Chapter 36
At length the day arrived so feared and so desired. At day-break long lines of young girls, all in white, extended in all directions, and advanced to the sound of the bells; and Notre Dame, in the midst of a cloud of perfume, proudly looked down on three hamlets in one.
What censers! what crosses! what nosegays! what tapers! what banners! what pictures! Then come all Puymirol, Artigues, Astafort, Lusignan, Cardonnet, Saint Cirq, Brax, Roquefort; but those of Roquefort, this year, are the first--the most numerous: and to see them in particular the curious hastened forward, for everywhere, in all places, the story of the young girl sold to the demon spread, and it is known that to-day she comes to pray to the Virgin to protect her.
Her misfortune has inspired pity amongst them; every one looks at her and laments; they trust that a miracle will be operated in her favour, and that the Virgin will save her. She sees the feeling that she has inspired, and rejoices; her hope becomes stronger; "the voice of the people is the voice of God."
Oh, how her heart beats as she enters the church! everywhere within the walls are pictures of the Virgin's mercy and indulgence; mothers in grief, young people in affliction, girls without parents, women without children--all are kneeling with tapers before the image of the Mother of heaven, which an aged priest in his robes allows to touch their lips, and afterwards blesses them.
No sign of ill has occurred, and they believe; all, as they rise, depart with a happy hope, and Françonnette feels the same, particularly when she sees Pascal praying devoutly; then she has courage to look the priest in the face. It appears as if love, music, the lights, the incense--all was united to assure her of pardon.
"Pardon! pardon!" murmured she, "oh, if that were mine! and Pascal"--
She lighted her taper in order, and, the light and her bouquet in her hand, she took her place. Every one, from compassion, made way that she might kneel the foremost. The silence is breathless; there is neither movement nor gesture; all eyes are turned on her and on the priest; he takes the sacred image, and holds it forth to her; but scarcely has it touched the lips of the orphan when a loud peal of thunder shakes the church, and rolls away in the distance; her taper is extinguished, and three of those on the altar!
Her taper is extinct--her prayer rejected--she is accursed!
Oh, God! it is, then, indeed true! she has been dedicated to the evil one, and is abandoned of Heaven!
A murmur of terror spread through the crowd; and when the unfortunate girl rose, pale and wild and breathless with horror, all drew back, shuddering, and let her pass. The thunder-clap had begun the storm; fearfully it burst afterwards over Roquefort; the belfry of St. Pierre was destroyed, and the hail driving over the country, swept all away but those who wept to see the ravage.
And the pilgrims returned, all ready to relate the disaster they had seen; they returned all--except one--and sang _Ora pro nobis_.
Then, to cross the perilous waters, Agen did not possess as now--to make other towns jealous--three great bridges, as though it were a royal town. Two simple barks, urged by two oars, carried persons from one side to the other; but scarcely have they reached the opposite shore, and formed themselves in lines, than the news of the terrible event reaches them. At first, they scarcely credit its extent; but when they advance, and behold the vines and the fields desolated, then they tremble and are seized with despair, and cries of "Misery!" and "Misfortune!" rend the air.
Suddenly a voice exclaims, "Françonnette is saved while we are ruined!" the word acts like a spark to gunpowder.
"The wretch!--drive her out!--she brings us evil--it is true--she is the cause of all--she may do us more harm!"
And the crowd clamoured louder and grew more furious. One cried, "Let us drive her from us! cursed as she is, let her burn in flames like the _Huguenot_, her father!"
The coldest became infuriated: "Let her be driven forth!" cried all.
To see them thus enraged, with flaming eyes, clenched hands and teeth, it seemed as if Hell inspired them, and that its influence came with the breeze of night, and breathed into their veins the venom of fury.
Where was Françonnette? alas! in her cottage, half-dead--cold as marble! holding firmly in her tightened and convulsive grasp the faded wreath given her by Pascal.
"Poor garland!" said she; "when I received you from him your perfume told of happiness, and I inhaled it; relic of love! I bore you in my bosom, where you soon faded like my vain dreams. Dear Pascal, farewell! my torn heart weeps to resign thee, but I must say adieu for ever! I was born in an evil hour; and, to save thee from my influence, I must conceal my love. Yet I feel this day thou art dearer than ever; I love with an affection never to be extinguished--with a devotion which is bliss or death on earth; but death is nothing to me if it could save thee!"
"Why do you moan thus, Françonnette?" cried out her grandmother; "you told me, with a cheerful air, that the Virgin had received your offering and you were content; yet I hear you sob like a soul in pain; you deceive me, something has happened to you to-day."
"Oh, no; be content, grandmother; I am happy--very happy."
"'Tis well, my love; for your sorrow wrings my heart; to-day again I passed some fearful hours; this dream of fire recurs so often in spite of myself; and the storms alarm me; hark! I tremble at every sound."
What cries are those so near and so loud? "Fire them! burn them! let them burn together!" A flash bursts through the old shutters; Françonnette rushes to the casement. Great Heaven! she sees the rick on fire, and a furious mob howling outside.
"We must drive them out--the old hag and the young one; both have bewitched us!--Hence! child of perdition! hence, or burn in thy den!"
Françonnette on her knees, with streaming eyes, exclaims, "Oh, pity for my poor old grandmother--do not kill her!"
But the deluded populace, more confirmed than ever, by her haggard looks, that she is possessed, howl louder still--"Away with her!" and on they rush, brandishing flaming brands.
"Hold--hold!" cried a voice, and Pascal sprang amongst them. "Cowards! would you murder two defenceless women! would you burn their dwelling, as if they had not suffered enough--tigers, that you are--already the walls are hot!"
"Let the Huguenots quit the country: they are possessed by the demon. If they stay amongst us God will send down punishment. Let them go instantly, or we burn them!--Who presses forward there?"
"Ha!" cried Pascal, "Marcel here! he is her enemy!"
"Liar!" cried Marcel; "I love her better than thou, boaster as thou art! What wilt thou do for her--thou whose heart is so soft?"
"I come to assist her--to defend her."
"And I to be her husband, in spite of all, if she will be my wife."
"I come for the same purpose," cried Pascal, without shrinking from his rival's regard; then turning to Françonnette, he said, with firmness, "Françonnette, you are safe no longer; these wretches will pursue you from village to village; but here are two who love you--two who would brave death, destruction, for your sake--can you choose between us?"
"Oh, no, no! speak not of marriage. Pascal! my love is death--go! forget me! be happy without me! I dare not be yours!"
"Happy without you! it is in vain: I love you too well; and if it be true that you are the prey of the evil one, 'twere better die with you than live away from you!"
Doubtless, the beloved voice has power above all things over the softened heart: at the last step of misery we can dare all with desperate courage. Before the assembled crowd she exclaimed: "Oh, yes, Pascal, I do love you--I would have died alone; but, since you will have it so, I resist no longer. If it is our fate--we will die together."
Pascal is in heaven--the crowd amazed--the soldier mute. Pascal approaches him. "I am," he said, "more fortunate than you; but you are brave, and will forgive me. To conduct me to my grave,[21] I require a friend--I have none--will you act the part of one?"
[Footnote 21: Pascal conceives that, in wedding Françonnette, he is devoted to death.]
Marcel is silent--he muses--a great struggle is in his heart--his eye flashes--his brow is bent strongly--he gazes on Françonnette, and the paleness of death creeps over him--he shakes off his faintness, and tries to smile. "Since it is her will," he cries, "I will be that friend."
Two weeks had passed,--and a wedding train descended the green hill. In the front of the procession walked the handsome pair. A triple range of people, from all quarters, extended for more than a league: they were curious to know the fate of Pascal. Marcel is at the head of all; he directs all; there is a secret pleasure in his eye, which none can understand. One would say that to-day he triumphs; he insists on arranging the marriage, and it is he who gives to his rival the feast and the ball--his money flows liberally, his purse is open--all is profusion; but there is no rejoicing--no singing--no smiling.
The bridegroom is on the brink of the grave--his rival guides him thither, though he looks so gay--the day declines--all hearts sink with fear and pity--they would fain save Pascal, but it is too late: there they all stand motionless--but more as if at a burial than a wedding.
Fascinated by love, the pair have sacrificed all; though the gulf yawns for them, they have no ears, no eyes, but for each other; as they pass along, hand-in-hand, the happiness of loving has absorbed all other feeling.
It is night.
A female suddenly appears: she clings round the neck of Pascal.--"My son, leave her, leave your bride--I have seen the wise woman--the sieve has turned--your death is certain--sulphur fills the bridal chamber--Pascal, enter not in--you are lost if you remain; and I, who loved you thus, what will become of me when you are gone?"
Pascal's tears flowed, but he held still firmer his bride's hand within his own. The mother fell at his feet.
"Ungrateful son! I will never leave you! if you persist, you shall pass over my body before you enter the fatal house. A wife, then, is all-in-all--a mother nothing! Oh! miserable that I am!" Tears flowed from every eye.--"Marcel," said the bridegroom, "love masters me; should evil befal me, take charge of my mother."
"This is too much!" cried the soldier; "I cannot bear your mother's grief. Oh, Pascal! be blest--be content--be fearless--Françonnette is free! she is not sold to the evil one. It is a falsehood--a mere tale made for a purpose. But had not your mother overcome me by her tears, perhaps we should both have perished. You know--you can feel--how much I love her; like you, I would give my life for her. I thought she loved me, for she had my very soul--all! Yet she rejected me, though she knows we were betrothed. I saw there was no way--I devised a plan--I hired the sorcerer to raise a terror amongst all; he forged a fearful tale, chance did the rest. I thought her then securely my own; but when we both demanded her--when for you she braved everything--when she at once confessed how dear you were, it was beyond my power to bear. I resolved that we should both die; I would have conducted you to the bridal chamber--a train is laid there: all three were to have been victims; I would have bid you cease to fear the demon, but behold in me your foe!--but it is past, the crime I had meditated is arrested. Your mother has disarmed me; she reminds me of my own. Live, Pascal, for your mother! you have no more to fear for me. I have now no one; I will return to the wars; it were better for me that, instead of perishing with a great crime on my conscience, a bullet should end my life."
He spoke no more, and rushed from their presence: the air resounded with shouts, and the happy lovers fell into each other's arms: the stars at that moment shone out. Oh! I must cast down my pencil--I had colours for sorrow--I have none for such happiness as theirs!
Lines by Jasmin
ADDRESSED TO M. DUMON, DEPUTY, WHO HAD CONDEMNED OUR OLD LANGUAGE.
THERE'S not a deeper grief to man Than when his mother, faint with years, Decrepit, old, and weak, and wan, Beyond the leech's art appears; When by her couch her son may stay, And press her hand and watch her eyes, And feel, though she revive to-day, Perchance his hope to-morrow dies.
It is not thus, believe me, sir, With this enchantress--she we call Our second mother: Frenchmen err, Who, cent'ries since, proclaim'd her fall! Our mother-tongue--all melody-- While music lives, can never die.
Yes!--she still lives, her words still ring; Her children yet her carols sing: And thousand years may roll away, Before her magic notes decay.
The people love their ancient songs, and will, While yet a people, love and keep them still: These lays are as their mother; they recal, Fond thoughts of mother, sister, friends, and all The many _little things_ that please the heart-- The dreams, the hopes, from which we cannot part: These songs are as sweet waters, where we find, Health in the sparkling wave that nerves the mind. In ev'ry home, at ev'ry cottage door, By ev'ry fireside, when our toil is o'er, These songs are round us, near our cradles sigh, And to the grave attend us when we die.
Oh! think, cold critics! 'twill be late and long, Ere time shall sweep away this flood of song!
There are who bid this music sound no more, And you can hear them, nor defend--deplore! You, who were born where its first daisies grew, Have fed upon its honey, sipp'd its dew, Slept in its arms and wakened to its kiss, Danced to its sounds, and warbled to its tone-- You can forsake it in an hour like this! --Yes, weary of its age, renounce--disown-- And blame one minstrel who is true--alone!
For me, truth to my eyes made all things plain; At Paris, the great fount, I did not find The waters pure, and to my stream again I come, with saddened and with sobered mind; And since, no more enchanted, now I rate The little country far above the great.
For you--who seem her sorrows to deplore, You, seated high in power, the first among, Beware! nor make her cause of grief the more; Believe her mis'ry, nor condemn her tongue. Methinks you injure where you seek to heal, If you deprive her of that only weal.
We love, alas! to sing in our distress; It seems the bitterness of woe is less; But if we may not in our language mourn, What will the polish'd give us in return? Fine sentences, but all for us unmeet-- Words full of grace, even such as courtiers greet: A deck'd-out Miss, too delicate and nice To walk in fields, too tender and precise To sing the chorus of the poor, or come When Labour lays him down fatigued at home.
To cover rags with gilded robes were vain-- The rents of poverty would show too plain.
How would this dainty dame, with haughty brow, Shrink at a load, and shudder at a plough!
Sulky, and piqued, and silent would she stand As the tired peasant urged his team along: No word of kind encouragement at hand, For flocks no welcome, and for herds no song!
Yet we will learn, and you shall teach-- Our people shall have double speech: One to be homely, one polite, As you have robes for diff'rent wear, But this is all:--'tis just and right, And more our children will not bear. Lest we a troop of buzzards own, Where nightingales once sang alone.
There may be some, who, vain and proud, May ape the manners of the crowd, Lisp French, and lame it at each word, And jest and gibe to all afford:-- But we, as in long ages past, Will still be poets to the last!
Hark! and list the bridal song, As they lead the bride along: "Hear, gentle bride! your mother's sighs,[22] And you would hence away!-- Weep, weep, for tears become those eyes." ----"I cannot weep--to-day."
Hark! the farmer in the mead Bids the shepherd swain take heed: "Come, your lambs together fold, Haste, my sons! your toil is o'er: For the morning bow has told That the ox should work no more."
Hark! the cooper in the shade Sings to the sound his hammer made:
"Strike, comrades, strike! prepare the cask, 'Tis lusty May that fills the flask: Strike, comrades! summer suns that shine Fill the cellars full of wine."
Verse is, with us, a charm divine, Our people, loving verse, will still, Unknowing of their art, entwine Garlands of poesy at will. Their simple language suits them best: Then let them keep it and be blest.
But let wise critics build a wall Between the nurse's cherish'd voice, And the fond ear her words enthral, And say their idol is her choice: Yes!--let our fingers feel the rule, The angry chiding of the school; True to our nurse, in good or ill, We are not French, but Gascon still.
'Tis said that age new feeling brings, Our youth returns as we grow old; And that we love again the things, Which in our memory had grown cold. If this be true, the time will come When to our ancient tongue, once more, You will return, as to a home, And thank us that we kept the store.
Remember thou the tale they tell, Of Lacuée and Lacepède,[23] When age crept on, who loved to dwell, On words that once their music made: And, in the midst of grandeur, hung, Delighted, on their parent tongue.
This, will you do: and it may be, When, weary of the world's deceit, Some summer-day we yet may see Your coming in our meadows sweet; Where, midst the flowers, the finch's lay Shall welcome you with music gay. While you shall bid our antique tongue Some word devise, or air supply, Like those that charm'd your youth so long And lent a spell to memory!
Bethink you how we stray'd alone, Beneath those elms in Agen grown, That each an arch above us throws, Like giants, hand-in-hand, in rows.
A storm once struck a fav'rite tree, It trembled, shook, and bent its boughs,-- The vista is no longer free: Our governor no pause allows. "Bring hither hatchet, axe, and spade, The tree must straight be prostrate laid!"
But vainly strength and art were tried, The stately tree all force defied. Well might the elm resist and foil their might, For though his branches were decay'd to sight, As many as his leaves the roots spread round, And in the firm set earth they slept profound!
Since then, more full, more green, more gay, His crests amidst the breezes play: And birds of ev'ry note and hue Come trooping to his shade in Spring, Each Summer they their lays renew, And while the year endures they sing.
And thus it is, believe me, sir, With this enchantress--she we call Our second mother; Frenchmen err, Who, cent'ries since, proclaim'd her fall.
No: she still lives, her words still ring; Her children yet her carols sing, And thousand years may roll away Before her magic notes decay.
[Footnote 22: Jasmin here quotes several _patois_ songs, well known in the country.]
[Footnote 23: Both Gascons.]
THE SHEPHERD AND THE GASCON POET.
To the Bordelais, on the grand Fête given me at the Casino.
IN a far land, I know not where, Ere viol's sigh, or organ's swell, Had made the sons of song aware That music is a potent spell, A shepherd to a city came, Play'd on his pipe, and rose to fame. He sang of fields, and at each close Applause from ready hands arose.
The simple swain was hail'd and crown'd In mansions where the great reside, And cheering smiles and praise he found, And in his heart rose honest pride: All seem'd with joy and rapture gleaming,-- He trembled that he was but dreaming.
But, modest still, his soul was moved; Yet of his hamlet was his thought,-- Of friends at home, and her he loved,-- When back his laurel-branch be brought: And, pleasure beaming in his eyes, Enjoy'd their welcome and surprise.
'Twas thus with me, when Bordeaux deign'd To listen to my rustic song; Whose music praise and honour gain'd More than to rural strains belong.
Delighted, charm'd, I scarcely knew Whence sprung this life so fresh and new. And to my heart I whisper'd low, When to my fields return'd again, "Is not the Gascon Poet now As happy as the shepherd swain?"
The minstrel never can forget The spot where first success he met; But he, the shepherd who, of yore, Had charm'd so many a list'ning ear, Came back, and was beloved no more;-- He found all changed and cold and drear! A skilful hand had touch'd _the flute_;-- His _pipe_ and he were scorn'd--were mute.
But I, once more I dared appear, And found old friends as true and dear-- The mem'ry of my ancient lays Lived in their hearts--awoke their praise. Oh! they did more;--I was their guest; Again was welcomed and caress'd: And, twined with their melodious tongue, Again my rustic carol rung; And my old language proudly found Her words had list'ners, pressing round. Thus, though condemn'd the shepherd's skill, The Gascon Poet triumph'd still.
I returned by Agen, after an absence in the Pyrenees of some months, and renewed my acquaintance with Jasmin and his dark-eyed wife. I did not expect that I should be recognised; but the moment I entered the little shop I was hailed as an old friend. "Ah!" cried Jasmin, "enfin la voila encore!" I could not but be flattered by this recollection, but soon found it was less on my own account that I was thus welcomed, than because a circumstance had occurred to the poet which he thought I could perhaps explain. He produced several French newspapers, in which he pointed out to me an article headed "Jasmin à Londres;" being a translation of certain notices of himself, which had appeared in a leading English literary journal.[24] He had, he said, been informed of the honour done him by numerous friends, and assured me his fame had been much spread by this means; and he was so delighted on the occasion, that he had resolved to learn English, in order that he might judge of the translations from his works, which, he had been told, were well done. I enjoyed his surprise, while I informed him that I knew who was the reviewer and translator; and explained the reason for the verses giving pleasure in an English dress, to be the superior simplicity of the English language over modern French, for which he has a great contempt, as unfitted for lyrical composition. He inquired of me respecting Burns, to whom he had been likened; and begged me to tell him something of Moore. The delight of himself and his wife was amusing, at having discovered a secret which had puzzled them so long.
[Footnote 24: The Athenæum.]
He had a thousand things to tell me; in particular, that he had only the day before received a letter from the Duchess of Orleans, informing him that she had ordered a medal of her late husband to be struck, the first of which would be sent to him: she also announced to him the agreeable news of the king having granted him a pension of a thousand francs. He smiled and wept by turns, as he told all this; and declared, much as he was elated at the possession of a sum which made him a rich man for life, the kindness of the duchess gratified him even more.
He then made us sit down while he read us two new poems; both charming, and full of grace and _naïveté_; and one very affecting, being an address to the king, alluding to the death of his son. As he read, his wife stood by, and fearing we did not quite comprehend his language, she made a remark to that effect: to which he answered impatiently, "Nonsense--don't you see they are in tears." This was unanswerable; and we were allowed to hear the poem to the end; and I certainly never listened to anything more feelingly and energetically delivered.
We had much conversation, for he was anxious to detain us, and, in the course of it, he told me that he had been by some accused of vanity. "Oh!" he rejoined, "what would you have! I am a child of nature, and cannot conceal my feelings; the only difference between me and a man of refinement is, that he knows how to conceal his vanity and exultation at success, which I let everybody see."
His wife drew me aside, and asked my opinion as to how much money it would cost to pay Jasmin's expenses, if he undertook a journey to England: "However," she added, "I dare say he need be at no charge, for, of _course_, your queen has read _that article_ in his favour, and knows his merit; she will probably send for him, pay all the expenses of his journey, and give him great fêtes in London." I recommended the barber-poet to wait _till he was sent for_; and left the happy pair, promising to let them know the effect that the translation of Jasmin's poetry produced on the royal mind:--their earnest simplicity was really entertaining.
END OF VOL. I.
* * * * *
VOL. II.
CONTENTS TO THE SECOND VOLUME.