Jasmin: Barber, Poet, Philanthropist

by Samuel Smiles

FIRST PART.

Blaise de Montluc—Festival at Roquefort—The Prettiest
Maiden—The Soldier and the Shepherds—Kissing and Panting—
Courage of Pascal—Fury of Marcel—Terrible Contest.
'Twas at the time when Blaise the murderous
Struck heavy blows by force of arms.
He hewed the Protestants to pieces,
And, in the name of God the Merciful,
Flooded the earth with sorrow, blood, and tears.
Alas! 'twas pitiful—far worse beyond the hills,
Where flashing gun and culverin were heard;
There the unhappy bore their heavy cross,
And suffered, more than elsewhere, agonising pain,
Were killed and strangled, tumbled into wells;
'Tween Penne and Fumel the saddened earth was gorged.
Men, women, children, murdered everywhere,
The hangman even stopped for breath;
While Blaise, with heart of steel, dismounted at the gate
Of his strong castle wall,
With triple bridge and triple fosse;
Then kneeling, made his pious prayers,
Taking the Holy Sacrament,
His hands yet dripping with fraternal blood!{1}
Now every shepherd, every shepherd lass,
At the word Huguenot shuddered with affright,
Even 'midst their laughing courtship.
And yet it came to pass
That in a hamlet, 'neath a castled height,
One Sunday, when a troop of sweethearts danced
Upon the day of Roquefort fete,
And to a fife the praises sang
Of Saint James and the August weather—
That bounteous month which year by year,
Through dew-fall of the evening bright,
And heat of Autumn noons doth bring
Both grapes and figs to ripening.
It was the finest fete that eyes had ever seen
Under the shadow of the leafy parasol,
Where aye the country-folk convene.
O'erflowing were the spaces all,
From cliff, from dale, from every home
Of Montagnac and Sainte-Colombe,
Still they do come,
Too many far to number;
More, ever more, while flames the sunshine o'er,
There's room for all, their coming will not cumber,
The fields shall be their chamber, and the little hillocks green
The couches of their slumber.
What pleasure! what delight! the sun now fills the air;
The sweetest thing in life
Is the music of the fife
And the dancing of the fair.
You see their baskets emptying
Of waffles all home-made.
They quaff the nectar sparkling
Of freshest lemonade.
What crowds at Punchinello,
While the showman beats his cymbal!
Crowds everywhere!
But who is this appears below?
Ah! 'tis the beauteous village queen!
Yes, 'tis she; 'tis Franconnette!
A fairer girl was never seen.
In the town as in the prairie,
You must know that every country
Has its chosen pearl of love.
Ah, well! This was the one—
They named her in the Canton,
The prettiest, sweetest dove.
But now, you must not fancy, gentlemen,
That she was sad and sighing,
Her features pale as any lily,
That she had dying eyes, half-shut and blue,
And slender figure clothed with languishing,
Like to a weeping willow by a limpid lake.
Not so, my masters. Franconnette
Had two keen flashing eyes, like two live stars;
Her laughing cheeks were round, where on a lover might
Gather in handfuls roses bright;
Brown locks and curly decked her head;
Her lips were as the cherry red,
Whiter than snow her teeth; her feet
How softly moulded, small and fleet;
How light her limbs! Ah, well-a-day!
And of the whole at once I say,
She was the very beau-ideal
Of beauty in a woman's form, most fair and real.
Such loveliness, in every race,
May sudden start to light.
She fired the youths with ready love,
Each maiden with despair.
Poor youths, indeed! Oh! how they wished
To fall beneath her feet!
They all admired her, and adored,
Just as the priest adores the cross—
'Twas as if there shone a star of light
The young girl's brow across!
Yet, something vexing in her soul began to hover;
The finest flower had failed her in this day of honour.
Pascal, whom all the world esteemed,
Pascal, the handsomest, whose voice with music beamed,
He shunned the maid, cast ne'er a loving glance;
Despised! She felt hate growing in her heart,
And in her pretty vengeance
She seized the moment for a brilliant dart
Of her bright eyes to chain him.
What would you have? A girl so greatly envied,
She might become a flirt conceited;
Already had she seemed all this,
Self-glorious she was, I fear,
Coquetting rarely comes amiss,
Though she might never love, with many lovers near!
Grandmother often said to her, "Child, child!" with gentle frown,
"A meadow's not a parlour, and the country's not a town,
And thou knowest well that we have promised thee lang syne
To the soldier-lad, Marcel, who is lover true of thine.
So curb thy flights, thou giddy one,
The maid who covets all, in the end mayhap hath none."
"Nay, nay," replied the tricksy fay,
With swift caress, and laughter gay,
"There is another saw well-known,
Time enough, my grannie dear, to love some later day!
'She who hath only me, hath 'none.'"
Now, such a flighty course, you may divine,
Made hosts of melancholy swains,
Who sighed and suffered jealous pains,
Yet never sang reproachful strains,
Like learned lovers when they pine,
Who, as they go to die, their woes write carefully
On willow or on poplar tree.
Good lack! thou could'st not shape a letter,
And the silly souls, though love-sick, to death did not incline,
Thinking to live and suffer on were better!
But tools were handled clumsily,
And vine-sprays blew abroad at will,
And trees were pruned exceeding ill,
And many a furrow drawn awry.
Methinks you know her now, this fair and foolish girl;
Watch while she treads one measure, then see her dip and twirl!
Young Etienne holds her hand by chance,
'Tis the first rigadoon they dance;
With parted lips, right thirstily
Each rustic tracks them as they fly,
And the damsel sly
Feels every eye,
And lighter moves for each adoring glance.
Holy cross! what a sight! when the madcap rears aright
Her shining lizard's head! her Spanish foot falls light,
Her wasp-like figure sways
And swims and whirls and springs again.
The wind with corner of her 'kerchief plays.
Those lovely cheeks where on the youths now gaze,
They hunger to salute with kisses twain!
And someone shall; for here the custom is,
Who tires his partner out, salutes her with a kiss;
The girls grow weary everywhere,
Wherefore already Jean and Paul,
Louis, Guillaume, and strong Pierre,
Have breathless yielded up their place
Without the coveted embrace.
Another takes his place, Marcel the wight,
The soldier of Montluc, prodigious in his height,
Arrayed in uniform, bearing his sword,
A cockade in his cap, the emblem of his lord,
Straight as an I, though bold yet not well-bred,
His heart was soft, but thickish was his head.
He blustered much and boasted more and more,
Frolicked and vapoured as he took the floor
Indeed he was a very horrid bore.
Marcel, most mad for Franconnette, tortured the other girls,
Made her most jealous, yet she had no chance,
The swelled-out coxcomb called on her to dance.
But Franconnette was loth, and she must let him see it;
He felt most madly jealous, yet was maladroit,
He boasted that he was beloved; perhaps he did believe it quite—
The other day, in such a place,
She shrank from his embrace!
The crowd now watched the dancing pair,
And marked the tricksy witching fair;
They rush, they whirl! But what's amiss?
The bouncing soldier lad, I wis,
Can never snatch disputed kiss!
The dancing maid at first smiles at her self-styled lover,
"Makes eyes" at him, but ne'er a word does utter;
She only leaped the faster!
Marcel, piqued to the quick, longed to subdue this creature,
He wished to show before the crowd what love he bore her;
One open kiss were sweeter far
Than twenty in a corner!
But, no! his legs began to fail, his head was in a trance,
He reeled, he almost fell, he could no longer dance;
Now he would give cockade, sabre, and silver lace,
Would it were gold indeed, for her embrace!
Yet while the pair were still afoot, the girl looked very gay—
Resolved never to give way!
While headstrong Marcel, breathless, spent, and hot in face,
He reeled and all but fell; then to the next gave place!
Forth darted Pascal in the soldier's stead,
They make two steps, then change, and Franconnette,
Weary at last, with laughing grace,
Her foot stayed and upraised her face!
Tarried Pascal that kiss to set?
Not he, be sure! and all the crowd
His vict'ry hailed with plaudits loud.
The clapping of their palms like battle-dores resounded,
While Pascal stood among them quite confounded!
Oh, what a picture for the soldier who so loved his queen!
Him the kiss maddened! Measuring Pascal with his een,
He thundered, "Peasant, you have filled my place most sly;
Not so fast, churl!"—and brutally let fly
With aim unerring one fierce blow,
Straight in the other's eyes, doubling the insult so.
Good God!{2} how stings the madd'ning pain,
His dearest happiness that blow must stain,
Kissing and boxing—glory, shame!
Light, darkness! Fire, ice! Life, death! Heaven, hell!
All this was to our Pascal's soul the knell
Of hope! But to be thus tormented
By flagrant insult, as the soldier meant it;
Now without fear he must resent it!
It does not need to be a soldier nor a "Monsieur,"
An outrage placidly to bear.
Now fiery Pascal let fly at his foe,
Before he could turn round, a stunning blow;
'Twas like a thunder peal,
And made the soldier reel;
Trying to draw his sabre,
But Pascal, seeming bigger,
Gripped Marcel by the waist, and sturdily
Lifted him up, and threw his surly
Foe on the ground, breathless, and stunned severely.
"Now then!" while Pascal looked on the hound thrown by him,
"The peasant grants thee chance of living!"
"Despatch him!" cried the surging crowd.
"Thou art all cover'd o'er with blood!"
But Pascal, in his angry fit of passion,
Had hurt his wrist and fist in a most serious fashion.
"No matter! All the same I pardon him!
You must have pity on the beaten hound!"
"No, finish him! Into morsels cut him!"
The surging, violent crowd now cried around.
"Back, peasants, back! Do him no harm!"
Sudden exclaimed a Monsieur, speaking with alarm;
The peasants moved aside, and then gave place
To Montluc, glittering with golden lace;
It was the Baron of Roquefort!
The frightened girls, like hunted hares,
At once dispers'd, flew here and there.
The shepherds, but a moment after,
With thrilling fife and beaming laughter,
The brave and good Pascal attended on his way,
Unto his humble home, as 'twere his nuptial day.
But Marcel, furious, mad with rage, exclaimed,
"Oh! could I stab and kill them! But I'm maimed!"
Only a gesture of his lord
Restrained him, hand upon his sword.
Then did he grind his teeth, as he lay battered,
And in a low and broken voice he muttered:
"They love each other, and despise my kindness,
She favours him, and she admires his fondness;
Ah, well! by Marcel's patron, I'll not tarry
To make them smart, and Franconnette
No other husband than myself shall marry!"

SECOND PART.
The Enamoured Blacksmith—His Fretful Mother—The Busking
Soiree—Pascal's Song—The Sorcerer of the Black Forest—
The Girl Sold to the Demon.
Since Roquefort fete, one, two, three months have fled;
The dancing frolic, with the harvest ended;
The out-door sports are banished—
For winter comes; the air is sad and cold, it sighs
Under the vaulted skies.
At fall of night, none risks to walk across the fields,
For each one, sad and cheerless, beelds
Before the great fires blazing,
Or talks of wolfish fiends{3} amazing;
And sorcerers—to make one shudder with affright—
That walk around the cots so wight,
Or 'neath the gloomy elms, and by farmyards at night.
But now at last has Christmas come,
And little Jack, who beats the drum,
Cries round the hamlet, with his beaming face:
"Come brisken up, you maidens fair,
A merry busking{4} shall take place
On Friday, first night of the year!"
Ah! now the happy youths and maidens fair
Proclaimed the drummer's words, so bright and rare.
The news were carried far and near
Light as a bird most fleet
With wings to carry thoughts so sweet.
The sun, with beaming rays, had scarcely shone
Ere everywhere the joyous news had flown;
At every fireside they were known,
By every hearth, in converse keen,
The busking was the theme.
But when the Friday came, a frozen dew was raining,
And by a fireless forge a mother sat complaining;
And to her son, who sat thereby,
She spoke at last entreatingly:
"Hast thou forgot the summer day, my boy, when thou didst come
All bleeding from the furious fray, to the sound of music home?
How I have suffered for your sorrow,
And all that you have had to go through.
Long have I troubled for your arm! For mercy's sake
Oh! go not forth to-night! I dreamt of flowers again,
And what means that, Pascal, but so much tears and pain!"
"Now art thou craven, mother! and see'st that life's all black,
But wherefore tremble, since Marcel has gone, and comes not
back!"
"Oh yet, my son, do you take heed, I pray!
For the wizard of the Black Wood is roaming round this way;
The same who wrought such havoc, 'twas but a year agone,
They tell me one was seen to come from 's cave at dawn
But two days past—it was a soldier; now
What if this were Marcel? Oh, my child, do take care!
Each mother gives her charms unto her sons; do thou
Take mine; but I beseech, go not forth anywhere!"
"Just for one little hour, mine eyes to set
On my friend Thomas, whom I'm bound to meet!"
"Thy friend, indeed! Nay, nay! Thou meanest Franconnette,
Whom thou loves dearly! I wish thou'd love some other maid!
Oh, yes! I read it in thine eyes!
Though thou sing'st, art gay, thy secret bravely keeping,
That I may not be sad, yet all alone thou'rt weeping—
My head aches for thy misery;
Yet leave her, for thine own good, my dear Pascal;
She would so greatly scorn a working smith like thee,
With mother old in penury;
For poor we are—thou knowest truly.
"How we have sold and sold fill scarce a scythe remains.
Oh, dark the days this house hath seen
Since, Pascal, thou so ill hast been;
Now thou art well, arouse! do something for our gains
Or rest thee, if thou wilt; with suffering we can fight;
But, for God's love, oh! go not forth to-night!"
And the poor mother, quite undone,
Cried, while thus pleading with her son,
Who, leaning on his blacksmith's forge
The stifling sobs quelled in his gorge.
"'Tis very true," he said, "that we are poor,
But had I that forgot?... I go to work, my mother, now, be sure!"
No sooner said than done; for in a blink
Was heard the anvil's clink,
The sparks flew from the blacksmith's fire
Higher and still higher!
The forgeman struck the molten iron dead,
Hammer in hand, as if he had a hundred in his head!
But now, the Busking was apace,
And soon, from every corner place
The girls came with the skein of their own making
To wind up at this sweethearts' merry meeting.
In the large chamber, where they sat and winded
The threads, all doubly garnished,
The girls, the lads, plied hard their finger,
And swiftly wound together
The clews of lint so fair,
As fine as any hair.
The winding now was done; and the white wine, and rhymsters,
Came forth with rippling glass and porringers,
And brought their vivid vapours
To brighten up their capers—
Ah! if the prettiest were the best, with pride
I would my Franconnette describe.
Though queen of games, she was the last, not worst,
It is not that she reigned at present, yet was first.
"Hold! Hold!" she cried, the brown-haired maid,
Now she directed them from side to side—
Three women merged in one, they said—
She dances, speaks, sings, all bewitching,
By maiden's wiles she was so rich in;
She sings with soul of turtle-dove,
She speaks with grace angelic;
She dances on the wings of love—
Sings, speaks, and dances, in a guise
More than enough to turn the head most wise!
Her triumph is complete; all eyes are fixed upon her,
Though her adorers are but peasants;
Her eyes are beaming,
Blazing and sparkling,
And quite bewitching;
No wonder that the sweetheart lads are ravished with her!
Then Thomas rose and, on the coquette fixing
His ardent eyes, though blushing,
In language full of neatness,
And tones of lute-like sweetness,
This song began to sing:
THE SYREN WITH A HEART OF ICE.
"Oh, tell us, charming Syren,
With heart of ice unmoved,
When shall we hear the sound
Of bells that ring around,
To say that you have loved?
Always so free and gay,
Those wings of dazzling ray,
Are spread to every air—
And all your favour share;
Attracted by their light
All follow in your flight.
But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss,
Such triumphs do but purchase pain;
What is it to be loved like this,
To her who cannot love again?
"You've seen how full of joy
We've marked the sun arise;
Even so each Sunday morn
When you, before our eyes,
Bring us such sweet surprise.
With us new life is born:
We love your angel face,
Your step so debonnaire,
Your mien of maiden grace,
Your voice, your lips, your hair,
Your eyes of gentle fire,
All these we now admire!
But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss,
Such triumphs do but purchase pain;
What is it to be loved like this,
To her who cannot love again?
"Alas! our groves are dull
When widowed of thy sight,
And neither hedge nor field
Their perfume seem to yield;
The blue sky is not bright
When you return once more,
All that was sad is gone,
All nature you restore,
We breathe in you alone;
We could your rosy fingers cover
With kisses of delight all over!
But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss,
Such triumphs do but purchase pain;
What is it to be loved like this,
To her who cannot love again?
"The dove you lost of late,
Might warn you by her flight,
She sought in woods her mate,
And has forgot you quite;
She has become more fair
Since love has been her care.
'Tis love makes all things gay,
Oh follow where she leads—
When beauteous looks decay,
What dreary life succeeds!
And ah! believe me, perfect bliss,
A joy, where peace and triumph reign,
Is when a maiden, loved like this,
Has learnt 'tis sweet to love again!"
The songster finished, and the ardent crowd
Of listeners clapped their hands in praises loud.
"Oh! what a lovely song!" they cried. "Who is the poet?"
"'Tis Pascal," answered Thomas, "that has made it!"
"Bravo! Long live Pascal!" exclaimed the fervent crowd.
Nothing said Franconnette; but she rejoiced—was proud—
At having so much love evoked,
And in a song so touching,
Before this crowd admiring.
Then she became more serious as she thought of Pascal;
"How brave he is! 'Tis all for him; he has not got his equal!
How he paints love! All praise him without doubt;
And his sweet song—so touching!" for now by heart she knows it.
"But if he loves at last, why does he hide away?"
Then turning suddenly, she says—
"Thomas, he is not here, away he stays;
I would him compliment; can he not come?"
"Oh! now he cannot; but remains at home."
Then spoke the jealous Lawrence: "Pascal knows
He cannot any other songs compose;
Poor fellow! almost ruined quite he is;
His father's most infirm—stretched out, and cannot rise;
The baker will not give him bread, he is constrained to debts."
Then Franconnette grew pale, and said, "And he so very good!
Poor lad! how much he suffers; and now he wants his food!"
"My faith!" said Lawrence, a heart of goodness aping,
"They say that now he goes a-begging!"
"You lie!" cried Thomas, "hold thy serpent's tongue!
Pascal, 'tis true, is working, yet with harm,
Since, for this maiden, he has suffered in his arm;
But he is cured; heed not this spiteful knave!
He works now all alone, for he is strong and brave."
If someone on the girl his eyes had set,
He would have seen tears on the cheeks of Franconnette.
"Let's 'Hunt the Slipper!"' cried the maids;
Round a wide ring they sat, the jades.
Slipper was bid by Franconnette,
But in a twinkle, Marionette—
"Lawrence, hast thou my slipper?" "No, demoiselle!"
"Rise then, and seek it now, ah, well!"
Lawrence, exulting in his features,
Said, "Franconnette, hast thou my slipper?"
"No, sir!" "'Tis false!" It was beneath her seat!
"Thou hast it! Rise! Now kiss me as the forfeit!"
A finch, just taken in a net,
First tries some gap to fly at;
So Franconnette, just like a bird, escaped
With Lawrence, whom she hated;
Incensed he turned to kiss her;
He swiftly ran, but in his pursuit warm,
The moment she was caught he stumbled,
Slipped, fell, and sudden broke his arm.
Misfortunes ne'er come single, it is said.
The gloomy night was now far spent;
But in that fright of frights, quite in a breath,
The house-door creaked and ope'd! Was it a wraith?
No! but an old man bearded to the waist,
And now there stood before the throng the Black Wood Ghaist!
"Imprudent youths!" he cried; "I come from gloomy rocks up
yonder,
Your eyes to ope: I'm filled with wrath and wonder!
You all admire this Franconnette;
Learn who she is, infatuate!
From very cradle she's all evil;
Her wretched father, miserable,
Passed to the Hugnenots and sold her to the Devil;
Her mother died of shame—
And thus the demon plays his game.
Now he has bought this woman base,
He tracks her in her hiding-place.
You see how he has punished Pascal and Lawrence
Because they gave her light embrace!
Be warned! For who so dares this maid to wed,
Amid the brief delight of their first nuptial night,
Will sudden hear a thunder-peal o'er head!
The demon cometh in his might
To snatch the bride away in fright,
And leave the ill-starred bridegroom dead!"
The Wizard said no more; but angry, fiery rays,
From scars his visage bore, seemed suddenly to blaze.
Four times he turned his heel upon,
Then bade the door stand wide, or ere his foot he stayed;
With one long creak the door obeyed,
And lo! the bearded ghaist was gone!
He left great horror in his wake! None stirred in all the
throng;
They looked nor left nor right, when he away had gone,
They seemed all changed to stone—
Only the stricken maid herself stood brave against her wrong;
And in the hope forlorn that all might pass for jest,
With tremulous smile, half bright, half pleading,
She swept them with her eyes, and two steps forward pressed;
But when she saw them all receding,
And heard them cry "Avaunt!" then did she know her fate;
Then did her saddened eyes dilate
With speechless terror more and more,
The while her heart beat fast and loud,
Till with a cry her head she bowed
And sank in swoon upon the floor.
Such was the close of Busking night,
Though it began so gay and bright;
The morrow was the New Year's day,
It should have been a time most gay;
But now there went abroad a fearful rumour—
It was remembered long time after
In every house and cottage home throughout the land—
Though 'twas a fiction and a superstition,—
It was, "The De'il's abroad! He's now a-roaming;
How dreadful! He is now for lost souls seeking!"
The folks were roused and each one called to mind
That some, in times of yore, had heard the sound
Of Devil's chains that clanked;
How soon the father vanished,
The mother, bent in agony,
A maniac she died!
That then all smiled; they felt nor hurt nor harm,
They lived quite happy on their cottage farm,
And when the fields were spoilt with hail or rain,
Their ground was covered o'er with plums and grain.
It was enough; the girls believed it all,
Grandmothers, mothers—thoughts did them appal—
Even infants trembled at the demon's name;
And when the maiden hung her head in pain,.
And went abroad, they scarce would give her passage;
They called to her, "Away! Avaunt! thou imp of evil,
Behold the crime of dealing with the Devil!"

THIRD PART.
The Maid at Estanquet—A Bad Dream—The Grandmother's Advice—
Blessed Bread—Satisfaction and Affection—First Thought of Love
—Sorrowfulness—The Virgin.
Beside a cot at Estanquet,
Down by a leafy brooklet,
The limpid stream
Enshadowed sheen,
Lapped o'er the pebbles murmuring.
Last summer sat a maid, with gathered flowers,
She was engaged in setting,
Within her grassy bowers;
She sang in joy her notes so thrilling,
As made the birds, their sweet songs trilling,
Most jealous.
Why does she sing no more? midst fields and hedgerows verdant;
'The nightingales that came within her garden,
With their loud "jug! jug!" warbling,
And their sweet quavers singing;
Can she have left her cottage home?
No! There's her pretty hat of straw
Laid on the bench; but then they saw
There was no ribbon round it;
The garden all neglected;
The rake and wat'ring-pot were down
Amongst the jonquils overthrown;
The broken-branched roses running riot;
The dandelion, groundsell, all about;
And the nice walks, laid out with so much taste,
Now cover'd with neglected weeds and wanton waste.
Oh! what has happened here? Where is the lively maid?
The little birds now whispering said;
Her home is sparkling there beyond,
With tufted branch of hazel round;
Let's just peep in, the door is open,
We make no noise, but let us listen.
Ah! there's grandmother, on her arm-chair, fast asleep!
And here, beside the casement deep,
The maid of Estanquet, in saddened pain and grief,
The tears down-falling on her pretty hand;
To whom no joy nor hope can ever give relief!
Ah! yes,'twas dark enough! for it is Franconnette,
Already you've divined it is our pet!
And see her now, poor maiden,
Bending beneath the falsest blow, o'erladen;
She sobs and weeps alternately—
Her heart is rent and empty,
Oft, to console herself, she rises, walks, and walks again;
Alas! her trouble is so full of pain—
Awake or sleeping—
she's only soothed by weeping.
Daughter of Huguenot accursed,
And banished from the Church!
Sold to the demon; she's for ever cursed!
Grandmother, waking, said, "Child, 'tis not true;
It matters not; 'tis but thy father fled,
No one can contradict that raving crew;
They know not where he is, and could they see him,
They would so frightened be, they'd not believe their een!"
"How changed things are," said Franconnette, "before I was so
happy;
Then I was village queen, all followed love in harmony;
And all the lads, to please me,
Would come barefooted, e'en through serpents' nests, to bless me!
But now, to be despised and curst,
I, who was once the very first!
And Pascal, too, whom once I thought the best,
In all my misery shuns me like a pest!
Now that he knows my very sad mishaps,
He ne'er consoles with me at all—perhaps——"
She did deceive herself. Her grief to-day was softened
By hearing that Pascal 'gainst slanders her defended;
Such magic help, it was a balm
Her aching soul to calm;
And then, to sweeten all her ill,
She thought always of Pascal—did this softened girl.
What is that sound? A sudden shriek!
Grandmother dreamt—she was now wide awake;
The girl sprang to her; she said, "Isn't the house aflame?
Ah! twas a dream! Thank God!" her murmur came.
"Dear heart," the girl said softly; "what was this dream of
thine?"
"Oh, love! 'twas night, and loud ferocious men, methought
Came lighting fires all round our little cot,
And thou did'st cry unto them, daughter mine,
To save me, but did'st vainly strive,
For here we too must burn alive!
The torment that I bore! How shall I cure my fright
Come hither, darling, let me hold thee tight!"
Then the white-headed dame, in withered arms of love,
With yearning tenderness folded the brown-haired girl, who
strove,
By many a smile, and mute caress,
To hearten her, until at length
The aged one cried out, her love gave vital strength,
"Sold to the Demon, thou? It is a hideous lie!
Therefore, dear child, weep not so piteously;
Take courage! Be thou brave in heart once more,
Thou art more lovely than before—
Take grannie's word for that! Arise!
Go forth; who hides from envious eyes
Makes wicked people spiteful; I've heard this, my pet;
I know full well there's one who loves thee yet—
Marcel would guard thee with his love;
Thou lik'st not him? Ah! could he move
Thy feelings, he would shield thee, dear,
And claim thee for his own.
But I am all too feeble grown;
Yet stay, my darling, stay! To-morrow's Easter Day,
Go thou to Mass, and pray as ne'er before!
Then take the blessed bread, if so the good God may
The precious favour of his former smile restore,
And on thy sweet face, clear as day,
Own thou art numbered with his children evermore!"
Then such a gleam of hope lit the old face again,
Furrowed so deep with years and pain,
That, falling on her neck, the maiden promised well,
And once more on the white cot silence fell.
When, therefore, on the morrow, came the country-side,
To hear the Hallelujas in the church of Saint Pierre;
Great was the wonderment of those that spied
The maiden, Franconnette, silently kneeling there,
Telling her beads with downcast eyes of prayer.
She needs, poor thing, Heaven's mercy to implore,
For ne'er a woman's will she win!
But then, beholding her sweet mien,
Were Marvel and Pascal, eyeing her fondly o'er;
She saw them with her glances, dark as night,
Then shrinking back, they left her all alone,
Midway of a great circle, as they might
Some poor condemned one
Bearing some stigma on her brow in sight.
This was not all, poor child! It was well known—
The warden, uncle to Marcel,
Carried the Blessed Bread;
And like a councillor, did swell
In long-tailed coat, with pompous tread:
But when the trembling maid, making a cross, essayed
To take a double portion, as her dear old grandame bade,
Right in the view of every eye,
The sacred basket he withdrew, and passed her wholly
And so, denied her portion of the bread whereby we live,
She, on glad Easter, doth receive
Dismissal from God's house for aye.
The maid, trembling with fear, thought all was lost indeed!
But no! she hath a friend at need;
'Twas Pascal, who had seen her all the while—
Pacal, whose young foot walked along the aisle,
He made the quest, and nothing loth,
In view of uncle and of nephew both,
Doth quietly to her present,
Upon a silver plate, with flowers fair blossoming,
The crown-piece{5} of the Holy Sacrament—
And all the world beholds the pious offering.
Oh! moment full of joy; her blood sprang into fleetness;
Warmth was in all her frame, her senses thrilled with sweetness;
She saw the bread of God arisen
Out of its earthly prison,
Thus life unto her own was given:
But wherefore did her brow quite blushing grow?
Because the angel bright of love, I trow,
Did with her glowing breath impart
Life to the flame long smouldering in her heart.
It did become a something strange, and passing all desire
As honey sweet, and quick as fire
Did her sad soul illuminate
With a new being; and, though late,
She knew the word for her delight,
The fair enigma she could guess.
People and priest all vanish'd from her sight,
She saw in all the church only one man aright—
He whom she loved at last, with utmost gratefulness.
Then from Saint Peter's church the throng widely dispersed,
And of the scandal they had seen, now eagerly conversed;
But lost not sight of her at all
Who bore the Bread of Honour to the ancient dame, ere this,
She sitteth now alone, shut in her chamber small,
While Franconnette beams brightly with her new-found bliss.
On the parched earth, where falls the earliest dew,
As shines the sun's first rays, the winter flown—
So love's first spark awakes to life anew,
And fills the startled mind with joy unknown.
The maiden yielded every thought to this—
The trembling certainty of real bliss;
The lightning of a joy before improved,
Flash'd in her heart, and told her that she loved.
She fled from envy, and from curious eyes,
And dreamed, as all have done, their waking dreams,
Bidding in thought bright fairy fabrics rise
To shrine the loved one in their golden gleams.
Alas! the sage is right, 'tis the distrest
Who dream the fondest, and who love the best.
But when the saddened heart controls us quite,
It quickly turns to gall the sweets of our delight.
Then she remembered all! The opening heaven turned grey,
Dread thought now smites her heavily.
Dreams she of love? Why, what is she?
Sweet love is not for her! The dreaded sorcerer
Hath said she's fore-sold for a price—a murderer!
With heart of dev'lish wrath, which whoso dares to brave
To lie with her one night, therein shall find his grave.
She, to see Pascal perish at her side!
"Oh God! have pity on me now!" she cried.
So, rent with cruel agonies,
And weeping very sore,
Fell the poor child upon her knees,
Her little shrine before.
"Oh, Holy Virgin!"—sighing—"on thee alone relying,
I come; I'm all astray! Father and mother too
Are dead lang syne, and I accursed! All tongues are crying
This hideous tale! Yet save me if't be true;
If they have falsely sworn, be it on their souls borne
When I shall bring my taper on the fete-day morn{6}
Oh! blessed Mother, let me see
That I am not denied of thee!"
Brief prayer,
Though 'tis sincere,
To Heaven mounts quickly,
Sure to have won a gracious ear;
The maid her purpose holds, and ponders momently,
And oftentimes grows sick, and cannot speak for fear,
But sometimes taketh heart, and sudden hope and strong
Shines in her soul, as brightest meteor gleams the sky along.

FOURTH PART.
The Fete at Notre Dame—Offering to the Virgin—Thunderstroke
and Taper Extinguished—The Storm at Roquefort—
Fire at Estanquet—Triumph of Pascal—Fury of Marcel—
Power of a Mother—Bad Head and Good Heart—Conclusion.
At last, behold the day she longed for, yet so fearfully,
But lo! the sun rose cheerfully;
And long, long lines of white-robed village girls
From all the country round, walked tow'rds the tinkling bells,
And soon, proud Notre Dame appeared in sight,
As 'midst a cloud of perfume!
'Twas if the thirty hamlets in their might
Were piled together into one.
What priests! What candles! Crucifixes! Garlands!
What Angels,{7} and what banners!
You see there Artigues, Puymiral, Astafort,
Saint-Cirq, Cardonnet, Lusignan, Brax, Roquefort,
But this year, Roquefort first, o'erleapeth all.
What crowds there are of curious people,
To watch the girl sold to the Devil!
The news has travelled everywhere;
They know that she, in silent prayer,
Implores the Virgin to protect her there!
Her neighbours scoff, and her menace,
But saddened friends grieve at her sore disgrace,
Love, through their heart, in fervour rills,
Each one respects this plaintivest of girls;
And many a pitying soul a prayer said,
That some great miracle might yet be made
In favour of this poor and suppliant maid.
She saw, rejoiced, more hope with her abode;
Though voice of people is the voice of God!
Oh! how her heart beat as the church she neared,
'Twas for the Virgin's indulgence she cared.
Mothers with heartaches; young unfortunates;
The orphan girls; the women without mates;
All knelt before, with tapers waxen,
The image of the Virgin;
And there the aged priest, in surplice dressed,
Placed the crosses at their lips, and afterwards them blessed.
No sign of sorrow did on any suppliant fall,
But with their happy hearts, their ways went one and all,
So Franconnette grew happy too,
And most because Pascal prayed fervent in her view;
She dared t'raise her eyes to the holy father's face,
It seemed to her that love, hymns, lights, and the incense
United, cried out, "Grace!"
"Grace, grace divine," she sighed, "and love! Let them be mine!"
Then stretching out her taper lit, and followed to the shrine,
Bearing a garland in her hand; and all about her strove
To give a place to her, and bade her forward move.
They fixed their eyes upon the sacred priest and her,
And scarce a breath was drawn, and not a soul did stir;
But when the priest, holding the image of redeeming love,
Had laid it on the orphan's lips; before her kiss was given,
Burst a terrific thunderpeal, as if 'twould rend the heaven,
Blowing her taper out, and all the altar lights above.
Oh, what is this? The crashing thunder!
Her prayer denied, the lights put out!
Good God! she's sold indeed! All, all is true, no doubt,
So a long murmur rose of horror and of wonder;
For while the maiden breathlessly
Cowering like some lost soul, their shuddering glances under,
Sudden crept forth, all shrunk away, and let her pass them by.
Howbeit, that great peal was the opening blow
Of a wild storm and terrible,
That straightway upon Roquefort fell,
The spire of Saint Pierre{8} lay in ruins low,
And, smitten by the sharp scourge of the hail,
In all the region round, men could but weep and wail.
The angel bands who walked that day
In fair procession, hymns to sing,
Turned sorrowing, all save one, away,
Ora pro nobis chaunting.
Yet, in those early times, though not as now,
The angry waves to clear;
To other jealous towns could Agen show
Great bridges three, as she a royal city were;
Then she had only barges two, by poles propelled slow,
That waited for the minstrels, to bear them to Roquefort,
Whose villagers heard rumours of the widespread woe;
Ere landing, they were ranged for singing on the shore.
At first the tale but half they heed,
But soon they see in very deed,
Vineyards and happy fields with hopeless ruin smit;
Then each let fall his banner fair,
And lamentations infinite
Bent on all sides the evening air,
Till o'er the swelling throng rose deadly clear the cry,
"And still we spare this Franconnette!" Then suddenly,
As match to powder laid, the words
"Set her on fire! That daughter of the Huguenot,
Let's burn her up, and let her ashes rot."
Then violent cries were heard.
Howls of "Ay! Ay! the wretch! Now let her meet her fate!
She is the cause of all, 'tis plain!
Once she has made us desolate,
But she shall never curse again!"
And now the crowd grew angrier, wilder too.
"Hunt her off face of earth!" one shouts anew;
"Hunt her to death! 'Tis meet," a thousand tongues repeat,
The tempest in the skies cannot with this compete.
Oh, then, to see them as they came,
With clenched fists and eyes aflame,
Hell did indeed its demons all unchain.
And while the storm recedes, the night is growing clear,
But poison shoots through every vein
Of the possess'd madmen there.
Thus goaded they themselves to crime; but where was she,
Unhappy Franconnette? To her own cottage driven—
Worshipping her one relic, sad and dreamily,
And whispered to the withered flowers Pascal had loving given:
"Dear nosegay, when I saw thee first,
Methought thy sweetness was divine,
And I did drink it, heart athirst;
But now thou art not sweet as erst,
Because those wicked thoughts of mine
Have blighted all thy beauty rare;
I'm sold to powers of ill, for Heav'n hath spurned my prayer;
My love is deadly love! No hope on earth have I!
So, treasure of my heart, flowers of the meadow fair,
Because I bless the hand that gathered thee, good-bye!
Pascal must not love such as I!
He must th' accursed maid forswear,
Who yet to God for him doth cry!
In wanton merriment last year,
Even at love laughed Franconnette;
Now is my condemnation clear,
Now whom I love, I must forget;
Sold to the demon at my birth!
My God, how can it be? Have I not faith in Thee?
Oh! blessed blossoms of the earth;
Let me drive with my cross the evil one from me!
And thou, my mother, in the star-lit skies above,
And thou, my guardian, oh! mother of our God,
Pity me: For I bless Pascal, but part from him I love!
Pity the maid accursed, by the rod
Sore smitten, to the earth down-trod,
Help me, thy Heart Divine to move!"
"Franconnette, little one, what means thy plaintive moan?"
So spake the hoary dame. "Didst thou not smiling say
Our Lady did receive thy offering to-day?
But sure, no happy heart should make so sad a groan.
Thou hast deceived me? Some new ill," she said,
Hath fall'n upon us!" "Nay, not so; be comforted.
I—I'm quite happy!" "So my sweetest deary,
God grant that some good respite we may have,
For your sad sorrow diggeth up my grave;
And this hath been a lonesome, fearsome day, and weary;
That cruel dream of fire I had some time ago,
Howe'er I strove, did always haunt me so!
And then, thou know'st the storm; oh, I was terrified,
So that, to-night, my dear, I shudder in my fright!"
What sudden noise is this outside?
"Fire! Fire! Let's burn them in their cot!"
Flames shine through all the shutters wide,
Then Franconnette springs to the doorway tremblingly,
And, gracious Heaven! what doth she see?
By light of burning reek,
An angry people huddled thick;
She hears them shout, "Now, to your fate!
Spare ne'er the young one, nor the old,
Both work us ruin manifold.
Sold to the demon, we must burn you straight!"
The girl fell on her knees, before the face
Of that most furious populace.
She cried, "Grandmother will you kill? Oh, pity, grace!"
"Twas of no use, the wretches, blind with fury,
In viewing her bareheaded, in their hurry,
Saw but a cursed leman,
Sold bodily to the demon.
The fiercest cried "Avaunt!"
While the more savage forward spring,
And on the door their feet they plant,
With fiery brand in their hand brandishing.
"Hold! I implore you!"cried a voice, before unheard;
And sudden leapt before the crowd like lightning with the word,
A man of stately strength and tall,
It was the noble, brave Pascal!
"Cowards!" he cried. "What? Will you murder women then,
And burn their cot? Children of God! Are you the same?
Tigers you are, and cannot then be men;
And after all that they have suffered! Shame!
Fall back! Fall back! I say; the walls are growing hot!"
"Then let her leave us quite, this wretched Huguenot,
For she was long since by the devil bought,
God smites us 'cause we did not drive her forth before."
"Quick! quick!" cried Pascal, "living they will burn!
Ye dogs, who moved ye to this awful crime?"
"'Twas Marcel," they replied. "See, now he comes in time!"
"You lie!" the soldier thundered in his turn;
"I love her, boaster, more than thou!"
Said Pascal, "How wilt prove thy love, thou of the tender heart?"
"I come," the other said, "to save her. I come to take her part.
I come, if so she will, to wed her, even now."
"And so am I," replied Pascal, and steadfastly
Before his rival's eyes, as bound by some great spell.
Then to the orphan girl turned he,
With worship all unspeakable.
"Answer me, Franconnette, and speak the truth alone;
Thou'st followed by the wicked with spite and scorn, my own;
But we two love thee well, and ready are to brave
Death! Yes, or hell, thy precious life to save.
Choose which of us thou wilt!" "Nay," she lamented sore,
"Dearest, mine is a love that slays!
Be happy, then, without me! Forget me! Go thy ways!"
"Happy without thee, dear! That can I never more:
Nay, were it true, as lying rumour says,
An evil spirit ruled you o'er,
I'd rather die with you, than live bereaved days!"
When life is at its bitterest,
The voice of love aye rules us best;
Instantly rose the girl above her mortal dread,
And on the crowd advancing straight,
"Because I love Pascal, alone I'd meet my fate!
Howbeit his will is law," she said,
"Wherefore together let our souls be sped."
Then was Pascal in heav'n, and Marcel in the dust laid low;
Then Pascal sought his gallant rival, saying,
"I am more blest than thou! Forgive! thou'rt brave, I know,
Some squire{9} should follow me to death; then wilt thou not
Serve me? I have no other friend!" Marcel seemed dreaming;
And now he scowled with wrath, and now his eyes were kindling;
Terrible was the battle in his mind;
Till his eye fell on Franconnette, serene and beaming,
But with no word for him; then pale, but smilingly,
"Because it is her will," he said, "I follow thee."
Two weeks had passed away, and a strange nuptial train,
Adown the verdant hill went slowly to the plain;
First came the comely pair we know, in all their bloom,
While gathered far and wide, three deep on either side,
The ever-curious rustics hied,
Shudd'ring at heart o'er Pascal's doom.
Marcel conducts their march, but pleasures kindly true,
Glows not upon th' unmoving face he lifts to view.
And something glances from his eye,
That makes men shudder as they pass him by;
Yet verily his mien triumphant is, at least
Sole master is he of this feast,
And gives his rival, for bouquet,
A supper and a ball to-day.
But at the dance and at the board
Alike, scarce one essayed a word;
None sung a song, none raised a jest,
For dark forebodings everyone oppressed.
And the betrothed, by love's deep rapture fascinated,
Silent and sweet, though near the fate she sad awaited,
No sound their dream dispelled, yet hand in hand did press,
Their eyes looked ever in a visioned happiness;
And so, at last, the evening fell.
But one affrighted woman straightway broke the spell;
She fell on Pascal's neck and "Fly, my son!" she cried.
"I from the Sorcerer come! Fly, fly from thy false bride
The fatal sieve{10} hath turned; thy death decree is spoken!
There's sulphur fume in bridal room, and by the same dread token,
Enter it not; for if thou liv'st thou'rt lost," she sadly said;
"And what were life to me, my son, if thou wert dead?"
Then Pascal felt his eyes were wet,
And turned away, striving to hide his face, where on
The mother shrieked, "Ingrate! but I will save thee yet.
Thou wilt not dare!"—falling before her stricken son.
"Thou shalt now o'er my body pass, even as thou goest forth!
A wife, it seems, is all; and mother nothing worth!
Unhappy that I am! "The crowd alas! their heavy tears ran down!
"Marcel," the bridegroom said, "her grief is my despair;
But love, thou knowest, 's stronger yet; indeed 'tis time to go!
Only, should I perish, let my mother be thy care."
"I can no more," cried Marcel, "thy mother's conquered here."
And then the valiant soldier from his eyelids brushed a tear.
"Take courage, Pascal, friend of mine
Thy Franconnette is good and pure.
That hideous tale was told, of dark design;
But give thy mother thanks; but for her coming, sure
This night might yet have seen my death and thine."
"What say'st thou?" "Hush! now I will tell thee all;
Thou knowest that I lov'd this maid, Pascal.
For her, like thee, I would have shed my blood;
I dreamt that I was loved again; she held me in her thrall.
Albeit my prayer was aye withstood;
Her elders promised her to me;
And so, when other suitors barr'd my way, In spite,
Saying, in love or war, one may use strategy,
I gave the wizard gold, my rival to affright,
Therefore, my chance did everything, insomuch that I said,
My treasure is already won and made.
But when, in the same breath, we two our suit made known,
And when I saw her, without turn of head,
Choose thee, to my despair, it was not to be borne.
And then I vow'd her death and thine, before the morrow morn!
I thought to lead you forth to the bridal bower ere long,
And then, the bed beside which I had mined with care,
That they might say no prince or power of th' air
Is here. That I might burn you for my wrong;
Ay, cross yourselves, thought I, for you shall surely die!
But thy mother, with her tears, has made my vengeance fly
I thought of my own, Pascal, who died so long ago.
Care thou for thine! And now fear nought from me, I trow,
Eden is coming down to earth for thee, no doubt,
But I, whom henceforth men can only hate and flout,
Will to the wars away! For in me something saith
I may recover from my rout,
Better than by a crime! Ay! by a soldier's death!"
Thus saying, Marcel vanished, loudly cheered on every side;
And then with deepening blushes the twain each other eyed,
For now the morning stars in the dark heavens shone
But now I lift my pencil suddenly.
Colours for strife and pain have I,
But for such perfect rapture—none!
And so the morning came, with softly-dawning light,
No sound, no stir as yet within the cottage white,
At Estanquet the people of the hamlets gathered were,
To wait the waking of the happy married pair.
Marcel had frankly told th' unhappy truth; Nathless,
The devil had an awful power,
And ignorance was still his dower.
Some feared for bride and bridegroom yet; and guess
At strange mischance. "In the night cries were heard,"
Others had seen some shadows on the wall, in wondrous ways.
Lives Pascal yet? None dares to dress
The spicy broth,{11} to leave beside the nuptial door;
And so another hour goes o'er.
Then floats a lovely strain of music overhead,
A sweet refrain oft heard before,
'Tis the aoubado{12} offered to the newly-wed.
So the door opes at last, and the young pair was seen,
She blushed before the folk, but friendly hand and mien,
The fragments of her garter gives,
And every woman two receives;
Then winks and words of ruth from eye and lip are passed,
And luck of proud Pascal makes envious all at last,
For the poor lads, whose hearts are healed but slightly,
Of their first fervent pain,
When they see Franconnette, blossoming rose-light brightly,
All dewy fresh, so sweet and sightly,
They cry aloud, "We'll ne'er believe a Sorcerer again!"

Endnotes to FRANCONNETTE.

{1} Blaise de Montluc, Marshal of France, was one of the bitterest persecutors of the Hugueuots. Towards the end of the sixteenth century, Agen was a centre of Protestantism. The town was taken again and again by the contending religious factions. When Montluc retook the place, in 1562, from Truelle, the Huguenot captain, he found that the inhabitants had fled, and there was no one to butcher (Gascogne et Languedoc, par Paul Joanne, p. 95). Montluc made up for his disappointment by laying waste the country between Fumel and Penne, towns to the north of Agen, and slaying all the Huguenots—men, women, and children—on whom he could lay his hands. He then returned to his castle of Estillac, devoted himself to religious exercises, and "took the sacrament," says Jasmin, "while his hands were dripping with fraternal blood." Montluc died in 1577, and was buried in the garden of Estillac, where a monument, the ruins of which still exist', was erected over his remains.

{2} Jour de Dieu!

{3} Wehr-wolves, wizard wolves—loup-garou. Superstitions respecting them are known in Brittany and the South of France.

{4} Miss Harriett W. Preston, in her article on Jasmin's Franconnette in the Atlantic Monthly for February, 1876, says: "The buscou, or busking, was a kind of bee, at which the young people assembled, bringing the thread of their late spinning, which was divided into skeins of the proper size by a broad thin plate of steel or whalebone called a busc. The same thing, under precisely the same name, figured in the toilets of our grandmothers, and hence, probably, the Scotch use of the verb to busk, or attire." Jamieson (Scottish Dictionary) says: "The term busk is employed in a beautiful proverb which is very commonly used in Scotland, 'A bonny bride is soon busked.'"

{5} Miss Preston says this was a custom which prevailed in certain parts of France. It was carried by the French emigrants to Canada, where it flourished in recent times. The Sacramental Bread was crowned by one or more frosted or otherwise ornamented cakes, which were reserved for the family of the Seigneur, or other communicants of distinction.

{6} At Notre Dame de Bon Encontre, a church in the suburbs of Agen, celebrated for its legends, its miracles, and the numerous pilgrimages which are usually made to it in the month of May.

{7} The Angels walked in procession, and sang the Angelos at the appropriate hours.

{8} The ancient parish church of Roquefort, whose ruins only now remain. See text for the effects of the storm.

{9} Dounzel is the word used by Jasmin. Miss H. W. Preston says of this passage: "There is something essentially knightly in Pascal's cast of character, and it is singular that, at the supreme crisis of his fate, he assumes, as if unconsciously, the very phraseology of chivalry. 'Some squire (dounzel) should follow me to death,' &c., and we find it altogether natural and burning in the high-hearted smith. There are many places where Jasmin addresses his hearers directly as 'Messieurs,' where the context also makes it evident that the word is emphatic, that he is distinctly conscious of addressing those who are above him in rank, and that the proper translation is 'gentles,' or even 'masters'; yet no poet ever lived who was less of a sycophant."

{10} Low sedas (the sieve) is made of raw silk, and is used for sifting flour. It has also a singular use in necromancy. When one desires to know the name of the doer of an act—a theft for instance—the sieve is made to revolve, but woe to him whose name is spoken just as the sieve stops!

{11} An ancient practice. Lou Tourrin noubial, a highly-spiced onion soup, was carried by the wedding guests to the bridegroom at a late hour of the night.

{12} The aoubado—a song of early morning, corresponding to the serenade or evening song.