THE rest of the voyage passed off admirably. An invisible hand seemed to
impel the ship onward. Twenty days after their departure the boat landed
Yvon and Finette near Kerver Castle. Once on shore, Yvon turned to thank
the crew. No one was there. Both boat and ship had vanished under the
waves, leaving no trace behind but a gull on the wing.
Yvon recognized the spot where he had so often gathered shells and
chased the crabs to their holes when a child. Half an hour's walk would
bring him in sight of the towers of the old castle. His heart beat; he
looked tenderly at Finette, and saw, for the first time, that her dress
was fantastic and unworthy of a woman about to enter the noble house of
Kerver.
"My dear child," said he, "the Baron, my father, is a noble lord,
accustomed to be treated with respect. I cannot introduce you to him in
this gypsy dress; neither is it fitting that you should enter our great
castle on foot like a peasant. Wait for me a few moments, and I will
bring you a horse and one of my sister's dresses. I wish you to be
received like a lady of high degree. I wish my father himself to meet
you on your arrival, and hold it an honor to give you his hand."
"Yvon, Yvon!" cried Finette, "do not quit me, I beg you. Once returned
to your castle, I know that you will forget me."
"Forget you!" exclaimed Yvon. "If anyone else were to offer me such an
insult, I would teach him with my sword to suspect a Kerver. Forget
you, my Finette! you do not know the fidelity of a Breton."
That the Bretons are faithful, no one doubts; but that they are still
more headstrong is a justice that none will deny them. It was useless
for poor Finette to plead in her most loving tones; she was forced to
yield. She resigned herself with a heavy heart, and said to Yvon:
"Go without me, then, to your castle, but only stay long enough to speak
to your friends; then go straight to the stable, and return as soon as
possible. You will be surrounded by people; act as if you saw no one,
and, above all, do not eat or drink anything whatever. Should you take
only a glass of water, evil would come upon us both."
Yvon promised and swore all that Finette asked, but he smiled in his
heart at this feminine weakness. He was sure of himself; and he thought
with pride how different a Breton was from those fickle Frenchmen, whose
words, they say, are borne away by the first breath of the wind.
On entering the old castle he could scarcely recognize its dark walls.
All the windows were festooned with leaves and flowers within and
without; the courtyard was strewn with fragrant grass; on one side were
spread tables groaning under their weight; on the other, musicians,
mounted on casks, were playing merry airs. The vassals, dressed in their
holiday attire, were singing and dancing, and dancing and singing. It
was a day of great rejoicing at the castle. The Baron himself was
smiling. It is true that he had just married his fifth daughter to the
Knight of Kervalec. This marriage added another quartering to the
illustrious escutcheon of the Kervers.
Yvon, recognized and welcomed by all the crowd, was instantly surrounded
by his relatives, who embraced him and shook him by the hand. Where had
he been? Where did he come from? Had he conquered a kingdom, a duchy, or
a barony? Had he brought the bride the jewels of some queen? Had the
fairies protected him? How many rivals had he overthrown? All these
questions were showered upon him without reply. Yvon respectfully
kissed his father's hand, hastened to his sisters' chamber, took two of
their finest dresses, went to the stable, saddled a pony, mounted a
beautiful Spanish jennet, and was about to quit the castle, when he
found his relatives, friends, squires, and vassals all standing in his
way, their glasses in their hands, ready to drink their young lord's
health and his safe return.
Yvon gracefully thanked them, bowed, and made his way by degrees through
the crowd, when, just as he was about to cross the drawbridge, a
fair-haired lady, with a haughty and disdainful air, a stranger to him,
a sister of the bridegroom, perhaps, approached him, holding a
pomegranate in her hand.
"My handsome knight," said she, with a singular smile, "you surely will
not refuse a lady's first request. Taste this pomegranate, I entreat
you. If you are neither hungry nor thirsty after so long a journey, I
suppose at least that you have not forgotten the laws of politeness."
Yvon dared not refuse this appeal. He was very wrong. Scarcely had he
tasted the pomegranate when he looked round him like a man waking from a
dream.
"What am I doing on this horse?" thought he. "What means this pony that
I am leading? Is not my place in my father's house at my sister's
wedding? Why should I quit the castle?"
He threw the bridle to one of the grooms, leaped lightly to the ground,
and offered his hand to the fair-haired lady, who accepted him as her
attendant on the spot, and gave him her bouquet to hold as a special
mark of favor.
Before the evening was over there was another betrothed couple in the
castle. Yvon had pledged his faith to the unknown lady, and Finette was
forgotten.
V
POOR Finette, seated on the seashore, waited all day long for Yvon, but
Yvon did not come. The sun was setting in the fiery waves, when Finette
rose, sighing, and took the way to the castle in her turn. She had not
walked long in a steep road, bordered with thorn trees in blossom, when
she found herself in front of a wretched hut, at the door of which stood
an old woman about to milk her cow. Finette approached her, and, making
a low courtesy, begged a shelter for the night.
The old woman looked at the stranger from head to foot. With her buskins
trimmed with fur, her full red petticoat, her blue jacket edged with
jet, and her diadem, Finette looked more like an Egyptian princess than
a Christian. The old woman frowned, and, shaking her fist in the face of
the poor forsaken girl, "Begone, witch!" she cried; "there is no room
for you in this honest house."
"My good mother," said Finette, "give me only a corner of the stable."
"Oh," said the old woman, laughing, and showing the only tooth she had
left, which projected from her mouth like a bear's tusk, "so you want a
corner of the stable, do you! Well, you shall have it, if you will fill
my milk pail with gold."
"It is a bargain," said Finette quietly. She opened a leather purse
which she wore at her belt, took from it a golden bullet, and threw it
into the milk pail, saying:
"Golden bullet, precious treasure,
Save me, if it be thy pleasure."
And behold! the pieces of gold began to dance about in the pail; they
rose higher and higher, flapping about like fish in a net, while the old
woman on her knees gazed with wonder at the sight.
When the pail was full the old woman rose, put her arm through the
handle, and said to Finette, "Madam, all is yours, the house, the cow,
and everything else. Hurrah! I am going to the town to live like a lady
with nothing to do. Oh, dear, how I wish I were only sixty!" And,
shaking her crutch, without looking backward, she set out on a run
toward Kerver Castle.
Finette entered the house. It was a wretched hovel, dark, low, damp,
bad-smelling, and full of dust and spiders' webs--a horrible refuge for
a woman accustomed to living in the giant's grand castle. Without
seeming troubled, Finette went to the hearth, on which a few green
boughs were smoking, took another golden bullet from her purse, and
threw it into the fire, saying:
"Golden bullet, precious treasure,
Save me, if it be thy pleasure."
The gold melted, bubbled up, and spread all over the house like running
water, and behold! the whole cottage, the walls, the thatch, the wooden
rocking chair, the stool, the chest, the bed, the cow's horns,
everything, even to the spiders in their webs, was turned to gold. The
house gleamed in the moonlight, among the trees, like a star in the
night.
When Finette had milked the cow and drunk a little new milk, she threw
herself on the bed without undressing, and, worn out by the fatigue of
the day, fell asleep in the midst of her tears.
Old women do not know how to hold their tongues, at least in Brittany.
Finette's hostess had scarcely reached the village when she hastened to
the house of the steward. He was an important personage, who had more
than once made her tremble when she had driven her cow into her
neighbor's pasture by mistake. The steward listened to the old woman's
story, shook his head, and said that it looked like witchcraft; then he
mysteriously brought a pair of scales, weighed the guineas, which he
found to be genuine and of full weight, kept as many of them as he
could, and advised the owner to tell no one of this strange adventure.
"If it should come to the ears of the bailiff or the seneschal," said
he, "the least that would happen to you, mother, would be to lose every
one of these beautiful bright guineas. Justice is impartial; it knows
neither favor nor repugnance; it takes the whole."
The old woman thanked the steward for his advice, and promised to follow
it. She kept her word so well that she only told her story that evening
to two neighbors, her dearest friends, both of whom swore on the heads
of their little children to keep it secret. The oath was a solemn one,
and so well kept that at noon the next day there was not a boy of six in
the village that did not point his finger at the old woman, while the
very dogs seemed to bark in their language, "Here is the old woman with
her guineas!"
A girl who amuses herself by filling milk-pails with gold is not to be
found every day. Even though she should be something of a witch, such a
girl would none the less be a treasure in a family. The steward, who was
a bachelor, made this wise reflection that night on going to bed. Before
dawn he rose to make his rounds in the direction of the stranger's
cottage. By the first gleam of day he spied something shining in the
distance like a light among the woods. On reaching the place he was
greatly surprised to find a golden cottage instead of the wretched hut
that had stood there the day before. But, on entering the house, he was
much more surprised and delighted to find a beautiful young girl, with
raven hair, sitting by the window, and spinning on her distaff with the
air of an empress.
Like all men the steward did himself justice, and knew, at the bottom of
his heart, that there was not a woman in the world that would not be too
happy to give him her hand. Without hesitating therefore he declared to
Finette that he had come to marry her. The young girl burst out
laughing, upon which the steward flew into a passion.
"Take care!" said he, in a terrible voice; "I am the master here. No one
knows who you are or whence you came. The gold that you gave the old
woman has raised suspicions. There is magic in this house. If you do not
accept me for a husband this very instant I will arrest you, and before
night perhaps a witch will be burned before Kerver Castle."
"You are very amiable," said Finette, with a charming grimace; "you have
a peculiar way of paying court to ladies. Even when they have decided
not to refuse, a gallant man spares their blushes."
"We Bretons are plain-spoken people," replied the steward; "we go
straight to the point. Marriage or prison, which do you choose?"
"Oh!" cried Finette, laying down the distaff, "there are the firebrands
falling all over the room."
"Don't trouble yourself," said the steward, "I will pick them up."
"Lay them carefully on the top of the ashes," returned Finette. "Have
you the tongs?"
"Yes," said the steward, picking up the crackling coals.
"_Abracadabra!_" cried Finette, rising. "Villain, may the tongs hold
you, and may you hold the tongs till sunset!"
No sooner said than done. The wicked steward stood there all day with
the tongs in his hand, picking up and throwing back the burning coals
that snapped in his face, and the hot ashes that flew into his eyes. It
was useless for him to shout, pray, weep, and blaspheme; no one heard
him. If Finette had stayed at home she would doubtless have taken pity
on him; but, after putting the spell upon him she hastened to the
seashore, where, forgetting everything else, she watched for Yvon in
vain.
The moment that the sun set the tongs fell from the steward's hands. He
did not stop to finish his errand, but ran as if the devil or justice
were at his heels. He made such leaps, he uttered such groans, he was so
blackened, scorched, and benumbed, that everyone in the village was
afraid of him, thinking that he was mad. The boldest tried to speak to
him, but he fled without answering, and hid himself in his house, more
ashamed than a wolf that has left his paw in the trap.
At evening, when Finette returned home in despair, instead of the
steward she found another visitor little less formidable. The bailiff
had heard the story of the guineas, and had also made up his mind to
marry the stranger. He was not rough like the steward, but a fat,
good-natured man who could not speak without bursting into a laugh,
showing his great yellow teeth, and puffing and blowing like an ox,
though at heart he was not less obstinate or less threatening than his
predecessor. Finette entreated the bailiff to leave her alone. He
laughed and hinted to her in a good-natured way that, by right of his
office, he had the power to imprison and hang people without process of
law. She clasped her hands, and begged him with tears to go. For his
only answer he took a roll of parchment from his pocket, wrote on it a
contract of marriage, and declared to Finette that should he stay all
night he would not leave the house till she had signed the promise.
"Nevertheless," said he, "if you do not like my person I have another
parchment here on which I will write an agreement to live apart; and if
my sight annoys you, you have only to shut your eyes."
"Why," said Finette, "I might decide to do as you wish if I were sure of
finding a good husband in you; but I am afraid."
"Of what, my dear child?" asked the bailiff, smiling, and already as
proud as a peacock.
"Do you think," said she, with a pettish air, "that a good husband would
leave that door wide open, and not know that his wife was freezing with
cold?"
"You are right, my dear," said the bailiff; "it was very stupid in me. I
will go and shut it."
"Have you hold of the knob?" asked Finette.
"Yes, my charmer," answered the happy bailiff; "I am just shutting the
door."
"_Abracadabra!_" cried Finette. "May you hold the door, villain, and may
the door hold you till daybreak."
And behold, the door opened and shut, and slammed against the walls like
an eagle flapping its wings. You may judge what a dance the poor captive
kept up all night. Never had he tried such a waltz, and I imagine that
he never wished to dance a second one of the same sort. Sometimes the
door swung open with him in the street; sometimes it flew back and
crushed him against the wall. He swung backward and forward, screaming,
swearing, weeping, and praying, but all in vain; the door was deaf, and
Finette asleep.
At daybreak his hands unclasped, and he fell in the road head foremost.
Without waiting to finish his errand he ran as if the Moors were after
him. He did not even turn around for fear that the door might be at his
heels. Fortunately for him all were still asleep when he reached the
village, and he could hide himself in bed without anyone seeing his
deplorable plight. This was a great piece of good fortune for him for he
was covered with whitewash from head to foot, and so pale, haggard, and
trembling that he might have been taken for the ghost of a miller
escaped from the infernal regions.
When Finette opened her eyes she saw by her bedside a tall man dressed
in black, with a velvet cap and a sword. It was the seneschal of the
barony of Kerver. He stood with his arms folded, gazing at Finette in a
way that chilled the very marrow of her bones.
"What is your name, vassal?" said he in a voice of thunder.
"Finette, at your service, my lord," replied she, trembling.
"Is this house and furniture yours?"
"Yes, my lord, everything, at your service."
"I mean that it shall be at my service," returned the seneschal sternly.
"Rise, vassal! I do you the honor to marry you, and to take yourself,
your person, and your property under my guardianship."
"My lord," returned Finette, "this is much too great an honor for a poor
girl like me, a stranger, without friends or kindred."
"Be silent, vassal!" replied the seneschal. "I am your lord and master;
I have nothing to do with your advice. Sign this paper."
"My lord," said Finette, "I don't know how to write."
"Do you think that I do, either?" returned the seneschal, in a voice
that shook the house. "Do you take me for a clerk? A cross--that is the
signature of gentlemen."
He made a large cross on the paper, and handed the pen to Finette.
"Sign," said he. "If you are afraid to make a cross, infidel, you pass
your own death sentence, and I shall take on myself to execute it." He
drew his heavy sword from the scabbard as he spoke, and threw it on the
table.
For her only answer, Finette leaped out of the window, and ran to the
stable. The seneschal pursued her thither; but, on attempting to enter
an unexpected obstacle stopped him. The frightened cow had backed at the
sight of the young girl, and stood in the doorway with Finette clinging
to her horns, and making of her a sort of buckler.
"You shall not escape me, sorceress!" cried the seneschal, and, with a
grasp like that of Hercules, he seized the cow by the tail and dragged
her out of the stable.
"_Abracadabra!_" cried Finette. "May the cow's tail hold you, villain,
and may you hold the cow's tail till you have both been around the world
together."
And behold! the cow darted off like lightning, dragging the unhappy
seneschal after her. Nothing stopped the two inseparable comrades; they
rushed over mountains and valleys, crossed marshes, rivers, quagmires,
and brakes, glided over the seas without sinking, were frozen in Siberia
and scorched in Africa, climbed the Himalayas, descended Mont Blanc, and
at length after thirty-six hours of a journey, the like of which had
never been seen, both stopped out of breath in the public square of the
village.
A seneschal harnessed to a cow's tail is a sight not to be seen every
day, and all the peasants in the neighborhood crowded together to wonder
at the spectacle. But, torn as he was by the cactuses of Barbary and the
thickets of Tartary, the seneschal had lost nothing of his haughty air.
With a threatening gesture he dispersed the rabble, and limped to his
house to taste the repose of which he began to feel the need.