branches, covered with sharp leaves, the spirits passed—nothing could
catch them; and the heat was so great the boy was bathed in
perspiration.
After the bells had finished their second peal he said: “I am stifling.
I will open the window to let out the heat as well as this herd of evil
spirits.”
But as soon as he opened the window the whole country commenced to
laugh under its white mantle of snow—barren heath, ploughed land, Druid
stones, even to the enormous oaks of the forest, with their glistening
summits, that shook their frosty branches, saying: “Sylvestre Ker will
go! Sylvestre Ker will not go!”
Not a spirit from within flew out, while all the outside spirits
entered, muttering, chattering, laughing: “Yes, yes, yes, yes! No, no,
no, no!” And I believe they fought.
At the same time the sound of a cavalcade advancing was heard on the
flinty road that passed before the tower; and Sylvestre Ker recognized
the long procession of the monks of Ruiz, led by the grand abbot,
Gildas the Wise, arrayed in cope and mitre, with his crosier in his
hand, going to the Mass of Plouharnel, as the convent-chapel was being
rebuilt.
When the head of the cavalcade approached the tower the grand abbot
cried out:
“My armed guards, sound your horns to awaken Dame Josserande’s son!”
And instantly there was a blast from the horns, which rang out until
Gildas the Wise exclaimed:
“Be silent, for there is my tenant wide awake at his window.”
When all was still the grand abbot raised his crosier and said:
“My tenant, the first hour of Christmas approaches, the glorious Feast
of the Nativity. Extinguish your furnaces and hasten to Mass, for you
have barely time.”
And on he passed, while those in the procession, as they saluted Ker,
repeated:
“Sylvestre Ker, you have barely time; make haste!”
The voices of the air kept gibbering: “He will go! He will not go!” and
the wind whistled in bitter sarcasm.
Sylvestre Ker closed his window. He sat down, his head clasped by his
trembling hands. His heart was rent by two forces that dragged him, one
to the right, the other to the left: his mother’s prayer and
Matheline’s laughter.
He was no miser; he did not covet gold for the sake of gold, but that
he might buy the row of pearls and smiles that hung from the lips of
Matheline....
“Christmas!” cried a voice in the air.
“Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!” repeated all the other voices.
Sylvestre Ker suddenly opened his eyes, and saw that the furnace was
fiery red from top to bottom, and that the crucible was surrounded with
rays so dazzling he could not even look at it. Something was boiling
inside that sounded like the roaring of a tempest.
“Mother! O my dear mother!” cried the terrified man, “I am coming. I’ll
run....”
But thousands of little voices stung his ears with the words:
“Too late, too late, too late! It is too late!”
Alas! alas! the wind from the sea brought the third peal of the bells
of Plouharnel, and they also said to him: “Too late!”
VII.
As the sound of the bells died away the last drop of water fell from
the clepsydra and marked the hour of midnight. Then the furnace opened
and showed the glowing crucible, which burst with a terrible noise, and
threw out a gigantic flame that reached the sky through the torn roof.
Sylvestre Ker, enveloped by the fire, fell prostrate on the ground,
suffocated in the burning smoke.
The silence of death followed. Suddenly an awful voice said to him:
“Arise.” And he arose.
On the spot where had stood the furnace, of which not a vestige
remained, was standing a man, or rather a colossus; and Sylvestre Ker
needed but a glance to recognize in him the demon. His body appeared to
be of iron, red-hot and transparent; for in his veins could be seen the
liquid gold, flowing into, and then in turn retreating from, his heart,
black as an extinguished coal.
The creature, who was both fearful and beautiful to behold, extended
his hand toward the side of the tower nearest the sea, and in the thick
wall a large breach was made.
“Look,” said Satan.
Sylvestre Ker obeyed. He saw, as though distance were annihilated, the
interior of the humble church of Plouharnel where the faithful were
assembled. The officiating priest had just ascended the altar,
brilliant with the Christmas candles, and there was great pomp and
splendor; for the many monks of Gildas the Wise were assisting the poor
clergy of the parish.
In a corner, under the shadow of a column, knelt Dame Josserande in
fervent prayer, but often did the dear woman turn toward the door to
watch for the coming of her son.
Not far from her was Matheline du Coat-Dor, bravely attired and very
beautiful, but lavishing the pearls of her smiles upon all who sought
them, forgetting no one but God; and close to Matheline Pol Bihan
squared his broad shoulders.
Then, even as Satan had given to Sylvestre Ker’s sight the power of
piercing the walls, so did he permit him to look into the depth of
hearts.
In his mother’s heart he saw himself as in a mirror. It was full of
him. Good Josserande prayed for him; she united Jesus, Mary, and
Joseph, the holy family, whose feast is Christmas, in the pious prayer
which fell from her lips; and ever and ever said her heart to God: “My
son, my son, my son!”
In the heart of Pol Sylvestre Ker saw pride of strength and gross
cupidity; in the spot where should have been the heart of Matheline he
saw Matheline, and nothing but Matheline, in adoration before
Matheline.
“I have seen enough,” said Sylvestre Ker.
“Then,” replied Satan, “listen!”
And immediately the sacred music resounded in the ears of the young
tenant of the tower, as plainly as though he were in the church of
Plouharnel. They were singing the _Sanctus_: “Holy, holy, holy, Lord
God of Hosts! The heavens and the earth are full of thy glory. Hosanna
in the highest! Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna in the highest!”
Dame Josserande repeated the words with the others, but the refrain of
her heart continued: “O Jesus, Infinite Goodness! may he be happy.
Deliver him from all evil and from all sin. I have only him to love....
Holy, holy, holy, give me all the suffering, and keep for him all the
happiness!”
Can you believe it? Even while piously inhaling the perfume of this
celestial hymn the young tenant wished to know what Matheline was
saying to God. Everything speaks to God—the wild beasts in the forest,
the birds in the air, even the plants, whose roots are in the ground.
But miserable girls who sell the pearls of their smiles are lower than
the animals and vegetables. Nothing is beneath them, Pol Bihan
excepted. Instead of speaking to God, Pol Bihan and Matheline whispered
together, and Sylvestre Ker heard them as distinctly as if he had been
between them.
“How much will the fool give me?” asked Matheline.
“The idiot will give you all,” replied Pol.
“And must I really squint with that one-eyed creature, and limp with
the lame wretch?”
Sylvestre Ker felt his heart die away within him.
Meanwhile, Josserande prayed: “O ever Virgin Mother! pray for my dear
child. As Jesus is your adorable heart, Sylvestre Ker is my poor
heart....”
“Never mind,” continued Bihan, “it is worth while limping and squinting
for a time to win all the money in the world.”
“That is true; but for how long?”
Sylvestre Ker held his breath to hear the better.
“As long as you please,” answered Pol Bihan.
There was a pause, after which the gay Matheline resumed in a lower
tone:
“But ... they say after a murder one can never laugh, and I wish to
laugh always....”
“Will I not be there?” replied Bihan. “Some time or other the idiot
will certainly seek a quarrel with me, and I will crack his bones by
only squeezing him in my arms; you can count upon my strength.”
“I have heard enough,” said Sylvestre Ker to Satan.
“And do you still love this Bihan?”
“No, I despise him.”
“And Matheline—do you love her yet?”
“Yes, oh! yes, ... but ... I hate her!”
“I see,” said Satan, “that you are a coward and wicked like all men.
Since you have heard and seen enough at a distance, listen, and look at
your feet....”
The wall closed with a loud crash of the stones as they came together,
and Sylvestre Ker saw that he was surrounded by an enormous heap of
gold-pieces, as high as his waist, which gently floated, singing the
symphony of riches. All around him was gold, and through the gap in the
roof the shower of gold fell and fell and fell.
“Am I the master of all this?” asked Sylvestre Ker.
“Yes,” replied Satan; “you have compelled me, who am gold, to come
forth from my caverns; you are therefore the master of gold, provided
you purchase it at the price of your soul. You cannot have both God and
gold. You must choose one or the other.”
“I have chosen,” said Sylvestre Ker. “I keep my soul.”
“You have firmly decided?”
“Irrevocably.”
“Once, twice, ... reflect! You have just acknowledged that you still
love the laughing Matheline.”
“And that I hate her; ... yes, ... it is so, ... but in eternity I wish
to be with my dear mother Josserande.”
“Were there no mothers,” growled Satan, “I could play my game much
better in the world!”
And he added:
“For the third time, ... adjudged!”
The heap of gold became as turbulent as the water of a cascade, and
leaped and sang; the millions of little sonorous coins clashed against
each other, then all was silent and they vanished. The room appeared as
black as a place where there had been a great fire; nothing could be
seen but the lurid gleam of Satan’s iron body.
Then said Sylvestre Ker:
“Since all is ended, retire!”
VIII.
But the demon did not stir.
“Do you think, then,” he asked, “that you have brought me hither for
nothing? There is the law. You are not altogether my slave, since you
have kept your soul; but as you have freely called me, and I have come,
you are my vassal. I have a half-claim over you. The little children
know that; I am astonished at your ignorance.... From midnight to three
o’clock in the morning you belong to me, in the form of an animal,
restless, roving, complaining, without help from God. This is what you
owe to your strong friend and beautiful bride. Let us settle the affair
before I depart. What animal do you wish to be—roaring lion, bellowing
ox, bleating sheep, crowing cock? If you become a dog you can crouch at
Matheline’s feet, and Bihan can lead you by a leash to hunt in the
woods....”
“I wish,” cried Sylvester Ker, whose anger burst forth at these
words—“I wish to be a wolf, to devour them both!”
“So be it,” said Satan; “wolf you shall be three hours of the night
during your mortal life.... Leap, wolf!”
And the wolf Sylvestre Ker leaped, and with one dash shattered the
casement of the window as he cleared it with a bound. Through the
aperture in the roof Satan escaped, and, spreading a pair of immense
wings, rapidly disappeared in an opposite direction from the steeple of
Plouharnel, whose chimes were ringing at the Elevation.
IX.
I do not know if you have ever seen a Breton village come forth after
the midnight Mass. It is a joyous sight, but a brief one, as all are in
a hurry to return home, where the midnight meal awaits them—a frugal
feast, but eaten with such cheerful hearts. The people, for a moment
massed in the cemetery, exchange hospitable invitations, kind wishes,
and friendly jokes; then divide into little caravans, which hurry along
the roads, laughing, talking, singing. If it is a clear, cold night,
the clicking of their wooden shoes may be heard for some time; but if
it is damp weather the sound is stifled, and after a few moments the
faint echo of an “adieu” or Christmas greeting is all that can be heard
around the church as the beadle closes it.
In the midst of all this cheerfulness Josserande alone returned with a
sad heart; for through the whole Mass she had in vain watched for her
beloved son. She walked fifty paces behind the cavalcade of the monks
of Ruiz, and dared not approach the Grand-Abbot Gildas, for fear of
being questioned about her boy. On her right was Matheline du Coat-Dor,
on her left Bihan—both eager to console her; for they thought that by
that time Sylvestre Ker must have learned the wonderful secret which
would secure him untold wealth, and to possess the son they should
cling to the mother; therefore there were promises and caresses, and
“will you have this, or will you have that?”
“Dear godmother, I shall always be with you,” said Matheline, “to
comfort and rejoice your old age; for your son is my heart.”
Pol Bihan continued:
“I will never marry, but always remain with my friend, Sylvestre Ker,
whom I love more than myself. And nothing must worry you; if he is weak
I am strong, and I will work for two.”
To pretend that Dame Josserande paid much attention to all these words
would be false; for her son possessed her whole soul, and she thought:
“This the first time he has ever disobeyed and deceived me. The demon
of avarice has entered into him. Why does he want so much money? Can
all the riches of the world pay for one of the tears that the
ingratitude of a beloved son draws from his mother’s eyes?”
Suddenly her thoughts were arrested, for the sound of a trumpet was
heard in the still night.
“It is the convent-horn,” said Matheline.
“And it sounds the wolf-alarm!” added Pol.
“What harm can the wolf do,” asked Josserande, “to a well-mounted troop
like the cavalry of Gildas the Wise? And, besides, cannot the holy
abbot with a single word put to flight a hundred wolves?”
They had arrived at the heath of Carnac, where are the two thousand
seven hundred and twenty-nine Druid stones, and the monks had already
passed the round point where nothing grows, neither grass nor heath,
and which resembles an enormous caldron—a caldron wherein to make oaten
porridge—or rather a race-course, to exercise horses.
On one side might be seen the town, dark and gloomy; on the other, as
far as the eye could reach, rows of rugged obelisks, half-black,
half-white, owing to the snow, which threw into bold relief each jagged
outline. Josserande, Matheline, and Pol Bihan had just turned from the
sunken road which branches toward Plouharnel; and the moon played
hide-and-go-seek behind a flock of little clouds that flitted over the
sky like lambs.
Then a strange thing happened. The cavalcade of monks was seen to
retreat from the entrance of the avenues to the middle of the circle,
while the horn sounded the signal of distress, and loud cries were
heard of “Wolf! wolf! wolf!”
At the same time could be distinguished the clashing of arms, the
stamping of horses, and all the noise of a ferocious struggle, above
which rose the majestic tones of Gildas the Wise, as he said with
calmness:
“Wolf, wicked wolf, I forbid you to touch God’s servants!”
But it seemed that the wicked wolf was in no hurry to obey, for the
cavalcade plunged hither and thither, as though shaken by convulsion;
and the moon having come forth from the clouds, there was seen an
enormous beast struggling with the staffs of the monks, the halberds of
the armed guard, the pitch-forks and spears of the peasants, who had
hastened from all directions at the trumpet-call from Ruiz.
The animal received many wounds, but it was fated not to die. Again and
again it charged upon the crowd, rushed up and down, round and round,
biting, tearing with its great teeth so fearfully that a large circle
was made around the grand abbot, who was finally left alone in face of
the wolf.
For a wolf it was.
And the grand abbot having touched it with his crosier, the wolf
crouched at his feet, panting, trembling, and bloody. Gildas the Wise
bent over it, looked at it attentively, then said:
“Nothing happens contrary to God’s holy will. Where is Dame
Josserande?”
“I am here,” replied a mournful voice full of tears, “and I dread a
great misfortune.”
She also was alone; for Matheline and Pol Bihan, seized with terror,
had rushed across the fields at the first alarm and abandoned their
precious charge. The grand abbot called Josserande and said:
“Woman, do not despair. Above you is the Infinite Goodness, who holds
in his hands the heavens and the whole earth. Meanwhile, protect your
wolf; we must return to the monastery to gain from sleep strength to
serve the Lord our God!”
And he resumed his course, followed by his escort.
The wolf did not move; his tongue lay on the snow, which was reddened
by his blood. Josserande knelt beside him and prayed fervently. For
whom? For her beloved son. Did she already know that the wolf was
Sylvestre Ker? Certainly; such a thing could scarcely be divined, but
under what form cannot a mother discover her darling child?
She defended the wolf against the peasants, who had returned to strike
him with their pitch-forks and pikes, as they believed him dead. The
two last who came were Pol Bihan and Matheline. Pol Bihan kicked him on
the head and said, “Take that, you fool!” and Matheline threw stones at
him and cried: “Idiot, take that, and that, and that!”
They had hoped for all the gold in the world, and this dead beast could
give them nothing more.
After a while two ragged beggars passed by and assisted Josserande in
carrying the wolf into the tower. Where is charity most often found?
Among the poor, who are the figures of Jesus Christ.
X.
Day dawned. A man slept in the bed of Sylvestre Ker, where widow
Josserande had laid a wolf. The room still bore the marks of a fire,
and snow fell through the hole in the roof. The young tenant’s face was
disfigured with blows, and his hair, stiffened with blood, hung in
heavy locks. In his feverish sleep he talked, and the name that escaped
his lips was Matheline’s. At his bedside the mother watched and prayed.
When Sylvestre Ker awoke he wept, for the thought of his condemnation
returned, but the remembrance of Pol and Matheline dried the tears in
his burning eyes.
“It was for those two,” said he, “that I forgot God and my mother. I
still feel my friend’s heel upon my forehead, and even to the bottom of
my heart the shock of the stones thrown at me by my betrothed!”
“Dearest,” murmured Josserande, “dearer to me than ever, I know
nothing; tell me all.”
Sylvestre Ker obeyed; and when he had finished Josserande kissed him,
took up her staff, and proceeded toward the convent of Ruiz to ask,
according to her custom, aid and counsel from Gildas the Wise. On her
way men, women, and children looked curiously at her, for throughout
the country it was already known that she was the mother of a wolf.
Even behind the hedge which enclosed the abbey orchard Matheline and
Pol were hidden to see her pass; and she heard Pol say: “Will you come
to-night to see the wolf run round?”
“Without fail,” replied Matheline; and the sting of her laughter
pierced Josserande like a poisonous thorn.
The grand abbot received her, surrounded by great books and dusty
manuscripts. When she wished to explain her son’s case he stopped her
and said:
“Widow of Martin Ker, poor, good woman, since the beginning of the
world Satan, the demon of gold and pride, has worked many such
wickednesses. Do you remember the deceased brother, Thaël, who is a
saint for having resisted the desire of making gold—he who had the
power to do it?”
“Yes,” answered Josserande; “and would to heaven my Sylvestre had
imitated him!”
“Very well,” replied Gildas the Wise, “instead of sleeping I passed the
rest of the night with St. Thaël, seeking a means to save your son,
Sylvestre Ker.”
“And have you found it, father?”
The grand abbot neither answered yes nor no, but he began to turn over
a very thick manuscript filled with pictures; and while turning the
leaves he said: “Life springs from death, according to the divine word;
death seizes the living according to the pagan law of Rome; and it is
nearly the same thing in the order of miserable temporal ambition,
whose inheritance is a strength, a life, shot forth from a coffin. This
is a book of the defunct Thaël’s, which treats of the question of
maladies caused by the breath of gold—a deadly poison.... Woman, would
you have the courage to strike your wolf a blow on his head powerful
enough to break the skull?”
At these words Josserande fell her full length upon the tiles, as if
she had been stabbed to the heart; but in the very depth of her
agony—for she thought herself dying—she replied:
“If you should order me to do it, I would.”
“You have this great confidence in me, poor woman?” cried Gildas, much
moved.
“You are a man of God,” answered Josserande, “and I have faith in God.”
Gildas the Wise prostrated himself on the ground and struck his breast,
knowing that he had felt a movement of pride. Then, standing up, he
raised Josserande, and kissed the hem of her robe, saying:
“Woman, I adore in you the most holy faith. Prepare your axe, and
sharpen it!”
XI.
In Brittany, when this legend is repeated, the relater here adds a
current proverb of the province: “Christians, there is nothing greater
than Faith, that is the mother of Hope, and thus the grandmother of
Holy Love, that carries one above to the Paradise of God.”
In the days of Gildas the Wise intense silence always reigned at night
through the dense oak forests of the Armorican country. One of the most
lonely places was Cæsar’s camp, the name given to the huge masses of
stone that encumbered the barren heath; and it was the common opinion
that the pagan giants supposed to be buried under them rose from their
graves at midnight, and roamed up and down the long avenues, watching
for the late passers-by to twist their necks.
This night, however—the night after Christmas—many persons could be
seen about eleven o’clock on the heath before the stones of Carnac, all
around the Great Basin or circle, whose irregular outline was clearly
visible by moonlight.
The enclosure was entirely empty. Outside no one was seen, it is true;
but many could be heard gabbling in the shadow of the high rocks, under
the shelter of the stumps of oaks, even in the tufts of thorny
brambles; and all this assemblage watched for something, and that
something was the wolf, Sylvestre Ker.
They had come from Plouharnel, and also from Lannelar, from Carnac,
from Kercado, even from the old town of Crach, beyond La Trinité.
Who had brought together all these people, young and old, men and
women? The legend does not say, but very probably Matheline had strewn
around the cruel pearls of her laughter, and Pol Bihan had not been
slow to relate what he had seen after the midnight Mass.
By some means or other the entire country around for five or six
leagues knew that the son of Martin Ker, the tenant of the abbey, had
become a man-wolf, and that he was doomed to expiate his crime in the
spot haunted by the phantoms—the Great Basin of the Pagans, between the
tower and the Druid stones.
Many of the watchers had never seen a man-wolf, and there reigned in
the crowd, scattered in invisible groups, a fever of curiosity, terror,
and impatience; the minutes lengthened as they passed, and it seemed as
though midnight, stopped on the way, would never come.
There were at that time no clocks in the neighborhood to mark the hour,
but the matin-bell of the convent of Ruiz gave notice that the
wished-for moment had arrived.
While waiting there was busy conversation: they spoke of the man-wolf,
of phantoms, and also of betrothals, for the rumor was spread that the
bans of Matheline du Coat-Dor, the promised bride of Sylvestre Ker,
with the strong Pol Bihan, who had never found a rival in the
wrestling-field, would be published on the following Sunday; and I
leave you to imagine how Matheline’s laughter ran in pearly cascades
when congratulated on her approaching marriage.
By the road which led up to the tower a shadow slowly descended; it was
not the wolf, but a poor woman in mourning, whose head was bent upon
her breast, and who held in her hand an object that shone like a
mirror, and the brilliant surface of which reflected the moonbeams.
“It is Josserande Ker!” was whispered around the circle, behind the
rocks, in the brambles, and under the stumps of the oaks.
“’Tis the widow of the armed keeper of the great door!”
“’Tis the mother of the wolf, Sylvestre Ker!”
“She also has come to see....”
“But what has she in her hand?”
Twenty voices asked this question. Matheline, who had good eyes, and
such beautiful ones, replied:
“It looks like an axe.... Happy am I to be rid of those two, the mother
and son! With them I could never laugh.”