console and steel our courage.”
“Yes, let that memory console and steel our courage,” sounded from an inspired bard, one of whom, ever before the close of the sessions of the Sons of the Mistletoe, sang some national anthem that warmed the hearts of us poor slaves, and the refrain of which, repeated by us in a low voice during our heavy toils, seemed to lighten them. “Yes,” repeated the bard, “may that memory steel our courage and keep alive our pride, slaves though we he, and render us prouder than kings. Listen, listen to the inspired song of one of the greatest heroes of Gaul, the Chief of the Hundred Valleys, the hero whom Caesar, be his name ever cursed, put to death!”
At the name of the Chief of the Hundred Valleys a thrill of patriotic pride ran through the Sons of the Mistletoe, and Sylvest doubly shared the emotion. He remembered that in his infancy, before the battle of Vannes, Vercingétorix, the Chief of the Hundred Valleys, was the guest of Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak, his own grandfather.
The bard struck up the song:
“How many Gallic warriors have died From the battle of Vannes to the siege of Alais!
Aye —
During these four years
How many are the warriors who died for liberty?
A hundred thousand? — Is that too high a figure?
No! — Three hundred, four hundred thousand?
No, that figure is not yet too high!
No, it is not enough!
Count the leaves that have fallen—’
From our sacred oaks all these years, —
You will not yet have numbered the warriors
Whose bones bleach on their father’s fields!
“And all these warriors,
The names of whose chieftains were:
Luctere — Camalogene, the ancient defender of Paris, —
Corres — Cavarill — Epidorix — Comm, of Artois —
Virdumar — V ersagillalim — Ambiorix —
All these warriors, at what warrior’s voice
Did they rise for the independence
Of their mother country?
All rose at the voice of the Chief of the Hundred Valleys,
He who,
From the battle of Vannes to the siege of Alais
Held the field for four years,
And twice defeated Caesar himself —
One more effort — one effort supreme, —
And Gaul is delivered!
“But no!
There were cowardly Gauls To whom the call did not appeal, ——
No — to the rough and bloody strife of deliverance They preferred repose and wealth Under the stranger’s yoke.
They left the brave Gallic plebs in the lurch, They betrayed it!
Their magistrates opened their towns to the Romans; Their military chiefs left their troops Disorganized and leaderless, —
Inspired them with mistrust, discouraged them, And those troops scattered in all directions.
“And yet those valiant troops are waited for. —
Who? — Where? — Who awaits them? —
The Chief of the Hundred Valleys.
Where? — In the city of Alais, In the heart of the Cevennes.
There he locks himself up with the fragments of his army, And the wives and children of his soldiers.
Caesar besieges him in person; The Romans are ten against one.
Provisions fail, —
The scythe of famine cuts down the feeblest. —
Yet from day to day, from hour to hour, Help is expected from the traitors.
Our defenders say:
They must soon come!’— ‘They must soon come!’
No, you need not expect them!
“No, you need not expect them! —
No, they never arrived!
And yet one last effort would have delivered Gaul.
The cowards drew back.
Seeing that, the Chief of the Hundred Valleys Then shows himself even greater of heart Than in courage.
He can flee alone —
Escape is prepared; —
But he knows it is he, the soul of the holy war, That Caesar’s hate pursues.
He knows that Alais, unable to resist, Must soon fall into the hands of the Romans; —
He knows that the Romans Make the women and children prisoners.
At night he despatches one of his officers to Caesar.
Two hours later the officer returns.
“Behold the sun
Rising at noon over the ramparts of Alais. —
What means that scaffold, covered with purple cloth,
That rises between the camp of the Romans
And the walls of the besieged Gallic city?
Who is that pale man,
Bald of head, hollow of eyes and with cruel smile,
Who is seated on that scaffold?
Yes —
Who is seated on that scaffold,
Upon an ivory arm-chair,
The only one seated among the generals,
Who stand around him? —
The bald and pale man is Caesar!
“And that warrior on horseback,
Who rides out alone —
Through one of the gates of the city of Alais,
Who is he? —
His long sword hangs from his side,
In one hand he holds a javeline;
Martial and bold is his stature,
In his cuirass of steel that glistens in the rays
Of the rising sun.
Proud yet sad is his manly countenance
Under the visor of his silver casque,
Surmounted by a gilded cock with wings half spread,
The emblem of Gaul. Flows on the breeze
The red embroidered housing that half covers his black horse, —
His black and spirited horse, foaming and neighing.
Aye, who is that dauntless warrior? —
That dauntless warrior is the Chief of the Hundred Valleys.
“Whither does he ride so swiftly? —
What is his errand? —
Behold him speeding his black courser with his spurs,
His black courser that bounds up to the foot of the tribunal
Where the bald and pale Caesar is seated. —
Arrived at the place, the Chief of the Hundred Valleys
Addresses him in these words:
‘Caesar, my death will not allay your hatred; —
You wish to have me alive; here I am, Caesar.
You have sworn to my envoy that you
Would spare the inhabitants of the city of Alais
If I surrendered myself a prisoner; ——
I am your prisoner.’
Saying this, the Chief of the Hundred Valleys
Leaps down from his horse;
His glittering casque, his heavy javeline, his strong sword,
He throws them all far from him.
Bareheaded he stretches out his hands —
His hands so brave —
To the chains of the lictors of Caesar,
Who, from the height of his seat
Heaps insult upon his disarmed and vanquished foe,
And sends him to Rome.
“Four years have since elapsed; —
A long triumphal march wends its way
In Rome towards the Capitol. —
Caesar, clad in the imperial purple,
Crowned with laurel, intoxicated with pride,
Rides erect in a chariot of gold,
Drawn by eight white horses. —
Who is that livid slave, wan barely covered in rags,
Loaded with chains, and led by the lictors,
The axe in their hands? —
He still walks with a firm step
Before the triumphal chariot of Caesar.
Aye —
Who is that slave?
That slave — is the Chief of the Hundred Valleys.
On that day Caesar dragged him from the prison cell
Where he was left to pine away his life for four years.
The most glorious trophy of the conqueror of the world
Is the Gallic captive.
The triumphal march halts. Caesar makes a sign.
A man kneels down.
A head rolls on the ground under the axe of a lictor —
What head is that that has just fallen?
It is the head of the Chief of the Hundred Valleys. —
The blood that flows is the blood Of the greatest hero of Gaul —
A slave like ourselves.
“Two more years roll by after the execution.
The gods are just. Who is that man
Clad in the imperial purple, and whose breast
Is beaten by a score of daggers?
Aye, — who is that man, whom his slayers greet
With— ‘Die, tyrant!’— ‘Die, traitor to the republic!’ —
‘Die, traitor to liberty!’
That man, smitten at last by a free man’s hand
(May your name be ever glorified, Brutus!),
That man, who during his long life
Has been the blood-drinking scourge of the liberty of the world, —
He is Caesar. It is the murderer of The Chief of the Hundred Valleys.
It is Caesar, the cowardly slayer Of a captive in chains.
“Yes, the gods are just.
Flow, flow, thou blood of the captive!
Drop, drop, thou dew of gore!
Germinate, sprout up, thou avenging harvest!
Hasten, you mower, hasten, it is ripe! whet your scythe, whet it — Whet your scythe!”
And the Sons of the Mistletoe, carried away by the refrain of the song, repeated in chorus while keeping ominous time with the clank of their chains:
“Oh, flow, flow, thou blood of the captive!
Drop, drop thou dew of gore!”
Germinate, sprout up, thou avenging harvest!
Hasten, you mower, hasten, it is ripe!
Whet your scythe, whet it —
Whet your scythe!”
Thereupon the assembled Sons of the Mistletoe left the cavern by its several issues, and hastened back to the fields, the burg, and the city.
CHAPTER II.
ORGIES OF FAUSTINA.
WHEN THE MOON went down, the night became pitchy dark. Sylvest again crossed the desert and rock-strewn valley, reclimbed the granite hill, re-crossed the mountain torrent, reentered the thick forest and finally arrived again on the road to Orange. However, he did not turn his steps to the city, where his master lived. He followed a narrow footpath that branched off to the right of the road, walked a long time, and presently arrived near a high brick wall, which enclosed a vast park attached to the villa of Faustina, the grand Roman dame whose name had been mentioned with horror at the meeting of the Sons of the Mistletoe. Sylvest stopped and looked about for a moment, then he dove into a clump of brushwood, and reappeared with a long pole that he had hid there, and that was furnished with cross sticks so as to serve for a ladder. He placed the pole against the wall, and being himself young, agile and robust, quickly climbed it, transferred the improvised ladder to the other side of the wall, and descended into the park.
The darkness of the night was rendered so dense by the thick foliage of the tall trees that the way was difficult to find. The slave was, however, familiar with the place and soon reached the border of a canal ornamented with marble balustrades. Nearby rose a temple constructed in the shape of a rotunda and girdled by a stately and open colonnade that formed a circular portico and connected with the canal by means of a wide marble staircase, the lowest steps of which dipped into the water.
Sylvest now hurried forward, stopping ever and anon to listen, entered the colonnade and called out several times in a low voice:
“Loyse — Loyse!”
The slave received no answer. He was surprised at the silence. Having been delayed at the meeting of the Sons of the Mistletoe, he believed surely that Loyse would have arrived long before him at their trysting place. The slave groped his way forward, towards the staircase that ran into the canal, thinking that perhaps Loyse awaited him on the steps. Vain hope. Suddenly he saw the waters reflecting a bright light at a distance, while at the same time a gust of wind brought to him, mingled with the odor of the orange and lemon trees, the confused sound of lyres and flutes accompanied by songs.
Sylvest concluded that on this warm summer night Faustina was boating on the canal with her singer and musician slaves. Noticing that the music as well as the reflection of the lights on the water drew nearer and nearer, he expected to see the Roman dame’s boat pass by the staircase of the temple, and prudently withdrew back into the shade, all the time surprised and feeling no little uneasiness at the absence of Loyse, whom, however, he did not yet lose the hope of seeing and for whose approaching steps he listened in the direction of the garden. Suddenly Sylvest saw through the darkness and from the side whence he looked for Loyse to come, the light of several lanterns, and heard the voices and steps of the men who carried them. Seized with affright — because, and lie now frankly admits the fact, he feared death, and knew that if found in the Roman dame’s park he could be killed on the spot — the slave was perplexed what to do. To return towards the staircase of the canal was to expose himself to being lighted by the torches of the boat that was about to glide by the steps of the temple; to remain under the colonnade was to run the risk of being discovered by the men who were coming from the garden and who perhaps intended to enter the edifice. Still, Sylvest had time to climb up one of the pillars, swing himself over the edge of the capital and reach the back of a wide circular cornice that wound itself around the dome of the rotunda. Arrived at the entablature, Sylvest laid himself down flat upon his face. The men who carried the lanterns passed on the outside of the temple and walked on.
Sylvest now breathed freely. Nevertheless, fearing that the men might return, he dared not yet to descend from his hiding place. It was fortunate that he did not. The boat drew near and stopped at the marble steps. There could no longer be any doubt. Faustina would enter into the rotunda, and probably leave her slaves to wait outside. Sylvest remained behind the cornice, where he presently observed that the entablature upon which he cowered was pierced with several openings intended to allow a passage to the fresh air without. Thus he was enabled to peer into the rotunda itself from the height of his perch. For a few minutes all was dark. Soon, however, he heard the door that faced the canal thrown open, and he could see a black Ethiopian of gigantic stature, wearing a scarlet cap and clad in a short blouse of orange color trimmed with silver, enter the temple with a torch in his hand. The Ethiopian slave also wore a broad silver collar around his neck, while rings of the same metal encircled the ankles of his bare and muscular limbs.
