Jasmin: Barber, Poet, Philanthropist Part 30

Two weeks had pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s, 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?" "Hus.h.!.+ 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 pa.s.sed, 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. Superst.i.tions 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 a.s.sembled, 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 pa.s.sage: "There is something essentially knightly in Pascal's cast of character, and it is singular that, at the supreme crisis of his fate, he a.s.sumes, 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.