CHAPTER I.
THE SIGNAL.
About fifty years have elapsed since King Clotaire had his son Chramburned alive together with the latter's wife and daughters. Let usforget the spectacle of desolation that conquered Gaul continues topresent under the descendants of Clovis for the last fifty years, andrest our eyes upon the Valley of Charolles.
Oh, the fathers of the happy inhabitants who people that corner of theland did not bend their necks under the yoke of either Frankishseigneurs or Gallic bishops. No, no--they proved the old Gallic bloodstill flowed in their veins. The consequence is noticed in the pictureof dignified felicity that the valley offers. Behold on the slope of thehill the cosy homes half shaded by vines, that carpet the walls and theripe maturity and luxuriant quality of which are attested by theirleaves and grapes that the autumn sun has reddened and gilt. Each of thehouses is surrounded by a garden of flowers with a clump of shade-givingtrees. Never did the eye of man dwell upon a more smiling village. Avillage? No; it rather resembles a large borough. From at least six toseven hundred houses are scattered on the slope of that hill, withoutcounting the vast thatched structures that are situated below on themeadow, which is watered by a river that rises to the north of thevalley, crosses it and forms its boundary far away where the horizondips. Yonder the river parts in two arms; one flows eastward, the otherwestward, after bathing in its course the feet of a forest of giganticchestnut trees from between the tops of which the roof of a tall stonebuilding is perceived, surmounted by a cross of iron.
No, never yet was promised land better calculated to reward industrywith abundance. Half way up the slope of the hill, the purple coloredvines; above the vineyards, the agricultural fields, on which thestubble of rye and wheat left from the last harvest is here and thereseen burning. The fertile acreage stretches up to the skirts of theforests that crown the surrounding eminences, within which the spaciousvalley is locked. Below the vineyards are meadowlands watered by theriver. Numerous flocks of sheep and herds of horses browse and grazeupon the succulent pasture. The bells of the bulls and wethers are heardtinkling their rural melody. Here and yonder carts drawn by oxen slowlyroll over the ground where the stubble was burned the day before, orfour-wheeled wagons slowly descend the slopes of the vineyards and wendtheir way towards the common wine-presses, which, together with thestables, the sheep-folds and the pig-sties, all alike common, arelocated in the neighborhood of the river. Several workshops also liecontiguous to the river; the wash and spinning houses, where the flax isprepared and the wool washed preparatorily to being transformed intowarm clothing; there also are situated the tanneries, the forges, themills equipped with enormous grind-stones. Peace, security, contentmentand work are seen everywhere reflected in the valley. The sound of thebeetles of the washerwomen and the curriers, the clang of theblacksmiths' hammers, the joyful cries of the men and women engaged atthe vintage, the rythmic chant of the husbandmen keeping time to theeven and slow gait of the draft-oxen, the rustic flute of theshepherds,--all these sounds, including the hum of the swarming bees,another set of indefatigable toilers, who are busily gathering the honeyfrom the last autumnal flowers,--all these different sounds, from thefurthest and vaguest to the nearest and loudest, mingle into oneharmony that is at once sweet and imposing; it is the voice of labor andhappiness rising heavenward as a continuous thanksgiving.
What is it that is going on in yonder house, which, although constructedlike all the others, nevertheless, being nearest to the crest of thehill, seems to be the culminating point of the settlement, and commandsa full view of the valley? Dressed in festive garb, the dwellers of thathouse are seen going in and out. They are seen heaping dry vine twigs ina sort of pyre at a goodly distance from the door. Young girls andchildren are seen and heard merrily bringing in their arms theircontributions of dry wood, and running off again for more combustibles.A short old woman, with hair as white as silver, dainty, comely andstill quick despite her advanced age, superintends the preparation ofthe pyre. As all old women are apt to do, she finds fault andsermonizes--but not in anger, on the contrary. Listen to her:
"Oh, those young girls, those young girls! Always giddy-headed! Workmore and laugh less; the pyre is not yet high enough. What does it availthat you rose at early dawn in order to finish your daily tasks beforeyour companions, if you now only frolic instead of hastening the work onthe pyre? I am quite sure that more than one impatient look is beingcast up here from the valley below, and that more than one voice issaying: 'What may they be up to on the hill that they do not yet give usthe signal? Can they be asleep as in winter?' I am certain such are theserious suspicions that you are exposing yourselves to, you eternalgigglers! Such are the pranks of your age. I know it, I should not blameyou; but remember that the days are short at this season; before ourgood men shall have had time to lead the cattle back from the fields,stalled the draft-oxen and the wagons, and put on their holiday clothes,the sun will be down. We shall not be able to reach the monastery untilafter dark, and the community expects the signal from us before sunset."
"A few more armfuls of dry wood, dame Odille, and all that will be leftto do will be to set it on fire," answered a handsome lassie of sixteenyears with blue eyes and black hair; "I shall take charge of lightingthe pyre; you will see how bold I can be!"
"Oh, Fulvia, your grandmother, my old friend the Bishopess, is right,indeed, when she says that you are a dare-devil."
"My good grandmother is like yourself, dame Odille; her scoldings arebut caresses; she loves all that is young and gay."
"And I presume you act so crazily merely in order to please her?"
"Yes, dame Odille; because you must know that it costs me a good deal,it is awfully hard for me to be gay! Alas! Alas!"
And the lass punctuated each exclamation with such a hearty outburst oflaughter and droll action, that the good little old woman could notrefrain from following the example. Whereupon she said:
"As true as this is the fiftieth time that we celebrate the anniversaryof our settling in the Valley of Charolles, I never saw a girl of a moreunalterably happy disposition than yours, my lovely Fulvia."
"Fifty years! How awfully long that is, dame Odille. It seems to me Icould never live to see fifty years!"
"It looks that way at your charming age of sixteen; but to me, Fulvia,these fifty years of peace and happiness have sped like a dream--except,of course, the evil year when I saw Ronan's father die, and lost myfirst-born son."
"Look, dame Odille! There are your consolations, now coming up from thefield!"
These "consolations" were her husband Ronan himself and his second sonGregory, a man now of mature age who was, in turn, accompanied by histwo children, Guenek, a strapping lad of twenty, and Asilyk, a handsomegirl of eighteen. Despite his white hair and beard, and despite hisseventy-five years, Ronan the Vagre was still quick of motion, vigorousand frolicsome as ever.
"Good evening," he called out to his wife as he embraced her; "goodevening, little Odille."
And after him it was the turn of Gregory and his children to embrace thedame.
"Good evening, dear mother."
"Good evening, dear grandmother."
"Do you hear them?" put in Ronan's wife with that smile that sits socharming on the lips of happy elderly people. "Do you hear them? Tothese two I am 'grandmother,' and for this one here I am 'LittleOdille.'"
"Even when you will be a hundred years old, and you will surely reachthat age, by the faith of Ronan! I shall always call you 'Little Odille'just as, my little Odille, I shall always call these two friends who areapproaching the 'Master of the Hounds' and the 'Bishopess.'"
Just then the Master of the Hounds and his wife joined the group whereRonan stood; the heads of both the new arrivals had been whitened withage, but their faces beamed with happiness.
"Ho! Ho! How fine you look, my old companion, with your new blouse andembroidered cap! And you, beautiful Bishopess, you are no lessgorgeously arrayed!"
"Ronan, by the faith of an
old Vagre!" said the Master of the Hounds, "Ilove my Fulvia, in the matron's dress that she now wears, with her brownrobe and her coif as white as her hair, as much as I did when she woreher orange skirt, blue sash, gold necklace and silver embroidered redstockings. Do you remember, Ronan? Do you?"
"Odille, if my husband and yours begin to talk about olden days, weshall not arrive at the monastery until to-morrow morning. But Loysik iswaiting for us. Let us start."
"Beautiful and wise Bishopess, we shall hearken unto you," merrilyreplied Ronan. "Come, Gregory; come, my children; let us start, thatwill take us all the quicker to my good brother Loysik."
A minute later, Fulvia, the grandchild of the Bishopess, came out of thehouse with several of her girl friends, with a lighted brand in herhand, wherewith she set the pyre on fire. The gladsome cries of thegirls and children greeted the bright and sparkling column of fire thatmounted heavenward. At the signal, the people down in the valley whowere still at work in the fields, started homeward, and an hour laterthey marched in a body, men, women and children, the old and the young,in festive groups to the monastery of Charolles.