Chapter V: Part II (3)

There was nothing in particular that he wanted to do; and so he did nothing. I used to ask young men what they were reading, but I do not now, unless I am quite sure of them. So many men said, "Oh,--really, you know,--the newspapers, you know,--and the magazines, you know,--'Littell's' and 'Old and New' and the 'Atlantic,' you know--must keep up with the times, you know." I did not know any such thing. They read nothing in particular, and practically read nothing at all. Now, the people,--who are, on the whole, wiser than we think,--when their moments of crisis come, sweep all such Jacks-of-all-trades by. They light on some one man, who has done some one thing well. He has made fish leap up the falls at Lowell into the Merrimack. He has taught the waves to obey his bidding, and sheer off the shore at Chicago. He has administered a railroad, so that no widow weeps when she hears its name, no orphan curses the recklessness of its managers. The grateful people know such men. And when a crisis comes, that voice of the people, which is as the voice of God, says to such a man,--

"Thou hast been faithful in a few things: I will make thee ruler over many things. Thou hast been faithful in a very little. Have thou authority over ten cities!"

But Mr. Sapp heard no such order to come up higher. The truth is, that, in three cases out of four, official life with us is not a good training for business in any other work. And Mr. Sapp's office at the War Department had been one of those three cases. It had taught him to file letters, to note their contents in an alphabetical index, to refer them respectfully to somebody else, to write back in an invariable form to the authors that they had been respectfully referred, and, once a week, to send a volume of letters to the binder. But this was all that it taught him. The consequence was that when he was appointed to any function with any different duties, he functioned ill.

Thus he was a poor librarian at the Archæological; and the directors voted not to have any librarian. They appointed a superintendent; and Mr. Sapp was discharged.

He lectured ill for the Free Trade League, so that the people stayed at home. Now, as Lord Dundreary says, "How can a feller lecture, if people will not listen?"

He inspected orange peel ill, so that, whether the Know-nothings had come in or not, he would have gone out. In truth, he was, as I said, trained to do nothing in particular; and the only place he was fit for, therefore, was some place where there was nothing in particular to do.

In the English civil service there are many such places; but in that of America there are very few.

The last time I saw Mr. Sapp, he was standing rather ruefully at the door of Dr. Chloral's office. Dr. Chloral, you remember, is the celebrated dentist of that name, with the striking sign on Cambridge Street, where a gutta-perch mouth, propelled by Cochituate, opens and shuts to slow music, as if it were listening to a lyceum lecture two-thirds done. Fortunately for me, Mr. Sapp did not see me.

At that moment he was laying his lines for an inspectorship in the Custom House. He had no letter of introduction which he thought would move Judge Russell, the collector. But he knew, or thought he knew, that Dr. Chloral and Judge Russell were intimate; so he stood at Dr. Chloral's street-door till some patient might come in whom Mr. Sapp could engage to introduce him to the dentist, who in his turn could then introduce him to the collector.

An admirable plan! Well, many patients came, you may be sure. Ladies came in carriages with their children, from Chester Square. Students came in the Union cars from Cambridge. Laboring men came up from North Street. Later in the day, toothaching bankers came from State Street, and neuralgic aldermen from City Hall. But hour passed after hour; and no man came whom Mr. Sapp could ask for an introduction to Dr. Chloral. Hour passed after hour. The clock struck three, when Mr. Sapp knew that office hours were over for that day. The hard-worked doctor, released at last, came running down to take his walk before dinner, when lo, one more patient on the stairway!

It was poor John Sapp. Failing other introduction, he had, with the promptness of genius, invented a toothache.

He met Dr. Chloral, and acted agony so well, that he compelled the doctor to return.

"But there's nothing the matter with that tooth, man! It is sound for thirty years."

"O," said Mr. Sapp, "I wish I thought so!"

"Why, man, I wish it were in my head!" said the doctor.

"O," said Mr. Sapp, "I wish it were!"

"Well," said Dr. Chloral, "if you say so, here goes"; and in a moment he pulled as honest a tooth as ever ground gristle or tendon.

"Now rinse your mouth here, sir; here's a towel, sir; I'm rather late, sir"; and then, as Mr. Sapp loitered,--

"What else can I do for you?"

"Could not you,--Dr. Chloral,--could not you write me a line of introduction to Mr. Collector Russell at the Custom House?"

"And after all, do you think," said Mr. Sapp,--"after all, Judge Russell appointed a one-legged soldier, who had served in the war; and I lost my tooth for nothing."

After this repulse, Mr. Sapp became low in his mind. His uncles were dead,--that is, his real uncles were; and he carried to his other uncles most of his portable property for pawn. At last he got up a paper which many men signed--without reading it. They hoped, perhaps, it was a petition to the governor that he would give Mr. Sapp a place, holding for good behavior, in the state-prison. It _was_ a recommendation to the benevolent to subscribe for his relief. With this paper he called, as it happened, on Mrs. Gen. Armitage, who was spending the summer at the sea-shore at Shirk Corners. Mrs. Armitage was interested in the fate of the worn-out office-seeker. She gave him a chair, a piece of cake, and a glass of water, and made him tell his whole story. To her dismay, she found that _she_ had been the arbiter of his fortunes. She had long since forgotten his rudeness, and he had never known her name. But Mrs. Armitage gave him five dollars; and, thinking that she had, perhaps, some influence still in Washington, wrote a confidential note to a very, very, very high authority, to know if there was really no place, with ever so little salary,--in which a man could just live,--which Mr. Sapp could have. "Some place, you know," said she, "where there is nothing in particular to do, but where you just want a single man, who does not drink, and who, I believe, does not steal."

The answer, alas! was--as it always is--that nothing was vacant but the consulate at Fernando Po. The quarter's fees there were never more than fifty-seven dollars. How much they would be in a year, no one knows; for no consul has ever survived that climate more than four months. But it is thought that the fees may be larger now; for no one has applied for the place since the last consul died, seven years ago. This is the only place in the gift of the government that no one has applied for.

Mrs. Armitage showed this letter to Mr. John Sapp. "Have you ever lived in a warm climate?" said she kindly. "There can be no danger of rheumatism there."

No, there could be no danger of rheumatism; but, for all that, Mr. Sapp declined the offer. It did him good to decline it. He wrote a letter on square letter-paper, and sealed it with his father's seal-ring. It was the first thing in life he had ever declined!

I think that seal touched them in Washington. They are hard-hearted, but sealing-wax--real red sealing-wax--touches them when rhetoric is powerless.

I think so. For the next week came this letter, autograph from the very, very, very high authority:--

WASHINGTON, April 1, 18--

DEAR MRS. ARMITAGE,--We must send at once, without noise, a trusty
man to take possession of the Island of St. Lazarus, one of Aleutian
group, west of Alaska, in the name of the United States. It will be
some years before we establish a post there; but meanwhile the flag
must be kept flying. Would your friend like this? There is a sealer's
hut there; and he will have his passage free, full rations, and
stationery. I think he also has the franking privilege for all
official correspondence. I will inquire at the post-office. He will
be commissioned as Governor-General of the island; but there are no
inhabitants except the seals, unless he chooses to take his family
with him.

This was a long letter for the very high authority. "He forgets," said Mrs. Armitage, "that I told him that Mr. Sapp was a single man!" And from that time she bore that grudge against the very high authority which a woman always bears against a man who does not read her letters twice through.

Mr. Sapp was delighted. He had been appointed confidentially to an office for which he had never applied. It was a secret office. No man knew of it. He accepted the appointment, for no bondsmen were required. He was distressed to find that no oath was to be taken. He went to Washington to receive his instructions, which was quite unnecessary. He drew on the navy yard at Charlestown for stationery, and he drew for a great deal. There was one large tin box filled with red tape, which was his especial glory.

He was landed at St. Lazarus prosperously; and, with the assistance of a boat's crew, they got the flag flying. They cleared out the sealer's house. They carried up ten barrels of salt junk, twelve of salt pork, thirteen of potatoes, fourteen of flour, fifteen of sour-krout, and sixteen of white beans. These were the supplies Mr. John Sapp was to subsist on for a year. They carried up four reams of foolscap paper, ruled and margined, for his official reports to the War Department; four of quarto letter-paper, for his reports to the Navy; four of royal octavo, for his reports to the Smithsonian; four of large congress note, for his reports to the Weather Bureau; four of small congress note, for his reports to the Treasury; and four of gilt-edged note, with initials J. S., for his private correspondence. They carried up eleven pounds of red sealing-wax, the tin box of red tape they carried up; and so they bade him good-by. The boat returned to the ship. Then it proved that his dog and cat and parrot and umbrella were still on board; and the captain's gig was sent with them. So Mr. Sapp was not left alone.

Here was a _place_. It was a place with nothing particular to do; and Mr. Sapp was left to do it.

He kept no diary. Nothing, therefore, is known of his experience for the year, but when, the next year, the store-ship landed his stores, the boatswain in charge ran up the beach, and met a grave man in seal-skins, who made a military salute.

The boatswain saluted him, and was about to speak, when old Sealskin, as he afterwards called him, said, "Have you passed quarantine!"

"Quarantine? No, sir!"

"Take your boat round into the South Cove, and see the health officer, and bring me his permit."

The boatswain, from habit of obedience, obeyed,--took the boat round in half an hour's pulling. Health officer! There were some stupid seals who jumped off the rocks; and that was all.

The captain of the store-ship, meanwhile, had seen this manoeuvre with amazement, and sent a second boat ashore. With this boat, he sent his second officer. He also met the lonely Robinson, and saluted.

"Have you passed quarantine?"

"All right, my man," said the friendly sailor; and Sealskin turned, and walked with him to his hut. A moment more, and the boatswain followed. He could find no health officer, he said.

"It must be past his office hours," said Mr. Sapp gravely. "They close at eleven there. You shall be examined to-morrow."

The boatswain stared at this postponement of quarantine; but then, on a word from his superior officer, he produced a bag of papers and letters for Mr. Sapp, which he had been afraid to offer him before.

"They will be respectfully fumigated and respectfully referred," said Mr. Sapp.

And he hung them to the crane in the chimney.

Then he lifted off a pot of bean-soup, and filled a bowl for each of the wondering men. He produced hard-tack from a closet, and whiskey and water. And then, still asking no question, he took down the smoky letters, and opened them slowly.

But, to the men's amazement, he did not read one.

He folded the first with a steel letter file, two inches and a quarter wide, and docketed it,--"Received June 11. Respectfully referred to Next Friday, Esq., P.M."

When the boatswain heard of Mr. Friday, he thought it was surely Robinson Crusoe.

But the next letter, unread, was filed and docketed--"Respectfully referred to Next Saturday, Esq., A.M."

"P.M. and A.M.," cried the boatswain; "they have masters of arts here as well as postmasters."

"Not at all," said the governor severely; "A.M.--Ante-Meridiem; P.M.,--Post-Meridiem"; and without reading the next letter, he filed it, and indorsed it,--"Respectfully referred to Next Sunday, Esq., M."

"Young man," said he, "I shall examine and file this letter on Friday afternoon; this one on Saturday morning; this on Sunday noon. Let all things be done regularly and in order."

The mate and boatswain were alarmed. They hastily finished their bean-soup and fled to the boat, returning with six men, who rolled a barrel of junk up the well-kept gravel walk.

"Invoice?" said the governor.

There was no invoice.

"Prepare an invoice."

And the meek boatswain obeyed.

"My man, take this to the inspector," said Mr. Sapp to one of the crew, after he had indorsed it,--"Respectfully referred to the Inspector-General."

The sailor was a Portuguese,--understood no English; bobbed his head, and waited for light.

Mr. Sapp led him to the door, and pointed to a bearded walrus,--who sat on a rock above the landing,--bidding him take the invoice to him, and land nothing more without his orders.

* * * * *

Poor man!--or happy man shall I call him? He had what he sought for. He had a place with nothing to do, and faithfully he had done it,--so faithfully that, in that sad loyalty, the little fragment of his untrained wits gave way.

NICOLETTE AND AUCASSIN.

A TROUBADOUR'S TALE.

[I have introduced the beginning of this romance in my little story called "In His Name." In the form in which the reader sees it, it belongs to the twelfth century, in which the action of that story is laid. The French critics think they have found traces of the narrative at a time even earlier. Some of the English critics have spoken of the story with more harshness than I think it deserves. Aucassin's bitter contrast of the hell and heaven of which he has been taught is certainly in character; and the reader must give no more weight to it than it deserves.]

I.

Who will listen yet again
To the old and jovial strain,--
The old tale of love that's always new?
She's a girl that's fair as May;
He's a boy as fresh as day;
And the story is as gay as it is true.

II.

Who will hear the pretty tale
Of my thrush and nightingale,--
Of the dangers and the sorrows that they met?
How he fought without a fear,
For his charming little dear,--
Aucassin and his loving Nicolette?

III.

For, my lords, I tell you true
That you never saw or knew,
Man or woman so ugly or so gray,
Who would not all day long,
Sit and listen to the song
And the story that I tell you here to-day.

Now you must know, my lords and my ladies, that the Count Bougars de Valence chose to make war with the Count Garin de Beaucaire. And the war was so cruel, that the count never let one day go by, but that he came thundering at the walls and barriers of the town, with a hundred knights, and with ten thousand men-at-arms, on foot and on horseback, who burned all the houses, and stole all the sheep, and killed all the people that they could.

Now the Count Garin de Beaucaire was very old, and was sadly broken with years. He had used his time very ill, had the Count de Beaucaire. And the old wretch had no heir, either son or daughter, except one boy, whose name was

AUCASSIN.

Aucassin was gentle and handsome. He was tall and well made. His legs were good, and his feet were good; his body was good, and his arms were good. His hair was blonde, a little curly. His eyes were like gray fur, for they were near silver, and near blue, and they laughed when you looked at them. His nose was high and well placed. His face was clear and winning. Yes, and he had everything charming, and nothing bad about him. But this young man was so wholly conquered by love (who conquers everybody), that he would not occupy himself in any other thing. He would not be a knight; he would not take arms; he would not go to the tourneys; he would not do any of the things he ought to do.

His father was very much troubled by this, and he said to him one morning,--

"My son, take your arms, mount your horse, defend your country, protect your people. If they only see you in the midst of them, this will give them more courage; they will fight all the better for their lives and their homes, for your land and mine."

"Father," said Aucassin, "why do you say this to me?

"May God never hear my prayers, if I ever mount horse, or go to tourney or to battle, before you have yourself given to me my darling Nicolette,--my sweetheart whom I love so dearly."

"My son," said the father to him, "this cannot be.

"Give up forever your dreams of this captive girl, whom the Saracens brought from some strange land, and sold to the viscount here.

"He trained her; he baptized her; she is his god-child.

"Some day he will give her to some brave fellow who will have to gain his bread by his sword.

"But you, my son, when the time comes that you wish to take a wife, I will give you some king's daughter, or at least the daughter of a count.

"There is not in all France a man so rich that you may not marry his daughter, if you choose."

So said the old man. But Aucassin replied,--

"Alas, my father! there is not in this world the principality which would not be honored, if my darling Nicolette, my sweetest, went to live there.

"If she were queen of France or of England, if she were empress of Germany or of Constantinople, she could not be more courteous or more gracious; she could not have sweeter ways or greater virtues."

[_Now they sing it._]

All the night and all the day
Aucassin would beg and pray,--
"Oh, my father! give my Nicolette to me."
Then his mother came to say,--
"What is it that my foolish boy can see?"

"Nicolette is sweet and gay."

"But Nicolette's a slave.
If a wife my boy would have,
Let him choose a lady fair of high degree."
"Oh, no! my mother, no!
For I love my darling so!
Her face is always bright,
And her footstep's always light;
And I cannot let my dainty darling go.
No, mother dear, she rules my heart;
No, mother dear, we cannot part."

[_Now they speak it, and talk it, and tell it._]

When the Count Garin de Beaucaire saw that he could not drag Nicolette out from the heart of Aucassin, he went to find the viscount, who was his vassal; and he said to him,--

"Sir Viscount, we must get rid of your god-child Nicolette.

"Cursed be the country where she was born! for she is the reason why I am losing my Aucassin, who ought to be a knight, and who refuses to do what he ought to do.

"If I can catch her, I will burn her at the stake, and I will burn you too."

"My lord," replied the viscount, "I am very sorry for what has happened; but it is no fault of mine.

"I bought Nicolette with my money; I trained her; I had her baptized; and she is my god-child.

"I wanted to marry her to a fine young man of mine, who would gladly have earned her bread for her, which is more than your son Aucassin could do.

"But, since your wish and your pleasure are what they are, I will send this god-child of mine away to such a land, in such a country, that Aucassin shall never set his eyes upon her again."

"See that you do so!" cried the Count Garin to the viscount, "or great misfortunes will come to you."

So saying, he left his vassal.

Now the viscount had a noble palace, of high walls, surrounded by a thickly planted garden. He put Nicolette into one of the rooms of this palace, in the very highest story.

She had an old woman for her only companion, with enough bread and meat and wine, and everything else that they needed to keep them alive.

Then he fastened and concealed the door, so that no one could go in; and he left no other opening but the window, which was very narrow, and opened on the garden.

[_Now they sing it._]

Nicolette was put in prison;
And a vaulted room
Wonderfully built and painted
Was her prison home.

The pretty maiden came
To the marble window-frame:
Her hair was light,
Her eyes were bright,
And her face was a charming face to see.
No; never had a knight a maid
With such a charming face to see.

She looked into the garden close,
And there she saw the open rose,
Heard the thrushes sing and twitter,--
And she sang in accent bitter,--
"Oh! why am I a captive here?
Why locked up in cruel walls?
Aucassin, my sweetheart dear,
Whom my heart its master calls,
I have been your sweetheart for this livelong year:
That is why I've come
To this vaulted room;
But by God, the son of Mary, no!
I will not be captured so,
If only I can break away, and go."

[_Now they speak it, and talk it, and tell it._]

So Nicolette was put in prison, as you have just heard; and soon a cry and noise ran through the country that she was lost. Some said that she had run away; others said that the Count Garin de Beaucaire had killed her.

All in despair at the joy which this news seemed to cause to some people, Aucassin went to find the viscount of the town.

"Lord Viscount," he asked him, "what have you done with Nicolette, my sweetest love, the thing in all the world which I love best?

"You have stolen her!

"Be sure, Viscount, that, if I die of this, the blame shall fall on you.

"For surely it is you who tear away my life in tearing away my darling Nicolette!"

"Fair sir," answered the viscount, "do let this Nicolette alone, for she is not worthy of you. She is a slave whom I have bought with my _deniers_; and she must serve as a wife to a young fellow of her own state, to a poor man, and not to a lord like you, who ought to marry none but a king's daughter, or at least a count's daughter.

"What should you be doing for yourself, if you did make a lady of this vile creature, and marry her?

"Then would you be very happy indeed, very happy; for your soul would abide forever in hell, and never should you enter into paradise."

"Into paradise?" repeated Aucassin angrily. "And what have I to do there? I do not care to go there if it be not with Nicolette, my sweetest darling whom I love so much.

"Into paradise? And do you know who those are that go there,--you who think it is a place where I must wish to go? They are old priests, old cripples, old one-eyed men, who lie day and night before the altars, sickly, miserable, shivering, half-naked, half-fed, dead already before they die. These are they who go to paradise; and they are such pitiful companions, that I do not desire to go to paradise with them.

"But to hell would I gladly go; for to hell go the good clerks, and the fair knights slain in battle and in great wars, the brave sergeants-at-arms, and the men of noble lineage; and with all these would I gladly go."

"Stop!" says the viscount. "All which you can say, and nothing at all, are exactly the same thing. Never shall you see Nicolette again.

"What you and I may get for this would not be pleasant, if you still will be complaining.

"We all might be burned by your father's command,--Nicolette, you, and I myself into the bargain."

"Despair!" said Aucassin to himself. And he left the viscount, who was quite as much disturbed as he.

[_Now they sing it._]

Then Aucassin went home;
But his heart was wrung with fear
By the parting from his dainty dear,
His dainty dear so fair,
Whom he sought for everywhere;
But nowhere could he find her, far or near.

To his palace he has come,
And he climbs up every stair:
He hides him in his room,
And weeps in his despair.

"Oh, my Nicolette!" said he,
"So dear and sweet is she!
So sweet for that, so sweet for this,
So sweet to speak, so sweet to kiss,
So sweet to come, so sweet to stay,
So sweet to sing, so sweet to play,
So sweet when there, so sweet when here,
Oh, my darling! Oh, my dear!
Where are you, my sweet, while I
Sit and weep so near to die,
Because I cannot find my darling dear?"[1]

[_Now they speak it, and talk it, and tell it._]

[Footnote 1: The original is very pretty, and can be guessed out, even by the unlearned reader:--

"Nicolete biax esters,
Biax venir et biax alers
Biax déduis et dous parlers,
Biax borders et biax jouers,
Biax baisiers, biax acolers."

_Biax_ is _beata_.]

Now, while Aucassin was mourning thus in his room, always grieving for Nicolette his love, the Count Bougars de Valence was keeping up his war against the Count Garin de Beaucaire.

He had drawn out his footmen and his horsemen to assault the castle; and the defendants of the castle seized their arms to meet him, and ran to the gates and walls where they thought the besiegers would attack. The people of the town followed the knights and the sergeants: they mounted the ramparts, and poured down a storm of quarrels and javelins.

In the very most terrible moment of the assault, the Count Garin de Beaucaire came into the room where Aucassin was grieving in his sorrow for his sweet darling, Nicolette.

"Oh, my boy!" he said, "what are you doing here while your castle is besieged, good and strong though it be? Do you know, that, if you lose it, you are disinherited? Boy, take your arms, mount your horse, defend your lands, and lead your men to battle. As soon as they see you in the midst of them, they will bravely defend their homes and their lives, your lands and mine. You are tall and strong; and you ought to show that you are."

"Father," replied Aucassin, "what are you talking about? May God refuse me all that I may ever ask him, if I consent to be made a knight, to mount a horse, or to go to fight, before you have given me Nicolette, my darling sweetheart!"

"Boy," replied his father, "this cannot be. I had rather be disinherited, and lose all I have, than that you should have her for your wife."

On this the Count Garin de Beaucaire turned away. But Aucassin called him back, and said to him, "Come, father, I beg you! I have one condition to propose to you."

"What is that, dear boy?"

"It is this. I will take my arms, I will mount my horse, and I will do my duty bravely, on condition that, if God bring me out of the battle unhurt, you will let me see my darling sweetheart, Nicolette, and embrace her. There shall be time to say two or three words to her, and to kiss her once."

"I grant it willingly," said the father; and he went away.

[_Now they sing it._]

Not diamonds bright, or heaps of gold
Would give to you such bliss
As blessed this boy when he was told
The way to earn a kiss.

They quickly brought him arms of steel,
His helmet and his crest;
Upon his head the helmet laced;
And then a double hauberk braced
Across his breast.

He springs upon his charger white;
And when he glances on his feet
His greaves are tight and silver bright:
His darling dear he thinks upon;
He spurs his war-horse fleet,
And rushes straight before him down
To the fight.

[_Here they speak it, and talk it, and tell it._]

Aucassin was armed, then, as you have heard.

How bright his shield, as it hung from his neck! how well his helmet fitted his head! and how his sword clanged, hanging upon his thigh!

The young man was tall, strong, handsome, and well armed. His horse was swift; and he was soon at the castle-gate.

Now, do not go and think that he was thinking the least in the world of capturing oxen or cows or goats! No, nor of giving mortal blows to the knights or the other soldiers of Count Bougars de Valence!

Oh, no, not he! He had something else in his head and in his heart; for he was thinking of Nicolette, his darling sweetheart. So he even forgot to hold up his reins; and his horse, as soon as he once felt the spurs, carried him in full _mêlée_ into the very middle of his enemies.

They were overjoyed at such luck. They surrounded him, and seized his lance and his shield, and, as they led him away prisoner, began to ask each other with what death they would make him die.

"Alas!" said Aucassin to himself, "these are my mortal enemies, who are leading me away to cut off my head. But, if my head is cut off, I shall never be able to speak again to Nicolette, my darling sweetheart."

Then he added, "I still have my good sword. I am mounted on a strong horse. If he does not save me from the _mêlée_, it is because he never loved me, and then may God never help him!"

So he grasped his sword in his hand, and drove his spurs into his horse's side again, and struck to right, and struck to left, and cut and thrust. At every blow, he chopped off heads and arms, and all around him he made the place bloody and empty, as a boar does when he is assailed by dogs in a forest. Ten knights were thus maimed, and seven others were wounded. Then he withdrew at once from the _mêlée_ with his horse at full gallop, still grasping his sword in his hand.

Now the Count Bougars de Valence had heard they had captured his enemy Aucassin, and that they were going to hang him. He came up there at just this moment. Aucassin recognized him, and struck him a heavy blow with his sword full on his helmet, so that it was crushed down upon his head, and he fell stunned upon the ground. Then the young man took him by the hand to help him up, and, as soon as he could stand, took him by the nose-piece of his helmet, and led him, without more ado, to his father, the Count Garin de Beaucaire, to whom he said,--

"Father, here is your enemy, who has fought so long against you, and done you so much mischief. This war which he has made against you has lasted now for twenty years, and no one has been able to bring it to a good end. But I hope it is finished to-day."

"Dear son," replied the old count, "such feats of youth as this are worth much more than your foolish loves."

"Father," replied Aucassin, "do not begin to preach to me, I beg you. Think, rather, of keeping the promise which you gave to me."

"What promise, my dear boy?"

"What! have you already forgotten it, my father? By my head! forget it who will, I shall remember it. What! my father, do you not remember, that when I consented to arm myself, and go and fight this count's people, it was on condition that, if God should bring me out of the battle unhurt, you would let me see my darling sweetheart, Nicolette, and say two or three words to her, and kiss her once? As you promised this, my father, so you must perform."

"I hear," replied the count; "but I do not understand. It is impossible that I ever promised anything so foolish. Why, if your Nicolette was here, I should burn her without pity, and you yourself might expect the same fate."

"Is that all, my father?" said Aucassin.

"Yes," replied the count.

"_Certes_" replied the boy, "I am very sorry to see a man of your age such a liar!"

Then he turned towards the Count de Valence, and said to him, "Count de Valence, are you not my prisoner?"

"Certainly."

"Give me your hand, then, I beg you."

"Gladly," replied the count; and he placed his hand in Aucassin's.

Aucassin replied, "Count de Valence, pledge me your faith that, whenever you have the wish or the power to shame my father, or to hurt him, in his person or in his goods, you will do so."

"_Pardieu_, sir! do not mock me, but name my ransom. Ask for gold or silver, horses or palfreys, dogs or birds, and I will try to give you what you ask. This is another thing."

"What!" cried Aucassin, "do you not own yourself my prisoner?"

"Indeed I do," cried the Count de Bougars.

"Well, if you will not take the oath I demand, your head shall fly off."

"Enough! I take the oath you exact," said the count quickly.

Then Aucassin ordered a horse for him, mounted another, and led him to a place of safety.

[_Now they sing it._]

Now when the Count Garin
Finds out that Aucassin
His darling sweet
Will not forget,
His darling of the charming face,
He claps him in a dungeon,
In a cellar underground,
All walled in with heavy stones,
Built double thick around;
And my wretched Aucassin
So sad as now had never been.

"Oh, my darling Nicolette!"
In his misery said he,
"My darling dear of charming face,
My darling _fleur de lis_,
My darling sweeter than the grape,
My darling, list to me,
Imprisoned in this horrid place.

"The other day a pilgrim gray
From Limousin had made his way,
And on the straw the poor man lay,
So sick was he, and near to die.
But Nicolette passed by his door.
The pilgrim heard my darling's feet
Pit-pat across the floor;
He saw my darling's little cloak
Her cape so white, her ermine bright;
And though no word she spoke,
Yet, when he saw my darling sweet,
The poor old pilgrim raised his head,
And, cured by her, he left his bed,
And took his staff, and took his way,
And found his home once more.

"Oh, darling dear! oh, _fleur de lis!_
So sweet to come, so sweet to stay,
So sweet to sing, so sweet to play,
So sweet for that, so sweet for this,
So sweet to speak, so sweet to kiss,
Who is there who my love can see,
And hate a girl so sweet as she?
For you, dear child, your love is bound
In this dungeon underground:
Here they will see me die alone
For you, my _fleur de lis!_"

[_Now they speak it, and talk it, and tell it._]

Aucassin was thrown into prison, as you have just heard. And Nicolette, on her part, was still in the vaulted room, imprisoned also.

It was in the summer-time in the month of May, when the days are so warm, and so long, and so full of light, and the nights so sweet and so serene. Nicolette lay in her bed, and saw the moon shine clear through the window, and heard the nightingale sing among the trees of the garden. She remembered Aucassin, the friend she loved so well, and she began to sigh tenderly. Then she thought upon the deadly hatred of the Count Garin de Beaucaire, and she knew that she was lost if she remained in this room, and that her dear Aucassin would be lost also if he remained in his dungeon.

Then she looked at the old woman who was set to guard her, and she saw that she was asleep. Nicolette rose quickly, threw a fine silk mantle which she had saved over her shoulders, took the sheets and coverlet of her bed, made of them as long a rope as she could, and tied it to the window-post. When she had done this, she seized it with both hands, one above, and one below, and slid down upon the turf, which was covered with dew.

Thus she descended into the garden.

Nicolette's hair was blonde, fine, and curly; her eyes were soft and laughing; her complexion was fair and fresh; her nose high and well placed; her lips were redder than cherries and roses in summer-time, and her teeth white and small. You could span her little waist with your two hands; and the daisies which she broke when she stepped upon them, as they fell back upon her ankles, seemed black against her feet, so fair was this girl.

She went to the garden-gate and opened it; she walked through the streets of Beaucaire by the light of the moon, and strayed here, and strayed there, till she found the tower in which was her sweetheart, Aucassin. Now, this tower had loopholes in it on each side.

Nicolette crept in behind one of the pillars, and wrapped herself in her mantle, and thrust her blonde head into one of the crevices, so that she could hear the voice of her dear Aucassin, who was weeping within bitterly, in great grief for the loss of his darling sweetheart, who was absent from his eyes. And, when Nicolette had heard him, she resolved to speak to him, in turn.

[_Now they sing it._]

Nicolette, of lovely face,
Rested in this darksome place,
Against a pillar, where
The heavy wall her lover kept:
She heard her darling as he wept
In his despair.

Then, in turn, to him she cried,
"Aucassin, of noble race,
Freeman born, and proud of place,
Why should you complain and grieve,
Because you must your sweetheart leave?
Your father fain would burn me,
And all your kinsmen spurn me.
From you, my darling love, I flee:
I shall go and cross the sea,
In other lands than this to be."

Then she cut off her golden hair,
And threw it to her lover there.
Each heavy lock, each pretty curl,
Aucassin in rapture prest,
And hid them on his panting breast,
While he wept in his despair
For his darling girl.

[_Now they speak it, and talk it, and tell it._]

Now, when Aucassin heard Nicolette say that she going to another country, he was very much distressed.

"My darling sweetheart," he said, "you shall never go; for that would be to give me my death-blow, and the most cruel death-blow of all. The first man that saw you would take you for his own; and, when I heard that, I should plunge my knife into my heart. No, I would not do that! I would run with all my might against a wall or a rock, and I would throw myself head first upon it, with such a plunge, that my eyes should spring out, and I would brain myself. I would rather by a hundred times die such a death, than know that you belonged to any other man!"

"Aucassin," replied Nicolette, "I do not believe that you love me as much as you say; but I am quite sure that I love you more than you love me."

"Never!" replied Aucassin. "Oh, my darling sweetheart! you cannot love me more than I love you. No woman can love man as man loves woman; for woman's love is in her eye, it is in the tip of her toe, and the end of her finger: but man's love is in the bottom of his heart, and so firmly does it grow there, that it can never be uprooted."

So did Aucassin and Nicolette talk together when the watchmen of the town came up by the next street, with their swords hidden under their cloaks.

Now, the Count Garin had bidden these people kill Nicolette if they could take her; and just as they were coming up where they would see her, and run to seize her, the lookout on the tower saw them.

"What a pity," cried he, "to kill so pretty a girl as this! It would be a mercy to warn her before these wretches see her. For, as soon as they kill her, my boy Aucassin will die; and that would be a pity, _certes!_"

[_Now they sing it._]

Now, I tell you that this lookout
Was as courteous as brave,
And so this song the man began,
Poor Nicolette to save,--
"Oh, my pretty girl!" said he,
"Whose heart can beat so true and free,
Whose eyes are bright, whose form is light,
And whose face is so sweet to see,
I know you're watching there
For your lover underground;
He weeps for you in his despair,
Bolted, barred, and bound.
Now, maiden, list to me:
Of the night-watch beware,
For they are passing by,
A hidden sword on every thigh;
Hide yourself as they pass by;
Maiden, beware."

[_Now they speak it, and talk it, and tell it._]

"Ah!" replied Nicolette to the lookout, "may God grant eternal repose to the souls of your father and of your mother for this kindly warning you have given to me! I will take care of the rascals, whoever they may be; and in this the good God will help me."

So saying, she wrapped herself in her mantle as closely as she could, and hid herself silently in the shadow of the pillar. So she waited till the watchmen had passed by; and, when she thought them far enough gone, she took leave of Aucassin, and went her way.

So she came to the castle walls. Now these were broken in many of the joints; and the active girl was able to let herself down, with the help of her hands, as a little four-footed kid would have done. But, when she was half-way down, she looked into the ditch, and she was frightened to see how sheer and steep it was.

"Oh, my dear Maker God!" she whispered, "if I let myself fall, I shall break my neck; if I stay where I am, they will seize me, and burn me: well, one death with another, I had rather run the risk of being killed than serve as a sight for all the people to-morrow."

So she made the sign of the cross, and let herself slide down the face of the wall to the very bottom of the ditch. Then she looked at her pretty feet and her pretty hands, which had never known what it was to be wounded before. They were all scratched and torn; and the blood flowed from them in a dozen places. But Nicolette felt no pain, because she was still so much afraid; for she had only succeeded in getting into the ditch, and now she must get out again.

The bold girl tried here, and she tried there; for she knew that it was a bad place to stay in; and at last she found one of the pointed stakes, which the defenders of the castle had thrown down on the besiegers when they were attacked. This she took, and with its aid she clambered up the reverse of the ditch, step after step. And soon she was at the top, though not without great pains.

The woods were two arbalist shots away from her,--woods which stretched thirty leagues this way, and thirty leagues that way, all haunted by wild beasts and venomous serpents. Poor Nicolette was frightened to death when she thought of them, because she did not want to be eaten alive; but still she pressed on, because she had no more wish to be burned alive.

[_Now they sing it._]

Nicolette, of lovely face,
Clambered from the ditch so deep,
And then began to wail and weep,
And to Jesus Christ to cry:--

"Father, king of majesty,
I do not know
Where I shall go;
For if, in flight, I should
Lose me in the wood,
The boars and lions grim
Would tear me limb from limb;
But if men find me anywhere,
And to the town I am returned,
They'll light a fire in the square,
And to the stake will tie me there,
And my body will be burned.

"No, my God, no!
Hear me as I cry;
It shall not be so;
Better far that I
By the wolves be hunted down,
Than go captive to the town
So to die!

"I will not go."

[_Now they tell it, and speak it, and talk it._]

Nicolette grieved, as you have heard, and then commended herself to God, and plunged into the woods, but did not dare go too far in, for fear of beasts and snakes.

She walked along for some time by the edge of the wood, frightened to death, starting at the slightest sound, and then going forward again with the utmost care. She walked this way and that, till she was so tired that she could walk no longer, and she lay down on a smooth bed of grass, and went to sleep; and there she slept till morning.

Early in the morning some shepherds passed by, on their way towards the town, as they were driving their sheep and herds to feed between the woods and the river. Now there was a fresh fountain near the place where Nicolette was lying; and it happened that the shepherds came to the fountain, and spread a cloak on the grass, and put their bread upon it, and sat down there for their simple breakfast.

While they were eating it, Nicolette was wakened by their talk, and by the song of the birds who were twittering in the branches.

She went to the shepherds, and spoke to the youngest of them, and said,--

"Pretty boy, may our Lady Mary take care of you!"

"May God bless you!" replied this young shepherd, whose speech came easier to him than the others.

"Pretty boy," said Nicolette, "do you know Aucassin, the son of Count Garin, of Beaucaire?"

"Oh, yes! we know him."

"As you would have God bless you, pretty boy, tell him that there is a strange wild beast in this wood; and that he ought to come out to hunt for her; and that, if he takes her, he would not give one of her limbs,--no, not for a hundred marks of gold, nor for five hundred marks, nor for all the gold that can be told."

As she said this, the shepherds were looking at Nicolette, and were wondering at her beauty.

"You speak false in saying this," said the shepherd, who had his tongue more at command than the others had; "for there is not in all this forest a single lion, or boar, or stag, or any other brute, so rare, that one of his limbs should be worth more than two deniers, or three at most. And you talk of such sums of money, that no one will believe a word you say. You are a fairy, and no human creature. We do not want your company; and so go your way."

"Ah, pretty boy!" said Nicolette again, "do what I bid you in the name of God; for the creature of which I speak to you has such power, that she can cure Aucassin of this trouble in which he is now. I have five sous in my purse, take them, and say to him, that, for three days, he must come to hunt for this creature in this forest; that, if he do not find her in three days at most, he will never be cured from his pain."

"By my faith!" said the young shepherd, "we will take your money. If Aucassin passes this way, we will tell him what you say; but we will not go to find him."

"God bless you!" said Nicolette. And so she bade the shepherds good-by courteously.

[_Now they sing it._]

Nicolette of lovely face
Bade the shepherd boys good-day,
And through the forest took her way,
Till she came to a crossing-place,
Where seven roads met in the wood;
There, all alone, she thought it good
Her lover's love to try.

She gathers store of _fleurs-de-lis_
And thyme and brake,
And many leaves,
Her hut to make;
And from all these she weaves
The prettiest hut your eyes did ever see.

And then, by every saint above,
The pretty builder swore,
That, if her darling dear
Should never enter here,
She would not be his darling more,
Nor should he be her love.

[_Now they speak it, and talk it, and tell it._]

Nicolette having thus made her little hut, and thatched it thickly on the inside and on the outside with fresh leaves and fragrant flowers, hid herself under a bush to see what Aucassin would do.

Now the rumor ran through all the country that Nicolette was lost. Some said that she had escaped, and others said that the Count Garin had killed her.

If everybody else had been sure of this, Aucassin would not have been. But of this he gave no sign. And his father, well pleased to be rid of Nicolette, ordered that he should be released from prison, and bade all the knights and damsels of the country give _fêtes_ for him, which might distract him.

The day when Nicolette disappeared, when the court of the count was crowded with knights and ladies, Aucassin was leaning against a pillar, all dejected, and out of his senses with sorrow, and only thinking of her he loved.

A knight who saw how melancholy he was came to him and said,--

"Aucassin, I have been sick of the same disease as you, so that I know how to give you good advice, if you will only hear me."

"Thank you, sir!" said Aucassin; "for indeed I am greatly in need of good advice and cure."

Then the knight said, "Mount your horse, and go into the woods yonder. The sight of the plains, the sweet odor of the plants, and the songs of the little birds will all comfort you, believe me."

"Thank you, indeed, sir!" said Aucassin. "I will gladly do so."

So he went out from the hall at once, and went down the steps, hurried to the stable, and put saddle and bridle on one of his horses, which was waiting there. He put his foot in the stirrup, sprang upon the noble beast, and rode out from the castle walls. Once outside, he remembered the advice which the knight had given to him, and went straight to the woods. Here he soon met the shepherds seated on the grass around the spring, eating their bread with great joy; for it was now noon.

[_Now they sing it._]

All the shepherd-boys had met,
Esmeret and Martinet,
Johannot and Fruclinet,
Aubuget and Robecon.
By the spring they sat; and one
With the sweetest voice began,
"God bless Master Aucassin,
And the girl so fair and bright,
With teeth so white, and eyes so gray,
Who to us this blessed day
The money brought,
With which we bought
Cakes to eat, and pipes to play,
Flutes and horns and whittles good,
And heavy mauls to cleave the wood.
May God cure him!
May God cure her!
This is what I say."

[_Now they tell it, and say it, and talk it._]