Читать книгу The Galley Slave's Ring; or, The Family of Lebrenn - Эжен Сю - Страница 3

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On February 23, 1848, the epoch when, for several days previous, all France, and especially Paris, was profoundly stirred by the question of the reform banquets, there was to be seen on St. Denis Street, a short distance from the boulevard, a rather large shop surmounted by the sign

LEBRENN, LINEN DRAPER.

THE SWORD OF BRENNUS.

In fact, a picture, pretty well drawn and painted, represented the well known historic incident of Brennus, the chief of the Gallic army, throwing with savage and haughty mien his sword into one of the scales of the balance that held the ransom of Rome, vanquished by our Gallic ancestors, about two thousand and odd years ago.

At first, the people of the St. Denis quarter derived a good deal of fun from the bellicose sign of the linen draper. In course of time they forgot all about the seemingly incongruous sign in the recognition of the fact that Monsieur Marik Lebrenn was a most admirable man—a good husband, a conscientious father of his family, and a merchant who sold at reasonable prices excellent merchandise, among other things superb Brittany linen, imported from his native province. The worthy tradesman paid his bills regularly; was accommodating and affable towards everybody; and filled, to the great satisfaction of his "dear comrades," the function of captain in the company of grenadiers of his battalion in the National Guard. All told, he was held in general esteem by the people of his quarter, among whom he was justified to consider himself as a notable.

On the rather chilly morning of February 23, the shutters of the linen draper's shop were as usual removed by the shop-lad, assisted by a female servant, both of whom were Bretons like their master, Monsieur Lebrenn, who was in the habit of taking all his attendants, clerks as well as domestic servitors, from his own country.

The maid, a fresh and comely lass of twenty years, was named Jeanike. The lad who tended the shop was called Gildas Pakou. He was a robust youngster from the region of Vannes, whose open countenance bore the impress of wonderment, seeing he was only two days in Paris. He spoke French quite passably; but in his conversations with Jeanike, his "country-woman," he preferred the idiom of lower Brittany, the old Gallic tongue that our ancestors spoke before the conquest of Gaul by Julius Caesar.[1]

Gildas Pakou seemed preoccupied, although busy carrying to the interior of the shop the shutters that he removed from the outside. He even paused for a moment in the middle of the shop, and, leaning both his arms and his chin upon the edge of one of the boards that he had unfastened, seemed profoundly steeped in thought.

"What are you brooding over, Gildas?" inquired Jeanike.

"Lassy," he answered in his Breton tongue, and with a distant and almost comical look, "do you remember the song of our country—Genevieve and Rustefan?"[2]

"Sure! I was sung to sleep in my cradle with it. It starts this way:

"When little John led his sheep out to pasture,

He then little thought that a priest he would be."

"Well, Jeanike, I am like little John. When I was at Vannes I little dreamed of what I was to see in Paris."

"And what do you find so startling in Paris, Gildas?"

"Everything, Jeanike."

"Indeed!"

"And a good many other things, besides!"

"That's a good many."

"Now listen. Mother said to me: 'Gildas, Monsieur Lebrenn, our countryman, to whom I sell the linen that we weave in the evenings, takes you as an assistant in his shop. His is a home of the good God. You, who are neither bold nor venturesome, will find yourself there as comfortable as here in our little town. St. Denis Street in Paris, where your employer lives, is a street inhabited only by honest and peaceful merchants.' Well, now, Jeanike, no later than yesterday evening, the second day after my arrival, did you not hear cries of: 'Close the shops! Close the shops!' And did you not thereupon see the night-patrols, and hear the drums and the hurried steps of large numbers of men who came and went tumultuously? There were among them some whose faces were frightful to behold, with their long beards. I positively dreamed of them, Jeanike! I did!"

"Poor Gildas!"

"And if that were only all!"

"What! Is there still more? Have you, perchance, anything to blame our master for?"

"Him? He is the best man in all the world. I'm quite sure of that. Mother told me so."

"Or Madam Lebrenn?"

"The dear, good woman! She reminds me of my own mother with her sweet temper."

"Or mademoiselle?"

"Oh! As to her, Jeanike, we may say of her in the words of the Song of the Poor:[3]

"Your mistress is handsome and brimful of kindness;

As lovely her face, yet her deeds with it vie,

And her looks and her kindness have won all our hearts."

"Oh, Gildas! How I do love to hear those songs of our country. That particular one seems to have been composed expressly for Mademoiselle Velleda, and I—"

"Tush, Jeanike!" exclaimed the shop-assistant, breaking in upon his companion. "You asked me what there is to astonish me. Tell me, do you think that mademoiselle's name is a Christian woman's name? Velleda! What can that mean?"

"What do I know! I suppose 'tis a fancy of monsieur and madam's."

"And their son, who went back yesterday to his business college."

"Well?"

"What another devil's own name is that which he also has? One ever seems to be about to swear when pronouncing it. Just pronounce that name, Jeanike. Come, pronounce it."

"It is very simple. The name of our master's son is Sacrovir."

"Ha! ha! I knew it would be so. You did look as if you were swearing—Sacr-r-r-rovir."

"Not at all! I did not roll the r's like you."

"They roll of themselves, my lassy. But, after all, do you call that a name?"

"That also is a fancy of monsieur and madam's."

"Very well, and what about the green door?"

"The green door?"

"Yes, in the rear of the room. Yesterday, at broad noon, I saw our master go in with a light in his hand."

"Quite natural, seeing the shutters are always kept closed—"

"And you find that natural, do you, Jeanike? And why should the shutters always be kept closed?"

"How do I know! It may be another—"

"Notion of monsieur and madam's, are you going to tell me?"

"Sure!"

"And what is kept in that apartment where it is night in broad day?"

"How do I know, Gildas! Only madam and monsieur ever go in there; never their children."

"And nothing of all that seems to you at all surprising, Jeanike!"

"No, because I have become accustomed to it. You will presently feel about it as I do."

The girl stopped short, and after casting a furtive look in the direction of the street, she said to her companion:

"Did you see that?"

"What?"

"The dragoon."

"A dragoon, Jeanike!"

"Yes; and I beg you go out and see if he is coming back—towards the shop. I shall tell you more about it later. Go, quick! quick!"

"The dragoon has not come back," answered the lad, naïvely. "But what can you have in common with the dragoon, Jeanike?"

"Nothing at all, thank God; but they have their barracks near by."

"A bad neighborhood for young girls, close to these men with helmets and sabers," remarked Gildas sententiously. "A bad neighborhood. That reminds me of the song, The Demand:

"In my dove-cote a little dove

Once had I,

When low the sparrow hawk swooped down

Upon her like a gust of wind;

He frightened my wee dove away

And now none

Knows what has become of her.[4]

"Do you understand, Jeanike? The doves are young girls; the sparrow-hawk—"

"Is the dragoon. You are speaking more wisely than you know, Gildas."

"What, Jeanike! Can you have realized that the neighborhood of sparrow-hawks—that is, dragoons—is unwholesome for you?"

"I was not thinking of myself."

"Of whom, then?"

"Tush, Gildas! You are a loyal fellow. I must ask your advice. This is what has happened: Four days ago, mademoiselle, who usually stays in the rear of the shop, was at the desk in the absence of madam. I happened to look out on the street, when I saw a military man stop before our windows."

"A dragoon? A sparrow-hawk of a dragoon? Was it, Jeanike?"

"Yes; but he was not a soldier; he wore large gold epaulettes, and a cockade on his hat. He must have been at least a colonel. He stopped before the shop, and looked in."

The conversation of the two Breton country folks was interrupted by the brusque entrance of a man of about forty years, clad in a cutaway coat and trousers of black velvet, the usual railway employees' garb. His energetic face was partially covered with a thick brown beard. He seemed uneasy, and stepped into the shop precipitately, saying to Jeanike:

"Where is your master, my child? I must see him immediately. Pray, go and tell him that Dupont wants him. Remember my name well—Dupont."

"Monsieur Lebrenn went out this morning at daybreak, monsieur," answered Jeanike. "He has not yet come back."

"A thousand devils! Can he have gone there?" the new arrival muttered to himself.

He was about to leave the shop as precipitately as he had stepped in when a new thought struck him, and turning back to Jeanike he said:

"My child, tell Monsieur Lebrenn, the moment he comes back, that Dupont has arrived."

"Yes, monsieur."

"And that if he—Monsieur Lebrenn," added Dupont, hesitating like one hunting for a word; and then having found it, he proceeded saying: "Say to your master that, if he did not go this morning to inspect his supply of grain—you catch those words: his supply of grain—he should not go there before seeing Dupont. Can you remember that, my child?"

"Yes, monsieur. But if you would like to leave a note for Monsieur Lebrenn—"

"Not at all!" answered Dupont impatiently. "That's unnecessary—only tell him—"

"Not to go and inspect his supply of grain before seeing Monsieur Dupont," Jeanike completed the sentence. "Is that it, monsieur?"

"Exactly," the latter answered. "Good-bye, my child." So saying, he went away in hot haste.

"Well, now, Monsieur Lebrenn, it seems, is also a groceryman," observed Gildas in amazement to his companion. "He seems to keep supplies of grain in store."

"That's the first I heard of it."

"And that man! He looked very much disconcerted. Did you notice him? Oh, Jeanike! There is no doubt about it, this is a puzzling sort of a house."

"You have just landed from the country. Everything surprises you. But let me finish my story about the dragoon."

"The story of that sparrow-hawk with gold epaulettes and a cockade in his hat, who stopped to look at you through the show-window, Jeanike?"

"It was not me he looked at."

"Whom, then?"

"Mademoiselle Velleda."

"Indeed?"

"Mademoiselle was busy sewing. She did not notice that the military man was devouring her with his eyes. And I felt so ashamed for her sake that I did not dare notify her that she was being glowered at."

"Oh, Jeanike, that reminds me of a song that—"

"Let me first come to the end of my story, Gildas. You may then sing your song to me, if you like. The military man—"

"The sparrow-hawk—"

"Be it so—stood there glowering at mademoiselle with both his eyes aflame."

"With his two sparrow-hawk eyes, Jeanike!"

"But let me finish. Presently mademoiselle noticed the attention that she was the object of. She colored like a ripe cherry, told me to watch the shop, and withdrew to the room in the rear. And that's not yet all. The next day, at the same hour, the colonel turned up again, but this time in civilian dress, and there he planted himself again at the window. Madam happened to be in the shop, and he did not stay long. Day before yesterday he turned up again without being able to see mademoiselle. Finally, yesterday, Madam Lebrenn being in the shop, he stepped in and asked her—his language was very polite—whether she could furnish him with a certain grade of linen. Madam said she could, and it was agreed that the colonel would come back to-day to close the bargain with Monsieur Lebrenn."

"And do you believe, Jeanike, that madam was aware that the military man had come several times before, and peeped through the window?"

"I don't know, Gildas; and I am not sure whether I should notify madam. A minute ago I begged you to look and see if the dragoon did not come back. I feared he was charged to spy upon us. Fortunately it was not so. Would you advise me to notify madam, or to say nothing? To speak may alarm her; to keep silent may, perhaps, be wrong. What is your opinion?"

"It is my opinion that you should notify madam. She may become justly suspicious of that big order for linen. Hem!—hem!"

"I shall follow your advice, Gildas."

"And you will be wise if you do! Oh, my dear lassy, these men with helmets—"

"Well, now, I am ready. Let's have your song."

"It is an awful story, Jeanike! Mother told it to me a hundred times in the evenings, just as my grandmother had told it to her, and just as my grandmother's grandmother—"

"Come, Gildas," broke in Jeanike, laughing. "If you keep up at that rate from grandmother to grandmother, you are bound to go back to our mother Eve."

"Sure! Do our countrypeople not transmit from generation to generation narratives that go back to—"

"A thousand and fifteen hundred years, and even further back, like the stories of Myrdin and of The Baron of Jauioz, with which I have been rocked to sleep in my cradle. I am well aware of it, Gildas."

"Well, Jeanike, the song that I have in mind is about people who wear helmets, and prowl around young girls. It is a frightful story. It is called The Three Red Monks," said Gildas, looking formidable;—"The Three Red Monks; or, The Sire of Plouernel."

"What's that?" asked Jeanike interestedly, being struck by the name. "The Sire of—"

"The Sire of Plouernel."

"Singular!"

"Singular what?"

"I've heard Monsieur Lebrenn mention that name, more than once."

"The name of the Sire of Plouernel? On what occasion?"

"I'll tell you later. First of all, let's have the song of the Three Red Monks. It will interest me doubly."

"You must know, first of all, my lassy, that the red monks were Templars, and wore a sword and helmet, just like that sparrow-hawk of a dragoon."

"Very well, now go on. Madam may come down any moment, and monsieur is due here now."

"Listen attentively, Jeanike."

And Gildas commenced the following recitative. It was not sung, exactly, but was chanted like a psalm in a grave and melancholic voice:

"At every limb I shudder,

I shudder at the sorrows that afflict our people.

I shudder at the thought of the event that took place,

That has just taken place in the town of Kemper,

That took place at Kemper just a year ago.

"Katelik walked her way as she counted her beads,

When three monks in red, all three Templars were they,

And armed at all points, joined Katelik; three monks,

Astride of their huge barbed steeds,

Barbed from mane down to hoofs.

"'Come with us, you pretty young maid;

Come to the convent with us.

Neither gold will you want for,

Nor eke silver coin.'

'May it please, Sires, your graces,

Not I will join you in your ride,'

Said young Katelik. 'I fear your swords,

That hang by your sides.

No, Sires,

I shall not, nor can I go with you.

Too wicked the tales that one hears about you.'

"'Come with us, come to the convent, young maid.

Feel not alarmed about us.'

'No, I shall not proceed to the convent.

Seven young maids of the fields

Once went there, 'tis said;

Seven handsome maids, ripe for their nuptials they were.

Yet they never came out from the convent again.'

"'If seven young maids,' cried up Gonthram of Plouernel,

One of the three monks in red,

'If seven young maids went in,

You, pretty maid, the eighth will be.'

With this she was seized,

And pulled up on horseback;

With this the three rode to the convent in hot haste,

The maid laid across the saddle,

And gagged to smother her cries."

"Oh, the poor dear girl!" exclaimed Jeanike, clasping her hands. "And what is to become of her in that convent of the red monks?"

"You will learn presently, my lassy," answered Gildas with a sigh; and he proceeded with his recitation:

"Seven months later, or eight,

Or perhaps even more,

Great was the dilemma of the monks in their Abbey,

'What, brothers,' they said,

'Shall with this girl now be done?'

'Let us bury her, to-night let us bury her,

At the foot of the main altar.

None of her folks will there seek to find her.'"

"Great God!" cried Jeanike. "They must have killed her, those bandit monks, and were in a hurry to rid themselves of the body."

"I tell you once more, my lassy, these people with helmets and swords are always up to some mischief or other," remarked Gildas dogmatically; and he proceeded:

"Lo, toward night-fall the vault of heaven is rent.

Rain, wind, hail; thunder the most frightful cracks the air.

A poor knight, his clothes drenched with rain,

Looks about for asylum,

Arrives at the church-door of the Abbey.

He peeps through the key-hole.

He sees a small taper burning;

He sees monks digging at the foot of the altar;

He sees the young girl lying prostrate,

Her little bare feet tied together;

He hears her, desolate, moaning, lamenting,

Begging for mercy.

"'Oh, Sires,' she cried, 'for our dear Lord's sake,

Let me live.

I shall wander about in the dark by night;

By day I shall hide.'

The taper went out.

But the knight, he budged not away from the door,

And he heard the voice of the young girl

Imploring from the depth of the grave,

And praying:

'Pray give me some oil, and baptismal

For the babe I carry with me!' "The knight, he galloped away to Kemper, To the Count-Bishop's palace he rode in full haste. 'Sire Bishop of Cornouailles, wake up! Wake up quick!' cried the knight, As he battered at the gate. 'You lie snugly in your bed, Stretched out cosily upon soft down; But a young girl there is who is now groaning At the bottom of a pit of hard earth, And is praying for some oil, And baptismal for the babe that is with her; Extreme unction she prays for herself.' "By orders the Count-Bishop hastened to issue in advance, The grave at the foot of the altar was dug open; and, Just as the Bishop arrived, the poor young girl Was drawn up from the depths of her grave. She was drawn up, her babe sound asleep on her breast. Her teeth had torn the flesh on her arms, Her nails had torn the flesh on her breast, On her white breast down to her heart. "And the Bishop, When this sight he saw, Fell down on both knees, and wept by the grave. Three days and three nights he spent there in prayer. At the end of the third day, All the red monks standing round, The babe of the dead girl stirred by the light of the tapers, It opened its eyes, It rose, It walked, It walked straight to the three monks in red, And it spoke, and said: 'It is he— Gonthram of Plouernel."[5]

"Well, now, my lassy," asked Gildas as he shook his head warningly, "is not that a terrible story? Did I not tell you that those helmet-wearers were ever prowling around young girls like so many ravishing sparrow-hawks? But Jeanike, what are you pondering? You do not answer me. You seem steeped in revery."

"It is, indeed, quite extraordinary, Gildas. Was that bandit of a red monk named the Sire of Plouernel?"

"Yes."

"Often have I heard Monsieur Lebrenn mention the name of that family as if he had some cause of complaint against them, and say, whenever he referred to some wicked man: He must be a son of Plouernel!' as one would say: 'He must be a son of the devil!'"

"That is a puzzle—a puzzling house this is," remarked Gildas meditatively, and even in a tone of uneasiness. "To think of Monsieur Lebrenn having complaint against the family of a red monk, who has been dead eight or nine hundred years. All the same, Jeanike, I hope the story may stand you in good stead."

"Go to, Gildas!" exclaimed Jeanike, laughing. "Do you imagine there are any red monks in St. Denis Street, and that they carry off young girls in omnibuses?"

As Jeanike was saying this, a valet in morning livery stepped into the shop and asked for Monsieur Lebrenn.

"He is not in," said Gildas.

"Then, my good lad," answered the valet, "you will please tell your master that the colonel expects to see him this morning, before noon, to settle with him a matter about some linen that he spoke about with your mistress yesterday. Here is my master's address," added the valet, placing a visiting card upon the counter. "Above all be certain to urge your master to be punctual. The colonel does not like to be kept waiting."

The valet left. Gildas took up the card mechanically, read it and cried out, turning pale:

"By St. Anne of Auray! It is incredible—"

"What is it, Gildas?"

"Read, Jeanike!"

And with a trembling hand he reached out the card to the young girl who read:

COUNT GONTHRAM OF PLOUERNEL.

Colonel of Dragoons.

18 Paradis-Poissonniere Street.

"A puzzling, a fear-inspiring house this is!" Gildas repeated several times, raising his hands to heaven, while Jeanike herself looked as astonished and almost as frightened as the young shop-assistant.