IN THE GALLERIES OF THE PALACE.
Amael and his grandson were lodged in one of the upper chambers of the
palace, whither they were conducted by Hildebrad to rest after the
fatigue of their recent journey. Supper was served to them and they were
left to retire for the night.
At break of day the next morning, Octave knocked at the door of the two
Bretons and informed them that the Emperor wished to see them. The Roman
urged Vortigern to clothe himself at his best. The Breton lad had not
much to choose from. He had with him only two suits of clothes, the one
he wore on the journey, another, green of color and embroidered with
orange wool. This notwithstanding, thanks to the fresh and new clothes,
in which the colors were harmoniously blended and which enhanced the
attractiveness of the charming face as well as the gracefulness of his
supple stature, Vortigern seemed to the critical eyes of Octave worthy
of making an honorable appearance before the mightiest Emperor in the
world. The centenarian could not restrain a smile at hearing the praises
bestowed upon the figure of his grandson by the young Roman, who advised
him to draw tighter the belt of his sword, claiming that, if one's
figure is good, it was but right to exhibit it. While giving his
advices to Vortigern in his wonted good humor, Octave whispered in his
friend's ear:
"Did you notice yesterday the nose-gays that fell at the feet of your
horse? Did you notice who the girls were from whom the bouquets came?"
"I think I did," stammered the young Breton in answer, and he blushed to
the roots of his hair, while despite himself, his thoughts flew to the
charming young blonde. "It seems to me," he added, "that I saw the two
bouquets fall."
"Oh, it seems to you, hypocrite! Nevertheless, it was my whip that
brought down the two bouquets! And do you know what imperial hands it
was that threw them down in homage to your address and courage?"
"Were the bouquets thrown down by imperial hands?"
"Yes, indeed, seeing that Thetralde, the timid blonde child and
Hildrude, the tall and bold brunette, are both daughters of Charles. One
of them was dressed in a green robe of the color of your blouse, the
other in orange of the color of your embroidery. By Venus! Are you not a
favored mortal? Two conquests at one clap!"
Engaged at the other end of the chamber, Amael did not overhear the
words of Octave that were turning Vortigern's face as scarlet as the
color of his chaperon's cloak. The preparations for the presentation
being concluded, the two hostages followed their guide to appear before
the Emperor. After crossing an infinite number of passages and mounting
and descending an equal number of stairs, in all of which they
encountered more women than men, the number of women lodged in the
Imperial Palace being prodigious, the Bretons were led through vast
halls. To describe the sumptuous magnificence of these galleries would
be no less impossible than to enumerate the pictures with which their
halls were ornamented. Artisans, brought from Constantinople, where, at
the time, the school of Byzantine painting flourished, had covered the
walls with gigantic designs. In one place the conquests of Cyrus over
the Persians were displayed; at another, the atrocities of the tyrant
Phalaris, witnessing the agonies of his victims, who were led to be
burned alive in a brass caldron red with heat; at still another place,
the founding of Rome by Romulus and Remus was reproduced; the conquests
of Alexander and Hannibal, and many other heroic subjects. One of the
galleries of the palace was consecrated wholly to the battles of Charles
Martel. He was seen triumphing over Saxons and Arabs, who, chained at
his feet, implored his clemency. So striking was the resemblance that
while crossing the hall Amael cried out:
"It is he! Those are his features! That was his bearing! He lives again!
It is Charles!"
"One would think you recognize an old acquaintance," observed the young
Roman, smiling. "Are you renewing your acquaintance with Charles
Martel?"
"Octave," answered the old man melancholically, "I am one hundred years
old--I fought at the battle of Poitiers against the Arabs."
"Among the troops of Charles Martel?"
"I saved his life," answered Amael, contemplating the gigantic picture;
and speaking to himself, he proceeded with a sigh: "Oh, how many
recollections, sweet and sad, do not those days bring back to me! My
beloved mother, my sweet Septimine!"
Octave regarded the old man with increasing astonishment, but, suddenly
collecting himself, he grew pensive and hastened his steps, followed by
the two hostages. Dazzled by the sights before him Vortigern examined
with the curiosity of his age the riches of all kinds that were heaped
up all around him. He could not refrain from stopping before two objects
that attracted his attention above all others. The first was a piece of
furniture of precious wood enriched with gilt mouldings. Pipes of
copper, brass and tin, of different thicknesses rose above each other in
tiers on one side of the wooden structure. "Octave," asked the young
Breton, "what kind of furniture is this?"
"It is a Greek organ that was recently sent to Charles by the Emperor of
Constantinople. The instrument is truly marvelous. With the aid of brass
vessels and of bellows made of ox-hides, which are concealed from view,
the air enters these tubes, and, when they are played upon, one time you
think you hear the rumbling of thunder, another time, the gentle notes
of the lyre or of cymbals. But look yonder, near that large table of
massive gold where the city of Constantinople is drawn in relief, there
you see no less ingenious an object. It is a Persian clock, sent to the
Emperor only four years ago by Abdhallah, the King of Persia." Saying
this, Octave pointed out to the young Breton and his grandfather, who
became no less interested than Vortigern himself, a large time-piece of
gilt bronze. Figures denoting the twelve hours surrounded the dial,
which was placed in the centre of a miniature palace made of bronze, and
likewise gilt. Twelve gates built in arcades were seen at the foot of
the monumental imitation. "When the hour strikes," Octave explained to
the Bretons, "a certain number of brass balls, equal in number to the
hour, drop upon a little cymbal. At the same moment, these gates fly
open, as many of them as the corresponding hour, and out of each a
cavalier, armed with lance and shield, rides forth. If it strikes one,
two or three o'clock, one, two or three gates open, the cavaliers ride
out, salute with their lances, return within, and the gates close upon
them."
"This is truly a marvelous contrivance!" exclaimed Amael. "And are the
names of the men known who fashioned these prodigies around us, these
magnificent paintings, that gold table where a whole city is reproduced
in relief, this organ, this clock, in short, all these marvels! Surely
their authors must have been glorified!"
"By Bacchus, Amael, your question is droll," answered Octave smiling.
"Who cares for the names of the obscure slaves who have produced these
articles?"
"But the names of Clovis, of Brunhild, of Clotaire, of Charles Martel
will survive the ages!" murmured the centenarian bitterly to himself,
while the young Roman remarked to Vortigern:
"Let us hurry; the Emperor is waiting for us. It will take whole days,
months and years to admire in detail the treasures that this palace is
full of. It is the favorite resort of the Emperor. And yet, as much as
his residence at Aix-la-Chapelle, he loves his old castle of Heristal,
the cradle of his mighty stock of mayors of the palace, where he has
heaped miracles of art."