CHAPTER I.

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THE ABBATIAL CROSIER

THE FULL SERIES OF

The Mysteries of the People

OR

History of a Proletarian Family

Across the Ages

By EUGENE SUE

_Consisting of the Following Works_:

THE GOLD SICKLE; or, _Hena the Virgin of the Isle of Sen_.

THE BRASS BELL; or, _The Chariot of Death_.

THE IRON COLLAR; or, _Faustine and Syomara_.

THE SILVER CROSS; or, _The Carpenter of Nazareth_.

THE CASQUE'S LARK; or, _Victoria, the Mother of the Camps_.

THE PONIARD'S HILT; or, _Karadeucq and Ronan_.

THE BRANDING NEEDLE; or, _The Monastery of Charolles_.

THE ABBATIAL CROSIER; or, _Bonaik and Septimine_.

THE CARLOVINGIAN COINS; or, _The Daughters of Charlemagne_.

THE IRON ARROW-HEAD; or, _The Buckler Maiden_.

THE INFANT'S SKULL; or, _The End of the World_.

THE PILGRIM'S SHELL; or, _Fergan the Quarryman_.

THE IRON PINCERS; or, _Mylio and Karvel_.

THE IRON TREVET; or _Jocelyn the Champion_.

THE EXECUTIONER'S KNIFE; or, _Joan of Arc_.

THE POCKET BIBLE; or, _Christian the Printer_.

THE BLACKSMITH'S HAMMER; or, _The Peasant Code_.

THE SWORD OF HONOR; or, _The Foundation of the

French Republic_.

THE GALLEY SLAVE'S RING; or, _The Family Lebrenn_.

Published Uniform With This Volume By

THE NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO.

28 CITY HALL PLACE NEW YORK CITY

THE

ABBATIAL CROSIER

OR

BONAIK AND SEPTIMINE

A Tale of a Medieval Abbess

By EUGENE SUE

TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL FRENCH BY

DANIEL DE LEON

NEW YORK LABOR NEWS COMPANY, 1908

Copyright 1908, by the

NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO.

INDEX

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE v

PROLOGUE.

CHAPTER.

I. NARBONNE 3

II. ABD-EL-KADER AND ROSEN-AER 6

PART I--THE CONVENT OF ST. SATURNINE.

I. THE LAST OF THE MEROVINGIANS 15

II. CHARLES MARTEL 23

III. FATHER CLEMENT'S REFECTORY 33

IV. MORDECAI THE SLAVE-DEALER 40

PART II--THE ABBEY OF MERIADEK.

I. ELOI THE GOLDSMITH 47

II. THE INTENDANT RICARIK 57

III. THE ABBESS MEROFLEDE 62

IV. IN SIGHT OF THE ABBEY 69

V. ASYLUM 78

VI. WARRIOR AND ABBESS 83

VII. THE MOUSE-TRAP 89

VIII. THE MIRACLE OF ST. LOUP'S TEETH 94

IX. BRENN--KARNAK 102

X. MISTRESS AND MAN 117

XI. THE FLIGHT 122

XII. MOTHER AND SON 129

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

The turbulent epoch that rocked the cradle of the Carlovingian dynasty,

the dynasty from which issued the colossal historic figure of

Charlemagne, is the epoch of this touching story--the eighth of the

series of Eugene Sue's historic novels known collectively under the

title "_The Mysteries of the People; or, History of a Proletarian Family

Across the Ages_." From the seething caldron of the valleys of the

western Rhine, inundated by the Arabs from the south, the Frisians from

the north, the Saxons from the west, and in which the chants of Moslems,

of Christians and of barbarians mixed into the one common cry of

desolating war, the feudal social system, previously introduced by

Clovis, and now threatened to be engulfed, emerged from the chaos as a

social institution. Many a characteristic of feudalism would be missed

if this, a crucial period of its existence, is not properly apprehended.

As in all the others of this series of Eugene Sue's stories, the

information is imparted without the reader's knowledge. What may be

termed the plot seizes and keeps the interest from start to finish,

steadily enriching the mind with knowledge historically inestimable,

besides connecting with the era described in the previous story--_The

Branding Needle; or, The Monastery of Charolles_--and preparing the

ground for the thrilling events that are the subject of the succeeding

narrative--_The Carlovingian Coins; or, The Daughters of Charlemagne_.

DANIEL DE LEON.

New York, 1904.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I.

NARBONNE.

Cruel intestine wars between the descendants of the Frankish conquerors

were devastating Gaul when the Arab invasion took place in 719. The

invaders poured down from the Pyrenees and drove back or subjugated the

Visigoths. The exchange of masters was almost a gain to the inhabitants

of the region. The conquerors from the south were more civilized than

those from the north. Many of the Gauls,--either freemen, or colonists

or slaves--took so strongly to the southern invader that they even

embraced his religion, the religion of Mahomet, allured thereto by the

promises of a paradise peopled with houris. "The virtuous believer,"

declared the Koran, "will be taken to the delicious home of Eden,

enchanted gardens, through which well-shaded rivers flow. There,

ornamented with bracelets of gold, clad in green clothes of woven silk

and resplendent with glory, the faithful will recline upon nuptial beds,

the happy prize in the dwelling of delights." Preferring, accordingly,

the white houris promised by the Koran to the winged seraphs of the

Christian paradise, many Gauls embraced Mohamedanism with ardor. Mosques

rose in Languedoc beside Christian churches. More tolerant than the

bishops, the Arabs allowed the Christians to follow their own religion.

Moreover, Mohamedanism, founded by Mahomet during the previous century,

608, acknowledged the divinity of the Scriptures and recognized Moses

and the Jewish prophets as beings chosen by God, only it did not

recognize the godship of Jesus. "Oh, ye, who have received the

Scriptures, keep within the bounds of the faith. Speak only the truth

about God. Jesus is the son of Mary, and he was sent by the All-High,

but is not his son. Say not that God is a trinity. God is one. Jesus

will not blush at being the servant of God. The angels that surround the

throne of God obey God!"--thus spoke the Koran.

The town of Narbonne, capital of Languedoc under the dominion of the

Arabs, had in 737 quite an Oriental aspect, due as much to the clearness

of the sky as to the dress and customs of a large number of its

inhabitants. The laurel shrubs, the green oaks and palm trees recalled

the vegetation of Africa. Saracen women were seen going to or coming

from the fountains with earthen vessels nicely balanced on their heads,

and draped in their white clothes like the women of the time of Abraham,

or of the young master of Nazareth. Camels with their long necks and

loaded with merchandise left the town for Nimes, Beziers, Toulouse or

Marseilles. The caravans passed on these journeys, along the fields, a

great variety of settlements--mud hovels thatched with straw and

inhabited by Gallic peasants, who were successively the slaves of the

Visigoths and of the Musselmen; tents of a Barbary tribe, Arabian

mountaineers who had descended to the plains from the peak of Mt. Atlas,

and who preserved in Gaul the nomad habits of their old home, warriors,

ever ready to mount their tireless and swift horses in answer to the

first call of battle from the emir of the province; finally, and at long

distances apart, on the crests of the mountains, high towers where,

during war, the Saracens lighted fires for the purpose of signaling the

approach of the enemy to one another.

In the almost Musselman town of Narbonne, the same as in all the other

towns of Gaul under the sway of the Franks and the bishops, there were,

sad to say, public market-places where slaves were set up for sale. But

that which imparted a peculiar character to the market of Narbonne was

the diversity of the races of the captives that were offered to

purchasers. There were seen negroes and negresses in large numbers, as

well as Ethiopians of ebony blackness; copper-colored mestizos; handsome

young Greek girls and boys brought from Athens, Crete or Samos and taken

prisoner on some of the frequent maritime raids made by the Arabs. A

skilful politician, Mahomet, their prophet, had incited in his

sectarians a passion for maritime expeditions. "The believer who dies on

land feels a pain that is hardly comparable with the bite of an ant,"

says the Koran, "but the believer who dies at sea, feels on the contrary

the delicious sensation of a man, who, a prey to burning thirst, is

offered iced water mixed with citron and honey." Around the slave market

stood numerous Arabian shops filled with merchandise mainly manufactured

at Cordova or Granada, centers, at the time, of Saracen art and

civilization: brilliant arms inlaid in arabesques with gold and silver,

coffers of chiseled ivory, crystal cups, rich silk fabrics, embroidered

hose, precious collars and bracelets. Around the shops pressed a crowd

of as various races as costumes: aboriginal Gauls in their wide hose, an

article that gave this section of Gaul the name of "Bracciata" with the

Romans; descendants of the Visigoths who remained faithful to their old

Germanic dress, the furred coat, despite the warmth of the climate;

Arabians with turbans of all colors. From time to time, the cry of the

Musselman priests, calling the believers to prayer from the height of

the minarets, mixed with the chimes of basilicas that summoned the

Christians to their devotions.

"Christian dogs!" said the Arabs or Musselman Gauls. "Accursed heathens,

damned degenerates!" answered the Christians; whereupon both proceeded

to exercise their own cult in peace. More tolerant than the bishops of

Rome, Mahomet said in the Koran: "Do not do violence upon men for reason

of their religion."

CHAPTER II.

ABD-EL-KADER AND ROSEN-AER.

Abd-el-Kader, one of the bravest chiefs of the warriors of Abd-el-Rhaman

during the life of this emir, who was killed five years before on the

field of Poitiers where he delivered a great battle to Charles Martel

(the Hammer)--Abd-el-Kader, after ravaging and pillaging the country and

the churches of Tours and of Blois, occupied one of the handsomest

dwellings in Narbonne. He had the house arranged in Oriental

fashion--the outside windows were closed up, and laurels were planted in

the inner courtyard, from the center of which a fountain jetted its

steady stream. His harem occupied one of the wings of the house. In one

of the chambers of this harem, covered with rich carpets of gay colors,

furnished with silk divans, and lighted by a window with gilded bars,

sat a woman of rare beauty, although about forty years of age. It was

easy to recognize by the whiteness of her skin, the blondness of her

hair and the blue of her eyes that she was not of Arabian stock. Her

pale and sad face revealed a settled and profound sorrow. The curtain

that covered the door of the chamber was pushed aside and Abd-el-Kader

entered. The swarthy-complexioned warrior was about fifty years of age;

his beard and moustache were grizzled; his face, calm and grave,

expressed dignity and mildness. He stepped slowly towards the woman and

said to her: "Rosen-Aer, we meet to-day for the last time, perhaps."

The Gallic matron seemed surprised and replied: "If I am not to see you

again, I still shall remember you. I am your slave, but you have been

kind and generous to me. I shall never forget that six years ago, when

the Arabians invaded Burgundy and raided the valley of Charolles, where

my family lived in happiness for more than a century, you respected me

when I was taken to your tent. I declared to you then that at the first

act of violence on your part, I would kill myself ... you ever treated

me as a free woman--"

"Mercy is the badge of the believer. I only obeyed the voice of the

prophet. But you, Rosen-Aer, did you not, shortly after you were brought

here a prisoner and Ibraham, my youngest son, was nearly dying, did you

not ask to take care of him the same as a mother would? Did you not

watch at his bedside during the long nights of his illness as if he were

your own son? It was, accordingly, in recompense for your services, as

well as in obedience to the behest of the Koran--_deliver your brothers

from bondage_--that I offered you your freedom."

"What else could I have done with my freedom? I am all alone in the

world.... I saw my brother and husband killed under my own eyes in a

desperate fight with your soldiers when they invaded the valley of

Charolles; and before those days I wept my son Amael, who had

disappeared six years before. I wept him then, as I do still every day,

inconsolable at his absence."

Rosen-Aer spoke these words and could not keep back the tears that

welled in her eyes and inundated her face. Abd-el-Kader looked at her

sadly and replied: "Your motherly sorrow has often touched me. I can

neither console you, nor give you hope. How could your son now be found,

seeing he disappeared when barely fifteen years of age! It is a question

whether he still lives."

"He would now be twenty-five; but," added Rosen-Aer drying her tears,

"let us not now talk of my son; I am afraid he is lost to me

forever.... But why say you that we see each other to-day, perhaps, for

the last time?"

"Charles Martel, the chief of the Franks, is advancing with forced

marches at the head of a formidable army to drive us out of Gaul. I was

notified yesterday of his approach. Within two days, perhaps, the Franks

will be upon the walls of Narbonne. Abd-el-Malek, our new emir, is of

the opinion that our troops should go out and meet Charles.... We are

about to depart. The battle will be bloody. God may wish to send me

death. That is why I came to tell you we may never meet again.... If God

should will it so, what will become of you?"

"You have several times generously offered me freedom, money and a guide

to travel through Gaul and look for my child. But I lacked the courage

and strength, or rather my reason told me how insane such an undertaking

would be in the midst of the civil wars that are desolating our unhappy

country. If I am not to see you again and I must leave this house, where

at least I have been able to weep in peace, free from the shame and the

trials of slavery, there will be nothing left to me but to die."

"I do not like to see you despair, Rosen-Aer. This is my plan for you.

During my absence you shall leave Narbonne. My forces are to take the

field against the Franks; my army is brave, but the will of God is

immovable. If it be his pleasure that victory fall to Charles and that

the Franks prevail over the Crescent, they may lay siege to this town

and take it. In that event you and all its inhabitants will be exposed

to the fate of people in a place carried by assault--death or slavery.

It is with an eye to withdrawing you from so sad a fate that I would

induce you to leave the town, and to take temporary shelter in one of

the Gallic colonies nearby that cultivate my fields."

"Your fields!" exclaimed Rosen-Aer with bitterness; "you should rather

say the fields that your soldiers seized by force and rapine, the

inseparable companions of conquest."

"Such was the will of God."

"Oh, for the sake of your race and of yourself, Abd-el-Kader, I hope the

will of God may save you the pain of some day seeing the fields of your

fathers at the mercy of conquerors!"

"God ordains ... Man submits. If God decrees against Charles Martel at

the approaching battle and we are victorious, you can return here to

Narbonne; if we are vanquished, if I am killed in the battle, if we are

driven out of Gaul, you shall have nothing to fear in the retreat that I

am providing for you. You can remain with the family of my servant. Here

is a little purse with enough gold pieces to supply your wants."

"I shall remember you, Abd-el-Kader, as a generous man, despite the

wrong your race has done mine."

"God sent us hither to cause the religion preached by Mahomet to

triumph, the only true religion. May his name be glorified."

"But the Christian bishops, priests and monks also pretend that their

religion is the only true one."

"Let them prove it ... we leave them free to preach their belief. Barely

a century since its foundation, the Musselman faith has subjugated the

Orient almost entirely, Spain and a portion of Gaul. We are instruments

of the divine will. If God has decided that I shall die in the

approaching battle, then we shall not meet again. Should I die and yet

our arms triumph, my sons, if they survive me, will take care of you....

Ibraham venerates you as his own mother."

"Do you take Ibraham to battle?"

"The youth who can manage a steed and hold a sword is of battle age....

Do you accept my offer, Rosen-Aer?"

"Yes; I tremble at the very thought of falling into the hands of the

Franks! Sad days these are for us. We have only the choice of

servitudes. Happy, at least, are those who, like myself, meet among

their masters compassionate hearts."

"Make yourself ready.... I myself shall depart in an hour at the head of

a part of my troops. I shall come for you. We shall leave the house

together; you to proceed to the colonist who occupies my country house,

and I to march against the Frankish army."

When Abd-el-Kader returned for Rosen-Aer, he had donned his battle

costume. He wore a brilliant steel cuirass, and a red turban wrapped

around his gilded casque. A scimitar of marvelous workmanship hung from

his belt; its sheath as well as its handle of massive gold was

ornamented with arabesques of corals and diamonds. The Arab warrior said

to Rosen-Aer with suppressed emotion: "Allow me to embrace you as a

daughter."

Rosen-Aer gave Abd-el-Kader her forehead, saying: "I pray that your

children may long retain their father."

The Arab and the Gallic woman left the harem together. Outside they met

the five sons of the chief--Abd-Allah, Hasam, Abul-Casem, Mahomet and

Ibraham, the youngest, all in full armor, on horseback and carrying over

their arms long and light white woolen cloaks with black tufts. The

youngest of the family, a lad of barely fifteen, alighted from his horse

when he saw Rosen-Aer, took her hand, kissed it respectfully and said:

"You have been a mother to me; before departing for battle I greet you

as a son."

The Gallic woman thought of her son Amael, who also was fifteen years

when he departed from the valley of Charolles, and answered the young

man: "May God protect you, you who are now to incur the risk of war for

the first time!"

"'Believers, when you march upon the enemy, be unshakable,' says the

prophet," the lad replied with mild yet grave voice. "We are going to

deliver battle to the infidel Franks. I shall fight bravely under the

eyes of my father.... God alone disposes of our lives. His will be

done."

Once more kissing the hand of Rosen-Aer, the young Arab helped her mount

her mule that was led by a black slave. From the distance the martial

bray of the Saracen clarions was heard. Abd-el-Kader waved his last

adieu to Rosen-Aer, and the Arab, with whom age had not weakened the

martial ardor of younger years, leaped upon his horse and galloped off,

followed by his five sons. For a few moments longer the Gallic woman

followed with her eyes the long white cloaks that the rapid course of

the Arab and his five children raised to the wind. When they had

disappeared in a cloud of dust at a turning of the street, Rosen-Aer

ordered the black slave to lead the mule towards the main gate of the

town in order to ride out and reach the colonist's house.

PART I.

THE CONVENT OF ST. SATURNINE

CHAPTER I.

THE LAST OF THE MEROVINGIANS.

About a month had elapsed since the departure of Abd-el-Kader and his

five sons to meet Charles Martel in battle.

A boy of eleven or twelve years, confined in the convent of St.

Saturnine in Anjou, was leaning on his elbows at the sill of a narrow

window on the first floor of one of the buildings of the abbey, and

looking out upon the fields. The vaulted room in which the boy was kept

was cold, spacious, bare and floored with stone. In a corner stood a

little bed, and on a table a few toys roughly cut out of coarse wood. A

few stools and a trunk were its only furniture. The boy himself, dressed

in a threadbare and patched black serge, had a sickly appearance. His

face, biliously pale, expressed profound sadness. He looked at the

distant fields, and tears ran down his hollow cheeks. While he was

dreaming awake, the door of the room opened and a young girl of about

sixteen stepped in softly. Her complexion was dark brown but extremely

fresh, her lips were red, her hair as well as her eyes jetty black, and

her eyebrows were exquisitely arched. A more comely figure could ill be

imagined, despite her drugget petticoat and coarse apron, the ends of

which were tucked under her belt and which was full of hemp ready to be

spun. Septimine held her distaff in one hand and in the other a little

wooden casket. At the sight of the boy, who remained sadly leaning on

his elbows at the window, the young girl sighed and said to herself:

"Poor little fellow ... always sorry ... I do not know whether the news

I bring will be good or bad for him.... If he accepts, may he never

have cause to look back with regret to this convent." She softly

approached the child without being heard, placed her hand upon his

shoulder with gentle familiarity and said playfully: "What are you

thinking about, my dear prince?"

The child was startled. He turned his face bathed in tears towards

Septimine, and letting himself down with an air of utter dejectment on a

stool near the window, said: "Oh, I am weary!... I am weary to death!"

and the tears flowed anew from his fixed and red eyes.

"Come now, dry those ugly tears," the young maid replied affectionately.

"I came to entertain you. I brought along a large supply of hemp to spin

in your company while talking to you, unless you prefer a game of

huckle-bones--"

"Nothing amuses me. Everything tires me."

"That is sad for those who love you; nothing amuses you, nothing pleases

you. You are always downcast and silent. You take no care of your

person. Your hair is unkempt ... and your clothes in rags! If your hair

were well combed over your forehead, instead of falling in disorder, you

would not look like a little savage.... It is now three days since you

have allowed me to arrange it, but to-day, will ye, nill ye, I shall

comb it."

"No; no; I won't have it!" said the boy stamping his foot with feverish

impatience. "Leave me alone; your attentions annoy me."

"Oh, oh! You can not frighten me with your stamping," Septimine replied

mirthfully. "I have brought along in this box all that I need to comb

you. Be wise and docile."

"Septimine.... Leave me in peace!"

But the young girl was not to be discouraged. With the authority of a

"big sister" she turned around the chair of the recalcitrant boy and

forced him to let her disentangle his disordered hair. While thus giving

him her care with as much affection as grace, Septimine, standing behind

him said: "Are you not a hundred times better looking this way, my dear

prince?"

"What is the difference, good looking or not?... I am not allowed to

leave this convent.... What have I done to be so wretched?"

"Alack, poor little one ... you are the son of a king!"

The boy made no answer, but he hid his face in his hands and fell to

weeping, from time to time crying in a smothered voice: "My father....

Oh, my father.... Alas!... He is dead!"

"Oh, if you again start crying, and, worst of all, to speak of your

father, you will make me also cry. Although I scold you for your

negligence, I do pity you. I came to give you some hope, perhaps."

"What do you mean, Septimine?"

Having finished dressing the boy's hair, the young girl sat down near

him on a stool, took up her distaff, began to spin and said in a low and

mysterious voice: "Do you promise to be discreet?"

"Whom do you expect I can talk to? Whom could I reveal secrets to? I

have an aversion to all the people in this place."

"Excepting myself.... Not true?"

"Yes, excepting you, Septimine.... You are the only one who inspires me

with some little confidence."

"What distrust could a little girl, born in Septimany, inspire you with?

Am not I as well as my mother, the wife of the outside porter of this

convent, a slave? When eighteen months ago you were brought to this

place and I was not yet fifteen, I was assigned to you, to entertain you

and play with you. Since then we have grown up together. You became

accustomed to me.... Is it not of course that you should have some

confidence in me?"

"You just told me you had some hope to give me.... What hope can you

give me? I want to hear?"

"Do you first promise to be discreet?"

"Be easy on that score. I shall be discreet."

"Promise me also not to begin to weep again, because I shall have to

speak about your father, a painful subject to you."

"I shall not weep, Septimine."

"It is now eighteen months since your father, King Thierry, died on his

domain in Compiegne, and the steward of the palace, that wicked Charles

Martel, had you taken to this place and kept imprisoned ... poor dear

innocent boy!"

"My father always said to me: 'My little Childeric, you will be a king

like myself, you will have dogs and falcons to hunt with, handsome

horses, chariots to ride in, slaves to serve you'; and yet I have none

of these things here. Oh, God! Oh, God! How unhappy I am!"

"Are you going to start weeping again?"

"No, Septimine; no, my little friend."

"That wicked Charles Martel had you brought to this convent, as I was

saying, in order to reign in your place, as he virtually reigned in the

place of your father, King Thierry."

"But there are in this country of Gaul enough dogs, falcons, horses and

slaves for that Charles to have an abundance and I also. Is it not so?"

"Yes ... if to reign means simply to have all these things ... but I,

poor girl, do not understand these things. I only know that your father

had friends who are enemies of Charles Martel, and that they would like

to see you out of this convent. That is the secret that I had for you."

"And I, Septimine, would also like to be out of here! The devil take the

monks and their convent."

After a moment's hesitation, the young girl stopped spinning and said

to the young prince in a still lower voice and looking around as if

fearing to be heard: "It depends upon you to get out of this convent."

"Upon me!" cried Childeric. "That would be quickly done on my part. But

how?"

"Mercy! Do not speak so loud," replied Septimine uneasily and casting

her eyes towards the door. "I always fear some one is there listening."

She rose and went on tip-toe to listen at the door and peep through the

keyhole. Feeling reassured by the examination, Septimine returned to her

seat, again started to spin, and went on talking with Childeric: "You

can walk in the garden during the day?"

"Yes, but the garden is surrounded by a high wall, and I am always

accompanied by one of the monks. That is why I prefer to remain in this

room to walking in such company."

"They lock you up at night--"

"And a monk sleeps outside before my door."

"Just look out of this window."

"What for?"

"To see whether the height of the window above the ground would frighten

you."

Childeric looked out of the window. "It is very high, Septimine; it is

really very high."

"You little coward! It is only eight or ten feet at most. Suppose a rope

with large knots were fastened to that iron bar yonder, would you have

the courage to descend by the rope, helping yourself with your feet and

hands?"

"Oh, I never could do that!"

"You would be afraid? Great God, is it possible!"

"The attempt looks to me above my strength."

"I would not be afraid, and I am only a girl.... Come, have courage, my

prince."

The boy looked once more out of the window, reflected and proceeded to

say: "You are right.... It is not as high as it looked at first. But

the rope, Septimine, how am I to get it? And then, when I am down there,

at night.... What shall I do then?"

"At the bottom of the window you will find my father. He will throw upon

your shoulders the caped cloak that I usually wear. I am not really much

taller than you. If you wrap the mantle well around you and lower the

cape well over your face, my father could, with the help of the night,

make you pass for me, traverse the interior of the convent, and reach

his lodge outside. There, friends of your father would be waiting on

horseback. You would depart quickly. You would have the whole night

before you, and in the morning, when your flight was discovered, it

would be too late to start in your pursuit.... Now answer, Childeric,

will you have the courage to descend from this window in order to regain

your freedom?"

"Septimine, I have a strong desire to do so ... but--"

"But you are afraid.... Fie! A big boy like you! It is shameful!"

"And who will give me a rope?"

"I.... Are you decided? You will have to hurry; your father's friends

are in the neighborhood.... To-night and to-morrow night they will be

waiting with horses not far from the walls of the convent ... to take

you away--"

"Septimine, I shall have the courage to descend, yes ... I promise you."

"Forget not, Childeric, that my mother, my father and I are exposing

ourselves to terrible punishment, even death perhaps, by favoring your

flight. When the proposition was made to my father to help in your

escape, he was offered money. He refused, saying: 'I want no other

reward than the satisfaction of having contributed in the deliverance

of the poor little fellow, who is always sad and weepful all these

eighteen months, and who is dying of grief.'"

"Oh, be easy. When I shall be king, like my father, I shall make you

handsome presents; I shall give you fine clothes, jewelry--"

"I do not need your presents. You are a child that one must sympathize

with. That is all that concerns me. 'It is not because the poor little

fellow is the son of a king that I take an interest in him,' my father

has said to me, 'because, after all, he is of the race of those Franks

who have held us in bondage, us the Gauls, ever since Clovis. No, I wish

to help the poor little fellow because I pity him.' Now, remember,

Childeric, the slightest indiscretion on your part would draw terrible

misfortunes upon my family."

"Septimine, I shall say nothing to anybody, I shall have courage, and

this very night I shall descend by the window to join my father's

friends. Oh! What happiness!" the child added, clapping his hands, "what

happiness! I shall be free to-morrow!... I shall be a king like my

father!"

"Wait till you are away to rejoice!... And now, listen to me carefully.

You are always locked in after evening prayers. The night is quite dark

by that time. You will have to wait about half an hour. Then tie the

rope and let yourself down into the garden. My father will be at the

foot of the window--"

"Agreed.... But where is the rope?"

"Here," said Septimine, taking from amidst the flax that she held in her

apron a roll of thin but strong rope, furnished with knots at intervals.

"There is at the end, as you see, an iron hook; you will fasten that to

this bar, and you will then let yourself down from knot to knot till you

reach the ground."

"Oh! I am no longer afraid! But where shall I hide the rope? Where shall

I keep it until evening?"

"Under the mattress of your bed."

"Good! Give it to me!" and the young prince, helped by Septimine, hid

the rope well under the mattress. Hardly had they re-covered the bed

when trumpets were heard blowing at a distance. Septimine and Childeric

looked at each other for a moment in astonishment. The young girl

returned to her seat, took up her distaff and observed in great

excitement:

"Something unusual is going on outside of the abbey.... They may come

here.... Take up your huckle-bones and play with them."

Childeric mechanically obeyed the orders of the young girl, sat down on

the floor, and began to play huckle-bones, while Septimine, with

apparent unconcern, spun at her distaff near the window. A few minutes

later the door of the room opened. Father Clement, the abbot of the

convent, came in and said to the young girl: "You can go away; I shall

call you back if I want you."

Septimine hastened to leave; but thinking she could profit by a moment

when the monk did not see her, she placed her finger to her lips in

order to convey to Childeric a last warning of discretion. The abbot

happening to turn around suddenly, the girl hardly had time to carry her

hand to her hair in order to conceal the meaning of her first gesture.

Septimine feared she had aroused the suspicion of Father Clement, who

followed her with penetrating eyes, and her apprehensions ripened into

certainty when, having arrived at the threshold of the door and turning

a last time to salute the Father, her eyes met his scrutinizing gaze

fixed upon her.

"May God help us," said the poor girl seized with mortal anxiety and

leaving the room. "At the sight of the monk the unhappy prince became

purple in the face.... He did not take his eyes from the bed where we

hid the rope. Oh, I tremble for the little fellow and for us!... Oh!

What will come of it?"

CHAPTER II.

CHARLES MARTEL.

Charles the Hammer, or Martel, had arrived at the convent of St.

Saturnine escorted by only about a hundred armed men. He was on the way

to join a detachment of his army that lay encamped at a little distance

from the abbey. The steward of the palace and one of the officers of the

squad that accompanied him were installed in a room that served as the

refectory of Father Clement, while the latter went for the little

prince.

At this period in the full vigor of his age, Charles Martel exaggerated

in his language and costume the rudeness of his Germanic stock. His

beard and hair, which were of a reddish blonde, were kept untrimmed and

shaggy, and framed in a face of high color, that bore the imprint of

rare energy coupled with a good nature that was at times both jovial and

sly. His keen eyes revealed an intelligence of superior order. Like the

lowest of his soldiers, he wore a coat of goat-skin over his tarnished

armor. His boots, made of heavy leather, were armed with rusty iron

spurs. From his leather baldric hung a long sword of Bordeaux, a town

renowned for its manufacture of arms.

The officer who accompanied Charles Martel seemed to be twenty-five

years of age--tall, slender, powerfully built. He wore his brilliant

steel armor with military ease, half-hidden under a long white cloak

with black tufts, after the Arabian fashion. His magnificent scimitar,

with both handle and scabbard of solid gold and ornamented with

arabesques of coral and diamonds, likewise was of Arabian origin. The

young man's face was of rare manly beauty. He had placed his casque upon

a table. His wavy black hair, divided in the middle of his head, fell in

ringlets on both sides of his forehead, which was furrowed by a deep

scar, and shaded his manly face that bore a slight brown beard. His eyes

of the blue of the sea, usually mild and proud, seemed however to reveal

a secret sorrow or remorse. At times a nervous twitch brought his

eyebrows together, and his features would for a while become somber.

Soon, however, thanks to the mobility of his impressions, the ardor of

his blood, and the impetuosity of his character, his face would again

resume its normal expression.

Charles, who for a while had been silently contemplating his young

companion with a kind and sly satisfaction, at last broke the silence,

saying in his hoarse voice:

"Berthoald, how do you like this abbey and the fields that we have just

traversed?"

"The abbey seems to me large, the fields fertile. Why do you ask?"

"Because I would like to make you a present to your taste, my lad."

The young man looked at the Frankish chief with profound astonishment.

Charles Martel proceeded: "In 732, it is now nearly six years ago, at

the time that those heathens from Arabia, who had settled in Gaul,

pushed forward as far as Tours and Blois, I marched against them. One

day I saw arrive at my camp a young chief followed by fifty daring

devils. It was you, the son, as you told me, of a Frankish seigneur, who

was dead and had been dispossessed of his benefice, like so many others.

I cared nothing about your birth. When the blade is well tempered I care

little about the name of the armorer," Charles explained as he noticed a

slight quiver in the eyelashes of Berthoald whose forehead swiftly

mantled with a blush and whose eyes dropped in involuntary confusion.

"You searched your fortune in war and had assembled a band of determined

men. You came to offer me your sword and your services. The next day, on

the plains of Poitiers, you and your men fought so bravely against the

Arabs that you lost three-fourths of your little troop. With your own

hands you killed Abd-el-Rhaman, the general of those heathens, and you

received two wounds in disengaging me from a group of horsemen who were

about to kill me, and would thereby have ended the war to the lasting

injury of the Franks."

"It was my duty as a soldier to defend my chief. I deserve no praise for

that."

"And it is now my duty as your chief to reward your soldierly courage. I

shall never forget that I owe my life to your valor. Neither will my

children. They will read in some notes I have left on my campaign: 'At

the battle of Poitiers, Charles owed his life to Berthoald; let my

children remember it every time they see the scar that the brave warrior

carries on his forehead.'"

"Charles, your praises embarrass me."

"I love you sincerely. Since the battle of Poitiers I have looked upon

you as one of my best companions in arms, although at times you are as

stubborn as a mule and quite odd in your tastes. If the matter in hand

is a war in the east or the north against the Frisians or the Saxons, or

in the south against the Arabs, there is no more rageful hammerer on the

enemies' heads than yourself; but when we had to suppress some revolts

of the Gauls you fought gingerly, almost against your will.... You no

longer were the same daring champion.... Your sword did not leave its

scabbard."

"Charles, tastes differ," answered Berthoald laughing with so obvious an

effort that it betrayed some poignant recollection. "In matters of

battle it is as in matters of women, tastes differ. Some like blondes,

others brunettes; they are all fire for the one, and all ice for the

other. And so my preference is for war against the Frisians, Saxons and

Arabs."

"I have no such predilections. As true as I have been surnamed Martel,

so long as I can strike and crush what stands in my way, all enemies are

equally to my taste.... I believed that those Arabian dogs who had been

so roughly hammered would recross the Pyrenees in a hurry after their

rout at Poitiers. I was mistaken. They still hold their ground firmly in

Languedoc. Despite the success of our last battle we have not been able

to seize Narbonne, the place of refuge of those heathens. I am now

called back to the north of Gaul to resist the Saxons who are returning

with more threatening forces. I regret to have to leave Narbonne in the

hands of the Saracens. But we have at least ravaged the neighborhood of

that large town, made an immense booty, carried away a large number of

slaves, and devastated in our retreat the countries of Nimes, of

Toulouse and of Beziers. It will be a good lesson for the populations

who took the side of the Arabs. They will long remember what is to be

gained by leaving the Gospels for the Koran, or rather, because, after

all, I care as little for the Pope as I do for Mahomet, what is to be

gained by an alliance with the Arabs against the Franks. For the rest,

although they remain masters of Narbonne, these pagans worry me little.

Travelers from Spain have informed me that civil war has broken out

between the Caliphs of Granada and of Cordova. Busy with their own

internal strifes, they will not send fresh troops into Gaul, and the

accursed Saracens will not dare to advance beyond Languedoc, whence I

shall drive them away later. At rest about the south, I now return

north. But before doing so I wish to provide, to their own taste and

mine, for a large number of soldiers, who, like yourself, have served

me valiantly, and turn them into fat abbots, rich bishops or other large

beneficiaries."

"Charles, would you make out of me an abbot or a bishop? You are surely

joking."

"Why not? It is the abbey and the bishopric that make the abbot and the

bishop, whoever be the incumbent."

"Please explain yourself more clearly."

"I have been able to sustain my great wars in the north and south only

by constantly recruiting my forces from the German tribes on the other

side of the Rhine. The descendants of the seigneurs who were the

beneficiaries of Clovis and his sons have degenerated. They have become

do-nothings like their kings. They seek to escape their obligations of

leading their columns to war, under the pretext that they need hands to

cultivate the soil. Apart from a few fighting bishops, old men with the

devil in them, who changed the casque for the mitre, and who, redonning

their cuirasses brought their men to my camp, the Church has not wished

and does not wish to contribute to the expenses of the war. Now, upon

the word of Martel, that will not do! My brave warriors, fresh from

Germany, the chiefs of the bands that have served me faithfully, have a

right to a share of the lands of Gaul. They have more right thereto than

the rapacious bishops and the debauched abbots who keep harems like the

Caliphs of the Arabs. I want to restore order in the matter; to reward

the brave and to punish the cowards and do-nothings. I propose to

distribute a part of the goods of the Church among my men who have

recently arrived from Germany. I shall in that manner provide for my

chiefs and their men, and instead of leaving so much land and so many

slaves in the hands of the tonsured brothers, I shall form a strong

reserve army of veterans, ever ready to take the field at the first

signal. And to begin, I present this abbey to you, its lands, buildings,

slaves, with no other charge upon you than to contribute a certain sum

into my treasury and to turn out with your men at my first call."

"I a count of this country! I the possessor of such broad estates!" the

young chief cried with joy, hardly believing so magnificent a gift

possible. "But the goods of this abbey are immense! Its lands and

forests extend more than two leagues in a circle!"

"So much the better, my lad! You and your men will settle down here.

Handsome female slaves are sure to abound on the place. You will raise a

good breed of soldiers. Moreover this abbey is bound, due to its

situation, to become an important military post. I shall grant to the

abbot of this convent some more land ... if any is left. And that is not

all, Berthoald; I entertain as much affection for [you] as I place

confidence in you. I make the gift to you out of affection; now, as to

my confidence. I shall give you a strong proof of it by establishing you

here and charging you with so important a duty ... that, in the end, it

will be I who remain your debtor...."

"Why do you halt, Charles?" asked Berthoald noticing the chief of the

Franks reflect instead of continuing.

After a few seconds of silence, Charles resumed: "During the century and

a half and more that we have reigned in fact, we the stewards of the

palace ... of what earthly use have the kings been, the descendants of

Clovis?"

"Have I not heard you say a hundred times that those do-nothings spend

their time drinking, eating, playing, hunting, sleeping in the arms of

their concubines, going to church and building churches in atonement for

some crime committed in the fury of their drunkenness?"

"Such has been the life of those 'do-nothing' kings--well named such. We

the stewards of the palace govern in fact. At every assembly of the

Field of May, we pulled one of our royal mannikins out of his residence

of Compiegne, of Kersey-on-the-Oise, or of Braine. We had him set up in

a gilded chariot drawn by four oxen according to the old Germanic

custom, and, with a crown upon his head, a scepter in his hand, purple

on his back, his face ornamented with a long artificial beard, if he had

no beard, so as to impart to him a certain degree of majesty, the image

was promenaded around the Field of May, and received the pledge of

homage from the dukes, counts and bishops, gathered at the assembly from

all parts of Gaul.... The comedy over, the idol was thrust back into its

box until the next year. But what useful purpose can these mummeries

serve? He only should be king who governs and fights. Consequently, as I

have no taste for what is superfluous, I have suppressed the royalty....

I confiscated the King."

"You deserve to be praised for that, Charles; the Frankish kings

descended from Clovis, have inspired me with hatred and contempt--"

"But whence the hate?"

Berthoald blushed and puckered up his brows: "I have always hated

idleness and cruelty."

"The last one of these kings, Thierry IV, dead now eighteen months, left

a son behind ... a child of about nine years.... I had him deported to

this abbey--"

"What do you purpose to do with him?"

"To keep him.... We Franks are fickle folks. For a century and a half we

fell into the habit of despising the kings that one time we

worshipped.... Accordingly, when the first Field of May took place

without the royal mummery, not one of the dukes and bishops missed the

idol that was absent from the feast. This year, however, some did ask

where was the king; and others answered: 'What is the use of the king?'

It may, nevertheless, happen that one of these days they may demand to

see the royal mannikin make the tour of the Field of May according to

the old custom.... I do not care, provided I reign. Accordingly, I keep

in reserve for them the child that is here. With the aid of a false

beard on his chin and a crown on his head, the little monkey will play

his role in the chariot neither better nor worse than so many other

kings of twelve or fifteen years who preceded him. In case of need, next

year he will be Childeric III, if I think it advisable."

"Kings of twelve!... How low can royalty fall!... How low the

degradation of the people!"

"The stewardship of the palace, a post that became hereditary, came very

near dropping to the same level.... Did I not have a brother of eleven

who was the steward of the palace to a king of ten?"

"You joke, Charles!"

"No, indeed, I do not, because those days were far from pleasant for

me.... My step-mother, Plectrude, had me cast into prison after the

death of my father Pepin of Heristal.... According to the dame, I was

only a bastard, good either for the gibbet or the priest's frock, while

my father left to my brother Theobald the post of steward of the palace;

hereditary in our family.... And so it happened that my brother, then

only eleven, became the steward of the palace of the then king, who was

only ten, and who became the grandfather of this little Childeric, who

is a prisoner in this convent. That king and steward could exercise no

rivalry over each other except at tops or huckle-bones. Thus the good

dame Plectrude expected to rule in the place of the two urchins, while

they would be at play. Such audacity and folly aroused the Frankish

seigneurs. At the end of a few years Plectrude was driven away with her

son, while I, Charles, for whom she had only bad names, came out of

prison, and now became steward of the palace of Dagobert III. Since then

I have made so much noise in the world, hammering here and yonder upon

the heads of Saxons, Frisians and Saracens, that the name of Martel has

stuck to me. Dagobert III left a son, Thierry IV, who died eighteen

months ago, and he was the father of little Childeric, the prisoner of

this place. While having to cross the region, I wished to pay a visit to

the royal brat and learn how he stood his captivity. I said I had a

token of confidence to give.... I confide to you the keeping of that

child, the last scion of the stock of Clovis, of the Merovingian

conquerors of Gaul."

"I shall keep this last scion of Clovis?" cried Berthoald, at first

stupefied, but immediately thrilled with savage joy. "I shall keep him?

The boy who has among his ancestors a Clotaire, the murderer of

children! a Chilperic, the Nero of the Gauls! a Fredegonde, a second

Messalina! a Clotaire II, the executioner of Brunhild, and so many other

crowned monsters! Shall I be the jailor of their last issue?... The fate

of man is often strange.... I to be the guardian of the last descendant

of that conqueror of Gaul so much abhorred by my fathers!... Oh, the

gods are just!"

"Berthoald, are you going crazy? What is there so astonishing in your

becoming the watcher of this child?"

"Excuse me, Charles," answered Berthoald recollecting and fearing to

betray himself. "I was greatly struck with the thought that I, an

obscure soldier, should watch and hold as a prisoner the last scion of

so many kings! Is it not a strange fate?"

"Indeed this stock of Clovis, once so valiant, ends miserably!... But

how else could it be! These kinglets--fathers before fifteen, decayed at

thirty, brutified by wine, dulled by idleness, unnerved by youthful

debauchery, emaciated, stunted, and stupid--could not choose but end

this-wise.... The stewards of the palace, on the contrary--rough men,

always on the march from north to south, from east to west, and back

again, always on horseback, always fighting, always governing--they run

out into a Charles, and he is not frail, he is not stunted! Not he! His

beard is not artificial; he will be able to raise a breed of true

kings.... Upon the word of Martel, this second breed of kings will not

allow themselves to be exhibited in carts neither before nor after the

assemblies of the Field of May by any stewards of palaces!"

"Who can tell, Charles! It may happen that if you raise a breed of

kings, their stock will run down just as that of Clovis has done, whose

last scion you wish to put under my charge."

"By the devil! By the navel of the Pope! Do you see any sign of decay in

us, the sons of Pepin of Old, who have been the hereditary stewards of

the palace since the reign of Queen Brunhild?"

"You were not kings, Charles; and royalty carries with it a poison that

in the long run enervates and kills the most virile stock--"

At this moment Father Clement came tumbling into the room in great

excitement, and broke the thread of the conversation between Charles

Martel and Berthoald.

CHAPTER III.

FATHER CLEMENT'S REFECTORY.

"Seigneur," said Father Clement to Charles, as he precipitately broke

into the room, "I have just discovered a plot! The young prince

obstinately refused to accompany me hither--"

"A plot! Ho, ho! The folks of your abbey indulge in conspiracies!"

"Thanks be to heaven, seigneur, myself and brothers are utter strangers

to the unworthy treason. The guilty ones are the miserable slaves who

will be punished as they deserve!"

"Explain yourself! And stop circumlocutions!"

"I must first of all inform you, sir, that when the young prince first

arrived at this convent, Count Hugh who brought him, recommended to me

to place near the child some young female slave, a pretty girl, if

possible, above all one that would provoke love ... and who would be

willing to submit to the consequences--"

"In order, I suppose, that he be educated after the fashion that old

Queen Brunhild followed towards her own grandchildren.... Count Hugh

exceeded my orders; and you, holy man, did you not blush at the role of

coupler in the infamous scheme?"

"Oh, seigneur! What an abomination! The two children remained pure as

angels.... To make it short, I placed a young female slave near the

prince. The girl, an innocent creature, together with her father and

mother took pity on the fate of Childeric. They listened to detestable

propositions, and this very night and by means of a rope, the child was

to slip from his room with the connivance of the porter slave, and join

some faithful adherents of the deceased King Thierry who are lying in

hiding near the convent. That was the plot."

"Ha! Ha! The old royal party is stirring! They thought I would be long

kept busy with the Arabs! They planned to restore the royalty in my

absence!"

"A minute ago, as I entered the room of the young prince, my suspicions

were awakened. The confusion he was in and the redness in his face told

of his guilt. He would not take his eyes from his bed. A sudden idea

occurred to me. I raised the mattress, and there I found a rope

carefully stowed away. I pressed the child with questions, and amidst

tears he confessed to me the full project of escape."

"Treason!" cried the chief of the Franks, affecting more rage than he

really felt. "How came I to confide this child to the care of monks who

are either traitors or incapable of defending their prisoner!"

"Oh, seigneur!... We traitors!"

"How many men did this abbey contribute to the army?"

"Seigneur, our colonists and slaves are hardly enough to cultivate the

land; our vines are neglected; our fields lie fallow. We could not spare

a single man for the army."

"How much did you pay into the treasury towards the expenses of the

war?"

"All our revenues were employed in charitable works ... in pious

foundations."

"You extend fat charities to yourselves. Such are these churchmen!

Always receiving and taking, never giving or returning! Ye are a race of

vipers! Under whom does this old abbey hold the land?"

"From the liberalities of the pious King Dagobert. The charter of our

endowment is of the year 640 of our Lord Jesus Christ."

"Do you, monk, believe that the Frankish kings made these endowments to

you of the tonsured fraternity to the end that you might grow fat in

idleness and abundance, and without ever contributing towards the

expenses of the war with either men or money?"

"Seigneur ... remember the obligations of the monastery ... keep in mind

the expenses of the cult!"

"I confide an important prisoner to you and you prove unable to watch

him ... you miserable tonsured idlers ... topers and do-nothings!"

"Seigneur, we are innocent and incapable of betraying you!"

"That will never do. I shall settle soldiers on the domain ... men who

will be able to watch the prisoner, and, when need be, defend the abbey,

if the folks of the royal party should attempt to carry off the prince

by force," and turning to Berthoald, Charles said: "You and your men

will take possession of this abbey. I present it to you!"

The abbot raised his hands to heaven in sign of mute desolation, while

Berthoald, who had pensively stood near, said to Charles Martel:

"Charles, the commission of jailor is repugnant to my character of a

soldier. I feel thankful to you, but I must decline the gift."

"Your refusal afflicts me. You have heard the monk. I need here a

vigilant guardian. This abbey is, by its position, an important military

post."

"Charles, there are other soldiers in your army whom you can charge with

the child and to whom you can confide the defence of the post. You will

find men enough who will not be restrained by any scruples such as

restrain me."

For a few minutes the chief of the Franks remained silent and

thoughtful, then he said: "Monk, how much land, how many colonists and

slaves have you?"

"Seigneur, we have five thousand eight hundred acres of land, seven

hundred colonists, and nineteen hundred slaves."

"Berthoald ... you hear it! That is what you decline for yourself and

your men. Moreover, I would have created you count of the domain."

"Reserve for others than myself the favor you meant to bestow upon me. I

absolutely refuse the function of jailor."

"Seigneur," put in Father Clement with a holy resignation that, however,

but ill-concealed his anger at Charles: "You are the chief of the Franks

and all-powerful. If you establish your armed men on this domain, we

shall have to obey, but what will become of us?"

"And what will become of my companions in arms, who have valiantly

served me during the war while you were counting your beads?... Are they

to steal or beg their bread along the roads?"

"Seigneur ... there is a way of satisfying both your companions in arms

and ourselves. You wish to change this abbey into a military post. I

admit it, your armed men would be better keepers of the young prince

than we poor monks. But since you dispose of this abbey, deign,

illustrious seigneur, to bestow another one upon us. There is near

Nantes the abbey of Meriadek. One of our brothers, who died recently,

lived there several years as the intendant. He left with us an inventory

containing an exact list of the goods and persons of that abbey. It was

at the time under the rule of St. Benoit. We have learned that later it

was changed into a community of women. But we have no positive

information on that head. But that would matter little."

"And that abbey," Charles asked, rubbing his beard with a sly look, "you

ask me for it as a charity to you and your monks?"

"Yes, seigneur; since you dispossess us of this one, we solicit

indemnity."

"And what is to become of the present holders of the abbey of Meriadek?"

"Alack! what we would have become. The will of God be done. Charity

begins at home."

"Yes, provided the will of God turn in your favor. Is the abbey rich?"

"Seigneur, with the aid of God, we could live there humbly and in

seclusion and prayer and with a little privation."

"Monk, no false pretences! Is that abbey worth more or is it worth less

than this one? I wish to know whether it is a cow or a goat I am giving

away. If you deceive me, I may some day go back upon my gift. Moreover,

you just said you had an exact inventory of the abbey's havings. Come,

speak up, you old dotard!"

"Yes, seigneur," answered the abbot biting his lips and proceeding to

look in a drawer among several rolls of parchment for the inventory of

the abbey of Meriadek. "Here," said he, producing the document, "you

will see from this that the revenues of Meriadek are worth about as much

as those that we draw here.... We may even, by retrenching upon our good

works, by reducing our charities, contribute two hundred gold sous

annually to your treasury."

"You say that rather late," replied Charles turning the leaves of the

inventory which did, indeed, accurately set forth the extent and limits

of the domain of Meriadek. "Have you parchments to write on? I wish to

make the bequest in due form."

"Yes, seigneur," cried the monk in great glee, running to his trunk and

believing himself in full possession of the abbey of Meriadek. "Here is

a roll of parchment, gracious seigneur. Be kind enough to dictate the

terms of the bequest ... unless you prefer to adopt the usual formula."

Saying this the abbot was about to sit down and take pen in hand, when,

pushing him away from the table, Charles said: "Monk, I am not like the

do-nothing and ignorant kings; I know how to write; and I like to

transact my business myself."

Consulting from time to time the parchments that the abbot had handed to

him, and from time to time casting a look upon Berthoald, who had

remained steeped in thought and a stranger to what was going on near

him, Charles began to write. A few steps from the table, and following

the hand of Charles with greedy eyes, the monk was congratulating

himself upon his having thought of the abbey of Meriadek, and he no

doubt was computing the advantage that would accrue to himself by the

exchange. Addressing the chief of the Franks, who was silently writing,

the monk said: "Mighty seigneur, my names are Bonaventure Clement, an

unworthy priest and monk of the order of St. Benoit."

Charles raised his head, looked fixedly at the abbot and a singular

smile played around his lips. He then proceeded to write, and a few

minutes later said: "Wax!... I wish to place my seal on this charter as

a last formality."

The abbot hastened to fetch what he was ordered; Charles pulled from his

finger a large gold ring and placed it on the burning wax. "Now the

charter of the bequest is in good shape."

"Gracious seigneur," cried the abbot extending his hands, "we shall

every day pray that heaven may protect you."

"You have my thanks, monk; disinterested prayers are particularly

agreeable to the Almighty;" and turning towards his young officer:

"Berthoald, by this charter I make you count of the county of Nantes,

and I donate to you and your men the abbey of Meriadek, together with

its dependencies."

The abbot remained petrified. Berthoald trembled with joy, and cried in

accents of profound gratitude: "Charles, will your generosity never

tire?"

"No, no, my valiant boy! No more than your arm tires in battle.... And

now, to horse, noble count. Should the abbey of Meriadek turn out to be

a convent of tonsured friars with some fighting abbot at their head who

refuses to make room for you, you have your sword; your men have their

lances. If it happens to be a convent of women and that the nuns are

young and handsome, by the devil!--"

Again the conversation in the monk's refectory was suddenly broken in

upon; this time by Septimine.

CHAPTER IV.

MORDECAI THE SLAVE-DEALER.

Pale, affrighted, her face in tears, her hair unloosened, Septimine

broke into the room and threw herself at the feet of the abbot, crying:

"Mercy, Father, mercy!"

Close upon the heels of Septimine entered two slaves armed with whips,

and carrying rolls of rope. They had run after the young girl, but now

stood respectfully awaiting the abbot's orders. Septimine was so

beautiful, her distress so touching, her suppliant attitude, accentuated

by the tears that flowed down her charming face, so pathetic, that

Berthoald was struck with admiration and suddenly felt an irrepressible

interest in the distracted girl. Charles Martel himself could not hold

back the cry of admiration: "My faith, what a pretty girl!"

"What do you want here?" brutally asked Father Clement, smarting under

the pain of having seen the gift of the abbey of Meriadek slip from him;

and turning to the two slaves, who remained motionless at the door: "Why

have you not punished this wretch?"

"Father, we were about to strip off her clothes and tie her to the

whipping-post. But she fought us so hard that she slipped away from us."

"Oh, Father!" cried Septimine in a voice suffocated with sobs and

raising her suppliant hands to the abbot; "order me killed, but spare me

the disgrace!"

"Charles," said Father Clement, "this slave girl sought to help the

young prince to escape!... Drag her away!" he added to the slaves at

the door; "Have her well whipped!"

The slaves took a step forward, but Berthoald held them back with a

menacing gesture. Approaching Septimine he took her hand and said: "Fear

not, poor child; Charles the chief of the Franks will not allow you to

be punished."

The young woman, not yet daring to rise, turned her charming face

towards Berthoald, and remained no less struck by the generosity of the

young man than by his comely looks. Their eyes met. Berthoald felt a

profound emotion, while Charles said to Septimine: "Come, I pardon you;

but why the devil, my little girl, did you want that royal urchin to run

away?"

"Oh, seigneur, the child is so unhappy! My father and mother, the same

as myself, felt pity for him.... That is all our crime, seigneur.... I

swear by the salvation of my soul;" and sobs again choked her voice.

Again joining her hands, she could only utter the words: "Mercy; mercy

for my father and mother! Have pity upon us, noble seigneur!"

"You are weeping fit to choke yourself," said Charles, touched, despite

his roughness, at the sight of such youth, anguish and beauty: "I forbid

that your father and mother be punished."

"Seigneur ... they want to sell me and to separate me from my

parents.... Have pity upon us!"

"What about that, monk?" asked Charles, while Berthoald, who felt his

sorrow, admiration and pity increase by the second, could not take his

eyes from the charming maid.

"Seigneur," answered Father Clement, "I gave orders that, after being

severely whipped, the three slaves, father, mother and daughter, be sold

and taken far away from the convent. One of those slave-dealers who

travel through the country came this morning to offer me two carpenters

and a smith that we stand in need of. I offered him the young girl in

exchange together with her father and mother. But Mordecai refused the

exchange."

"Mordecai!" involuntarily exclaimed Berthoald, whose face, suddenly

turning pale, now expressed as much fear as anxiety. "That Jew!"

"What the devil is the matter with you?" said Charles to the young man.

"You look as white as your cloak."

Berthoald sought to control his emotions, dropped his eyes and answered

in a quivering voice: "The horror that these accursed Jews inspire me

with is such ... that I can not see them, or even hear their names

mentioned, without shuddering, despite myself." Saying this, Berthoald

quickly took his casque from the table and put it on his head, pushing

it down as far as he could so that the visor might conceal his face.

"I can understand your horror for the Jews," replied Charles; "I share

your aversion for that race. Proceed, monk."

"Mordecai consented to take the girl, for whom he has a place; but he

does not want either the father or the mother. I, accordingly, sold him

the girl, reserving the right of having her punished before delivery to

him. I shall sell her parents to some other slave-dealer."

"Seigneur!" cried Septimine breaking out into a fresh flood of tears,

"slavery is a cruel condition, but it seems less hard when borne in the

company of those whom we love--"

"The bargain is closed," said the abbot. "Mordecai paid me earnest

money; he has my word; he is waiting for the girl."

When Berthoald heard that the Jew was in the convent he trembled anew,

retreated into a niche in the wall, and threw the cape of his long

Arabian cloak over his casque so as to conceal his face. He then

addressed the Frankish chief in a hurried voice like a man in fear of

some imminent danger and anxious to leave the place:

"Charles, before I bid you good-bye, perhaps for a long time, cap the

climax of your generosity towards me. Give the father and mother of this

child their freedom, and buy her back from the Jew to prevent her being

separated from her parents. Guilty though she was, it was only pity that

led her astray. You are about to place vigilant soldiers in this place.

The little prince's escape will not need to be feared."

Hearing the tender words of Berthoald, Septimine raised her face to him,

full with ineffable gratitude.

"Rest assured, Berthoald," said Charles; "and you, my girl, rise; this

abbey, where I wish to establish my warriors, shall have three slaves

less. I can refuse nothing to this valiant officer."

"Take this, my child," said the young man putting several Arabian gold

pieces into the hand of Septimine. "This is to help you, your father and

mother to live. May you be happy! Bless the generosity of Charles

Martel; and remember me occasionally."

With an unconscious movement that absolutely controlled her will,

Septimine took the hand that Berthoald reached out to her, and without

taking the gold pieces that he tendered and that rolled down over the

floor, she kissed the young man's hand with such passionate

thankfulness, that his own eyes were moistened with tears. Charles

Martel noticed the circumstance, and pointing at the young folks, cried

with the boisterous laugh peculiar to himself:

"Upon the word of Martel, I believe he weeps!"

Berthoald pulled the cape of his cloak further down over his face,

leaving it now almost wholly covered.

"You are right, my brave fellow, to lower your cape and conceal your

tears."

"I shall not long treat you to the spectacle of my weakness, Charles;

allow me to depart immediately with my men for the abbey of Meriadek."

"Go, my good companion in arms. I excuse your impatience. Be vigilant!

Keep your men in daily exercise; let them be ever ready to answer my

first call. I may have to use them against the accursed Bretons who have

withstood our arms since the days of Clovis. You are the count of the

county of Nantes, close to the frontiers of that bedeviled Armorica.

Your loyal sword may yet have occasion to render me such service that in

the end it may yet be I who will be your debtor. May we soon meet again!

A happy trip and a fat abbey are my best wishes to you."

Thanks to the cape that almost wholly veiled Berthoald's face, he was

able to conceal from Charles the cruel agony that he became a prey to

the moment he heard Charles say that some day he might receive orders to

invade the country of the Bretons that had so far remained indomitable.

He bent a knee before the chief of the Franks and left the refectory in

such a state of wild and complex anxiety that he did not even have a

parting look for Septimine, who remained upon her knees amidst the

Saracen gold pieces that lay strewn around her.

The young officer crossed the courtyard of the abbey to reach his horse,

when, turning the corner of a wall, he found himself face to face with a

little grey-bearded man. It was the Jew Mordecai. Berthoald shivered and

walked quickly by; but although his face was hidden under the cape of

his cloak, his eyes encountered the piercing ones of the Jew, who smiled

sardonically while the young chief walked rapidly away.

The Jew had recognized Berthoald.

PART II.

THE ABBEY OF MERIADEK

CHAPTER I.

ELOI THE GOLDSMITH.

A gold and silversmith's shop is a sight agreeable to the eye of the

artisan who, freeman or slave, has grown old at the beautiful art made

illustrious by Eloi, the most celebrated of all Gallic goldsmiths. The

eye rests with pleasure upon the burning furnace, upon the crucible

where the metal boils, upon the anvil that seems to be of silver veined

with gold--so much gold and silver has been beaten on it. The

work-bench, equipped with its files, its hammers, its chip-axes, its

burins, its bloodstone and agate polishing stones is no less pleasing to

the eye. Then there are also the earthen molds into which the metal is

poured, and here and there upon little tables some models taken from the

debris of antique art that have been found among the ruins of Roman

Gaul. There is nothing from the grinding of the files to the panting

breath of the bellows, that is not like sweet music to the ear of the

artisan grown old at the trade. Such is the passion of this art that the

slave at times forgets his bondage, and has no thought but for the

marvels that he fashions for his master.

Like other rich convents of Gaul, the abbey of Meriadek had its little

gold and silver shop. An old man, almost ninety-six years of age, was

overseeing the work of four young apprentices, slaves like himself, all

busy in a vaulted ground floor room, lighted by an arched window, that

was furnished with iron bars and that opened upon a moat full of water,

the convent having been built upon a sort of peninsula almost wholly

surrounded by deep ponds. The forge was placed against one of the walls,

into the thick body of which a kind of vault was dug that led below by

several steps. It contained the supply of charcoal required for the

work. The old goldsmith, whose face and hands were blackened by the

smoke of the forge, wore a smock-frock half hidden by a large leathern

apron, and was engaged in chiseling with great professional delight a

little silver abbatial crosier that he held on his knees.

"Father Bonaik," said one of the young slaves to the old man, "this is

the eighth day that our comrade Eleuthere has not come at all to the

workshop ... where can he be?"

"God knows, my boys ... but let us talk of something else."

"I am half of your opinion, old father; on the matter of Eleuthere I

have as strong a desire to speak as to hold my tongue. I have discovered

a secret. It burns my tongue. And I fear it will be cut off if I talk."

"Come, my lad," replied the old man, chiseling away at his work, "keep

your secret. That's the most prudent thing you can do."

But more inquisitive than the old man, the other young apprentices

insisted so much with their comrade that, overcome by their

importunities, he told them: "Day before yesterday--it was the sixth day

since the disappearance of Eleuthere--I took, by order of Father Bonaik,

a silver bowl to the abbey. The attendant at the turning-box told me to

wait while she went inside to inquire whether there were any articles of

silver that needed mending. Left alone during her absence, I had the

curiosity to step upon a stool so as to look out of a high window that

opened upon the garden of the monastery. And what did I see? Or, rather,

what is it that I thought I saw? Because there are resemblances that are

so striking ... so extraordinary--"

"Well, what did you see in the garden?"

"I saw the abbess, distinguished by her high stature, walking between

two young nuns with an arm resting upon the shoulder of each."

"You talk as though our abbess were almost a hundred years old, like

Father Bonaik--she who rides like a warrior, who hunts with falcons, and

whose upper lip is shaded by a slight reddish moustache neither more nor

less than that of a youth of eighteen!"

"It surely was not out of feebleness but tenderness that the abbess

leaned upon the two nuns. One of them having stepped upon her robe, lost

her balance, tripped and turned her head ... and I recognized, or

believed I recognized ... guess whom ... Eleuthere!"

"Dressed like a nun?"

"Dressed like a nun."

"Go away!... You must have been dreaming."

"And yet," replied another and less incredulous slave, "that is quite

possible. Our comrade is not yet eighteen, and his chin is as innocent

of a beard as any young girl's."

"I maintain that if that nun is not Eleuthere, she is his sister ... if

he has one."

"I tell you," put in the old goldsmith with marked impatience, "I tell

you that you are ninnies, and that if you are anxious for a trip to the

whipping-post and to renew your acquaintance with the thongs of the

whip, all you have to do is to persevere in talks like that."

"But Father Bonaik--"

"I allow chattering at work; but when the words may translate themselves

into the strokes of a whip on your backs, then the subject seems to me

badly chosen. You know, as well as I, that the abbess--"

"Is hot-tempered and bedeviled, Father Bonaik."

"Are you anxious to have the flesh flayed off your backs, unhappy lads!

I order you to hold your tongues."

"And what are we to talk about if not of our masters and the abbess?"

"Here," said the old man anxious to have the subject drop, "I have often

promised you to tell you the story of the illustrious master of our

trade, the glory of the artisans of Gaul. Let us talk of that artist."

"About the good Eloi? The great and saintly Eloi, Father Bonaik, the

friend of the good King Dagobert?"

"Call him the 'good' Eloi, my boys; never was there a better; but do not

say the 'good' King Dagobert. That King had everybody who displeased him

throttled; he pillaged, he levied ransom upon the poor, and he kept a

harem like an Arabian Caliph. Listen, children. The good Eloi was born

in 588 or thereabouts, at Catalacte, a small village in the neighborhood

of Limoges. His parents were freemen, but of obscure and poor

condition."

"Father Bonaik, if Eloi was born in 588, that must have been about a

hundred and fifty years ago. That is a century and a half."

"Yes, my boys, seeing we are now almost at 738."

"And did you know him?" asked one of the lads with an incredulous smile.

"Did you know the good Eloi?"

"Certainly, I did, seeing I shall soon be ninety-six, and that he died

last century, in 659, nearly eighty years ago."

"You were then quite young?"

"I was sixteen and a half years old the last time I saw him.... His

father was called Eucher and his mother Terragie. Noticing that his son

was since early boyhood ever fashioning in wood some figure or small

utensil of pretty design, his father apprenticed him to a skilful

goldsmith of Limoges, named Master Abbon, who at that epoch also

directed the mint in the town of Limoges. After having acquired a good

deal of skill in his art, to the point that he surpassed his master,

Eloi left the neighborhood and his family, much regretted by everybody,

he being beloved by all on account of his cheerful disposition, the

mildness of his nature and his excellent heart. He went to seek his

fortune in Paris, one of the residential towns of the Frankish kings.

Eloi was recommended by his old master to a certain Bobbon, a goldsmith

and treasurer of Clotaire II. Having accepted Eloi as a workman, Bobbon

soon perceived the young man's talent. One day King Clotaire ordered a

chair of solid gold, wrought with art and ornamented with precious

stones."

"A chair of solid gold! Father Bonaik, what magnificence! Nothing is too

costly to these kings."

"Alack, my boys, the gold cost the Frankish kings in Gaul only the

trouble of picking it up, and they were not slow at it. Well, then,

Clotaire II had the fancy to own a gold chair. But nobody in the

workshops of the palace was able to accomplish such a task. The

treasurer Bobbon knew the skill of Eloi and proposed to him to undertake

the work. Eloi accepted; he went to the forge and the crucible, and out

of the large quantity of gold given for one chair he fashioned two. He

then took to the palace one of the two chairs and hid the other--"

"Ho! Ho!" said one of the young slaves laughing. "The good Eloi did as

millers do who are sharp, artful and not very scrupulous. He drew double

pay for one bag--"

"Wait, my boys, wait before you judge our venerable master. Charmed at

the elegance and delicacy of the artisan's work, Clotaire II issued

orders on the spot to recompense him generously. Eloi thereupon showed

the second chair to Bobbon saying: 'This is what I spent the rest of

your gold in so as to lose nothing of the stuff. I have acted as you

would have wished.'"

"You are right, Father Bonaik, we were too quick in judging the good

Eloi."

"That act of probity, so honorable in the poor artisan, was the start

of his future fortune. Clotaire II wished to attach him to his court as

a goldsmith. It was then that Eloi achieved his finest productions:

vases of chiseled gold ornamented with rubies, pearls and diamonds;

pieces of furniture of solid silver and admirable design and set off

with chiseled stone; reliquaries, curtain pins, Bible cases encrusted

with carbuncles.... I saw the chalice of enameled gold more than a foot

high that he made for the abbey of Chelles. It was a miracle in enamel

and gold."

"It is enough to dazzle one to hear you tell of such beautiful works,

Father Bonaik."

"Oh, children, this room could not contain the masterpieces of that one

artisan, the glory of Gallic artisanship. The coins that he has struck

as the minter of Clotaire II, of Dagobert and of Clovis II have

admirable reliefs: they are gold thirds of a sou of a superb stamp. Eloi

succeeded in all the branches of the goldsmith's art. He excelled, like

the goldsmiths of Limoges, in the incrustation of enamel and the setting

of precious stones; he also excelled, as did the goldsmiths of Paris, in

statuaries of hammered gold and silver. He chiseled jewelry as

delicately as the jewelers of Metz. The cloths of woven gold thread

manufactured under his eyes and after his designs, were not less

magnificent than those of Lyon. My boys, what a hard worker was Eloi.

Ever at his forge from earliest dawn, ever with his leathern apron on

his loins, and the file, the hammer or the burin in his hand. He often

did not leave his workshop until a late hour in the night, and had ever

at his side his favorite apprentice, a Saxon named Thil. I knew that

Thil. He was then an old man, and he also was a great artist. They

should be models for you."

"Eloi was not a slave, and as he enjoyed the fruit of his labor he must

have become very rich, Father Bonaik?"

"Yes, my boys, very rich. Dagobert, upon succeeding to the throne of

his father Clotaire II, kept Eloi as his goldsmith. But the good Eloi,

mindful of his hard condition as an artisan, and of the cruel fate of

the slaves who had often been his fellow-workmen, when he became rich

spent all his income in ransoming slaves. He used in that way to

emancipate twenty, thirty and even fifty on one day. He often went to

Rouen and bought whole cargoes of slaves of both sexes taken from all

countries to that town, celebrated for its market of human flesh. Among

those unfortunate people were Romans, Gauls, English, and even Moors,

but above all Saxons. If it happened that the good Eloi did not have

money enough to purchase the slaves, he used to distribute among them

all the money he had in order to relieve their misery. 'How often,'

Thil, his favorite apprentice said to me, 'his purse being exhausted, I

saw my master sell his cloak, his belt and even his shoes.' But you must

know, my boys, that that mantle, that belt, those shoes were embroidered

with gold and often enriched with pearls. The good Eloi, who ornamented

the robes of others, also took pleasure in ornamenting his own. In his

younger years he was magnificently dressed."

"It was the least he could do to deck himself out well--he who decked

others so well. It is not as with us who work on gold and silver, and

never have but rags."

"My poor boys, we are slaves, while Eloi had the fortune of being free;

but he utilized his freedom for the benefit of his fellows. He had

around him several servants who adored him. I knew some of them, among

others, Bauderic, Tituen, Buchin, Andre, Martin and John. So you see old

Bonaik has a good memory. But how can one fail to remember anything

connected with Eloi!"

"Do you know, master, that it is an honor to us poor goldsmith slaves,

to number such a man in our profession?"

"A great honor, my boys! Certes, we should be proud of it. Imagine that

the reputation of the good Eloi for charity was such that his name was

known all over Gaul, and even in other countries. Strangers considered

it an honor to call upon the goldsmith who was at once so great an

artist and so good a man. If anyone asked in Paris where he lived, the

first passer-by would answer: 'Do you want to know where the good Eloi

lives? Go where you will find the largest number of poor people gathered

together. He lives there.'"

"Oh, the good Eloi," said one of the lads with eyes moist with tears.

"Oh, the good Eloi, so well named!"

"Yes, my friends, he was as active in charity as at his trade. In the

evening, at his meal hour, he would send out his servants in different

directions to gather people who suffered hunger, and also travelers in

distress. They were taken to him and he fed them. Filling the office of

a servant when they came, he helped some to unload their packs,

sprinkled warm water on the hands of others, poured out wine into their

cups, broke their bread, carved their meat and distributed it--all

himself. After having thus served all with sweet pleasure, he would sit

down himself, and only then did he himself share in the meal that he

offered these poor people. That was his way of practicing charity."

"And how did the good Eloi look, Father Bonaik? Was he tall or short?"

"He was tall and of a florid complexion. In his younger days, his

apprentice Thil said to me, his black hair was naturally curly. His

hand, though hardened by the hammer, was white and well-shaped; there

was something angelic in his expression; yet his straightforward eyes

were full of keenness."

"That is just the way I would picture him to myself, dressed in the

magnificent robes that he used to sell in order to ransom slaves."

"When he grew in years, the good Eloi renounced splendor altogether. He

wore only a robe of coarse wool, with a cord for belt.... When about

forty he was appointed bishop of Noyon at his own request."

"He? Did so great an artist aspire after a bishopric?"

"Yes, my lads.... Grieved at the sight of so many covetous and wicked

prelates, who devoured the substance of his well-beloved poor, the good

Eloi applied to the King for the bishopric of Noyon, saying to himself

that at least that bishopric would be ruled by the sweet morality of

Jesus. And he put that morality into practice up to the last day of his

life, without thereby renouncing his art. He founded several

monasteries, where he set up large gold and silversmiths' shops under

the direction of the apprentices whom he raised in the abbey of Solignac

and elsewhere in Limousin. It was thither, my lads, that I was taken as

a slave at sixteen after having undergone many trials. But I was born in

Brittany ... in that Brittany that is still free to this day, and that I

never expect to see again, although this abbey lies not far from the

cradle of my family," and the old man, who during the whole of his

narrative had kept steadily at work at the abbatial crosier that he was

chiseling, dropped on his knee the hand that held the burin. He remained

silent and pensive for a few seconds. Then, waking up with a start, he

proceeded addressing the young slaves under him, who wondered at his

silence: "My lads, I have allowed myself to be carried away despite

myself by recollections that are at once sweet and painful to my

mind.... Where did I leave off?"

"You were telling us, Father Bonaik, that you were taken as a slave at

the age of sixteen to the abbey of Solignac in Limousin."

"Yes; well, it was there that I first saw the great artist. Once every

year he left Noyon to visit the abbey. He had inducted his apprentice

Thil abbot of the place, and the abbot directed the goldsmith's

workshop. The good Eloi was quite old then; but he loved to come to the

workshop to oversee and direct the work. He often took the file or the

burin from our hands to show us how to use it, and in such a paternal

manner did he act that all our hearts went out to him. Oh! those were

good days.... The slaves were not allowed to leave the territory of the

monastery, but they felt as happy there as one can under bondage. At

every visit that he paid the place, Eloi inquired after them to

ascertain whether they were kindly treated. After his death, however,

everything changed."

The old goldsmith had reached this epoch in his narrative when the door

of the workshop opened and two personages stepped in.