[Illustration: 0123]
There was here a quaint Hôtel de Ville in the Flemish-Renaissance style,
much floriated in parts. Let us hope that this has been spared. The site
of the ancient abbey had been most charmingly covered with a blooming
garden of brilliant flowers, and here children and nurses played, while
"invalides" dozed on the benches in the sunlight. From the baths a very
wild and beautiful park stretched across the country to the forest of
Raismes through the forest of St. Amand.
Epehy is another small town now held by the Germans because of its
strategical value. It is on the ancient Roman road, or "Chaussée
Brunehaut," which runs from Arras to Rheims. Under the great church are
subterranean galleries, which, it is said, stretch for unknown distances
in every direction; indeed, it seems as if the whole country hereabouts
were undermined by these ancient galleries, many of which were
unexplored, and in some instances shunned by the peasants as haunted
by evil spirits, and many and fantastic were the tales told of some
of these caverns, during the summer days when wanderings about the
countryside held us here in happy durance. It was delightful to watch
the grave old men of the village playing bowls or skittles, and their
pride over the skill which enabled one of them, a patriarch, to account
for six pins at one shot. His cannoning was the very poetry of statics.
As a foil the unskillful efforts of the present writer were not
altogether unsuccessful, for they brought to the stolid faces of the
players smiles not unkindly, but of considerable latitude.
In the little "estaminet" (Spanish estamento) at the foot of the hill,
cutlets, broiled young chicken, and a rough and cheap but good sparkling
wine, all graced by the good humor of the proprietor, raised our
content to enthusiasm, so we saw and studied the locality, socially and
mythologically, to the end of its possibilities.
We found that these peasants, seemingly so phlegmatic and commonplace,
were really chimerical, and their tales and conversation skirted the
borderland of fact and fancy. The two were so melted down and run into
one mold as to be impossible of separation. I have listened to some of
these tales with interest, until the splashes of golden light were gone
from the valleys and a vast canopy of rose-shot lilac emblazoned the
setting of the sun. In the woods hereabouts, as in other parts of this
region of caverns, thin mysterious sounds were often audible at night
to those who had ears to hear: the noise of a distant hunt, the sound of
winding horns, the confused shouts of a troop of hunters, and the chime
of hounds in full cry. Pious and superstitious peasants, listening
indoors, crossed themselves, those who were abroad in the lanes hastened
their steps, not glancing in the direction from which the sounds came.
It was the Wild Chasseur. This is the story: St. Amand, Count of the
Palatinate, lived hereabouts in the tenth century, in a great castle of
which even the foundations have long since disappeared. He was known as
a mighty hunter, but was a profane prince, caring naught for the worship
of the Lord, nor the chant of the priest, but following ever the wild
creatures, rather than the ways of truth and righteousness. There came
one day in the autumn, and it was Sunday, long before the coming dawn
disclosed the distant dome of the Cathedral. When this reckless count
mounted his great horse, and at the head of an equally reckless band of
merry hunters, started out on the chase, the great dim forests rang with
the loud blasts of the horn, and the loud shouts of the young men broke
the calm stillness of the holy day and scandalized the good priests, and
the pious people of the neighborhood. Out came the noisy cavalcade into
the open where four roads met. To them, one from the North and one from
the South, and galloping furiously, came two horsemen; the one from the
North was young, blonde and handsome, with an air of distinction, all
clad in bright new cloak and bonnet of golden yellow.
The cavalier from the South seemed a man of temper, and was of sinister
visage, bestriding a great horse of a temper to match that of its rider.
His costume was of black velveteen save for his headpiece of scarlet
cloth, which flowed scalloped down his back.
The Count at the head of his troop saluted these two strangers
courteously and invited them bear him company in the chase.
"My lord," answered the rider from the North, removing his bonnet, and
showing his fair hair in a golden mass about his shoulders, "the Sabbath
bells are ringing in your church for the service in praise of our Lord
and Saviour, Jesus Christ, for'tis the hour in which the voices of men
in holy canticle are sent on high asking forgiveness of our sins and
iniquities. This day is sanctified to Him above. I do bid you
now accompany me unto the throne of Grace, on bended knee, in all
humility.--For upon the offender shall descend the vengeance of the Most
High, forever and ever."
"In Satan's name, Sir Golden Locks!" answered St. Amand scornfully,
"thou hast a tongue like a ranting priest. What right hast thou to wear
a sword, pray?--I have no mind for canticles to-day!"
Loud laughed the troop of cavaliers at this, and then was heard the
voice of the rider in black from the South, whose great horse champed
the bit and tossed its head restlessly.
"Come, let us away, St. Amand! What care have we for monastery bells and
sniveling priests!--Let us to the noble chase for mass, with sound of
the winding horn for organ note!"
"Well said, Sir Red Crest," replied St. Amand, with a loud laugh and a
wave of his gauntleted hand. "_Ventre son gris!_ Let us away then!"
The whole troop sprang forward at the word. Over the hills, through
the ravines and deep ditches, and into the dark woods, ever rode the
strangers, one at the right and one at the left of St. Amand. On the
right, the fair young golden haired knight, and on the left, the black
clad sinister man with the crimson hood.
All at once appeared among the great trunks of the beech trees an
antlered deer white as the driven snow, which after one startled look at
the furiously riding troop of men, sped away like the wind. With winding
horn the hunters pursued it over the green meadows and up and down
the hills, trampling corn fields and peasant gardens under foot all
unmindful of what ill they did. Naught counted for these men but the
chase, and ever St. Amand headed the band, and on his right rode the
fair young blonde rider from the North and on his left the swarthy
knight from the South.
Finally, with trembling limbs the antlered deer slackened its speed
before the open door of a chapel in the midst of the wildwood. Here
stood the frightened animal, its fur flicked with bloody foam, unable
to stir a step further. From the open door of the chapel stepped a holy
friar, who placed a sheltering arm about the panting animal's neck, and
stood with uplifted arm warning back the band of hunters. In vain did
the fairhaired stranger plead with Amand to spare the deer, for the
jeering voice of the knight of the scarlet hood urged him on, and
dismounting from his horse Count St. Amand pushed aside the monk and was
about to run the animal through with his hunting knife, when there came
a burst of thunder sound that shook the earth as though the heavens had
fallen.
The Count was stunned: When he came to himself he was alone in a clear
space in the forest; the chapel, the deer, the monk, all his band,
including the two strangers, had vanished as though they had never been.
Over all was a terrible silence. When St. Amand attempted to call,
no sound came from his parched lips. Then came a blinding flash of
lightning, which split the darkness, and on the wings of the rushing
wind he heard a terrible voice in judgment.--"Even as thou hast flouted
and mocked at the Lord thy God, and have had no compassion upon man
nor beast, so shalt thou fly before the wrath of the Most High! Pass on
then, thou accursed Knight, forever be thou the hunted by evil spirits
until the end of the world!"
"And so," continues the legend, "since that day the wraith of that
sinful Count St. Amand has haunted these hills and dales by night, and
these great caverns underneath by day, the fiends of hell at his heels.
After him fly these hideous fiends, driving him ever on towards the
judgment that waits him on the last day."
As may be surmised, with such tales as this to hold over the youth of
the valleys, the people hereabouts were most devout and God fearing.
Here in this region have raged battles innumerable from the earliest
days of history, with fire, famine and pestilence. It was all
prosperous, when I last saw it, and charming to look upon. But now the
beautiful orchards have been cut down by the invader, the homesteads
have been burned, and the once happy peasants transported to hard labor
in another country.