think there is a story connected with it.
When Martin Ker, the husband of Dame Josserande, died, their son
Sylvestre was only seven years old. The widow was obliged to give up
the guardianship of the great door to a man-at-arms, and retire to the
tower, which was her inheritance; but little Sylvestre Ker had
permission to follow the studies in the convent school. The boy showed
natural ability, but he studied little, except in the class of
chemistry, taught by an old monk named Thaël, who was said to have
discovered the secret of making gold out of lead by adding to it a
certain substance which no one but himself knew; for certainly, if the
fact had been communicated, all the lead in the country would have been
quickly turned into gold. As for Thaël himself, he had been careful not
to profit by his secret, for Gildas the Wise had once said to him:
“Thaël, Thaël, God does not wish you to change the work of his hands.
Lead is lead, and gold is gold. There is enough gold, and not too much
lead. Leave God’s works alone; if not, Satan will be your master.”
Most assuredly such precepts would not be well received by modern
industry; but St. Gildas knew what he said, and Thaël died of extreme
old age before he had changed the least particle of lead into gold.
This, however, was not from want of will, which was proved after his
death, as the rumor spread about that Thaël did not altogether desert
his laboratory, but at times returned to his beloved labors. Many a
time in the lonely hours of the night the fishermen, in their barks,
watched the glimmer of the light in his former cell; and Gildas the
Wise, having been warned of the fact, arose one night before Lauds, and
with quiet steps crossed the corridors, thinking to surprise his late
brother, and perhaps ask of him some details of the other side of the
dreaded door which separates life from death.
When he reached the cell he listened and heard Thaël’s great bellows
puffing and blowing, although no one had yet been appointed to succeed
him. Gildas suddenly opened the door with his master-key, and saw
before him little Sylvestre Ker actively employed in relighting Thaël’s
furnaces.
St. Gildas was not a man to give way to sudden wrath; he took the child
by the ear, drew him outside, and said to him gently:
“Ker, my little Ker, I know what you are attempting and what tempts you
to make the effort; but God does not wish it, nor I either, my little
Ker.”
“I do it,” replied the boy, “because my dear mother is so poor.”
“Your mother is what she is; she has what God gives her. Lead is lead,
and gold is gold. If you go against the will of God, Satan will be your
master.”
Little Ker returned to the tower crestfallen, and never again slipped
into the cell of the dead Thaël; but when he was eighteen years old a
modest inheritance was left him, and he bought materials for dissolving
metals and distilling the juice of plants. He gave out that his aim was
to learn the art of healing; for that great purpose he read great books
which treated of medical science and many other things besides.
He was then a youth of fine appearance, with a noble, frank face,
neither one-eyed nor lame, and led a retired life with his mother, who
ardently loved her only son. No one visited them in the tower, except
the laughing Matheline, the heiress of the tenant of Coat-Dor and
god-daughter of Josserande; and Pol Bihan, son of the successor of
Martin Ker as armed keeper of the great door.
Both Pol and Matheline often conversed together, and upon what subject,
do you think? Always of Sylvestre Ker. Was it because they loved him?
No. What Matheline loved most was her own fair self, and Pol Bihan’s
best friend was named Pol Bihan. Matheline passed long hours before her
little mirror of polished steel, which faithfully reflected her
laughing mouth, full of pearls; and Pol was proud of his great
strength, for he was the best wrestler in the Carnac country. When they
spoke of Sylvestre Ker it was to say: “What if some fine morning he
should find the secret of the fairy-stone that is the mother of gold!”
And each one mentally added:
“I must continue to be friendly with him, for if he becomes wealthy he
will enrich me.”
Josserande also knew that her beloved son sought after the fairy-stone,
and even had mentioned it to Gildas the Wise, who shook his venerable
head and said:
“What God wills will be. Be careful that your son wears a mask over his
face when he seeks the cursed thing; for what escapes from the crucible
is Satan’s breath, and the breath of Satan causes blindness.”
Josserande, meditating upon these words, went to kneel before the cross
of St. Cado, which is in front of the seventh stone of Cæsar’s camp—the
one that a little child can move by touching it with his finger, but
that twelve horses, harnessed to twelve oxen, cannot stir from its
solid foundation. Thus prostrate, she prayed: “O Lord Jesus! thou who
hast mercy for mothers on account of the Holy Virgin Mary, thy mother,
watch well over my little Sylvestre, and take from his head this
thought of making gold. Nevertheless, if it is thy will that he should
be rich, thou art the master of all things, my sweet Saviour!”
And as she rose she murmured: “What a beautiful boy he would be with a
cloak of fine cloth and a hood bordered with fur, if he only had means
to buy them!”
III.
It came to pass that as all these young people, Pol Bihan, Matheline,
and Sylvestre Ker, gained a year each time that twelve months rolled
by, they reached the age to think of marriage; and Josserande one
morning proceeded to the dwelling of the farmer of Coat-Dor to ask the
hand of Matheline for her son, Sylvestre Ker; at which proposal
Matheline opened her rosy mouth so wide, to laugh the louder, that far
back she showed two pearls which had never before been seen.
When her father asked her if the offer suited her she replied: “Yes,
father and godmother, provided that Sylvestre Ker gives me a gown of
cloth of silver embroidered with rubies, like that of the Lady of
Lannelar, and that Pol Bihan may be our groomsman.”
Pol, who was there, also laughed and said: “I will assuredly be
groomsman to my friend Sylvestre Ker, if he consents to give me a
velvet mantle striped with gold, like that of the castellan of Gâvre,
the Lord of Carnac.”
Whereupon Josserande returned to the tower and said to her son: “Ker,
my darling, I advise you to choose another friend and another bride;
for those two are not worthy of your love.”
But the young man began to sigh and groan, and answered: “No friendship
or love will I ever know, except for Pol, my dear comrade, and
Matheline, your god-daughter, my beautiful play-fellow.”
And Josserande having told him of the two new pearls that Matheline had
shown in the back of her mouth, nothing would do but he must hurry to
Coat-Dor to try and see them also.
On the road from the tower to the farm of Coat-Dor is the Point of
Hinnic, where the grass is salt, which makes the cows and rams very
fierce while they are grazing. As Sylvestre Ker walked down the path at
the end of which is the Cross of St. Cado, he saw on the summit of the
promontory Pol and Matheline strolling along, talking and laughing; so
he thought:
“I need not go far to see Matheline’s two pearls.”
And, in fact, the girl’s merry laughter could be heard below, for it
always burst forth if Pol did but open his lips; when, lo and behold! a
huge old ram which had been browsing on the salt grass tossed back his
two horns, and, fuming at the nostrils, bleated as loud as the stags
cry when chased, and rushed in the direction of Matheline’s voice; for,
as every one knows, the rams become furious if laughter is heard in
their meadow.
He ran quickly, but Sylvestre Ker ran still faster, and arrived the
first by the girl, so that he received the shock of the ram’s butting
while protecting her with his body. The injury was not very great, only
his right eye was touched by the curved end of one of the horns when
the ram raised his head, and thus Sylvestre Ker became one-eyed.
The ram, prevented from slaughtering Matheline, dashed after Pol Bihan,
who fled; reached him just at the end of the cliff, and pushed him into
the sea, that beat against the rocks fifty feet below.
Well content with his work, the ram walked off, and the story says he
laughed behind his woolly beard. But Matheline wept bitterly and cried:
“Ker, my handsome Ker, save Bihan, your sweet friend, from death, and I
pledge my faith I will be your wife without any condition.”
At the same time, amid the roaring of the waves, was heard the
imploring voice of Pol Bihan crying:
“Sylvestre, O Sylvestre Ker! my only friend, I cannot swim. Come
quickly and save me from dying without confession, and all you may ask
of me you shall have, were it the dearest treasure of my heart.”
Sylvestre Ker asked:
“Will you be my groomsman?”
And Bihan replied:
“Yes, yes, and I will give you a hundred crowns. And all that your
mother may ask of me she shall have. But hasten, hasten, dear friend,
or the waves will carry me off.”
Sylvestre Ker’s blood was pouring from the wound in his eye, and his
sight was dimmed; but he was generous of heart, and boldly leaped from
the top of the promontory. As he fell his left leg was jammed against a
jutting rock and broke, so there he was, lame as well as one-eyed;
nevertheless, he dragged Bihan to the shore and asked:
“When shall the wedding be?”
As Matheline hesitated in her answer—for Sylvestre’s brave deeds were
too recent to be forgotten—Pol Bihan came to her assistance and gaily
cried:
“You must wait, Sylvestre, my saviour, until your leg and eye are
healed.”
“Still longer,” added Matheline (and now Sylvestre Ker saw the two new
pearls, for in her laughter she opened her mouth from ear to
ear)—“still longer, as limping, one-eyed men are not to my taste—no,
no!”
“But,” cried Sylvestre Ker, “it is for your sakes that I am one-eyed
and lame.”
“That is true,” said Bihan.
“That is true,” also repeated Matheline; for she always spoke as he
did.
“Ker, my friend Ker,” resumed Bihan, “wait until to-morrow, and we will
make you happy.”
And off they went, Matheline and he, arm-in-arm, leaving Sylvestre to
go hobbling along to the tower, alone with his sad thoughts.
Would you believe it? Trudging wearily home, he consoled himself by
thinking that he had seen two new pearls behind the smile. You may,
perhaps, think you have never met such a fool. Undeceive yourself: it
is the same with all the men, who only look for laughing girls with
teeth like pearls.
But the sorrowful one was Josserande, the widow, when she saw her son
with only one eye and one sound leg.
“Where did all this happen?” she asked with tears.
And as Sylvestre Ker gently answered, “I have seen them, mother; they
are very beautiful,” Josserande divined that he spoke of her
god-daughter’s two pearls, and cried:
“By all that is holy, he has also lost his mind!”
Then, seizing her staff, she went to the Abbey of Ruiz, to consult St.
Gildas as to what could be done in this unfortunate case; and the wise
man replied:
“You should not have spoken of the two pearls; your son would have
remained at home. But now that the evil is done, nothing will happen to
him contrary to God’s holy will. At high tide the sea comes foaming
over the sands, yet see how quietly it retires. What is Sylvestre Ker
doing now?”
“He is lighting his furnaces,” replied Josserande.
The wise man paused to reflect, and after a little while said:
“In the first place, you must pray devoutly to the Lord our God, and
afterward look well before you to know where to put your feet. The weak
buy the strong, the unhappy the happy; did you know that, my good
woman? Your son will persevere in search of the fairy-stone that
changes lead into gold, to pay for Pol’s wicked friendship and for the
pearls behind the dangerous smiles of that Matheline. Since God permits
it, all is right. Yet see that your son is well protected against the
smoke of his crucible, for it is the very breath of Satan; and make him
promise to go to the midnight Mass.”
For it was near the glorious Feast of Christmas.
IV.
Josserande had no difficulty in making Sylvestre Ker promise to go to
the midnight Mass, for he was a good Christian; and she bought for him
an iron armor to put on when he worked around his crucibles, so as to
preserve him from Satan’s breath.
And it happened that, late and early, Pol Bihan now came to the tower,
bringing with him the laughing Matheline; for it was rumored around
that at last Sylvestre Ker would soon find the fairy-stone and become a
wealthy man. It was not only two new pearls that Matheline showed at
the corners of her rosy mouth, but a brilliant row, that shone, and
chattered, and laughed, from her lips down to her throat; for Pol Bihan
had said to her:
“Laugh as much as you can; for smiles attract fools, as the
turning-mirror catches larks.”
We have spoken of Matheline’s lips, of her throat, and of her smile,
but not of her heart; of that we can only say the place where it should
have been was nearly empty; so she replied to Bihan:
“As much as you will. I can afford to laugh to be rich; and when the
fool shall have given me all the gold of the earth, all the pleasures
of the world, I will be happy, happy.... I will have them all for
myself, for myself alone, and I will enjoy them.”
Pol Bihan clasped his hands in admiration, so lovely and wise was she
for her age; but he thought: “I am wiser still than you, my beauty: we
will share between us what the fool will give—one half for me, and the
other also; the rest for you. Let the water run under the bridge.”
The day before Christmas they came together to the tower—Matheline
carrying a basket of chestnuts, Pol a large jug, full of sweet cider—to
make merry with the godmother. They roasted the chestnuts in the ashes,
and heated the cider before the fire, adding to it fermented honey,
wine, sprigs of rosemary, and marjoram leaves; and so delicious was the
perfume of the beverage that even Dame Josserande longed for a taste.
On the way Pol had advised Matheline adroitly to question Sylvestre
Ker, to know when he would at last find the fairy-stone. Sylvestre Ker
neither ate chestnuts nor drank wine, so absorbed was he in the
contemplation of Matheline’s bewitching smiles; and she said to him:
“Tell me, my handsome, lame, and one-eyed bridegroom, will I soon be
the wife of a wealthy man?”
Sylvestre Ker, whose eye shot forth a lurid flame, replied:
“You would have been as rich as you are beautiful to-morrow, without
fail, if I had not promised my dear mother to accompany her to the
midnight Mass to-night. The favorable hour falls just at the first
stroke of Matins.”
“To-day?”
“Between to-day and to-morrow.”
“And can it not be put off?”
“Yes, it can be put off for seven years.”
Dame Josserande heard nothing, as Pol was relating an interesting
story, so as to distract her attention; but while talking he listened
with all his ears.
Matheline laughed no longer, and thought:
“Seven years! Can I wait seven years?” Then she continued:
“Beautiful bridegroom, how do you know that the propitious moment falls
precisely at the hour of Matins? Who told you so?”
“The stars,” replied Sylvestre Ker. “At midnight Mars and Saturn will
arrive in diametrical opposition; Venus will seek Vesta; Mercury will
disappear in the sun; and the planet without a name, that the deceased
Thaël divined by calculation, I saw last night, steering its unknown
route through space to come in conjunction with Jupiter. Ah! if I only
dared disobey my dear mother.”
He was interrupted by a distant vibration of the bells of Plouharnel,
which rang out the first signal of the midnight Mass. Josserande
instantly left her wheel.
“It would be a sin to spin one thread more,” said she. “Come, my son
Sylvestre, put on your Sunday clothes, and let us be off for the parish
church, if you please.”
Sylvestre wished to rise, for never yet had he disobeyed his mother;
but Matheline, seated at his side, detained him and murmured in silvery
tones:
“My handsome friend, you have plenty of time.”
Pol, on his side, said to Dame Josserande:
“Get your staff, neighbor, and start at once, so as to take your time.
Your god-daughter Matheline will accompany you; and I will follow with
my friend Sylvestre, for fear some accident might happen to him with
his lame leg and sightless eye.”
As he proposed, so was it done; for Josserande suspected nothing,
knowing that her son had promised, and that he would not break his
word. As they were leaving, Pol whispered to Matheline:
“Amuse the good woman well, for the fool must remain here.”
And the girl replied:
“Try and see the caldron in which our fortune is cooking. You will tell
me how it is done.”
Off the two women started; a large, kind mother’s heart, full of tender
love, and a sparrow’s little gizzard, narrow and dry, without enough
room in it for one pure tear.
For a moment Sylvestre Ker stood on the threshold of the open door to
watch them depart. On the gleaming white snow their two shadows fell;
the one bent and already tottering, the other erect, flexible, and each
step seemed a bound. The young lover sighed. Behind him Pol Bihan in a
low voice said:
“Ker, my comrade, I know what you are thinking about, and you are right
to think so; this must come to an end. She is as impatient as you are,
for her love equals yours; for both of you it is too long to wait.”
Sylvestre Ker turned pale with joy.
“Do you speak truth?” he stammered. “Am I fortunate enough to be loved
by her?”
“Yes, on my faith!” replied Pol Bihan, “she loves you too well for her
own peace. When a girl laughs too much, it is to keep from
weeping—that’s the real truth.”
V.
Well might they call him “the fool,” poor Sylvestre Ker! Not that he
had less brains than another man—on the contrary, he was now very
learned—but love crazes him who places his affections on an unworthy
object. Sylvestre Ker’s little finger was worth two dozen Pol Bihans
and fifty Mathelines; in spite of which Matheline and Pol Bihan were
perfectly just in their contempt, for he who ascends the highest falls
the lowest.
When Sylvestre had re-entered the tower Pol commenced to sigh heavily
and said:
“What a pity! What a great, great pity!”
“What is a pity?” asked Sylvestre Ker.
“It is a pity to miss such a rare opportunity.”
Sylvestre Ker exclaimed:
“What opportunity? So you were listening to my conversation with
Matheline?”
“Why, yes,” replied Pol. “I always have an ear open to hear what
concerns you, my true friend. Seven years! Shall I tell you what I
think? You would only have twelve months to wait to go with your mother
to another Christmas Mass.”
“I have promised,” said Sylvestre.
“That is nothing; if your mother loves you truly, she will forgive
you.”
“If she loves me!” cried Sylvestre Ker. “Oh! yes, she loves me with her
whole heart.”
Some chestnuts still remained, and Bihan shelled one while he said:
“Certainly, certainly, mothers always love their children; but
Matheline is not your mother. You are one-eyed, you are lame, and you
have sold your little patrimony to buy your furnaces. Nothing remains
of it. Where is the girl who can wait seven years? Nearly the half of
her age!... If I were in your place I would not throw away my luck as
you are about to do, but at the hour of Matins I would work for my
happiness.”
Sylvestre Ker was standing before the fireplace. He listened, his eyes
bent down, with a frown upon his brow.
“You have spoken well,” at last he said; “my dear mother will forgive
me. I shall remain, and will work at the hour of Matins.”
“You have decided for the best!” cried Bihan. “Rest easy; I will be
with you in case of danger. Open the door of your laboratory. We will
work together; I will cling to you like your shadow!”
Sylvestre Ker did not move, but looked fixedly upon the floor, and
then, as if thinking aloud, murmured:
“It will be the first time that I have ever caused my dear mother
sorrow!”
He opened a door, but not that of the laboratory, pushed Pol Bihan
outside, and said:
“The danger is for myself alone; the gold will be for all. Go to the
Christmas Mass in my place; say to Matheline that she will be rich, and
to my dear mother that she shall have a happy old age, since she will
live and die with her fortunate son.”
VI.
When Sylvestre Ker was alone he listened to the noise of the waves
dashing upon the beach, and the sighing of the wind among the great
oaks—two mournful sounds. And he looked at the empty seats of
Matheline, the madness of his heart; and of his dear mother,
Josserande, the holy tenderness of all his life. Little by little had
he seen the black hair of the widow become gray, then white, around her
sunken temples. That night memory carried him back even to his cradle,
over which had bent the sweet, noble face of her who had always spoken
to him of God.
But whence came those golden ringlets that mingled with Josserande’s
black hair, and which shone in the sunlight above his mother’s snowy
locks? and that laugh, ah! that silvery laugh of youth; which prevented
Sylvestre Ker from hearing in his pious recollections the calm, grave
voice of his mother. Whence did it come?
Seven years! Pol had said, “Where is the girl who can wait seven
years?” and these words floated in the air. Never had the son of Martin
Ker heard such strange voices amid the roaring of the ocean, nor in the
rushing winds of the forest of the Druids.
Suddenly the tower also commenced to speak, not only through the cracks
of the old windows when the mournful wind sighed, but with a confusion
of sounds that resembled the busy whispering of a crowd, that
penetrated through the closed doors of the laboratory, under which a
bright light streamed.
Sylvestre Ker opened the door, fearing to see all in a blaze, but there
was no fire; the light that had streamed under the door came from the
round, red eye of his furnace, and happened to strike the stone of the
threshold. No one was in the laboratory; still the noises, similar to
the chattering of an audience awaiting a promised spectacle, did not
cease. The air was full of speaking things; the spirits could be felt
swarming around, as closely packed as the wheat in the barn or the sand
on the sea-shore.
And, although not seen, they spoke all kinds of phantom-words, which
were heard right and left, before and behind, above and below, and
which penetrated through the pores of the skin like quicksilver passing
through a cloth. They said:
“The Magi have started, my friend.”
“My friend, the Star shines in the East.”
“My friend, my friend, the little King Jesus is born in the manger,
upon the straw.”
“Sylvestre Ker will surely go with the shepherds.”
“Not at all; Sylvestre Ker will not go.”
“Good Christian he was.”
“Good Christian he is no longer.”
“He has forgotten the name of Joseph, the chaste spouse.”
“And the name of Mary, the ever Virgin Mother.”
“No, no, no!”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“He will go!”
“He will not go!”
“He will go, since he promised Dame Josserande.”
“He will not go, since Matheline told him to stay.”
“My friend, my friend, to-night Sylvestre Ker will find the golden
secret.”
“To-night, my friend, my friend, he will win the heart of the one he
loves.”
And the invisible spirits, thus disputing, sported through the air,
mounting, descending, whirling around like atoms of dust in a sunbeam,
from the flag-stones of the floor to the rafters of the roof.
Inside the furnace, in the crucible, some other thing responded, but it
could not be well heard, as the crucible had been hermetically sealed.
“Go out from here, you wicked crowd,” said Sylvestre Ker, sweeping
around with a broom of holly-branches. “What are you doing here? Go
outside, cursed spirits, damned souls—go, go!”
From all the corners of the room came laughter; Matheline seemed
everywhere.
Suddenly there was profound silence, and the wind from the sea brought
the sound of the bells of Plouharnel, ringing the second peal for the
midnight Mass.
“My friend, what are they saying?”
“They say Christmas, my friend—Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!”
“Not at all! They say, Gold, gold, gold!”
“You lie, my friend!”
“My friend, you lie!”
And the other voices, those that were grumbling in the interior of the
furnace, swelled and puffed. The fire, that no person was blowing, kept
up by itself, hot as the soul of a forge should be. The crucible became
red, and the stones of the furnace were dyed a deep scarlet.