RAINY WEATHER IN THE PYRENEES--EAUX CHAUDES OUT OF SEASON, AND IN
THE RAIN--PLUCKING THE INDIAN CORN AT THE AUBERGE AT LARUNS--THE
LEGEND OF THE WEHRWOLF, AND THE BARON WHO WAS CHANGED INTO A BEAR.
I wakened next morning to a mournful _reveillé_--the pattering of the
rain; and, looking out, found the Place one puddle of melting sleet. The
fog lay heavy and low upon the hills, and the sky was as dismal as a
London firmament in the dreariest day of November. Still, M. Martin was
sanguine that it would clear up after breakfast. Such weather was
absurd--nonsensical; he presumed it was intended for a joke; but if so,
the joke was a bad one. However, it must be fine speedily--that was a
settled point--that he insisted on. Breakfast came and went, however,
and the rain was steady.
"Monsieur," said Jeanne, "has lost the season of the Pyrenees."
"Is there not the summer of St. John to come yet?" demanded Martin.
"Yes; but it will rain at least a week before then."
What was one to do? There clearly was no speedy chance of the clouds
relenting; and what was sleet with us, was dry snow further up the pass.
The Peak du Midi, with visions of which I had been flattering myself,
was as inaccessible as Chimbarozo, Spain, of which I had hoped to catch
at least a Pisgah peep--for I did want to see at least a barber and a
priest--was equally out of the question. During the morning a string of
mules had returned to Laruns, with the news that the road was blocked
up; and truly I found that, had it not been so, my first step towards
going to Spain must needs have been in the direction of Bayonne, to have
my passports _visèd_--those dreary passports, which hang like clogs to a
traveller's feet. And so then passed the dull morning tide away, every
body sulky and savage. Peasants, with dripping capas, stumbled up
stairs, and sat in groups smoking over the fire; the two old women
scolded; Jeanne grew quite snappish; and M. Martin ran out every moment
to look at the weather, and came back to repeat that it was no lighter
yet, but that it soon must clear up, positively. At length my companion
and I determined upon a sally, at all events--a bold push. Let the
weather do what it pleased, we would do what we pleased, and never mind
the weather. So old grey was harnessed in the stable; we blockaded
ourselves with wraps, and started bravely forth, a forlorn hope against
the elements. We took the way to Eaux Chaudes; and the further we went,
the heavier fell the rain--cats and dogs became a mild expression for
the deluge. The mist got lower and lower; the sleet got colder and
colder; old grey snorted and steamed; we gathered ourselves up under the
multitudinous wrappers; the rain was oozing through them--it was
trickling down our necks--suddenly making itself felt in small rills in
unexpected and aggravating places, which made sitting
unpleasant--collecting in handsome lakes at our feet, and pervading with
one vast, clammy, chilly, freezing dampness body and soul. The whole of
creation seemed resolved into a chaos of fog, mire, and rain. We had
passed into what would be called in a pantomime "the Rainy Realms, or
the Dreary Domains of Desolation;" and what comfort was it--soaked,
sodden, shivering, teeth chattering--to hear Martin proclaim, about once
in five minutes, that the weather would clear up at the next turn of the
road? The dreary day remains, cold and clammy, a fog-bank looming in my
memory ever since. I believe I saw the _établissment_ of Eaux Chaudes;
at least, there were big drenched houses, with shutters up, like
dead-lights, and closed doors, and mud around them, like water round the
ark. They looked like dismal county hospitals, with all the patients
dead except the madmen, who might be enjoying the weather and the
situation; or like gaols, with all the prisoners hung, and the turnkeys
starved at the cell doors for lack of fees. I remember hearing a doleful
voice, like that of Priam's curtain drawer, asking me if I wouldn't get
out of the vehicle; but to move was hideous discomfort, bringing new wet
surfaces into contact with the skin; so I croaked out, "No, no;
back--back to the fire at Laruns." And so honest grey, all in a steam,
splashed round through the mud; and back we went as we had come--rain,
rain, rain, pitiless, hopeless rain--the fog hanging like a grey winding
sheet above us--the zenith like a pall above that, leaden and drear, as
on a Boothia Felix Christmas Day.
There was nothing for it but the fireside. The very _douaniers_ had
abandoned the street--the pigs had retreated--the donkeys brayed at
intervals from their ground-floor parlours; and only the maniac geese
sat on one leg, croaking, to be rained on, and the marble fountain, so
pretty yester-evening in a gleam of sunshine, spouted away, bringing
"coals to Newcastle," with an insane perseverance which it made me sad
to contemplate. Dinner was ordered as soon as it could be got ready; we
felt it was the last resource. I fortunately had a change of clothes.
Martin had not; but he retired for awhile, and reappeared in a home-spun
coat and trowsers, six inches too long for him, which he was fain to
hold up, to the enormous triumph and delight of Jeanne. At length, then,
that neat-handed Phillis announced dinner.
"Stay a moment!" exclaimed Martin; "I am just going to see whether it is
likely to clear up."
Out he went into the mud, and returned with the announcement that it
would be summer weather in five minutes; he knew, by some particular
movement of the mist. But poor Martin's weather predictions had ceased
to command any credit; and the peasants around the fire shrugged their
shoulders and laughed. The dinner passed off like a funeral feast. I
looked upon the Place--still a puddle, and every moment getting deeper.
No songs--no jodling choruses to-night, maidens of Laruns!
Sitting gloomily over the Jurancon wine, and looking at the fire, I saw
a huge cauldron put on, and presently the steam of soup began to steal
into the room. Martin and Jeanne were holding confidential intercourse,
which ended in my squire's coming to me, and announcing that there was
to be held a grand _épeluche_ of the Indian corn, and that the soup was
to form the supper of the work-people. Presently, sure enough, a vast
pile of maize in the husk was brought up, and heaped upon the floor; and
as the dusk gathered, massive iron candlesticks with tapers which were
rather rushlights than otherwise, were set in due order around the
grain. Then in laughing parties, drenched but merry, the neighbours
poured in--men, women, and children--and vast was the clatter of tongues
in Bernais, as they squatted themselves down on stools and on the floor,
and began to strip off the husks of the yellow heads of corn, flinging
the peeled grain into coarse baskets set for the purpose. The old people
deposited themselves on settles in the vast chimney-nook; and amongst
them there was led to a seat a tall blind man, with grizzly grey hair,
and a mild smiling face.
"Ask that man to tell you a story about any of the old castles or towns
hereabouts," whispered Martin; "he knows them all--all the traditions,
and legends, and superstitions of Bearne."
This council was good. So, as soon as the whole roomful were at
work--stripping and peeling--and moistening their labours by draughts of
the valley vine--I proceeded to be introduced to the patriarch, but, ere
I had made my way to him:
"Pere Bruniqul," said a good-humoured looking matron; "you know you
always give us one of your tales to ease our work, and so now start off,
and here is the wine-flask to wet your lips."
All this, and the story which followed, was spoken in Bernais, so that
to M. Martin I am indebted for the outlines of the tale, which I treat
as I did that of the Baron of the Chateau de Chatel-morant:--
* * * * *
"Sir Roger d'Espaigne," said the lady of the knight she
addressed--holding in her hand the hand of their daughter Adele, a girl
of six or seven years of age--"where do you hunt to day?"
"Marry," replied her husband, "in the domains of the Dame of Clargues.
There are more bears there than anywhere in the country."
"But you know that the Dame of Clargues loves her bears, and would not
that they should be hurt; and besides, she is a sorceress, and can turn
men into animals, if she will. Oh, she practices cunning magic; and she
is also a wehr-wolf; and once, when Leopold of Tarbes struck a wolf with
an arblast bolt, and broke its right fore-leg, the Dame of Clargues
appeared with her right-arm in bandages, and Leopold of Tarbes died
within the year."
But Sir Roger was not to be talked to. He said the Dame of Clargues was
no more a witch than her neighbours; and poising his hunting-spear, away
he rode with all his train--the horses caracolling, and the great wolf
and bear-hounds leaping and barking before them. They passed the castle
of the Dame of Clargues, and plunged into the forests, where the wolves
lay--the prickers beating the bushes, and the knights and gentlemen
ready, if any game rushed out, to start in pursuit with their long,
light spears. For more than half the day they hunted, but had no
success; when, at last, a huge wolf leaped out of a thicket, and passed
under the very feet of the horses, which reared and plunged, and the
riders, darting their spears in the confusion, only wounded each other
and their beasts, while three or four of the best dogs were trampled on,
and the wolf made off at a long gallop down the wood. But Sir Roger had
never lost sight of her, and now followed close upon her haunches,
standing up in his stirrups, and couching his lance. Never ran wolf so
hard and well, and had not Sir Roger's horse been a Spanish barb, he had
been left far behind. As it was, he had not a single companion; when,
coming close over the flying beast, he aimed a blow at her head. The
spear glanced off, but blood followed the stroke, and at the same moment
the barb swerved in her stride, and suddenly stopping, fell a trembling,
and laid her ears back, while Sir Roger descried a lady close by, her
robes rustling among the forest-herbs. Instantly, he leaped off his
horse, and advanced to meet and protect the stranger from the wolf; but
the wolf was gone, and, instead, he saw the Dame of Clargues with a
wound in her left temple, from which the blood was still flowing.
"Sir Roger d'Espaigne," she said, "thou hast seen me a wolf--be thou a
bear!" And even as she spoke, the knight disappeared, and a huge, brown
bear stood before her.
"And now," she cried, "begone, and seek thy kindred in the
forest-beasts--only hearken: thou shalt kill him who killest thee, and
killing him, thou shalt end thine own line, and thy blood shall be no
more upon the earth."
When the chase came up, they found the Spanish barb all trembling, and
the knight's spear upon the ground; but Sir Roger was never after seen.
So years went by, and the little girl, who had beheld her father go
forth to hunt in the Dame of Clargues' domain, grew up, and being very
fair, was wooed and wedded by a knight of Foix, who was called Sir Peter
of Bearne. They had been married some months, and there was already a
prospect of an heir, when Sir Peter of Bearne went forth to hunt, and
his wife accompanied him to the castle-gate, even as her mother had
convoyed her father when he went on his last hunting party to the woods
of the Dame of Clargues.
"Sir Peter," said the lady, "hast thou heard of a great bear in the
forest, which, when he is hunted, the hunters hear a doleful voice,
saying, 'Hurt me not, for I never did thee any harm?'"
"Balaam, of whom the clerk tells us, ought to have that bear to keep
company with his ass," said the knight, gaily, and away he rode. He had
hunted with good success most of the day, and had killed both boars and
wolves, when he descried, couched in a thicket, a most monstrous bear,
with hair of a grizzly grey--for he seemed very old, but his eyes shone
bright, and there was something in his presence which cowed the dogs,
for, instead of baying, they crouched and whined; and even the knights
and squires held off, and looked dubiously at the beast, and called to
Sir Peter to be cautious, for never had such a monstrous bear been seen
in the Pyrenees; and one old huntsman shouted out aloud, "My lord, my
lord--draw back, for that is the bear which, when he is hunted, the
hunters hear a doleful voice, saying, 'Hurt me not, for I never did thee
any harm!'"
Nevertheless, the knight advanced, and drawing his sword of good
Bordeaux steel, fell upon the beast. The dogs then took courage, and
flew at him; but the four fiercest of the pack he killed with as many
blows of his paws, and the rest again stood aloof; so that Sir Peter of
Bearne was left face to face with the great beast, and the fight was
long and uncertain; but at last the knight prevailed, and the bear gave
up the ghost. Then all the hunt rushed in, and made a litter, and with
songs and acclamations carried the dead bear to the castle, the knight,
still faint from the combat, following. They found the Lady Adele at the
castle-gate; but as soon as she saw the bear, she gave a lamentable
scream, and said, "Oh! what see I?" and fainted. When she was recovered,
she passed off her fainting fit upon terror at the sight of such a
monster; but still, she demanded that it should be buried, and not, as
was the custom, cut up, and parts eaten. "Holy Mary!" said the knight,
"you could not be more tender of the bear if he were your father." Upon
which, Adele grew very pale; but, nevertheless, she had her will, and
the beast was buried.
That night Sir Peter de Bearne suddenly rose in his sleep, and,
catching up arms which hung near him, began to fight about the room, as
he had fought with the bear. His lady was terrified, and the varlets and
esquires came running in, and found him with the sweat pouring down his
face, and fighting violently--but they could not see with what. None
could approach him, he was so savage, and he fought till dawn, and
returned, quite over-wearied, to his bed. Next morning he knew nothing
of it; but the next night he rose again; and the next, and the next--and
fought as before. Then they took away his weapons, but he ranged the
castle through, till he found them, and then fought more furiously than
ever, till, at length, he was accustomed to fall on his knees with
weakness and fatigue. Before a month had passed, you would not have
known Sir Peter: he seemed twenty years older; he could hardly drag one
foot after the other; and he fell melancholy and pined--for at last he
knew that the curse of the bear was upon him, and that he was not long
for this world. Many then advised to send for the Dame of Clargues, who
was still alive, but old, and who was more skilful in such matters than
any priest or exorcist on this side of Paris: and at last she was sent
for, and arrived. The scar upon her forehead was still to be seen; her
grey hair did not cover it.
"Lady," said she to the Lady of Bearne, "did you ever see your father?"
"Yes, truly; the very day he went forth a-hunting and never returned, I
saw him, and I yet can fancy the face before me."
"Thou wilt see it to-night."
"Then my foreboding--that strange feeling--was true. Oh! my father--my
husband."
Midnight came, and, worn and haggard, Sir Peter de Bearne rose again to
renew his nightly combat. He staggered and groaned, and his strength was
spent, and those who stood round sang hymns and prayed aloud. At length
the knight shrieked out with a fearful voice--the first time he had
spoken in all his dreary sleep-fighting--"Beast, thou hast conquered!"
and fell back upon the floor, his limbs twisting like the limbs of a man
who is being strangled; and Adele screamed aloud.
"Look, minion, look!" exclaimed the Dame of Clargues to the
lady--passing at the same time her hand over the lady's eyes.
"O God!" cried Adele--"my father kills my husband;" and she fell upon
the floor, and she and the unborn babe died together, and Sir Peter de
Bearne was likewise lifted lifeless from the spot.
[Illustration]