The Poniard's Hilt; Or, Karadeucq and Ronan. A Tale of Bagauders and Vagres. Эжен Сю
and your brother Ursio – you have expiated those crimes by endowing the Church – you have received absolution. Nevertheless, coming to think of it, there is one thing that both of us have overlooked – and it is of capital importance – "
"What is it, father?"
"Your fourth wife, Wisigarde, died a violent death at your hands. She did not receive priestly assistance at her death – her soul is in pain. She might come to torment you during the night in the shape of some frightful phantom until you will have drawn her poor soul from purgatory – "
"How can I do that?"
"Through the holy mass and through the prayers of a priest of the Lord."
"Well, father, I wish you to make those prayers for the soul of the departed."
"I shall grant your request. For twenty years prayers shall be recited at the altar for the repose of the soul of Wisigarde, but only under condition that you pass over to me the corner of your woods that is separated from your domains by the stream – "
"Give again to your Church! Ever give! Ever!"
"Would you prefer to be tormented by nocturnal phantoms?"
The Frank looked at the bishop with an angry and defiant eye:
"Rapacious Gaul! You are seeking to pluck piece by piece from me the share of the conquests that our kings have presented to my family as our hereditary possessions. Endow the Church still more! I will sooner endow the devil! Yes, by all the horns of Lucifer!"
"Do! Endow him! Here he is!" came from a rude loud voice that seemed to issue from the center of the earth.
At the sound of the voice the hermit started from his seat; the bishop threw himself back and quickly crossed himself, but a reassuring thought flashed through his mind, and he said to himself aloud in Latin:
"It must be my good assistant who remained below – the trick is good!"
The count, however, struck with terror and believing himself pursued by the archfiend in person, screamed aloud and fled from the banquet hall distracted. So precipitate was his flight and headlong his bewilderment that he nearly upset the leude who, back at that moment from his errand to the count's burg, entered the hall pushing before him the young blonde slave whom he was sent in quest of:
"Here is the slave girl, Odille," said the leude.
The bishop started to run towards the poor lass, but at the very moment when he dashed forward to seize her, a vigorous hand that rose from the opening of the now again removed mosaic slab held the prelate back by the fold of his robe, and a voice shouted:
"A profligate you shall no longer be, holy man of God! That pretty lass is not for you!"
When the startled bishop looked around, he saw with terror Ronan issuing from the underground recess at the head of his companions, all of whom were yelling at the top of their voices. In order to carry on the humor of the trick that the bishop played upon the count, the Vagres had all blackened their faces with the charred remains of the fagots that shortly before furnished the "flames of hell."
At the sight of those black men rising from under the ground, and yelling as if possessed, the leude who brought in the young slave also believed that they issued from hell, and rushed out close upon Neroweg's heels, crying:
"The demons! The demons!"
More and more frightened by these cries, the count ran to the stable, leaped upon his horse, and dashed full tilt away from the episcopal villa. His leudes followed his example; they, in turn, took to their mounts, and leaving their arms behind in the banquet hall, fled tumultuously, repeating in terror:
"The demons! The demons!"
CHAPTER V
VAGRES IN JUDGMENT
The episcopal villa has been invaded by the Vagres. They carried the place, and they did so without striking a blow.
Who is he who is celebrating night mass in the bishop's chapel? The wax candles are lighted on the altar with all the gorgeousness of an Easter Sunday. Their brilliant light illumines the near vault, while the rest of the chapel is thrown into the shade, down to the Gothic main entrance, that now and then a ruddy gleam flickers through like the reflection of an extinguishing bonfire. What bonfire was that? It was the bonfire of the episcopal villa in flames.
Was, then, the villa set on fire by the Vagres? Certes; for what other reason should they have brought along torches and straw?
In the center of the yard the riches of the bishop lie in a high heap – gold and silver vases, holy chalices, together with drinking goblets, Bible cases of precious wood, together with platters of the banquet table, patines, together with bowls used for cooling the bishop's wine; good sized and ripped-up bags, from which silver and gold sous roll out; costly cloth, purple and blue, that but awaited the tailor's scissors; warm and rare furs, some black as crows, others white as doves. In the way of trophies, the axes, bucklers and pikes of the leudes, who ran away out of fear for the devil, are stacked up at the four corners of the superb heap of booty. Gold, silver, steel, the brilliant colors of the cloths – they all scintillate and sparkle, each with its own lustre, and all with the resplendence that is so pleasing to the eye of the Vagre.
The Vagres are there! They are in the holy chapel of the episcopal villa, where they do that which all Vagres do after they have drunk their fill, ravaged and pillaged. Some are snoring at the foot of the altar exhausted by their labors or overcome by the fumes of wine; others balance themselves on their unsteady limbs and cast loving glances at the wealth which they are about to scatter on their route and that will make so many poor people happy. The Vagres of Ronan are ever faithful to the sacred commandments of the Vagrery:
"Let us take from the rich and give to the poor. The Vagre who preserves a sou for the morrow ceases to be a Vagre, a 'Wolf's-head,' a 'wand'ring man.' He ever divides the booty of the previous evening among the poor, so that he be compelled to pillage fresh renegade bishops, and Frankish oppressors of old Gaul. Nor peace nor truce to the oppressors!"
And as to those other Vagres, who lean against the shafts of the pillars, or are seated on the step of the altar near the snorers – their eyes are as steady as their limbs; have they perchance, not also tasted the old wines of the episcopal villa?
Oh! They did drink, twice, ten times more than the others; but they are veterans at the trade, old Vagres, sturdy customers who drain a pouch at one gulp, and immediately after are able to walk with steady step over a beam across the conflagration that they have lighted in the burg of a Frank, or the villa of a bishop.
And these others – men with shaven heads, wan, clad in rags; these women and these girls, some of whom are pretty – who are they?
They are the slaves of the Church; they look happy at the sight of their day of justice and vengeance. But other slaves there are, not a few in number, who fled terrified into the woods. They imagined they saw the fires of heaven roll down upon the Vagres, who could be sacrilegious enough to put to the sack and fire the house of the vice-regent of God on earth, their holy bishop.
And what is Ronan doing? There he sits in full gala on the episcopal bench, decked in sacerdotal garb, and coiffed in the fur cap which count Neroweg left behind when he fled demented out of the banquet hall. Four Vagres assist Ronan. They are odd-looking clerks! Jolly deacons! Among them is Wolf's-Tooth, the giant whose waist a barrel's hoop would hardly encircle.
"Brother, are we all together?"
"Ronan, only the Master of the Hounds is missing. When the conflagration was at its height, he was seen by one of our men running towards the door of the bishopess; he leaped through the flames and re-issued at the garden door running with a fainting woman in his arms."
"He is doubtlessly engaged in making her regain consciousness. Well, while the bishopess is being revived, shall we try the bishop?"
"The holy man has tried people, whom he said were under his jurisdiction, as bishop of the city of Clermont. He is now under our jurisdiction. Let us try him!"
Louder than the Vagres themselves, the slaves of the prelate set up the cry:
"Let