THE DEVIL'S PIT
By a curious coincidence--by a real coincidence, reader, not by
design--it was on a morning of Easter-day that we rode out from Dijon
to Lux--on just such an Easter morning as that about which I am going
to tell; the air fresh and fragrant, the larks in full song, and the
sun shining so strongly in the deep, blue sky, that I had to make a
Sunday purchase of a broad-brimmed straw hat. So that, you see, in one
sense, I began the day badly, and perhaps deserved the trouble that
befell me later.
Lux, the village in which the legend begins, and the village beyond it,
are not particularly interesting places, situate on the border of the
Forêt de Velours, some twenty or more kilometres north-east of Dijon,
in Wiltshire-like scenery reminding one of Salisbury Plain. If you want
a not too exciting excursion, to fill an otherwise idle day, by all
means go there; but truth compels me to add that this Creux du Diable,
when you have found it[179]--and it is not particularly easy to find,
being hidden one hundred yards within the wood--is not exciting. It is
just a tangled pit running sheer down from the scrub that borders the
forest path. One look at it was enough. We felt no desire to follow the
devil down into its depths, nor did conscience tell us that we deserved
to. True, we, too, had hunted on Easter morning, without going to Mass;
but then we had hunted a legend, not a boar--and surely that makes all
the difference.
Back to the village, then, we went; and there I re-discovered a
peasant, of whom I had asked the way. He was sitting in a lovely
doorway, at the top of some broken steps, reading a paper. Hearing the
whirr of the wheels, he looked up.
"Ah ha! did you find it?" "Thanks to you," said I, and joined him on
the steps.
"Mon Dieu," says he, "It's a strange place. It ends almost in a
point--this Creux du Diable. It is just full of foxes' holes; and as
for the vipers--there are so many there that, when the time comes to
cut the wood, they have to do it in the fraiche; sans cela ils vous
mordent les jambes à tout instant. O! il y en a; il y en a!
"Why do they bite less in the fraiche--these limbs of Satan?" I asked
him.
"Oh! they are busy in the morning (font leur travail le matin)."
I tried to get the old man's version of the legend; but, discovering
that he knew nothing of it, I bid him farewell.
"Good-bye," said he, shaking my hand warmly, "When we meet at Dijon,
nous irons boire un coup."
So we rode home through a hop country--a land of blackthorn and good
purple furrows, dotted with stacks of poles. Will you listen, while we
go, to the legend of that viper-haunted pit?
THE DEVIL'S PIT
It is Easter day. From the belfry the Alleluia rings out; the lark
sings it above the meadows; the thrush whistles it in the woods; the
sun writes it in letters of gold on the blue, blue sky. All nature is
in her gayest mood, to celebrate the festival of Christ's resurrection.
In the village of Lux, all hearts are echoing this Alleluia. The good
people, in their holiday attire, go to hear matins, and to receive
communion with holy Jesus, the renewer of heavenly as of earthly
spring. But to Gaston, the lord of the village, the pure joys of the
Christian Easter are unknown. He is a young baron, proud, haughty,
violent, and devoted only to the chase. Loudly he sounds the horn, and
cries to his servants: "Saddle the horses, and bring hither my hounds."
Vainly the grooms and valets recall to him the solemnity of the day,
and our Lord's commandment. "To the hunt," he cries; "We leave prayers
to the priests and the women; such a fine hunting day is not to be
missed."
The steeds are ready; in the courtyard of the castle the hounds are
baying. As Gaston gives the signal for departure, the old chaplain lays
his hand on the courser's rein.
"For the love of Heaven, Monseigneur!" cries he, "do not thus outrage
God, nor so darkly stain your soul!"
The headstrong baron strikes the priest, who, without flinching, offers
again his old white head to the blow.
"Strike again, Monseigneur; but, for pity of your soul, do not fail to
hear mass to-day; else, evil will befall you."
Again he is repulsed, and the young lord departs.
Followed by his hounds and his servants, and blowing great blasts upon
his horn, Gaston passes through a straggling village. Disdainfully
he looks down on the good villagers, who salute him on their way to
church. "Misfortune will come upon our lord," murmur the old men.
"Great and powerful seigneur though he be, he insults and scorns a
greater and more powerful than himself."
Two wide roads meet upon the verge of the forest of Velours. There
come two horsemen, riding swiftly as the wind, and place themselves
each by Gaston's side. He on the right, mounted on a white horse, is
radiant and of noble mien; his eyes shine with a heavenly light, and
his clothing, glistening like snow, exhales a perfume sweeter than the
meadows on a morning of Spring. The rider on the left is of sullen
countenance, and swarthy of aspect; his glance stern and forbidding.
His hair is blacker than the raven's wing; and his garments, darker
than the night, emit an odour of sulphur. His steed glows like a flame
of fire.
"Friends," cries Gaston, "Welcome to you both. In happy hour you have
come, to hunt the great woods with me. Fair fall us then! there is no
sport, in heaven or on earth, like the chase--above all when we hunt in
goodly company."
The horseman on the right speaks: "Young seigneur, the bell calls you;
listen to its plaintive note chiming, from far away, through the trees.
Return; or misfortune will befall you. Let us kneel together at the
altar of Christ. Already, before daybreak, I heard mass, and sang the
Alleluia; willingly will I do so again by your side. Come! Our duty
done, sweeter by far will be the pleasures of the chase."
"Ride, noble baron, ride," cries the black horseman. "Do not listen to
this ill counsellor. The bugle blast is finer music than the chiming of
bells, and the hunt better pastime far than a dull priest's sermon, and
the droning of hymns."
"Well said, friend on my left!" cries Gaston. "Without offence to the
white horseman, you are jovial company, after my own heart. We young
lords want lively sport and merry jests; let us leave sermons and
paternosters to the monks."
Gaston has unleashed his hounds. Caressing them with eye and hand,
urging them on with voice and gesture, he looses them upon the scent.
With heads held low and wagging tails, baying with deep bell notes,
they dash through the forest upon the track of the game. The baying
redoubles, as, plunging into a thick copse, they come upon the lair of
a great wolf. With bristling hair, fiery eyed, and snarling horribly,
for an instant the fierce brute faces the hounds, then turns, and flies
through the forest. Vainly he seeks the thickest brakes, the most
secret hollows; always the ravening pack is at his heels.
At length the wolf gains the open country, and the chase follows him:
the blast of Gaston's horn has collected the scattered huntsmen. Far,
far they gallop, by cornfields and meadows, over weald and waste.
From a hamlet before them, comes tripping a little shepherdess at the
head of her flock. The road is narrow and bordered by hedges. All in
tears, the child cries out to Gaston: "Be merciful, sweet lord, be
merciful; spare my flock. For pity's sake, do not destroy the widow's
sheep, and our dear little lambs."
"Have pity, for your soul's sake," cries the white horseman. "Do not
scorn her prayers nor her tears; they will rise to God, and cry out for
vengeance against you there."
"Ride down lambs and sheep," replies the black rider. "What are
they--that they should spoil a young lord's sport? For such a trifle
must we let our prey escape us?"
[Illustration: Through the Forest]
"You are right," cries the impetuous hunter. He spurs on his horse;
after him gallop the grooms and the valets. Only the white horseman
turns aside with a sigh.
Like a whirlwind the hunt has passed, leaving desolation and death in
its wake. The sheep fall bleeding to the earth, the lambs are trampled
down, and the little shepherdess is lying upon the ground, bruised like
a trodden flower of the field.
Still the wolf flies on--by field and wood, by hill and valley, by
upland and mountain. None can overtake him. The hounds fall exhausted;
scarce a horse can carry its rider further.
The hunters come to a lonely valley. There, near a spring which bubbles
beneath an ancient oak, a little chapel and a cottage rise from the
midst of a field of green corn. This is the little domain of an old
hermit, whose days are passed in work and in prayer; one who shelters
the poor, and puts the lost traveller upon his way.
"Noble baron," cries the black horseman, "By my troth, here let us
stay, and refresh ourselves. There is water for our thirst, and good
grazing for our steeds." "Zounds," replies the hunter, "You say well."
Gaston, with a blast of his horn, recalls the hounds and attendants;
and, despite the entreaties of the white horseman, and the reluctance
of his followers, he bids them turn the horses into the field of green
corn. Hastening to him, the hermit cries, in tones of earnest pleading:
"Have pity, gracious lord; spare the labour of an old man; do not let
your steeds devour and trample down the field which nourishes the
solitary, the traveller, and the poor."
"To the devil with hermits and nuns," replies the proud hunter. "Away
with you, lazy rascal; or your carcass shall go to feed my hounds."
Frightened and sad, the poor old man turns away, murmuring to himself:
"Father, which art in Heaven, forgive this young man; Thy providence
which feeds the birds of the air and clothes the flower of the field
will suffice for me also."
"Gaston," interposes the white rider, "Your words are harsh. Who knows
but that you owe your very life to this old man? that, perchance
without his prayers and fastings, your soul, already weighed many times
in the heavenly scales, might well have been found too light." But the
admonition of the white horseman passes unheeded. Seated beside the
spring, the huntsmen make a long and merry repast; the jests ring out,
loose and loud; with wild laughter the young baron applauds every
sally of his dark companion.
'Tis the vesper hour; the hermit rings the chapel bell. To-day he is
not alone in the sanctuary; the white horseman, leaving his companions,
joins the old man in psalm and canticle. Never has the recluse heard a
voice more pure, never has he joined in a more holy communion. The two
servants of God, leaving the chapel together, pause for a moment on the
threshold. They gaze out over the scene. The huntsmen are gone; the
field of green corn is ravaged, blasted, as though by a storm of hail.
In one hour, Gaston's horses have destroyed the work of a year.
The white horseman bids farewell to the hermit, and hastens to join the
baron. Regretfully the recluse watches the departing figure. "Who," he
murmurs to himself, "may this noble hunter be? His kiss has filled me
with peace and joy, and all my heart is aglow in his presence."
Now the hunt is again set on. The wolf has doubled back upon his track.
Meanwhile the forest shadows lengthen, the sun is low upon the horizon.
Once more the hunt passes through the village. In the road, still red
with the blood of the shepherdess, a poor man stands, awaiting Gaston.
He seizes the young lord's cloak, and asks alms, for the love of God.
"Dear baron," cries the white rider, "It is a means of grace, which the
Saviour sends you. I beseech you, redeem your sins by the giving of
alms; it is like water which quenches fire. Give a helping hand to him
who stands for Jesus."
"Gaston," retorts the black rider, "For this clown will you stay the
hunt, and let the great wolf win the day? Gallop! gallop!"
"There are my alms," cries the brutal lord; and, making his horse rear,
with his whip he strikes at the poor man's head. The beggar utters
a cry, and wipes his bleeding face. Again the hunt plunges into the
forest of Velours, in pursuit of the tireless wolf. The sun has set
behind the great trees; the forest shadows are blotted out in the
darkness of the night. 'Tis the hour of solemn thought.
"Friend," says the white horseman, softly to Gaston, "this has been an
ill day's work: you have mocked God, you have insulted his minister;
you have trampled upon the shepherdess and her flock; you have ravaged
the hermit's field, and you have struck the face of the poor. Turn, I
entreat you, a suppliant eye to heaven, breathe a word of repentance
towards God."
"What is that to me?" replies the hunter with a sneer. "Time enough yet
to think of my soul. When I can search the woods no more, then I will
wear a hair shirt, throw largesse to monk and beggar, and mutter psalms
and what-not in church; but, until then, the gay life for me!"
"Gaston! the life of man is short and fragile; it is given him, not to
waste in folly; but to purchase therewith the joys of heaven. I conjure
you, for your soul's sake, implore the mercy of God."
"He's dull company indeed! Off with you to your paradise!" cries
the young lord, irritated by these entreaties, and by his day of
ill-success.
"Farewell, Gaston," murmurs the white rider. "Why would you not listen
to one who would save you?" A tear falls from his eye, as spreading
wide two white wings, he soars heavenward, leaving behind him a stream
of light.
Then the hunter realizes that his good angel has deserted him.
Fearfully he looks towards the dark figure on his left; a shiver of
mortal dread shakes every limb, and the sweat of death rises damp upon
his face. The arms of the black one extend and seize him. He feels his
flesh pierced and torn by talons more powerful than a lion's, sharper
than those of a vulture. He roars with pain and terror; so bewildered
is he, that no cry to God comes from him, nor, with the holy sign, does
he invoke the name of Jesus.
Still grasping his prey, the black horseman strikes the ground with his
lance. The earth groans deeply, opens wide, and from the gaping cavity
there rises a column of black smoke. From the abyss beneath, a sea of
fire, upon whose heaving waves are rolled the legions of the damned,
rise lamentations, cries, and blasphemies, heard above the roaring
of the infernal waters. Like fiery serpents the flames writhe and
coil round the body of the guilty hunter. "Gaston," hisses the black
horseman, as steed and rider leap into the boiling cavity; "Gaston, you
have lent ear to me during life; now you are mine for all eternity."
"Woe betide me!" cries the reprobate. "I have disregarded the Lord's
warning, and the counsels of my good angel!"
The abyss closed up, leaving only a dark and fearsome cavity. That
cavity is the Devil's Pit.
* * * * *
We had started on our way back to Dijon by train, when, at Gemeaux, the
first stopping place, I became unpleasantly aware that I had left my
notebook behind me, on the table of a café at Is-sur-Tille. Not caring
to leave several chapters of this volume to the vagaries of a very
uncertain memory, there was nothing for it but to leave the train, and
walk the five kilometres back to Is. Under less anxious circumstances
I should have enjoyed that walk, by field paths, below hills that
reminded me of the North Downs at Wrotham. The light was golden; the
evening breeze rustled in the young crops. In front of me paced a
shepherd, followed by a flock of pattering sheep, at whose fleeces
the guardian dog tugged mercilessly, when succulent, wayside trifles
tempted them from the straight path.
On the bridge at Is, I met mademoiselle of the café, whose beaming
countenance revealed to me, before she spoke, the news that she had
found my book. So far so good; but how to pass the four hours before
the next train? I was cold and clammy; and much too tired to explore
that savage étang de Marcilly hard by--lonely and desolate enough for
the site of a Cistercian house. Such places need a receptive mood.
Moreover, here was no fit place to dine--and I had within me a _Creux
du Diable_. Surely my good angel had left me.
I dined at last--very badly--and there were still two hours to wait.
Time flew no longer; it crept. Thoughts came no longer; nothing came;
nothing happened. I was bored, bored stiff. Reader, do you know what it
is to be bored?
"I wish to goodness you wouldn't be so garrulous--all about nothing."
"That's all very well, Reader; but what the dickens is a fellow to do,
cast away for four mortal hours in this benighted hole--except talk?"
"Well its your own fault. You ought to have known, when you started,
that it was Easter morning, and----"
"Oh! G r r r r r r r!"
"Monsieur, it is time you left. If you miss this train you will be here
all night!"
"Et bien; au revoir, Mademoiselle."
FOOTNOTES:
[179] The Carte-Taride marks it incorrectly as being outside the wood,
whereas it is within it.
[Illustration: Heading, chapter XVI; Vine Ornament]