Part 8

Houarn gave a jump, as though he felt himself already in the golden frying-pan, and ran towards the door, thinking only how he might escape before the Groac'h should return. But she was already there, and had heard all; her net of steel was soon thrown over the Léonard, who found himself instantly transformed into a frog, in which guise the fairy carried him to the fish-pond, and threw him in, to keep her former husbands company.

At this moment the little bell, which Houarn wore round his neck, tinkled of its own accord; and Bellah heard it at Lanillis, where she was busy skimming the last night's milk.

The sound struck upon her heart like a funeral knell; and she cried aloud, "Houarn is in danger!" And without a moment's delay, without asking counsel of any as to what she should do, she ran and put on her Sunday clothes, her shoes and silver cross, and set out from the farm with her magic staff. Arrived where four roads met, she set the stick upright in the ground, murmuring in a low voice,--

"List, thou crab-tree staff of mine! By good St. Vouga, hear me! O'er earth and water, through air, 'tis thine Whither I will to bear me!"

And lo, the stick became a bay nag, dressed, saddled, and bridled, with a rosette behind each ear, and a blue feather in front.

Bellah mounted, and the horse set forward; first at a walking pace, then he trotted, and at last galloped, and that so swiftly, that ditches, trees, houses, and steeples passed before the young girl's eyes like the arms of a spindle. But she complained not, feeling that each step brought her nearer to her dear Houarn; nay, she rather urged on her beast, saying,

"Less swift than the swallow is the horse, less swift the swallow than the wind, the wind than the lightning; but thou, my good steed, if thou lovest me, outstrip them all in speed: for a part of my heart is suffering; the better half of my own life is in danger."

The horse understood her, and flew like a straw driven by the whirlwind till he arrived in the country of Arhés, at the foot of the rock called the Stag's Leap. But there he stood still, for never had horse scaled that precipice. Bellah, perceiving the cause of his stopping, renewed her prayer:

"Once again, thou courser mine, By good St. Vouga, hear me! O'er earth and water, through air, 'tis thine Whither I will to bear me!"

She had hardly finished, when a pair of wings sprang from the sides of her horse, which now became a great bird, and in this shape flew away with her to the top of the rock.

Strange indeed was the sight that here met her eyes. Upon a nest made of potter's clay and dry moss squatted a little korandon, [51] all swarthy and wrinkled, who, on beholding Bellah, began to cry aloud,

"Hurrah! here is the pretty maiden come to save me!"

"Save thee!" said Bellah. "Who art thou, then, my little man?"

"I am Jeannik, the husband of the Groac'h of the Isle of Lok. She it was that sent me here."

"But what art thou doing in this nest?"

"I am sitting on six stone eggs, and I cannot be free till they are hatched."

Bellah could not keep herself from laughing.

"Poor thing!" said she; "and how can I deliver thee?"

"By first saving Houarn, who is in the Groac'h's power."

"Ah, tell me how I may do that!" cried the orphan girl, "and not a moment will I lose in setting about my part in the matter, though I should have to make the circuit of the four dioceses upon my bare knees."

"Well, then, there are two things to be done," said the korandon. "The first, to present thyself before the Groac'h as a young man; and the next, to take from her the steel net which she carries at her girdle, and shut her up in it till the day of judgment."

"And where shall I get a suit of clothes to fit me, korandon?"

"Thou shalt see."

And with these words the little dwarf pulled out four hairs from his foxy poll, and blew them to the winds, muttering something in an under-tone, and lo, the four hairs became four tailors, of whom the first held in his hand a cabbage, the second a pair of scissors, the third a needle, and the last a smoothing goose. All the four seated themselves cross-legged round the nest, and began to prepare a suit of clothes for Bellah.

Out of one cabbage-leaf they made a beautiful coat, laced at every seam; of another they made a waistcoat; but it took two leaves for the trunk-breeches, such as are worn in the country of Léon; lastly, the heart of the cabbage was shaped into a hat, and the stalk was converted into shoes.

Thus equipped, Bellah would have passed any where for a handsome young gentleman in green velvet lined with white satin.

She thanked the korandon, who added some further instructions; and then her great bird flew away with her straight to the Isle of Lok. There she commanded him to resume the form of a crab-stick; and entering the swan-shaped boat, arrived safely at the Groac'h's palace.

The fairy was quite taken at first sight with the velvet-clad young Léonard.

"Well," quoth she to herself, "you are the best-looking young fellow that has ever come to see me; and I do think I shall love you for three times three days."

And she began to make much of her guest, calling her her darling, and heart of hearts. She treated her with a collation; and Bellah found upon the table St. Corentin's knife, which had been left there by Houarn. She took it up against the time of need, and followed the Groac'h into the garden. There the fairy showed her the grass-plots flowered with diamonds, the fountains of perfumed waters, and, above all, the fish-pond, wherein swam fishes of a thousand colours.

With these last Bellah pretended to be especially taken, so that she must needs sit down upon the edge of the pond, the better to enjoy the sight of them.

The Groac'h took advantage of her delight to ask her if she would not like to spend all her days in this lovely place. Bellah replied that she should like it of all things.

"Well, then, so you may, and from this very hour, if you are only ready at once to marry me," proceeded the fairy.

"Very well," replied Bellah; "but you must let me fetch up one of these beautiful fishes with the steel net that hangs at your girdle."

The Groac'h, nothing suspecting, and taking this request for a mere boyish freak, gave her the net, saying with a smile, "Let us see, fair fisherman, what you will catch."

"Thee, fiend!" cried Bellah, throwing the net over the Groac'h's head. "In the name of the Saviour of men, accursed sorceress, become in body even as thou art in soul!"

The cry uttered by the Groac'h died away in a stifled murmur, for the exorcism had already taken effect; the beautiful water fay was now nothing more than the hideous queen of toadstools.

In an instant Bellah drew the net, and with all speed threw it into a well, upon which she laid a stone sealed with the sign of the cross, that it might remain closed till the tombs shall be opened at the last day.

She then hastened back to the pond; but all the fish were already out of it, coming forth to meet her, like a procession of many-coloured monks, crying in their little hoarse voices, "Behold our lord and master! who has delivered us from the net of steel and the golden frying-pan."

"And who will also restore you to your shape of Christians," said Bellah, drawing forth the knife of St. Corentin. But as she was about to touch the first fish, she perceived close to her a frog, with the magic bell hung about his neck, and sobbing bitterly as he knelt before her. Bellah felt her bosom swell, and she exclaimed, "Is it thou, is it thou, my Houarn, thou lord of my sorrow and my joy?"

"It is I," answered the youth.

At a touch with the potent blade he recovered his proper form, and Bellah and he fell into each other's arms, the one eye weeping for the past, the other glistening with the present joy.

She then did the like to all the fishes, who were restored each of them to his pristine shape and condition.

The work of disenchantment was hardly at an end, when up came the little korandon from the Stag's-Leap rock.

"Here I am, my pretty maiden," cried he to Bellah: "the spell which held me where you saw me is broken, and I am come to thank you for my deliverance."

He then conducted the lovers to the Groac'h's coffers, which were filled with precious stones, of which he told them to take as many as they pleased.

They both loaded their pockets, their girdles, and their hats; and when they had as much as they could carry, they departed, with all whom she had delivered from the enchantment.

The banns were soon published, and Houarn and Bellah were married. But instead of a little cow and a lean pig, he bought all the land in the parish, and put in as farmers the people he had brought with him from the Isle of Lok.

THE FOUR GIFTS.

If I had an income of three hundred crowns, I would go and dwell at Quimper; the finest church in Cornouaille is to be found there, and all the houses have weather-vanes upon their roofs. If I had two hundred crowns a year, I would live at Carhaix, for the sake of its heath-fed sheep and its game. But if I had only one hundred, I would set up housekeeping at Pontaven, for there is the greatest abundance of every thing. At Pontaven they sell butter at the price of milk, chickens for that of eggs, and linen at the same rate as you can buy green flax. So that there are plenty of good farms there, where they dish up salt pork at least three times a week, and where the very shepherds eat as much rye-bread as they desire.

In such a farm lived Barbaik Bourhis, a spirited woman, who had maintained her household like a man, and who had fields and stacks enough to have kept two sons at college.

But Barbaik had only a niece, whose earnings far outweighed her keep, so that every day she laid by as much as she could save.

But savings too easily acquired have always their bad side. If you hoard up wheat, you attract rats into your barns; and if you lay by crowns, you will engender avarice in your heart.

Old Mother Bourhis had come at last to care for nothing but the increase of her hoards, and think nothing of any one who did not happen to pay heavy sums each month to the tax-gatherers. So she was angry when she saw Dénès, the labourer of Plover, chatting with her niece behind the gable. One morning, after thus surprising them, she cried to Tephany in step-mother tones,

"Are not you ashamed to be always chattering thus with a young man who has nothing, when there are so many others who would gladly buy for you the silver ring?"

"Dénès is a good workman and a thorough Christian," replied the damsel. "Some day he will be able to rent a farm where he may rear a family."

"And so you would like to marry him?" interrupted the old woman. "God save us! I would sooner see you drowned in the well than married to that vagabond. No, no, it shall never be said that I brought up my own sister's child to be the wife of a man who can carry his whole fortune in his tobacco-pouch."

"What matters fortune when we have good health, and can ask the Blessed Virgin to look down on our intentions?" replied Tephany gently.

"What matters fortune!" replied the fermière, scandalised. "What! have you come to such a length as to despise the wealth that God has given us? May all the saints take pity on us! Since this is the case, you bold-faced thing, I forbid you ever to speak again to Dénès; and if I catch him at this farm again, it will be the worse for you both; and meanwhile go you down to the washing-place, and wash the linen, and spread it out to dry upon the hawthorn; for since you've had one ear turned towards the wind from Plover, every thing stands still at home, and your two arms are worth no more than the five fingers of a one-armed man."

Tephany would have answered, but in vain. Mother Bourhis imperiously pointed out to her the bucket, the soap, and the beetle, and ordered her to set off that very instant.

The girl obeyed, but her heart swelled with grief and resentment.

"Old age is harder than the farm-door steps," thought she to herself; "yes, one hundred times harder, for the rain by frequent falling wears away the stones; but tears have no power to soften the will of old people. God knows that talking with Dénès was the only pleasure I had. If I am to see him no more, I might as well leave the world at once; and our good angel was always with us. Dénès has done nothing but teach me pretty songs, and talk about what we shall do when we are married, in a farm, he looking after the fields, and I managing the cattle."

Thus talking to herself, Tephany had reached the douez. Whilst setting down her tub of linen upon one of the white lavatory stones, she became aware of an old woman, a stranger, sitting there, leaning her head upon a little scorched thorn-stick. Notwithstanding her vexation, Tephany saluted her.

"Is my aunt [52] taking the air under the alders?" said she, moving her load farther off.

"One must rest where one can, when one has the roof of heaven for a shelter," answered the old woman, in a trembling voice.

"Are you, then, so desolate?" asked Tephany compassionately; "is there no relation left who can offer you a refuge at his fireside?"

"Every one is long since dead," replied the stranger; "and I have no other family than all kind hearts."

The maiden took the piece of rye-bread rubbed with dripping which Barbaik had given her in a bit of linen with her beetle.

"Take this, poor aunt," said she, offering it to the beggar. "To-day, at least, you shall dine like a Christian on our good God's bread; only remember in your prayers my parents, who are dead."

The old woman took the bread, then looked at Tephany.

"Those who help others deserve help themselves," said she. "Your eyes are red, because Barbaik has forbidden you to speak to the lad from Plover; but he is a worthy youth, whose intentions are good, and I will give you the means of seeing him once every day."

"You!" cried the girl, astonished that the beggar was so well informed.

"Take this long copper-pin," replied the crone; "and every time you stick it in your dress, Mother Bourhis will be forced to leave the farm, and go to count her cabbages. All the time this pin remains where you stick it, you will be at liberty; and your aunt will not return until the pin is put back into this étui."

With these words the beggar rose, nodded a farewell, and disappeared.

Tephany was lost in astonishment. Evidently the old woman was no beggar, but a saint, or a singer of truth. [53]

At any rate, the young girl treasured the pin carefully, well determined to try its power the next day. Towards the time, then, at which Dénès was accustomed to make his appearance, she set it in her collar. Barbaik instantly put on her wooden shoes, and walked off into the garden, where she set herself to count her cabbages; from the garden she went to the orchard, and from the orchard to the field, so that Tephany could talk with Dénès at her ease.

It was the same the next day, and the next, through many weeks. As soon as the pin made its appearance from the étui, the good woman was off amongst her cabbages, always beginning to count once more how many little or big, embossed or curly cabbages [54] she had.

Dénès at first appeared enchanted at this freedom, but by degrees he grew less eager to avail himself of it. He had taught Tephany all his songs; he had told her all his plans; now he was forced to consider what he could talk to her about, and make it up beforehand, like a preacher preparing his sermon. And more than that, he came later, and went earlier away; sometimes even, pretending cartage, weeding, or errands to the town detained him, he came not to the farm at all; and Tephany had to console herself with her pin.

She understood that the love of her betrothed was cooling, and became more sorrowful than before.

One day, after vainly waiting for the youth, she took her pitcher, and went all solitary to the fountain, her heart swelling with displeasure.

When she reached it, she perceived the same old woman who had given her the magic pin. There she sat, near the spring; and watching Tephany as she advanced, she began with a little chuckling laugh,

"Ah, ah! then the pretty girl is no longer satisfied to chatter with her humble servant any hour of the day."

"Alas, to chat, I must be with him," replied Tephany mournfully; "and custom has made my company less agreeable to him. Oh, aunt, since you have given me the means of seeing him every day, you might give me at the same time wit enough to keep my hold upon him."

"Is that what my daughter wants?" said the old woman. "In that case, here is a feather; let her but put it in her hair, and no one can resist her, for she will be as clever and as cunning as Master John [55] himself."

Tephany, reddening with delight, carried off the feather; and just before Dénès' visit on the following day, she stuck it under her blue rozarès. [56] That very instant it appeared to her as if the sun rose in her mind; she found herself acquainted with what students spend ten years in learning, and much that even the very wisest know nothing of; for with the science of a man, she still preserved the malice of a woman. Dénès was of course astonished at her words; she talked in rhyme like the bazvalanes [57] of Cornouaille, she knew more songs than the mendicants from Scaër, and could tell all the stories current at the forges and the mills throughout the country.

The young man came day after day, and Tephany found always something new to tell him. Dénès had never met man or woman with so much wit; but after enjoying it for a time, he began to be scared by it. Tephany had not been able to resist putting in her feather for others than him; her songs, her sayings, were repeated every where, and people said,

"She is a mischievous creature; he who marries her is sure to be led like a bridled horse."

The Plover lad repeated in his own mind the same predictions; and as he had always thought that he would rather hold than wear the bridle, he began to laugh with more constraint at Tephany's jests.

One day, when he wanted to be off to a dance in a new threshing-floor, the maiden used her utmost efforts to retain him; but Dénès, who did not choose to be led, would not listen to her reasons, and repulsed her entreaties.

"Ah, I see why you are so anxious to go to the new barn," said Tephany, with irritation; "you are going to see Aziliçz of Penenru there."

Aziliçz was the handsomest girl in the whole canton; and, if her good friends told truth, she was the greatest flirt.

"To tell the truth, Aziliçz will be there," said Dénès, who delighted in piquing the jealousy of his dearly-beloved; "and to see her any one would go a long round."

"Go, then, where your heart draws you," said the wounded damsel.

And she returned to the farm without hearing a word more he had to say.

But seating herself, overwhelmed with sadness, on the broad hearth-stone, she gave herself up to earnest thought; and then flinging the wondrous feather from her, she exclaimed,

"Of what use is wit and cleverness for maidens, since men rush towards beauty as the flies to sunshine! Ah, what I want, old aunt, is not to be the wisest, but the fairest on the earth."

"Be thou also, then, the fairest," uttered an unexpected voice.

Tephany turned round astonished, and saw at the door the old woman with her thorn-stick, who thus spoke:

"Take this necklace, and so long as you shall wear it round your neck, you shall appear amongst all other women as the queen of the meadow amidst wild flowers."

Tephany could not repress a cry of joy. She hastened to put on the necklace, rushed to her little mirror, and there stood dumb with admiration. Never had any girl been at once so fair and so rosy, so lovely to look upon.

Anxious to judge instantly of the effect which her appearance would produce on Dénès, she decked herself out in her finest dress, her worsted stockings, and her buckled shoes, and took her way towards the new barn.

But just as she reached the cross-road, she met a young lord in his coach, who, the instant he caught sight of her, desired the coachman to stop.

"By my life," cried he, in admiration, "I had no idea there was such a beautiful creature as this in the country; and if it were to cost me my life, she must bear my name."

But Tephany replied, "Go on, good sir, go on your way; I am but a poor peasant-girl, accustomed to winnow, milk, and mow."

"But I will make a noble lady of you," cried the young lord; and taking her hand, he tried to lead her to his coach.

The maiden drew back.

"I will only be the bride of Dénès, the Plover labourer," said she, with resolution.

The lord still insisted; but when he found that she went towards the ditch to fly away across the meadows, he desired his footmen to seize her, and put her by force into the coach, which then set off at full gallop.

In about an hour's time they reached the castle, which was built of carved stone, and was covered with slate, like all noble mansions. The young lord ordered them to go and fetch a priest to perform the marriage ceremony; and as meanwhile Tephany would not hear a word he had to say, and kept trying to run away, he made them shut her up in a great hall closed by three doors well bolted, and desired his servants to guard her well. But by means of her pin Tephany sent them all into the garden to count cabbages; by her feather she discovered a fourth door concealed in the panneling, whereby she escaped; and then fervently committing herself to Providence, she scampered away through the woods like a hare who hears the dogs behind her.

As long as she had any strength left, on she went, until the night began to close around her. Then, perceiving the turret of a convent, she went up to the little grated door, and ringing the bell, begged for a night's shelter; but on seeing her the portress shook her head.

"Go away, go away," said she; "there is no place here for young girls so beautiful as you, who wander all alone at this hour of night along the roads."

And closing the wicket, she went away without listening to another word.

Forced to go further on, Tephany stopped at a farm-door, where there were several young men and women talking together, and made the same request as at the convent.

The mistress of the house hesitated what answer to make; but all the young men, dazzled by Tephany's beauty, cried out each one that he would take her to his father's house, and every one endeavoured to outbid his neighbour in their offers. One said that he would take her in a wagon and three horses, lest she should be tired; another promised her the best bed; and a third declared that she should sit down at table with the family. At last, from promises they came to quarrelling, and from quarrelling to blows; until the women, frightened, began to abuse Tephany, telling her it was an infamous shame to come with her charms to put dissensions amongst men in that way. The poor girl, quite beside herself, tried to run away; but all the young men set off after her. Just then she all at once remembered her necklace, and taking it from her neck slipped it round that of a sow who was cropping the buttercups. In an instant the charm that drew the youths towards her died away, and they began to pursue the beast instead, which fled away in terror.

Tephany still went on in spite of her fatigue, and came at last to her aunt's farm, worn out with weariness, but still more with grief. Her wishes had brought her so little satisfaction, that she passed many days without making another. However, Dénès' visits grew more and more uncertain; he had undertaken to clear a warren, and there he toiled from morning until night.