Bearn And The Pyrenees Part 21

"Let the Huguenots quit the country: they are possessed by the demon. If they stay amongst us G.o.d will send down punishment. Let them go instantly, or we burn them!--Who presses forward there?"

"Ha!" cried Pascal, "Marcel here! he is her enemy!"

"Liar!" cried Marcel; "I love her better than thou, boaster as thou art!

What wilt thou do for her--thou whose heart is so soft?"

"I come to a.s.sist her--to defend her."

"And I to be her husband, in spite of all, if she will be my wife."

"I come for the same purpose," cried Pascal, without shrinking from his rival's regard; then turning to Franconnette, he said, with firmness, "Franconnette, you are safe no longer; these wretches will pursue you from village to village; but here are two who love you--two who would brave death, destruction, for your sake--can you choose between us?"

"Oh, no, no! speak not of marriage. Pascal! my love is death--go!

forget me! be happy without me! I dare not be yours!"

"Happy without you! it is in vain: I love you too well; and if it be true that you are the prey of the evil one, 'twere better die with you than live away from you!"

Doubtless, the beloved voice has power above all things over the softened heart: at the last step of misery we can dare all with desperate courage. Before the a.s.sembled crowd she exclaimed: "Oh, yes, Pascal, I do love you--I would have died alone; but, since you will have it so, I resist no longer. If it is our fate--we will die together."

Pascal is in heaven--the crowd amazed--the soldier mute. Pascal approaches him. "I am," he said, "more fortunate than you; but you are brave, and will forgive me. To conduct me to my grave,[21] I require a friend--I have none--will you act the part of one?"

[Footnote 21: Pascal conceives that, in wedding Franconnette, he is devoted to death.]

Marcel is silent--he muses--a great struggle is in his heart--his eye flashes--his brow is bent strongly--he gazes on Franconnette, and the paleness of death creeps over him--he shakes off his faintness, and tries to smile. "Since it is her will," he cries, "I will be that friend."

Two weeks had pa.s.sed,--and a wedding train descended the green hill. In the front of the procession walked the handsome pair. A triple range of people, from all quarters, extended for more than a league: they were curious to know the fate of Pascal. Marcel is at the head of all; he directs all; there is a secret pleasure in his eye, which none can understand. One would say that to-day he triumphs; he insists on arranging the marriage, and it is he who gives to his rival the feast and the ball--his money flows liberally, his purse is open--all is profusion; but there is no rejoicing--no singing--no smiling.

The bridegroom is on the brink of the grave--his rival guides him thither, though he looks so gay--the day declines--all hearts sink with fear and pity--they would fain save Pascal, but it is too late: there they all stand motionless--but more as if at a burial than a wedding.

Fascinated by love, the pair have sacrificed all; though the gulf yawns for them, they have no ears, no eyes, but for each other; as they pa.s.s along, hand-in-hand, the happiness of loving has absorbed all other feeling.

It is night.

A female suddenly appears: she clings round the neck of Pascal.--"My son, leave her, leave your bride--I have seen the wise woman--the sieve has turned--your death is certain--sulphur fills the bridal chamber--Pascal, enter not in--you are lost if you remain; and I, who loved you thus, what will become of me when you are gone?"

Pascal's tears flowed, but he held still firmer his bride's hand within his own. The mother fell at his feet.

"Ungrateful son! I will never leave you! if you persist, you shall pa.s.s over my body before you enter the fatal house. A wife, then, is all-in-all--a mother nothing! Oh! miserable that I am!" Tears flowed from every eye.--"Marcel," said the bridegroom, "love masters me; should evil befal me, take charge of my mother."

"This is too much!" cried the soldier; "I cannot bear your mother's grief. Oh, Pascal! be blest--be content--be fearless--Franconnette is free! she is not sold to the evil one. It is a falsehood--a mere tale made for a purpose. But had not your mother overcome me by her tears, perhaps we should both have perished. You know--you can feel--how much I love her; like you, I would give my life for her. I thought she loved me, for she had my very soul--all! Yet she rejected me, though she knows we were betrothed. I saw there was no way--I devised a plan--I hired the sorcerer to raise a terror amongst all; he forged a fearful tale, chance did the rest. I thought her then securely my own; but when we both demanded her--when for you she braved everything--when she at once confessed how dear you were, it was beyond my power to bear. I resolved that we should both die; I would have conducted you to the bridal chamber--a train is laid there: all three were to have been victims; I would have bid you cease to fear the demon, but behold in me your foe!--but it is past, the crime I had meditated is arrested. Your mother has disarmed me; she reminds me of my own. Live, Pascal, for your mother! you have no more to fear for me. I have now no one; I will return to the wars; it were better for me that, instead of perishing with a great crime on my conscience, a bullet should end my life."

He spoke no more, and rushed from their presence: the air resounded with shouts, and the happy lovers fell into each other's arms: the stars at that moment shone out. Oh! I must cast down my pencil--I had colours for sorrow--I have none for such happiness as theirs!

Lines by Jasmin

ADDRESSED TO M. DUMON, DEPUTY, WHO HAD CONDEMNED OUR OLD LANGUAGE.

THERE'S not a deeper grief to man Than when his mother, faint with years, Decrepit, old, and weak, and wan, Beyond the leech's art appears; When by her couch her son may stay, And press her hand and watch her eyes, And feel, though she revive to-day, Perchance his hope to-morrow dies.

It is not thus, believe me, sir, With this enchantress--she we call Our second mother: Frenchmen err, Who, cent'ries since, proclaim'd her fall!

Our mother-tongue--all melody-- While music lives, can never die.

Yes!--she still lives, her words still ring; Her children yet her carols sing: And thousand years may roll away, Before her magic notes decay.

The people love their ancient songs, and will, While yet a people, love and keep them still: These lays are as their mother; they recal, Fond thoughts of mother, sister, friends, and all The many _little things_ that please the heart-- The dreams, the hopes, from which we cannot part: These songs are as sweet waters, where we find, Health in the sparkling wave that nerves the mind.

In ev'ry home, at ev'ry cottage door, By ev'ry fireside, when our toil is o'er, These songs are round us, near our cradles sigh, And to the grave attend us when we die.

Oh! think, cold critics! 'twill be late and long, Ere time shall sweep away this flood of song!

There are who bid this music sound no more, And you can hear them, nor defend--deplore!

You, who were born where its first daisies grew, Have fed upon its honey, sipp'd its dew, Slept in its arms and wakened to its kiss, Danced to its sounds, and warbled to its tone-- You can forsake it in an hour like this!

--Yes, weary of its age, renounce--disown-- And blame one minstrel who is true--alone!

For me, truth to my eyes made all things plain; At Paris, the great fount, I did not find The waters pure, and to my stream again I come, with saddened and with sobered mind; And since, no more enchanted, now I rate The little country far above the great.

For you--who seem her sorrows to deplore, You, seated high in power, the first among, Beware! nor make her cause of grief the more; Believe her mis'ry, nor condemn her tongue.

Methinks you injure where you seek to heal, If you deprive her of that only weal.

We love, alas! to sing in our distress; It seems the bitterness of woe is less; But if we may not in our language mourn, What will the polish'd give us in return?

Fine sentences, but all for us unmeet-- Words full of grace, even such as courtiers greet: A deck'd-out Miss, too delicate and nice To walk in fields, too tender and precise To sing the chorus of the poor, or come When Labour lays him down fatigued at home.

To cover rags with gilded robes were vain-- The rents of poverty would show too plain.

How would this dainty dame, with haughty brow, Shrink at a load, and shudder at a plough!

Sulky, and piqued, and silent would she stand As the tired peasant urged his team along: No word of kind encouragement at hand, For flocks no welcome, and for herds no song!

Yet we will learn, and you shall teach-- Our people shall have double speech: One to be homely, one polite, As you have robes for diff'rent wear, But this is all:--'tis just and right, And more our children will not bear.

Lest we a troop of buzzards own, Where nightingales once sang alone.

There may be some, who, vain and proud, May ape the manners of the crowd, Lisp French, and lame it at each word, And jest and gibe to all afford:-- But we, as in long ages past, Will still be poets to the last!

Hark! and list the bridal song, As they lead the bride along: "Hear, gentle bride! your mother's sighs,[22]

And you would hence away!-- Weep, weep, for tears become those eyes."

----"I cannot weep--to-day."

Hark! the farmer in the mead Bids the shepherd swain take heed: "Come, your lambs together fold, Haste, my sons! your toil is o'er: For the morning bow has told That the ox should work no more."

Hark! the cooper in the shade Sings to the sound his hammer made:

"Strike, comrades, strike! prepare the cask, 'Tis l.u.s.ty May that fills the flask: Strike, comrades! summer suns that shine Fill the cellars full of wine."

Verse is, with us, a charm divine, Our people, loving verse, will still, Unknowing of their art, entwine Garlands of poesy at will.

Their simple language suits them best: Then let them keep it and be blest.

But let wise critics build a wall Between the nurse's cherish'd voice, And the fond ear her words enthral, And say their idol is her choice: Yes!--let our fingers feel the rule, The angry chiding of the school; True to our nurse, in good or ill, We are not French, but Gascon still.

'Tis said that age new feeling brings, Our youth returns as we grow old; And that we love again the things, Which in our memory had grown cold.