Bearn And The Pyrenees Part 19

Oh! how the young girls and youths proclaimed in every quarter the news of the old crier! his news was of that kind which, rapid as a bird, lends wings to speech. Scarcely, therefore, was the air warmed by the sun's rays, than his intelligence was spread from hearth to hearth, from table to table, from cottage to cottage.

Friday came; and, in the dusk of the evening, seated beside a cold forge, a mother was complaining: and thus she spoke to her son:--

"Have you, then, forgotten the day when, before our shop, I saw you arrive, with the sound of music, faint, wounded, and bleeding? I have suffered much since, for the wound was envenomed; we feared you must lose your arm. Let me entreat, go not out to-night--for I dreamt of flowers--what do they always announce, Pascal?--but sorrows and tears."

"Dear mother, you are too timid; all seems gloomy in your eyes; you know Marcel comes no more amongst us; there is now no reason for your fears."

"Take heed of yourself, nevertheless. The sorcerer of the Black Wood has been wandering in this neighbourhood,--you recollect the great mischief he did last year. Well, it is said that a soldier was seen to leave his cave yesterday, at day-break. Should it be Marcel! Beware, my child.

Every mother gives relics to her child--take you mine, and oh, my son, go not forth."

"I only ask one little hour, to see my friend, Thomas."

"Your friend!--ah, tell the truth, and say to see Franconnette; for you, too, love her, like all the rest. You think I see it not--away!--I have long read it in your eyes. You fear to distress me, you sing, you seem gay; but you weep in secret, you suffer, you are wretched, and I am unhappy for your sake. I pine away. Hold, Pascal! something tells me a great misfortune awaits you. She has such power over those who love her, one would say she was a witch; but with her magic what does she seek?

Can it be fortune?--it has been offered her twenty times, and she refuses all; however, they say she now pretends to be attached to rich Laurent de Brax, and they are soon to be betrothed. Oh, what confusion she will make this evening, vain creature! Think no more of her, Pascal; leave her, it is for your good;--hear me! she would hold a poor blacksmith in contempt, whose father is old, infirm, and poor,--for we are poor, indeed; alas! you know it well. We have parted with all; we have only a scythe left. It has been a dark time with us since you fell sick; now that you are well, go, dearest, and work. What do I say? we can suffer still; rest yourself, if you please, but, for the love of G.o.d, go not forth this evening."

And the poor mother in despair wept, as she implored her son, who, leaning against the forge, stifled a sigh which rose from his oppressed heart, and said, "You are right, mother: I had forgotten all,--we are poor, indeed. I will go and work."

Two minutes after, the anvil was ringing; but whoever had seen how often the young blacksmith struck the iron falsely, would have easily seen that he thought of something besides the hammer he held in his hand.

Meantime few had failed at the Buscou, and every one came from all parts to divide their skein at the Fete of Lovers.

In a large chamber, where already a hundred windles were turning, loaded with flax, girls and youths, with nimble fingers, were winding thread as fine as hair.

It was soon all finished; and white wine and _rimottes_ were placed, boiling, in gla.s.ses and basins, from which rose a burning smoke which set the love-powder in a flame. If the prettiest there had been the most rapid, I should have pointed out Franconnette; but the Queen of the Games is the last at work, and this is the time when her reign begins.

Only listen; how she amuses every one,--how she governs and regulates all; one would say she had spirit enough for three. She dances, she speaks, she sings; she is all-in-all. When she sings, you would say she had the soul of the dove; when she talks, the wit of an angel: when she dances, you would imagine she had, the wings of the swallow: and this evening she sang, and danced, and talked--oh! it was enough to turn the wisest head!

Her triumph is complete; all eyes are upon her. The poor young men can resist no more; and her bright eyes, which enchant them, shine and sparkle as they see how the spell works. Then Thomas rose, and, looking at the lovely coquette with tender glances, sang, in a flute-toned voice, this new song:

"Oh tell us, charming maid, With heart of ice unmoved, When shall we hear the sound Of bells that ring around, To say that you have loved?

Always so free and gay, Those wings of dazzling ray, Are spread to ev'ry air,-- And all your favour share; Attracted by their light, All follow in your flight.

But, ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again?

"You've seen how full of joy We've marked the sun arise; Even so each Sunday morn, When you, before our eyes, Bring us such sweet surprise, With us new life is born: We love your angel face, Your step so debonaire, Your mien of maiden grace, Your voice, your lip, your hair: Your eyes of gentle fire, All these we all admire!

But, ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again.

"Alas! our groves are dull, When widowed of thy sight, And neither hedge nor field Their perfume seem to yield; The blue sky is not bright: When you return once more, All that was sad is gone, All nature you restore; We breathe in you alone.

We could your rosy lingers cover With kisses of delight all over!

But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again!

"The dove you lost of late, Might warn you, by her flight; She sought in woods her mate, And has forgot you quite; She has become more fair, Since love has been her care.

'Tis love makes all things gay, Oh follow where he leads-- When beauteous looks decay, What dreary life succeeds!

And ah! believe me, perfect bliss, A joy, where peace and triumph reign, Is when a maiden loved like this, Has learnt 'tis sweet to love again."

The song is ended; and the crowd, delighted at its meaning, are full of applause, and clap their hands in praise.

"Heavens! what a song!--how appropriate! who composed so sweet a lay?"

"It was Pascal," replied Thomas.

"Bravo, Pascal,--long live Pascal!" was the general cry.

Franconnette is silent; but she feels and enjoys it all,--she is proud, and exults: she has the love of all--of all now. It is told her, a song has been made for her; and she hears it sung before every one--yes, every one knows she is the person meant. She thinks on Pascal, too, and becomes grave.

"He has no equal," she mused. "How brave he is! every one holds him in esteem; all are on his side. How well he can paint love! doubtless they all love him. And what a song! what tender meaning!" Not a word has escaped her. "But, if he loves, why does he thus conceal himself?" She turned to his friend, and exclaimed:

"It seems long since we saw him. I would fain tell him how beautiful we think his song. Where is he?"

"Oh! he is obliged to stay at home," said Laurent, jealous and piqued.

"Pascal has no more time, methinks, for song making. Poor man! his ruin is not far off; his father is infirm, and cannot leave his bed; he is in debt everywhere; the baker refuses to trust him."

Franconnette became very pale. "He--so amiable--so good! alas! he is much to be pitied. Is he, then, indeed so wretched?"

"Too true," said Laurent, affecting a compa.s.sionate air. "It is said he lives on alms."

"You have lied," cried Thomas: "may your tongue be blistered! Pascal is unfortunate; and all has not gone well with him since he met that hurt in the arm, for Franconnette; but he is well again; and, if no envious person injures him, he will recover himself soon; for he has industry and courage." Whoever had looked narrowly would have seen a tear in the eye of Franconnette.

The games begin: they sit in a circle; they play at _cache-couteau_.

Franconnette is challenged by Laurent: he claims the kiss which she has forfeited. She flies like a bird from the fowler; he pursues; but, when he has nearly reached her, he falls, and has broken his arm.

A sudden gloom succeeds to gaiety; terror takes possession of all. When suddenly a door opens, and an aged man, whose beard hangs to his girdle, appears. He comes like a spectre: they start away in alarm; the Sorcerer of the Black Wood stands before them.

"Unthinking beings!" he exclaims, "I have descended from my rock to warn you. You all fix your thoughts upon this girl, Franconnette, who is accursed; for her father, while she was yet in her cradle, became a Huguenot, and sold her to the devil. Her mother died of grief; and the demon, who watches over that which is his, follows her everywhere in secret. He has punished Pascal and Laurent, who have sought her. Be warned; ill-fortune attends whoever would espouse her. The demon has alone a claim to her possession; and her husband would fall a victim."

The sorcerer ended: sparks of fire surrounded him, and showed his wrinkled face more clearly: he turned four times round in a circle, and disappeared.

Every hearer seemed changed to stone. Franconnette alone showed signs of life: she did not give way at once to the misfortunes which threatened her: she hoped the scene would pa.s.s as a jest: she laughed cheerfully--advanced towards her friends; but all drew back with a shudder; all cried out, "Begone!" Then she felt she was abandoned; a cold tremor came over her, and she fell senseless to the ground.

Thus ended a fete which had begun so gaily. The next day--the first of the year--the rumours of this event spread from house to house and from meadow to meadow.

Oh! the terror of the evil one, which at the present day scarcely exists, at that time was fearful, particularly in the country.

A thousand things were remembered, before never dreamt of: some had heard in her cottage the noise of chains: her father had disappeared mysteriously: her mother was said to have died mad: nothing ever failed with her; her harvest always ripened first; and when hail destroyed other fields, her's were full of grapes and corn.

None hesitated to believe what was said; daughters, mothers, grandmothers exaggerated the first reports; children trembled at her name; and, at length, when the poor girl, with depressed brow, came forth to seek necessaries for her aged relative, no one spoke to her: all shrunk from her; or, pointing with their fingers, cried out--"Fly!

behold one sold to the demon!"

PART III.

Beside the town of Estanquet, on the banks of a sparkling stream, whose waters run bubbling all the year long over the pebbles, a beautiful girl was gathering flowers, last year, amongst the turf: she sang so sweetly and so joyously, that the birds were jealous of her voice and of her song.

Why does she sing no more? Hedges and meads are green again; the nightingales come even into her garden to invite her to join their lays.

Where is she? Perhaps she is departed. But no; her straw hat lies on the accustomed bench, but is no longer adorned with a bright ribbon: her little garden is neglected: her hoe and rake lie on the ground amongst the jonquils: the rose branches stray wildly; there are thistles at their feet, and the little paths, which used to be so neat, are filled with nettles.

Something must have happened. Where is the lively maiden? Do you not see her cottage shining white through the thick hazel branches? Let us approach: the door is open; softly--let us enter. Ah! there, in her arm-chair, sits the grandmother, asleep; and I see behind the window the fair girl of Estanquet; but she is in grief--what can ail her? Tears are falling on her little hand: some dark cloud has pa.s.sed over her heart.

Oh yes! dark indeed! for yonder sits Franconnette: there she sits, bowed down with the blow which has overwhelmed her: she weeps in her chamber, and her heart knows no relief. Young girls often weep, and forget their sorrow quickly; but she----her grief is too deep, and it is one which tears cannot soften. The daughter of a Huguenot! one banished from the Church--sold to the demon! ah! it is too horrible!