Rose Marie and the Poupican.
It was spring time when we left for Brittany. Father had been there
once with Mother, and thought he would like to go again. So I said
goodbye to my Flower-Fairy, and promised that if I could I would come
back one day to see her.
The sunny air of the south had done Father good, and now he was almost
well. While we were in the train he read from the guide book, and told
me about curious "dolmens," or mounds of stone, which are supposed
to have been built to mark the ancients' burying places. There were
hundreds of these in Brittany, he said, and I was glad, for I knew they
were haunted by "Gorics" and "Courils"--strange Fairies of olden times.
That very first evening, while Father was writing letters, I slipped
away by myself instead of going to bed, for I wanted to see a Poupican.
A Poupican, you must know, is the dwarf-child of a Korrigan--a Fairy who
looks lovely by night and horrible by day, and cares for nothing so that
she gets what she wants. Korrigans are said to have been princesses in
days gone by, but they were so cruel and selfish that someone laid them
under a spell, which lasts for thousands of years unless a mortal breaks
it. On account of the wicked things they said their mouths are always
dry, and they are consumed by thirst; so they chose their homes by
streams and fountains, of which there are many in Brittany.
Father had been telling me that there was a famous fountain in a wood
not far from our hotel, and I thought I might find them here. The
fountain was hidden behind a grove of fir-trees, but the moon shone
down on its rough grey stones, and turned the square pond of water in
front of it into a silver mirror.
At first there seemed to be no one there, but when my eyes had grown
used to the gloom I saw a number of Elves about two feet in height, with
misty white veils wound round their bodies. A cloth was spread beside
the fountain. It was covered with the loveliest things to eat--honey and
fruit, and queer-shaped cakes sprinkled with sugar comfits--while in
the centre stood a crystal goblet, from which the moon drew flashes of
soft fairy light. As I crouched in the ferns, a wee green Wood-Elf stole
up behind me; her tiny face was good and kind, and although she was so
small that I could almost have held her in my hand, I felt she was there
to protect me.
Then I turned my eyes to the crystal goblet and I grew thirsty all at
once; and I wondered what the Korrigans would do if I took a sip of the
amber wine which filled it to the brim.
"One drop would make you wise for ever," whispered the Wood-Elf, just as
if I had spoken, "but you would be silent for ever, also. No mortal can
drink that wine and live. The Korrigans pass it round to each other in a
golden cup at the end of their feast, which takes place but once in the
year. It gives them power to work many charms, and to take the form of
animals at will."
[Illustration]
The Hunter who shot the white Doe.
"Once, in these very woods, a hunter shot a fair white doe, when to
his amazement, she spoke to him in a human voice. He was so touched by
her reproaches that he tore his fine linen shirt into strips to bind
up her wound, and then hurried off to the spring for water to quench
her thirst. It was dusk by the time he could get back to her, for the
first spring he reached was dry, and instead of the milk-white doe, he
found a beauteous maiden, who threw herself on his bosom and entreated
him not to leave her. For a year and a day he was under her spells,
but he escaped in the end by making the sign of the cross with his two
forefingers. This sign puts a Korrigan to instant flight, for things
which are holy fill them with terror.... Ah! they have been at their
mischief again. Poor Annette will weep for this."
The Wood-Elf stopped speaking, for running lightly over the grass,
holding each other's long white veils so as to form a swinging cradle,
came a group of nine smooth-limbed Korrigans, their red-gold hair
tossing on the wind behind them. In the midst of the hanging cradle lay
a tiny baby, with widely opened eyes and a solemn pink face, sucking a
fat round thumb.
"They have stolen him from his mother, while she dreamt of fairy gold,"
the Wood-Elf sighed. "She should not have left her door on the latch;
it was a sad mistake. In her little one's place there is now a Poupican.
At first she will not know, but will fondle and kiss the changeling as
if he were her own. After a while she will grieve to find that he gives
her no love in return for hers, and plays as readily with strangers as
with his mother. But her husband, who is a hard man, will rejoice at the
wee child's cleverness. For he will have an old head on young shoulders,
and be wise beyond his years."
While the Wood-Elf was speaking, poor Annette's baby lay contentedly
beside the crystal goblet, sucking his thumb and looking up at the
stars. The Korrigans had left off singing now, and they were passing
round the golden cup when there came on the wind the sound of a church
bell. Flinging the cup and the goblet into the pond, and staying only
to wind the baby in their clinging veils, the Korrigans fled into the
darkness with cries of anguish. Some spell seemed to hold me, or I
should have tried to rescue the little thing; for it was dreadful to
think what might happen to him with the Korrigans.
But the Wood-Elf was quite comforting. "He will be well taken care of,"
she said, "and someday Annette may break the spell, with the help of the
Cure. Rose-Marie got back her child by her own wit, but then she has the
name of the blessed Mother. 'You would like to know how?' Then I must
speak softly, lest a Korrigan should hear."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Rose Marie and the Poupican.
"Rose-Marie was very young when she married Pierre," began the Elf, "and
nothing his mother or hers could say would induce her to beware of
Korrigans when her baby came.
'They would not hurt him even if they could,' she cried. 'Who could harm
anything so small and sweet?' And she actually set his cradle under
the cherry trees, so that his round pink face was covered with fallen
petals. Then she went to fetch Pierre from his sowing that he might see
how his little son was hidden under the spring snow, and lingered on her
way to gather a cluster of purple violets.
When she had disappeared, the Korrigans stole her baby, leaving a
Poupican in the fragrant nest. The sun had gone in when she came back,
and the little creature was wailing fretfully, Rose-Marie snatched him
to her bosom and tried to soothe him, but from that day forward she had
no rest. Her milk was sweet and plentiful, and the cradle was soft and
warm, but he gave neither her nor her good man Pierre a moment's peace.
All through the hours of the night he wailed, and tore at her hair when
she held him close to her, scratching her face like an angry kitten.
[Illustration: Rose-Marie and the Poupican]
When he grew older, he was just as bad, for there was no end to his
mischief. He shut the cat in a bin of flour, and opened the oven door
when Rose-Marie was baking, so that the bread was spoilt. He drove the
hens into the brook, and cut the cord which tethered Pierre's white cow,
so that she roamed for miles. And with all he did, he never uttered a
word. It was this which first roused Rose-Marie's suspicions, and after
that she watched him carefully.
One morning she made up her mind to surprise him into speaking, and as
he sat beside the hearth, peering at her through his half-closed eyes,
she set an egg shell on the fire, and placing in this a spoonful of
broth, stirred it carefully with a silver pin. The Poupican was amazed,
for it was nearing the dinner hour, and there would be ten to feed. At
last he could contain himself no longer.
'What are you doing, Mother?' he asked in a strange cracked voice.
'I am preparing a meal for ten,' returned Rose-Marie, without looking
round.
'For ten--in an eggshell?' he cried. 'I have seen an egg before a hen;
I have seen the acorn before the oak; but never yet saw I folly such as
this!' And he fell to cackling like a full farmyard, rocking himself
from side to side, and repeating, 'Such folly I never saw!' until even
gentle Rose-Marie was moved to anger.
'You have seen too much, my son,' she said, and lifting him up by the
scruff of his neck in spite of his struggles, she carried him out of
the house. Then, sitting down on a heap of stones beside the brook,
she proceeded to whip him soundly. At his first cry of pain a Korrigan
appeared, in the shape of an ugly old woman with bleared red eyes and
straggling tresses. She was leading a curly-haired boy by the hand,
the living image of Pierre. As she released him he flew across the
grass to Rose-Marie and hid his face in her skirts.
'Here is thy son!' croaked the Korrigan. 'I have fed him on meal and
honey, and he has learnt no evil. Give me my Poupican, and I will go.'
So Rose-Marie gave up the Poupican, and with a thankful heart took her
own son home."
* * * * *
"Do you know any more stories?" I asked when the Elf stopped for breath.
I didn't want to go back just yet, for it was jolly in the wood, and I
could smell violets close by.
"More than I can tell," replied the Elf, "but you shall hear what
happened to Peric and Jean."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Story of Peric and Jean.
"In a beautiful valley not far from here a number of Korrigans were
accustomed to gather on summer nights, for the grass was soft as velvet,
and the mountains sheltered it from the breeze. None of the peasants
dare cross the valley after dark, lest they might be forced to join
their revels; for it was known by all that the Korrigans must dance
whether they would or not, until some mortal should break the charm that
had been laid upon them.
One evening, when the west was aglow with fire, a farmer was sent for
to attend the sick bed of his mother, who lived on the other side of
the valley. His wife and he had been at work all day in the fields,
since labour was scarce and they were poor, and as both loved the old
woman dearly, they hurried off without stopping to lay aside their
_fourches_--little sticks which are still used in some parts of
Brittany as 'plough paddles.' By the time they were half-way across
the valley, the dusk had fallen, and they found themselves encircled
by angry Korrigans, who shrieked with rage and made as if they would
tear them to pieces. Before they had touched them, however, they all
fell back, and a moment later broke into singing. This was their
song:--
'Lez y, Lez hon,
(_Let him go, let him go_,)
Bas an arer zo gant hook;
(_For he has the wand of the plough_;)
Lez on, Lez y,
(_Let her go, let her go_,)
Bas an arer zo gant y!'
(_For she has the wand of the plough_!)
Then the dancers made way for the farmer and his wife, who reached the
old mother safely, and comforted her last hours.
When they returned to their own homes they told what they had seen and
heard. Some of the villagers were still too much afraid of the Korrigans
to venture, but others armed themselves with _fourches_, and hastened to
the valley when night had fallen. All of these witnessed the famous
dance, but none felt inclined to join it.
In a neighbouring village two tailors dwelt, and they were as anxious as
the rest to see the Korrigans. The elder was a tall and handsome fellow
named Jean, but in spite of his inches he had no pluck, and was idle as
well as vain. The other was Peric, a red-haired hunchback, so kind and
lovable in spite of his looks that if ever a neighbour were in trouble,
it was to Peric he went first. Though the hunchback and Jean shared the
same business, the latter was always gibing at Peric, and left him to do
most of the work.
'Since you're so courageous,' he sneered, one fine warm night when
he and Peric had stayed behind in the valley to watch the Korrigans,
'suppose you ask them to let you join their dance. Your hump should make
you safe with them, for they are not likely to fall in love with you.'
'All right,' said Peric cheerfully, though at this unkind reference to
his deformity his face had flushed. And taking off his cap he approached
the whirling Elves.
'May I dance with you?' he asked politely, dropping his _fourche_ to
show he trusted them.
'You're more brave than good looking,' they replied, their feet still
moving to the same quick measure. 'Are you not afraid that we shall work
you ill?'
'Not a bit!' answered Peric, joining hands with them; and he started to
sing as lustily as they:--
'_Dilun, Dimeurs, Dimerc'her_,'
which means 'Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.' After a while he grew tired of
singing these three words so often, and went on of his own accord:--
'_Ha Diriaou, ha Digwener_,'
(And Thursday and Friday!)
'_Mat! Mat!_' (Good! Good!) cried the Korrigans in chorus, and though he
could not tell why they were so delighted, he was glad to have given
them pleasure. When they offered him the choice of wealth or power in
return for some mysterious service which he seemed to have rendered
them, he only laughed, for he thought that they were poking fun at him.
'Take away my hump, then,' he cried at last, 'and make me as handsome as
my friend Jean. A little maid whom I love dearly will not look at me
when he is near, though she likes well enough to talk to me by the
fountain if he is out of the way.'
[Illustration: They tossed him three times in the air.]
[Illustration]
'Is that all?' exclaimed the Korrigans. 'That will not give us the
slightest trouble!' and catching him in their veils, they tossed him
three times in the air. The third time he alighted on his feet. He was
now as tall and straight as he could wish to be, with fine soft hair as
black as the raven's wing.
Instead of rejoicing at his friend's good fortune, Jean was full of
envy. Forgetting his fears in his greed for gain, he pushed himself into
the midst of the Korrigans, who had once more begun to dance, and joined
them in their singing. His voice was less melodious than Peric's, and he
did not keep time so well, but they suffered him amongst them out of
curiosity.
Presently he, like Peric, grew tired of the monotonous chant, and
shouted:
'_Ha Disadarn, ha Disul_'
(And Saturday and Sunday)
'What else? what else?' cried the Korrigans in great excitement, but
he only looked as stupid as an owl, and repeated these words over and
over. Catching him in their veils, they tossed him up as they had done
Peric, and when he came down again he found he had red hair and a hump.
They were angry you see, that he had come so near to breaking the spell
and had then disappointed them, for if he had only had the sense to add:
'_Ha cetu chu er sizun_,'
(And now the week is ended)
he would have broken the spell and set them free, since Peric had
already sung 'And Saturday and Sunday.'"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]