The Branding Needle, or The Monastery of Charolles

About fifty years have elapsed since King Clotaire had his son Chram burned alive together with the latter's wife and daughters. Let us forget the spectacle of desolation that conquered Gaul continues to present under the descendants of Clovis for the last fifty years, and rest our eyes upon the Valley of Charolles.

Oh, the fathers of the happy inhabitants who people that corner of the land did not bend their necks under the yoke of either Frankish seigneurs or Gallic bishops. No, no-they proved the old Gallic blood still flowed in their veins. The consequence is noticed in the picture of dignified felicity that the valley offers. Behold on the slope of the hill the cosy homes half shaded by vines, that carpet the walls and the ripe maturity and luxuriant quality of which are attested by their leaves and grapes that the autumn sun has reddened and gilt. Each of the houses is surrounded by a garden of flowers with a clump of shade-giving trees. Never did the eye of man dwell upon a more smiling village. A village? No; it rather resembles a large borough. From at least six to seven hundred houses are scattered on the slope of that hill, without counting the vast thatched structures that are situated below on the meadow, which is watered by a river that rises to the north of the valley, crosses it and forms its boundary far away where the horizon dips. Yonder the river parts in two arms; one flows eastward, the other westward, after bathing in its course the feet of a forest of gigantic chestnut trees from between the tops of which the roof of a tall stone building is perceived, surmounted by a cross of iron.

No, never yet was promised land better calculated to reward industry with abundance. Half way up the slope of the hill, the purple colored vines; above the vineyards, the agricultural fields, on which the stubble of rye and wheat left from the last harvest is here and there seen burning. The fertile acreage stretches up to the skirts of the forests that crown the surrounding eminences, within which the spacious valley is locked. Below the vineyards are meadowlands watered by the river. Numerous flocks of sheep and herds of horses browse and graze upon the succulent pasture. The bells of the bulls and wethers are heard tinkling their rural melody. Here and yonder carts drawn by oxen slowly roll over the ground where the stubble was burned the day before, or four-wheeled wagons slowly descend the slopes of the vineyards and wend their way towards the common wine-presses, which, together with the stables, the sheep-folds and the pig-sties, all alike common, are located in the neighborhood of the river. Several workshops also lie contiguous to the river; the wash and spinning houses, where the flax is prepared and the wool washed preparatorily to being transformed into warm clothing; there also are situated the tanneries, the forges, the mills equipped with enormous grind-stones. Peace, security, contentment and work are seen everywhere reflected in the valley. The sound of the beetles of the washerwomen and the curriers, the clang of the blacksmiths' hammers, the joyful cries of the men and women engaged at the vintage, the rythmic chant of the husbandmen keeping time to the even and slow gait of the draft-oxen, the rustic flute of the shepherds,-all these sounds, including the hum of the swarming bees, another set of indefatigable toilers, who are busily gathering the honey from the last autumnal flowers,-all these different sounds, from the furthest and vaguest to the nearest and loudest, mingle into one harmony that is at once sweet and imposing; it is the voice of labor and happiness rising heavenward as a continuous thanksgiving.

What is it that is going on in yonder house, which, although constructed like all the others, nevertheless, being nearest to the crest of the hill, seems to be the culminating point of the settlement, and commands a full view of the valley? Dressed in festive garb, the dwellers of that house are seen going in and out. They are seen heaping dry vine twigs in a sort of pyre at a goodly distance from the door. Young girls and children are seen and heard merrily bringing in their arms their contributions of dry wood, and running off again for more combustibles. A short old woman, with hair as white as silver, dainty, comely and still quick despite her advanced age, superintends the preparation of the pyre. As all old women are apt to do, she finds fault and sermonizes-but not in anger, on the contrary. Listen to her:

"Oh, those young girls, those young girls! Always giddy-headed! Work more and laugh less; the pyre is not yet high enough. What does it avail that you rose at early dawn in order to finish your daily tasks before your companions, if you now only frolic instead of hastening the work on the pyre? I am quite sure that more than one impatient look is being cast up here from the valley below, and that more than one voice is saying: 'What may they be up to on the hill that they do not yet give us the signal? Can they be asleep as in winter?' I am certain such are the serious suspicions that you are exposing yourselves to, you eternal gigglers! Such are the pranks of your age. I know it, I should not blame you; but remember that the days are short at this season; before our good men shall have had time to lead the cattle back from the fields, stalled the draft-oxen and the wagons, and put on their holiday clothes, the sun will be down. We shall not be able to reach the monastery until after dark, and the community expects the signal from us before sunset."

"A few more armfuls of dry wood, dame Odille, and all that will be left to do will be to set it on fire," answered a handsome lassie of sixteen years with blue eyes and black hair; "I shall take charge of lighting the pyre; you will see how bold I can be!"

"Oh, Fulvia, your grandmother, my old friend the Bishopess, is right, indeed, when she says that you are a dare-devil."

"My good grandmother is like yourself, dame Odille; her scoldings are but caresses; she loves all that is young and gay."

"And I presume you act so crazily merely in order to please her?"

"Yes, dame Odille; because you must know that it costs me a good deal, it is awfully hard for me to be gay! Alas! Alas!"

And the lass punctuated each exclamation with such a hearty outburst of laughter and droll action, that the good little old woman could not refrain from following the example. Whereupon she said:

"As true as this is the fiftieth time that we celebrate the anniversary of our settling in the Valley of Charolles, I never saw a girl of a more unalterably happy disposition than yours, my lovely Fulvia."

"Fifty years! How awfully long that is, dame Odille. It seems to me I could never live to see fifty years!"

"It looks that way at your charming age of sixteen; but to me, Fulvia, these fifty years of peace and happiness have sped like a dream-except, of course, the evil year when I saw Ronan's father die, and lost my first-born son."

"Look, dame Odille! There are your consolations, now coming up from the field!"

These "consolations" were her husband Ronan himself and his second son Gregory, a man now of mature age who was, in turn, accompanied by his two children, Guenek, a strapping lad of twenty, and Asilyk, a handsome girl of eighteen. Despite his white hair and beard, and despite his seventy-five years, Ronan the Vagre was still quick of motion, vigorous and frolicsome as ever.

"Good evening," he called out to his wife as he embraced her; "good evening, little Odille."

And after him it was the turn of Gregory and his children to embrace the dame.

"Good evening, dear mother."

"Good evening, dear grandmother."

"Do you hear them?" put in Ronan's wife with that smile that sits so charming on the lips of happy elderly people. "Do you hear them? To these two I am 'grandmother,' and for this one here I am 'Little Odille.'"

"Even when you will be a hundred years old, and you will surely reach that age, by the faith of Ronan! I shall always call you 'Little Odille' just as, my little Odille, I shall always call these two friends who are approaching the 'Master of the Hounds' and the 'Bishopess.'"

Just then the Master of the Hounds and his wife joined the group where Ronan stood; the heads of both the new arrivals had been whitened with age, but their faces beamed with happiness.

"Ho! Ho! How fine you look, my old companion, with your new blouse and embroidered cap! And you, beautiful Bishopess, you are no less gorgeously arrayed!"

"Ronan, by the faith of an old Vagre!" said the Master of the Hounds, "I love my Fulvia, in the matron's dress that she now wears, with her brown robe and her coif as white as her hair, as much as I did when she wore her orange skirt, blue sash, gold necklace and silver embroidered red stockings. Do you remember, Ronan? Do you?"

"Odille, if my husband and yours begin to talk about olden days, we shall not arrive at the monastery until to-morrow morning. But Loysik is waiting for us. Let us start."

"Beautiful and wise Bishopess, we shall hearken unto you," merrily replied Ronan. "Come, Gregory; come, my children; let us start, that will take us all the quicker to my good brother Loysik."

A minute later, Fulvia, the grandchild of the Bishopess, came out of the house with several of her girl friends, with a lighted brand in her hand, wherewith she set the pyre on fire. The gladsome cries of the girls and children greeted the bright and sparkling column of fire that mounted heavenward. At the signal, the people down in the valley who were still at work in the fields, started homeward, and an hour later they marched in a body, men, women and children, the old and the young, in festive groups to the monastery of Charolles.