Chapter 9 No.9

Rainy Weather in the Pyrenees-Eaux Chaudes out of Season, and in the Rain-Plucking the Indian Corn at the Auberge at Laruns-The Legend of the Wehrwolf, and the Baron who was changed into a Bear.

I wakened next morning to a mournful reveillé-the pattering of the rain; and, looking out, found the Place one puddle of melting sleet. The fog lay heavy and low upon the hills, and the sky was as dismal as a London firmament in the dreariest day of November. Still, M. Martin was sanguine that it would clear up after breakfast. Such weather was absurd-nonsensical; he presumed it was intended for a joke; but if so, the joke was a bad one. However, it must be fine speedily-that was a settled point-that he insisted on. Breakfast came and went, however, and the rain was steady.

"Monsieur," said Jeanne, "has lost the season of the Pyrenees."

"Is there not the summer of St. John to come yet?" demanded Martin.

"Yes; but it will rain at least a week before then."

What was one to do? There clearly was no speedy chance of the clouds relenting; and what was sleet with us, was dry snow further up the pass. The Peak du Midi, with visions of which I had been flattering myself, was as inaccessible as Chimbarozo, Spain, of which I had hoped to catch at least a Pisgah peep-for I did want to see at least a barber and a priest-was equally out of the question. During the morning a string of mules had returned to Laruns, with the news that the road was blocked up; and truly I found that, had it not been so, my first step towards going to Spain must needs have been in the direction of Bayonne, to have my passports visèd-those dreary passports, which hang like clogs to a traveller's feet. And so then passed the dull morning tide away, every body sulky and savage. Peasants, with dripping capas, stumbled up stairs, and sat in groups smoking over the fire; the two old women scolded; Jeanne grew quite snappish; and M. Martin ran out every moment to look at the weather, and came back to repeat that it was no lighter yet, but that it soon must clear up, positively. At length my companion and I determined upon a sally, at all events-a bold push. Let the weather do what it pleased, we would do what we pleased, and never mind the weather. So old grey was harnessed in the stable; we blockaded ourselves with wraps, and started bravely forth, a forlorn hope against the elements. We took the way to Eaux Chaudes; and the further we went, the heavier fell the rain-cats and dogs became a mild expression for the deluge. The mist got lower and lower; the sleet got colder and colder; old grey snorted and steamed; we gathered ourselves up under the multitudinous wrappers; the rain was oozing through them-it was trickling down our necks-suddenly making itself felt in small rills in unexpected and aggravating places, which made sitting unpleasant-collecting in handsome lakes at our feet, and pervading with one vast, clammy, chilly, freezing dampness body and soul. The whole of creation seemed resolved into a chaos of fog, mire, and rain. We had passed into what would be called in a pantomime "the Rainy Realms, or the Dreary Domains of Desolation;" and what comfort was it-soaked, sodden, shivering, teeth chattering-to hear Martin proclaim, about once in five minutes, that the weather would clear up at the next turn of the road? The dreary day remains, cold and clammy, a fog-bank looming in my memory ever since. I believe I saw the établissment of Eaux Chaudes; at least, there were big drenched houses, with shutters up, like dead-lights, and closed doors, and mud around them, like water round the ark. They looked like dismal county hospitals, with all the patients dead except the madmen, who might be enjoying the weather and the situation; or like gaols, with all the prisoners hung, and the turnkeys starved at the cell doors for lack of fees. I remember hearing a doleful voice, like that of Priam's curtain drawer, asking me if I wouldn't get out of the vehicle; but to move was hideous discomfort, bringing new wet surfaces into contact with the skin; so I croaked out, "No, no; back-back to the fire at Laruns." And so honest grey, all in a steam, splashed round through the mud; and back we went as we had come-rain, rain, rain, pitiless, hopeless rain-the fog hanging like a grey winding sheet above us-the zenith like a pall above that, leaden and drear, as on a Boothia Felix Christmas Day.

There was nothing for it but the fireside. The very douaniers had abandoned the street-the pigs had retreated-the donkeys brayed at intervals from their ground-floor parlours; and only the maniac geese sat on one leg, croaking, to be rained on, and the marble fountain, so pretty yester-evening in a gleam of sunshine, spouted away, bringing "coals to Newcastle," with an insane perseverance which it made me sad to contemplate. Dinner was ordered as soon as it could be got ready; we felt it was the last resource. I fortunately had a change of clothes. Martin had not; but he retired for awhile, and reappeared in a home-spun coat and trowsers, six inches too long for him, which he was fain to hold up, to the enormous triumph and delight of Jeanne. At length, then, that neat-handed Phillis announced dinner.

"Stay a moment!" exclaimed Martin; "I am just going to see whether it is likely to clear up."

Out he went into the mud, and returned with the announcement that it would be summer weather in five minutes; he knew, by some particular movement of the mist. But poor Martin's weather predictions had ceased to command any credit; and the peasants around the fire shrugged their shoulders and laughed. The dinner passed off like a funeral feast. I looked upon the Place-still a puddle, and every moment getting deeper. No songs-no jodling choruses to-night, maidens of Laruns!

Sitting gloomily over the Jurancon wine, and looking at the fire, I saw a huge cauldron put on, and presently the steam of soup began to steal into the room. Martin and Jeanne were holding confidential intercourse, which ended in my squire's coming to me, and announcing that there was to be held a grand épeluche of the Indian corn, and that the soup was to form the supper of the work-people. Presently, sure enough, a vast pile of maize in the husk was brought up, and heaped upon the floor; and as the dusk gathered, massive iron candlesticks with tapers which were rather rushlights than otherwise, were set in due order around the grain. Then in laughing parties, drenched but merry, the neighbours poured in-men, women, and children-and vast was the clatter of tongues in Bernais, as they squatted themselves down on stools and on the floor, and began to strip off the husks of the yellow heads of corn, flinging the peeled grain into coarse baskets set for the purpose. The old people deposited themselves on settles in the vast chimney-nook; and amongst them there was led to a seat a tall blind man, with grizzly grey hair, and a mild smiling face.

"Ask that man to tell you a story about any of the old castles or towns hereabouts," whispered Martin; "he knows them all-all the traditions, and legends, and superstitions of Bearne."

This council was good. So, as soon as the whole roomful were at work-stripping and peeling-and moistening their labours by draughts of the valley vine-I proceeded to be introduced to the patriarch, but, ere I had made my way to him:

"Pere Bruniqul," said a good-humoured looking matron; "you know you always give us one of your tales to ease our work, and so now start off, and here is the wine-flask to wet your lips."

All this, and the story which followed, was spoken in Bernais, so that to M. Martin I am indebted for the outlines of the tale, which I treat as I did that of the Baron of the Chateau de Chatel-morant:-

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"Sir Roger d'Espaigne," said the lady of the knight she addressed-holding in her hand the hand of their daughter Adele, a girl of six or seven years of age-"where do you hunt to day?"

"Marry," replied her husband, "in the domains of the Dame of Clargues. There are more bears there than anywhere in the country."

"But you know that the Dame of Clargues loves her bears, and would not that they should be hurt; and besides, she is a sorceress, and can turn men into animals, if she will. Oh, she practices cunning magic; and she is also a wehr-wolf; and once, when Leopold of Tarbes struck a wolf with an arblast bolt, and broke its right fore-leg, the Dame of Clargues appeared with her right-arm in bandages, and Leopold of Tarbes died within the year."

But Sir Roger was not to be talked to. He said the Dame of Clargues was no more a witch than her neighbours; and poising his hunting-spear, away he rode with all his train-the horses caracolling, and the great wolf and bear-hounds leaping and barking before them. They passed the castle of the Dame of Clargues, and plunged into the forests, where the wolves lay-the prickers beating the bushes, and the knights and gentlemen ready, if any game rushed out, to start in pursuit with their long, light spears. For more than half the day they hunted, but had no success; when, at last, a huge wolf leaped out of a thicket, and passed under the very feet of the horses, which reared and plunged, and the riders, darting their spears in the confusion, only wounded each other and their beasts, while three or four of the best dogs were trampled on, and the wolf made off at a long gallop down the wood. But Sir Roger had never lost sight of her, and now followed close upon her haunches, standing up in his stirrups, and couching his lance. Never ran wolf so hard and well, and had not Sir Roger's horse been a Spanish barb, he had been left far behind. As it was, he had not a single companion; when, coming close over the flying beast, he aimed a blow at her head. The spear glanced off, but blood followed the stroke, and at the same moment the barb swerved in her stride, and suddenly stopping, fell a trembling, and laid her ears back, while Sir Roger descried a lady close by, her robes rustling among the forest-herbs. Instantly, he leaped off his horse, and advanced to meet and protect the stranger from the wolf; but the wolf was gone, and, instead, he saw the Dame of Clargues with a wound in her left temple, from which the blood was still flowing.

"Sir Roger d'Espaigne," she said, "thou hast seen me a wolf-be thou a bear!" And even as she spoke, the knight disappeared, and a huge, brown bear stood before her.

"And now," she cried, "begone, and seek thy kindred in the forest-beasts-only hearken: thou shalt kill him who killest thee, and killing him, thou shalt end thine own line, and thy blood shall be no more upon the earth."

When the chase came up, they found the Spanish barb all trembling, and the knight's spear upon the ground; but Sir Roger was never after seen. So years went by, and the little girl, who had beheld her father go forth to hunt in the Dame of Clargues' domain, grew up, and being very fair, was wooed and wedded by a knight of Foix, who was called Sir Peter of Bearne. They had been married some months, and there was already a prospect of an heir, when Sir Peter of Bearne went forth to hunt, and his wife accompanied him to the castle-gate, even as her mother had convoyed her father when he went on his last hunting party to the woods of the Dame of Clargues.

"Sir Peter," said the lady, "hast thou heard of a great bear in the forest, which, when he is hunted, the hunters hear a doleful voice, saying, 'Hurt me not, for I never did thee any harm?'"

"Balaam, of whom the clerk tells us, ought to have that bear to keep company with his ass," said the knight, gaily, and away he rode. He had hunted with good success most of the day, and had killed both boars and wolves, when he descried, couched in a thicket, a most monstrous bear, with hair of a grizzly grey-for he seemed very old, but his eyes shone bright, and there was something in his presence which cowed the dogs, for, instead of baying, they crouched and whined; and even the knights and squires held off, and looked dubiously at the beast, and called to Sir Peter to be cautious, for never had such a monstrous bear been seen in the Pyrenees; and one old huntsman shouted out aloud, "My lord, my lord-draw back, for that is the bear which, when he is hunted, the hunters hear a doleful voice, saying, 'Hurt me not, for I never did thee any harm!'"

Nevertheless, the knight advanced, and drawing his sword of good Bordeaux steel, fell upon the beast. The dogs then took courage, and flew at him; but the four fiercest of the pack he killed with as many blows of his paws, and the rest again stood aloof; so that Sir Peter of Bearne was left face to face with the great beast, and the fight was long and uncertain; but at last the knight prevailed, and the bear gave up the ghost. Then all the hunt rushed in, and made a litter, and with songs and acclamations carried the dead bear to the castle, the knight, still faint from the combat, following. They found the Lady Adele at the castle-gate; but as soon as she saw the bear, she gave a lamentable scream, and said, "Oh! what see I?" and fainted. When she was recovered, she passed off her fainting fit upon terror at the sight of such a monster; but still, she demanded that it should be buried, and not, as was the custom, cut up, and parts eaten. "Holy Mary!" said the knight, "you could not be more tender of the bear if he were your father." Upon which, Adele grew very pale; but, nevertheless, she had her will, and the beast was buried.

That night Sir Peter de Bearne suddenly rose in his sleep, and, catching up arms which hung near him, began to fight about the room, as he had fought with the bear. His lady was terrified, and the varlets and esquires came running in, and found him with the sweat pouring down his face, and fighting violently-but they could not see with what. None could approach him, he was so savage, and he fought till dawn, and returned, quite over-wearied, to his bed. Next morning he knew nothing of it; but the next night he rose again; and the next, and the next-and fought as before. Then they took away his weapons, but he ranged the castle through, till he found them, and then fought more furiously than ever, till, at length, he was accustomed to fall on his knees with weakness and fatigue. Before a month had passed, you would not have known Sir Peter: he seemed twenty years older; he could hardly drag one foot after the other; and he fell melancholy and pined-for at last he knew that the curse of the bear was upon him, and that he was not long for this world. Many then advised to send for the Dame of Clargues, who was still alive, but old, and who was more skilful in such matters than any priest or exorcist on this side of Paris: and at last she was sent for, and arrived. The scar upon her forehead was still to be seen; her grey hair did not cover it.

"Lady," said she to the Lady of Bearne, "did you ever see your father?"

"Yes, truly; the very day he went forth a-hunting and never returned, I saw him, and I yet can fancy the face before me."

"Thou wilt see it to-night."

"Then my foreboding-that strange feeling-was true. Oh! my father-my husband."

Midnight came, and, worn and haggard, Sir Peter de Bearne rose again to renew his nightly combat. He staggered and groaned, and his strength was spent, and those who stood round sang hymns and prayed aloud. At length the knight shrieked out with a fearful voice-the first time he had spoken in all his dreary sleep-fighting-"Beast, thou hast conquered!" and fell back upon the floor, his limbs twisting like the limbs of a man who is being strangled; and Adele screamed aloud.

"Look, minion, look!" exclaimed the Dame of Clargues to the lady-passing at the same time her hand over the lady's eyes.

"O God!" cried Adele-"my father kills my husband;" and she fell upon the floor, and she and the unborn babe died together, and Sir Peter de Bearne was likewise lifted lifeless from the spot.

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