Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 392
“God be praised! We, at least,” said James Darc, “still remain French, all of us in this valley. We have not experienced the disasters that you describe, friend messenger. You say that Charles VII, our young prince, is a worthy sire?”
“Just heaven!” cried Gillon the Furtive, a flatterer and liar, like all court valets, “Charles VII is an angel! All who approach him admire him, revere and bless him! He has the meekness of a lamb, the beauty of a swan and the courage of a lion!”
“The courage of a lion!” exclaimed James Darc with admiration. “Then our young Sire has fought bravely?”
“If he had had his will he would by this time have been killed at the head of the troops that have remained faithful,” promptly answered Gillon the Furtive, puffing out his cheeks. “But the life of our august master is so precious that the seigneurs of his family and council were bound to oppose his risking his precious days in a fashion that I shall be bold to call — uselessly heroic. The soldiers who still follow the royal banners are completely discouraged by the defeats that they have sustained. The larger number of bishops and seigneurs have declared themselves for the party of the Burgundians and the English; everybody is deserting our young Sire; and soon perhaps, forced to abandon France, he will not find in the whole kingdom of his fathers a place to rest his head! Oh, accursed, triply accursed be his wicked mother, Isabella of Bavaria!”
With nightfall Gillon the Furtive thanked the laborer of Domremy for his hospitality, mounted his horse and pursued his route. After mutually expressing their sorrow at the fate of the young King, the family of Darc joined in evening prayer and its members retired to sleep.
CHAPTER III.
AT THE FOUNTAIN OF THE FAIRIES.
THAT NIGHT JEANNETTE slept late and little. Silent and attentive during the messenger’s narrative, she had then for the first time heard imprecations uttered at the ravages of the English, and about the misfortunes of the gentle Dauphin of France.
James Darc, his wife and sons continued long after the departure of Gillon the Furtive to lament the public calamities. Vassals of the King, they loved him; and they served him all the more seeing they knew him less and in no wise felt his feudal overlordship, having emancipated themselves with the aid of the distance that separated them from him and from the troubles that had fallen upon him. They were worthy but credulous people.
Children usually are the echoes of their parents. Accordingly, following the example of her father and mother, Jeannette, in her naïve and tender credulity, pitied with all her heart the young prince who was so beautiful, so brave and yet so unfortunate only through the fault of his wicked mother. “Oh,” thought she, “he is almost without a place to rest his head, deserted by everybody, and soon will be forced to flee from the kingdom of his ancestors!” So the messenger had said.
Jeannette, who lately was subject to causeless spells of weeping, now wept over the misfortunes of the King; and fell asleep praying to her dear saints Marguerite and Catherine and to the archangel Michael to intercede with the Lord in behalf of the poor young prince. These thoughts followed the little shepherdess even in her dreams, bizarre dreams, in which she now would see the Dauphin of France, beautiful as an angel, smiling upon her with sadness and kindness; and then again hordes of armed Englishmen, armed with torches and swords, marching, marching and leaving behind them a long trail of blood and flames.
Jeannette awoke, but her imagination being strongly affected by the remembrance of her dreams, she could not keep her mind from ever returning to the gentle Dauphin and being greatly moved with pity for him. At early daylight she gathered her lambs, that every morning she took to pasture, and led them towards the oak forest where the shade was cool and the grass dotted with flowers. While her sheep were pasturing Jeannette sat down near the Fountain of the Fairies, shaded by the centennarian beech tree; and mechanically she plied her distaff.
Jeannette had not been long absorbed in her revery when she was joined by her god-mother, Sybille, who arrived carrying on her shoulder a large bundle of hemp that she wished to lay in the streamlet, formed by the overflow of the spring, in order to have it retted. Although simple minded people took Sybille for a witch, nothing in her features recalled those usually ascribed to old women possessed of the evil spirit — hooked nose and chin, cavernous eyes and an owlish aspect. No, far from it, nothing could be more venerable than Sybille’s pale face framed in her white hair. Her eyes shone with concentrated fire when she narrated the legends of the olden times or recited the heroic chants of Armorica, as her native Brittany was once called. Without at all believing in magic, Sybille had a profound faith in certain prophecies made by the ancient Gallic bards. Faithful to the druidic creed of her fathers, Jeannette’s god-mother held that man never dies, but continues to live eternally, body and soul, in the stars, new and mysterious worlds. Nevertheless, respecting her god-daughter’s religious views, Sybille never sought to throw doubt upon the faith of the child. She loved the child tenderly and was ever ready to tell her some legend that Jeannette would listen to in rapt attention. Thus there was developed in the young shepherdess a contemplative and reflecting spirit that was unusual in one of her years, and that was no less striking than the precociousness of her intellect. She was prepared for a mystic role.
Jeannette continued, mechanically, to ply her distaff while her eyes, with an absent minded look in them, followed her sheep. She neither saw nor heard Sybille approach. The latter, after having laid her hemp in the streamlet and placed a stone on it to keep it in place, approached Jeannette slowly and impressed a kiss upon the bowed neck of the young girl, who uttered a startled cry and said smilingly, “Oh god-mother, you frightened me so!”
“And yet you are not timid! You were braver the other day than I should have been when you stoned the large viper to death. What were you thinking about just now?”
“Oh, I was thinking that the Dauphin, our dear Sire, who is so gentle, so beautiful, so brave and yet so unfortunate through the fault of his mother, may, perhaps, be forced to leave France!”
“Who told you that?”
“A messenger, who stopped yesterday at our house. He told us of the harm the English are doing the country whence he came; and also of the troubles of our young Sire. Oh, god-mother, I felt as grieved for him as if he were my own brother. I could not help crying before falling asleep. Oh, the messenger repeated it over and over again that the mother of the young prince is to blame for all of his sufferings; and that that bad woman had lost Gaul.”
“Did the messenger say all that?” asked Sybille, thrilling at a sudden recollection, “did he say that a woman had lost Gaul?”
“Yes, he did. And he told how, through her fault, the English are heaping sorrows upon the country people. They pillage them, kill them and burn down their houses. They have no mercy for women or children. They drive away the peasants’ cattle” — and Jeannette cast an uneasy glance upon her woolly flock. “Oh, god-mother, my heart bled at the messenger’s report of our young King’s sufferings and at the trials of the poor folks of those regions. To think that one bad woman could cause so much harm!”
“A woman caused the harm,” said Sybille, raising her head with a faraway look in her eyes, “a woman will redress it.”
“How can that be?”
“A woman lost Gaul,” resumed Sybille, more and more dreamily, with her eyes resting on space, “a young girl shall save Gaul. Is the prophecy about to be fulfilled? Praise be to God!”
“What prophecy, god-mother?”
“The prophecy of Merlin, the famous enchanter. Merlin, the bard of Brittany.”
“And when did he make the prophecy?”
“More than a thousand years ago.”
“More than a thousand years! Was Merlin then a saint, god-mother? He must have been a great saint!”
Absorbed in her own thoughts, Sybille did not seem to hear the young shepherdess’s question. With her eyes still gazing afar, she murmured slowly the old chant of Armorica:
“Merlin, Merlin, whither this morning with your black dog?
‘I come here to look for the egg that is red and laid by the serpent that lives in the sea.
I come here to look for the cress that is green and the herb that is golden which grow in the valley,
And the branch of the oak that is stately, in the woods on the banks of the fountain.’”
“The branch of the oak that is stately — in the woods — on the banks of the fountain?” repeated Jeannette, questioningly, looking above and around her, as though struck both by the words and the significant expression on Sybille’s face. “It looks like this spot, god-mother, it looks like this spot!” But noticing that the old Breton woman did not listen to her and was seemingly lost in contemplation, she laid her hand upon her arm and said, insistently, “God-mother, who is that Merlin of whom you speak? Answer me, dear god-mother!”
“He was a Gallic bard whose chants are still sung in my country,” answered Sybille, awaking from her revery; “he is spoken of in our oldest legends.”
“Oh, god-mother, tell me one of them, if you please. I love so much to hear your beautiful legends. I often dream of them!”
“Very well, you shall be pleased, dear child. I shall tell you the legend of a peasant who wed the daughter of the King of Brittany.”
“Is it possible! A peasant wed a king’s daughter?”
“Yes, and thanks to Merlin’s harp and ring.”
CHAPTER IV.
THE HARP OF MERLIN.
SYBILLE SEEMED TO be in a trance. “The legend,” she said, “that I shall tell you is called The Harp of Merlin;” and she proceeded to recite in a rythmic cadence:
“‘My poor grandmother, Oh, I wish to attend
The feast that the King doth give.’
‘No, Alain, to this feast shall you not go:
Last night you wept in your dream.’
‘Dear little mother, if truly you love me,
Let me this feast attend.’
‘No, you will sing when you go;
When you come back you’ll weep.’
But despite his grandmother, Alain did go.”
“It was wrong in him to disobey,” Jeannette could not help saying, while she listened with avidity to her god-mother’s recital; “it was wrong in him to disobey!”
Sybille kissed Jeannette on the forehead and proceeded:
“Alain equipped his black colt,
Shod it well with polished steel,
Placed a ring on its neck, a bow on its tail,
And arrived at the feast.
Upon his arrival the trumpets were sounded:
‘Whoever shall clear at one bound,
Clear and free, the barrier around the fair grounds,
His shall the King’s daughter be.’”
“The King’s daughter! Can it be!” repeated the little shepherdess wonderingly, and, dropping her distaff, she pressed her hands together in ecstasy.
Sybille proceeded:
“Hearing these words of the crier,
The black colt of Alain neighed loud and long;
He leaped and ran, his nostrils shot fire,
His eyes emitted flashes of lightning; he distanced all other horses,
And cleared the barrier with a leap neat and clean.
‘Sire,’ said Alain, addressing the King,
‘You swore it; your daughter, Linor, must now be mine.’
‘Not thine, nor of such as you can ever she be —
Yours is not our race.’”
“The King had promised and sworn,” cried Jeannette, “did he fail in his word? Oh, the lovely Dauphin, our Sire, he would never break his word! Would he, god-mother?”
Sybille shook her head sadly and continued:
‘“An old man stood by the King,
An old man with long white beard,
Whiter than is the wool on the bush of the heather;
His robe was laced with gold from top to bottom.
He spoke to the King in a low voice;
And the latter, after he had heard what the old man said,
Struck three times on the ground with his scepter
To order silence,
And said to Alain:
“‘If you bring me the harp of Merlin,
That hangs at the head of his bed from three chains of gold;
Yes, if you can loosen that harp and bring it to me,
You shall have my daughter,
Perhaps.’”
“And where was that harp, god-mother?” asked Jeannette, more and more interested in the legend. “What must he do to get it?”
“‘My poor grandmother,’
Said Alain when he returned to the house,
‘If truly you love me you’ll help and advise me.
My heart is broken! My heart is broken!’
‘Bad boy, had you but listened to me,
Had you not gone to that feast,
Your heart would not be broken.
But come, do not cry. The harp shall be loosened.
Here’s a hammer of gold;
Now go.’
“Alain returned to the King’s palace, saying:
‘Good luck and joy! Here am I,
And I bring the harp of Merlin’—”
“Then he succeeded in getting the harp?” Jeannette asked in amazement. “But where and how did he do it, god-mother?”
Sybille, with a mysterious look, placed her finger to her lips in token of silence:
“‘I bring here the harp of Merlin,’ said Alain to the King;
‘Sire, your daughter, Linor, must now be mine.
You promised me so.’
When the King’s son heard this, he made a wry face
And spoke to his father, the King, in a low voice.
The King, having listened, then said to Alain:
‘If you fetch me the ring
From the finger of Merlin’s right hand,
Then you shall have my daughter, Linor.’”
“Oh, god-mother, twice to fail in his promise! Oh, that was wrong on the part of the King! What is to become of poor Alain?”
“Alain returns all in tears,
And seeks his grandmother in great haste.
‘Oh, grandmother, the King had said —
And now he gainsays himself!’
‘Do not grieve so, dear child!
Take a twiglet you’ll find in my chest,
On which twelve leaves you’ll see —
Twelve leaves as yellow as gold,
And that I looked for se’en nights
In se’en woods, now se’en years agone.’”
“What were those gold leaves, god-mother? Did the angels or the saints give them to the grandmother?”
Sybille shook her head negatively and proceeded:
“When at midnight the chanticleer crowed,
The black colt of Alain awaited his master
Just outside the door.
‘Fear not, my dear little grandson,
Merlin will not awake;
You have my twelve leaves of gold.
Go quickly.’
The chanticleer had not yet done with his chant
When the black colt was galloping swiftly over the road.
The chanticleer had not yet done with his chant
When the ring of Merlin was taken away—”
“And this time Alain married the King’s daughter, did he not, god-mother?”
“At break of dawn was Alain at the King’s palace,
Presenting him with Merlin’s ring.
Stupefied the King did stand;
And all who stood near him declared:
‘Lo, how, after all, this young peasant
Won the daughter of our Sire!’
‘It is true,’ the King to Alain did say,
‘But still there is one thing I now ask of you,
And it will be the last. Do you that,
And my daughter you’ll have,
And with her the glorious kingdom of Leon.’
‘What must I do, Sire?’
‘To my court bring Merlin,
Your wedding to sing with my daughter Linor.’”
“My God!” interrupted the little shepherdess, more and more carried away with the marvelousness of the story, “how will it end?”
“While Alain was at the King’s palace,
His grandmother saw Merlin go by;
Merlin the Enchanter went by her house.
‘Whence, Merlin, come you with your clothes all in rags
Whither thus bare-headed and bare-footed go you?
Whither, old Merlin, with your holly staff go you?’
‘Alack! Alack! I’m looking for my harp,
My heart’s only solace in all this broad world.
I’m looking for my harp and also for my ring,
Which both I lost, or they have been stolen from me.’
“‘Merlin, Merlin, do not grieve!
Your harp is not lost, and neither is your ring.
Walk in, Merlin, walk in,
Take rest and food.’
‘I shall neither eat nor rest in this world
Till I’ve recovered my harp and my ring.
They have not been stolen, I’ve lost them, the two.’
‘Merlin, walk in, your harp will be found. —
Merlin, walk in, your ring will be found.’
So hard the grandmother begged
That Merlin entered her hut.
“When in the evening Alain returned to his house,
He trembled with a great fear when,
On casting his eyes towards the hearth,
He there saw Merlin the Enchanter,
Who was seated, his head on his breast reclining.
Alain knew not whither to flee.
“‘Fear not, my lad, fear not.
Merlin sleeps a slumber profound.
He has eaten three apples, three red ones,
