The Galley Slave's Ring; or, The Family of Lebrenn. Эжен Сю

Her little bare feet tied together;

       He hears her, desolate, moaning, lamenting,

       Begging for mercy.

       "'Oh, Sires,' she cried, 'for our dear Lord's sake,

       Let me live.

       I shall wander about in the dark by night;

       By day I shall hide.'

       The taper went out.

       But the knight, he budged not away from the door,

       And he heard the voice of the young girl

       Imploring from the depth of the grave,

       And praying:

       'Pray give me some oil, and baptismal

       For the babe I carry with me!' "The knight, he galloped away to Kemper, To the Count-Bishop's palace he rode in full haste. 'Sire Bishop of Cornouailles, wake up! Wake up quick!' cried the knight, As he battered at the gate. 'You lie snugly in your bed, Stretched out cosily upon soft down; But a young girl there is who is now groaning At the bottom of a pit of hard earth, And is praying for some oil, And baptismal for the babe that is with her; Extreme unction she prays for herself.' "By orders the Count-Bishop hastened to issue in advance, The grave at the foot of the altar was dug open; and, Just as the Bishop arrived, the poor young girl Was drawn up from the depths of her grave. She was drawn up, her babe sound asleep on her breast. Her teeth had torn the flesh on her arms, Her nails had torn the flesh on her breast, On her white breast down to her heart. "And the Bishop, When this sight he saw, Fell down on both knees, and wept by the grave. Three days and three nights he spent there in prayer. At the end of the third day, All the red monks standing round, The babe of the dead girl stirred by the light of the tapers, It opened its eyes, It rose, It walked, It walked straight to the three monks in red, And it spoke, and said: 'It is he— Gonthram of Plouernel."[5]

      "Well, now, my lassy," asked Gildas as he shook his head warningly, "is not that a terrible story? Did I not tell you that those helmet-wearers were ever prowling around young girls like so many ravishing sparrow-hawks? But Jeanike, what are you pondering? You do not answer me. You seem steeped in revery."

      "It is, indeed, quite extraordinary, Gildas. Was that bandit of a red monk named the Sire of Plouernel?"

      "Yes."

      "Often have I heard Monsieur Lebrenn mention the name of that family as if he had some cause of complaint against them, and say, whenever he referred to some wicked man: He must be a son of Plouernel!' as one would say: 'He must be a son of the devil!'"

      "That is a puzzle—a puzzling house this is," remarked Gildas meditatively, and even in a tone of uneasiness. "To think of Monsieur Lebrenn having complaint against the family of a red monk, who has been dead eight or nine hundred years. All the same, Jeanike, I hope the story may stand you in good stead."

      "Go to, Gildas!" exclaimed Jeanike, laughing. "Do you imagine there are any red monks in St. Denis Street, and that they carry off young girls in omnibuses?"

      As Jeanike was saying this, a valet in morning livery stepped into the shop and asked for Monsieur Lebrenn.

      "He is not in," said Gildas.

      "Then, my good lad," answered the valet, "you will please tell your master that the colonel expects to see him this morning, before noon, to settle with him a matter about some linen that he spoke about with your mistress yesterday. Here is my master's address," added the valet, placing a visiting card upon the counter. "Above all be certain to urge your master to be punctual. The colonel does not like to be kept waiting."

      The valet left. Gildas took up the card mechanically, read it and cried out, turning pale:

      "By St. Anne of Auray! It is incredible—"

      "What is it, Gildas?"

      "Read, Jeanike!"

      And with a trembling hand he reached out the card to the young girl who read:

      COUNT GONTHRAM OF PLOUERNEL.

       Colonel of Dragoons.

       18 Paradis-Poissonniere Street.

      "A puzzling, a fear-inspiring house this is!" Gildas repeated several times, raising his hands to heaven, while Jeanike herself looked as astonished and almost as frightened as the young shop-assistant.

CHAPTER II.

       GEORGE DUCHENE.

       Table of Contents

      While the events narrated in the preceding chapter were happening in the shop of Monsieur Lebrenn the linendraper, another scene was taking place at almost the same hour on the fifth story of an old house, opposite the one which the Breton merchant occupied.

      I shall take my reader into a modest little room that is fitted out with extreme neatness; an iron bedstead, a wardrobe, two chairs and a table above which stood a shelf filled with books—such was its furniture. At the head of the bed hung from the wall a species of trophy, consisting of a military cap and two light infantry under-officer's epaulettes, above which, spread in a black frame, was an honorable discharge from service. In a corner of the chamber, and disposed upon a board, were several carpenter's tools.

      Upon the bed lay a freshly furbished carbine, and upon a little table a little heap of balls, a gunpowder pouch, and a mold to prepare cartridges in, a number of which had already been gotten ready.

      The tenant of the apartment, a young man of about twenty-six, with a virile and handsome face, and wearing a mechanic's blouse, was already up. With his elbows leaning on the sill of his attic window, he seemed to be looking intently at the house of Monsieur Lebrenn, especially at one of the four windows, between two of which the famous sign of The Sword of Brennus was fastened.

      That one particular window, furnished with very white curtains closely drawn together, presented nothing remarkable to the sight, except for a wooden box, painted green and daintily wrought with ovolos and other carvings, that filled the full width of the outer sill and contained several winter heliotropes besides some crocuses in full bloom.

      The features of the tenant of the attic as he contemplated the window in question, bore an expression of such profound melancholy that it was almost painful to behold. After a while a tear, that fell from the young man's eyes, rolled down upon his brown moustache.

      The sound of a clock that struck half past six drew George Duchene—that was the young man's name—from his revery. He passed his hand over his moist eyes, and left the window murmuring bitterly:

      "Bah! To-day, or to-morrow, a bullet through my breast will deliver me from this insane love. Thanks to God, there will soon be a serious engagement. My death will at least serve the cause of freedom."

      George remained pensive for a while, and then added:

      "But grandfather—I forgot him!"

      He then proceeded to a corner of the room where stood a little stove half filled with burning coals, and which he had been using to found his bullets. He placed on the fire a small earthen dish filled with milk, crumbled into it some slices of white bread, and in a few minutes had ready for use a toothsome bowl of milk soup that the expertest housekeeper might have been jealous of.

      After concealing the carbine and munitions of war under his mattress, George took up the bowl, opened a door that was cut in the board partition of his apartment, and passed into a contiguous room, where a man of advanced age and with a kind and venerable face framed in long white hair, lay on a much better bed than George's. The old man seemed exceedingly weak; his thin and wrinkled hands were agitated by a continuous tremor.

      "Good morning, grandfather," said George, tenderly embracing the old man. "Did you rest well during the night?"

      "Quite