Jasmin: Barber, Poet, Philanthropist Part 26

Such loveliness, in every race, May sudden start to light.

She fired the youths with ready love, Each maiden with despair.

Poor youths, indeed! Oh! how they wished To fall beneath her feet!

They all admired her, and adored, Just as the priest adores the cross-- 'Twas as if there shone a star of light The young girl's brow across!

Yet, something vexing in her soul began to hover; The finest flower had failed her in this day of honour.

Pascal, whom all the world esteemed, Pascal, the handsomest, whose voice with music beamed, He shunned the maid, cast ne'er a loving glance; Despised! She felt hate growing in her heart, And in her pretty vengeance She seized the moment for a brilliant dart Of her bright eyes to chain him.

What would you have? A girl so greatly envied, She might become a flirt conceited; Already had she seemed all this, Self-glorious she was, I fear, Coquetting rarely comes amiss, Though she might never love, with many lovers near!

Grandmother often said to her, "Child, child!" with gentle frown, "A meadow's not a parlour, and the country's not a town, And thou knowest well that we have promised thee lang syne To the soldier-lad, Marcel, who is lover true of thine.

So curb thy flights, thou giddy one, The maid who covets all, in the end mayhap hath none."

"Nay, nay," replied the tricksy fay, With swift caress, and laughter gay, "There is another saw well-known, Time enough, my grannie dear, to love some later day!

'She who hath only me, hath 'none.'"

Now, such a flighty course, you may divine, Made hosts of melancholy swains, Who sighed and suffered jealous pains, Yet never sang reproachful strains, Like learned lovers when they pine, Who, as they go to die, their woes write carefully On willow or on poplar tree.

Good lack! thou could'st not shape a letter, And the silly souls, though love-sick, to death did not incline, Thinking to live and suffer on were better!

But tools were handled clumsily, And vine-sprays blew abroad at will, And trees were pruned exceeding ill, And many a furrow drawn awry.

Methinks you know her now, this fair and foolish girl; Watch while she treads one measure, then see her dip and twirl!

Young Etienne holds her hand by chance, 'Tis the first rigadoon they dance; With parted lips, right thirstily Each rustic tracks them as they fly, And the damsel sly Feels every eye, And lighter moves for each adoring glance.

Holy cross! what a sight! when the madcap rears aright Her shining lizard's head! her Spanish foot falls light, Her wasp-like figure sways And swims and whirls and springs again.

The wind with corner of her 'kerchief plays.

Those lovely cheeks where on the youths now gaze, They hunger to salute with kisses twain!

And someone shall; for here the custom is, Who tires his partner out, salutes her with a kiss; The girls grow weary everywhere, Wherefore already Jean and Paul, Louis, Guillaume, and strong Pierre, Have breathless yielded up their place Without the coveted embrace.

Another takes his place, Marcel the wight, The soldier of Montluc, prodigious in his height, Arrayed in uniform, bearing his sword, A c.o.c.kade in his cap, the emblem of his lord, Straight as an I, though bold yet not well-bred, His heart was soft, but thickish was his head.

He bl.u.s.tered much and boasted more and more, Frolicked and vapoured as he took the floor Indeed he was a very horrid bore.

Marcel, most mad for Franconnette, tortured the other girls, Made her most jealous, yet she had no chance, The swelled-out c.o.xcomb called on her to dance.

But Franconnette was loth, and she must let him see it; He felt most madly jealous, yet was maladroit, He boasted that he was beloved; perhaps he did believe it quite--

The other day, in such a place, She shrank from his embrace!

The crowd now watched the dancing pair, And marked the tricksy witching fair; They rush, they whirl! But what's amiss?

The bouncing soldier lad, I wis, Can never s.n.a.t.c.h disputed kiss!

The dancing maid at first smiles at her self-styled lover, "Makes eyes" at him, but ne'er a word does utter; She only leaped the faster!

Marcel, piqued to the quick, longed to subdue this creature, He wished to show before the crowd what love he bore her; One open kiss were sweeter far Than twenty in a corner!

But, no! his legs began to fail, his head was in a trance, He reeled, he almost fell, he could no longer dance; Now he would give c.o.c.kade, sabre, and silver lace, Would it were gold indeed, for her embrace!

Yet while the pair were still afoot, the girl looked very gay-- Resolved never to give way!

While headstrong Marcel, breathless, spent, and hot in face, He reeled and all but fell; then to the next gave place!

Forth darted Pascal in the soldier's stead, They make two steps, then change, and Franconnette, Weary at last, with laughing grace, Her foot stayed and upraised her face!

Tarried Pascal that kiss to set?

Not he, be sure! and all the crowd His vict'ry hailed with plaudits loud.

The clapping of their palms like battle-dores resounded, While Pascal stood among them quite confounded!

Oh, what a picture for the soldier who so loved his queen!

Him the kiss maddened! Measuring Pascal with his een, He thundered, "Peasant, you have filled my place most sly; Not so fast, churl!"--and brutally let fly With aim unerring one fierce blow, Straight in the other's eyes, doubling the insult so.

Good G.o.d!{2} how stings the madd'ning pain, His dearest happiness that blow must stain, Kissing and boxing--glory, shame!

Light, darkness! Fire, ice! Life, death! Heaven, h.e.l.l!

All this was to our Pascal's soul the knell Of hope! But to be thus tormented By flagrant insult, as the soldier meant it; Now without fear he must resent it!

It does not need to be a soldier nor a "Monsieur,"

An outrage placidly to bear.

Now fiery Pascal let fly at his foe, Before he could turn round, a stunning blow; 'Twas like a thunder peal, And made the soldier reel; Trying to draw his sabre, But Pascal, seeming bigger, Gripped Marcel by the waist, and st.u.r.dily Lifted him up, and threw his surly Foe on the ground, breathless, and stunned severely.

"Now then!" while Pascal looked on the hound thrown by him, "The peasant grants thee chance of living!"

"Despatch him!" cried the surging crowd.

"Thou art all cover'd o'er with blood!"

But Pascal, in his angry fit of pa.s.sion, Had hurt his wrist and fist in a most serious fashion.

"No matter! All the same I pardon him!

You must have pity on the beaten hound!"

"No, finish him! Into morsels cut him!"

The surging, violent crowd now cried around.

"Back, peasants, back! Do him no harm!"

Sudden exclaimed a Monsieur, speaking with alarm; The peasants moved aside, and then gave place To Montluc, glittering with golden lace; It was the Baron of Roquefort!

The frightened girls, like hunted hares, At once dispers'd, flew here and there.

The shepherds, but a moment after, With thrilling fife and beaming laughter, The brave and good Pascal attended on his way, Unto his humble home, as 'twere his nuptial day.

But Marcel, furious, mad with rage, exclaimed, "Oh! could I stab and kill them! But I'm maimed!"

Only a gesture of his lord Restrained him, hand upon his sword.

Then did he grind his teeth, as he lay battered, And in a low and broken voice he muttered: "They love each other, and despise my kindness, She favours him, and she admires his fondness; Ah, well! by Marcel's patron, I'll not tarry To make them smart, and Franconnette No other husband than myself shall marry!"

SECOND PART.

The Enamoured Blacksmith--His Fretful Mother--The Busking Soiree--Pascal's Song--The Sorcerer of the Black Forest-- The Girl Sold to the Demon.

Since Roquefort fete, one, two, three months have fled; The dancing frolic, with the harvest ended; The out-door sports are banished-- For winter comes; the air is sad and cold, it sighs Under the vaulted skies.

At fall of night, none risks to walk across the fields, For each one, sad and cheerless, beelds Before the great fires blazing, Or talks of wolfish fiends{3} amazing; And sorcerers--to make one shudder with affright-- That walk around the cots so wight, Or 'neath the gloomy elms, and by farmyards at night.

But now at last has Christmas come, And little Jack, who beats the drum, Cries round the hamlet, with his beaming face: "Come brisken up, you maidens fair, A merry busking{4} shall take place On Friday, first night of the year!"

Ah! now the happy youths and maidens fair Proclaimed the drummer's words, so bright and rare.

The news were carried far and near Light as a bird most fleet With wings to carry thoughts so sweet.

The sun, with beaming rays, had scarcely shone Ere everywhere the joyous news had flown; At every fireside they were known, By every hearth, in converse keen, The busking was the theme.

But when the Friday came, a frozen dew was raining, And by a fireless forge a mother sat complaining; And to her son, who sat thereby, She spoke at last entreatingly: "Hast thou forgot the summer day, my boy, when thou didst come All bleeding from the furious fray, to the sound of music home?

How I have suffered for your sorrow, And all that you have had to go through.

Long have I troubled for your arm! For mercy's sake Oh! go not forth to-night! I dreamt of flowers again, And what means that, Pascal, but so much tears and pain!"

"Now art thou craven, mother! and see'st that life's all black, But wherefore tremble, since Marcel has gone, and comes not back!"

"Oh yet, my son, do you take heed, I pray!

For the wizard of the Black Wood is roaming round this way; The same who wrought such havoc, 'twas but a year agone, They tell me one was seen to come from 's cave at dawn But two days past--it was a soldier; now What if this were Marcel? Oh, my child, do take care!

Each mother gives her charms unto her sons; do thou Take mine; but I beseech, go not forth anywhere!"

"Just for one little hour, mine eyes to set On my friend Thomas, whom I'm bound to meet!"

"Thy friend, indeed! Nay, nay! Thou meanest Franconnette, Whom thou loves dearly! I wish thou'd love some other maid!