THE COURTYARD OF THE PALACE.
The conversation between the young Roman and Vortigern was at this point
interrupted by Amael, who, turning back to his grandson and extending
his arm towards the horizon said to him:
"Look yonder, my child; that is the Queen of the cities of the Empire of
Charles the Great--the city of Aix-la-Chapelle."
Vortigern hastened to join his grandfather, whose eyes he now, perhaps
for the first time, sought to avoid with not a little embarrassment.
Octave's words sounded wrong on his ears, even dangerous; and he
reproached himself for having listened to them with some pleasure.
Having reached Amael, Vortigern cast his eyes in the direction pointed
out by the old man, and saw at still a great distance an imposing mass
of buildings, close to which rose the high steeple of a basilica.
Presently, he distinguished the roofs and terraces of a cluster of
houses dimly visible through the evening mist and stretching out along
the horizon. It was the Emperor's palace and the basilica of
Aix-la-Chapelle. Vortigern contemplated with curiosity the, to him, new
panorama, while Hildebrad, who had cantered ahead to make some inquiries
from a cartman coming from the city, now returned to the Bretons,
saying:
"The Emperor is hourly expected at the palace. The forerunners have
announced his approach. He is coming from a journey in the north of
Gaul. Let's hasten to ride in ahead of him so that we may salute him on
his arrival."
The riders quickened their horses' steps, and before sunset they were
entering the outer court of the palace--a vast space surrounded by many
lodges of variously shaped roofs and architecture, and furnished with
innumerable windows. Agreeable to a unique plan, with many of these
structures the ground floor was wholly open and had the appearance of a
shed whose massive stone pillars supported the masonry of the upper
tiers of floors. A crowd of subaltern officers, of servants, and slaves
of the palace, lived and lodged under these sheds, open to the four
winds of heaven and heated in winter by means of large furnaces that
were kept lighted night and day. This bizarre architecture was conceived
by the ingenuity of the Emperor. It enabled him, from his observatory,
to see with all the greater ease all that happened in these wall-less
apartments. Several long corridors, profusely ornamented with richly
sculptured columns and porticos after the fashion of Rome, connected
with another set of buildings. A square pavilion, raised considerably
above ground, dominated the system of structures. Octave called
Vortigern's attention to a sort of balcony located in front of the
pavilion. It was the Emperor's observatory. Everywhere a general stir
announced the approaching arrival of Charles. Clerks, soldiers, women,
officers, rhetoricians, monks and slaves crossed one another in great
haste, while several bishops, anxious to present the first homages to
the Emperor, were speeding towards the peristyle of the palace. So
instantly was the Emperor expected and such was the hurly at the event,
that when the cavalcade, of which Vortigern and his grandfather were a
part, entered the court, several people, deceived by the martial
appearance of the troupe, began to cry: "The Emperor!" "Here is the
Emperor's escort!" The cry flew from mouth to mouth, and in an instant
the spacious court was filled with a compact mass of servitors and
pursuivants, through which the escort of the two Bretons was hardly able
to break its way in order to reach a place near the principal portico.
Hildebrad had chosen the spot in order to be among the first to meet
Charles and to present to him the hostages whom he brought from
Brittany. The crowd discovered its mistake in acclaiming the Emperor,
but the false rumor had penetrated the palace and immediately the
concubines of Charles, his daughters and grand-daughters, their servants
and attendants, rushed out and grouped themselves on a spacious terrace
above the portico, near which the two Bretons, together with their
escort, had taken their stand.
"Raise your eyes, Vortigern," Octave said to his companion. "Look and
see what a bevy of beauties the Emperor's palace contains."
Blushing, the young Breton glanced towards the terrace and remained
struck with astonishment at the sight of some twenty-five or thirty
women, all of whom were either daughters or grand-daughters of Charles,
together with his concubines. They were clad in the Frankish fashion,
and presented the most seductive variety of faces, color of hair, shapes
and beauty imaginable. There were among them brunettes and blondes,
women of reddish and of auburn hair, some tall, others stout, and yet
others thin and slender. It was a complete display of Germanic feminine
types--from the tender maid up to the stately matron of forty years. The
eyes of Vortigern fell with preference upon a girl of not more than
fifteen, clad in a tunic of pale green embroidered with silver. Nothing
sweeter could be imagined than her rosy and fresh face crowned and set
off by long and thick strands of blonde hair; her delicate neck, white
as a swan's, seemed to undulate under the weight of her magnificent head
of hair. Another maid of about twenty years--a pronounced brunette,
robust, with challenging eyes, black hair, and clad in a tunic of
orange--leaned on the balustrade, supporting her chin in one hand, close
to the younger blonde, on whose shoulders she familiarly rested her
right arm. Each held in her hand a nose-gay of rosemary, whose fragrance
they inhaled from time to time, all the while conversing in a low voice
and contemplating the group of riders with increasing curiosity. They
had learned that the escort was not the Emperor's, but that it brought
the Breton hostages.
"Give thanks to my friendship, Vortigern," Octave whispered to the lad.
"I am going to place you in evidence, and to display you at your true
worth." Saying this, Octave covertly gave Vortigern's horse such a sharp
touch of his whip under the animal's belly that, had the Breton been
less of a horseman, he had been thrown by the violence of the bound made
by his mount. Thus unexpectedly stung, the animal reared, poised himself
dangerously for a moment and then leaped so high that Vortigern's coif
grazed the bottom of the terrace where the group of women stood. The
blonde young girl grew pale with terror, and hiding her face in her
hands, exclaimed: "Unhappy lad! He is killed! Poor young man!"
Yielding to the impulse of his age as well as to a sense of pride at
finding himself the object of the attention of the crowd that was
gathered around him, Vortigern severely chastised his horse, whose leaps
and bounds threatened to become dangerous. But the lad, preserving his
presence of mind and drawing upon his skill, displayed so much grace and
vigor in the struggle, despite his right arm's being held in the scarf,
that the crowd wildly clapped its hands and cried: "Glory to the
Breton!" "Honor to the Breton!" Two bouquets of rosemary fell, at that
moment, at the feet of the horse that, brought at last under control,
champed his bit and pawed the ground with his hoofs. Vortigern raised
his head towards the terrace whence the bouquets had just been thrown at
him, when a formidable din arose from a distance, followed immediately
by the cry, echoed and re-echoed: "The Emperor!" "The Emperor!"
At the announcement, all the women forthwith left the balcony to descend
and receive the monarch under the portico of the palace.
While the crowd swayed back and forward, crying: "Long live Charles!"
"Long live Charles the Great!" the grandson of Amael saw a troop of
riders approaching at a gallop. They might have been taken for
equestrian statues of iron. Mounted upon chargers caparisoned in iron,
their own iron casques hid their faces; cuirassed in iron and gloved in
iron, they wore leggings of iron, and bucklers of the same metal. The
last rays of the westering sun shone from the points of their iron
lances. In short, nothing was heard but the clash of iron. At the head
of these cavaliers, whom he preceded, and, like them, cased in iron from
head to foot, rode a man of colossal stature. Hardly arrived before the
principal portico, he alighted slowly from his horse and ran limping
towards the group of women who there awaited him, calling out to them,
as he ran, in a little shrill and squeaky voice that contrasted
strangely with his enormous build:
"Good-day, little ones. Good-day, dear daughters. Good-day to all of
you, my darlings." Without giving any heed to the cheers of the crowd
and to the respectful salutations of the bishops and other dignitaries,
who hurried to meet him, the Emperor Charles, that giant in iron,
disappeared within the palace, followed by his feminine cohort.