XII.
The white-haired beggar had endeavored to protect Matheline against the wolf, but he was very old, and his limbs would not move as quickly as his heart. He only succeeded in throwing down the wolf. It fell at Josserande's feet and licked her knees, uttering doleful moans. But the people, who had come thither for entertainment, were not well pleased with what had happened. There was now abundance of light, as men with torches had arrived from the abbey in search of Gildas the Wise, whose cell had been found empty at the hour of Compline.
The glare from the torches shone upon two hideous wounds made by the wolf, who had devoured Matheline's beauty and Pol's strength,—that is to say, the face of the one and the arms of the other—flesh and bones. It was frightful to behold. The women wept while looking at the repulsive, bleeding mass which had been Matheline's smiling face; the men sought in the double bloody gaps some traces of Pol's arms, for the powerful muscles, the glory of the athletic games; and every heart was filled with wrath.
And the legend says that the tenant of Coat-Dor, Matheline's poor father, knelt beside his daughter and felt around in the blood for the scattered pearls, which were now as red as holly-berries.
"Alas!" said he, "of these dead, stained things, which when living were so beautiful, which were admired and envied and loved, I was so proud and happy."
Alas! indeed, alas! Perhaps it was not the girl's fault that her heart was no larger than a little bird's; and yet for this defect was not Matheline cruelly punished?
"Death to the wolf! death to the wolf! death to the wolf!"
From all sides was this cry heard, and brandishing pitchforks, cudgels, ploughshares, and mallets, came rushing the people towards the wolf, who still lay panting, with open jaws and pendent tongue, at the feet of Dame Josserande.
Around them the torch-bearers formed a circle: not to throw light upon the wolf and Dame Josserande, but to render homage to the white-haired beggar, in whom, as though the scales had suddenly fallen from their eyes, every one recognized the Grand Abbot of Ruiz, Gildas the Wise.
The grand abbot raised his hand, and the armed crowd's eager advance was checked, as if their feet had been nailed to the ground. Calmly he surveyed them, blessed them, and said,—
"Christians, the wolf did wrong to punish, for chastisement belongs to God alone; therefore the wolf's fault should not be punished by you. In whom resides the power of God? In the holy authority of fathers and mothers. So here is my penitent Josserande, who will rightfully judge the wolf and punish him; she is his mother."
When Gildas the Wise ceased speaking, you could have heard a mouse run across the heath. Each one thought to himself: "So the wolf is really Sylvestre Ker." But not a word was uttered, and all looked at Dame Josserande's axe, which glistened in the moonlight.
Josserande's heart sank within her, and she murmured,—
"My beloved one, my beloved one, whom I have borne in my arms and nourished with my milk,—ah! me, can the Lord God inflict this cruel martyrdom upon me?"
No one replied, not even Gildas the Wise, who silently adjured the All-Powerful, and recalled to Him the sacrifice of Abraham.
Josserande raised her axe, but she had the misfortune to look at the wolf, who fixed his eyes, full of tears, upon her, and the axe fell from her hands.
It was the wolf who picked it up, and when he gave it back to her, he said,—
"I weep for you, my mother."
"Strike!" cried the crowd; for what remained of Pol and Matheline uttered terrible groans. "Strike! strike!"
While Josserande again seized her axe, the grand abbot had time to say,—
"Do not complain, you two unhappy ones; for your suffering here below changes your hell into heaven."
Three times Josserande raised the axe, three times she let it fall without striking; but at last she said, in a hoarse tone that sounded like a death-rattle, "I have great faith in the good God!" and then she struck boldly, for the wolf's head split in two halves.