A mediaeval garland

- WEARINESS

iQVE — BAD NESS

A Mediaeval Garland

A Mediaeval Garland : By

Madame James Darmesteter.
Translated into English by
May Tomlinson.

LAWRENCE & BULLEN, Limited,
1 6 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden,
London, MDCCCXCVIII.

RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON & BUNGAV.

// is with an apology that I introduce Madame Translator's
Danmsteter's stories to English readers. To offer a Preface.
translation of the work of a writer who herself could have
written the same in admirable English, had she been so
minded, may seem superfluous. But Madame Darmesteter
having written her book in French, and given no English
replica, I have translated it in the wish to make known,
even through the half-light of translation, these charming
old-world stories, gathered in that garden of romance, the
Middle Ages. Perhaps — / hope it may be so — something
of that individual association with mediceval life and
romance which marks Madame Darmesteter 's writing,
may filter through the medium of the English version.

My small share in this book I give to the memory of
my uncle, Colonel Frederick Mackenzie Fraser. Much
of my childhood was spent in his house of Castle Fraser,
the first stones of which were laid in the early part of
the Middle Ages, and there I learnt to love the romantic
legends of the past. Just as this translation was com-
pleted, my uncle died at Castle Fraser. So the beautiful
old Scottish house, and its laird, and these mediceval tales
are all bound together in my thoughts — bound with heart-
strings.

MAY TOMLINSON.

London, 1897.

I DEDICATE

TO MY HUSBAND

THESE FLOWERS

FOUND
BETWEEN THE LEAVES OF OLD BOOKS

THE STORY OF ANTONIO I Contents.

ALIPZ 19

PHILIP THE CAT 45

THE BALLADS OF THE DAUPHINE 83

THE COUNTESS OF DAMMARTIN 125

THE WIFE OF LUDOVIC THE MOOR 149

THE TRUE STORIE OF WHITE ROSE AND THE

FAIRE SIBYLLE 159

THE ARCHITECT OF BROU 197

MADAME DE LA ROCHE 217

THE CLOVE CARNATION 231

IX

TO

THE BLESSED SAINT FRANCIS

THE STORY OF ANTONIO The Story

of Antonio.

I

Assist, 1 2 go.

THE opal tints of an April dawn shone
on the Umbrian mountains. Their
summits glittered vaguely through the
star-pierced mist. Through the still dark-
some valley, the goatherd of Messer
Astolfo was wending his way with
difficulty towards those dim heights. At
every step, he knocked himself against the
great roots of oak-trees, and stunted olive-
branches, which obstructed the path. He
was tired, for he had already been walking
for two hours ; he was taking two goats as
a present from his master to the good
brothers of Assisi ; and the previous
Friday, at the fair of Spoleto, in a brawl
with Ser Alvisio's Gino, he had received
a long cut on his right arm, which the
restlessness of his burden made more and
more painful.

Meanwhile, the light spread clear and

A roseate in the sky, and suddenly in the
Garland, trees anigh Antonio, there woke an infinite
chant of birds. The colours of the field-
flowers began to appear through a veil of
dew ; nests of pale primroses, sheaves of
white jonquils, packed into the hollow
trunk of an olive-tree, — or a blue and
pink dream of mingled periwinkles and
cyclamens, in the depth of the wood. At
last, the first white rays of light fell across
the olive leaves : a virginal rustling stirred
all the silvery branches ; a little wind
fluttered . . . was stilled ; and day broke.
The white houses of Assisi could now be
seen half-way up the mountain, shadowed
by enormous olive-trees. Antonio, like
the birds, began to sing his little greeting
to the morning :

' Florin d'amore !
Andiamo adesso in cielo ad abitare ! '

' Floweret of love ! Let us go, let us
go and dwell in the skies ! ' But the sound
of his voice, too coarse for the ineffable
sweetness and charm of this spring dawn,

made him ashamed, and he envied the The Story
echoes that brought him back the notes of
his love-song.

Antonio was a fine fellow of that type so
frequently seen in Umbria, that in every
farm you will find one of Perugino's
saints. He had the peculiar oval frame
of face, with flat cheek-bones, where a
feverish pink stains the too delicate skin ;
he had large, vague, blue eyes ; and albeit
he had not passed his twenty-fifth year,
his fair silky hair was already thin on the
temples.

' Good God ! ' said Antonio, ' these
beasts are the devil to carry ! '

And whilst changing their position on
his injured arm, instead of singing, he
began to think :

' How beautiful the mountains are at
this season ! That might be the City of
God up there ! It seems to me that I
have never seen so bright a morning :
when one is tired, one allows one's self to
look at these sort of things. . . . Holy Body
3

of Bacchus, how my cursed arm hurts me !

Who would ever have thought that idi°t
Gino knew how to handle a knife so well !

But all the same I deem he will not begin
that game again! What a fine crack I
gave him in the ribs! . . . Hi! Beast!
Hey ! Beast ! Thou wouldst escape,
wouldst thou?' and he dealt the elder
of the two goats a sharp little blow on
the ears ; it uttered a faint cry and became
silent.

' There, at last, thou'rt quiet, beast.
It is well that Messer Astolfo was not
here ! He is one who loves the beasts.
Heavens ! if I was a great lord, I should
not spend all my time in preaching to the
birds, and healing the sick. What is the
use of being rich if it leads only to that ? '

Antonio raised his head and looked at
the mountain as if it had been his inter-
locutor. It was divinely beautiful this
morning. A skylark, mad with ecstasy,
was trilling its rapture far away in the blue.
From the ground, a whiff of primroses

4

crushed by the feet of Antonio rose up to The Story

, . of Antonio.

him.

' These flowers smell too strong ! ' he
said, vaguely cross. And he sat down for
an instant at the edge of a field. ' I
feel quite odd and shaky . . . One might
think there were only good people in the
world on such a morning! I deem
Paradise must be like this .... My
master and the good brothers would be as
happy there as fish in a pond! As for me,
indeed ....!'

And a mocking smile parted the delicate
lips of Antonio.

At that moment one of the goats
escaped. Antonio had a long chase ere
he could recapture it. It was nigh ten
o'clock when he at last arrived at the gates
of Assisi. The little town lay spread out,
terrace after terrace, in the sun. The
Sabbath Mass was being sung in some
church : the voices of the choir-boys floated
out into the country, and the perfume of
the incense passed over the city-walls.
5

' In sooth, it is the City of God/ said
Antonio. ' I too, oh gentle Jesus — I too
should have liked to be good ! But, thank
Heaven, I am not made for that trade. I
am too fond of fighting, and wine, and
women ! To think that Gino tried to kiss
Lisa!'

Antonio drew his eyebrows together,
which gave his fair face a strangely hard
and wicked expression:

' Great God, who changes the hearts
of men, I defy Thee to make a saint
of me ! '

And he entered the gates of Assisi.

ii

The great courtyard of the monastery
was transfigured. An altar was set up in
the centre, and tapers were burning in
broad daylight. On a litter, before the
altar, the Prior lay at the point of death.
All around him knelt, with clasped hands,
the Franciscan Brothers, and the Sisters of

the Order of the Poor Clares.
6

This Prior, Brother Egidio, was revered The Story

,., . „_ . n . , of Antonio,

like unto a saint in all the country ; he was

the last surviving companion of Saint
Francis. At the news of his illness, the
faithful had flocked in crowds from all
the neighbouring villages, and, ere he
crossed the threshold of the monastery,
Antonio already heard sounds of lament-
ation.

The goatherd, as has been aforesaid,
was a fine well-built fellow, and it was not
difficult for him to make a path betwixt
those who prayed and those who wept.
Suddenly, he turned scarlet : twenty paces
off, he saw Ser Alvisio's Gino, talking to
a pretty brunette. If it had not been for
the crowd and the two goats with which
he was encumbered, Antonio would have
bounded upon his rival and stabbed him
to the heart on the spot, despite the
presence of the Host. Finding it im-
possible to reach him, Antonio contented
himself with a look, and was a little
consoled by seeing that at his approach
7

the wretched Gino turned pale as though
feint, and quitted his neighbour promptly.

A voice from an upper window ques-
tioned the new-comer : ' Who goes there ? '

' It is Antonaccio, the goatherd of
Messer Astolfo/ replied other voices in
the crowd.

The monk shrugged his shoulders and
returned to his watch, saying — ' Ah ! ' with
such an accent of disappointment that
Antonio cried —

' He is not very polite! '

One of the peasants jostling him ex-
plained, that the Prior had been in his death
agony since the preceding day, but that he
could not and would not die, so long as
the King of France, Saint Louis, had not
come to receive his benediction. These
things had been revealed to him in a
dream, the very night he had fallen ill,
wherefore the monks were day and night
on the watch, awaiting the arrival of the
King of France, who had not yet appeared.

' My master, Messer Astolfo, will be

vexed,' cried Antonio ; ' I have just come The Story

c ..... f , ^ . of Antonio,

from him, bringing two goats tor the rnor,

who, poor man, I fear will scarce eat
them.'

Antonio was still angry, for he was
thinking much more of Gino than the
Prior, and his young voice rang clear and
strong amidst the agonized whispers which
filled the courtyard. It even penetrated
the collapse of the dying man, who sud-
denly raised his hand and made a sign to
Antonio to come forward.

The goatherd advanced slowly, quite
abashed, wondering whether he ought to
present the goats that were much in his
way, or ask for a blessing. Meanwhile,
the large dim eyes of the dying man
suddenly lighted up, fixed themselves on
the herdsman, and supporting himself by
the palms of both hands on the edge of the
litter, he managed by an immense effort to
sit up. Then, in a strange, very loud
voice, he cried — ' Nunc dimittis / for mine
eyes have seen the Lord's elect ! ' And,
9

A casting his hands to the sky in a supreme
Garland, gesture of farewell, of agony, and bene-
diction, he fell back dead on his couch.

ill

The whole crowd had fallen on their
knees, weeping, singing the Nunc Dimittis,
and exclaiming at the miracle. Women
swooned. An old knight, who in his
youth had witnessed the conversion of
the Wolf of Gubbio, and was a judge
of miracles, fell into an ecstasy, and
described to the audience how he had
seen in the skies, a multitude of souls just
released from Purgatory, and, in the midst
of this white and jubilant assembly, God
the Father with arms outstretched, to
welcome the last of the companions of
Saint Francis. The company listened,
open-mouthed, drinking in his words.
But, at the end of his tale, a woman
called out — ' And what has become of the
King, Saint Louis ? '

Then the brothers and sisters who knelt The Story
. . .... . of Antonio.

around the bier, raised their eyes and

gazed at one another. And a great sad-
ness possessed their souls. Where was
he, this almost god-like King, the most
holy of living saints, who had come so
far over seas and mountains, in order to
receive the blessing of an old man ?
Without a word of thanks from them,
he had disappeared, and remorse dark-
ened their hearts and brought to their
eyes still more bitter tears.

' I saw him,' said the porter ; ' he was
a pilgrim clothed all in brown like the
most simple of our mountain goatherds.
But I much doubted he was other, when
at the selfsame moment as the Prior died,
he melted into the air like smoke.'

' It was easy to see,' said a woman,
'that he was a king. Beneath his hood
he wore a golden crown which shone
like the midday sun.'

' And under his cloak/ added a third,

' he was dressed in cloth of silver, broid-
ii

ered with golden roses, just like the
youngest of the Three Kings on the
chapel walls ! '

IV

Antonio had indeed fled, quite stunned
by the death of Brother Egidio. For, he
well knew in his own heart that he was
still Antonio, and not the King of France.
Nevertheless, the blessing, given to a
saintly King and received by him, began
to work strangely on his feelings. He
thought no more of Gino, nor of his mis-
tress. He thought only of this noble man
dying in error, through his blunder, and
guilelessly betraying the divine mission.
. . . Brother Egidio now knew upon what
a worthless object the divine benediction
reserved for God's Elect had gone astray !
Never in his life had the goatherd felt so
small or so unworthy. The bright midday
light, like unto the eye of God, made him
afraid. No shade, no refuge. Absolute
silence reigned in the deserted streets.

12

Nothing but light, and an offended God, The Story

. of Antonio,

and he, the sinner, who knew not where to

hide himself from his judge.

Antonio threw himself on the ground,
covered himself with his cloak, and wept
bitterly. Meanwhile, the sun at its zenith
darted its fiery rays upon him. He was
obliged to get up, and seek shelter. Afar
off, at the end of the road, the gates of the
town opened like a cavern of shade and
coolness. Antonio bent his steps thither,
and, as he went, he remembered the im-
pious words he had thrown to the skies, as
he crossed the threshold of that gate :
' Great God, who changes the hearts of
men, I defy Thee to make a saint of me ! '

Had God taken up the challenge ?

Little by little, an ineffable, mystic cer-
titude dawned in the heart of Antonio.
God, in His mysterious celestial way, had
used him, the paltry goatherd, for an
instant, in order to pour into him — as a
very precious balm is poured into an
earthen vessel — the resplendent soul of a
13

A saint. Antonio always remained Antonio ;

Garland. but, ^or t^ie sPace °f tne twinkling of an
eye, the goatherd and Saint Louis were
made one in God.

v

Antonio stood upright in the sunny
road, looking into the shadow of the gate
with dazzled eyes. God was indeed God !
And he, the meanest of the goatherds on
the mountain, who was he to measure him-
self against this divinely gracious omnipo-
tence ? For God, instead of crushing the
sinner's pride with a thunderbolt, or swal-
lowing him in an earthquake, had loaded
him with divine gifts and ineffable hopes.
Was it not told that the Lord Jesus Christ,
always humble and courteous, did not for-
get to invite the dying thief at His side to
share the feasts of Heaven with Him ?

Should he not follow this sacred Hand
which opened the gates of Paradise to him
likewise ? Could he go back to the plain,
and make love, gamble, sin, and forget ?
14

All the semblance of his life met to- The Story

i r tt_ f of Antonio.

gether in one instant before the eyes of

Antonio : Gino, the Friday fair, where
fine cattle are sold ; the tavern, where they
sing at evening ; the vainglory of his
former prowess ; and Lisa, with the hazel
eyes, in her myrtle-scented chamber.

' Let Gino take her,' he murmured, his
voice suddenly growing hoarse ; ' let him
take all. . . I — I take the Cross ! '

The self-same evening, Antonio was
received into the Order of the Glorious
Poor of God. Later on, he likewise be-
came a saint, performed miracles, and,
during a pilgrimage to Palestine, like Saint
Louis erewhile, he almost persuaded to
the faith the Emir of Babylon.

ALIPZ

TO

M. DOUET D'ARCQ

ALIPZ

Lumeau-en-Beauce, 1382.

THE little town of Boigneaux-en-Beauce
was bathed in the white radiance of the
moon. All around, the immense plain
spread its delicate undulating harvest like
a milky sea. Birch-trees quivered in the
breeze ; in the midst of the young corn
the first poppies of summer waved their
corollas, discoloured by the night dew.
Above all this pale rural peace, the shadow
of the fortifications of Boigneaux stood
out like a menace ; and further on, towards
the horizon, there rose other walls, the
huge battlemented tower of the fortified
church of the hamlet of Lumeau.

Near the walls of Boigneaux, under one
of its sculptured gables, which threw on
the whiteness of the pavement an enormous
fantastic shadow, slept the captain of
Lumeau. Messire Mathieu de Marquivil-
liers, like all castellans and country guards,
19

reserved a room for himself in the town
whither he came somewhat often to repose
from the cares of his office. On account
of the heat of the May night he had left
the shutters open ; the air came in freely,
and the moon illumined the bony head of
the old soldier, his receding forehead and
reddish-grey hair. Suddenly the sound
of horses' hoofs, the clash of steel, a long-
drawn cry of ' Haro ! ' and the furious
barking of watch-dogs awoke all the
echoes of the street. The captain sat
up quickly and listened ; he heard nothing
more save the trees rustling in the night
wind. Messire Mathieu heaved a sigh
of relief.

'At last,' he muttered, ' I can go to
sleep ! I thought I heard a sound of
armed men ; but when I am out of Lumeau
I dream of nothing but bandits and marau-
ders. Nevertheless, God knows whether
I have earned my sleep ! Keeping watch
until midnight with the sergeant of Boig-

neaux! Ouf!' and he buried his head in
20

the pillows, when the cries began louder Alipz.
than ever —

' Haro ! Haro ! Captain ! The raiders
are out ! '

' Help, for God's sake ! The false
traitors are in our houses and will carry
off our cattle ! '

' They are soldiers from the garrison of
Orleans out on the forage ! '

' They have taken robes and linen from
the priest at Ligny ! '

' They have stolen the miller's horse ! '

' And Colin Vivier's three pigs ! '

The little room of the captain was ere
long filled by peasants with scared eyes
showing under their frieze hoods. Some
held in their hands pitchforks, and others
sickles.

' Come then, Messire Mathieu,' said the
miller of Lumeau ; ' these said soldiers are
all feasting in the tavern at Boigneaux.
You will easily make terms with them,
seeing they are after all soldiers like your-
selves, and not common thieves ! '

21

So saying, the miller handed Messire
Mathieu his worn coat of mail, another
peasant put on his helmet, an unknown
hand gave him his sword and his steel
gauntlets, and before the captain knew if
all that passed was truth or dreaming, he
found himself before the door of the Pot
d'Etain.

ii

Within was much good cheer, eating,
drinking, and head-splitting singing of war-
songs. A great wood fire and five or six
pine torches lighted up the heads of half-a-
score of fully-armed young marauders and
troopers, and their glittering armour, as
well as the red wine which flowed in
torrents, and the contrite face of their
landlord. A young maid sat in the midst
of them, her head falling over the back of
the chair, her eyes closed, her mouth half-
open, sleeping despite the uproar of her
companions.

' She must be thoroughly accustomed

22

thereto,' mused the captain of Lumeau ; Alipz.
' it is beginning early. Only fifteen ! '

He turned to arrange with the leader
of the band for the restitution of the horses
and goods they had carried off. Things
dragged for a long time, for they were not
only arranged betwixt Messire Mathieu
and the captain of the raiders, but every
peasant and every soldier joined therein,
adding to the greater confusion of the
affair. The east was touched with the
grey of dawn, and the stars were paling in
the sky when Mathieu de Marquivilliers
thought he could at last take leave. On
both sides a last bumper was drunk to the
health of the old Duchess of Orleans,
strange patron for negotiations of such a
nature. When Mathieu and his peasants
were already in the road, disputing amongst
themselves if it would be better to finish
the night at Boigneaux or go on to
Lumeau, they heard a great outburst of
voices from the interior of the inn.

' Alipz ! ' shouted the raiders together,
23

' where is Alipz ? She must also drink
the health of Madame ? Alipz ! where
art thou ? '

The captain turned, and saw in the
lighted room the marauders, excited by
drink, jostling each other as they came
and went seeking the young maid, and
furious with a drunken fury at not finding
her.

' They are getting heated,' said Messire
Mathieu to his men. 'We must make
for Lumeau, my lads, for I greatly fear
we have not seen the end of this brawl !
It is well that we have recovered our good
beasts and our belongings, for it is scarce
easy to make agreement with raiders drunk
with wine and still athirst for plunder.'

in

Meanwhile the young girl was running
—running with all the force of youth and
country-breeding — through the gloomy
dawn. The moon foundered in a sea
of clouds, the weather inclined to rain.
24

Nevertheless a glimmer of light showed AHpz.
the roads a little paler in colour than the
fields and the trees standing out black
against a rather lighter sky. At the end
of the road, the solid battlements of the
fortified church rose dark and huge in the
still uncertain light. It was towards this
double sanctuary that the maiden hurried,
barely escaped from the hands of the
marauders.

Lumeau is not more than a short half-
league from Boigneaux across a plain as
even as the surface of a lake ; long before
the brigands had discovered the absence
of their victim, she stood before the wide
trenches of the monastery. She did not
even need to ring the great bell which
hung above the drawbridge, for it was
already known that the raiders were in the
country ; the sergeant and his little garri-
son expected to see women coming for
refuge to the fortress, and, indeed, several
were already gathered in the guard-house.
Before Alipz could cry ' Refuge ! ' she

A was surrounded with soldiers, who plied
Mediaeval , . ,

Garland. ner Wltn questions.

' She is a maiden whom they kidnapped
yesterday at Ligny,' explained the good-
natured, loquacious sergeant, who alone
understood the poor child's broken words.
' The ruffians are now at Boigneaux, where
they are settling as best they can with our
captain. Tell that to the widow of
Paupin Vivier, who does nothing but
whine and threaten me on account of
two copper saucepans stolen from her
by these miscreants. . . . Holloa, there,
Mother Vivier ! You will get your sauce-
pans, do you hear ? And now

take this poor child to the barn that she
may rest and sleep a little. Give her a
hunch of bread and a good glass of milk.
Good-night, little one ; you look half-dead.
Fear naught ; here you are at the end of
your misfortunes.'

26

IV Alipz.

Lying on the straw, exhausted and
reassured, Alipz nevertheless could not
sleep, despite the delicious security en-
veloping her like a mantle. . . To think
that a horror of which yesterday she did
not even dream, should already be a
terrible recollection ! Alipz saw herself
as she was yesterday — as she had been
all her short life until yesterday — a frank,
joyous child, living with her mother and
her uncle, the priest to whom she gave
her best service. Yesterday morning, as
usual on the last Monday of the month,
she was washing the surplice of the good
priest in the stream. Suddenly the water
was troubled, and, as she bent over her
task, she did not see half-a-dozen troopers
who swooped down upon her from the
outskirts of the wood, attracted no doubt
by the song trilled from her lark's throat.
Before she could even utter a cry of
distress, one of them had enveloped her

head in a cloak, and thrown her across

27

his horse. ' We are going to take you
to play in the fields, my lovely child ! '
he said to her. God knows what frantic
terror that innocent heart felt during that
dark and interminable journey ! And yet
it seemed to her that her worst presenti-
ments could not have foreseen a torture
so coarse, so shameful, and so cruel as that
which awaited her in the midst of the
laughter of the captain of the raiders.

' Ah ! my God, how could I survive
it ! ' thought poor Alipz, sitting up sudden-
ly, quite reconquered by the horror of her
torture. ' Oh, what will mother say ?
What will mother and the reverend father
say ? ' She hid her face in her little hands,
red with sunburn and youth. Bitter sobs
shook her unformed childish figure.
' Mother ! ' she sobbed, and her tears
flowed more gently ; ' Mother ! Mother ! '
She lay down full length on the straw, her
face still hidden in her hands, which
streamed with tears.

In time she wept less. Her poor
28

trembling lips muttered a prayer — a Latin Alipz.
prayer taught her by her uncle. ' Ora pro
nobis peccatoribus? said she ; — l peccatori-
bus] she repeated, with a new perception,
a revelation of that mysterious thing, sin.
She had always known that it must be
something more than sometimes sleeping
too late in the morning, or even answering
her mother too sharply. . . . ' Peccatori-
bus? — Ah ! how could any one sin of free-
will ? Perhaps the Holy Virgin would
forgive her, Alipz, because it had not
been her free-will. ' Ora pro nobis] said
she, with an outburst of new confidence,
' et in hora mortis nostrce. Amen /'
She went to sleep.

v

A few minutes later the fortress re-
sounded with the voices and heavy steps
of soldiers. Mathieu de Marquivilliers
came back to the fort to the great joy

of the garrison. The peasants crowded
29

around him. Some brought their re-
covered goods to the fort, others brought
to a place of safety their cows, horses,
clothes, coffers of linen ; in short, all there
was of value in the village of Lumeau.
Meanwhile, on the patrol path, the captain
explained to the crowd that new excesses
on the part of the raiders were to be
feared.

' I left them,' he said, ' in a very bad
humour. They were vainly seeking one
of their women, who had escaped during
our discussion.'

'A woman/ said the sergeant. 'Just
now a maiden came running to ask us for
protection against the marauders.'

' A maid of about fifteen ? Fair, rather
pretty, dressed in a white skirt and long
red sleeves to her bodice ? '

' The very she. Poor child, I sent her
to rest in the barn : she was tottering with
fatigue and hunger.'

1 Hunger ! ' exclaimed the captain, with
a jeering laugh. ' If you had seen her
30

just now, old fellow, in the tap-room of Alipz.
the Pot d'Etain, singing, eating, and
making good cheer with her comrades !
Ah, she's a sly one ! '

Foreseeing that the arrival of Alipz would
raise up new cares for him, the worthy
captain had instantly persuaded himself
that he had really seen her conducting
herself in a very disorderly manner.
' The baggage ! ' he repeated. ' But, bah !
she has taken refuge here, we must
defend her as if she were a princess.'

The sergeant looked a little surprised.

' She looks very young,' he murmured.

'Oh! for that sort!' said the captain,
with a vague gesture, and the two men
kept silence for some moments.

' But, look, here they are, these maraud-
ers. They are coming across the plain !
Put yourselves on the defensive ! Ring
the great bell, so that the people of the
village may come to the fortress ! That's
it ! Ring loudly ! Again ! '

VI

Nevertheless none hastened from the
menaced village, save one or two small
children, who muttered a piece of news
that no one understood.

' But, look ! ' cried one of the soldiers,
' there are the marauders coming from
the other side now ! What the devil are
they dragging after them ? They look
like prisoners.'

' Indeed, they are prisoners,' inter-
rupted the sergeant. ' Good God ! They
are the women of Lumeau ! '

A strange sight displayed itself on the
other side of the trenches of the church.
The raiders, armed from head to foot,
splendid in their youth and fury, sat
proudly in their saddles. Each of them
held in leash a cluster of prisoners, tied
together, young, old, lovely, and ugly ; in
a word, all the women of Lumeau. Not
a soldier in the fortress but saw some old
acquaintance there ; not one of the peasants
who surrounded Marquivilliers but recog-
32

nized either wife, daughter, or daughter-in- Alipz.
law, affianced wife, sister, or sister-in-law,
opposite him. All these women were in
tears, and holding out their bound hands
towards the garrison of the fortified mon-
astery. Behind them the few men of
the country who had not accompanied
Messire Mathieu to the fort, yelled for
mercy, help, and vengeance with all the
force of their lungs, their faces scarlet
with rage.

The raiders made signs for silence.
Then, ' Alipz ' they shouted all together.

' My God ! ' said Marquivilliers, turning
towards the sergeant, ' did I not tell you
so ? You have put a fine quarrel on our
backs in receiving this precious piece of
goods like a saint.'

' Alipz ! ' holloaed the raiders, in their
strong sonorous voices.

' Alipz ! ' repeated the weeping women.

' Give them their beautiful Alipz,' cried
one of the soldiers, brutally, who saw on
the other side of the trenches his betrothed
33 D

A in tears. 'It is better than frightening
Mediaeval , , ,

Garland. tnese honest women.

' Alipz ! ' resumed the raiders.

Marquivilliers and the sergeant looked
at each other with perplexed, unhappy
eyes. At this moment the chief of the
brigands advanced to the extreme edge
of the moat.

' Listen ! ' he cried, and he raised his
head, the better to see Marquivilliers and
his men.

' Listen, good people ! This Alipz is
our property. We took her and we
brought her with us. And, by God ! if
you keep her for yourselves, we shall take
away in her stead the women we hold
prisoners here, and every other in the land
that we can find and take. Choose, your
women or her ! '

A frightful clamour arose from the patrol
path : ' Alipz ! '

The women on the other side of the
water raised their lamentations anew ; with
harrowing cries they besought their hus-
34

bands not to allow them to be dishon- Alipz.
oured for the sake of a good-for-nothing
girl. Marquivilliers turned for a moment
to the sergeant.

' By the way now, who is this Alipz ? '
said he.

' She is a girl that the ruffians have car-
ried off from her uncle the priest of Ligny.'

The captain sneered.

Meantime the cries down below burst
out anew : ' Alipz ! or we will carry off
your women ! '

On their side, the peasants on the patrol
path began to brandish their pitchforks.
They were really alarming. They spoke
amongst themselves of overwhelming Mes-
sire Mathieu with the garrison and sur-
rendering Alipz to the marauders. Ten
or twelve of the boldest of these blades
advanced towards him.

' My word ! ' cried the captain, shortly,
' I can do naught therein. Let this Alipz
be fetched, and they can come to an under-
standing amongst themselves.'
35

A VII

Garland1 Some of the soldiers rushed to the barn
where the child was sleeping, so crushed
by weariness that the outside clamour had
not awakened her. A soldier took her up
in his arms like a feather.

' What is it ? What is it ? Oh, more
soldiers ! ' cried the poor child, waking
with a start as she was carried away.

' Oh, yes ! You shall have plenty more
soldiers if that is your taste,' answered
the soldier. ' To think that all the honest
women in Lumeau have been disturbed
for such a creature ! '

Alipz, half-dead with terror, struggled
in the arms of her captor like a lamb
who is aware it is being led to the
slaughter.

But as they emerged on to the patrol
path, she saw the good-natured sergeant
who had received her so kindly, and with
an invincible effort tearing herself from
the clasp of the soldier, she flung herself
at his feet crying, ' Mercy ! ' and conjuring
36

him not to abandon her through weakness Alipz.
to her persecutors.

' You gave me refuge,' she entreated in
her plaintive voice. ' Giving refuge or
sanctuary is sworn faith or equal to it.'

' Alipz ! ' clamoured the raiders in the
meadows, full of joy at the sight of their
victim.

' It is not only refuge ! ' continued the
girl. ' This is a church ; it is a sanctuary.
I am under the wing of God. What will
He say to you if you turn me away ? ' . . .
She fixed her eyes full of anguish on the
sergeant ; but immediately burst into tears
and sobbed in a childish voice : ' Ah ! I
thought you were so kind ! '

The sergeant turned pale. . . . 'In-
deed,' said he. ... He looked for an
instant into space. e Be calm,' he resumed,
'we are not going to abandon you.' He
turned toward the captain :

* If we made a sally ? We are full six
men, armed, and a score of peasants.'

' Well ! ' cried the raiders down below.
37

A ' That's settled, you know ! We take your

J\TP(l]rp Vll

Garland, women. It is a good bargain for us ;
there are eighteen of them ! '

' Cowards ! ' shrieked the women prison-
ers to the fortress. ' Do you think then
the niece of the priest of Ligny is worth
more than your own daughters ? '

At this moment a movement took place
in the ranks of the raiders. The captain
looked at them. ' They are going away,'
he said ; ' we shall never have time to over-
take them. . . .' ' Go, my dear,' — and
he put his hand on the shoulder of Alipz ;
' get up ; do not let them drag you.' And,
putting his hands like a trumpet to his
mouth, he shouted with all the force of
his lungs to the raiders.

' Hey, what are you doing, friends ?
We are going to give you back your
Alipz!'

4 No ! no ! no ! ' moaned the maiden,
clinging to the wall with a" power of resist-
ance surprising in so fragile a being. ' No,
I will not — I cannot. You are going to
38

throw me alive into hell ! Help ! Help Alipz.
me, sergeant ! Oh, God ! Holy Mary !
Have mercy ! Help me. . . . Mother ! '
The sergeant advanced and said :
' Captain, we really cannot do this ! We
are committing a great fault.'
The captain turned furiously :
'You make me think you are in love
with the creature ! There is plenty of
that trash ! A young saint of fifteen,
whom we find living in a camp of free-
booters ! And you allow yourself to be
worked upon by a pack of nonsense ! . . .
Come, my beauty ! We all have our path
in life, and, once chosen, we must follow
it without reluctance. Go ! '

So saying, he seized the girl round the
waist and bent his way through the
peasants to the staircase. But Alipz
writhed in such lamentable anguish that
the sergeant threw himself towards her,
impelled by an instinct of pity and re-
morse.

' Swear to me that he lies,' said he ;
39

A ' swear to me that you are still an honest
Mediaeval ., , T ... .

Garland, maid, and I will save you, cost me what

it may ! '

For all reply the maiden hid her face
in her hands, the image of shame and
despair.

A long soldierly laugh greeted this mute
avowal.

VIII

From that day forward the sergeant of
Lumeau had a bad reputation in the
country. The women owed him a grudge
for having held their honour more cheaply
than that of a disreputable wench whose
lover he had wished to be. The soldiers
jeered and looked at him askance. The
captain treated him from a height of con-
scious virtue. Indeed Mathieu de Marqui-
villiers enjoyed great popularity in Beauce
until the day when the Governor of the
tribunal of Orleans went to Lumeau in
quest of the said Mathieu to arrest him

on charge of the cowardly abandonment

40

of a woman who had taken refuge in his Alipz.
fort.

This proceeding on the part of the
Governor confused all the moral ideas of
the good folk of Boigneaux and Lumeau.

PHILIP THE CAT

TO

M. SIMEON LUCE

PHILIP THE CAT Philip the

Cat.
I

Cherbourg, July 1429.

THE Castle of Cherbourg was a sinister-
looking building, flanked by sixteen towers,
solidly placed round the vast keep, and
crowned with enormous battlements, where
the soldiers of the English guard patrolled
day and night. Nevertheless, one summer
evening in the year 1429, the heart of
this immense fortress beat in the room
of a little child. This room, the only
bright one in the Castle, looked on to a
small terrace, where blossomed red and
white roses. The open shutters let in the
breath of flowers ; and a light sea-breeze
swayed the great tapestries, embellished
with the adventures of Richard Cceur de
Lion, which hung on the stone walls.
But neither the scent of flowers, nor the
sea-breeze, succeeded in refreshing the sick
child, sleeping on a pile of cushions
embroidered with roses and leopards, in
45

the great stone window-seat. Five or
six English doctors hedged around her
couch, murmuring amongst themselves
words incomprehensible to the French
nurse, a woman from Cherbourg, white
with grief.

' The only remedy left to try/ said one,
' is the theriac of Nero.'

' It is a very strong measure/ said
another, ' for a child of scarce nine years.
I should rather advise giving her a pinch
of crushed pearls in a tisane of lime-leaves
and violets.'

A young man with red hair took up
the thread :

' We might try the fashionable treat-
ment of hanging the room of the patient
with scarlet silk, and playing the clarion
to raise her spirits.'

' All that is foolery/ grumbled an old
man ; ' there is nothing for it but bleeding ;
but I have bled her five times already,
and the child has only a few ounces in her

veins.'

46

Nevertheless, he drew a lancet from Philip the
his pocket, making a sign to the nurse
to bring the basin.

But she, understanding his gesture
better than his words, threw herself in
a frenzy at the feet of the astonished
doctors, and murmured in a distracted,
imploring manner :

' Ah ! as she is going to die, wherefore
torment her, my dove, my Antigone ? — as
she is going to die, leave her to me, sirs,
at least during her last agony ! You have
already done her so much harm, and yet
she does not recover. She is as weak as
a young bird. She will die whilst you
are bleeding her.'

' There is some truth in what she says,'
said the youngest of the doctors.

' Pooh,' said the old man ; ' always this
French woman with her tales.'

' And the Duke ! ' cried another. ' What
will good Duke Humphrey say if his child
dies in our hands, without our doing our
duty to the end ? '

47

' The Duke is in England/ said the
nurse ; 'he will know nothing.'

The doctors, certain of the coming
death of their patient, and enchanted in
reality at freeing themselves from their
responsibility, muttered more English in
low voices ; at the end of a few minutes,
they made up their minds and went
solemnly away, as if against their feelings,
and at the door the old man said with
marked emphasis :

' May the blood of this child be upon
your head, nurse ! '

ii

Three weeks later, the good town of
Cherbourg resounded with the miraculous
cure wrought upon the little person of
Madame Antigone, daughter of the Duke
of Gloucester, uncle of the King and
Governor of Cherbourg ; — ' cure made
entirely,' said her nurse Marion, ' by

fresh air, rest, and harmless hot drinks,'
48

but attributed nevertheless by the people Philip the

Cat
to occult powers, even superior to those

which had earned for old Nora, the Irish
bone-setter, the superstitious respect of
the whole of Cotentin. The doctors, a
little distrustful of this unexpected resur-
rection, drew attention to the fact that the
child was not yet really strong. Indeed,
she wandered about the Castle, tottering,
and feeble — a little phantom, white as snow,
under her magnificent Saxon mane of fair
hair, only half-returned from the pale,
far-off garden of Death.

Marion was in despair at this anaemia.
Her songs could no longer make the child
sleep. She smiled with wide-opened eyes.
All the birds of the air, and all the fish of
the sea, died in vain to tempt the appetite
of the infant princess.

' Taste it, my darling, I beg,' implored
Marion, for the hundredth time perhaps,
one evening, cutting a jelly of smelts in
aspic.

' I cannot,' repeated the child as usual,

49 E

But, seeing the tears come into Marion's
eyes :

' I will try,' said she — ' I will try, if you
will send for Captain Hungerford, to tell
me stories.'

1 Captain Hungerford ? ' said Marion
with a shade of displeasure. ' You are
still fond of that great man ? '

'Yes, I love him very much,' replied
the child.

1 And wherefore then ? ' asked the other.

' Oh ! I love — I love — I love him,
because he is so strong ! '

Marion drew a long sigh.

' Ah ! you are very English ! The two
things I love best in the world, I love a
thousand times more because they are so
weak ! — do you see, my darling ? '

'And what are those two things?'
asked the child, quite interested.

' You, my Antigone, — and France, my
country.'

The little girl threw her arms round the
neck of her nurse.

50

' I too,' she cried — ' I too love France ! Philip the
and I love you likewise, and I love
Philippon.'

And she began to chatter so merrily
that her smiles dissipated the fears of
Marion. Nevertheless the fish still
lay untouched in their jelly. In a few
minutes the nurse noticed them.

' Come ! ' she said, ' we are forgetting to
have supper. I am going this instant to
look for your great captain, since needs
must.'

' Yes ! yes ! Hungerford ! Hungerford ! '
exclaimed the little girl, clapping her hands.

in

With a heavy step, Captain Hungerford
followed Marion to the chair of the sick
child. He was a tall, handsome man, with
reddish hair, marked features, and steel-
grey eyes. He looked anxious at that
moment, despite the kind smile reserved
51

solely for his little friend. He was a hard,
strong-minded man, who had no weakness
in his own life with which to reproach
himself, and who had never forgiven any
weakness in others. He was much feared
and respected ; — no one loved him, save
the child of his master.

' Hungerford ! Hungerford ! ' cried the
little maiden, gayer than ever at the coming
of her favourite. ' Sit there, my dear
Hungerford, and tell me the story of King
Renaud at once.'

' Ah ! no, Madam,' said the Captain,
taking the tiny feverish hands of the child
in his large cool grasp. ' If I tell you
something this evening, it will not be the
good old stories of other times, but a true,
sad story of to-day, which concerns you,
Madam.'

' I like that a thousand times better,'
cried the little maiden. ' Oh, Hungerford,
you are so good ! You will see, nurse, how
much I shall eat.'

The Captain smiled a moment under his
52

beard ; but his face quickly darkened, and Philip the
he began in a grave, sad voice —

* Once upon a time, there was a king,
who was perfectly noble, upright and
brave. And this king had the right to
possess a neighbouring country that rob-
bers sought to take from him. The king
knew it was the will of God he should
reign over this country, where the wretched
people suffered a thousand ills at the hands
of those who governed it, without laws,
and without faith. Therefore he assem-
bled his knights, and went to war against
the ungodly. And he vanquished them
three times : at Cressy, at Poictiers, and at
Agincourt. And God gave power into his
hands.'

A murmur of dumb rage escaped
Marion's lips.

The Captain went on —

' And for a time the people blessed the

yoke that led them in the track. But

there were traitors in the country, and the

ringleaders roused the people against the

53

A king. And the people bit the hand that
Mediaeval . , , ,

Garland, nourished them.

' Nevertheless, Madam, young though
you are, you can see what peace and
abundance we have brought back into this
poor neglected country. All round Cher-
bourg, you have ofttimes seen the well-
to-do farms, which give to our colonists a
harvest twice as rich as in the time of
former farmers. In Humphrey Street
and Gloucester Street, you must have
noticed the beautiful stone houses occupied
by Highway, Cobham, and other London
merchants, where in the time of the
French there were only a few hovels.
And you know that we who live here
give ourselves entirely, heart and soul,
to the greatest good of our fair province,
France.'

' France ! France ! ' shrieked the nurse,
beside herself.

The Captain looked at her for an in-
stant vacantly, and turning to the child,
continued —

54

' Well, then, you must know that all our Philip the

Cat.
efforts have been of no avail in the eyes ot

this ungrateful people. Madam, France is
rising against us ! '

' I know it,' said Antigone, with a little
air of understanding.

' What, you know it ? ' cried the Captain ;
' then you know the shame that whitens
the hair of your young father ? You know
that this foolish, inconstant, and light-
hearted nation has made a god after her
own image — a woman like herself ; a child
like herself ; and, like herself — I cannot
utter the word to you — a sorceress, and
worse still ! Have they told you that we
have been beaten three times by this
devil's offspring — We! — that our gallant
knights have succumbed to the enchanted
distaff of this vile woman ? Ah ! you
have been well taught, and by God !
I should like to know the source from
which your news comes ! But I warn
you, Madam, that it will not last long, and
these rides on the broomstick of the cajoler
55

of a little town will end badly. We shall
ere long get hold of their Jeanne, and we
shall tie her firmly to a strong stack of
fagots. We shall burn her, as is right,
and from her mouth will be seen to come
forth a swarm of lies, of sorceries, and
other hideous devilries, which will roast
with her in the all-cleansing fire.'

' But,' said Antigone, ' that is not the
way that Philippon tells me the story of
the Maid of Orleans.'

' The story of the Maid of Orleans ! '
thundered the Captain at the top of his
voice. ' The Maid of Orleans ! Tell
me the story then, Madam, for I would
give half my worldly goods to hear how
they tell it to the niece of the King of
England.'

' Well, then ! ' . . . began the child

' No ! no ! ' cried Marion, ' do not make
her chatter. She has fever already. She
will be ill the whole night. Go away, for
God's sake, Captain, for, without wishing to
reproach you, it does not seem to me that
56

you in the least understand how to soothe Philip the
sick children ! '

' I know what I am about,' said Hunger-
ford, fixing his piercing eyes on her, ' and
I shall go away as soon as my mind is
clear on certain important subjects. For
that result, I must hear the story of this
child. Begin, Madam.'

' Antigone ! ' cried Marion, ' I forbid you
to speak.'

' Mistress Marion,' answered the Cap-
tain, ' I arrest you in the name of the
King.'

IV

' It is only a game, Madam, my sweet,'
said the big Captain, when the archers had
taken away Marion. And he pressed the
hand of the weeping child. ' It is only a
game of hide-and-seek. I swear to you
she will come back directly. You will tell
me your pretty story, and then, I assure
you, I will at once give Marion back to
you.'

57

* Truly ? ' asked the child. ' It is really
only a game ? I shall see her again
directly ? '

' Yes, my darling ! Only tell me the
story of the Maid of Orleans.'

' Once upon a time,' began the little
maiden

But she hesitated, and looked at Hunger-
ford in a curious, undecided way.

' What is it ? ' said the soldier.

' Marion forbade me to tell my story.'

Hungerford's brow darkened with im-
patience.

' And I order you to tell it me,' said he.
' I am your governor, and Marion is only
your servant. Therefore, to punish her
for her insolence, she will not come back
here till you have told me your story.'

Tears came into the eyes of the child.

' I thought it was a game,' said she.

' It is a game indeed, and one played far
too well it seems to me.'

Hungerford looked so gloomy, that the

little maiden, seized with respect and terror,
58

began to tell her story, very quickly, in a Philip the
clear, tired little voice.

' Once upon a time,' said she, ' there was
a fair country — that's France — and the
English took it and kept it. And then God
was angry with the English, who are the
strongest people of all, because they waged
war against the French instead of waging
war against the Turk. And then there
was a beautiful maiden, and God told her
to go and drive out the English, and that
He would give her half His kingdom in
the skies. Behold, she takes a sword,
and a banner, and mounts a horse to go
to the war. As she is a pure maiden,
weapons have no power against her : thus
she goes always triumphing. Besides, you
know, God protects her. And, whilst she
walks through the thicket, she chases the
English far far away, right down to the
sea ! And when she has chased them as
far as the sea, she will put on a beautiful
robe the colour of fine weather, she will
reach out her fair saintly hand to the King
59

of England, she will offer him peace in her
sweet, loving voice, and she will marry the
handsomest prince in the land. Then the
two nations will be like two sisters. They
will wage war against the Turk, and
imprison him in a dark dungeon. They
will deliver the Holy Sepulchre. Every
one will be pleased, and the French and
English will both be happy . . .

' I have not told it quite as prettily as
Philippon tells it me, because I am so tired
this evening. But that was the sense, I
think.'

' Who is Philippon ? ' said the Captain,
gnawing his beard.

' Oh, you know quite well, Hungerford !
My good Philippon, the harper. Philip
the Cat ... Philip the Cat T

And the child laughed, a little sharp,
sickly laugh.

' You know, the man with blue eyes, who
lives at the corner of the Quay St. Louis ! '

' Humphrey Street ! ' said the Captain,

despite himself.

60

' Oh, here we always say Quay St. Philip the

T . , , Cat.

Louis !

The Captain repressed a wrathful im-
pulse. He got up and said —

' I promised you your nurse, Princess ; I
am going to send her back to you, for I
see you can scarce do without her services.
But, whatever you hear, when your old
Hungerford is not there, do not forget,
Madam, that you are of the blood royal
of England. Pray for your father in order
that he may vanquish his enemies. God
guard you, my sweet Madam ! May He
keep you free from all treason and all
infamy ! May He keep you even as
Daniel was kept in the den of lions !
Adieu ! '

And the Captain went out abruptly.

v

Two men-at-arms accompanied Marion
as far as the door of the room. She came
in alone, and kneeling down quickly beside

Antigone, murmured in her ear —
61

' You told him naught ? '

' Oh, yes/ said the child, ' I was obliged
to tell him everything. He said that I
should not see you again until I had told
my story, so you may think how quickly I
told him.'

Marion clasped the little girl in her
arms, and embraced her with a stifled sob.

' Child, child, must I regret having
brought you back from the jaws of
death?'

The little maiden, worn out by so many
emotions, began to cry in the despairing
way of a suffering child. For the first
time, Marion did not lavish consolations
upon her. Standing up in the embrasure
of the window, she concentrated her
thoughts on what had happened. She
tried to reassure herself by saying that
the child really knew nothing of the plot.
How could she know that — profiting by
the reduction of the garrison, of which part
had been called to the relief of the English

army in the centre — the French defenders
62

of Mont St. Michel were to be introduced Philip the

Cat
into the fortress of Cherbourg ?

But what a fatality that the words of
Antigone had given Hungerford the name
of the harper, who was the soul of the
plot. For he it was who, by his patriotic
songs, stimulated the insurrection of the
peasants of Cotentin. He it was who
took charge of the correspondence ex-
changed between the few remaining Nor-
man barons in Cherbourg and the heroic
defenders of Mont St. Michel — he who
carried from farm to farm, from house to
house, the tidings of the miraculous suc-
cesses of Joan of Arc. If it occurred to
Hungerford to search the house of the
harper ? Marion started. How many
noble, innocent lives would pay for the
indiscretion of a child ! She felt she must
— yes, she must — certainly destroy as soon
as possible the fatal document, hidden in
the too accessible retreat of the harper ;
he must be warned of the danger hanging
over his head.

63

A She looked at the dim twilight : the

Garland. Castle gates must be shut. How could
she get out ? How give the alarm ? To-
morrow morning would perhaps be too
late. Moreover, to-morrow morning she
would be suspected by the whole garrison,
for the soldiers who had such a short time
ago so quickly imprisoned, and as promptly
released her, would not keep their secret
to themselves. She must profit by the
last moments of her incontestable authority
as chief attendant of the daughter of the
Duke. She enveloped herself in her cloak,
went out, and descended the stairs. The
gate of the first courtyard of the Castle
was still open ; the second was being
closed, and they let her pass without
challenge. But the third gate was already
barred, the drawbridges up, and the guard
called out for the night. Marion ap-
proached the sergeant in command.

' The child is not so well,' she said ; ' I
want to go and fetch a drug from Nora,

the bone-setter ; but the drawbridges are
64

up. Will you take it on yourself to let me Philip the
pass ? For I fear the child will die in the
night for want of aid.'

'You ought to have thought of it sooner,'
grumbled the man.

' She was quite well until this evening,'
said Marion. ' She has been laughing too
much with the Captain ; she was seized
with faintness as soon as he left.'

' Very well ! Show me a pass from the
Captain.'

' Oh, no, indeed ! ' cried the nurse. ' He
would send for his six doctors from beyond
the seas. You well know he will not hear
the name of the bone-setter, who, never-
theless, fully, fairly saved the life of the
little one.'

' That is true/ said the other, and he
took several steps in silence. ' After all,
she is the daughter of the Duke . . . and
I have known you for full nine years,
Dame Marion. Otherwise '

He began slowly to undo the heavy

chains.

65 F

A ' What I am doing would almost be a

Garland1 CaS6 f°r han^ing' You wil1 keeP lt a
secret, I hope, nurse ? '

1 Oh, as for that ! ' said Marion, laughing,
' I promise you I will. And you will not
tell any one either, will you ? '

And she laughed nervously.

' Thank you for your kindness.'

She was already outside the Castle gates.

She went into the road almost smiling.
She was not fond of telling lies, but she
was a woman, and it pleased her to trick
the artless despot. Thanks to her astute-
ness, the lives of many people would be
saved. She walked quickly along the
quays, as far as the corner where stood
the old house belonging to Philip the
Cat.

All within was dark and deserted.
Marion called softly three times ; no one
answered. She pushed open the oaken
door, and went into a large hall, absolutely
empty, faintly lighted by the setting sun.

She looked at the corner ; the harp was
66

not there. Philip, therefore, had gone a Philip the
long way off, perhaps as far as Cotentin.
She heaved a sigh of relief. Then,
remembering the real object of her visit,
she went swiftly to the fire-place, knelt
down, lifted up one of the bricks from the
hearth, and took out a dozen sheets of
paper hidden beneath it. There were lists
of men's names, inventories of arms,
indications of times and places of meeting,
and all the correspondence between the
conspirators of Cherbourg and the de-
fenders of Mont St. Michel. Marion hid
these life and death-dealing papers in her
bosom, carefully replaced the brick which
had hidden them, went out silently, and
continued her walk in the direction of the
sea. It was high tide, and great waves
beat against the sea-wall. She looked
hastily round on all sides. There was no
one to be seen. She stooped, picked up a
heavy pebble, tied it to the papers with
the ribbon from her hair, and, with more
than the ordinary force of a woman's
67

A arm, she threw the secret of the rising
country
Channel.

Garland country into the rough waters of the

VI

On her return to the Castle, the kind of
alleviation from anxiety which had as it
were flooded the mind of Marion during
her dangerous expedition, suddenly sub-
sided; she again became anxious and
unhappy, and filled with anguish.

Most of the conspirators were now
shielded from conviction, but she had not
been able to warn Philip. The thought
of his danger distracted her; she had
really done nothing since she had not
saved him. Where was he ? And how
could she reach him in the heart of the
country ? How could she let him know
that at all costs he must remain as far
as possible from Cherbourg ? In what
direction was she to look for him ? To-
wards Caen, or Granville, or St. Lo ?

Marion shut her eyes sadly, in the effort
68

to think clearly. She only saw through Philip the
her closed lids Philip himself, with his
halting walk, a little heavy-footed from
carrying the harp, his sad dreamy face, his
pale blue eyes looking into the beyond,
his shy, sweet smile. She saw his noble
features, contorted as if by thought, be-
neath his thick dark curling Celtic hair.
For the first time she deemed him beau-
tiful, and inmostly dear to her, every
detail of his face sharply graved on her
woman's heart.

Then, in her imagination, she saw him
in some out-of-the-way barn, in the midst
of a hundred peasants called to the place
of meeting — at what risk they well knew
— to discuss the details of the approaching
rising. Oh, God ! how would this man
defend himself, whose mere simplicity had
hitherto been his protection ? Ah, he
knew no guile, nor how to hide his feel-
ings. He only knew how to sing one or
two compromising songs, tell a few stories,
each of which was deserving of death; to
69

A mark the lintels of friendly houses with

Garlamf t^ie mvsteri°us French cross, and hide in
his wandering bird's breast the most secret
and dangerous correspondence in the
world.

She threw herself distractedly before
the enormous silver-gilt crucifix watching
over the bed of the little princess. ' Jesus,
Christ Jesus, how can I protect this man,
whose only armour — his innocent, child-
like looks — has been pierced through and
through by an unwitting child ? How can
I fight against Hungerford for the life of
the poor singer ? '

Marion wept bitterly. Suddenly, it
seemed to her as if a name was whispered
in her ear — ' Dimenche Martin.' It was
the name of a pedlar of theriac, the son
of one of those numerous Irish emigrants
who made up so large a portion of the
population of Cherbourg.

Being from beyond the seas, he passed
as faithful to the English; but Marion

knew he was well versed in the secrets of

70

Philip, a born conspirator, and very ready Philip the

C3.t
and audacious. She decided to send him

to warn the harper on the morrow.

' He can go all through the country
without being suspected,7 she thought.
' He will know where to find Philip. I
shall go to him to-morrow on my way to
Mass.'

Suddenly comforted by the thought of
possible aid, Marion sank down on the
silver steps of the crucifix. She fell
asleep; but in her dreams it seemed to her
that the head of Christ became human,
that the eyes grew larger, more vague and
abstracted, the features contorted by pain,
the mouth alone still preserving its smile
of loving compassion. It was the head
of Philip the Harper, which bent for an
instant from the Cross, and bore for an
hour on its brow the immortal thorns of
the sacrificed God.

VII

Whilst Marion dreamt of the harper,
the Captain of the Castle was working out
his arrest. For ten days previously he
had been on the traces of a vast conspiracy
hatched against the English. But his sus-
picions had never dreamt of touching the
timid, awkward harper, with his sweet
smile. Philip had a free pass of the for-
tress, and came and went as he would.
The words of Antigone had suddenly en-
lightened Hungerford as to the part played
by this insignificant rhymster.

' Spy ! ' he murmured, ' the plan of the
Castle has been for months in the possession
of the defenders of Mont St. Michel ! '

These thoughts had beset him as soon
as he left the room of the child. Later
on, in the evening, he sent his archers to
arrest Philip the Cat. But the bird had
flown, and they only caught a young Irish-
man in the act of placing a paper under a
brick on the hearth.

The young man had time to swallow

72

the letter, the hiding-place was empty, Philip the

Cat

and the soldiers, abashed by their dis-
comfiture, brought their prisoner before
the Captain.

The Irishman trembled in every limb;
but he looked at Hungerford with an
almost impertinent light in his eyes, like
those of a captured deer.

' Ah ! ' said the Captain, ' it is the pedlar
of theriac. I have had my eye on you,
my friend, for a long time. . . . Good,' he
added, making a sign to the soldiers, ' wait
for me in the hall. If I want you, I will
strike the flags thrice with my sword. You
will come immediately.'

The soldiers went away. Dimenche
Martin smiled, and in a voice of mingled
audacity and servility, said —

' So your Honour deigns to buy some-
thing from my modest pack ? ' and he
knelt down as if to undo his parcel.

'Yes,' answered Hungerford, unmoved.
' I want to buy from you the address of
your friend, Philip the Cat.'
73

Dimenche started.

' Philippon ? ' he stammered.

'Yes,' said Hunger ford. 'In order to
hang him to-morrow morning.'

' But I know nothing about him ! ' cried
the Irishman.

' Then we will make you know.'

The pedlar looked at the room, from
floor to ceiling, like a stag at bay. He
saw no hope of escape. Then, as if
crushed by shame, he said very low —

' He is on the road to Granville, at the
farm of Serizy, near the Abbey.'

Hungerford probed him an instant with
his penetrating glance.

'Good,' he said; 'you will lead my men
there at daybreak.'

The pedlar hid his face in his hands.

'And if he is not there, your harper,'
continued the Englishman in measured
tones, ' you will be hanged in his stead in
front of the Abbey.'

Dimenche fell on his knees again sud-
denly, uttering a long wail.
74

1 You have no heart then, you English ? ' Philip the

Cat
Hungerford laughed shortly, and

proudly.

' For traitors ? Nay, my friend, neither
for you nor for your damned Philippon,
indeed ! '

There was silence for an instant. The
Englishman spoke again.

' Why should you prefer the life of the
harper to your own life ? You have no
honour, you. . . Speak, and I will pardon
you/ he said, raising his sword; 'and if
you do not speak, hell shall make you
speak.'

Dimenche was still silent.

' I call ! ' said the Captain ; and he let his
sword fall with a crash on the flagstones.

A strong shudder shook the unhappy
pedlar.

The Englishman smiled. He raised
the sword for the second time. Then,
grey as ashes, the other cried —

'He is with Colin Cadet, at Gros-
Quesnoy, near Caen.'
75

VIII

On the morrow, when Marion wished to
leave the Castle, she was informed that, by
order of the Captain, she was to remain
shut up in the tower with Madame Anti-
gone. There, she was mistress ; outside,
she immediately became an escaping pris-
oner. The poor woman eat her heart out
within her tower. The interminable days
rolled by, without bringing her any news
from the outside world. Her only distrac-
tion was to walk on the roof of the tower,
towards dawn, in the heat of the afternoon,
or again in the evening, whilst the child
slept in her new convalescence. Marion
then saw at her feet — but how changed
and almost unrecognizable from that alti-
tude ! — the quays and streets of Cherbourg.
People came and went, stopped and formed
groups ; but all this population of unknown
and tiny shadows became like strangers
to Marion, who could not distinguish a
feature, exchange a thought, or even hear

a cry. What bound her to this tribe of
76

black atoms ? All community of feeling Philip the

C"a.t

died little by little within her heart ; the
thought of her country, of action, of
deliverance, paled and became uncertain,
and slow of accomplishment, whereas
another feeling, so far unconscious, took
shape daily, expanding mysteriously and
filling her solitude. She was absorbed by
a human, ardent passion for Philip the
Harper. It was no longer to France that
she yearned to devote herself; if Philip
lived, what mattered ought beside ? Ah !
she had been mad — how mad — to encourage
him, almost to drive him into such peril !
If he died She could not com-
plete her thought. She was frozen with
terror : it seemed to her that Philip was
already dead. But she could not believe
it, and hope renewed itself unceasingly,
even in the midst of her anguish. For it
seemed to her that the force and reality of
the passion she felt were like a keen proof
of the existence of its object.

One day, as she looked from the window
77

of Antigone's room, into the courtyard of
the Castle, she saw Dimenche Martin
strolling about and talking to two soldiers.
She made him an imperious sign ; but he
did not look in her direction. Then, wild
with anxiety, she put both her hands to
her mouth as if they were a trumpet, and
called through them—

' Is he still alive ? '

Dimenche turned round and looked at
her sadly. He put his finger on his lips,
shook his head sadly, and went reluctantly
away.

Three days later, when she went on to
the roof of the tower, just before dawn,
she saw, opposite her, on the central tower,
a lance on which was impaled the blood-
stained scalp of some Frenchman. She
shaded her eyes with one hand, looked at
it long and intently .... and then fell
down fainting. However, the fresh morn-
ing air soon restored her senses ; the blood
again began to circulate through her para-
lyzed veins She seemed to see, as

78

in a vision, the pale bloodstained head of Philip the

C^3.t

Christ, leaning towards her. The sad eyes
were wide open, and looked far, far across
the plains of France which he had failed to
set free. The mouth gaped. She opened
her eyes completely, saw the long hair and
bloodstained scalp speared upon the lance,
and laughed aloud — the awful laugh of
madness. It was the head of Philip the
Cat.

IX

The self-same day Captain Hungerford
went with the officials of the law to the
sale of the goods of the executed prisoner.
What was the astonishment of these func-
tionaries when they found a harp to be the
only furniture in the haunt of the chief of
the conspiracy ! It was the whole fortune
of this revolutionary. They nevertheless
put up this redoubtable harp to auction.
But, either out of pity for the dead, or fear
of the master, no one offered to purchase
it. At last a priest from the country asked
79

that it might be given to him, in order that
he might in return pray for the soul of the
deceased.

The instrument was given to the old
priest. Both were already worn in years
and much broken down. Still both con-
tained the principle of a strong vitality. . .
. . . For, twenty years later, on the i2th
August, 1450, when the anthem of deliver-
ance, sung to this day once a year in all
the churches of Normandy, was sung for
the first time in an old chapel — an aged
priest chanted the song of triumph to the
sounds of the worn harp of Philip the Cat.

H&reditas patrum nostrorum injuste ab
inimicis nostris aliquo possessa est. Nos
vero, tempus habentes, vindicamus hceredi-
tatem patrum nostrorum.

80

THE BALLADS
OF THE DAUPHINE

TO

M. C.-P. DUCLOS

THE BALLADS OF THE The Ballads

DAUPHINE D^phine.

I

Chalons, 1446.

/, Perette de Villequier, aged fifteen years,
or thereabouts, interrogated by the
King's Judges, touching the sickness
and death of the late Madame La
Dauphine, on whom I was in waiting,
put down here in writing all that I
have in remembrance.

Now all about the Court wot well that
my elder sister, Marguerite de Villequier,
was Maid of Honour to the Dauphine
from the time that, at the age of twelve
years, my said lady came to France from
her own country, Scotland. But despite
the similitude of their age and name, never
did they become friends. And they had
so much strife and evil-speaking betwixt
them, that in the year one thousand four
hundred and forty-five (which was last
83

year), my said sister Marguerite left the
abode of Madame La Dauphine. And
because the King would not offend his
good servitor, my brother, Andre de
Villequier ; and since Madame la Dauphine
had heard it said that I made ballads and
rondels to pass the time in our manor-
house, it was ordered that, despite my
youth, I should come to the Court in the
room of my sister, Marguerite.

It was on the first of June I began my
journey ; and we were three days on the
road. And on the third night towards
dawn, I saw before me something large
and indistinct, which they told me was the
Castle of Sarry, hard by Chalons, where
were the King, the Queen, and the whole
Court.

And I do not remember how we came
into the Castle, which was very gloomy
and full of sleeping men-at-arms. But as
we went up the stairs, I saw a lady, clad
all in green, who came towards me and
said —

84

' Come, little one, for Madame awaits The Ballads

, of the

y°u- Dauphine.

She took my hand and led me through
a long corridor to a door, which she
opened. And there, in a vast, high hall,
painted in fair colours, I saw three ladies,
quite young and all very pale, writing, by
the light of torches and candles, at a table
covered with papers and books. Then
said my companion : ' The tallest is the
Dauphine ; the little dark one is Jeanne
Filloque ; and she who has her nose a
little on one side is Marguerite de Salig-
nac. And I/ said she, making a mocking
curtsey, 'am your servant, Pre"gente de
Melun.'

Then a mist rose before my eyes, and
I felt the floor slipping from beneath my
feet. Not so much from being in the
presence of my sovereign lady, but that
I loved poetry so much. Now all these
ladies were very great and noble poets,
whose ballads were known as far as Anjou.

And as I tottered, I felt an arm around
85

A me, a kiss on my hair, and a beautiful
G" *«»ge voice said-

' Welcome, little nightingale, who comes
by night ! '

And, opening my eyes, I saw that
Madame la Dauphine held me in her
arms.

Tall she was, and fresh and fair of face,
with hair like threads of gold, and of all
these poets the only one who was not wan
with midnight watching. Pale she was,
but underneath her eyes, where the
cheek-bones were a little high, she had a
colour like two wild roses ; and her large
shining eyes seemed full of life and
imagination.

She was slender and delicate as the
stalk of a lily, and never since have I seen
great lady who wore such an air of dis-
tinction. For, despite all her caprices, it
could well be seen that she was the
daughter of a king. And of a verity, her
father, even as King David, ancestor of

our Lord Jesus Christ, governed his heart
86

by song and his vassals by the charm of The Ballads

, . , of the

his heart. Dauphine.

Now as I stood there blushing with
confusion at so much honour, and such
fine company, my said lady the Dauphine
went to the window, which she opened,
and said —

' Let us salute the dawn, and read the
little rising god the fruits of our night
watches.'

Holding my hand, she made me sit on
a seat in the window, and —

'Pregente,' said she, eldest of us all,
1 begin this pretty round.'

Then these ladies read in turn many
beautiful things; and their voices filled
the hall, like spring come out of season,
and birds chanting love-songs. And all
the while they read, my said lady the
Dauphine laughed, a gay, clear little laugh,
which made her cough from the cold of
the window. And of a sudden, I re-
membered no more of the ballads read by
these said ladies ; for, Madame la Dau-
87

A phine held her peace from laughing and
Mediaeval , 1r , , ,

Garland, amusing herself, and read the verses written

below that none will ever forget —

' Alas, upon my soul, my friend,

Without an end
So much woman's sorrow lies,

That in nowise
Will soul's ease on me descend !

' My heart is sadder than I say ;

And far away

Are my old mirth and joyance fled ;
For, when you left me, on that day,

Alone, astray,
Was all my dearest pleasure dead.'

Then all there present looked at her
with compassion, as for a sorrow well
known. And whilst I marvelled that so
gay a princess was likewise so unhappy,
I fell asleep on the bench with my head
against the wall.

ii

I must have slept nigh an hour, for
when I awoke day had already dawned,
and the sun shone through the morning
38

dew and mist. And quite near me in the The Ballads
window the Dauphine and her ladies were Dauphine.
standing, laughing smothered little laughs
and whispering together. Clearly they
were watching something. And it seemed
to me I heard other voices : men's voices
speaking outside, down below, in the mist.

And scarce raising myself, I saw out in
the fields two men mounted on the same
steed, riding slowly to and fro beneath the
Castle windows. And he who rode behind
held in his hand a great sword, which he
bore pointed toward the head of his horse,
which I learnt after was the sword of the
King. This man was clad all in brown,
and was strong and thick-set, with a re-
ceding chin and long pale eyes. But all
this I have seen much better, and many a
time since, for, by the will of God, I had
to see Messire Jamet du Tillay far more
often than I would.

Then quoth the other —

' Would to God she had never had such

a woman in her train ! '
89

' The which ? ' said Jamet.

' Marguerite de Salignac,' made answer
the other.

And Jamet said —

' Would to God she likewise had neither
Pregente nor Jeanne Filloque, who keep
her watching all night with their accursed
poetry ! '

And at this moment all my said ladies
began to laugh and frolic in the window.

' What is that ? ' asked Jamet, yonder
in the mist.

' Morning birds/ muttered the other.

Then they rode on a pace or two, where
we could hear no more.

But ere long, going and coming, they
returned on their steps, and Jamet spake
and said —

' Nay ; she has never had children, and
never will by what they say. She eats
too many sour apples, laces too tight, sits
up too late, and writes too many rondels
and ballads, which things prevent child-
bearing.'

9o

' Likewise, has not the love of her The Ballads
husband!' said the other. Dauphine.

'Hey, no ! ' made answer Jamet. ' Do
you expect him to love a woman who is
ofttimes employed in writing ballads till
sunrise? And the Dauphin has already
slept an hour or two ere she comes to
rest.'

Then the foremost rider made answer
that I heard not, for the steed was already
far away on the hither side.

And Madame began to speak very loud.

' Do you see that man, that honest Jamet
du Tillay ? He is the one man in the
world I ought to hate ! It will be no fault
of his if he does not put me in the bad
graces of the King just as- he has taken
away the love of my lord.'

And she talked much after this manner,
being full of wrath. But of a sudden she
said, ' Hush ! ' And I saw down below the
two men coming back on their steed, and
with them another knight mounted on a
light sorrel, more beautiful than the steed
91

they bestrode. And Jamet carried the
sword with the point aloft. Now I looked
at this new knight who was bald, and had
neither beard nor eyebrows ; had little
dull grey eyes beneath a white felt hat ;
and had in his face something gentle, sad
and restless, as if he saw dimly, beautiful
things in which he scarce believed.

'Hush! the King!' said the ladies ol
the Dauphine.

Now I set myself to listen and look
more attentively than ever ; and heard
Jamet begin his litany of the ballads of the
Dauphine again.

' And she watches so late,' said he, ' that
she ofttimes writeth twelve ballads in a
night.'

e And from that comes her sickness ?
That gives her the megrim ?' said^the King,
surprised.

'Yea, she suffereth for misusing the
gift/ made answer Jamet. ' Nevertheless
ballads are things of pleasure.'

Then sighed the King.
92

' Ah ! pleasure ! pleasure ! There is no The Ballads

i <.u- j • of the

more pleasure in this country ; and in a Dauphine.

short while there is come more sadness to
it than ever came to a country in the world !
All these lords have been embroiled one
with another . . . and now if this lady . . .'

He ended not, but all understood too
well.

' Eh, pardi, sire ! ' said Jamet> ' if it
should happen that Madame went from
life to death, we should have to marry
Monsieur le Dauphin to one more to his
pleasure, and more prone to bear children.'

But he had not ended speaking ere the
King cried shame upon him, manifesting
much wrath, and treating the said Jamet
as a cruel and detestable councillor.

' For,' cried he, ' rather would we have
the English in the land than lose that
lady, who is the pearl of our kingdom : no
greater misfortune could befall us ! '

Then Madame la Dauphine, who had
never flinched under all the hard things
she had overheard, began to weep, and
93

wept and wept, as though life itself would

fl°w from her eye*

' The good King ! ' she cried.

Then she uplifted her fair head, and
smiled, and at last fell a-laughing with all
her heart.

' Do you see/ said she, ' our honest
Jamet is quite abashed. Ah ! he feels
that his case totters ! '

ni

From that moment I greatly longed to
see that noble lord the Dauphin, who used
such a beautiful princess so harshly. But
they were but little together ; Monseigneur
and his suite never coming to the Court of
the Dauphine.

Nevertheless, one Sunday, as I went to
vespers in the Queen's oratory, I met
Jamet du Tillay, who talked with a young
man I had never seen before. This young
man was dark and thin, with large fiery
eyes, a twisted mouth, and a bitter ex-
94

pression. Now behind me there passed The Ballads
three Scottish archers of the Guard in the Dauphine.
uniform of the King, their feather bonnets
on their heads and girded with their swords.
Then said the young lord —

' See, there are they who hold the
kingdom of France in subjection.'

' Who are they ? ' said Jamet du Tillay.

' Those Scots,' made answer the Dauphin
— for he it was — and stealing a sidelong
glance, he went on in a lower voice —

' Come now ! There is nothing to be
done but to put these folks away. A very
small opportunity will bring it to the point.
I have thirty archers or thereabouts, you
must give me five or six, and I have the
same pledged me secretly by several
knights. I cannot fail to be the strongest
here . . .'

And he would have gone farther, but
Jamet, who had seen me, gave him to
understand that one of the ladies of the
Dauphine was close at hand.

' What ? ' said he, ' here, at my heels ?
95

These Scots are even before the throne

of God' then ? ' And he seized me bv the

sleeve and shook me rather roughly.

' I do not ask you what you are doing
here, fair lady. Go and tell your mistress
all that you have overheard ! And tell her
there are as many Scots at her Court as
there are rats ; too many for our good
pleasure, and too near our royal person,
but, nevertheless, we will soon make an
end of them.'

And of a sudden he loosed me, and I
went away weeping. Now as I went,
there came by Madame la Dauphine, who
went within the said oratory. And when
she had scarce entered, saw Monseigneur
with Jamet du Tillay, and stopped short
forthwith, and turned away without a word,
and left the said oratory. And at the door
called me, and asked —

' What said Monseigneur to you ? '

' He was saying no evil,' I made answer,
' but making sport with me after his wont.'

But she did not believe me ; and of a
96

sudden, hiding her face in her hands, she The Ballads
fell on her knees before the huge black Dauphine.
crucifix which is in the corridor leading to
the said oratory, and cried—

' God of the sorrowful, take and give
me the heart of my husband ! '

Then we heard the voice of Jamet, far
off the other side of the door, talking with
the Count de Dammartin, and saying —

' He was married against his pleasure,
and as long as he lives he will regret it.'

IV

It was at this time that there came to
the Court of Sarry, the Duchess of Bur-
gundy. This Duchess was of the Portu-
guese nation ; short of stature, brown and
fat, as the women of her race are wont
to be. Her eyes were black, and me-
seemed there was a scent of garlic about
her. Much I misliked her ; but at the
Court she was received with great favour
and familiarity, and I had never yet seen
97 H

A any in the kingdom come to the Court to
Garland, whom the Queen paid so much honour as
to this Duchess Isabel. But for once that
the said Duchess went to the apartments
of the Queen, came three or four times to
the Court of the Dauphine ; for they were
both (and, for the matter of that, the Queen
likewise) forsaken and deserted by their
husbands. They dined together many a
time, and were never more than two or
three days without meeting. Nevertheless
the Duchess Isabel was a woman of forty,
lived out of the world, and Madame la
Dauphine was scarce twenty. But I trow
they had a common dolor, a malady called
jealousy, and that many a time in secret
they talked of the neglect of their husbands,
which was the cause of their fellowship.

It befell that one day after supper, the
two princesses went out to play on the
grass in the meadows and prairies, and were
gathering grasses and flowers, and devis-
ing the most charming conceits. And I

and all the ladies of the Dauphine were
98

with them. And when as we played at The Ballads
ball and sang and danced, the Duchess and Dauphine.
Madame withdrew apart, and being sat
upon the grass began to talk and tell each
other their news. That day, perchance, it
was Madame who talked. And I heard
across the noise of our games and songs,
her long sighs, and felt that her tears were
flowing. And I had so great pity for my
beautiful young princess, sitting apart with
no pastime to divert her, that I could
scarce play with my gentle companions.

And as we played and sported in the
meadows, came by the Dauphin with the
Count de Dammartin, Jamet du Tillay, and
others of his train, and they looked at us,
sneering and mocking amongst themselves.
Then said the Dauphin a word which none
heard ; but, with one bound, the Duchess
of Burgundy got upon her feet, and ran as
lightly as a cat across the grass towards
the Dauphin. Then she drew him apart
quickly and brusquely, shrieking violent
insults at him. Meantime we and all
99

present were so amazed that we said no
word. And we thought that she did thus
from joyance which had led her to this
deed. But then we heard her calling out
even louder, and saying —

' And that creature has better linen and
better plate than Madame ; has better
hangings to her bed, better tapestry, better
rings, better jewels, everything better ! Oh,
cruel and wicked prince ! Most horrible
and detestable husband ! Thou art then
thoroughly befooled, since thou preferrest
that rubbish to the real pearl of this king-
dom?'

' Hold thy tongue, madwoman ! ' said
Monseigneur, shrugging his shoulders.

But she went on.

' Knave ! ' quoth she ; ' assassin ! cow-
ard ! ' and a thousand other evil names,
of which I cannot remember other than :
' Monster ! traitor ! heretic ! '

And standing up high as she could, she
succeeded, small as she was, in hitting the
cheek of Monseigneur. And with the

IOO

blow her rage vanished. She became The Ballads
quite calm, and threw herself on the ground Dauphine.
weeping.

Now the Dauphine, who all this while
had stood apart, seeing her friend so
troubled, came towards her. And as she
went, the wind took from her hands the
paper she was holding, and threw it at the
feet of Monseigneur. He, stooping, picked
it up, and said, half mocking, half other-
wise—

' Let us read the love-letters of
Madame ! ' and looked at the paper, where
were the verses that follow —

' In the sea of sorrows deep,
There where dolent hearts do steep,

I die, I weep !

No more am I or fresh or fair,
And would to God that dead I were,
Than in such languor, here to sleep,
To die, to weep,
In the sea of sorrows deep ! '

The which verses he read aloud with
singular displeasure and prejudice, and then
said —

101

' See there, what a beautiful rhymster is

she who wil1 be Queen of France! By

God ! I shall put a stop to all these follies
some day, and then things will go far
better than they do now ! Now, come
hither, Madame,' he said (and reached forth
his hand to the Duchess of Burgundy).
' You and I have not quarrelled. Console
yourself, Madame: to talk nonsense and
bear children is the act alike of woman and
princess. Had I a wife like you, by the
Risen Christ, I should not pursue other
women after the fashion of your husband . . .
but my father married me to his liking, to
a barren minstrel ! '

v

After these strange things, the Dauphin
went away from the Court with the Count
de Dammartin, and others of his train ;
but left in his stead Jamet du Tillay, who
watched all that passed and made it known
to his master. And it was said by some

that the Dauphin was never so constant at The Ballads
the Court, whenas he was a hundred
leagues away. He wotted all and sus-
pected more ; for he was the most double-
faced man on earth, and his dissimulation
was so marvellous, that during the eight
years he was in Savoy, he seemed to me
to be more to be feared than ever, and I
always doubted his return for the morrow.
For never was there a prince so strange
nor so secret, being as hidden in his con-
duct as imprudent in his words.

Now, from the time of the departure of
my said Lord the Dauphin, Madame fell
into a state of languor. She was pitiful to
see, her heart troubled, her wits a- wander-
ing, roaming from room to room all day
long. For time passed and brought no
tidings of Monseigneur. Now one morn-
ing Madame called me and bade me attend
her on foot on a pilgrimage to the church
of Our Lady of the Thorn. It began to
rain hard, whereby I deemed I should be

excused ; but it nought availed me, and we
103

A hasted to the said church, the which is
Garland, several miles from Sarry. And when we
were come thither, Madame tarried a great
while, all wet as she was, saying prayers
and orisons before the altar of the Virgin.
And as we came back the sun shone, and it
was very hot ; and Madame said : ' See,
Perette, it is a sign ; now I wot Our Lady
grants my prayer ! '

But neither letters nor news of Mon-
seigneur came to Sarry. The winter
began, and Madame was ill from fever and
restlessness. And most part of the time
she lay on a little couch near the fire, in her
chamber. Now it befell once, towards the
close of day, she was diverting herself by
composing ballads and rondels. And I,
sitting on a settle which was under the
chimney- mantel, beheld the fair face and
gracious bearing of my said lady, and could
not sufficiently marvel that one so fair and
sweet, loved and yet was forsaken.

Now, as I sat in my corner, there came

into the chamber Messire Jean d'Estoute-

104

ville, lord of Blainville and de Torcy, and The Ballads

the old Viscount de Blosseville, still in love

with Madame Valentine of Milan, dead

forty years agone. I rejoiced to see them

thus nigh, for both were great poets, and I

knew many of their songs by heart.

Monsieur de Blainville sat down on the
edge of the couch of Madame, and Mon-
sieur de Blosseville in a high carved chair
anigh the fire. I remained quietly on my
bench, for the Dauphine had several of her
women about her. And I was weary with
the day's doings, not being accustomed to
this Court life, where folk came and went
all day, and danced and wrote poetry all
night. So it happened that, despite the
singular joyance and ease I had in such
distinguished company, my eyes closed in
sleep.

When I awoke, the torches and candles
were not yet lighted, and the hall was all
dark, save for a great fire on the hearth.
And the women of the Dauphine were in
the little chamber next door, preparing her
105

A bed for the night. But by the glimmer

Garland °^ tne ^ames I saw Madame, sitting up,
smiling and lively ; and saw likewise Mon-
sieur de Blainville, who was still leaning on
the couch of my said lady. And Monsieur
de Blosseville, asleep in his high chair, was
nodding his white head, and the shadow on
the wall made me laugh.

And Madame la Dauphine, who heard
me laugh, turned quickly towards me and
said —

' Hey, Perette ! come hither, for we
speak of things of your understanding.
Here is Monsieur de Blainville 'who tells
us that the Rondel Sangle of Guillaume
d'Amiens is more beautiful than our best
rondels ! '

I rubbed my eyes and forced myself to
understand, and saw Monsieur de Blain-
ville leaning towards Madame, who hum-
med—

' I will ask counsel of my lady,
For she will give me answer meet,'

when the door opened with a crash, and
1 06

there came in Messire Regnault, the The Ballads
Master of the Ceremonies, with Messire Dauphine.
Jamet du Tillay, who held up a candle
high in his hand, and looked straight at
Madame. And whenas he saw her on
the couch, and at her side Monsieur de
Blainville leaning on his elbow, the said
Jamet turned quickly, and went from the
hall, disputing aloud with the said Messire
Regnault.

Then Madame called to me.

' Run swiftly, Perette, run after them !
Hearken what that courteous du Tillay says
of us ! '

And without thinking if it was well or
ill, I ran after them and heard my said
Lord Jamet du Tillay, who said to Messire
Regnault that there were neither torches
nor candles lighted in the chamber of
Madame, and that it was a most ribald
scene. And Messire Regnault made wise
and sensible answer. But the said Jamet
cried out louder—

' I tell you it shamed me, and still shames
107

A me ! Did you not see that lady there ?
Mediaeval ~, , , r

Garland. ^ne nas tne manners ot a courtesan rather

than a great lady ! '

And Messire Regnault, who pleaded for
Madame, made reply that she was sick.

' They are her lovers, I tell you. She
is sick with love — she is sick with love
and fancies. It would be honour and
blessing for this country if she were
dead ! '

Then behind the door saw Pre"gente, who
had heard all. And, out of ill-will to Jamet,
she went back to the Dauphine, and made
known unto her all his words.

VI

Now, the said Jamet went forthwith
from the Court to the place where the
Dauphin was hid, and told him all that
he wotted or suspected on the count of
Madame.

And wot not what Monseigneur wrote

of it to his wife, but wot well that from
108

the hour she received his letter, Madame The Ballads
fell into very grievous sickness. Dauphine.

She took no more pleasure in life, sat
the livelong day on her couch, looking
at her hands, shaking her head, and
sighing from time to time.

Now one day when I saw her sitting
thus, pensive, in the midst of her court,
I asked her what ailed her, and where-
fore she was not of better cheer, and
said unto her that she should not grieve
thus.

But she made answer —

'Ah! Perette! it is well that I should
be melancholy and grieve over the words
which have been said of me ! For it
would be impossible to speak more evil
of any woman in France than hath been
spoken of me ! '

Now I wotted not what these words
were, whether they were those I had
overheard Jamet say, or those which had
been written in the letter of Monseigneur.

But I said fearfully —
109

A ' Peradventure they are but sayings

Garland. t^iat ^ave ^een rePeated ? '

'You speak very lightly,' she said.

And she shook her head all dolent and
ireful. Then, for a time, she said nothing
more.

But towards the hour of vespers, she
opened her eyes wide, and a spasm seized
her. She sat up and called aloud —

' Ah, Jamet ! Jamet ! You have accom-
plished your purpose ! If I die, it is
through you, and the kind words you
have said of me, without cause or reason.'

Then my said lady lifted her hands and
struck herself on the breast and the heart,
saying these words —

' I take God to witness, on my soul, on
the sacrament of my baptism, may I die
eternally, if it is not true ! — that I have
never wronged Monseigneur ! '

And spoke with great courage, dolent
and wrathful, saying : ' Hey, Louis ! Ha,
Louis!' until she fell swooning into my
arms.

no

The eyes of all those present were The Ballads
filled with tears. And the old seneschal
of Poitou, who was there, went from
the chamber much grieved and dolent,
saying —

' It is sad to see the pain and ire suffered
by this lady ! '

Now, in the doorway he saw the said
Jamet du Tillay. Then my said lord the
seneschal looked at him boldly, and said —

' Ha ! false and cruel villain ! she dies
through thee ! '

VII

After these events the fever fell more
grievously upon Madame. She lay quietly
in her bed, not stirring ; but for hours she
talked," talked, talked, and always of her
own country and her youth.

And she said —

' My father, your songs are very beauti-
ful ; in our kingdom there is no greater
poet than the King. I too, my father,

A will write songs. But, to make myself
Garland. more beloved by my handsome husband,
I will write them in his own tongue.'
And she began to sing —

1 In the fort of heaviness,
Chained with fetters that oppress,
I am captive day by day.
Listen ; it is truth I say,
Speaking of my great distress.'

And again —

' How long would Time's glass turn its sand
Whilst I should tell my woes and tears ?
Till lands are seas and seas are land,
Or at the least full eighty years.'

Then she fell back on the bed as one
dead.

But, twenty minutes later, she recovered
her speech, and it was of Maitre Alain
Chartier, the Virgil of our day, who, long
while ago, had gone yonder to the king-
dom of Scotland, to the father of the
Dauphine.

' Pah ! ' she said, ' how ugly he is ! sleep-
ing thus in the sun, all unshaven at mid-

112

day ! Never have I seen one so awkward. The Ballads
. . . And nevertheless out of this dear Dauphine.
mouth have come forth many beautiful
words, and much virtuous wisdom ! '

Then she took her own hand, lying on
the quilt, carried it to her lips and kissed
it. And when she had kissed it once with
singular grace and ceremony, she began
hastily to kiss it passionately, sobbing the
name of Monseigneur.

But a fresh access of delirium turned
her thoughts.

' Jamet ! Jamet ! ' she cried. ' Never
have I done that which you put upon
me — not even have I thought of it ! Ah !
I fear you ! Ah ! I hate you ! . . . My
ladies, do not try to console me ! A kiss
from Maitre Alain Chartier has lost me
the love of Monseigneur. ... Ah ! I am
lost — lost — lost ! '

*****

After a long while she looked at me
with her clear shining eyes, and said in
a very distinct voice —

113 i

A ' Almost I rue having come to this fair

Mediaeval r -r? >

Garland. COuntry of France' - • -

Then she sighed.

' Were it not for my love ! '

VIII

Now we, who watched her, had but one
hope. For we wotted well that long ere
the sickness of the said Dauphine, the
King had sent ambassadors to the King
of Scotland, praying him to send his
younger daughters in order to marry them
according to his will and good pleasure.
And every day we hoped for the coming
of the two princesses, thinking that the
sight of their faces might restore reason
to Madame. And we wotted that these
said princesses journeyed towards the
country of France, but were detained by
many inconveniences and dangerous seas.
Now were we seized with great fear that,
if they did not ere long arrive, they would

find Madame cold in her grave.
114

And they delayed too long ; for late on The Ballads
the Monday, we looked at the Dauphine,
and knew that passing of her spirit was at
hand.

Now we sent for her confessor ; and he
anointed her for the last sacrament. And,
whilst they sang Mass in her chamber, there
came Marguerite de Salignac and said out
loud to the father confessor —

1 Madame should be made to pardon
Jamet.'

And he made answer —

' You come too late, my damsel ; Madame
has already pardoned all.'

But she, lying stiff in her bed as though
dead, said —

1 Nay ! '

Now the said father confessor said to
her —

'Save your grace, Madame! you have
pardoned him.'

And she —

' Nay ! '

Then he replied —
"5

A ' You have pardoned him, for in your

Mediaeval , '

Garland. Prayer you have required of God to pardon

you, as you pardon others.'

And Madame reiterated —

'Nay!'

Then the father raising his arms —

' Woman, God will pardon you in the
measure you pardon others ! '

And she, quickly —

' He is the one man in the world I ought
to hate ! '

And my said father made answer —

' Jesus Christ forgave.'

And she —

' I swear, on my soul, that I have never
done wrong to my lord ! '

And he—

' Madame, Jesus Christ forgave.'

Then we, and all others who were there
present, knelt down around the bed, weep-
ing and praying her out of mercy to her
soul to pardon the said Jamet du Tillay.

And she lay on her bed with clenched
teeth1 as though dead.

But at last, as if weary, she took in her The Ballads
hands a Book of Hours, the which she had Dauphine.
on her marriage, and in this book was a
picture of Monseigneur le Dauphin. Now
she looked at it awhile, and said —

' I pardon him then, and with all my
heart ! '

But it is only now I remember that
Madame never named him whom she
pardoned. So it is always on my mind
that it was not Jamet, but Monseigneur
she forgave. But, as to this, I can say
nothing for surety.

And anon my said lady passed into her
death agony. And as we tried to soothe
her, she turned her head on the pillow and
said —

' A fig for life ! Do not speak of it
any more ! '

Thereupon she lost consciousness, then
her spirit parted from her body.

BEHREND

IAL

LIBRARY

A IX

Garland Now it came to pass that our Sovereign
Lady the Queen, from the grief and dolor
she had at the sickness and death of my
said lady the Dauphine, fell ill. And we
feared it might be serious, seeing she was
in delicate health. And as she had with
her at Sarry but a small Court, several of
the ladies of the late Dauphine went to
tend her. Others, who had kept vigil all
night, lay down to rest. Thus it hap-
pened that the day after the death of my
said lady, I was alone watching her
between three in the afternoon and curfew
bell.

And whilst I was alone there, praying
in love and terror for her soul, the door
opened, and came in Monseigneur, booted
and spurred. He saw me not for the
black curtains we had draped round the
bed of Madame. Likewise he did not
look that side, but drew away as if fearful
of something unclean. And he went to

the chest, where it was the wont of
,.8

Madame to keep her papers, and broke The Ballads

the lock with his poignard. Then he Dauphine.

began to forage, and look amongst these

said papers, as one who seeks something

touching his honour, and little by little

the thought came to my mind, that he was

looking for letters ; now I knew that in

this chest there was naught save his owri

letters and the ballads of Madame. He

sought a long time, with much ill-will and

melancholy, but found naught save a

packet containing the letters of his youth

— with that last letter which had made my

dead lady weep so bitterly. Now, with

great suspicion, Monseigneur untied the

ribbon that bound them, but when he

recognized the contents for that they were,

got up with singular impatience, and threw

the whole on to the hearth, where, despite

the season, there burned a great wood fire,

perfumed with healthful herbs and incense.

And then he took up in great armfuls the

ballads and rondels of Madame, which

were all in the said chest, and threw them
119

on to the fire. And as the flames seized
them, he stood there on the hearth, his
arms crossed, smiling. He watched them
burning one by one. And I likewise, in
my corner, saw the long beautiful papers
writhing and twisting in the flames ; and
saw, between my tears, here and there, a
word very large and distinct in the fire-
light. I read —

Toil . . .

Weariness . . .
Love . . .
Sadness . . .

And, at last, in a great jet of flame, a
whole line —

' There is nothing truer than death.'

It was the beginning of a rondel.

Then the flames went out, gorged with
their prey, the fire itself buried and stifled
by the fragments. And it seemed for a
moment that the soul of Madame was
likewise a dead thing, grey and dusty,
like the ashes on the hearth, like the fair
body I watched.

J20

And, at this thought, I prayed to God The Ballads
more earnestly than before. Dauphine

Monseigneur, having destroyed all that
remained to him of his wife, prepared to
quit her chamber, without even uttering a
prayer for her soul. But the fire in going
out had left the room in darkness, save
for the candles burning at the head and
feet of Madame. So it happened that
Monseigneur did not at once find the
door, hid behind the black curtains, and
went some time knocking himself against
the furniture, swearing and praying. And
my heart almost ceased to beat, so fearful
was I that he would see me by the light
of the candles. But at this moment the
door opened a second time, and there came
in the seneschal of Poitou and Messire
Regnault, with several of the ladies of
the Dauphine, accompanying two weeping
maidens. And one of them had the long

121

A

Mediaeval
Garland.

neck and the same walk as Madame. By
this I knew them for her younger sisters,
come at last and from far, to find their
sister and protectress dead, to live as she
had done in a foreign land, there to marry,
to write ballads, and break their hearts.

122

THE COUNTESS OF
DAMMARTIN

TO

MM. CIMBER ET DANJOU

THE COUNTESS OF The

Countess of
DAMMARTIN Dammartin.

Dammartin, 1464.

TWILIGHT was slowly falling, like fine
rain, across the branches of the orchard,
where the last apples still glistened red at
the end of their invisible stalks. Beneath
them on the pathway, something shone as
brightly as they : it was golden embroidery
and fiery balas rubies.

A woman was painfully advancing
through the darkness on the muddy road.
All that could be discerned of her, was
the weight and length of her stiff
heavy velvet mantle, richly embroidered
with precious stones ; her faltering steps,
and in her arms an undefined burden
over which she bent. It could be seen
from something in the tenderly awkward
manner of her walk that she had hitherto
always had pages to hold up her heavy
125

A train, and that it was the first time she had
Garland, carried her child herself.

It was pitiful to see the difficulty she
had in walking, for at every step the
thick folds of her gown and cloak slipped
out of her numbed hands, and the child
wept in her arms, whose feverish clasp
embraced him without security. She
went on bravely nevertheless towards the
mossy roofs of the village, which rose into
view, low and green, at the end of the
orchard. Through several windows there
already shone a glow of fire or a gleam of
candle. At last she reached them, and,
passing through a little garden, knocked
cautiously at the first door.

' Who is there ? ' cried a sharp voice.

The young dame opened the door.
The oaken fagot on the hearth awoke
all the fires of the jewels, and softly
irradiated her tall slender figure, her fair
face, and the child she held in her arms.

' I am the Countess of Dammartin.

King Louis' soldiers have turned me out
126

of my Castle ; my husband has fled. I The

! v i Countess of

have no longer anywhere to sleep nor Dammartin.

aught to eat. Make room for me in your
house.'

The wrinkled face of the old woman
flashed with hatred and derision.

' Ha ! ' said she, ' it is you, my lady ?
It makes me young again to see you
thus ! '

' What have I done to you ? ' said the
Countess, drawing back.

'What have you done to me? ... I
had a lovely daughter, about thine own
age, who went into service at the Castle.
She was beautiful, madam, more beautiful
than you are. Your husband perceived it
and ruined her. And you turned her out
at night, in the snow on to the high-roads,
with her child at her breast, as you are
now turned out with your child in your
arms. Die then as she did ! '

Large tears rolled down the frozen
cheeks of the Countess. She did not

know that she had been so cruel of yore.
127

A She shut the door, and found herself again
Garland. out m t^ie n^^lt» where the child began its

frightened wail once more.

She dragged herself as far as the next
cottage.

' Who is that begging ? ' said the rough
voice of a man. ' Come in, there is
always a cup of milk and a seat by the fire
for the poor, here.'

But when he saw the splendid cloak
flashing with precious stones —

' Begone ! ' he cried, ' begone, woman !
The charity of the poor is not for the like
of you. Good King Louis did well to
turn you out of your house, shelterless in
the winter, and treat you as you treated
us ! ... Yes, I saw my old father dying
in a ditch, when you turned us out of our
cottage, because you wanted our garden
for thy rosary. The cold night rain
trickled from the forehead of my dying
father ; may it fall as cold and as heavy
on your brow ! '

He rose as he spoke, and now that he
128

was silent he advanced rapidly towards The

her, with his hand outspread as if to strike Dammartjni

her on the face. The poor woman fled,

tottering and stumbling over the folds of

her long gown, distracted by fear, and

by the strange fact that she who had

always been worshipped like some sacred

thing, should at length find herself

despised and looked upon as wicked. She

fled afar off, without daring to stop, and at

last found herself at the entrance of the

forest, where it was quite dark. She had

never been out at night, alone in the open

country ; and she was afraid. Far away,

in the forest, was not that the roaring of

wild beasts which she heard ? And would

the wolves and the bears on whom her

husband had made such war, have more

pity on her than her own vassals ? Her

large light eyes slowly filled with tears, for

she saw herself rejected by men, and

abandoned to the beasts ; and she was

surprised to discover, that she had no

claim on the pity of either.

129 K

A Meanwhile, the child still cried, for he

Mediaeval T T

Garland. was hungry. He was a great boy of

eighteen months, whose mother had never
nursed him. Hearing him cry thus, she
felt as it were some new thing awaken in
her heart. And she held him to her breast
and tried to feed him. But she could not,
and the child sobbed with rage. Then
she saw, on the outskirts of the forest, the
little hut of a charcoal burner. She
knocked at the door ; but none answered ;
she went in, and saw on the ground a
young man and a young woman, dead,
buried in each other's arms. Near them
lay an empty pitcher. And as they were
horribly thin, she divined that they had
died of hunger, and remembered that she
had been told there was a famine in the
country, and that there were folk that died

thus

She shut the door gently and went away,
and the mute reproach of the dead lovers
weighed so heavily on her heart that she

scarce heard the wailing of her child. In
130

every ditch she thought she saw the dying The
old man ; the ruined girl wandered in all Dammartin.
the fields ; but always close to her, at her
feet, lay the lovers dead of hunger, and it
seemed to her that at every step she set
her foot upon their frozen hearts.

Nevertheless, despite all these spectres,
she always returned upon her footsteps,
and still dragged herself towards the
village, for the sake of her child, thinking
that if some good woman would receive
him and rear him with her own, it mattered
little what became of herself. But at last,
one of her little shoes getting lost in the
mud, she hobbled on a few steps, and then,
worn out, sank down on a heap of stones at
the roadside.

And as she lay there, the dying child in
her arms, she heard the voice of a man
singing afar off. Then she remembered
some sorry tales that she had heard told at
the Castle by the lords who laughed to
themselves, whilst the ladies blushed. She
got up, terrified of men, and ready to fly to

A the beasts. But her poor feet were too
Garland! swollen, and she fell back again on the
stones.

The voice ceased however, and naught
moved in the silence of the infinite night.
She was afraid again, afraid that no one
would come. But the voice rose anew,
nearer, and the heart of the young dame
leapt for joy, for, in her desolation, every
human being seemed to her an aid.

' Ah ! ' she cried, ' for the love of Holy
Mary, give me alms ! '

She saw two people, one of whom held a
lantern in his hand, advancing towards her.
They were another man and woman, but
these two were living, and of ripe age.
And as the man raised the lantern to see
who was addressing him, the woman
cried —

' Eh ! it is the Countess of Dammartin
who sleeps in the open air to-night ! I
have often seen you in a carriage, when I
was plunging through the mud, but now

we are equal, as though we stood before
132

God. Ask for alms again, my lovely The
. . , Countess of

Jadv- Dammartin.

' Of your charity ! ' repeated the Countess
very humbly.

Then the other burst into rude laughter.

' It is good though to hear you begging
and to refuse you alms ! '

' What have I done to you of yore '
asked Jeanne (that was the name of the
Countess) — ' what have I done to you ? '

Her voice trembled. She searched her
memory for some forgotten crime she
might have committed. And the woman
laughed again, a hard ferocious laugh.

1 You were rich and we were poor ! Is
not that enough, tell me ? Is not that
enough ? '

Meanwhile the man looked at Jeanne,
and his eye kindled whilst an evil smile
played about his coarse lips. Putting his
wife aside, he put his arm round the
Countess, and she felt his drunken breath
in her face.

' She is pretty all the same ! ' said he ;
133

A and as the young woman, chilled with fear,
Mediaeval t . , , r . . , ., , ,

Garland. nic* ner *ace against her child, he tried to

lift it with his rough hands, and was going
to put his lips to hers. But his wife,
jealous, tore him away, reviling him. As
she did so, she saw on the shoulder of
Jeanne the great clasp of her cloak, all
of gold and rubies, which shone in the
flickering light of the lantern.

' Here is something worth more than
any kisses ! ' she cried, and she tore the
clasp off the cloak with such brutal force
that the Countess fell like one dead on the
heap of stones. When she opened her
eyes, she saw the two beggars going away
arm in arm, singing, laughing, and reeling
along together.

A heavy sigh escaped her ; for hope was
dead within her heart.

Suddenly, the voice of a man asked from
the road —

' Who are you, crying under the
hedge ? '

Jeanne, terrified, made no reply.

The man drew near. ' What art thou The
. . i . . , , Countess of

doing ? said he. Dammartin.

And she saw through the obscurity of
the night, a thick-set man, with his face
hidden by a fair beard. His voice was
so gentle and frank that she gathered
confidence.

' My child is dying,' she said.

' Come with me,' replied the man. And,
seeing she hesitated — ' Fear naught. I am
Antoine the Strong, one of the workmen of
the Count of Dammartin. I am an honest
man, and, by the soul of my mother, you
have naught to fear from me. You will
find in my hut, fire, bread, milk, and a good
bed of fern.'

Jeanne said naught.

' Come,' said he, and held out his hand
to her.

She said —

1 1 cannot, I am too tired.'

Then he bore her away in his arms, far
into the night, across the fields, until they
came at last to a little hut, made of mud

A and the trunks of trees, very small and

TVT (*f\ i nPVJl 1

Garland. very lowly placed on the ground in a
corner of the field like the nest of a lark.
He went in and laid down his burden on
the heap of bracken which served him for
a bed. He knew by the silence of the
young dame, and the inertia of her body,
that she had fainted. Meanwhile the sick
child still went on crying.

Antoine had not yet seen the face of
the woman whom he had carried across the
wood in this way, for the moon had gone
behind the clouds. When he had lighted
the fagots on the hearth, he saw that she
was young, slender, and sadly beautiful.
To see her thus, she looked like a sleeping
Madonna, with her pale golden hair spread
out on the faded fern, and her great cloak
stiff with precious stones, hiding all save
the fair child, pressed to her bosom.
Antoine gazed upon her as a most sweet
and ephemeral vision. Suddenly, he re-
cognized the Countess of Dammartin, the

wife of his master, and this seemed to him
136

still more strange. But as the child went The

i j . . i . . , • Countess of

on crying, he ventured to take it in his arms, Dammartin.

and wrapping it in his smock-frock, he
took it near the fire and gave it a bowl of
hot milk.

The child ceased crying, and the mother
opened her eyes, which seemed to say,
' Where am I ? ' and then were reassured.
She looked at the child eating, she looked
long at the man sitting beside the hearth
with the child on his knees. Then her
glance grew troubled, and in an imploring
voice she said —

' Do not send me away ! '

Antoine got up.

' Madam, thirty years ago, when I was
still a lad, I fought before Paris, under the
Count of Dammartin, in the army of the

glorious Maid, Joan of Arc I

am his liegeman for evermore.'

Jeanne smiled. It was sweet to feel
that there were glorious things in their
past, and not only cruelty and meanness.
And she understood at this moment what

A the souls of the dead feel when before the

IVTprl ir?iv3.1

Garland, throne of God they hear, with boundless
astonishment, the good and evil which
they have done in their lives.

ii

Antoine came and went about the hut.
The Countess, seated on a bench by the
fire, leant against the wall and watched her
child playing.

She slowly dipped the black bread into
the bowl of milk. The heat of the fire
penetrated to her skin. She felt happy in no
longer being cold, nor hungry, nor fright-
ened, nor above all having the terrible
grief of seeing her child dying in her arms.
She hardly perceived the roughness of her
shelter. It was Antoine who grieved
thereover. There was nothing in the
dwelling save the bed of ferns, and a chest
which likewise served as a table, a shelf
against the wall bearing some rough dishes,
and lastly the seat beside the hearth, where
138

the Countess was sitting. Antoine The
noticed all this for the first time, and it all Damrnartin
seemed to him hard, squalid, and barbarous.
Alas ! he could do naught thereunto. But
as his eyes fell on the heap of ferns, a
sweet solemn thought came to his mind.
He opened the chest, and drew from it a
coarse cotton sheet. There was but one
therein, for the other had been used as
a shroud for his mother ; and this one,
reserved for his own winding-sheet, still
kept in its scented folds a few sprigs of
lavender, which she must have placed
there in some long-past summer.

He gathered up the fallen sprigs of
flowers, and put them into the coffer.
Then, he spread the sheet over the ferns,
for he well understood that this divine and
delicate creature could not sleep as he did,
without sheets or coverlet. As a bed-
quilt, there was only his smock-frock : he
spread that likewise upon the bed. Then
he went out and filled the pitcher with
fresh water. Afterwards he lay down on
139

A the threshold, like a faithful dog who
Mediaeval , , .

Garland, guards his master.

All this Jeanne accepted as due service.
And she slept soundly on her rustic couch.
But Antoine watched over her, and his
hard workman's body became suddenly
sensitive by dint of thinking what the
Countess must suffer from the sharp points
and hardness of the ferns. He remem-
bered having heard said that the rich slept
on beds of down. On the morrow, he
thought, I will go into the forest, and kill
the King's birds for her food, and from
their feathers I will make her a bed.
Thus, through a thousand daring and dan-
gerous projects, he spent a wakeful night.
Then, as soon as the dawn came, he rose
to spread snares for the birds.

Jeanne did not awake till late. Beside
her, on the bench, she found a handful of
late meadow daisies, some black bread and
a jug of milk. The day passed slowly ;
she stayed alone with her child, alone in

the field which skirted the forest. When
140

Antoine came in, he found her still sit- The

.1 -11 j i j . Countess of

ting on the still unmade bed, weaving a Dammartin.

daisy chain.

And in the evening, as the day before,
he relighted the fire, made the bed, drew
the water, cut the wood, prepared the
meal, and went out to sleep in the fresh-
ness of the night. And for long days,
every day, things befell thus.

And the winter began again for the
second time.

in

The livelong day Antoine was away
in the fields which he tilled. Jeanne stayed
alone with her child. As she knew not
how to sew, nor to cook, nor to wash the
dishes, nor to do aught the women of the
poorer classes can do, her clothes fell into
disrepair, and the hut remained as rough
and barbarous as ever. And, as she had
neither book nor lute, nor page nor pal-
frey there, her days were long, albeit she
141

A

Mediaeval
Garland.

killed time the best she could by telling
her child tales of the 'Four Sons of Aymon '
and the ' Romaunt of the Rose.' And some-
times she made rondels and ballads ; for,
in her early youth, she had been maid of
honour to the Dauphine Marguerite, who
had taught her that gentle art.

IV

It was a November day. Jeanne and
her child stayed in the hut, and the child
played alone that day.

The Countess sat by the hearth, her
chin resting on her hand.

She saw as pictures in the fire, all the
beautiful dead past, and scarce heard the
long story the child was babbling at her
knees. Nothing is ever so beautiful as
the past, and sadly the Countess evoked it
from the flames.

And as she dreamt thus, a fanfare of
clarions sounded through the wind and

sun. Jeanne raised her head : was it still
142

part of her dream ? But the child got up, The
and ran to the door, the noble child, who
knew not fear. Wrapping herself and him
in the faded cloak, they stood on the
threshold together. Doubtless it was a
royal hunt ! The Countess resolved, if it
was so, to throw herself at the feet of the
King and ask for pardon for her husband.

As she sought for words that would
touch him, the child uttered a cry of joy,
and behold a cavalcade came riding gaily
out of the wood, beautiful as the proces-
sion of the Magi. And the fifes and the
clarions and trumpet blasts which sounded.
In front walked the priests in their golden
chasubles, singing the Te Deum. The
standard of France, pierced by arrows,
floated behind their heads.

' But/ said the Countess to herself, ' it
is not thus that folk go a-hunting ! '

Then she saw a second flag, which bore
the blazon of her husband.

The Count of Dammartin, restored to
his rights, having made a solemn proces-

A sion to the altar of the Virgin in the village,

]Mcdl3£V£ll 11* * /•

Garland. "ac* come to see^ ms W1fe and son m the
hut of his vassal.

Great was the joy of Jeanne at leaving
the dismal hut. And when the arms of
her husband enfolded her —

' Oh ! my beloved/ she cried, ' you take
me away from here as our Lord Jesus
Christ takes souls out of purgatory ! '

When Antoine came back towards
nightfall, he found the hut empty.

' They are belated in the wood,' he said
to himself, and he took his lantern and
went to seek them. But he sought an
hour or two in vain. When he came back
and found the hut still empty and silent,
a great sadness took possession of him.
And when he went to the chest to get
a fresh candle for his lantern, he saw
something shining. It was a great

diamond ring, with the seal of the Count.
144

No smile from my lady, no babble of The
..... . . . . Countess of

the little lord, naught save those cold Dammartin.

stones. His hut seemed very empty.

One day, he found in a chink in the
wall, some long silky hair ; he recognized
the golden curls of the child. With tears
in his eyes, he put them into the chest
where he kept his mother's lavender.

As for the ring of the Count, being
afraid of thieves, he gave it to the shrine
of the Virgin at Dammartin. It was
only the ring of his master. Of the
Countess Jeanne there was left him —
nothing.

J45

THE WIFE OF
LUDOVIC THE MOOR

TO

MESSER MARIN SANUDO

THE WIFE OF LUDOVIC THE The Wife of

Ludovicthe
Moor<

Milan t 1496.

I KNEW her as one can know a person
of whom one has heard much, but
never seen. She had been described
to me as a haughty, ambitious woman,
devoured by a passion for power. I knew
that she it was who had caused the
nephew of her husband, the handsome
Giangaleazzo, too much beloved of the
people, to be assassinated. I knew that
she it was who invoked the invasion of
Italy by the French. I knew her as
some young and lovely Lady Macbeth of
Lombardy, who accepted smiling the
homage of so much crime, since the
result was the placing of the crown of
Milan on her charming head. I recog-
nized in her, with a shudder, the exqui-
site and sinister type of Luini's Daughter
of Herodias. And yet, I saw that she
had been much beloved in her lifetime,
149

A and long mourned for in her tomb. There

"\Tf*rl i is V3.1

Garland. are sucn heartless sirens, who receive a
loyal love with the same hands that seize
a blood-stained treasure, and I no longer
marvelled as I read the fair pages in
which old Marin Sanudo loses a little of
his diplomate's impassibility in writing the
news of her death.

' NEWS OF THE MONTH, JANUARY 1496.'

1 How in the Castle of Milan, on the
third day of the month, the Duchess
Beatrice, wife of Ludovic, the reigning
Duke, and daughter of the Duke of
Ferrara, gave birth to a dead child. She
died herself five hours later. And when
the Duke heard of her death, marvellously
he mourned and deplored the loss of his
wife. And he kept great mourning in one
chamber with lighted candles and closed
shutters. And to wit as I have seen in
a letter that the said Duchess died the
second day of the month of January at six
150

o'clock in the evening, and the selfsame The Wife of
, . , . .. t Ludovic the

day she had driven gaily in a coach Moor.

through the town of Milan, and had
danced at the Castle till two o'clock after
mid-day. And dying, she left two children,
Maximilian, who is Count of Pavia, and
Sforza, aged three years. And the Duke
Ludovic, for the great love he had for his
wife, knew not how to endure her death,
for very dearly did he love her, and said
that he cared nothing more for his children,
nor for the State, nor for aught on earth.
And heart and life anigh left him. And
he kept for greater grief in a chamber all
hung with black cloth, and thus he kept
for the space of fifteen days. And on
the self-same night of the death of the
Duchess, the walls of her garden fell in
ruins, without either wind or earthquake,
and from this there were some who pre-
dicted great disaster.'

The blood-cemented walls of the ducal
garden were not rebuilt, and a few
years after the death of Beatrice, her

A husband left beautiful Milan, where she
Mediaeval . , , , M r i.

Garland. nac* danced so gaily, for ever ; perhaps m

his prison at Loches, he most regretted
the tomb of Beatrice. I went to see this
celebrated tomb, the adornment of the
Certosa of Pavia, and whilst the wretched
carriage dragged through the mud of the
Lombard country, I forgot, as much as
I could, the dulness of the road and the
snowy weather, in thinking of all the
Sforzas and Viscontis who exercised such
fascination over me from beyond the
grave. And, amidst this train of tragic
shadows, the least sympathetic, the most
unpardoned, was always the Duchess
Beatrice.

Through the ill-fitting window of the
carriage, whitened by frost, I could barely
see the monotonous landscape. Nothing
was visible but brown swamps, rice plant-
ations whose vivid green was splashed
with water, and across this desolate
country the never-ending raised road with
a canal on each side. Suddenly the
152

carriage stopped in the midst of the fields : The Wife of
. , , i lr Ludovic the

to the right there rose an enormous half- Moor.

Moorish building, composed of cupolas,
spires, and minarets in beautiful rose-red
brick, terra-cotta, and yellow marble.
This was the Certosa.

Had I been less tired, and the weather
finer, I should have appreciated the great
court of the monastery and the strange
fa fade, as fantastic as a Midsummer
Night's Dream. Nothing could be more
unexpected than this decoration, enlivened
by Roman Emperors, knights paladin,
eagles bearing kneeling angels on their
immense pinions, young sirens suckling
their supernatural children, hippogriffs,
and the prophets of Israel. But I was
alone and sad. I went, feeling rather
cross, through the enormous icy halls
of the Certosa, spoilt as much as
possible by that fatal XVIIth century,
which has spoilt so many things. . .
And here I stood before the tomb
Duke Ludovic had caused to be sculp-
i53

A tured to the memory of his dead young
Mediaeval .r
Garland. wlfe-

To think that she is dead, and to think
that she is a woman ! No ! She is a
delicious child who, even in sleep, is full
of checked vivacity. Her long hair falls
in disordered curls, spread over the pillow
and on her lovely shoulders, and tiny little
crisp curls hide her round infantine fore-
head. She has an admirable expression
of candour — the candour of a child. She
is graceful, with that irresistible grace
which defies laws. Her eyebrows are
scarcely marked ; but her closed eyelids,
curved like the petals of a thick white flower,
are richly fringed. She has the small nose
of a child, and this gives her a pathetic
ndivett. Her cheeks also are rounder
than those of a grown-up woman. The
Herodias' daughter of Luini would find
them entirely wanting in distinction ; I
find them charming. But about the en-
chantment of her little chin there is no
doubt, nor about her mouth, that still fresh
154

mouth of a mischievous child feigning The Wife of

slumber, and whose sweet parted lips, J Moor.

smiling despite themselves, seem to say :

' I am not really asleep, you know ; I

shall spring into your arms without a

word of warning ; and who will be startled

then ? '

But the face is nothing. It is the
attitude ; it is that childish figure, so small
and so full of life, so soft, so delicately
supple and rounded beneath the sumptuous
Court-gown of silk and embroidery, with
its long train artistically arranged not to
hide or impede the feet — those little feet
which only ceased dancing four hours
before death, and seem still so ready for
the awakening.

This then is the famous Beatrice!
Now I understand her, and also the love
of Ludovic. ' Thou must have a crown
then, my child. . . . Ah, well! what is
murder, dishonour, or the ruin of my
country to me ? Thou wilt never under-
stand aught of these sad things, and it is I
'55

A who shall pay for them. Ah ! my God,
Garland. how ^ thank Thee for Thy gift of an
immortal soul, since I can lose it for this
child ! '

And he lost it.

156

THE TRUE STORY OF

WHITE-ROSE
AND THE FAIR SIBYL

TO

MAITRE PHILIPPE DE VIGNEULLES

and the
Fair Sibyl.

THE TRUE STORY OF WHITE- The True
ROSE AND THE FAIR SIBYL

Metz, 1518.

THIS Sibyl was then one of the fairest
young women in the city of Metz ; tall,
straight, slender, and white as snow. She
had a small mouth, a round throat, bright
laughing eyes, a small ear set high and
hid under her thick hair, the which was
yellow like ripe corn waving in the sun.
It seemed as if the said Sibyl was a
goddess, so fair was she ; there was not
so fair a woman within the three bishoprics,
so folk came from far to see her on
feast and market days. And a marvellous
thing it was when she went forth to church,
dight like a queen, bedecked with many
pearls, jewels, and a beautiful neck-chain.
For her husband Maitre Nicolas was a
rich townsman, master of his art, which
was that of a goldsmith, and much he
loved his young wife Sibyl.
159

A The summer of this said year was fine

Garland. an<^ hot, and supremely the month of
June. And the Eve of St. John there
came to our city a young lord, who was
duke of the duchy of Suffolk in England.
Now this beautiful young man was the
rightful heir to the throne of England,
and ought rather to be king, it was said,
than Red-Rose, who was king. He was
yclept White-Rose, and because he had
been exiled from his own country, came,
after passing from kingdom to kingdom,
to seek refuge within the town of Metz.

The day on which he made his entry
was a great feast-day in Metz ; and all
the women watched from their windows
White-Rose passing. He was of a verity
one of the handsomest, strongest men
that it was possible to see, courteous and
noble of bearing, with black curling hair,
proud blue eyes, and so soft a voice that
the sound of it seemed like an organ.
Mounted on a white hackney, he rode

through our old narrow streets, and the
1 60

townsfolk threw flowers and ribbons on The True
his path. But he went sadly as one who

dreams, and his beautiful eyes saw far anci tlie

Fair Sibyl.
away his lost kingdom.

Now when he came to the Square of
the Fountain, there was the fair Sibyl,
returned from the country, where she
had been to seek flowers and herbs, as
young women do on the Eve of St. John.
She wore in her hair a chaplet of wild
roses, and in her green robe were gathered
up masses of grass and flowers. And
when the said White- Rose passed by
where she was, she held out to him
smiling a handful of grass. And White-
Rose raised his eyes, and looked at her
a while in silence, as one who sees a
celestial vision. Then he reeled in his
saddle, and almost fell on the stones of the
fountain anigh the fair Sibyl.

161 M

A II

Garland. Whilst White- Rose, King of England,
abode in the noble city of Metz, he dwelt
with his suite in the palace of Haute-
Pierre, hard by Saint Symphorien. And
there he caused many ornaments and
neck-chains to be fashioned for him by
Nicolas, the husband of the fair Sibyl.
But it profited him but little, for the
goldsmith knew well how to keep his
young wife.

Therefore little by little the thought
of Sibyl went from the heart of White-
Rose. For he daily frequented the society
of the other lords of the town ; they in-
dulged in many games together, and not
the least part of their time was spent in
hunting and other sports. Now White-
Rose had a steed he dearly loved, and
he vaunted that neither in Metz nor for
ten leagues around was there its equal
for speed. And there was a young
esquire, Philippe Dex, who likewise

possessed a beautiful steed, which he
162

dearly prized. In such sort went words The True
betwixt the two lords, that a wager was white?Rose
laid, how they should go amongst friends
to race their steeds from the elm at Avigny
unto the gate of St. Clement.

Therefore the following Sunday, these
two lords, accompanied by several others,
rose betimes in the morning, and sallied
forth into the meadows to race, as had
been agreed. Now the said lord, Philippe
Dex, had during these two or three days
treated his steed God knows how. I trow
White- Rose had done the same ; but, of
Monseigneur Philippe it was said and
certified to me, that he gave his horse
no hay at all, and nourished it with white
wine only. And he himself mounted his
steed without saddle, scarce clothed, in a
doublet and without shoes, like a young
groom. But White- Rose had a saddle
trapped with gold and jewels ; and scarce
smiled when he saw the attire of his rival.
Nevertheless, when the steeds started

away, the two ran with such speed that
163

it seemed as if the earth would melt
beneath their feet ; and for long the said
White- Rose and his steed passed Messire
Philippe. Notwithstanding, anigh the
entrance of the city, there where there
is a little rising in the ground, the steed
of White- Rose could do no more, groaned
like a man, stumbled in the road, and fell
dead. And at that moment Messire
Philippe reached the goal.

Then he who was styled White-Rose,
seeing himself beaten, the race lost and
his fame gone, became marvellously
melancholy, beyond all reason, saying
that he had killed his best and only friend
for naught. He fain would quit the town
of Metz and go away to France. Now
it befell that three days after, towards
the evening hour, the said White- Rose
rode with his suite towards the gate of
the city to leave it as has been aforesaid.
And when he passed the hostel of Maitre
Nicolas, he raised his head to look up on

high. Then he saw at the window the
164

fair Sibyl, who sang to the melody of a The True
lute, and the song she sang melted into

the evening air, more soft than her fair

Fair Sibyl.

face, and without a word the said White-
Rose rode back, followed by his amazed
suite, and returned to his palace of Haute-

Pierre.

Now in the selfsame month, a little
later, Maitre Nicolas went to Paris, in
France, to fetch beautiful and costly
ornaments and jewels for the said Lord
White- Rose.

in

Meanwhile the fair Sibyl lived alone
at Metz in her hostel with her young
servant-maid. And the townsfolk had no
suspicion that she had begun to be en-
amoured of the Duke White- Rose ; for-
asmuch the thing was done secretly, and
I trow would never have been known
or seen, had it not been for the folly of
the said servant-maid — God forgive her !
165

A — who was the cause of many woful and
Mediaeval ,

Garland. cruel events.

This maid, who was held to be one of
the fairest maidens in Metz and good
withal, was quite young, simple, and
virtuous. She thought night and day of
paradise, and talked of naught save saints
and visions, and wotted and suspected
naught of the loves of her mistress. Now
one night — it was very hot — and it was
the night of the Assumption of the Blessed
Virgin — the said young maid fell asleep
as she was telling her beads, anigh the
window which is in the great hall of the
house of Maitre Nicolas. And in the
middle of the night she awoke and saw
a fair young man passing along the said
hall, and thought forthwith that she had
seen Monseigneur St. Michel.

On the morrow, as she talked with one
of her companions, she said to her said
companion as if in jest —

' Paradise is not so far off as we

deem, for every evening the archangel
1 66

of God passes through the hall of my The True
, Story of

master. White-Rose

And the other— *nd *e,

Fair Sibyl.

' What is that you tell me ? '

Then she related the story of Messire St.
Michel. But made the maid promise
never to say aught of it, who swore that
as long as she lived she would keep it
a secret thing. Nevertheless, betwixt one
and the other, the thing was quickly
known, and all the good women in the
street gossiped over the adventure.

Now as women can usually keep naught
to themselves, little by little they made
it known to their husbands ; who for the
most part mocked and believed naught
thereof. But the servant held to it, and
swore that she spoke of a sure and certain
matter.

And to tell you how it befell, after some
days the maiden consented, with the best
faith in the world, to receive in her little
chamber (the which was a kind of ward-
robe adjoining the great hall) eight of her
167

A friends, a canon of the great church, and

]VI C d 12G Vcl 1

Garland, several of the merchants in the street.

Now, about an hour after midnight, they
were all there in the said chamber, the
door a little open, so that they might
see the hall. And he who was hid in
the house, deeming his hour come, and
that all within the house slept, came
secretly into the hall, where the light of
the moon fell white as day. And when he
came nigh the centre of the hall : ' It is
he ! ' cried the servant-maid — ' ora pro
nobis ! ' and fell into a swoon.

And he who heard the noise of her fall,
turned his face towards the little chamber.
And forthwith all there recognized him,
and first one, then another, cried ' White-
Rose! White- Rose!' with such hooting
and hissing, that the lady came forth from
her chamber, and ran to his assistance.
Whereby there was a great scandal and
talk in all the city, so much so, that for
this deed the said Sibyl fell into the cruel

hatred of her neighbours and their wives.
168

IV The True

Now, when these things came to the white-Rose

knowledge of the lords and sheriffs of the J"?d*he,

Fair Sibyl.

city, there was much wrath and annoyance.
For Maitre Nicolas was one of the
leading men of Metz, who lived honestly
according to his position, and was related
to the best men of the city, who greatly
wished to aid him. But his wife was born
of poor folk ; she owed him all, and
notwithstanding deceived him with a man
from beyond the seas. For these and
many other reasons, the kinsfolk of Maitre
Nicolas banded themselves together
against his wife, and went to complain
in law before the Council. And it was
decided that the Council should take the
young woman into their custody until the
return of her husband.

But when the day following, which was
Sunday, the Judges and Guards went in
the morning before the house of Maitre
Nicolas, in quest of the said Sibyl, to take
her, they found the house empty. She
169

A was gone, she and her lute, her rings,
Mediaeval . , ....

Garland. anc* ner most beautiful jewels ! I hen

you never heard such an uproar, and
naught was talked of in the town save
this woman, for none wotted whither
she had fled. However, all cried out
that she was at the palace of the
Haute- Pierre with her lover ; whereby
the said kinsmen and neighbours of
Maitre Nicolas, aided by Guards and
others, took the palace by assault, and
thoroughly ransacked every room and
corner ; but found no trace of either
White- Rose or Sibyl.

Meanwhile time passed, bringing the
return of the goldsmith nearer and nearer ;
and it was not long ere he re-entered the
city. As soon as his kinsfolk and neigh-
bours saw him from afar on the road, they
went to meet him, wailing much aloud and
saying —

'Alas!'

' What is it ? ' asked the goldsmith,

wonder-struck.

170

And the said neighbours wailed louder The True
than ever, and said— Whke^Rose

' Alas ! very dear friend, we brine: you ai?d ll}e
\ Fair Sibyl.

no good news.'

Then the goldsmith, all white of visage,
lighted down from his horse, and came
nigh unto them, and sat down upon a
milestone at the side of the road, without
saying word. And at last —

' I wot not what trouble you have come
to announce to me,' said he, ' but my heart
tells me that it is on account of Sibyl my
wife .... She is dead.'

' Hearken well,' said the neighbours,
' it is not that. Still I deem, if God does
not aid you, you will have no less grief
thereover. . . . Your wife has acted
more shamefully and more treacherously
towards you than ever woman did, quite
contrary to her vows.'

And then they related the loves of Sibyl

and White-Rose, and how they were God

knew where. And all this while the poor

man sat on the milestone, bowed down

171

A like one in whom there is no joy. He was
Mediaeval •,«....,, . , 1-1
Garland, holding in his hands a jewel made in the

form of a heart which he was bringing for
his wife, and long he turned and twisted it
in his fingers, looking earnestly thereat.
But he said naught, and seemed not to
hear the voice of his neighbours.

After much talking, one of those said
neighbours, in speaking of his wife, called
her by her name. And at the word ' Sibyl '
the goldsmith at last understood the grief
and shame which were come upon him ;
and began to moan like a wounded man,
and said —

' Hey, friends ! hey, friends ! if only we
could revive our yesterday ! How can I
wake myself from this dream, my good
friends ? For my heart burns at hearing so
many evil words spoken of Sibyl, my wife.
And I wot well that, could I but see her
again, she would tell me that things are
not so. Ah ! bring Sibyl to me ! Let me
see my wife again, my good friends. For

if you do not arrange for me to see her in
172

some way or another, I shall die of grief The True
, , Story of

and rage. White-Rose

Thus spoke the poor man, and it was a?d *he,

Fair Sibyl.

most piteous to see and hear him. And
we all, who thought him strangely weak
and sensitive notwithstanding, comforted
him the best we could, by promising that
within a short while he should again see
her whom he had lost.

Nevertheless the days passed and
brought no tidings of the lady. And
during that week the goldsmith took
courage and pride anew, and went several
times before the magistrate in order to
see his wife again, and went always armed.
And on the Friday, the thirteenth day of
the month, as the said Maitre Nicolas
worked at his trade, leaning on his stall,
and talking with some of his neighbours,
he whom they name White- Rose passed
through the Fornerue, on horseback,
173

A followed by his suite, and saw the said
G" Nicolas. the goldsmith.

And he saw likewise that Maitre Nicolas
menaced him, shaking his head and saying
— ' Hey, traitor ! ' Then, without saying a
word, White-Rose made sign to his people,
who stood aside, and drawing his poignard
he threw it with all his strength at the
heart of the said Nicolas. But the jeweller
wore a leather apron, such as farriers and
smiths are wont to wear working at their
trade, and the dagger slipping on the
polished leather, fell to earth without
wounding him in the least. And then
White-Rose, seeing that he had missed
his stroke, threw his riding-whip after,
which was hard and heavy, and would
well have killed a man. But the gold-
smith, seeing the blow coming, put himself
quickly into safety, within the house.
And at once White- Rose and his suite
decamped and fled full gallop, as if the
earth would melt beneath their feet,
throwing caltrops in the path. And on

account of these things there was great The True
scandal and great talk in all the city. Whites-Rose

And the same day, at evening:, the J"?d t.he

Fair Sibyl,
said Maitre Nicolas stood in front of

the great church, fully armed, his sword
on his thigh, and his halberd round his
neck, and prayed the folk who kept him
company to listen, and related to them
all he had suffered in the way of many
wrongs from a stranger. And taking off
the leather apron he wore, he attached it
to his sword in guise of a banner, and
cried on the people to follow him before
the sheriffs of Metz, that they might
answer for this cruelty.

And the people cried — ' Hearken,
hearken ! ' and assembled round the gold-
smith, and there were as many as two
hundred of the townsfolk of Metz, who
made much riot. Then they went all
together before the sheriffs of the city.
And for this matter the Great Council
was hastily assembled.

And when the said Nicolas came into

A the room of the Seven Warriors before
Garland t^ie sheriffs, he held up his head and
said —

' I am Nicolas, a goldsmith, and a well-
to-do man, a burgher of this city. Now a
man from beyond the seas has taken my
wife and other of my goods from me.
Therefore, do me justice, ye who are
sheriffs of Metz.'

And all the folk who were with him
cried out — ' Justice ! Justice ! Death ! —
Death to the stranger ! '

Then, on account of his jeopardy, and
the fury of the people, certain lords who
then sat in Council sent secretly to the
King of England not to come into the
town, or anigh the church, for they feared
murder and insurrection ; and on the road
the messengers met the said White- Rose,
but at their words he returned quickly with
his suite to a manor-house that he had in
the parish of Vigneulles. And the said
messengers, seeing the way he went, came

back and told my lords of the Council
176

the place where they suspected that Sibyl The True
, . , Story of

was hid. White-Rose

And all this time the goldsmith, standing J"?1.?6,

Fair Sibyl.

before the Council, asked and required
that justice should be done him, pleading
so urgently and in such manner that at
half-past ten at night he was still speaking.
And when they saw that the hour of
midnight approached, and that this man
would not budge — seeing likewise that all
the townsfolk of Metz were on his side —
my said lords the sheriffs promised and
ordained that his wife and goods should
be restored to him ; to wit, that the follow-
ing day several lords of the Council
should be commissioned to go before the
said White- Rose and point out to him
courteously his faults, and at the same
time bring back the said Sibyl and
restore her to her husband.

VI

So at early dawn the lords appointed
mounted their steeds and went forth into
177 N

A the country in quest of the fair Sibyl ; and
Mediaeval f. . i_ • • r .-\ ..t.

Garland soon after tne rismg ol the sun they were

before the manor-house of White- Rose,
where they found all a-sleeping. And in
the court and in the hall were neither men
nor maid-servants, but on all sides silence
and sleep. And my said lords sought
everywhere, and found naught. And they
thought to quit the manor-house, when
the youngest of them, who was Messire
Philippe Dex, perceived a window high
up in the tower. They mounted up the
stair all together, without much hope of
finding aught, for the tower was old and
half in ruins. And it was very high.
Then at last they came to a round room
quite empty, save for a little straw in the
middle covered with more rose-leaves than
they had ever seen gathered together.
And thereon, clasped in each other's arms,
slept Sibyl and White-Rose, clad in every
hue and bedecked as if for great and
worthy triumph. And, against the fresh-
ness of the night, the fair lady had put
178

her long hair like a cloak over the The True
shoulders of her lover. Now, a little whites-Rose
further away in the window there stood and the

u i u if i j u • FairSibyL

a huge peacock halt-asleep, and when it
saw these lords coming in, it gave marvel-
lously loud harsh screams. But so well
slept the two lovers that neither woke at
the sound of the peacock's screams, nor
at the noise and riot of the lords. And
seeing them thus, they seemed so young,
so beautiful, and above all so happy, that,
albeit all held them to be enemies of the
city and of wonderfully evil and pernicious
example, there was nevertheless not one
who did not feel compassion for their love.
Notwithstanding, the said lords took
their swords and struck them three times
on the flags with a singular noise and
crash of steel. And, forthwith, White-
Rose sprang up from the ground, crying ! .
' St. George for England ! ' and would
have struck a blow at my said lords, for
he took the thing for a trap. But they,

who were at least ten against one, took
179

A his weapon from him, and made known
Mediaeval , , . . -

Garland. now tnev were come on a mission of

friendship and humble obedience, and
likewise by order of the city, to bring the
fair Sibyl back to her husband, and if
needful were ready to take her despite
White-Rose. And after many words,
seeing that all was quite lost, my said
lord White- Rose agreed to give her back,
albeit quite against his heart and will.
For he could do naught else. But she,
who did not wish to leave him, threw her-
self at the feet of these lords, crying —

' My lords, I entreat you to leave me
with this man, who is my best friend, and
the man I love most in the world ! And,
for this, if there be any way or manner
in the world by which I can do you
pleasure, I pray and request you to advise
me of it.'

Then she took at great random her
rings and her gems, throwing them at the
feet of these said lords. But they held

her by the arms, and said to her very
180

gently : ' Come now, fair lady ! ' and paid The True
. Story of

no other attention to her words. White-Rose

And she knew not what to say nor to Jj*.

3 Fair Sibyl.

do, save to weep. For if fine gold, as
high as the tower where she was, had been
hers, she would full fain have given it in
order not to have to go away alone. Then
she turned to White- Rose, and they em-
braced one another, weeping. Neverthe-
less he gave the lady into the hands of my
lords on condition that they would not
give her back to Nicolas, her husband,
unless he promised that for this act he
would neither touch her, nor beat her, nor
say a word which might displease her.
And the said lords, convinced of the gold-
smith's love for his wife, promised and
swore and granted his prayer. And then
they must say farewell. Thus, to the
regret and great despair of the two lovers,
the said Sibyl was given into the hands
of the lords, and was by them conducted
and brought back with great honour within

the town of Metz.

181

A VII

"\TcdicCV2il

Garland. Now, clad as she was, all in pink and
green and orange, her hair, which seemed
like gold, floating over her shoulders, the
fair Sibyl made her entry into the city,
bareheaded like a bride, surrounded by my
said lords ; but she had tears in her eyes,
and more than once fell into a swoon.
And thus she was led to trial, and God
knows if at that hour there were any
about to see her ! And she was inter-
rogated before the judges about many
things, to which she readily replied. Then
came the husband, and when the lady
saw him, she lost all her fine courage
anew, hid her face in her hands, and
wept so that it was pitiful to hear. But
he, who had done so much to get her
back, when he saw her thus, grew very
white and stern, and from being gentle
and melancholy, became in an instant
harsh, rude, and very disdainful, cried
shame on his wife and her fine clothes,
saying —

182

' Ha, Impudence ! Light-o'-Love ! Your The True

, Story of

gallant was generous to you ! White-Rose

And he jeered at her, laughing and
insulting her. Then the judges present
pulled him by the sleeve, and told him
that he must not receive Sibyl thus, but
rather as a pure and glorious wife ; they
made known to him the manner in which
White- Rose had given her back on their
given promise and sworn faith that no
harm should be done her, or harsh reproach
made her. And Nicolas did naught save
laugh, and cry —

' Keep her for yourselves, my lords, or
else give her to me to work my will upon.'

And there were some who would fain
have given her back, but the most part
kept to their promise. Then, after much
talking, a term and a delay were accorded
to the said Nicolas, to wit, fifteen days,
to consider the advice of the judges and
lords ; and during this time, the said Sibyl
was put under guard and shut up in the
palace, in the room of the Seven Warriors.
'83

A VIII

Garland. This room of the Council of the Seven
Warriors is a great hall, with the history
of the Maccabees and the story of Helen
of Troy painted on the walls ; and there
the said Sybil had her bed, and they
brought her drink, and good victuals to
eat, at the expense of the town, from the
Hostel of the Angels. And there she
abode for many days, living at as great
a cost as would the Papal Nuncio, or the
Ambassadors of the Emperor ; for the
sheriffs did not wish the King of England
to be vexed by their doings, d.nd on the
other hand they deemed that Master
Nicolas would feel more kindly towards
his wife in seeing her treated in like
manner to a princess. However, the gold-
smith showed himself to be a hard, proud
man, and was angered that they did not
give him back his wife, saying ' that in
days of yore, there was a pure maiden
emblazoned in the arms of the city, but

that the sheriffs now thought to put a
184

courtesan,' and other strange cruel words, The True
c 1 i i i • T Story of

ill-speaking from a husband to his wite. White-Rose

During: this time the Duke named „ . J5*.

Fair Sibyl.

White- Rose went away to take up his
abode at Enery, at the Castle of some
lords, his neighbours, in order there to be
in mourning and grief ; but one day, going
a-hunting, he had an adventure, and was
surprised by a band of wicked traitors,
paid for that purpose by Maitre Nicolas,
who would ere long have killed him or
thrown him into some secret dungeon.
Whereby, seeing his jeopardy, the said
White- Rose went away to abide in the
city of Toul, and left Metz, he and all his
folk ; and Sibyl, standing at her window
the day of his departure, wept sorely.

On the morrow Maitre Nicolas, fearing
the anger of the townsfolk for this deed
of ambush spread for the English Prince,
and seeing likewise that his wife was not
given back to him, went to make himself
a citizen of Thionville, without giving
other answer or reason. Then who were

A very dolent but the magistrates of Metz.

TVTPfl 1 J^PVrll

Garland. For ft profited them but little to have put
White- Rose to flight, and lost an honest
man, to keep in exchange a poor sinner
who had to be feasted at great expense
like a lady. For all this time Sibyl was
kept in the Hall of the Seven Warriors,
and every day had to be given dinner and
supper, and wept notwithstanding like any
poor wretch.

Then the Council secretly gathered to-
gether, and agreed that, since the young
woman had no more husband, nor father,
nor mother, she must be put into the hands
of some good widow, to earn her bread
and be a servant-maid in her turn. And
on the morrow they freed the said Sibyl,
and gave her as servant to an old tallow-
chandler, called Mariette, who lived hard
by the Holy Cross. But poor Sibyl, who
had never in her life done any menial
work, wotted not how to help or to please
her mistress in aught, and sat all day at

the window, dreaming, singing, or gazing
1 86

at herself in the mirror. And the old The True
woman, who could do naught for herself white-Rose

on account of her asfe, ^ot rid of her and _*?<* the

Fair Sibyl.

hired another servant. Then the said
Sibyl was given into the hands of a
butcher, her kinsman, a hard, cruel man
who made his stick dance on her white
shoulders. But this did not make her
work harder, and she was as one that
would as lief die as live. Then she took
courage, and thought night and day if she
could not find way of escaping to White-
Rose.

IX

Therefore one night, when the moon
was bright and the weather fair, for it was
fine and hot, she took a sheet she had for
her bed, tore it into strips, tied them
tightly together, and fastened them to a
stick, which stick she put athwart the
window-frame. Then, commending her
soul to God, she swung herself readily out

of the window. But when she was outside
187

A and felt the weight of her body and the
Mediaeval 1-1 ,1 i i , . ,

Garland. ""^ strength she had in her arms, she

began to be afraid and would fain have
gone back above. Notwithstanding, she
took courage ; strength came to her, for
she saw death before her if she let go her

o

hold, because it was the highest storey of
the house, which was a gabled hostel, and
one of the most beautiful houses in the
Boucherie.

Still she suffered greatly, for she held by
her hands only, and had not damped the
sheets as she should have done, or fastened
them to her waist. And the strips began
to crack as if they would break ; her
hands likewise grew burning, and were
torn against the wall in such a manner that
blood flowed, and if she had known how to
get back she would have gladly done so.
And her hands were so wounded and torn
that she could not hold on until the end ;
but, at more than the length of a long
lance from the ground, she let go the linen

rope, and fell with such violence that she
188

lay without speaking, the full time of the The True
r . Story of

saying of a psalm. White-Rose

And when she began to be a little T,0.1

Fair Sibyl.

conscious, and to come out of her swoon,
she began to scream so very loudly that
the whole street re-echoed with her cries,
and all the dogs in the neighbourhood
awoke and began to bark.

1 White- Rose ! White- Rose ! ' she cried,
' you are hurting me. White- Rose ! you
are killing me badly. What is it that is
hurting my ankle ? Go away, or take me
to our manor-house.'

For the poor woman thought she was at
Vigneulles with her lover, and wist not
what caused her suffering. And she
began to shriek anew as one who had lost
all reason. But of a sudden she saw four
or five men of the watch, well-armed with
cudgels, coming at the sound of her cries ;
and the poor woman returned to her senses,
and was much amazed at her folly.

Then she wished to arise and flee, but
her ankle was out of the socket, and she
189

could not stand upon it to go away, and

fel1 back on the ground> and began to
shriek and rave anew. When she came

to her senses for the second time, the
street was full of people, and she heard
the butcher saying to the watchmen —

' She is my servant, who has tried to run
away and has broken her ankle. Give her
up to me.'

But the watchmen would not give her
up, because she had called upon the name
of White- Rose; and they deemed there
was an affair of the city therein. So they
put her on a shutter and carried her to the
common prison.

x

Now when the lords and sheriffs of
Metz saw the said Sibyl returning in so
short a space of time to their charge, they
were much displeased and impatient. And
there were some of the elders who said

that there was no greater pest nor harm in
190

a city than fair women, and would fain The True
banish her and forbid her the city for ever white-Rose

without recall. Notwithstanding: that, the J"?d t*16,

Fair Sibyl.

advice of the younger ones was, that her
sins should be forgiven her. Thus, by
want of mutual understanding, the two
parties agreed to leave her for a time in
prison.

And at that poor Sibyl was marvellously
hopeless, and not so much that the place
where she was imprisoned was dark and
damp and unhealthy (for it is built inside
the arch of the moat, and the water mur-
murs against it day and night, which is
wearisome to hear), but she thought of her
friend White-Rose, and that as he knew
not where she was, he could not come to
her aid. And she could not have escaped,
even had she been less well guarded, for
much her foot pained her. So she fell
sick, and greatly feared to lose her beauty
and the love of her gallant.

And meanwhile came the feast of St.
Nicolas, and the weather was black, cold,
191

A dull, and hideous. Then the poor woman
Garland, began to think of her husband, and of all
the joy and hope they had always had
together at this season, in the time of her
integrity. Therefore she sent the judges
a letter, asking that she might be given up
to her husband, that he might deal with her
according to his will.

And the said judges replied forthwith
that her husband wanted none of her, but
had sent a messenger to Rome in order to
arrange his marriage with a young maid of
Thionville.

And it was at this time that White- Rose
left Toul and went away to France ; and
Sibyl knew naught thereof. But one day
her gaoler, seeing that the said White-
Rose was so much in her thoughts that
she could not sleep, and that she spent all
her time in writing letters to him with a
piece of coal, by the light of the fire (for
she could not see at all otherwise), and
thinking to treat her for her good, said to

her —

192

' You think, fair lady, too much of him The True
who scarce thinks at all of you. For it whft?Rose

is long since he left for the country of and the

Fair Sibyl.
France.

Then poor Sibyl said naught, and only
wrote and composed more urgently than
before. But later, when the said gaoler
took her dinner to her, he found her dead
within her cell. And it was done in the
strangest way in the world. For within
this prison there was a window strongly
barred with iron bars, to which the poor
wretch had hanged herself. And, because
she had naught else, she had hanged
herself by the strands of her hair — for she
had the most beautiful hair in the world ;
and albeit she was a tall, powerful woman,
the tresses were so strong that they held
up her weight and strangled her. And
thus she was found by the warders of the
prison, white and dead in the midst of
her splendid hair, the which was like a
sunbeam within the window of the cell.

Whereby she was dragged through the
193 o

A streets and thrown into the ditch with
Mediaeval , . , .

Garland, thieves and others.

But, as in that year the weather was
ill-disposed, and much given to rain, folk
murmured, and said that it was because
this wretched Sibyl had been put into the
quarter of the Christians, of which she was
not worthy. Whereby the law had her
taken away from that place and buried at
the cross-roads as a suicide.

God pardon her misdeeds, and ours
likewise !

194

THE ARCHITECT OF BROU

TO

THE REV. FATHER ROUSSELET

THE ARCHITECT OF BROU The

Architect of
Brou.

Brou-en-Bresse, 1518.

THE work of building the great church
of Brou had been going on for twelve
years. It was erected by Marguerite of
Austria, to the memory of her husband,
Philibert the Handsome, killed out hunting
at the age of twenty-four. Translated
into stone, the anguish of the widow,
growing daily colder and calmer, became
eternal. And the vast church on the
border of the forest was already expanding
its leaves, flowers, and the light tendrils
of its portal, like branches sprinkled with
snow at Christmastide. T\\&fafade began
to open out like a fairy trefoil, rising
miraculously in earthy fields to bear witness
to the Trinity of God. The visit of the
Duchess, who was administering the affairs
of state in Flanders, was daily expected ;

and the artisans of Brou worked with
197

A unusual haste whilst awaiting the arrival
Mediaeval c . • i

Garland. °* tneir royal mistress.

ii

It was the feast of St. Michael in the
year 1518 ; on that day the architect
Colomban did not appear at the church.
From five o'clock in the morning the great
bell swung to and fro in its wooden tower,
and masons and sculptors trooped in from
all sides. For the previous evening, it
had been decided to work on that day for
the benefit of St. Michael, in order to
finish the undertaking in time ; and the
architect was greatly rejoiced at this
resolution. At that moment the men were
working at the latticed gallery overlooking
the great door. In the middle of it stood
a still unfinished statue of Saint Andre,
the patron saint of Colomban, who in-
tended him to be throned on the facade
of his work. All the preceding day the
architect had been working out the arms
198

and hands of the saint, leaning on his The

HM • ^i Architect of

cross. Ihe morning come, the workmen Brou

waited for him in vain. Wherefore did he
desert his much-loved task ? At that hour
Andre Colomban was always to be found
seated on a block of stone, his parchments
spread out on his thin knees, engaged in
drawing the plans for the day. The
workmen looked at each other with ill-
dissimulated impatience. What possesses
old father Colomban to go and keep the
feast of St. Michael in the woods, like
a mere citizen, whilst his workmen are
waiting for him in the church ? The work
had to be stopped for want of plans, and
the whole day was lost through his fault.

Towards evening, the master not ap-
pearing, they sought him through the
whole town of Bourg without discovering
aught. They sought him in the log-huts
which Colomban himself had constructed
for the workmen who lodged around the
church. In the neatest of these huts
lived a tall, fair, smiling maiden.
199

A ' They are seeking thy father, Mariette,'

Mediaeval . , , .

Garland. sai" tne workmen.

' He is not in the church ? '

' No, he has not been there to-day.'

The maiden thought for a moment.

' He is doubtless with the carters from
Pisa. Two loads of unpolished marble
arrived last night.'

' Nay,' answered the masons; 'and the
carters are asking to be paid, for they
want to go back to their own country.'

' It is strange,' said Mariette. But she
was much less uneasy than the others, for
she knew that men of genius are some-
times singular, and yearn for solitude.
'•He will return,' she said. ' Do not be
afraid.'

Mariette had such frank, confiding eyes
that every one believed what she said.
Therefore the workmen went away con-
vinced that at the first stroke of the clock,
on the morrow, they would find the archi-
tect seated on a block of stone, his large

blue eyes dreaming into space.
200

Ill The

Nevertheless the days passed sadly and L Brou
silently without the gay music of the
chisel on the stones. The inexplicable
flight of Colomban had to be reported to
Maitre Laurent, the Governor of Brou.
The good man, who knew little about art
matters, replied, without being greatly
moved, that they only had to choose
another architect, and appointed a young
man, a pupil of the absent master.
Philippe Chartres was a very worthy
young workman, but he was far from
being as clever as Andre Colomban. He
accepted payment on the conditions of the
master ; and towards the autumn he
began his work.

But Philippe was too modest not to
feel himself unequal to the task. The
result was that every day he spent an
hour or two in the hut of Mariette, asking
her advice, and begging her to try and
remember the designs of her father.
Mariette did not know much about them ;

201

A but she liked talking to the young master-
Mediaeval A , . i . i
Garland mason. At this moment, when every one

reviled Colomban, the maiden found plea-
sure in discoursing of him to a sincere
and sympathetic friend, who seemed to
share her filial veneration. And she said
to herself that if heaven had granted her a
brother to protect her forsaken lot, she
would have wished him alike in all to this
good, this excellent young man.

IV

Despite the good advice of Mariette,
the church of Philippe Chartres bore but
little resemblance to the church of Colom-
ban. Above the beautiful structure, which
bore with so light a grace the miraculous
flowers of Gothic fantasy, there rose
heavily something cold, awkward and un-
interesting ; an unfortunate imitation of
Roman architecture. The workmen lost
their spirit before this thankless task ; the
worthy Philippe himself watched his work

202

with a disturbed and unquiet eye ; but The

, , , . , . , Architect of

the man who despaired most m the very Brou

depths of a heart tortured by vain regrets,
was the author and poet of the church —
Andre Colomban himself.

For every night, when the moon lit up
fully the unfinished church, and the sombre
colony of huts where long since the
masons lay sleeping, a pale emaciated
man, enveloped in the cloak of a hermit,
came and sat on a block of stone before
the great door. He sought in his breast
a bundle of yellow parchments, which he
spread on his knees, looking long at them,
comparing one by one the lines of his
drawings with the outlines of the church.
Then he sighed, and sometimes wept with
the silent anguish of the aged.

As the damp cold of winter came on,
the gait of the hermit became more and
more uncertain, his face more wan, and in
his large blue eyes there was seen some-
thing glaucous and opaque, like a moon-
light reflection. Likewise, towards the
203

A spring, he was obliged to hold the worn
Garland, parchments of his original drawings quite
close to his poor face, whilst his anguish
was increased by uncertainty, for, by the
light of the mirrored moon, he could
scarce distinguish the strange inert mass
which, like an evil nightmare, suffocated
the efforts of his genius.

One evening, as he was looking at the
monstrous edifice, a blessed thought re-
stored his courage, and on a great soft
stone, well in view, the architect traced in
charcoal a clear distinct plan of the church
of his dreams. But when he came back
at the end of the month, to his great
disappointment, he found nothing changed
in the facade rising before him. It was
higher, that was all. His drawings had
not been looked at ; or else the night
dews had effaced them. ' Great God ! '
sighed the old man, weeping ; ' to think
that I can do nothing, and that I am
becoming blind ! '

204

V The

A L u r TVT u j Architect of

At the beginning of March, good Brou

Philippe Chartres began to wear an
anxious uneasy expression which did not
at all suit his open countenance. And it
was not that he was more dissatisfied
with his fafade; he was quite resigned
about that.

No, it was caused by the annoyance
in the workyard ; the workmen com-
plained among themselves. Discontent
was felt in the air, nay, even general
uneasiness. Mariette, who took the
worries of Philippe much to heart, was
grieved to see her friend so changed, and
one day when he found her in tears, she
confessed to him that her grief was caused
by his not confiding his secrets to her.

' Ah, Mariette ! ' said the young man,
and he looked at her awhile in silence.
Then — ' And wherefore should not I tell
you my secrets ? Wherefore should not I
ask your advice ? I am so lonely, and

are not you mine oracle at all times ? '

205

A ' I am listening to you,' murmured the

Mediaeval . , , , , .

Garland, maiden, blushing.

' Well, Mariette,' continued the master-
mason, ' for full a se'nnight I have been
much perplexed. Some one, man or
spirit, comes at twelve o'clock every day,
whilst I am at dinner with the workmen.
He goes to all the huts where they work,
effaces my drawings and retraces the
stones after another design.'

1 How insolent ! ' cried Mariette, with
flashing eyes. ' How dare any one touch
your beautiful drawings and plans, which
are so distinct and beautiful ! Oh ! it
must be some one who is jealous of your
genius, Philippe, and your great name. If
I could only catch this wicked man ! '

Philippe smiled a little, despite his
sadness.

' It is true that this annoys and surprises
me, for I never know where I am with
the building, and whatever measures I
take, I can complete nothing. But,

Mariette, it is not that which haunts and
206

tortures me. These lines which are
traced on my stones, after a design I have
never seen, are weak and wavering, as if
done by the hesitating hand of a child.
And yet, Mariette, there is something so
light and so audacious in their fancies,
that they recall . . . Oh, Mariette ! in the
living world there is only one man who
has such a manner . . . Perhaps — and
this is what I imagine ! — it is the spirit of
Colomban who returns to us.'

The maiden trembled in every limb.

' My father ! my father ! ' she sighed,
' if thou returnest, be it from our world,
or the next, to think that thou canst
return, and not return to me ! '

'We must set our minds at rest about
this,' pursued Philippe, ' for if it is a
spirit, he wishes to tell us something,
and if it is a man, whether it is Colomban
or another, we must make him listen to
reason.'

Mariette looked up.

'We must put some workmen as
207

sentinels,' she said, 'whilst the others go
to dinner as usual • • • and when he
comes, they must seize him gently, oh !
very gently, without doing him any hurt
or ill — and bring — bring him here ! ' she
ended, sobbing.

Philippe took her in his arms, and tried
to console her.

' What good advice you give me ! so
right and judicious ! We will do all that
exactly, save that we will not have him
brought here, Mariette. For the man
who pursues us thus may be violent or
an evil-doer ; in any case, we will take
him before the Governor, for it is his
right, after all, to administer justice, and
not ours.'

VI

On the morrow, the hermit Colomban
went after his wont to the huts of the
workmen, and pencil in hand effaced the

drawings of Philippe, and began to retrace
208

on the stones designs after his own heart. The
He was there absorbed in his dream, L Brou
when the sentinels precipitated themselves
upon him, seized him by the collar, and
dragged him towards the house of the
Governor. No one amongst the crowd
of masons recognized in the decrepid and
half-blind hermit, their master, Colomban ;
they saw naught there save a malicious
fool, who interrupted their work, and
laughed at them. It was therefore, de-
spite the definite instructions of Philippe
Chartres, not without some blows and
violent abuse that they led the poor man
before Maitre Laurent, and every one was
too over-excited to notice the confusion
in which they found the house of the
Governor. It was caused by the arrival
of the Duchess Marguerite, and at the
moment the workmen dragged their
prisoner before the windows, she was
holding a conference with Maitre Laurent
himself and Philippe Chartres, on the

subject of the mysterious visitor. The
209 P

A noise made by the masons and their
Garland, savage glee apprised the Princess that the
culprit had been taken. She advanced
towards the crowd —

* Here/ said she, ' is a mysterious affair,
and one which I should like to judge
personally to-day.'

At the sight of the Duchess, the hermit,
thinking he was discovered, threw himself
at her feet. The suddenness of his move-
ment made his hood fall back.

' Colomban ! Colomban ! ' shouted the
crowd.

The Princess looked at her prisoner
sternly.

' Wretched man,' said she, ' wherefore
have you thus deserted us ? '

The hermit gave vent to long-drawn
sobs, but at last, mastering his tears, he
said —

' Madam, I made a design, and an
estimate for the building of your church,
as is the custom. I had scarce executed
the half of my design, when there came

210

certain carters from Pisa with costly The

marbles that I had ordered for the de- Arc^ °f

coration of the high altar, and demanded

to be paid. I went to get the money,

but when I looked into the coffer, I saw

that I had already spent all. Only a few

pence remained, and the church was not

half-finished ! Then I was terrified, and

I fled ; I went in one stage as far as

Salins, and there I adopted the garb of a

hermit for fear of being discovered. Still,

the vision of my church never ceased to

haunt my cell, maddening me with the

thought that no one in the world could

carry out my design. And I came back

to Brou to see how it was progressing.

And then . . . and then ! . . . Ah ! you

would pity me if you knew all that lies

here behind my brow, and that no one in

the world can translate it ... and ere

long I shall be blind.'

A shudder ran through the hall.

* Colomban,' said the Duchess gravely,
' you have displeased us greatly by think-

A ing that we should value a few crowns
Garland. more highly than the beauty of the church,
which will eternally recall a beloved
memory. But we forgive you because
you are a great artist, and because we
know that men of genius are but as little
children, in matters of this world. . . .
Rise ! you are again the Architect of
Brou, with a hundred thousand crowns to
complete the building. But you are old
and weary. . . . Here is a worthy young
man, who only asks to help and lighten
the labours of your undertaking.'

The Princess made a sign and Philippe
came forward.

' Master,' said he, ' we are going to
begin all anew ; and rebuild according
to your design. It went ill without
you ! '

The Duchess smiled.

1 This young man/ she resumed, ' will
be the staff of your old age, and your son.
For he tells us that it is his sole desire
to marry your daughter Mariette, whose

212

dowry it shall be our royal pleasure to The

r • i , Architect of

furnish. Brotli

The old man gave a long groan.

' Mariette ! Mariette ! ' he sighed. ' I
had forgotten her ! Where is she, where
is my dear daughter, my darling child ? '

' Here, father,' cried the poor child, and
she threw herself weeping into the arms
of the hermit. He held her for an instant
to his heart, but gradually he let her slip
from his arms.

' I have an idea/ he said, ' for the left
hand of my Saint Andre\ A piece of
charcoal, Philippe ! They have taken mine
away. . . . Yes, that is it. ... To think
that I am losing my sight ! Ah, Mariette,
thou art still here, dear child ? Pray, do
not disturb me. . . . Amuse thyself with
Philippe. He is an excellent young
man. . . . He has not too much genius.
He will make thee an admirable husband.'

213

MADAME DE LA ROCHE

TO

A. M. L'ABBE PIERRE DE BOURDEILLES

MADAME DE LA ROCHE Madame de

la Roche.

Ferrara, 1535.

IN the time of the Duchess Ren^e, there
dwelt in the town of Ferrara a young
widow of twenty, by name Madame de la
Roche. She was a French woman, and
came to Italy from the Court of the Queen
of Navarre, where she had previously been
a lady in waiting.

The Duchess loved her dearly, for she
was of all women the most witty, and
the best talker, albeit a little serious, and
very much engrossed in the new ideas of
the day. She was the pearl amongst the
French at the Court ; half-a-score, at most,
who kept much apart (not loving the
Lombards), gathering round their beautiful
unhappily married Duchess, who in this
land of Ferrara was like a lily amongst
thorns.

Now, one summer evening, soon after
supper, the Duchess withdrew into the

shady garden with Madame de Soubise,
217

A Mademoiselle de Beauregard, and Maitre
Garland Clement Marot, the poet. Madame de la
Roche was likewise there : she was stand-
ing up, with a little lute in her hands,
singing in her sweet voice—

' Singing in exultation
To God who dwells in Zion,'

to the tune of one of Maitre Clement's
psalms. The poor man looked at her as
if she was a saint.

In truth she was very dainty and very
pretty in her white gown. Her thick
ashen blonde hair was framed in a little
black velvet coif; a broad black ribbon
attached the lute to her tall slender figure ;
and this simple white garb became her so
well, that she seemed a greater lady thus
attired than if she had been arrayed in
scalloped cloth of gold. For she had in
her face something indescribable, lovely,
tender, and noble, distinguishing her at
once from others. Never has been seen,

save in her, that delicate colouring, those
218

candid eyes, never too joyous nor too Madame de

sad, nor that half-opened mouth seeming

to smile at the skies, nor above all that

air of womanly gentleness which she

was able to spread around her like a

perfume.

She was still singing when the music
was interrupted by the arrival of a fair,
dashing young man, M. Jean de Bour-
deilles. He was a handsome, blithesome
boy, full of jests, who bowed to all these
ladies, smiling at them with a conquering
air ; then, ' Who is she ? ' he seemed to
say, looking at Madame de la Roche.
The psalm ended, the young man was
presented to the singer. The Duchess
leaned forward, expecting some madrigal.
But M. de Bourdeilles seemed to be dumb.

' Why is he so dull, what is the matter
with him to-day ? ' cried pretty Made-
moiselle de Beauregard at last.

' Mademoiselle, I am suffering from my
heart,' replied the young man. He rose,

kissed the hand of the Duchess, made a
219

A profound bow to Madame de la Roche,
Mediaeval , . . ,

Garland. and withdrew.

' Ah ! I shall bear you malice, my
friend,' said the Duchess, laughing ; ' I
shall bear you great malice if you chase
away our sprite ? What should we do
without him in the mortal dullness of this
country ? And there is no doubt he was
frightened by your black ribbons, and your
little Lutheran air. For usually he is the
maddest and most mocking creature in
the world.'

On the morrow, as Madame de la Roche
went into church, she found M. de Bour-
deilles standing anigh the holy water stoup.
When she came home, her lackey gave
her a great bouquet of roses sent by that
gentleman, who wrote her that they were
of his growing, and yet she knew that
he had neither an estate nor a garden in
Ferrara. An hour later, she received a
ballad in praise of her voice. In the even-
ing he danced with her, and told her of
her beauty. At night he sang a serenade

220

beneath her windows. And thus it was Madame de
every day for sixteen months, at the least,
without his receiving other recompense
therefrom than : ' Child, do not do that ! '
or, ' Never have I seen one so importunate
as you ! ' But one evening she learnt that
he was going to fight a duel for her sake
on the morrow. At once she was his
alone, and he learnt, to his great sur-
prise, that all the while she had adored
him. And never, I think, was there a
woman so passionate, so loving, or so
submissive as this selfsame Madame de
la Roche.

It was at this juncture that M. de
Bourdeilles, being recalled by his father to
France, Madame de la Roche refused to
leave him. The scandal and the folly of
such a love being pointed out to her, she
manoeuvred and declared that she did not
herself feel in security in Ferrara ; some
had heard it said to the Duke, ' the lady
savoured strongly of Luther.' In short,
she asserted her life was in danger, and

A asked for protection from the Queen^of
Garland Navarre. Thereupon she was allowed to
accompany her lover to France.

M. de Bourdeilles, being young and
thoughtless, was very happy with such a
charming companion, and the two lovers
prolonged the journey as much as possible.
But all happiness has an end, and towards
winter they arrived in Paris. There they
found Queen Marguerite very pleased to
see Madame de la Roche again. Then
came the hour of parting ; for the Queen
was leaving the next day but one for
Nerac, and as it was needful that a few
days later M. de Bourdeilles should take
part in the war in Piedmont, his poor
friend decided to accompany the Queen.
The parting, like all partings, was bitter
and grievous. Nevertheless, the lovers
had good hope of meeting again at the
Court of their kind patroness.

But scarce had Madame de la Roche
arrived in the kingdom of Navarre, than
she fell ill. She spent all her days seated

222

in a high tower overlooking the road to Madame de
Piedmont, white with snow at that season.
On the days that she saw the courier
galloping along full speed, she got up
very quickly, descended the staircase sing-
ing, and came back blushing and gay with
the Queen's letters. From her friend she
never received any letters. But neither
did she ever complain of his silence. ' He
is a soldier,' said she. ' He can only
write with the point of his sword.' And
when the Queen read aloud accounts of
the prowess of Captain de Bourdeilles,
the young dame laughed and triumphed
without reserve. Nevertheless she became
daily thinner and weaker. She was nothing
now but a phantom — a mere ghost of
hope and memory.

One day she was seized with a chill,
and the doctor sent her to bed, albeit
she declared she had never felt better.
The hour of her death came whilst she
was laughing and talking. Who would

have said that this woman was dying of
223

A neglect ? When she knew that she had
Garland °nly a few moments to live, she sent for
one of her varlets, who played very well
on the violin.

' Julien,' said she, ' play me the air of
the Duchess Renee.'

And the poor lad, quite surprised, began
to play —

' Singing in exultation
To God who dwells in Zion,'

when the door opened, and Queen Mar-
guerite appeared on the threshold. She
brought good tidings of the war. A
victory had been won, partly owing to the
courage of M. de Bourdeilles. Poor
Madame de la Roche wept for joy, kissed
the hands of her mistress, and turning to
her varlet —

' Julien ! ' she cried, ' leave off that psalm,
and sound the Defeat of the Swiss, and go
on playing it — dost hear — until you see me
quite dead.'

This did the other, she helping him

224

with her own voice. And when he came Madame de

^ r • la Roche,

to the refrain —

' They are confounded,
They are lost,'

she repeated softly two or three times —
« All is lost,'

and turning to the other side of her pillow,
with a smile she expired.

Some months later Captain de Bour-
deilles came back to Pau to see his mother,
who was staying at the Court of Navarre.
He met her as she came one evening from
vespers in company of the Queen. He
embraced the old lady, kissed the hand of
his patroness, and with much joy and vain-
glory related to them at great length all
the details of his victories. At last the
good Queen, seeing that he said not a
word of Madame de la Roche, took his
hand, and invited him to accompany her
into the empty church for a moment. She

walked about with him anigh an hour,
225 Q

A talking all the time of the war, and then
Mediaeval ,. ...

Garland, standing still—

'My cousin,' said she, 'do you feel
nothing moving under you nor under your
feet ? '

' No, Madam,' answered the captain.

' Think well thereon, my cousin ! '

' Madam, I have thought deeply thereon,
but I feel nothing moving, for I am walking
on firmly cemented flagstones.'

'Now I tell you,' resumed the good
Queen, ' that you are standing on the tomb
containing the body of that poor Madame
de la Roche whom you loved so dearly.
Since our souls can feel after our death,
you cannot doubt that this charming
creature was deeply moved as soon as
you drew near her. And if, by reason of
the depth of her grave, you did not feel
her joy at your approach, she, poor soul !
must therefore be the more affected by
your unconsciousness ! It is a devout
duty to remember the dead .... and

even more those we have loved in their
226

lifetime. I entreat you to say for her Madame de
soul a Paternoster, an Ave and De Pro-
fundis; sprinkle her grave with holy
water ; and you will be named as a most
faithful lover and a good Christian. I
leave you for that purpose.'

After these words the Queen glided
swiftly towards the threshold of the church,
and for some minutes Captain de Bour-
deilles grieved deeply for poor Madame
de la Roche.

227

THE CLOVE CARNATION

TO

MESSER GIAMBITTISTA GIRALDI CINTHIO

THE CLOVE CARNATION The Clove

Carnation.
ferrara, 1595.

FULL three hundred years ago, there
dwelt in the town of Ferrara a worthy
gentleman called Ser Christofano, whose
whole family consisted of one son, twelve
years of age, by name Antonio. The
father being a widower, and unable to take
the entire charge of the child's training,
his thoughts turned to a friend of his, one
Messer Giano dei Mazzi, whom he had
lost sight of for twenty years or more ; for
Ser Christofano was rich and of gentle
birth, favourably received at Court, and
the other a man wrapped in books and
meditation ; it was even said that he had
squandered all his available fortune in
buying ancient stones and ancient manu-
scripts, which he kept in a house that
remained to him of his patrimony. There
he lived very quietly, spending his time
in deciphering inscriptions, and annotating
his discoveries. Albeit he was very little

A seen in the town, he was much spoken of,

TVT 6*fl 1 T* V3.1

Garland. anc* n°t without some respect ; for, after
all, science is a respectable folly.

Therefore, on a beautiful afternoon in
May, Ser Christofano walked a little way
out of the town in search of his friend of
former years. Towards evening he came
to a pretty house with a tower and balcony,
such as is often seen in Italy. There was
around about it a large gloomy garden,
planted with ilexes and laurels. Seated
on a bench, in a cool grove, was a hand-
some old man, who raised his head at the
approach of the visitor. Ser Christofano
recognized his old friend, Messer Giano,
and saw that he was blind.

The two friends, as you may well think,
had a thousand things to say to each other.
The moon rose behind the laurels, and
they had not wearied of talking of old
days. But at supper-time they heard a
light rustling in the bushes, and a very
sweet voice.

' Here she is ! ' said Messer Giano.
232

' Come, my Daphne, and greet the friend The Clove

c M > Carnation.

or my youth.

And Signor Christofano saw before him
a maiden of peerless grace and dignity.
She had the regular features, the grave
smile, and that divine expression in her
eyes, that is seen in those antique Greek
medallions, over which her father had
worn out his sight. She carried herself
well, and walked with a light step and the
air of Diana the Huntress.

' I have never seen such a beautiful
girl ! ' cried Ser Christofano.

1 Alas ! ' replied the philosopher, ' to me
she is always a child of nine years old.
For she was that age when I lost my sight
— ten years ago ! '

' Nineteen years old ! ' said Ser Christo-
fano, ' seven years older than my boy ! '

' She will be his elder sister,' replied
Messer Giano ; and Daphne smiled, for
she had neither sister nor brother nor
friend.

Then Signor Christofano took leave of
233

A them, and some days later he returned
Garland^ w^^ ^s son Antonio, whom he left with
Messer Giano as his pupil. In sooth, he
was rather the pupil of Daphne, for the
old man was blind and feeble, and the
young girl, who read Greek and Latin
fluently to her father, knew more than was
required to teach so young a boy. Antonio
was a good pupil, gentle and docile ; he
learnt with delight all his friend taught
him, and at the end of three or four years
he was nearly as great a scholar as she
was. In his solitary hours he liked to
dream that he was the young Hippolytus,
and she Artemis the White ; the laurels in
the garden recalled the name of Daphne,
and he sighed in musing on the unhappy
love of a god ; but what pleased him most
was to sit by moonlight in the lonely,
sombre grove, imagining himself to be
Endymion and awaiting the goddess.

It was perhaps as the sequel of such
thoughts that Antonio lost the freshness
of his youth. At sixteen he was tall and
234

handsome, but very pale and melancholy. The Clove
Constant sighs broke his speech, and he
had no taste for the pleasures of his age.
All day long he seemed dreamy and half-
asleep ; but nevertheless he did not sleep
at night.

When poor Signor Christofano perceived
the state of his son, such despair was never
seen. He had spent his whole life in
intriguing for honours and the society of
the great in order to transmit these advan-
tages to Antonio, and behold, at the very
moment when his child would have been
able to profit by them, pale death claimed
him for its own. Oh ! with what regret
he then looked back upon the past, with
what jealous bitterness he thought of the
fairest years of Antonio's life passed entirely
in the house of the Mazzi, whilst he,
Christofano, assiduously attending the
Court, knew naught of the heart, naught
of the mind of the child, whom, neverthe-
less, he adored !

' Ah ! if I had been there/ thought the
235

A poor father, ' he never would have fallen
Garland* mto tm's mortal languor. But Giano is
blind and his daughter heedless ; this mad
passion for literature, which has already
cost the master his eyesight, is going to
rob me of the pupil. Thrice fool was I to
entrust to the charge of another the only
thing in the world I value ! '

It was in this spirit of regret and rancour
that Signor Christofano went to take
Antonio away from his master, who, al-
though quite blind, was well aware of the
coldness of his friend. And thus the two
old men, one filled with a spirit of bitterness,
and the other wounded by seeming ingrati-
tude, parted, and, to the great surprise of
Antonio, his father took him, without fare-
well or thanks, from the house where he
had spent the never-to-be-forgotten hours
of childhood.

But, in spite of all the father did, the
child went from bad to worse, and the
cleverest doctors in Ferrara could not

understand his case. At last Christofano
236

carried his dying child to the mountains, The Clove

. . A ,1 , Carnation,

where no intruders could come between

them. Half in malice, and half in
despair, he did not make known to
Messer Giano or his daughter their place
of abode.

But one day Antonio said to him —

' I think, father, I should get better if I
could drink once again from the fountain
in the orchard of the Mazzi.'

And the poor father forgot even the
coldness betwixt himself and his friends,
mounted his horse, and went in one stage
as far as Ferrara. He found the philoso-
pher in the grove of the Mazzi after his
wont ; he told him all his despair, as well
as the artless wish of his child, but in the
midst of his talk he heard a low sob, and,
turning round, saw the pale face of Daphne,
who was leaning against a tree. She was
clad all in white, and held in her hands
a mass of clove carnations she had just
gathered in the garden.

She at once turned to Signer Christofano,
237

and, expressing herself with difficulty,
murmured-

' Is it true that my only friend is sick
unto death ? Ah ! Signer, when you see
him, tell him how much we mourn him !
And since he was so fond of our carna-
tions, give him this bunch, which I kiss
thinking of him.'

Signer Christofano mechanically took
the flowers, and the flask of water from
the fountain, mounted his horse, and bent
his way sadly towards the mountains.
There he found his son consumed by fever,
and half-dead. But as soon as the child
received the carnations and heard the
words of the maiden, his sufferings vanished
as if by magic ; he got up, smiled, and
began to live anew, for he knew at last
that he loved, and that she mourned him.
Quite confused by so much happiness, the
child concealed it carefully. His eyes
again became brilliant and his step light ;
he sang as he walked. It is very true
that his smile wavered and was still vague
238

and dreamy, and that most of the time he The Clove
talked without being much aware what
he was saying ; but these trifles did not
greatly alarm Signer Christofano, who
attributed them to the effects of his long
weakness.

Some weeks later, father and son returned
to their palace in the town. The first care
of Antonio was to meet his Daphne. With
what shame and embarrassment he began
to tell her all that was in his heart ! But
the beginning made, he pleaded his cause
with a passion unexpected from lips so
little accustomed to speak of love. To
tell the truth, the fair Daphne was not
insensible thereunto ; the illness of Antonio
had already enlightened her as to her own
feelings. But she did not forget the seven
years' difference in age, and the want of
fortune which separated her from her young
friend. She said to herself, ' He will
forget me ! ' and again, ' That old courtier,
his father, will never forgive him.' And
from these two thoughts she drew strength
239

A to resist him a first, a second, and even a
Mediaeval _i • , .
Garland. thlrd time'

But behind that placid brow and that
calm mouth, as of a young goddess, a
world of dolorous thoughts tossed and
revolted.

' What have I done with my life ? What
have I done with my youth ? What is
reading old books, and solving problems
in algebra ? Alas ! I have been asleep in
some enchanted country . . . and lo! I
awake to find myself too old to respond
unto the call of happiness.'

Daphne was very beautiful, and, albeit
she bemoaned her age, she was scarce
twenty-three years old. Therefore what
should be came to pass. One burning
day, towards the end of June, Antonio
found her sleeping in the grove. He
knelt down before his idol, and covered
her hands with the maddest kisses. Daphne,
half-asleep, but conscious, responded by
murmuring his name, and let her happy
head fall on the shoulder of her lover.
240

Antonio would hear no more refusals, and The Clove
when Daphne was fully awake, she found
herself betrothed according to her heart's
desire.

It may be that later on we shall have
to pity these two young people very much,
but we need shed but few tears over them,
since, for at least one hour in their lives,
they tasted absolute happiness. Their
long struggle was suddenly turned to calm ;
their passion even was annihilated in that
beatitude of rare love, which no longer
dares to feel, lest the slightest rose-leaf
should disturb the balance of its joy.
There is in the world no feeling which can
compare with this unexpected re-union of
two souls, who have for long thought
themselves condemned to eternal separa-
tion, to a never-ending solitude. What
divine freedom to be able to tell each
other at last all that each thinks, and,
above all, feels ! What holy terror to say
unto each other, that even this living

passion must some day be quenched and
241 R

A exhausted in the last dust of those mortal
hearts wherein it abides !

The night fell earlier than usual on this
day, a summer night of stars and roses,
but which nevertheless at last separated
the lovers. Antonio returned through it
to his father ; he looked long at him and
dared not speak. Throughout the night
the child had prepared the fashion of his
speech, occupying himself in softening
news he knew would be likely to displease
his father. Nevertheless, when the morn-
ing came, he found nothing better to say
than these words —

' Embrace me, my father ! I affianced
myself to our friend Daphne, last night.'

Signer Christofano gave his son such a
terrible look that Antonio immediately lost
all hope.

* Antonio ! ' he cried, 'joy of my old age,
is it for this end that I made you my only
pride ? Is it for this end that I have spent
my whole life at Court, amassing so many

honours and such splendid advantages for
242

you, sole hope of my race ? And you The Clove

, . Carnation,

recompense me by proposing to marry

a penniless old maid, the daughter of a
school-master ! '

Poor Antonio would fain have cut his
father's rage short, but he was only sixteen,
and was afraid of him.

Meanwhile Signer Christofano began
again.

' Good God ! what a sad future you are
preparing for yourself, for me, ah ! and
even for her ! I see you, fifteen years
hence, young, handsome, but good for
nothing, the slave of a jealous, sickly old
woman. Antonio, I have loved you all your
life. In truth, there is nothing in the world
save you that I have loved, with all my
heart. And you, can you do naught for me,
my son ? Will you leave me for so small
a thing ? Think well thereon, my beloved
child, for if you marry your Minerva —
understand me thoroughly ! — I will never
see you again whilst I live, though it
should break my heart. I will never see
243

A you again, and you shall not close my

Gartand!1 dying eves' God wil1 remember this
against you.'

He ceased speaking, and during several
minutes nothing broke the silence.

At last —

' Antonio ! ' sighed the old man.

And his son replied —

' Father, I owe you my life. If you
wish the gift of life to be a bitter one, so
be it! I will forsake the woman I love.
But understand that in renouncing my
love for Daphne, I renounce all earthly
love. You will have no grand-children,
my father. I shall never marry ; I should
be afraid of making my children miser-
able.'

The old man melted into tears. But he
accepted the sacrifice of Antonio without
any difficulty ; for he said to himself —

' The boy is only sixteen ; he will suffer
for several days, perhaps for several
months. . . (Ah ! I remember ! . . but it

was for the best then, and it will be for the

244

best in his case also.) Next year I shall The Clove
find a pretty maid of fifteen for him to Carnation-
marry. . . There is that little Donna
Laura, the cousin of the Duchess. . . A
most charming child ! ' . . . And Signor
Christofano lost himself in benevolent
reveries. Antonio fell ill again, and kept
his room for several months.

Meanwhile Ser Christofano worked so
strongly on the mind of his old friend,
that Messer Giano gave his daughter in
marriage to a young man of good family
in the neighbourhood, for a great while
enamoured of her beauty. These things
were accomplished by means of a long
interview which the father of Antonio
demanded with Daphne. I much fear that
the crafty old man made her feel bitterly
her responsibility towards him, accusing her
of a sort of abuse of confidence, in having
troubled the heart of a child entrusted to
her care, and who, said he, even in the
lesson of love was but a docile pupil.

' It was only delirium coming from
245

A fever,' said Ser Christofano, ' and we must
Garland* snow that it was all a dream and a vision.'

At last the poor child thought to save
Antonio by marrying her boorish lover, for
she had been accustomed all her life to
sacrifice herself to others, without demand-
ing much happiness for herself.

This wise habit saved her from many
sorrows, and the first months of her mar-
riage passed, between her blind father and
her vulgar husband, in a kind of torpor,
composed of duty and habit. She greatly
practised the spiritual life, and her
scruples helped her to make such an effort
to conquer herself, that she ceased to feel
and almost to remember.

But one day, as she was praying in a
chapel in Ferrara, she heard a stifled sob
quite close to her. She looked round and
saw Antonio. And a passion of memory
possessed her whole being and shook her
out of her indifference. She forgot the
place where she was, and the chains which
bound her : her whole soul was merely an
246

echo of the beloved voice, her body only The Clove
lived through her hand which trembled Camation-
beneath the lips of Antonio. And she
knew that love clings fast and has an
immortal spring-tide.

But this forbidden love, which feared
not to assail her before the altar, where
she had pronounced her marriage vows —
this terrible love appalled her, for she
knew that she was so weak and love so
strong. She foresaw her fall, and in the
holiness of her soul she found energy for
a supreme effort. She looked at her
poor lover with tender reproach, and said
to him with the voice of a friend —

' I love you very much, dear Antonio.
The day will never come when I shall
forget you. But I love you, my friend, as
I did in the old days of your childhood.
To me you are still the sick child for whom
I gathered my red carnations.'

' Daphne ! ' cried Antonio in a heart-
rending voice.

She resumed —

247

A ' The rest was a dream. . . If you do

Garland* not yet ^ee^ ^or me mere saintly friendship,
leave this town, my brother, where so
many things recall to you a not-to-be-for-
gotten dream. . . Go, my friend, I entreat
you. If you have ever loved me, if you
love me still, go away Antonio, if only
for a year ! '

Antonio looked at her for a long time,
standing there beseeching him, with de-
spairing, sorrowful looks. But he felt he
had no right to dispute the entreaties of
his friend. He quitted Ferrara, and took
long journeys, trying in vain to cheat the
cruel memories which haunted him.
Months passed. One night, whilst at a
town in France, he dreamt that his friend
called to him in a distressed voice. Seized
by the thought that she might be in some
trouble, and needed his assistance, he set
off the following day for his own country.
The journey was long. Perhaps he was
over-fatigued, but it seemed to him that

the nearer he drew to it, the sadder the
248

landscape looked ; that the neighbouring The Clove
villages he had left so smiling, were half
deserted, and that the air diffused a thick,
unhealthy miasma. But he said to himself,
that all this might well be but the reflection
of his inward anxiety. Nevertheless, as
he approached Ferrara, he heard a vague
sound like funeral knells, as if all the
churches in the town were tolling death in
unison. There were no longer any guards
at the city gates. Within he found naught
save an immense tomb.

All along the streets vast ditches had
been dug, which exhaled pestilential
vapours. In these ditches there were
many dead, and perhaps many dying like-
wise ; for those who were touched by the
plague had been laid down on the banks,
and from time to time, one of them, weary
of his sufferings, and the slowness of his
agony, threw himself frenziedly into the
yawning sepulchre.

All this Antonio saw without resting his

eyes thereon. Every force of his heart
249

A impelled him towards the house of Daphne.
Garland. ^e Passed the palace of his father without
a glance : it was silent and deserted.

' Who knows ? ' said Antonio ; ' if God
have so ordained it, she likewise will have
gone to take refuge in the country.'

And indeed, when he reached the door of
her house, he saw a scene of indescribable
desolation. All was sad, void, and for-
lorn ; the doors gaping, the palace sacked ;
and he rejoiced at the thought of his friend
seated in some distant spot, where the
fresh breezes swayed the branches of the
willows on the purling stream. But, at
this moment, he saw the old nurse of the
Mazzi family, who was standing like him-
self before the house, and sighing —

' Hey, my dove ! Hey, my beloved !
must you then die alone, so young, so
lonely, so completely deserted! Holy
Mary ! help us ! ' moaned the old woman,
weeping, unable either to make up her
mind to desert her nursling or to brave

the fatal air of the contaminated house.

250

And lo ! Antonio heard a voice which The Clove
even in the midst of the desolation of the Carnatlon-
city made his heart beat with tumultuous
happiness. Nevertheless, this voice was
much changed, and the words followed
abruptly and faintly, like the drops of a
summer thunder-shower.

' And if I am going to die,' said she,
' that likewise is according to the will of
God. If the cup is bitter, our Lord Him-
self drank deeply of it. Ah no ! death is
sweet to me ! '

As she spoke, her fair head appeared
framed in the empty window space. The
wan smile on her poor thin face was more
touching than mere beauty — her splendid
hair made a shining aureole around her
forehead. Antonio looked at her ; she saw
him ; and in the eyes of both a mist arose.

At last she said —

' I well knew, my love, that you

would never abandon me. I heard the

sound of your faithful feet hurrying to

my grave. And, since I see you again,

251

A I, who was the most miserable of women,
Mediaeval . , ^

Garland. am tne happiest. Do not weep, my

beloved. Events befell thus, because not
you, but another became my husband.
For, behold ! it needs more than a vow
to link man and wife in a love that naught
can sever. There was no reason why my
husband should brave for my sake the
most horrible scourge God inflicts. Do
not blame him. For, alas ! I did not
love him ! '

Antonio was already within the house.
She leaned from above.

' Wait for me ! ' said she, ' wait for me
near the door where the air is still pure.
I do not want you to die, my love ! '

And, watching from below, he saw her
descend one by one the steps of the great
wide staircase, very calm, grave, and
happy now ; the sadness slowly leaving
her eyes, like a wave receding from the
shore. He stood there, with outstretched
arms and wide-opened eyes, the pestifer-
ous city seeming unto him like Paradise.
252

Lo ! there she was quite close to him, The Clove
three steps away ; when she stopped Carnatl
short, leaned suddenly to one side, and fell
into the open arms of her lover, her heavy
head on his shoulder. She did not move
again. She was stone dead.

He held her to his heart at last. Dead !

Much later on in the night, he sought
within the house the great sculptured
coffer which she had for her bridal rai-
ment. He clothed her in white linen, and
laid her in the coffer, covering her with
flowers and sweet spices. He kissed her
calm brow, and, staggering under the
weight, carried into the garden the dust
of the woman who had only been his in
death. And as he digged her grave, he
saw quite close to him, in an angle of the
wall, a carnation in flower.

' Alas ! ' said Antonio, ' to think that
she is dead, and that this common flower
blooms anew, surviving our love. How
dare it flower in such a place, at such an
hour ? How can flowers bloom, when
253

A Love dies for ever ? Ah ! that is
Garland. hardest part of my suffering! To think
that all we felt, with such an eternal force,
was only a little blood circulating within a
little clay ! Great God ! if I could believe
that her soul, which loved me, survives
her body, which Thou hast destroyed, I
should resign myself, my God, and praise
Thee ! Ah ! what a dreamer's hope ! I
might as well think that this carnation,
once gathered, would blossom eternally in
the shadows, whither she descends with
my love.'

And mournfully Antonio placed the
crimson flower on the breast where all was
still.

*****

For twenty years Daphne lay alone in
her garden at Ferrara. The footsteps of
the husband who had deserted her never
came back to trouble her slumber. Only
Antonio carefully tended the grave of the
dead. He died while he was still young,
worn out by a love which was too deep
254

and too single-hearted to be consoled. The Clove
With his last breath he besought that
he might be buried beside his beloved
Daphne.

When the tomb was opened, where the
coffer lay crumbled in decay, naught was
found therein, save a tress of fair hair, a
little dust, and a clove carnation fresh
and sweet.

THE END

255

RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON & BUNGAY.

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY

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M629

D18M4

1898

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