HER THREE CROWNS
To the outward eye Chalon-Sur-Saône is no more than a thriving, modern,
commercial town, containing little of interest to the antiquarian;
though the stir of life on the busy wharves may prove enticing to those
who weary, sometimes, of the sleepiness of country towns, and the faded
glories of mediæval cities. Yet, for our part, especially when we are
in France, we prefer the shadows of the past to the realities of the
present; and, no sooner were we in Châlon, than we set ourselves to
picturing the town as it had been, when the river was the scene of
royal pageants, when three golden bands girdled the city walls, and
great tournaments were held on the island where bold knights laid lance
in rest round the banner of La Dame des Pleurs.
One of the last of the river pageants was in 1371, when the Duke of
Anjou gave rendez-vous to Philippe le Hardi, his brother, at the papal
city of Avignon. The Duke embarked at Châlon with a great suite. In
the first vessel was Philip and his principal barons; then came the
Chancellor's boat, with other nobles; then the barges of the kitchen,
the wardrobe, the wine-cellar, and the fish store. The Duke appeared
with great éclat at Avignon, and offered the pope a courser, a hackney,
two flagons, and two basins of silver-gilt. He also dealt so generously
with the cardinals, that, to enable him to return, he was obliged
to pawn his jewels with a Lombard, as security for a loan of twenty
thousand francs.[114]
But I want now to go back to earlier days, even, than those--to the
year 589, when Gontran was king of Burgundy, and had his court at
Châlon--whenever his wars with Childebert and Chilperic allowed him to
hold court anywhere. Gontran, it was, who, twelve years before, in 577,
had founded two miles away eastward, in the plain, a great abbey in
honour of St. Marcel, the apostle of the Châlonnais, martyred upon that
very spot. Gontran too, it was, who rebuilt the walls of Châlon, broken
down by the Huns, and ornamented them, for a belt, with three bands of
golden stone; so that, in after years, the early historians and the
poets, singing of the city by the Saône, hailed it as Orbandale, the
town "aux bandelettes d'or." That is why, to-day, the arms of Châlon
are three golden circles, two and one, on a field of azure.
I am going to tell here, briefly, the story of Bertille, the heroine of
the golden bands--surnamed, not too happily, La Judith Châlonnaise.[115]
In the year 589, there dwelt in the royal city of Châlon, a worthy
man, Vulfrand by name, and his wife, Ludwige. They had a daughter,
Bertille, supple, graceful, dignified, and so lovely and virtuous, that
she was the pride, not of her parents only, but of all the town, famous
though it then was for producing beautiful women. Bertille was nearly
seventeen years old, and she had been brought up in the Christian
faith, at a time when that religion, then still young, needed every
proselyte it could win. And she was her parents' only child.
One summer evening, after Bertille had read aloud the vesper prayer,
her father, having made the sign of the cross upon his brow, rose,
and went to the door of the apartment, which opened upon the street.
Standing upon the threshold, he was enjoying the freshness of the
twilight air, when suddenly he was aware of a commotion in the
neighbouring street--the stir of a great crowd, men's voices, and the
clatter of horses' hoofs.
"Bertille!" he called, "Come, come quickly, or you will be too late!"
And, indeed, already there drew near a great cortège, ecclesiastics for
the most part, proceeding in some dis-array, and hastening, because of
the late hour, and the distance they had yet to go.
King Gontran had convoked a council in the church of St. Marcel--the
town then named Hobiliacus--and thither this cortège of bishops and
priests was bent, eager to arrive before nightfall, that they might
begin their conference early the next morning.
Bertille came to the door just as the last members of the cortège
were passing. Among them was a rider whose costume showed plainly
that he was no ecclesiastic. From the scutcheon embroidered upon the
front of his garment, he appeared to be a noble--lord, perhaps, of
some neighbouring kingdom. His steed was rearing; and he, not averse
from showing to the crowd his strength and skill in horsemanship, let
it plunge at its will. Then he reined it in, and was looking proudly
around him at the moment when Bertille ran to the door. His eyes rested
upon her, in a fixed gaze. Bertille felt the stare; and shuddered
before it.
"Father, that horseman is not following the cortège," said the girl,
blushing and hiding her head behind Vulfrand's shoulder. "Let us go
in," she added, "I have seen enough."
"What is the matter, ma belle, are you feeling ill?"
"No, but that lord's stare has tired me."
"And reddened you, too, little angel of Paradise! But in with you!
though there's small harm in being seen; even when one is as pretty as
you." He kissed her forehead, smiling, and together they went in. They
told the mother what had chanced. "His eyes," said Bertille, "were upon
me like a serpent's upon a bird."
Night fell, and with it came the hour of sleep.
"Allons!" said Vulfrand, "Good night, my Bertille; sleep well, and
above all, forget the eye of that serpent."
"If only you were there, to put your foot on his head," said she,
smiling, to her father.
"Oh! you are no big girl, are you?--no more than the little bird was a
big bird. Go to bed; sleep, dream of him, and crush him under your own
heel." Half an hour later, Bertille was asleep.
Meanwhile, the young horseman in question, Amalon by name, a Duke
in rank, from the country of Champagne, charged with the conduct of
negotiations at the court of Burgundy, was following the cortège of
ecclesiastics, with whom he must attend to-morrow's council at St.
Marcel. But, ever, as he rode, the beautiful face of Bertille shining
before his eyes, awoke evil thoughts within him. He soon decided that
so fair a maid was better worth his attention, than a discussion with
the bishops concerning the goods of the church. So, after waiting until
the boats had carried the learned company across the Saône, he returned
to his own apartment, preoccupied, and with his heart beating rather
faster than was its wont.
"Surely the girl is very fair," he said to himself, "and well worth
a little trouble. These are quiet days in my town of Troyes; and who
knows but the name of Duchess may tickle her ears." Then he, too, slept.
The next day, the Duke Amalon, faring forth earlier than was his
custom, chanced to meet Bertille in the street, as she was going forth
to do marketing for the household. Making her a low obeisance, he
accosted the maid, told her who he was, and how her charms had brought
him, at one glance, to her feet. But, to his great surprise, he found
that neither the magic title of Duke, nor of Duchess, even, wrought
favourably with the girl. On the contrary, her dark eyes showed only
fear and resentment, until, taking advantage of the protection afforded
by passers-by, she turned swiftly and fled from him, homeward.
"Fly away, shy dove," hissed the young lord between his teeth. "None
the less there shall be good bird-nesting to-morrow."
A week later, Duke Amalon sat at the board. He was sick at heart, his
proud face aflame with wine and anger. Messengers were announced, and
there entered to him the five servants he had left behind at Châlon.
"You have been longer than long enough," he growled at them, "Ere now I
would have caught her six times over."
"She did not quit the house until this morning, Prince, and 'tis a
day's journey twixt there and here."
"'Tis well enough, for this time," said he, relenting somewhat. "Bring
in the shy dove." And he threw them a purse of gold. As they withdrew,
Amalon retired into a far corner of the apartment. The valets led into
the room Bertille, pale as the morn, and trembling, her hand upon her
breast.
"Where am I?" she cried. "Mother of God, whither hast thou let them
bring me?" And her beautiful, terrified eyes searched the room. They
lighted upon the dark face of the Duke.
"Ah!" she cried, and uttering a piercing scream, fell upon her knees.
"Well, shy bird; are you still so little fain to become the lady of
fair Champagne?" And he drew near to her. The girl raised her eyes. "Do
not come near to me," she whispered, and turned away her head.
"Come, come, listen to reason, little one. A duchy for your beaux yeux;
sooth! tis not too much; yet, for all that, be not too exacting." He
laid his fingers under the chin of the kneeling girl. Shuddering,
Bertille sprang to her feet; his touch had aroused anger, and, with
anger, courage. She turned from him, the red lips blanching, so firmly
were they set.
"Nay, do not fly my sight, wild dove."
"The dove flies the serpent's gaze," she replied. Amalon made a step
nearer. She heard the foot-fall, and could not restrain a little cry,
that was half appeal, half prayer. As she prayed, her eye caught the
glint of something shining upon the wall opposite. That cry irritated
the lord. His sensual face grew darker.
"Cry on," he scoffed; "Walls hear naught; and my men without hear only
my voice." With a sob, she flung herself on her knees before him.
"Pity! lord duke, pity! for my parents' sake. Soil not your honour,
nor mine; yield a frail girl to her mother again. Already she has wept
long for me." Then, as she humbled her beauty before him, and her long,
black hair, dishevelled, swept his very feet, strong passion burnt out
all pity from Amalon's heart. He bent low, and took her in his arms.
With a wild cry, the girl broke from his grasp, and rushed to the thing
shining on the wall. Cursing, the duke followed her. As he reached her,
she turned.
"Serpent, feel how the dove can peck!" Torchlight flashed bright upon
the uplifted blade. There came the sound of a blow, an awful cry, and
Duke Amalon, his skull cloven, lay prostrate at the feet of the maid.
With a crash, the doors flew open; five poniards were raised over
Bertille's head. The Duke saw them, before darkness swam into his dying
eyes.
"Slay her not," he whispered, "Slay her not, but let her go. This is
God's hand; so should virtue strike." He shuddered in every limb; then
lay still in death.
* * * * *
The great council at St. Marcel was nearing its end. Already King
Gontran had withdrawn to his private apartments, and the fathers were
deeply occupied with the last session of the conference. The voice
of the speaker was filling the vast nave, and all were rapt in the
closest attention, when suddenly the door of the church was seen to
open swiftly, and a figure, heedless of the guardian's stern warning,
entered the church, and ran down the nave towards the choir. At the
barrier behind which the conference was assembled, the new-comer
knelt; and the astonished prelates saw before them a young girl, weary
and travel-stained, whose disordered dress and dishevelled hair could
not conceal her natural beauty.
Crossing her hands upon her breast, she looked upwards.
"Mother of Christ! it was to keep me still worthy of thee!"
The priest, who had been addressing the conference, stood silent. Every
eye was fastened upon the maid. The ecclesiastics gathered round her,
putting questions.
"My fathers, I have but one boon to ask of you. Deign to take me to the
king. It is with him that I would speak." So the fathers brought her
to the king's presence, within the monastery. The Prince received her
kindly; but Bertille hesitated, her beautiful eyes downcast.
"Speak," said Gontran, smiling; "A maid as fair as you are has little
to fear."
"Prince," replied the young girl, "I know not how it may have pleased
God to fashion me; but if it be, indeed, beauty that He has given
me--then is beauty a fatal gift?"
"How so?" said the King, with rising interest. The girl stood silent.
She reddened, and bent her head still lower. Her breast heaved, and the
tears flowed down.
"Prince," she said in broken tones, "I am ... guilty ... and I come to
yield myself into your hands." All eyes looked at her in astonishment.
"Guilty, my child, you!" said Gontran, not less amazed than the others.
"That is not easily believed."
"Yet it is true, Prince; and the proof is, that for three days I have
seen neither father nor mother."
"And where are your parents?"
"At Châlon."
"And why have you not seen them for so long?"
"I dared not return to them. Look, Prince, look!" She loosened a fold
of her dress; and there, plain for all to see, was a large, red, stain.
"Blood!" cried Gontran.
"Blood, my King!" Then the girl told all her tale. As they heard it,
indignation, writ at first upon every face, gave way to nods and
smiles, and murmurs of applause scarce restrained, when the end came.
"No criminal here, holy fathers, methinks; but rather a heroine!" said
Gontran. Then, turning to the maid, he added:
"You hold yourself guilty; but, meseems you have been guided rather by
the Hand of God. Was the widow of Bethulie guilty when she delivered
her people? Yet, in my thought, your maiden modesty and fear rank you
above even that noble Judith. Be comforted then; to-morrow you shall
see your parents again. Now, go to rest; and God have you in His care
this night." So they made ready a chamber for Bertille; and there she
slept, and that right soundly.
* * * * *
On the next day, Gontran sent secretly to Châlon certain servants, with
commands to bring the parents of Bertille to his presence. The good
people were much terrified, and refused, at first, to follow the king's
men, saying that the loss of their daughter had stricken them so deep
in sorrow, that they would go no whither for no man--even though he be
their own beloved king, Gontran. But at length they let themselves be
persuaded, and went--not without fearful questioning as to what their
lord the king might want with such simple folk as they.
So they came before the king at the monastery of St. Marcel, and
Gontran told them that he wotted well their story, and asked them
whether they were indeed fain to see their child again.
"Ah! Prince," moaned the naïve old Vulfrand, "If the dear God had but
one angel in all heaven--and he lost her--dost think he would not be
fain for her face again?" And Ludwige wailed an echo to that plaint.
Then the king spoke much with them both, and knew that, in sooth, these
two loved their daughter well.
Meanwhile, one after one, the priests and bishops were filling the
chamber; but Vulfrand and Ludwige, with eyes only for the king, knew
nought of this, until Gontran made a movement causing them to look
round. Then, when they saw themselves in the midst of this royal
assembly, they feared greatly, and Ludwige clung to her husband. But,
with a smile and a gracious nod, the king reassured them, and bade them
be seated upon two stools, not far from his own person. So they sat
amazed, and knew not yet whether good was to befall them, or evil.
Gontran made a sign, and a great silence fell upon all. Then there
entered a young page, bearing, upon a cushion of azure velvet, three
small, golden crowns, the which he laid at the king's feet. Then that
sainted and holy bishop, Gregory of Tours, rose from his chair in
the great hall, and approached the throne. The page lifted, and put
into his hands, the cushion and the three crowns. Holding them forth,
Gregory turned to that august assembly.
"These three crowns," said he, "are each the reward of a merit--merits
widely differing, yet such as Heaven is pleased to unite, sometimes, in
a single being. Yestereve were you and I permitted to see and to hear
her whom God has so privileged; and you shall now judge whether she is
worthy of these rewards, or rather, whether these rewards are worthy of
her."
"The first of these crowns is the crown of beauty--you have seen her,
lords. The second is the crown of virtue--and how great hers is, you
know well. The third is the crown of courage--you have heard her, and
you have acclaimed her, even as have I." A murmur of assent rolled
through the assembly.
Meanwhile the young maid had been brought into the hall. She was
dressed in fair, white raiment, and veiled, even to her feet. She drew
near to the throne; and her tread was light as the foot-fall of an
angel. Ludwige and Vulfrand could not take their eyes from off her.
Their hearts beat within them as never before; yet they scarce knew
why; though, indeed, they sat beside a king.
"Come hither, noble child," said Gregory of Tours. And he took the
golden crowns in his hands, and laid upon the royal dais the azure
cushion, and bade the maid kneel thereon. Then he gave the three golden
crowns in to the hands of the king, and yielding place to him, stood
respectfully by his side. The king spoke.
"Noble child, Heaven has granted you beauty, and beauty deserves a
crown. Here is the crown of beauty." And he laid upon her brow the
first golden circlet. Then he spoke again.
"Noble child, thine is the purest virtue; virtue deserves a crown. Here
is the crown of virtue." And he placed upon her head the second golden
circlet. A third time the king spoke.
"Noble child, you have given proof of strong courage; and courage
deserves a crown. Here is the crown of courage." And he laid upon her
head the third golden round. Vulfrand and Ludwige gazed breathlessly.
"Now, brave maiden," added the king, "raise your veil." The girl
obeyed.
"My daughter!... Bertille!" ... "My Mother!" The two women wept in each
other's arms. Vulfrand drew near to the king.
"There was that within, Sire, told me you knew somewhat of my
daughter." Gontran smiled.
"Good people," said he to the happy parents, "Bertille will go back
with you to Châlon, and there, if I know aught of maids' minds, she
will tell you all. Be happy, then; for God has given you a daughter
after His Own Heart." Then, turning to the assembly, he spoke thus:
"Lords, since the fatal passage of the Huns across our land, our walls
have lain in ruin. We must needs raise them again. In so doing, let us
preserve the memory of Bertille's triumph. Three bands of gilded stone
shall be built within the wall, to serve it for a girdle; and to remind
all descendants to whom our fair city may pass, of the honour due to
beauty, to courage, and to virtue."
Loud rang the applause from all the townspeople, when, that very
evening, Bertille and her parents returned to their home. The family of
dead Amalon were forbidden by Gontran, on pain of extinction, to molest
further either parents or daughter, and soon, around the new walls of
the royal city of Châlon, ran a triple girdle of gold--the three crowns
we see to-day upon the arms of the town.
[Illustration: End of chapter IX; Her Three Crowns]
FOOTNOTES:
[114] De Barante. Tome I.
[115] François Fertiault's "Bertille" Feuilleton de Paris, 1848.
[Illustration: Heading, chapter X; Abélard and Héloïse]