THE SPECTRE OF WISIGARDE.
While her lord and master, Neroweg, together with his leudes, was
drinking himself to the point of intoxication in the banquet hall,
Godegisele, the count's fifth wife, sat in her chamber amidst her female
slaves and diligently plied her distaff by the light of a copper lamp.
Although still young, Godegisele was of delicate health and frail. Her
complexion was waxen; her long pale-blonde hair was braided in two
strands and fell from under her _obbon_--the name given by the Franks to
a sort of skull-cap woven of gold and silver thread--over her shoulders,
that were bare like her arms. The advanced stage of pregnancy in which
she was imparted to her sweet sad features an expression of suffering.
Godegisele wore the costume of the Frankish women of high condition--a
long decollete robe with open and flowing sleeves, and held by a scarf
around her now unshapely waist. Her arms were ornamented with gold
bracelets, studded with precious stones, while a sea-eel necklace that
derived its name from the fish, which, when captured, twists itself
around the arm in such a manner that its head touches the tip of its
tail--wound its golden, ruby-dotted coil around her neck. One thing
there was about Godegisele's robe that rendered it incongruous. Its
wearer was frail, slender and short, but the rich robe seemed to have
been made for a large and robust woman. About a score of young
wretchedly clad female slaves sat around Godegisele upon the leaves that
the floor was strewn with, while the count's wife occupied an armed
stool over which a silver embroidered carpet was thrown. Several of the
girl slaves were handsome. Some worked at their distaffs like their
mistress, others were engaged at their needles; occasionally they
exchanged a few words in a low voice and in the Gallic tongue, which
their mistress, being herself of Frankish extraction, understood poorly.
One of them, named Morise, a young and handsome girl with raven-black
hair who was sold to a noble Frank when ten years of age, spoke the
language of the conquerors fluently, on account of which Godegisele
conversed with her in preference. At this moment the count's wife
dropped her distaff which she held across her knees and said to the
slave in a tremulous voice:
"And so, Morise, you saw her assassinated?"
"Yes, madam, I witnessed the sad scene. On that day she wore that same
green robe with silver flowers that you have on, she also had on the
handsome necklace and bracelets that I see on your arms and neck."
Godegisele shuddered and could not withhold a fearful glance from her
bracelets and robe, the latter of which was twice too large for her.
"And--for what reason did he kill her, Morise? What was it that angered
him?"
"He had drunk more than usual on that evening--he entered here, where we
now are, unsteady of foot. It was winter--there was a fire in the
hearth. His wife Wisigarde sat at a corner of the chimney. The seigneur
count then had among us a washerwoman, named Martine, for his favorite.
He said to Martine: 'Come, come, confounded wench--let's to bed--and
you, Wisigarde,' he added addressing his wife, 'take a lamp and light
us.'"
"That, certainly, was a great shame upon Wisigarde."
"All the more, madam, seeing she was of a proud temper and impetuous
nature. She often whipped and bit us, and she quarrelled a good deal
with the seigneur count."
"What, Morise! Did she dare quarrel with him?"
"Oh, she feared nothing--nothing! When she was in a rage, she roared and
ground her teeth like a lioness."
"What a terrible woman!"
"Well, madam, that evening, instead of yielding to the whim of the
seigneur count, and taking the lamp to light him to his bed, Wisigarde
began scolding them both--the count and Martine."
"She certainly invited death! My blood freezes in my veins at the
thought of it."
"Thereupon, madam, I saw, as clearly as I see you now, the count's eyes
grow bloodshot and froth rise to his lips. He threw himself upon his
wife, struck her in the face with his fist, and then, giving her a kick
in the stomach, threw her to the ground. She was in as towering a rage
as himself, and did not cease hurling invectives at him; she even tried
to bite him, when, after he had thrown her upon the ground, he planted
both his knees upon her chest. Finally, he held her throat so tight in
both his large hands that her face became violet and she was strangled.
After she lay dead, he went to bed with Martine."
"Morise, I fear me the same fate for myself, some day. That terrible
count will yet kill me."
And shuddering over her whole frame, Godegisele dropped her head upon
her bosom, and her distaff fell down at her feet.
"Oh, madam, you should not be so alarmed. As long, at any rate, as you
will be pregnant, you will have nothing to fear--the seigneur count will
not want to kill at one blow both his wife and child."
"But after I shall have given birth to that child--I shall then be
killed like Wisigarde!"
"That will depend, madam, upon the humor of the seigneur count. He may
prefer to cast you off and return you to your parents, as he did the
other wives whom he did not kill."
"Oh, Morise! Would to heaven that monseigneur the count would return me
to my family! What a misfortune to me it was that Neroweg should have
seen me when he visited Mayence! What a misfortune that the wisp of
straw which he threw at my breast when he took me to wife was not a
sharp-pointed dagger! I would have at least died amidst my own family."
"What wisp of straw was that, madam?"
"Do you not know that it is the custom with us, that when a Frank weds a
free girl, he takes her right hand, and with his left throws a wisp of
straw into her bosom?"
"No, madam, I did not know that."
"It is the custom in Germany. Alas, Morise, I repeat it, would that that
wisp of straw had been a dagger! I would have died without undergoing my
present agony. And now that I know about the murder of Wisigarde, my
life will be but one long and cruel agony."
"But, madam, you should have refused to wed the count, seeing he
inspired you with such horror."
"I dared not, Morise. Oh, he will surely kill me! Woe is me! He will
kill me!"
"Why think you, madam, that he will commit such a crime again? You never
as much as whisper a word, whatever he may do or say. He abuses us, the
female slaves, seeing he is master, and you never complain; you never
set foot outside of the women's apartments, except for a short walk
along the fosse of the burg. Why, madam, I ask you, do you apprehend
that your husband will kill you?"
"When he is intoxicated he does not reason."
"That is true--there is always that danger."
"But that danger is continuous; he is every day intoxicated. Oh, why did
I come to this distant region of Gaul, where I feel an utter stranger!"
And after a long interval of sad revery:
"Morise--my good Morise!"
"Madam, I am at your orders."
"You, all of you slaves, do not hate me, do you?"
"No, madam; you are not wicked like Wisigarde--you never whip and bite
us."
"Morise, listen to me."
"Madam, I listen. But why are you silent? And your cheeks, otherwise so
pale, growing incarnate--"
"It is because I dare not tell you. But listen, you are--you are--one of
monseigneur the count's favorites."
"I have no choice--if not willingly, I must submit by force. Despite my
repugnance for him, I prefer to share his bed whenever he orders me,
than to be striped by his whip, or be sent out to turn the wheel of the
mill; and by quietly submitting, I am employed in household work; that
is easier than to be employed at the hard labor of the fields--it is a
choice of evils--this is the lesser, and the food is not as poor."
"I know--I know. I do not blame you, Morise. But answer me without
lying: when you are with the count, you do not, do you, seek to irritate
him against me? Alas, we know of slaves who have in that way caused the
death of their mistresses, and who thereupon became their seigneur's
wife."
"I have such an aversion for him, madam, that I swear I never open my
mouth but to say 'yes' or 'no' in answer to any question that he may put
to me. Moreover, since he is always intoxicated at night when he calls
me in, he hardly speaks. You see I have neither the chance nor the wish
of speaking to him against you."
"Is that really true, Morise? Really?"
"Yes, yes, madam."
"I would like to make you some little present, but monseigneur never
lets me have any money. He keeps all his money under lock and key in his
coffers, and for only _morgen-gab_, the morning present that it is
customary in our country for the husband to make to his wife, the count
has given me the robes and jewels of his fourth wife, Wisigarde. Every
day he demands of me that I show them to him, and he counts them. I
have nothing to offer you, Morise, nothing but my friendship, if you
promise me not to irritate monseigneur against me."
"My heart would have to be very wicked, if I were to anger monseigneur
against you."
"Ah, Morise! How I would like to be in your place!"
"You, a count's wife--you would prefer to be a slave! Impossible!"
"He will not kill you."
"Bah! He would as soon kill me as any one else, if the fancy took
him--but you, madam, have in the meantime, beautiful dresses, rich
jewels, slaves to serve you--and besides, you are free."
"I do not step out of the burg."
"Because you do not wish to. Wisigarde rode on horseback and hunted. You
should have seen her on her black palfrey, with her purple robe, and her
falcon on her finger! At any rate, though she be dead, she never wasted
time grieving--while you, madam, do nothing else than work at your
distaff, or gaze at the sky from your window, or weep--what a life! What
a sad existence!"
"Alas, it is because I am always thinking of my own country, of my
parents, so far away--so far away from this country of Gaul, where I am
an utter stranger."
"Wisigarde did not trouble herself about such matters--she drank deeply,
and ate almost as much as the count."
"He always told me and my father that she died of an accident. And so
you assure me, Morise, that it is there--on that spot--that he killed
her?"
"Yes, madam, he threw her down with a kick--she fell near that beam--and
then--"
"What ails you, Morise--why do you tremble?"
"Madam, madam, do you not hear?"
"What? Everything is quiet."
"There is someone walking in seigneur the count's room--I hear the seats
pushed about."
"Oh, it is he--it is my husband!"
"Yes, madam, it is his step."
"Oh, I am afraid--remain near me!"
It was Neroweg. His latest libations had thrown him into a state of
almost complete intoxication. He stepped into his wife's apartment with
a drunken man's unsteady foot. At the sight of their master, all the
slaves rose timidly. As to Godegisele, she was in such a tremor that she
was hardly able to rise from her stool. The count stopped for a moment
at the threshold, leaned one hand against the door-case, and, with his
body swaying backward and forward, let his eyes travel over the scared
slaves with a besotted and semi-libidinous look. After repeated
hiccoughs he called out to his wife's confidant:
"Morise--come--come, confounded wench!"
And looking at Godegisele he added:
"You look pale--you seem troubled--my dove. Why so pale?"
The poor creature's mind doubtlessly ran upon the circumstances of the
fateful night when her husband strangled his fourth wife, shortly after
having used these very words towards his then favorite slave: 'Come,
come, confounded wench!' Neroweg's words threw his wife into greater
perturbation and frightened her to a degree that all she was able to say
was:
"Monseigneur! Monseigneur! Mercy!"
"What! What ails you? Answer!" shouted the count brutally. "Do you,
perchance, object that I told Morise to come? Dare you cross me?"
"No! Oh, no! Is not monseigneur master in this place? Are not his female
slaves at his orders? And am not I, Godegisele, myself, his humble
servant?"
And the unhappy woman, wholly losing her head in her terror, as she
imagined herself on the point of being strangled like Wisigarde, who
owed her death to her refusal to light her husband and his night's
companion to the conjugal bed, hastened to stammer:
"On the contrary--if monseigneur wishes, I shall light him to his bed
with this lamp."
"Oh, madam!" Morise whispered to her mistress. "What an unfortunate
inspiration is that! It is to recall to the count's memory the murder of
his other wife."
Indeed, at the last words of Godegisele a shudder ran through Neroweg;
he brusquely stepped towards her; seized her threateningly by the arm
and bellowed in a maudlin voice:
"Why do you propose to light me to bed with a lamp?"
"Mercy, monseigneur! Do not kill me!"--and she dropped upon her knees.
"Oh, do not kill me, your servant, as you killed Wisigarde."
The count suddenly grew as pale as his wife, and, stricken with a terror
that stimulated his inebriety, he cried:
"She knows that I strangled Wisigarde! She is uttering the same words
that Wisigarde uttered when I killed her! This is the work of some evil
spirit! Wisigarde herself or her spectre will perhaps appear this night
before my bed and torment me! It is a warning from heaven--or from hell.
The devil must be conjured away!"
And turning to Morise:
"Run quick for the clerk! He shall pray at my side during the night--he
shall not leave me. The spectre of Wisigarde will not dare to approach
me with a priest at my side."
The count's terror increased amain while Morise ran out for the clerk,
and Godegisele, more dead than alive with fear, clung on her knees to
the beam as she felt her strength wholly leaving her. The count noticed
not her distress, but also dropping on his knees smote his chest and
cried:
"Lord, God! Have mercy upon a miserable sinner! I paid for my brother's
death, I paid for the death of my wife Wisigarde, I shall pay still
more to keep Wisigarde from haunting me! I shall to-morrow start the
building of the chapel in the fastness of Allange; I shall have the
villa of Bishop Cautin rebuilt! Lord! Good Lord God! Have mercy upon a
miserable sinner! Deliver me from the devil and from the spectre of
Wisigarde!"
And the fervent and devout believer, besotted with terror and
intoxication, furiously smote his chest as, filled with frightful
anxiety, he awaited the arrival of the clerk.
Such was the humanity, generousness, enlightenment of the race of the
conquerors of old Gaul! What a tender attachment to their wives! What a
respect for the sweet bonds of the family and for the sanctity of the
domestic hearth! Oh, our mothers! Virile matrons, so venerated by our
ancestors! Proud Gallic women of yore, who sat beside your husbands at
the solemn councils of the state, where peace and war were decided upon!
Wives beloved, valiant and strong in arms! Holy virgins! Women emperors!
O, Margarid, Hena, Meroe, Loyse, Genevieve, Ellen, Sampso, Victoria the
Great--rejoice! Rejoice that you have quitted this world for the
mysterious worlds where we shall live forever! Rejoice at the strongness
of your hearts! What indignation, what shame, what a grief to your souls
at the sight of your sisters--although of a different race from your own
and hostile--at the sight of women--the wives of kings, seigneurs and
warriors--treated, the wicked and the good alike, with such contempt and
ferocity by their barbarous husbands!
Such are those Franks whom the bishops invited to the quarry of Gaul!
Such are the conquerors whom the priests of Christ fondle, caress,
flatter and bless!