The white-haired beggar had endeavored to protect Matheline against the
wolf, but he was very old, and his limbs would not move as quickly as
his heart. He only succeeded in throwing down the wolf. It fell at
Josserande's feet and licked her knees, uttering doleful moans. But the
people, who had come thither for entertainment, were not well pleased
with what had happened. There was now abundance of light, as men with
torches had arrived from the abbey in search of Gildas the Wise, whose
cell had been found empty at the hour of Compline.
The glare from the torches shone upon two hideous wounds made by the
wolf, who had devoured Matheline's beauty and Pol's strength,--that is
to say, the face of the one and the arms of the other--flesh and bones.
It was frightful to behold. The women wept while looking at the
repulsive, bleeding mass which had been Matheline's smiling face; the
men sought in the double bloody gaps some traces of Pol's arms, for the
powerful muscles, the glory of the athletic games; and every heart was
filled with wrath.
And the legend says that the tenant of Coat-Dor, Matheline's poor
father, knelt beside his daughter and felt around in the blood for the
scattered pearls, which were now as red as holly-berries.
"Alas!" said he, "of these dead, stained things, which when living were
so beautiful, which were admired and envied and loved, I was so proud
and happy."
Alas! indeed, alas! Perhaps it was not the girl's fault that her heart
was no larger than a little bird's; and yet for this defect was not
Matheline cruelly punished?
"Death to the wolf! death to the wolf! death to the wolf!"
From all sides was this cry heard, and brandishing pitchforks, cudgels,
ploughshares, and mallets, came rushing the people towards the wolf, who
still lay panting, with open jaws and pendent tongue, at the feet of
Dame Josserande.
Around them the torch-bearers formed a circle: not to throw light upon
the wolf and Dame Josserande, but to render homage to the white-haired
beggar, in whom, as though the scales had suddenly fallen from their
eyes, every one recognized the Grand Abbot of Ruiz, Gildas the Wise.
The grand abbot raised his hand, and the armed crowd's eager advance was
checked, as if their feet had been nailed to the ground. Calmly he
surveyed them, blessed them, and said,--
"Christians, the wolf did wrong to punish, for chastisement belongs to
God alone; therefore the wolf's fault should not be punished by you. In
whom resides the power of God? In the holy authority of fathers and
mothers. So here is my penitent Josserande, who will rightfully judge
the wolf and punish him; she is his mother."
When Gildas the Wise ceased speaking, you could have heard a mouse run
across the heath. Each one thought to himself: "So the wolf is really
Sylvestre Ker." But not a word was uttered, and all looked at Dame
Josserande's axe, which glistened in the moonlight.