AT THE FOUNTAIN OF THE FAIRIES.
That night Jeannette slept late and little. Silent and attentive during
the messenger's narrative, she had then for the first time heard
imprecations uttered at the ravages of the English, and about the
misfortunes of the gentle Dauphin of France.
James Darc, his wife and sons continued long after the departure of
Gillon the Furtive to lament the public calamities. Vassals of the King,
they loved him; and they served him all the more seeing they knew him
less and in no wise felt his feudal overlordship, having emancipated
themselves with the aid of the distance that separated them from him and
from the troubles that had fallen upon him. They were worthy but
credulous people.
Children usually are the echoes of their parents. Accordingly, following
the example of her father and mother, Jeannette, in her naïve and tender
credulity, pitied with all her heart the young prince who was so
beautiful, so brave and yet so unfortunate only through the fault of his
wicked mother. "Oh," thought she, "he is almost without a place to rest
his head, deserted by everybody, and soon will be forced to flee from
the kingdom of his ancestors!" So the messenger had said.
Jeannette, who lately was subject to causeless spells of weeping, now
wept over the misfortunes of the King; and fell asleep praying to her
dear saints Marguerite and Catherine and to the archangel Michael to
intercede with the Lord in behalf of the poor young prince. These
thoughts followed the little shepherdess even in her dreams, bizarre
dreams, in which she now would see the Dauphin of France, beautiful as
an angel, smiling upon her with sadness and kindness; and then again
hordes of armed Englishmen, armed with torches and swords, marching,
marching and leaving behind them a long trail of blood and flames.
Jeannette awoke, but her imagination being strongly affected by the
remembrance of her dreams, she could not keep her mind from ever
returning to the gentle Dauphin and being greatly moved with pity for
him. At early daylight she gathered her lambs, that every morning she
took to pasture, and led them towards the oak forest where the shade was
cool and the grass dotted with flowers. While her sheep were pasturing
Jeannette sat down near the Fountain of the Fairies, shaded by the
centennarian beech tree; and mechanically she plied her distaff.
Jeannette had not been long absorbed in her revery when she was joined
by her god-mother, Sybille, who arrived carrying on her shoulder a large
bundle of hemp that she wished to lay in the streamlet, formed by the
overflow of the spring, in order to have it retted. Although simple
minded people took Sybille for a witch, nothing in her features recalled
those usually ascribed to old women possessed of the evil spirit--hooked
nose and chin, cavernous eyes and an owlish aspect. No, far from it,
nothing could be more venerable than Sybille's pale face framed in her
white hair. Her eyes shone with concentrated fire when she narrated the
legends of the olden times or recited the heroic chants of Armorica, as
her native Brittany was once called. Without at all believing in magic,
Sybille had a profound faith in certain prophecies made by the ancient
Gallic bards. Faithful to the druidic creed of her fathers, Jeannette's
god-mother held that man never dies, but continues to live eternally,
body and soul, in the stars, new and mysterious worlds. Nevertheless,
respecting her god-daughter's religious views, Sybille never sought to
throw doubt upon the faith of the child. She loved the child tenderly
and was ever ready to tell her some legend that Jeannette would listen
to in rapt attention. Thus there was developed in the young shepherdess
a contemplative and reflecting spirit that was unusual in one of her
years, and that was no less striking than the precociousness of her
intellect. She was prepared for a mystic role.
Jeannette continued, mechanically, to ply her distaff while her eyes,
with an absent minded look in them, followed her sheep. She neither saw
nor heard Sybille approach. The latter, after having laid her hemp in
the streamlet and placed a stone on it to keep it in place, approached
Jeannette slowly and impressed a kiss upon the bowed neck of the young
girl, who uttered a startled cry and said smilingly, "Oh god-mother, you
frightened me so!"
"And yet you are not timid! You were braver the other day than I should
have been when you stoned the large viper to death. What were you
thinking about just now?"
"Oh, I was thinking that the Dauphin, our dear Sire, who is so gentle,
so beautiful, so brave and yet so unfortunate through the fault of his
mother, may, perhaps, be forced to leave France!"
"Who told you that?"
"A messenger, who stopped yesterday at our house. He told us of the harm
the English are doing the country whence he came; and also of the
troubles of our young Sire. Oh, god-mother, I felt as grieved for him as
if he were my own brother. I could not help crying before falling
asleep. Oh, the messenger repeated it over and over again that the
mother of the young prince is to blame for all of his sufferings; and
that that bad woman had lost Gaul."
"Did the messenger say all that?" asked Sybille, thrilling at a sudden
recollection, "did he say that a woman had lost Gaul?"
"Yes, he did. And he told how, through her fault, the English are
heaping sorrows upon the country people. They pillage them, kill them
and burn down their houses. They have no mercy for women or children.
They drive away the peasants' cattle"--and Jeannette cast an uneasy
glance upon her woolly flock. "Oh, god-mother, my heart bled at the
messenger's report of our young King's sufferings and at the trials of
the poor folks of those regions. To think that one bad woman could cause
so much harm!"
"A woman caused the harm," said Sybille, raising her head with a faraway
look in her eyes, "a woman will redress it."
"How can that be?"
"A woman lost Gaul," resumed Sybille, more and more dreamily, with her
eyes resting on space, "a young girl shall save Gaul. Is the prophecy
about to be fulfilled? Praise be to God!"
"What prophecy, god-mother?"
"The prophecy of Merlin, the famous enchanter. Merlin, the bard of
Brittany."
"And when did he make the prophecy?"
"More than a thousand years ago."
"More than a thousand years! Was Merlin then a saint, god-mother? He
must have been a great saint!"
Absorbed in her own thoughts, Sybille did not seem to hear the young
shepherdess's question. With her eyes still gazing afar, she murmured
slowly the old chant of Armorica:
"Merlin, Merlin, whither this morning with your black dog?
'I come here to look for the egg that is red and laid by the serpent
that lives in the sea.
I come here to look for the cress that is green and the herb that is
golden which grow in the valley,
And the branch of the oak that is stately, in the woods on the banks of
the fountain.'"[5]
"The branch of the oak that is stately--in the woods--on the banks of
the fountain?" repeated Jeannette, questioningly, looking above and
around her, as though struck both by the words and the significant
expression on Sybille's face. "It looks like this spot, god-mother, it
looks like this spot!" But noticing that the old Breton woman did not
listen to her and was seemingly lost in contemplation, she laid her hand
upon her arm and said, insistently, "God-mother, who is that Merlin of
whom you speak? Answer me, dear god-mother!"
"He was a Gallic bard whose chants are still sung in my country,"
answered Sybille, awaking from her revery; "he is spoken of in our
oldest legends."
"Oh, god-mother, tell me one of them, if you please. I love so much to
hear your beautiful legends. I often dream of them!"
"Very well, you shall be pleased, dear child. I shall tell you the
legend of a peasant who wed the daughter of the King of Brittany."
"Is it possible! A peasant wed a king's daughter?"
"Yes, and thanks to Merlin's harp and ring."