NOW after many years of wandering, of singing, of making beautiful
songs, of teaching and wandering again, Herve's dear mother Rivanone
died. But he still had some one to love and look for him and the wolf
when he came home from his travels. For Rivanone had adopted a dear
little girl named Christine, beautiful as sunshine and sweet as a
flower. She called Herve "Uncle" and loved him dearly, and the wolf was
a great friend of hers.
So at last he thought to settle down and make music about him in his own
home, letting people come there to hear it, instead of carrying it to
them by road and river. For he was growing an old man, and it was not so
easy to travel in his blindness as it used to be. Besides, the black
wolf was also growing gray, and needed rest after these long years of
faithful work.
Herve resolved to build a church, and to live there with Christine near
him in a little house of her own. He had grown to be an important
personage in the world, and had many friends, pupils, and followers who
wanted to live near him. So forth they set to find a place for their
church, Herve and his troop of black-robed monks. And before them, like
a little white dove among the ravens, ran Christine holding her uncle's
hand in one of hers, and in the other grasping the leash at which tugged
the grizzled old wolf, who was guiding them. Over many a hill and dale
and bloomy meadow he had led Herve before now, down many a lane and
village street, but never upon so important a journey as this. For this
was to be the old wolf's last long tramp with his master. And the wolf
was to choose the spot where the church should stand. Where he stopped
to rest, there would they lay the first stone.
So he led them on and on. And at last he lay down in a green spot by a
river, just the place for a beautiful church to grow up. And thenceforth
Herve the minstrel would wander no more, but bide and rest and be happy
with the wolf and Christine.
They built her an arbor near the church, in a clump of willows on the
border of a spring. It was cone-shaped and covered with straw like a
huge beehive. And Christine herself seemed like a busy bee gathering
honey as she buzzed in and out among the roses, humming little tunes
below her breath. For she was always among the flowers, as Rivanone had
been. Every Saturday morning she would rise early, and with her little
basket on her arm would go out to pick the blossoms with the dew still
on them. And every Saturday evening she came to the church with her arms
full of flowers till she looked like a bouquet of sweetness. And going
into the empty church she would busy herself with arranging the flowers
for the next morning's service. For it was her duty to see that Uncle
Herve's church was kept clean and sweet and beautiful.
And while Christine stood there putting the flowers into tall golden
vases, singing softly the songs which Rivanone had taught her, her Uncle
Herve would come creeping up the steps of the church, his hand on the
head of the wolf, who always led him to the place where he heard her
voice. Softly, very softly, as if he were doing something naughty,
Herve would pull open the heavy door, just a crack, the better to hear
her sing. Then he would put his ear to the opening; while the wolf would
thrust his nose in below, and wag his tail eagerly. But Christine's keen
ears always heard them, no matter how slyly the good blind man crept up
to that door. And it became part of the game that she should cry out
suddenly,--
"I see you, Uncle! I see you!" And though he could not see her at all,
he would start and pop back, pulling the wolf with him as though he had
done something wrong. Then without making any noise they would tiptoe
away to Herve's house, their hearts beating with love for the dear
little maiden who would soon come to bid them good-night on her way home
to her bower.
So they lived happily all the rest of their days, these three among the
flowers. And in spite of his name Herve's life was not one of
bitterness, but of joy. The kingdom which had come to him from Hyvarnion
and Rivanone was his all his life long; and though he no longer wandered
painfully from town to town, the songs which he made wandered still
from heart to heart. And long, long afterwards their echo made music
through the land of Brittany, as the fragrance of a flower lasts long
after the flower has passed on its way elsewhere.
Dear Saint Herve!