III.
Coarraze still preserves a tower and gateway, the remains of a castle. This castle has its legend, which Froissart recounts in a style so flowing and agreeable, so minute and expressive, that I cannot refrain from quoting it at length.
The Lord of Coarraze had a dispute with a clerk, and the clerk left him with threats. About three months after, when the knight least thought of it, and was sleeping in his bed with his lady, in his castle of Coarraze, there came invisible messengers, who made such a noise, knocking about everything they met with in the castle, as if they were determined to destroy all within it: and they gave such loud raps at the door of the chamber of the knight, that the lady was exceedingly frightened. The knight heard it all, but did not say a word, as he would not have it appear that he was alarmed, for he was a man of sufficient courage for any adventure. These noises and tumults continued, in different parts of the castle, for a considerable time, and then ceased. On the morrow, all the servants of the household assembled, and went to their lord,’ and said, ‘My lord, did you not hear what we all heard this night?’ The Lord de Coarraze dissembled, and replied, ‘What is it you have heard?’
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They then related to him all the noises and rioting they had heard, and that the plates in the kitchen had been broken. He began to laugh, and said, ‘It was nothing, that they had dreamed it, or that it had been the wind.’ ‘In the name of God,’ added the lady, ‘I well heard it.’
“On the following night the noises and rioting were renewed, but much louder than before, and there were such blows struck against the door and windows of the chamber of the knight, that it seemed they would break them down. The knight could no longer desist from leaping out of his bed, and calling out, ‘Who is it that at this hour thus knocks at my chamber door?’ He was instantly answered, ‘It is I.’ ‘And who sends thee hither?’ asked the knight. ‘The clerk of Catalonia, whom thou hast much wronged; for thou hast deprived him of the rights of his benefice; I will, therefore, never leave thee quiet, until thou hast rendered him a just account, with which he shall be contented.’—‘What art thou called,’ said the knight, 'who art so good a messenger?’—‘My name is Orthon.’—‘Orthon,’ said the knight, ‘serving a clerk will not be of much advantage to thee; for if thou believest him he will give thee great trouble: I beg thou wilt therefore leave him and serve me, and I shall think myself obliged to thee.’ Orthon was ready with his answer, for he had taken a liking to the knight, and said, ‘Do you wish it?’—‘Yes,’ replied the knight; ‘but no harm must be done to any one within these walls.’—‘Oh, no,’ answered Orthon; ‘I have no power to do ill to any one, only to awaken thee and disturb thy rest, or that of other persons.’—‘Do what I tell thee,’ added the knight, ‘we shall well agree, and leave this wicked priest, for he is a worthless fellow, and serve me.’—‘Well,’ replied Orthon, ‘since thou wilt have it so, I consent.’
“Orthon took such an affection to the Lord de Coarraze, that he came often to see him in the night-time, and when he found him sleeping, he pulled his pillow from under his head, or made great noises at the door or windows; so that when the knight was awakened, he said, ‘Orthon, let me sleep.’—‘I will not,’ replied he, ‘until I have told thee some news.’ The knight’s lady was so much frightened, the hairs of her head stood on end, and she hid herself under the bed-clothes. ‘Well,’ said the knight, ‘and what news hast thou brought me?’ Orthon replied, ‘I am come from England, Hungary, or some other place, which I left yesterday, and such and such things have happened.’ Thus did the Lord de Coarraze know by means of Orthon all things that were passing in different parts of the world; and this connection continued for five years; but he could not keep it to himself, and discovered it to the Count de Foix, in the manner I will tell you. The first year, the Lord de Coarraze came to the Count de Foix, at Orthès, or elsewhere, and told him, ‘My lord, such an event has happened in England, in Scotland, Germany, or some other country,’ and the Count de Foix, who found all this intelligence prove true, marvelled greatly how he could have acquired such early information, and entreated him so earnestly, that the Lord de Coarraze told him the means by which he had acquired his intelligence, and the manner of its communication.
“When the Count de Foix heard this, he was much pleased, and said, ‘Lord de Coarraze, nourish the love of your intelligencer. I wish I had such a messenger; he costs you nothing, and you are truly informed of everything that passes in the world.’—‘My lord,’ replied the knight, ‘I will do so.’ The Lord de Coarraze was served by Orthon for a long time. I am ignorant if Orthon had more than one master; but two or three times every week he visited the knight and told him all the news of the countries he had frequented, which he wrote immediately to the Count de Foix, who was much delighted therewith, as there is not a lord in the world more eager after news from foreign parts than he is. Once, when the Lord de Coarraze was in conversation on this subject with the Count de Foix, the Count said, ‘Lord de Coarraze, have you never yet seen your messenger?’—‘No, by my faith, never, nor have I ever pressed him on this matter.’—‘I wonder at that,’ replied the count, ‘for had he been so much attached to me, I should have begged of him to have shown himself in his own proper form; and I entreat you will do so, that you may tell how he is made, and what he is like. You have said that he speaks Gascon as well as you or I do.’—‘By my faith,’ said the Lord de Coar-raze, ‘he converses just as well and as properly, and, since you request it, I will do all I can to see him.’ It fell out when the Lord de Coarraze, as usual, was in bed with his lady (who was now accustomed to hear Orthon without being frightened), Orthon arrived and shook the pillow of the knight, who was asleep. On waking, he asked who was there. Orthon replied, ‘It is I.’—‘And where dost thou come from?’—‘I come from Prague, in Bohemia.’—‘How far is it hence?’—‘Sixty days’ journey,’ replied Orthon. ‘And hast thou returned thence in so short a time?’—‘Yes, as may God help me: I travel as fast as the wind, or faster.’—‘What, hast thou got wings?’—‘Oh, no.’—‘How, then, canst thou fly so fast?’—‘That is no business of yours.’—‘No!’ said the knight. ‘I should like exceedingly to see what form thou hast, and how thou art made.’—‘That does not concern you to know,’ replied Orthon; ‘be satisfied that you hear me, and that I bring you intelligence you may depend on.’—‘By God,’ said the Lord de Coarraze, ‘I should love thee better if I had seen thee.’—‘Well,’ replied Orthon, ‘since you have such a desire, the first thing you shall see tomorrow morning, in quitting your bed, shall be myself.’—‘I am satisfied,’ said the knight; ‘you may now depart; I give thee thy liberty for this night.’
“When morning came, the knight arose, but his lady was so much frightened she pretended to be sick, and said she would not leave her bed the whole day. The Lord de Coarraze willed it otherwise. ‘Sir,’ said she, ‘if I do get up, I shall see Orthon; and, if it please God, I would neither see nor meet him.’—‘Well,’ replied the knight, ‘I am determined to see him;’ and leaping out of his bed, he seated himself on the bedstead, thinking he should see Orthon in his own shape; but he saw nothing that could induce him to say he had seen him. When the ensuing night arrived, and the Lord de Coarraze was in bed, Orthon came and began to talk in his usual manner. 'Go,’ said the knight; ‘thou art a liar. Thou oughtest to have shown thyself to me this morning, and hast not done so.’—‘No!’ replied Orthon; ‘but I have.’—‘I say, no.’—‘And did you see nothing at all when you leaped out of bed?’ The Lord de Coarraze was silent, and, having considered awhile, said, ‘Yes; when sitting on my bedside, and thinking of thee, I saw two straws which were turning and playing together on the floor.’—‘That was myself,’ replied Orthon, ‘for I had taken that form.’ The Lord de Coarraze said, ‘That will not satisfy me; I beg of thee to assume some other shape, so that I may see thee and know thee.’ Orthon answered, ‘You ask so much that you will ruin me and force me away from you, for your requests are too great.’—‘You shall not quit me,’ said the Lord de Coarraze; ‘if I had once seen thee, I should not again wish it.’—‘Well,’ replied Orthon, ‘you shall see me to-morrow, if you pay attention to the first thing you observe when you leave your chamber.’—‘I am contented,’ said the knight; ‘now go thy ways, for I want to sleep.’ Orthon departed.
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“On the morrow, about the hour of eight, the knight had risen and was dressed; on leaving his apartment, he went to a window which looked into the court of the castle. Casting his eyes about, the first thing he observed was an immensely large sow, but she was so poor, she seemed only skin and bone, with long hanging ears all spotted, and a sharp-pointed, lean snout. The Lord de Coarraze was disgusted at such a sight, and, calling to his servants, said, ‘Let the dogs loose quickly, for I will have that sow killed and devoured.’ The servants hastened to open the kennel, and to set the hounds on the sow, who uttered a loud cry and looked up at the Lord de Coarraze, leaning on the balcony of his window, and was never seen afterwards; for she vanished, and no one ever knew what became of her.
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“The knight returned quite pensive to his chamber, for he then recollected what Orthon had told him, and said: ‘I believe I have seen my messenger Orthon, and repent having set my hounds on him, for perhaps I may never see him more: he frequently told me, that if I ever angered him, I should lose him.’ He kept his word; for never did he return to the hôtel de Coarraze, and the knight died the following year.” This Orthon, the familiar spirits, queen Mab, are the poor little popular gods, children of the pool and the oak, engendered by the melancholy and awe-struck reveries of the spinning maiden and the peasant. A great state religion then overshadowed all thoughts; doctrine ready-made was imposed upon them; men could no longer, as in Greece or Scandinavia, build the great poem which suited their manners and mind. They received it from above, and repeated the litany with docility, yet not very well understanding it. Their invention produced only legends of saints or churchyard superstitions. Since they could not reach God, they struck out for themselves goblins, hermits, and gnomes, and by these simple and fantastic figures they expressed their rustic life or their vague terrors. This Orthon, who storms at the door in the night and breaks the dishes, is he anything more than the night-mare of a half-wakened man, anxiously listening to the rustling of the wind that fumbles at the doors, and the sudden noises of the night magnified by silence! The child in his bed suffers similar fears when he covers eyes and ears that he may not see the strange shadow of the wardrobe, or hear the stifled cries of the thatch on the roof. The two straws that play convulsively on the floor, twined together like twins, and shine with mysterious brilliancy in the pale sunlight, leave a vague uneasiness in the disordered brain.
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In this way is born the race of familiars and fairies, nimble creatures, swift travellers, as capricious and sudden as a dream, who amuse themselves maliciously in sticking together the manes of the horses, or in souring the milk, yet sometimes become tender and domesticated, attached like the cricket to its hearthstone, and are the penates of the country and the farm, invisible and powerful as gods, quaint and odd as children.
Thus all the legends preserve and set off vanished ways and sentiments, like to those mineral forces which, deep down in the heart of the mountains, transform charcoal and stones into marble and the diamond.
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