Legends & Romances of Brittany Part 19

"With my crop of flax," howled the goodman, "I could have made a hundred napkins such as this. Norouas, give me back my flax!"

"Be silent, fellow," said Norouas. "This is no common napkin which I give you. You have only to say, 'Napkin, unfold thyself,' to have the best spread table in the world standing before you."

The goodman took the napkin with a grumble, descended the mountain, and there, only half believing what Norouas had said, placed the napkin before him, saying, "Napkin, unfold thyself." Immediately a table appeared spread with a princely repast. The odour of cunningly cooked dishes arose, and rare wines sparkled in glittering vessels.

After he had feasted the table vanished, and the goodman folded up his napkin and went back to the inn where he had slept the night before.

"Well, did you get any satisfaction out of Norouas?" asked the hostess.

"Indeed I did," replied the goodman, producing the napkin. "Behold this: Napkin, unfold thyself!" and as he spoke the magic table appeared before their eyes. The hostess, struck dumb with astonishment, at once became covetous and resolved to have the napkin for herself. So that night she placed the goodman in a handsome apartment where there was a beautiful bed with a soft feather mattress, on which he slept more soundly than ever he had done in his life. When he was fast asleep the cunning hostess entered the room and stole the napkin, leaving one of similar appearance in its place.

In the morning the goodman set his face homeward, and duly arrived at his little farm. His wife eagerly asked him if Norouas had made good the damage done to the flax, to which her husband replied affirmatively and drew the subst.i.tuted napkin from his pocket.

"Why," quoth the dame, "we could have made two hundred napkins like this out of the flax that was destroyed."

"Ah, but," said the goodman, "this napkin is not the same as others. I have only to say, 'Napkin, unfold thyself,' and a table covered with a most splendid feast appears. Napkin, unfold thyself--unfold thyself, dost thou hear?"

"You are an old fool, goodman," said his wife when nothing happened.

Her husband's jaw dropped and he seized his stick.

"I have been sold by that rascal Norouas," he cried. "Well, I shall not spare him this time," and without more ado he rushed out of the house and took the road to the home of the Winds.

He slept as before at the inn, and next morning climbed the mountain.

He began at once to call loudly upon Norouas, who was whistling up aloft, demanding that he should return him his crop of flax.

"Be quiet, down there!" cried Norouas.

"I shall not be quiet!" screamed the goodman, brandishing his bludgeon. "You have made matters worse by cheating me with that napkin of yours!"

"Well, well, then," replied Norouas, "here is an a.s.s; you have only to say 'a.s.s, make me some gold,' and it will fall from his tail."

The goodman, eager to test the value of the new gift, at once led the a.s.s to the foot of the mountain and said: "a.s.s, make me some gold."

The a.s.s shook his tail, and a _rouleau_ of gold pieces fell to the ground. The goodman hastened to the inn, where, as before, he displayed the phenomenon to the hostess, who that night went into the stable and exchanged for the magical animal another similar in appearance to it. On the evening of the following day the goodman returned home and acquainted his wife with his good luck, but when he charged the a.s.s to make gold and nothing happened, she railed at him once more for a fool, and in a towering pa.s.sion he again set out to slay Norouas. Arrived at the mountain for the third time, he called loudly on the North-west Wind, and when he came heaped insults and reproaches upon him.

"Softly," replied Norouas; "I am not to blame for your misfortune. You must know that it is the hostess at the inn where you slept who is the guilty party, for she stole your napkin and your a.s.s. Take this cudgel. When you say to it, 'Strike, cudgel,' it will at once attack your enemies, and when you want it to stop you have only to cry, '_Ora pro n.o.bis_.'"

The goodman, eager to test the efficacy of the cudgel, at once said to it, "Strike, cudgel," whereupon it commenced to belabour him so soundly that he yelled, "_Ora pro n.o.bis!_" when it ceased.

Returning to the inn in a very stormy mood, he loudly demanded the return of his napkin and his a.s.s, whereupon the hostess threatened to fetch the gendarmes.

"Strike, cudgel!" cried the goodman, and the stick immediately set about the hostess in such vigorous style that she cried to the goodman to call it off and she would at once return his a.s.s and his napkin.

When his property had been returned to him the goodman lost no time in making his way homeward, where he rejoiced his wife by the sight of the treasures he brought with him. He rapidly grew rich, and his neighbours, becoming suspicious at the sight of so much wealth, had him arrested and brought before a magistrate on a charge of wholesale murder and robbery. He was sentenced to death, and on the day of his execution he was about to mount the scaffold, when he begged as a last request that his old cudgel might be brought him. The boon was granted, and no sooner had the stick been given into his hands than he cried, "Strike, cudgel!"

And the cudgel _did_ strike. It belaboured judge, gendarmes, and spectators in such a manner that they fled howling from the scene. It demolished the scaffold and cracked the hangman's crown. A great cry for mercy arose. The goodman was instantly pardoned, and was never further molested in the enjoyment of the treasures the North-west Wind had given him as compensation for his crop of flax.

_The Foster-Brother_

The weird tale which follows has many parallels in world folk-lore, but is localized at Treguier, an old cathedral town in the Cotes-du-Nord at the junction of the Jaudy and the Guindy, famous for the beautiful windows of its celebrated church, founded by St Tugdual.

Gwennolak was the most n.o.ble and beautiful maiden in Treguier, but, alas! she was almost friendless, for at an early age she had lost her father, her mother, and her two sisters, and her sole remaining relative was her stepmother. Pitiful it was to see her standing at the door of her manor, weeping as if her heart would break. But although she had none of her own blood to cherish she still nursed the hope that her foster-brother, who had journeyed abroad for some years, might one day return, and often would she stand gazing fixedly over the sea as if in search of the vessel that would bring him home. They had been playmates, and although six years had pa.s.sed since he had left the country, the time had gone quickly, and when Gwennolak thought of the young man it was as the boy who had shared the games and little amus.e.m.e.nts of her childhood. From these day-dreams she would be rudely awakened by the harsh voice of her stepmother calling to her: "Come here, my girl, and attend to the animals. I don't feed you for loafing and doing nothing."

Poor Gwennolak had a sad life with her stepmother. n.o.ble as she was she was yet forced by the vindictive old woman to rise in the early hours of the morning, even two or three hours before daylight in winter, to light the fire and sweep the house and perform other menial work. One evening as she was breaking the ice in the well in order to draw water for the household she was interrupted by a cavalier returning to Nantes.

"Good e'en to you, maiden. Are you affianced to anyone?"

The girl did not reply, but hung her head.

"Come, don't be afraid," said the handsome horseman, "but answer my question."

She looked at him almost fearfully. "Saving your grace, I have never been affianced to anyone."

"Good," replied the cavalier. "Take this gold ring and say to your stepmother that you are now affianced to a cavalier of Nantes who has been in a great battle and who has lost his squire in the combat; and you may also add that he has been wounded in the side by a sword-stroke. In three weeks and three days, when my wound is healed, I will return and will take you to my manor with joy and festival."

The maiden returned to the house and looked at the ring. It was the same as her foster-brother used to wear on his left hand!

Three weeks ran by, but the cavalier did not return. Then the stepmother said one morning: "It is time, daughter, that you should marry, and I may tell you that I have found you a husband after my own heart."

"Saving your grace, good stepmother, I do not wish to marry anyone except my foster-brother, who has returned. He has given me a golden wedding-ring, and has promised to come for me within a few days."

"A fig for your gold ring," cried the malignant hag. "_Bon gre, mal gre_, you shall marry Job the Witless, the stable boy."

"Marry Job! Oh, horror! I should die of grief! Alas, my mother, were you but here now to protect me!"

"If you must howl, pray do so in the courtyard. You may make as many grimaces as you please, but in three days you shall be married for all that."

The old gravedigger slowly patrolled the road, his bell in his hand, carrying the news of those who had died from village to village. In his doleful whine he cried: "Pray for the soul of a n.o.ble cavalier, a worthy gentleman of a good heart, who was mortally wounded in the side by the stroke of a sword in the battle near Nantes. He is to be buried to-day in the White Church."

At the marriage feast the bride was all in tears. All the guests, young and old, wept with her, all except her stepmother. She was conducted to the place of honour at supper-time, but she only drank a sip of water and ate a morsel of bread. By and by the dancing commenced, but when it was proposed that the bride should join in the revels she was not to be found; she had, indeed, escaped from the house, her hair flying in disorder, and where she had gone no one knew.

All the lights were out at the manor, every one slept profoundly. The poor young woman alone lay concealed in the garden in the throes of a fever. She heard a footstep close by. "Who is there?" she asked fearfully.

"It is I, Nola, your foster-brother."

"Ah, is it you? You are truly welcome, my dear brother," cried Gwennolak, rising in rapture.

"Come with me," he whispered, and swinging her on to the crupper of his white horse he plunged madly into the night.

"We fly fast," she cried. "We must have ridden a hundred leagues, I think. Ah, but I am happy with thee! I will never leave thee more."

The owl hooted and night noises came to her ears.

"Ah, but thy horse is swift," said she, "and thine armour, how brilliant it is! How happy I am to have found thee, my foster-brother!

But are we near thy manor?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: GWENNOLAK AND NOLA]