LEGENDS & ROMANCES
OF BRITTANY

Although the folk-tales and legends of Brittany have received ample attention from native scholars and collectors, they have not as yet been presented in a popular manner to English-speaking readers. The probable reasons for what would appear to be an otherwise incomprehensible omission on the part of those British writers who make a popular use of legendary material are that many Breton folk-tales strikingly resemble those of other countries, that from a variety of considerations some of them are unsuitable for presentation in an English dress, and that most of the folk-tales proper certainly possess a strong family likeness to one another.

But it is not the folk-tale alone which goes to make up the romantic literary output of a people; their ballads, the heroic tales which they have woven around passages in their national history, their legends (employing the term in its proper sense), along with the more literary attempts of their romance-weavers, their beliefs regarding the supernatural, the tales which cluster around their ancient homes and castles—all of these, although capable of separate classification, are akin to folk-lore, and I have not, therefore, hesitated to use what in my discretion I consider the best out of immense stores of material as being much more suited to supply British readers with a comprehensive view of Breton story. Thus, I have included chapters on the lore which cleaves to the ancient stone monuments of the country, along with some account of the monuments themselves. The Arthurian matter especially 6 connected with Brittany I have relegated to a separate chapter, and I have considered it only fitting to include such of the lais of that rare and human songstress Marie de France as deal with the Breton land. The legends of those sainted men to whom Brittany owes so much will be found in a separate chapter, in collecting the matter for which I have obtained the kindest assistance from Miss Helen Macleod Scott, who has the preservation of the Celtic spirit so much at heart. I have also included chapters on the interesting theme of the black art in Brittany, as well as on the several species of fays and demons which haunt its moors and forests; nor will the heroic tales of its great warriors and champions be found wanting. To assist the reader to obtain the atmosphere of Brittany and in order that he may read these tales without feeling that he is perusing matter relating to a race of which he is otherwise ignorant, I have afforded him a slight sketch of the Breton environment and historical development, and in an attempt to lighten his passage through the volume I have here and there told a tale in verse, sometimes translated, sometimes original.

As regards the folk-tales proper, by which I mean stories collected from the peasantry, I have made a selection from the works of Gaidoz, Sébillot, and Luzel. In no sense are these translations; they are rather adaptations. The profound inequality between Breton folk-tales is, of course, very marked in a collection of any magnitude, but as this volume is not intended to be exhaustive I have had no difficulty in selecting material of real interest. Most of these tales were collected by Breton folk-lorists in the eighties of the last century, and the native shrewdness and common sense which 7 characterize much of the editors’ comments upon the stories so carefully gathered from peasants and fishermen make them deeply interesting.

It is with a sense of shortcoming that I offer the reader this volume on a great subject, but should it succeed in stimulating interest in Breton story, and in directing students to a field in which their research is certain to be richly rewarded, I shall not regret the labour and time which I have devoted to my task.

L. S.

The romantic region which we are about to traverse in search of the treasures of legend was in ancient times known as Armorica, a Latinized form of the Celtic name, Armor (‘On the Sea’). The Brittany of to-day corresponds to the departments of Finistère, Côtes-du-Nord, Morbihan, Ille-et-Vilaine, and Loire-Inférieure. A popular division of the country is that which partitions it into Upper, or Eastern, and Lower, or Western, Brittany, and these tracts together have an area of some 13,130 square miles.

Such parts of Brittany as are near to the sea-coast present marked differences to the inland regions, where raised plateaux are covered with dreary and unproductive moorland. These plateaux, again, rise into small ranges of hills, not of any great height, but, from their wild and rugged appearance, giving the impression of an altitude much loftier than they possess. The coast-line is ragged, indented, and inhospitable, lined with deep reefs and broken by the estuaries of brawling rivers. In the southern portion the district known as ‘the Emerald Coast’ presents an almost subtropical appearance; the air is mild and the whole region pleasant and fruitful. But with this exception Brittany is a country of bleak shores and grey seas, barren moorland and dreary horizons, such a land as legend loves, such a region, cut off and isolated from the highways of humanity, as the discarded genii of ancient faiths might seek as a last stronghold.

Regarding the origin of the race which peoples this 14 secluded peninsula there are no wide differences of opinion. If we take the word ‘Celt’ as describing any branch of the many divergent races which came under the influence of one particular type of culture, the true originators of which were absorbed among the folk they governed and instructed before the historic era, then the Bretons are ‘Celts’ indeed, speaking the tongue known as ‘Celtic’ for want of a more specific name, exhibiting marked signs of the possession of ‘Celtic’ customs, and having those racial characteristics which the science of anthropology until recently laid down as certain indications of ‘Celtic’ relationship—the short, round skull, swarthy complexion, and blue or grey eyes.

It is to be borne in mind, however, that the title ‘Celtic’ is shared by the Bretons with the fair or rufous Highlander of Scotland, the dark Welshman, and the long-headed Irishman. But the Bretons exhibit such special characteristics as would warrant the new anthropology in labelling them the descendants of that ‘Alpine’ race which existed in Central Europe in Neolithic times, and which, perhaps, possessed distant Mongoloid affinities. This people spread into nearly all parts of Europe, and later in some regions acquired Celtic speech and custom from a Celtic aristocracy.

It is remarkable how completely this Celtic leaven—the true history of which is lost in the depths of prehistoric darkness—succeeded in impressing not only its language but its culture and spirit upon the various peoples with whom it came into contact. To impose a special type of civilization upon another race must always prove a task of almost superhuman proportions. To compel the use of an alien tongue by a conquered folk necessitates racial tact as well as 15 strength of purpose. But to secure the adoption of the racial spirit by the conquered, and adherence to it for centuries, so that men of widely divergent origins shall all have the same point of view, the same mode of thought, manner of address, aye, even the same facies or general racial appearance, as have Bretons, some Frenchmen, Cornishmen, Welshmen, and Highlanders—that surely would argue an indwelling racial strength such as not even the Roman or any other world-empire might pretend to.

But this Celtic civilization was not one and undivided. In late prehistoric times it evolved from one mother tongue two dialects which afterward displayed all the differences of separate languages springing from a common stock. These are the Goidelic, the tongue spoken by the Celts of Scotland, Ireland, and the Isle of Man, and the Brythonic, the language of the Welsh, the Cornish, and the people of Brittany.

The Brezonek, the Brythonic tongue of Brittany, is undoubtedly the language of those Celtic immigrants who fled from Britain the Greater to Britain the Less to escape the rule of the Saxon invaders, and who gave the name of the country which they had left to that Armorica in which they settled. In the earliest stages of development it is difficult to distinguish Breton from Welsh. From the ninth to the eleventh centuries the Breton language is described as ‘Old Breton.’ ‘Middle Breton’ flourished from the eleventh to the seventeenth centuries, since when ‘Modern Breton’ has been in use. These stages indicate changes in the language more or less profound, due chiefly to admixture with 16 French. Various distinct dialects are indicated by writers on the subject, but the most marked difference in Breton speech seems to be that between the dialect of Vannes and that of the rest of Brittany. Such differences do not appear to be older than the sixteenth century.[1]

The written history of Brittany opens with the account of Julius Cæsar. At that period (57 B.C.) Armorica was inhabited by five principal tribes: the Namnetes, the Veneti, the Osismii, the Curiosolitæ, and the Redones. These offered a desperate resistance to Roman encroachment, but were subdued, and in some cases their people were sold wholesale into slavery. In 56 B.C. the Veneti threw off the yoke and retained two of Cæsar’s officers as hostages. Cæsar advanced upon Brittany in person, but found that he could make no headway while he was opposed by the powerful fleet of flat-bottomed boats, like floating castles, which the Veneti were so skilful in manœuvring. Ships were hastily constructed upon the waters of the Loire, and a desperate naval engagement ensued, probably in the Gulf of Morbihan, which resulted in the decisive defeat of the Veneti, the Romans resorting to the stratagem of cutting down the enemy’s rigging with sickles bound upon long poles. The members of the Senate of the conquered people were put to death as a punishment for their defection, and thousands of the tribesmen went to swell the slave-markets of Europe.

Between A.D. 450 and 500, when the Roman power and population were dwindling, many vessels brought fugitives from Britain to Armorica. These people, fleeing from the conquering barbarians, Saxons, Picts, and Scots, sought as asylum a land where a kindred race had not yet been disturbed by invasion. Says Thierry, in his Norman Conquest: “With the consent of the ancient inhabitants, who acknowledged them as brethren of the same origin, the new settlers distributed themselves over the whole northern coast, as far as the little river Coesoron, and southward as far as the territory of the city of the Veneti, now called Vannes. In this extent of country they founded a sort of separate state, comprising all the small places near the coast, but not including within its limits the great towns of Vannes, Nantes, and Rennes. The increase of the population of this western corner of the country, and the great number of people of the Celtic race and language thus assembled within a narrow space, preserved it from the irruption of the Roman tongue, which, under forms more or less corrupted, was gradually becoming prevalent in every other part of Gaul. The name of Brittany was attached to these coasts, and the names of the various indigenous tribes disappeared; while the island which had borne this name for so many ages now lost it, and, taking the name of its conquerors, began to be called the land of the Saxons and Angles, or, in one word, England.”

One of these British immigrants was the holy Samson, who laboured to convert pagan Brittany to Christianity. He hailed from Pembrokeshire, and the legend relates 18 that his parents, being childless, constructed a menhir[2] of pure silver and gave it to the poor in the hope that a son might be born to them. Their desire was fulfilled, and Samson, the son in question, became a great missionary of the Church. Accompanied by forty monks, he crossed the Channel and landed on the shores of the Bay of Saint-Brieuc, a savage and deserted district.

As the keel of his galley grated on the beach the Saint beheld a man on the shore seated at the door of a miserable hut, who endeavoured to attract his attention by signs. Samson approached the shore-dweller, who took him by the hand and, leading him into the wretched dwelling, showed him his wife and daughter, stricken with sickness. Samson relieved their pain, and the husband and father, who, despite his humble appearance, was chief of the neighbouring territory, gave him a grant of land hard by. Here, close to the celebrated menhir of Dol, he and his monks built their cells. Soon a chapel rose near the ancient seat of pagan worship—in later days the site of a great cathedral.

Telio, a British monk, with the assistance of St Samson, planted near Dol an orchard three miles in length, and to him is attributed the introduction of the apple-tree into Brittany. Wherever the monks went they cultivated the soil; all had in their mouths the words of the Apostle: “If any would not work, neither should he eat.” The people admired the industry of 19 the new-comers, and from admiration they passed to imitation. The peasants joined the monks in tilling the ground, and even the brigands from the hills and forests became agriculturists. “The Cross and the plough, labour and prayer,” was the motto of these early missionaries.

The monks of Dol were renowned bee-farmers, as we learn from an anecdote told by Count Montalembert in his Moines d’Occident. One day when St Samson of Dol, and St Germain, Bishop of Paris, were conversing on the respective merits of their monasteries, St Samson said that his monks were such good and careful preservers of their bees that, besides the honey which the bees yielded in abundance, they furnished more wax than was used in the churches for candles during the year, but that the climate not being suitable for the growth of vines, there was great scarcity of wine. Upon hearing this St Germain replied: “We, on the contrary, produce more wine than we can consume, but we have to buy wax; so, if you will furnish us with wax, we will give you a tenth of our wine.” Samson accepted this offer, and the mutual arrangement was continued during the lives of the two saints.

Two British kingdoms were formed in Armorica—Domnonia and Cornubia. The first embraced the Côtes-du-Nord and Finistère north of the river Élorn, Cornubia, or Cornouaille, as it is now known, being situated below that river, as far south as the river Ellé. At first these states paid a nominal homage to their native kings in Britain, but on the final fall of the British power they proclaimed a complete independence.

A striking story relating to the migration period is told concerning a Cambrian chieftain of Brittany, one Jud-Hael, and the famous British bard Taliesin. Shortly after the arrival of Taliesin in Brittany Jud-Hael had a remarkable vision. He dreamt that he saw a high mountain, on the summit of which was placed a lofty column fixed deeply in the earth, with a base of ivory, and branches which reached to the heavens. The lower part was iron, brilliantly polished, and to it were attached rings of the same metal, from which were suspended cuirasses, casques, lances, javelins, bucklers, trumpets, and many other warlike trophies. The upper portion was of gold, and upon it hung candelabra, censers, stoles, chalices, and ecclesiastical symbols of every description. As the Prince stood admiring the spectacle the heavens opened and a maiden of marvellous beauty descended and approached him.

“I salute you, O Jud-Hael,” she said, “and I confide to your keeping for a season this column and all that it supports”; and with these words she vanished.

On the following day Jud-Hael made public his dream, but, like Nebuchadnezzar of old, he could find no one to interpret it, so he turned to the bard Taliesin as to another Daniel. Taliesin, says the legend, then an exile from his native land of Britain, dwelt on the seashore. To him came the messenger of Jud-Hael and said: “O thou who so truly dost interpret all things ambiguous, hear and make clear the strange vision which my lord hath seen.” He then recounted Jud-Hael’s dream to the venerable bard.

For a time the sage sat pondering deeply, and then 21 replied: “Thy master reigneth well and wisely, O messenger, but he has a son who will reign still more happily even than himself, and who will become one of the greatest men in the Breton land. The sons of his loins will be the fathers of powerful counts and pious Churchmen, but he himself, the greatest man of that race, shall be first a valiant warrior and later a mighty champion of heaven. The earlier part of his life shall be given to the world; the latter portion shall be devoted to God.”

The prophecy of Taliesin was duly fulfilled. For Judik-Hael, the son of Jud-Hael, realized the bard’s prediction, and entered the cloister after a glorious reign.

Taliesin (‘Shining Forehead’) was in the highest repute in the middle of the twelfth century, and he was then and afterward, unless we except Merlin, the bardic hero of the greatest number of romantic legends. He is said to have been the son of Henwg the bard, or St Henwg, of Caerleon-upon-Usk, and to have been educated in the school of Cattwg, at Llanvithin, in Glamorgan, where the historian Gildas was his fellow-pupil. Seized when a youth by Irish pirates, he is said, probably by rational interpretation of a later fable of his history, to have escaped by using a wooden buckler for a boat. Thus he came into the fishing weir of Elphin, one of the sons of Urien. Urien made him Elphin’s instructor, and gave him an estate of land. But, once introduced into the Court of that great warrior-chief, Taliesin became his foremost bard, followed him in his wars, and sang his victories. He celebrates triumphs over Ida, the Anglian King of Bernicia (d. 559) 22 at Argoed about the year 547, at Gwenn-Estrad between that year and 559, at Menao about the year 559. After the death of Urien, Taliesin was the bard of his son Owain, by whose hand Ida fell. After the death of all Urien’s sons Taliesin retired to mourn the downfall of his race in Wales, dying, it is said, at Bangor Teivi, in Cardiganshire. He was buried under a cairn near Aberystwyth.

There is nothing improbable in the statement that Taliesin dwelt in Brittany in the sixth century. Many other British bards found a refuge on the shores of Britain the Less. Among these was Kyvarnion, a Christian, who married a Breton Druidess and who had a son, Hervé. Hervé was blind from birth, and was led from place to place by a wolf which he had converted (!) and pressed into the service of Mother Church.

One day, when a lad, Hervé had been left in charge of his uncle’s farm, when a ploughman passed him in full flight, crying out that a savage wolf had appeared and had killed the ass with which he had been ploughing. The man entreated Hervé to fly, as the wolf was hard upon his heels; but the blind youth, undaunted, ordered the terrified labourer to seize the animal and harness it to the plough with the harness of the dead ass. From that time the wolf dwelt among the sheep and goats on the farm, and subsisted upon hay and grass.

Swarms of Irish from Ossory and Wexford began to arrive about the close of the fifth century, settling along the west and north coasts. The immigrants from 23 Britain the Greater formed by degrees the counties of Vannes, Cornouaille, Léon, and Domnonée, constituted a powerful aristocracy, and initiated a long and arduous struggle against the Frankish monarchs, who exercised a nominal suzerainty over Brittany. Louis the Pious placed a native chief, Nomenoë, at the head of the province, and a long period of peace ensued. But in A.D. 845 Nomenoë revolted against Charles the Bald, defeated him, and forced him to recognize the independence of Brittany, and to forgo the annual tribute which he had exacted. A ballad by Villemarqué describes the incident. Like Macpherson, who in his enthusiasm for the fragments of Ossianic lore ‘reconstructed’ them only too well, Villemarqué unfortunately tampered very freely with such matter as he collected, and it may even be that the poem on Nomenoë, for which he claims authority, is altogether spurious, as some critics consider. But as it affords a spirited picture of the old Breton chief the story is at least worth relating.

The poem describes how an aged chieftain waits on the hills of Retz for his son, who has gone over to Rennes to pay the Breton tribute to the Franks. Many chariots drawn by horses has he taken with him, but although a considerable time has elapsed there is no indication of his return. The chieftain climbs to an eminence in the hope of discerning his son in the far distance, but no sign of his appearance is to be seen on the long white road or on the bleak moors which fringe it.

The anxious father espies a merchant wending slowly along the highway and hails him.

“Ha, good merchant, you who travel the land from end to end, have you seen aught of my son Karo, who has gone to conduct the tribute chariots to Rennes?”

“Alas! chieftain, if your son has gone with the tribute it is in vain you wait for him, for the Franks found it not enough, and have weighed his head against it in the balance.”

The father gazes wildly at the speaker, sways, and falls heavily with a doleful cry.

“Karo, my son! My lost Karo!”

The scene changes to the fortress of Nomenoë, and we see its master returning from the chase, accompanied by his great hounds and laden with trophies. His bow is in his hand, and he carries the carcass of a boar upon his shoulder. The red blood drops from the dead beast’s mouth and stains his hand. The aged chief, well-nigh demented, awaits his coming, and Nomenoë greets him courteously.

“Hail, honest mountaineer!” he cries. “What is your news? What would you with Nomenoë?”

“I come for justice, Lord Nomenoë,” replies the aged man. “Is there a God in heaven and a chief in Brittany? There is a God above us, I know, and I believe there is a just Duke in the Breton land. Mighty ruler, make war upon the Frank, defend our country, and give us vengeance—vengeance for Karo my son, Karo, slain, decapitated by the Frankish barbarians, his beauteous head made into a balance-weight for their brutal sport.”

The old man weeps, and the tears flow down his grizzled beard.

Then Nomenoë rises in anger and swears a great oath. “By the head of this boar, and by the arrow which slew him,” cries he, “I will not wash this blood from off my hand until I free the country from mine enemies.”

Nomenoë has gone to the seashore and gathered 25 pebbles, for these are the tribute he intends to offer the bald King.[3] Arrived at the gates of Rennes, he asks that they shall be opened to him so that he may pay the tribute of silver. He is asked to descend, to enter the castle, and to leave his chariot in the courtyard. He is requested to wash his hands to the sound of a horn before eating (an ancient custom), but he replies that he prefers to deliver the tribute-money there and then. The sacks are weighed, and the third is found light by several pounds.

“Ha, what is this?” cries the Frankish castellan. “This sack is under weight, Sir Nomenoë.”

Out leaps Nomenoë’s sword from the scabbard, and the Frank’s head is smitten from his shoulders. Then, seizing it by its gory locks, the Breton chief with a laugh of triumph casts it into the balance. His warriors throng the courtyard, the town is taken; young Karo is avenged!

The end of the ninth century and the beginning of the tenth were remarkable for the invasions of the Northmen. On several occasions they were driven back—by Salomon (d. 874), by Alain, Count of Vannes (d. 907)—but it was Alain Barbe-torte, ‘Alain of the Twisted Beard,’ or ‘Alain the Fox’ (d. 952), who gained the decisive victory over them, and concerning him an ancient ballad has much to say. It was taken down by Villemarqué from the lips of a peasant, an old soldier of the Chouan leader Georges Cadoudal.

In his youth Alain was a mighty hunter of the bear and the boar in the forests of his native Brittany, and 26 the courage gained in this manly sport stood him in good stead when he came to employ it against the enemies of his country, the hated Northmen. Rallying the Bretons who lurked in the forests or hid in the mountain fastnesses, he led them against the enemy, whom he surprised near Dol in the middle of the night, making a great carnage among them. After this battle the Scandinavian invaders were finally expelled from the Breton land and Alain was crowned King or Arch-chief in 937.

A free translation of this ballad might run as follows:

The Saxons of this lay are, of course, the Norsemen, who, speaking a Teutonic tongue, would seem to the Celtic-speaking Bretons to be allied to the Teuton Franks.

During the latter half of the tenth and most of the eleventh century the Counts of Rennes gained an almost complete ascendancy in Brittany, which began to be broken up into counties and seigneuries in the French manner. In 992 Geoffrey, son of Conan, Count of Rennes, adopted the title of Duke of Brittany. He married a Norman lady of noble family, by whom he had two sons, Alain and Eudo, the younger of whom demanded a share of the duchy as his inheritance. His brother made over to him the counties of Penthièvre and Tréguier, part of the old kingdom of Domnonia in the north. It was a fatal transference, for he and his line became remorseless enemies of the ducal house, with whom they carried on a series of disastrous conflicts for centuries. Conan II, son of Alain, came under the regency of Eudo, his uncle, in infancy, but later turned his sword against him and his abettor, William of Normandy, the Conqueror.

Notwithstanding the national enmity of the Normans and Bretons, there existed between the Dukes of Normandy and the Dukes of Brittany ties of affinity that rendered the relations between the two states somewhat complicated. At the time when Duke Robert, the father of William of Normandy, set out upon his pilgrimage, he had no nearer relative than Alain, Duke of Brittany, the father of Conan II, descended in the female line from Rollo, the great Norse leader, and to him he committed on his departure the care of his duchy and the guardianship of his son.

Duke Alain declared the paternity of his ward doubtful, and favoured that party which desired to set him aside from the succession; but after the defeat of his faction at Val-ès-Dunes he died, apparently of poison, doubtless administered by the contrivance of the friends of William. His son, Conan II, succeeded, and reigned at the period when William was making his preparations for the conquest of England. He was a prince of ability, dreaded by his neighbours, and animated by a fierce desire to injure the Duke of Normandy, whom he regarded as a usurper and the murderer of his father Alain. Seeing William engaged in a hazardous enterprise, Conan thought it a favourable moment to declare war against him, and dispatched one of his chamberlains to him with the following message: “I hear that you are ready to pass the sea to make conquest of the kingdom of England. Now, Duke Robert, whose son you feign to consider yourself, on his departure for Jerusalem left all his inheritance to Duke Alain, my father, who was his cousin; but you and your abettors have poisoned my father, you have appropriated to yourself the domain of Normandy, and have kept 29 possession of it until this day, contrary to all right, since you are not the legitimate heir. Restore to me, therefore, the duchy of Normandy, which belongs to me, or I shall levy war upon you, and shall wage it to extremity with all my forces.”

The Norman historians state that William was much startled by so hostile a message; for even a feeble diversion might render futile his ambitious hopes of conquest. But without hesitation he resolved to remove the Breton Duke. Immediately upon his return to Conan, the envoy, gained over, doubtless, by a bribe of gold, rubbed poison into the inside of the horn which his master sounded when hunting, and, to make his evil measures doubly sure, he poisoned in like manner the Duke’s gloves and his horse’s bridle. Conan died a few days after his envoy’s return, and his successor, Eudo, took especial care not to imitate his relative in giving offence to William with regard to the validity of his right; on the contrary, he formed an alliance with him, a thing unheard of betwixt Breton and Norman, and sent his two sons to William’s camp to serve against the English.

These two youths, Brian and Alain, repaired to the rendezvous of the Norman forces, accompanied by a body of Breton knights, who styled them Mac-tierns.[5] Certain other wealthy Bretons, who were not of the pure Celtic race, and who bore French names, as Robert de Vitry, Bertrand de Dinan, and Raoul de Gael, resorted likewise to the Court of the Duke of Normandy with offers of service.

Later Brittany became a bone of contention between France and Normandy. Hoel, the native Duke, claimed the protection of France against the Norman duchy. A long period of peace followed under Alain Fergant and Conan III, but on the death of the latter a fierce war of succession was waged (1148-56). Conan IV secured the ducal crown by Norman-English aid, and gave his daughter Constance in marriage to Geoffrey Plantagenet, son of Henry II of England. Geoffrey was crowned Duke of Brittany in 1171, but after his death his son Arthur met with a dreadful fate at the hands of his uncle, John of England. Constance, his mother, the real heiress to the duchy, married again, her choice falling upon Guy de Thouars, and their daughter was wed to Pierre de Dreux, who became Duke, and who defeated John Lackland, the slayer of his wife’s half-brother, under the walls of Nantes in 1214.

The country now began to flourish apace because of the many innovations introduced into it by the wisdom of its French rulers. A new way of life was adopted by the governing classes, among whom French manners and fashions became the rule. But the people at large retained their ancient customs, language, and dress; nor have they ever abandoned them, at least in Lower Brittany. On the death of John III (1341) the peace of the duchy was once more broken by a war of succession. John had no love for his half-brother, John of Montfort, and bequeathed the ducal coronet to his niece, Joan of Penthièvre, wife of Charles of Blois, nephew of Philip VI of France. This precipitated a conflict between the rival parties which led to years of bitter strife.

Just as two women, Fredegonda and Brunhilda, swayed the fortunes of Neustria and Austrasia in Merovingian times, and Mary and Elizabeth those of England and Scotland at a later day, so did two heroines arise to uphold the banners of either party in the civil strife which now convulsed the Breton land. England took the side of Montfort and the French that of Charles. Almost at the outset (1342) John of Montfort was taken prisoner, but his heroic wife, Joan of Flanders, grasped the leadership of affairs, and carried on a relentless war against her husband’s enemies. After five years of fighting, in 1347, and two years subsequent to the death of her lord, whose health had given way after his imprisonment, she captured her arch-foe, Charles of Blois himself, at the battle of La Roche-Derrien, on the Jaudy. In this encounter she had the assistance of a certain Sir Thomas Dagworth and an English force. Three times was Charles rescued, and thrice was he retaken, until, bleeding from eighteen wounds, he was compelled to surrender. He was sent to London, where he was confined in the Tower for nine years. Meanwhile his wife, Joan, imitating her rival and namesake, in turn threw her energies into the strife. But another victory for the Montfort party was gained at Mauron in 1352. On the release of Charles of Blois in 1356 he renewed hostilities with the help of the famous Bertrand Du Guesclin.

Bertrand Du Guesclin (c. 1320-80), Constable of France, divides with Bayard the Fearless the crown of medieval 32 French chivalry as a mighty leader of men, a great soldier, and a blameless knight. He was born of an ancient family who were in somewhat straitened circumstances, and in childhood was an object of aversion to his parents because of his ugliness.

One night his mother dreamt that she was in possession of a casket containing portraits of herself and her lord, on one side of which were set nine precious stones of great beauty encircling a rough, unpolished pebble. In her dream she carried the casket to a lapidary, and asked him to take out the rough stone as unworthy of such goodly company; but he advised her to allow it to remain, and afterward it shone forth more brilliantly than the lustrous gems. The later superiority of Bertrand over her nine other children fulfilled the mother’s dream.

At the tournament which was held at Rennes in 1338 to celebrate the marriage of Charles of Blois with Joan of Penthièvre, young Bertrand, at that time only some eighteen years old, unhorsed the most famous competitors. During the war between Blois and Montfort he gathered round him a band of adventurers and fought on the side of Charles V, doing much despite to the forces of Montfort and his ally of England.

Du Guesclin’s name lives in Breton legend as Gwezklen, perhaps the original form, and approximating to that on his tomb at Saint-Denis, where he lies at the feet of Charles V of France. In this inscription it is spelt “Missire Bertram du Gueaquien,” perhaps a French rendering of the Breton pronunciation. Not a few legendary ballads which recount the exploits of this manly and romantic figure remain in the Breton language, and I have made a free translation of the 33 following, as it is perhaps the most interesting of the number:

In the decisive battle of Auray (1364) Charles was killed and Du Guesclin taken prisoner. John of Montfort, son of the John who had died, became Duke of Brittany. But he had to face Oliver de Clisson, round whom the adherents of Blois rallied. From a war the strife degenerated into a vendetta. Oliver de Clisson seized the person of John V and imprisoned 36 him. But in the end John was liberated and the line of Blois was finally crushed.

The next event of importance in Breton history is the enforced marriage of Anne of Brittany, Duchess of that country in her own right, to Charles VIII of France, son of Louis XI, which event took place in 1491. Anne, whose father, Duke Francis II, had but recently died, had no option but to espouse Charles, and on his death she married Louis XII, his successor. Francis I, who succeeded Louis XII on the throne of France, and who married Claude, daughter of Louis XII and Anne, annexed the duchy in 1532, providing for its privileges. But beneath the cramping hand of French power the privileges of the province were greatly reduced. From this time the history of Brittany is merged in that of France, of which country it becomes one of the component parts in a political if not a racial sense.

We shall not in this place deal with the people of modern Brittany, their manners and customs, reserving the subject for a later chapter, but shall ask the reader to accompany us while we traverse the enchanted ground of Breton story.

In the mind of the general reader Brittany is unalterably associated with the prehistoric stone monuments which are so closely identified with its folk-lore and national life. In other parts of the world similar monuments are encountered, in Great Britain and Ireland, Scandinavia, the Crimea, Algeria, and India, but nowhere are they found in such abundance as in Brittany, nor are these rivalled in other lands, either as regards their character or the space they occupy.

To speculate as to the race which built the primitive stone monuments of Brittany is almost as futile as it would be to theorize upon the date of their erection.[6] A generation ago it was usual to refer all European megalithic monuments to a ‘Celtic’ origin, but European ethnological problems have become too complicated of late years to permit such a theory to pass unchallenged, especially now that the term ‘Celt’ is itself matter for fierce controversy. In the immediate neighbourhood of certain of these monuments objects of the Iron Age are recovered from the soil, while near others the finds are of Bronze Age character, so that it is probably correct to surmise that their construction continued throughout a prolonged period.

Regarding the nomenclature of the several species of megalithic monuments met with in Brittany some 38 definitions are necessary. A menhir is a rude monolith set up on end, a great single stone, the base of which is buried deep in the soil. A dolmen is a large, table-shaped stone, supported by three, four, or even five other stones, the bases of which are sunk in the earth. In Britain the term ‘cromlech’ is synonymous with that of ‘dolmen,’ but in France and on the Continent generally it is exclusively applied to that class of monument for which British scientists have no other name than ‘stone circles.’ The derivation of the words from Celtic and their precise meaning in that tongue may assist the reader to arrive at their exact significance. Thus ‘menhir’ seems to be derived from the Welsh or Brythonic maen, ‘a stone,’ and hir, ‘long,’ and ‘dolmen’ from Breton taol, ‘table,’ and men, ‘a stone.’[7] ‘Cromlech’ is also of Welsh or Brythonic origin, and is derived from crom, ‘bending’ or ‘bowed’ (hence ‘laid across’), and llech, ‘a flat stone.’ The allée couverte is a dolmen on a large scale.

The nature of these monuments and the purpose for which they were erected were questions which powerfully exercised the minds of the antiquaries of a century ago, who fiercely contended for their use as altars, open-air temples, and places of rendezvous for the discussion of tribal affairs. The cooler archæologists of a later day have discarded the majority of such theories as untenable in the light of hard facts. The dolmens, they say, are highly unsuitable for the purpose of altars, and as it has been proved that this class of monument 39 was invariably covered in prehistoric times by an earthen tumulus its ritualistic use is thereby rendered improbable. Moreover, if we chance upon any rude carving or incised work on dolmens we observe that it is invariably executed on the lower surface of the table stone, the upper surface being nearly always rough, unhewn, often naturally rounded, and as unlike the surface of an altar as possible.

Recent research has established the much more reasonable theory that these monuments are sepulchral in character, and that they mark the last resting-places of persons of tribal importance, chiefs, priests, or celebrated warriors. Occasionally legend assists us to prove the mortuary character of menhir and dolmen. But, without insisting any further for the present upon the purpose of these monuments, let us glance at the more widely known of Brittany’s prehistoric structures, not so much in the manner of the archæologist as in that of the observant traveller who is satisfied to view them as interesting relics of human handiwork bequeathed from a darker age, rather than as objects to satisfy the archæological taste for discussion.

For this purpose we shall select the best known groups of Breton prehistoric structures, and shall begin our excursion at the north-eastern extremity of Brittany, following the coast-line, on which most of the principal prehistoric centres are situated, and, as occasion offers, journeying into the interior in search of famous or interesting examples.

Dol is situated in the north of the department of Ille-et-Vilaine, not far from the sea-coast. Near it, in a 40 field called the Champ Dolent (‘Field of Woe’), stands a gigantic menhir, about thirty feet high and said to measure fifteen more underground. It is composed of grey granite, and is surmounted by a cross. The early Christian missionaries, finding it impossible to wean the people from frequenting pagan neighbourhoods, surmounted the standing stones with the symbol of their faith, and this in time brought about the result desired.[8]

A strange legend is connected with this rude menhir. On a day in the dark, uncharted past of Brittany a fierce battle was fought in the Champ Dolent. Blood ran in streams, sufficient, says the tale, to turn a mill-wheel in the neighbourhood of the battlefield. When the combat was at its height two brothers met and grappled in fratricidal strife. But ere they could harm one another the great granite shaft which now looms above the field rose up between them and separated them.

There appears to be some historical basis for the tale. Here, or in the neighbourhood, A.D. 560, met Clotaire, King of the Franks, and his son, the rebel Chramne. The rebellious son was signally defeated. He had placed his wife and two little daughters in a dwelling hard by, and as he made his way thence to convey them from the field he was captured. He was instantly strangled, by order of his brutal father, in the sight of his wife and little ones, who were then burned alive in the house where they had taken refuge. The Champ Dolent does not belie its name, and even thirteen 41 centuries and a half have failed to obliterate the memory of a savage and unnatural crime, which, its remoteness notwithstanding, fills the soul with loathing against its perpetrators and with deep pity for the hapless and innocent victims.

At Plouaret, in the department of Côtes-du-Nord, is a curious subterranean chapel incorporating a dolmen. The dolmen was formerly partially embedded in a tumulus, and the chapel, erected in 1702, was so constructed that the great table-stone of the dolmen has become the chapel roof, and the supporting stones form two of its sides. The crypt is reached by a flight of steps, and here may be seen an altar to the Seven Sleepers, represented by seven dolls of varying size. The Bretons have a legend that this structure dates from the creation of the world, and they have embodied this belief in a ballad, in which it is piously affirmed that the shrine was built by the hand of the Almighty at the time when the world was in process of formation.

Camaret, on the coast of Finistère, is the site of no less than forty-one standing stones of quartz, which outline a rectangular space 600 yards in length at its base. Many stones have been removed, so that the remaining sides are incomplete. None of these monoliths is of any considerable size, however, and the site is not considered to be of much importance, save as regards its isolated character. At Penmarch, in the southern extremity of Finistère, there is an ‘alignment’ of some two hundred small stones, and a dolmen 42 of some importance is situated at Trégunc, but it is at Carnac, on the coast of Morbihan, that we arrive at the most important archæological district in Brittany.

The Carnac district teems with prehistoric monuments, the most celebrated of which are those of Plouharnel, Concarneau, Concurrus, Locmariaquer, Kermario, Kerlescant, Erdeven, and Sainte-Barbe. All these places are situated within a few miles of one another, and a good centre from which excursions can be made to each is the little town of Auray, with its quaint medieval market-house and shrine of St Roch. Archæologists, both Breton and foreign, appear to be agreed that the groups of stones at Ménéac, Kermario, and Kerlescant are portions of one original and continuous series of alignments which extended for nearly two miles in one direction from south-west to north-east. The monolithic avenue commences quite near the village of Ménéac, stretching away in eleven rows, and here the large stones are situated, these at first rising to a height of from 10 to 13 feet, and becoming gradually smaller, until they attain only 3 or 4 feet. In all there are 116 menhirs at Ménéac. For more than three hundred yards there is a gap in the series, which passed, we come to the Kermario avenue, which consists of ten rows of monoliths of much the same size as those of Ménéac, and 1120 in number.

Passing on to Kerlescant, with its thirteen rows of menhirs made up of 570 individual stones, we come to the end of the avenue and gaze backward upon the plain covered with these indestructible symbols of a forgotten past.

Carnac! There is something vast, Egyptian, in the name! There is, indeed, a Karnak in Egypt, celebrated for its Avenue of Sphinxes and its pillared temple raised to the goddess Mut by King Amenophis III. Here, in the Breton Carnac, are no evidences of architectural skill. These sombre stones, unworked, rude as they came from cliff or seashore, are not embellished by man’s handiwork like the rich temples of the Nile. But there is about this stone-littered moor a mystery, an atmosphere no less intense than that surrounding the most solemn ruins of antiquity. Deeper even than the depths of Egypt must we sound if we are to discover the secret of Carnac. What mean these stones? What means faith? What signifies belief? What is the answer to the Riddle of Man? In the words of Cayot Délandre, a Breton poet:

Over this wild, heathy track, covered with the blue flowers of the dwarf gentian, steals a subtle change. Nor air nor heath has altered. The lichen-covered grey stones are the same. Suddenly there arises the burden of a low, fierce chant. A swarm of skin-clad figures appears, clustering around a gigantic object 44 which they are painfully dragging toward a deep pit situated at the end of one of the enormous alleys of monoliths. On rudely shaped rollers rests a huge stone some twenty feet in length, and this they drag across the rough moor by ropes of hide, lightening their labours by the chant, which relates the exploits of the warrior-chief who has lately been entombed in this vast pantheon of Carnac. The menhir shall serve for his headstone. It has been vowed to him by the warriors of his tribe, his henchmen, who have fought and hunted beside him, and who revere his memory. This stone shall render his fame immortal.

And now the task of placing the huge monolith in position begins. Ropes are attached to one extremity, and while a line of brawny savages strains to raise this, others guide that end of the monolith destined for enclosure in the earth toward the pit which has been dug for its reception. Higher and higher rises the stone, until at last it sinks slowly into its earthy bed. It is held in an upright position while the soil is packed around it and it is made secure. Then the barbarians stand back a space and gaze at it from beneath their low brows, well pleased with their handiwork. He whom they honoured in life rests not unrecognized in death.

The legend of Carnac which explains these avenues of monoliths bears a resemblance to the Cornish story of ‘the Hurlers,’ who were turned into stone for playing at hurling on the Lord’s Day, or to that other English example from Cumberland of ‘Long Meg’ and her daughters. St Cornely, we are told, pursued by an 45 army of pagans, fled toward the sea. Finding no boat at hand, and on the point of being taken, he transformed his pursuers into stones, the present monoliths.

The Saint had made his flight to the coast in a bullock-cart, and perhaps for this reason he is now regarded as the patron of cattle. Should a bullock fall sick, his owner purchases an image of St Cornely and hangs it up in the stable until the animal recovers. The church at Carnac contains a series of fresco paintings which outline events in the life of the Saint, and in the churchyard there is a representation of the holy man between two bullocks. The head of St Cornely is said to be preserved within the edifice as a relic. On the 13th of September is held at Carnac the festival of the ‘Benediction of the Beasts,’ which is celebrated in honour of St Cornely. The cattle of the district are brought to the vicinity of the church and blessed by the priests—should sufficient monetary encouragement be forthcoming.

In the neighbourhood is Mont-Saint-Michel,[10] a great tumulus with a sepulchral dolmen, first excavated in 1862, when late Stone Age implements, jade celts, and burnt bones were unearthed. Later M. Zacharie Le Rouzic, the well-known Breton archæologist, tunnelled into the tumulus, and discovered a mortuary chamber, in which were the incinerated remains of two oxen. To this tumulus each pilgrim added a stone or small quantity of earth, as has been the custom in Celtic countries from time immemorial, and so the funerary mound in the course of countless generations grew into 46 quite a respectable hill, on which a chapel was built, dedicated to St Michael, from the doorway of which a splendid prospect of the great stone alignments can be had, with, for background, the Morbihan and the long, dreary peninsula of Quiberon, bleak, treeless, and deserted.

Near Carnac is the great dolmen of Rocenaud, the ‘cup-and-ring’ markings on which are thought by the surrounding peasantry to have been made by the knees and elbows of St Roch, who fell upon this stone when he landed from Ireland. When the natives desire a wind they knock upon the depressions with their knuckles, murmuring spells the while, just as in Scotland in the seventeenth century a tempest was raised by dipping a rag in water and beating it on a stone thrice in the name of Satan.

What do these cup-and-ring markings so commonly discovered upon the monuments of Brittany portend? The question is one well worth examining at some length, as it appears to be almost at the foundations of Neolithic religion. Recent discoveries in New Caledonia have proved the existence in these far-off islands, as in Brittany, Scotland, and Ireland, of these strange symbols, coupled with the concentric and spiral designs which are usually associated with the genius of Celtic art. In the neighbourhood of Glasgow, and in the south-west of Scotland generally, stones inscribed with designs closely resembling those on the New Caledonian rocks have been found in abundance, as at Auchentorlie 47 and Cockno, Shewalton Sands, and in the Milton of Colquhoun district, where the famous ‘cup-and-ring altar’ was discovered. At Shewalton Sands in particular, in 1904, a number of stones were found bearing crosses like those discovered in Portugal by Father José Brenha and Father Rodriguez. These symbols have a strong resemblance to certain markings on the Breton rocks, and are thought to possess an alphabetic or magical significance. In Scotland spirals are commonly found on stones marked with ogham inscriptions, and it is remarkable that they should occur in New Caledonia in connexion with a dot ‘alphabet.’ The New Caledonian crosses, however, approximate more to the later crosses of Celtic art, while the spirals resemble those met with in the earlier examples of Celtic work. But the closest parallel to the New Caledonian stone-markings to be found in Scotland is supplied by the examples at Cockno, in Dumbartonshire, where the wheel symbol is associated with the cup-and-ring markings.

The cup-and-ring stones used to be considered the peculiar product of a race of ‘Brythonic’ or British origin, and it is likely that the stones so carved were utilized in the ritual of rain-worship or rain-making by sympathetic magic. The grooves in the stone were probably filled with water to typify a country partially covered with rain-water.[11]

From these analogies, then, we can glean the purpose of the cup-and-ring markings upon the dolmens of Brittany, and may conclude, if our considerations are 48 well founded, that they were magical in purpose and origin. Do the cup-shaped depressions represent water, or are they receptacles for rain, and do the spiral symbols typify the whirling winds?

Nowhere are these mysterious markings so well exemplified as in the wonderful tumulus of Gavr’inis. This ancient place of sepulture, the name of which means ‘Goat Island,’ lies in the Morbihan, or ‘Little Sea,’ an inland sea which gives its name to a department in the south of Brittany. The tumulus is 25 feet high, and covers a fine gallery 40 feet long, the stones of which bear the markings alluded to. Whorls and circles abound in the ornamentation, serpent-like figures, and the representation of an axe, similar to those to be seen in some of the Grottes aux Fées, or on the Dol des Marchands. The sculptures appear to have been executed with metal tools. The passage ends in a square sepulchral chamber, the supports of which are eight menhirs of grained granite, a stone not found on the island. Such of the menhirs as are carved were obviously so treated before they were placed in situ, as the design passes round the edges.

The Ile aux Moines (‘Monks’ Island’) is also situated in the Morbihan, and has many prehistoric monuments, the most extensive of which are the circle of stones at Kergonan and the dolmen of Penhapp. On the Ile d’Arz, too, are megalithic monuments, perhaps the best example of which is the cromlech or circle at Penraz.

The folk-beliefs attached to the megalithic monuments 49 of Brittany are numerous, but nearly all of them bear a strong resemblance to each other. Many of the monuments are called Grottes aux Fées or Roches aux Fées, in the belief that the fairies either built them or used them as dwelling-places, and variants of these names are to be found in the Maison des Follets (‘House of the Goblins’) at Cancoet, in Morbihan, and the Château des Paulpiquets, in Questembert, in the same district. Ty en Corygannt (‘The House of the Korrigans’) is situated in the same department, while near Penmarch, in Finistère, at the other end of the province, we find Ty C’harriquet (‘The House of the Gorics’ or ‘Nains’). Other mythical personages are also credited with their erection, most frequently either the devil or Gargantua being held responsible for their miraculous creation. The phenomenon, well known to students of folk-lore, that an unlettered people speedily forgets the origin of monuments that its predecessors may have raised in times past is well exemplified in Brittany, whose peasant-folk are usually surprised, if not amused, at the question “Who built the dolmens?” Close familiarity with and contiguity to uncommon objects not infrequently dulls the sense of wonder they should otherwise naturally excite. But lest we feel tempted to sneer at these poor folk for their incurious attitude toward the visible antiquities of their land, let us ask ourselves how many of us take that interest in the antiquities of our own country or our own especial locality that they demand.[12]

For the most part, then, the megaliths, in the opinion of the Breton peasant, are not the handiwork of man. He would rather refer their origin to spirits, giants, or fiends. If he makes any exception to this supernatural attribution, it is in favour of the saints he reverences so profoundly. The fairies, he says, harnessed their oxen to the mighty stones, selected a site, and dragged them thither to form a dwelling, or perhaps a cradle for the infant fays they were so fond of exchanging for human children. Thus the Roches aux Fées near Saint-Didier, in Ille-et-Vilaine, were raised by fairy hands, the elves collecting “all the big stones in the country” and carrying them thither in their aprons. These architectural sprites then mounted on each other’s shoulders in order that they might reach high enough to place the mighty monoliths securely in position. This practice they also followed in building the dolmen near the wood of Rocher, on the road from Dinan to Dol, say the people of that country-side.

But the actual purpose of the megaliths has not been neglected by tradition, for a venerable farmer at Rouvray stated that the fairies were wont to honour after their death those who had made good use of their lives and built the dolmens to contain their ashes. The presence of such a shrine in a country-side was a guarantee of abundance and prosperity therein, as a subtle and indefinable charm spread from the saintly remnants and communicated itself to everything in the neighbourhood.[13] The fairy builders, says tradition, went about their work in no haphazard manner. Those 51 among them who possessed a talent for design drew the plans of the proposed structure, the less gifted acting as carriers, labourers, and masons. Apron-carrying was not their only method of porterage, for some bore the stones on their heads, or one under each arm, as when they raised the Roche aux Fées in Retiers, or the dolmen in La Lande Marie.[14] The space of a night was usually sufficient in which to raise a dolmen. But though ‘run up’ with more than Transatlantic dispatch, in view of the time these structures have endured for, any charge of jerry-building against their elfin architects must fall to the ground. Daylight, too, frequently surprised the fairy builders, so that they could not finish their task, as many a ‘roofless’ dolmen shows.

There are many Celtic parallels to this belief. For example, it is said that the Picts, or perhaps the fairies, built the original church of Corstorphine, near Edinburgh, and stood in a row handing the stones on, one to another, from Ravelston Quarry, on the adjacent hill of Corstorphine. Such is the local folk-tale; and it has its congeners in Celtic and even in Hindu myth. Thus in the Highland tale of Kennedy and the claistig, or fairy, whom he captured, and whom he compelled to build him a house in one night, we read that she set her people to work speedily:

Again, the Round Tower of Ardmore, in Ireland, was 52 built with stones brought from Slieve Grian, a mountain some four or five miles distant, “without horse or wheel,” the blocks being passed from hand to hand from the quarry to the site of the building. The same tradition applied to the Round Tower of Abernethy, in Perthshire, only it is in this case demonstrated that the stone of which the tower is composed was actually taken from the traditional quarry, even the very spot being geologically identified.[16] In like manner, too, was Rama’s bridge built by the monkey host in Hindu myth, as recounted in the Mahābhārata and the Rāmāyana.

Tales, as apart from beliefs, are not often encountered in connexion with the monuments. Indeed, Sébillot, in the course of his researches, found only some dozen of these all told.[17] They are very brief, and appear for the most part to deal with fairies who have been shut up by the power of magic in a dolmen. Tales of spirits enclosed in trees, and even in pillars, are not uncommon, and lately I have heard a peculiarly fearsome ghost story which comes from Belgium, in which it is related how certain spirits had become enclosed in a pillar in an ancient abbey, for the saintly occupants of which they made it particularly uncomfortable. Mr George Henderson, in one of the most masterly and suggestive studies of Celtic survivals ever published, states that stones in the Highlands of Scotland were formerly believed to have souls, and that those too large to be moved “were held to be in intimate connexion with spirits.” Pillared stones are not employed in building dwellings in the Highlands, ill luck, it is believed, being 53 sure to follow their use in this manner, while to ‘meddle’ with stones which tradition connects with Druidism is to court fatality.[18]

M. Salomon Reinach tells us of the Breton belief that certain sacred stones go once a year or once a century to ‘wash’ themselves in the sea or in a river, returning to their ancient seats after their ablutions.[19] The stones in the dolmen of Essé are thought to change their places continually, like those of Callernish and Lewis, and, like the Roman Penates, to have the gift of coming and going if removed from their habitual site.

The megalithic monuments of Brittany are undoubtedly the most remarkable relics of that epoch of prehistoric activity which is now regarded as the immediate forerunner of civilization. Can it be that they were miraculously preserved by isolation from the remote beginnings of that epoch, or is it more probable that they were constructed at a relatively late period? These are questions of profound difficulty, and it is likely that both theories contain a certain amount of truth. Whatever may have been the origin of her megaliths, Brittany must ever be regarded as a great prehistoric museum, a unique link with a past of hoary antiquity.

Whatever the origin of the race which conceived the demonology of Brittany—and there are indications that it was not wholly Celtic—that weird province of Faëry bears unmistakable evidence of having been deeply impressed by the Celtic imagination, if it was not totally peopled by it, for its various inhabitants act in the Celtic spirit, are moved by Celtic springs of thought and fancy, and possess not a little of that irritability which has forced anthropologists to include the Celtic race among those peoples described as ‘sanguine-bilious.’ As a rule they are by no means friendly or even humane, these fays of Brittany, and if we find beneficent elves within the green forests of the duchy we may feel certain that they are French immigrants, and therefore more polished than the choleric native sprites.

Of all the many localities celebrated in the fairy lore of Brittany none is so famous as Broceliande. Broceliande! “The sound is like a bell,” a far, faëry chime in a twilit forest. In the name Broceliande there seems to be gathered all the tender charm, the rich and haunting mystery, the remote magic of Brittany and Breton lore. It is, indeed, the title to the rarest book in the library of poetic and traditional romance.

“I went to seek out marvels,” said old Wace. “The forest I saw, the land I saw. I sought marvels, but I found none. A fool I came back, a fool I went; a fool 55 I went, a fool I came back; foolishness I sought; a fool I hold myself.”[20]

Our age, even less sceptical than his, sees no folly in questing for the beautiful, and if we expect no marvels, nor any sleight of faëry, however desirous we are, we do not hold it time lost to plunge into the enchanted forest and in its magic half-gloom grope for, and perchance grasp, dryad draperies, or be trapped in the filmy webs of fancy which are spun in these shadows for unwary mortals.

Standing in dream-girt Broceliande of a hundred legends, its shadows mirrored by dim meres that may never reflect the stars, one feels the lure of Brittany more keenly even than when walking by its fierce and jagged coasts menaced by savage grey seas, or when wandering on its vast moors where the monuments of its pagan past stand in gigantic disarray. For in the forest is the heart of Arthurian story, the shrine of that wonder which has drawn thousands to this land of legend, who, like old Wace, trusted to have found, if not elfin marvels, at least matter of phantasy conjured up by the legendary associations of Broceliande.

But we must beware of each step in these twilit recesses, for the fays of Brittany are not as those of other lands. Harsh things are spoken of them. They are malignant, say the forest folk. The note of Brittany is scarce a joyous one. It is bitter-sweet as a sad chord struck on an ancient harp.

The fays of Brittany are not the friends of man. They are not ‘the good people,’ ‘the wee folk’; they have no endearing names, the gift of a grateful peasantry. Cold and hostile, they hold aloof from human converse, and, 56 should they encounter man, vent their displeasure at the interruption in the most vindictive manner.

Whether the fairies of Brittany be the late representatives of the gods of an elder day or merely animistic spirits who have haunted these glades since man first sheltered in them, certain it is that in no other region in Europe has Mother Church laid such a heavy ban upon all the things of faëry as in this strange and isolated peninsula. A more tolerant ecclesiastical rule might have weaned them to a timid friendship, but all overtures have been discouraged, and to-day they are enemies, active, malignant, swift to inflict evil upon the pious peasant because he is pious and on the energetic because of his industry.

Among those forest-beings of whom legend speaks such malice none is more relentless than the Korrigan, who has power to enmesh the heart of the most constant swain and doom him to perish miserably for love of her. Beware of the fountains and of the wells of this forest of Broceliande, for there she is most commonly to be encountered, and you may know her by her bright hair—“like golden wire,” as Spenser says of his lady’s—her red, flashing eyes, and her laughing lips. But if you would dare her wiles you must come alone to her fountain by night, for she shuns even the half-gloom that is day in shadowy Broceliande. The peasants when they speak of her will assure you that she and her kind are pagan princesses of Brittany who would have none of Christianity when the holy Apostles brought it to Armorica, and who must dwell here under a ban, outcast and abhorred.

The Seigneur of Nann was high of heart, for that day his bride of a year had presented him with two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, both white as May-blossom. In his joy the happy father asked his wife her heart’s desire, and she, pining for that which idle fancy urged upon her, begged him to bring her a dish of woodcock from the lake in the dale, or of venison from the greenwood. The Seigneur of Nann seized his lance and, vaulting on his jet-black steed, sought the borders of the forest, where he halted to survey the ground for track of roe or slot of the red deer. Of a sudden a white doe rose in front of him, and was lost in the forest like a silver shadow.

At sight of this fair quarry the Seigneur followed into the greenwood. Ever his prey rustled among the leaves ahead, and in the hot chase he recked not of the forest depths into which he had plunged. But coming upon a narrow glade where the interlacing leaves above let in the sun to dapple the moss-ways below, he saw a strange lady sitting by the broken border of a well, braiding her fair hair and binding it with golden pins.

The Seigneur louted low, begged that he might drink, and bending down set his lips to the water; but she, turning strange eyes upon him—eyes not blue like those of his bride, nor grey, nor brown, nor black, like those of other women, but red in their depths as the heart’s blood of a dove—spoke to him discourteously.

“Who are you who dare to trouble the waters of my 58 fountain?” she asked. “Do you not know that your conduct merits death? This well is enchanted, and by drinking of it you are fated to die, unless you fulfil a certain condition.”

“And what is that?” asked the Seigneur.

“You must marry me within the hour,” replied the lady.

“Demoiselle,” replied the Seigneur, “it may not be as you desire, for I am already espoused to a fair bride who has borne me this very day a son and a daughter. Nor shall I die until it pleases the good God. Nevertheless, I wot well who you are. Rather would I die on the instant than wed with a Korrigan.”

Leaping upon his horse, he turned and rode from the woodland as a man possessed. As he drew homeward he was overshadowed by a sense of coming ill. At the gate of his château stood his mother, anxious to greet him with good news of his bride. But with averted eyes he addresses her in the refrain so familiar to the folk-poetry of all lands:

Three days later the young spouse asks of her mother-in-law:

“Tell me, mother, why do the bells sound? Wherefore do the priests chant so low?”

“’Tis nothing, daughter,” replies the elder woman. “A poor stranger who lodged here died this night.”

“Ah, where is gone the Seigneur of Nann? Mother, oh, where is he?”

“He has gone to the town, my child. In a little he will come to see you.”

“Ah, mother, let us speak of happy things. Must I wear my red or my blue robe at my churching?”

“Neither, daughter. The mode is changed. You must wear black.”

Unconscious in its art, the stream of verse carries us to the church, whence the young wife has gone to offer up thanks for the gift of children. She sees that the ancestral tomb has been opened, and a great dread is at her heart. She asks her mother-in-law who has died, and the old woman at last confesses that the Seigneur of Nann has just been buried.

That same night the young mother was interred beside her husband-lover. And the peasant folk say that from that tomb arose two saplings, the branches of which intertwined more closely as they grew.

In the depths of Lake Tegid in our own Wales dwelt Keridwen, a fertility goddess who possessed a magic cauldron—the sure symbol of a deity of abundance.[22] Like Demeter, she was strangely associated with the harmless necessary sow, badge of many earth-mothers, and itself typical of fertility. Like Keridwen, the Korrigan is associated with water, with the element which makes for vegetable growth. Christian belief would, of course, transform this discredited goddess into an evil being whose one function was the destruction of souls. May we see a relation of the Korrigan and Keridwen in Tridwan, or St Triduana, of Restalrig, 60 near Edinburgh, who presided over a certain well there, and at whose well-shrine offerings were made by sightless pilgrims for many centuries?

Many are the traditions which tell of human infants abducted by the Korrigan, who at times left an ugly changeling in place of the babe she had stolen. But it was more as an enchantress that she was dreaded. By a stroke of her magic wand she could transform the leafy fastnesses in which she dwelt into the semblance of a lordly hall, which the luckless traveller whom she lured thither would regard as a paradise after the dark thickets in which he had been wandering. This seeming castle or palace she furnished with everything that could delight the eye, and as the doomed wretch sat ravished by her beauty and that of her nine attendant maidens a fatal passion for her entered his heart, so that whatever he cherished most on earth—honour, wife, demoiselle, or affianced bride—became as naught to him, and he cast himself at the feet of this forest Circe in a frenzy of ardour. But with the first ray of daylight the charm was dissolved and the Korrigan became a hideous hag, as repulsive as before she had been lovely; the walls of her palace and the magnificence which had furnished it became once more tree and thicket, its carpets moss, its tapestries leaves, its silver cups wild roses, and its dazzling mirrors pools of stagnant water.

Sir Roland of Brittany rides through gloomy Broceliande a league ahead of his troop, unattended by squire or by page. The red cross upon his shoulder is witness that 61 he is vowed to service in Palestine, and as he passes through the leafy avenues on his way to the rendezvous he fears that he will be late, most tardy of all the knights of Brittany who have sworn to drive the paynim from the Holy Land. Fearful of such disgrace, he spurs his jaded charger on through the haunted forest, and with anxious eye watches the sun sink and the gay white moon sail high above the tree-tops, pouring light through their branches upon the mossy ways below.

A high vow has Roland taken ere setting out upon the crusade—a vow that he will eschew the company of fair ladies, in which none had delighted more than he. No more must he mingle in the dance, no more must he press a maiden’s lips with his. He has become a soldier of the Cross. He may not touch a lady’s hand save with his mailed glove, he must not sit by her side. Also must he fast from dusk till dawn upon that night of his setting forth. “Small risk,” he laughs a little sadly, as he spurs his charger onward, “small risk that I be mansworn ere morning light.”

But the setting of the moon tells him that he must rest in the forest until dawn, as without her beams he can no longer pursue his way. So he dismounts from his steed, tethers it to a tree, and looks about for a bed of moss on which to repose. As he does so his wandering gaze fixes upon a beam of light piercing the gloom of the forest. Well aware of the traditions of his country, he thinks at first that it is only the glimmer of a will-o’-the-wisp or a light carried by a wandering elf. But no, on moving nearer the gleam he is surprised to behold a row of windows brilliantly lit as if for a festival.

“Now, by my vow,” says Roland, “methought I knew well every château in this land of Brittany, nor wist 62 I that seigneur or count held court in this forest of Broceliande.”

Resolved to view the château at still closer quarters, he draws near it. A great court fronts him where neither groom nor porter keeps guard, and within he can see a fair hall. This he enters, and immediately his ears are ravished by music which wanders through the chamber like a sighing zephyr. The murmur of rich viols and the call of flutes soft as distant bird-song speak to his very soul. Yet through the ecstasy comes, like a serpent gliding among flowers, the discord of evil thoughts. Grasping his rosary, he is about to retire when the doors at the end of the hall fly open, and he beholds a rapturous vision. Upon a couch of velvet sits a lady of such dazzling beauty that all other women compared with her would seem as kitchen-wenches. A mantle of rich golden hair falls about her, her eyes shine with the brightness of stars, her smile seems heavenly. Round her are grouped nine maidens only less beautiful than herself.

As the moon moving among attendant stars, so the lady comes toward Roland, accompanied by her maidens. She welcomes him, and would remove his gauntlet, but he tells her of the vow he has made to wear it in lady’s bower, and she is silent. Next she asks him to seat himself beside her on the couch, but he will not. In some confusion she orders a repast to be brought. A table is spread with fragrant viands, but as the knight will partake of none of them, in chagrin the lady takes a lute, which she touches with exquisite skill. He listens unmoved, till, casting away her instrument, she dances to him, circling round and round about him, flitting about his chair like a butterfly, until at length she sinks 63 down near him and lays her head upon his mailed bosom. Upward she turns her face to him, all passion-flushed, her eyes brimming with love. Sir Roland falters. Fascinated by her unearthly beauty, he is about to stoop down to press his lips to hers. But as he bends his head she shrinks from him, for she sees the tender flush of morning above the eastern tree-tops. The living stars faint and fail, and the music of awakening life which accompanies the rising of the young sun falls upon the ear. Slowly the château undergoes transformation. The glittering roof merges into the blue vault of heaven, the tapestried walls become the ivied screens of great forest trees, the princely furnishings are transformed into mossy banks and mounds, and the rugs and carpets beneath Roland’s mailed feet are now merged in the forest ways.

But the lady? Sir Roland, glancing down, beholds a hag hideous as sin, whose malicious and distorted countenance betrays baffled hate and rage. At the sound of a bugle she hurries away with a discordant shriek. Into the glade ride Roland’s men, to see their lord clasping his rosary and kneeling in thanksgiving for his deliverance from the evils which beset him. He had been saved from breaking his vow!

The nine attendant maidens of the Korrigan bring to mind a passage in Pomponius Mela[24]: “Sena [the Ile de Sein, not far from Brest], in the British Sea, opposite the Ofismician coast, is remarkable for an oracle of the Gallic god. Its priestesses, holy in perpetual virginity, are said to be nine in number. They are called Gallicenæ, and are thought to be endowed with singular powers. By their charms they are able to raise the 64 winds and seas, to turn themselves into what animals they will, to cure wounds and diseases incurable by others, to know and predict the future. But this they do only for navigators, who go thither purposely to consult them.”

Like the sylphs and salamanders so humorously described by the Abbé de Villars in Le Comte de Gabalis,[25] the Korrigans desired union with humanity in order that they might thus gain immortality. Such, at least, is the current peasant belief in Brittany. “For this end they violate all the laws of modesty.” This belief is common to all lands, and is typical of the fay, the Lorelei, countless well and water sprites, and that enchantress who rode off with Thomas the Rhymer:

Unlike the colder Sir Roland, ‘True Thomas’ dared, and was wafted to a realm wondrously described by the old balladeer in the vivid phrase that marks the poetry of vision.

It was in this same verdant Broceliande that Vivien, another fairy, that crafty dame of the enchanted lake, the instructress of Lancelot, bound wise Merlin so that he might no more go to Camelot with oracular lips to counsel British Arthur.

But what say the folk of Broceliande themselves of 65 this? Let us hear their version of a tale which has been so battered by modern criticism, and which has been related in at least half a score of versions, prose and poetic. Let us have the Broceliande account of what happened in Broceliande.[26] Surely its folk, in the very forest in which he wandered with Vivien, must know more of Merlin’s enchantment than we of that greater Britain which he left to find a paradise in Britain the Less, for, according to Breton story, Merlin was not imprisoned by magic art, but achieved bliss through his love for the fairy forest nymph.

Disguised as a young student, Merlin was wandering one bright May morning through the leafy glades of Broceliande, when, like the Seigneur of Nann, he came to a beautiful fountain in the heart of the forest which tempted him to rest. As he sat there in reverie, Vivien, daughter of the lord of the manor of Broceliande, came to the water’s edge. Her father had gained the affection of a fay of the valley, who had promised on behalf of their daughter that she should be loved by the wisest man in the world, who should grant all her wishes, but would never be able to compel her to consent to his.

Vivien reclined upon the other side of the fountain, and the eyes of the sage and maiden met. At length Merlin rose to depart, and gave the damsel courteous good-day. But she, curious and not content with a mere salutation, wished him all happiness and honour. Her voice was beautiful, her eyes expressive, and Merlin, moved beyond anything in his experience, asked her name. She told him she was a daughter of a gentleman of that country, and in turn asked him who he might be.

“A scholar returning to his master,” was the reply.

“Your master? And what may he teach you, young sir?”

“He instructs me in the magic art, fair dame,” replied Merlin, amused. “By aid of his teaching I can raise a castle ere a man could count a score, and garrison it with warriors of might. I can make a river flow past the spot on which you recline, I can raise spirits from the great deeps of ether in which this world rolls, and can peer far into the future—aye, to the extreme of human days.”

“Would that I shared your wisdom!” cried Vivien, her voice thrilling with the desire of hidden things which she had inherited from her fairy mother. “Teach me these secrets, I entreat of you, noble scholar, and accept in return for your instruction my most tender friendship.”

Merlin, willing to please her, arose, and traced certain mystical characters upon the greensward. Straightway the glade in which they sat was filled with knights, ladies, maidens, and esquires, who danced and disported themselves right joyously. A stately castle rose on the verge of the forest, and in the garden the spirits whom Merlin the enchanter had raised up in the semblance of knights and ladies held carnival. Vivien, delighted, asked of Merlin in what manner he had achieved this feat of faëry, and he told her that he would in time instruct her as to the manner of accomplishing it. He then dismissed the spirit attendants and dissipated the castle into thin air, but retained the garden at the request of Vivien, naming it ‘Joyous Garden.’

Then he made a tryst with Vivien to meet her in a year on the Vigil of St John.

Now Merlin had to be present at the espousal of Arthur, 67 his King, with Guinevere, at which he was to assist the archbishop, Dubric, as priest. The festivities over, he recalled his promise to Vivien, and on the appointed day he once more assumed the guise of a travelling scholar and set out to meet the maiden in the forest of Broceliande. She awaited him patiently in Joyous Garden, where they partook of a dainty repast. But the viands and the wines were wasted upon Merlin, for Vivien was beside him and she alone filled his thoughts. She was fair of colour, and fresh with the freshness of all in the forest, and her hazel eyes made such fire within his soul that he conceived a madness of love for her that all his wisdom, deep as it was, could not control.

But Vivien was calm as a lake circled by trees, where no breath of the passion of tempest can come. Again and again she urged him to impart to her the secrets she so greatly longed to be acquainted with. And chiefly did she desire to know three things; these at all hazards must she have power over. How, she asked, could water be made to flow in a dry place? In what manner could any form be assumed at will? And, lastly, how could one be made to fall asleep at the pleasure of another?

“Wherefore ask you this last question, demoiselle?” said Merlin, suspicious even in his great passion for her.

“So that I may cast the spell of sleep over my father and my mother when I come to you, Merlin,” she replied, with a beguiling glance, “for did they know that I loved you they would slay me.”

Merlin hesitated, and so was lost. He imparted to her that hidden knowledge which she desired. Then they dwelt together for eight days in the Joyous Garden, during which time the sage, to Vivien’s delight and 68 amaze, related to her the marvellous circumstances of his birth.

Next day Merlin departed, but came again to Broceliande when the eglantine was flowering at the edge of the forest. Again he wore the scholar’s garments. His aspect was youthful, his fair hair hung in ringlets on his shoulders, and he appeared so handsome that a tender flower of love sprang up in Vivien’s heart, and she felt that she must keep him ever near her. But she knew full well that he whom she loved was in reality well stricken in years, and she was sorrowful. But she did not despair.

“Beloved,” she whispered, “will you grant me but one other boon? There is one secret more that I desire to learn.”

Now Merlin knew well ere she spoke what was in her mind, and he sighed and shook his head.

“Wherefore do you sigh?” she asked innocently.

“I sigh because my fate is strong upon me,” replied the sage. “For it was foreseen in the long ago that a lady should lead me captive and that I should become her prisoner for all time. Neither have I the power to deny you what you ask of me.”

Vivien embraced him rapturously.

“Ah, Merlin, beloved, is it not that you should always be with me?” she asked passionately. “For your sake have I not given up father and mother, and are not all my thoughts and desires toward you?”

Merlin, carried away by her amorous eloquence, could only answer: “It is yours to ask what you will.”

Vivien then revealed to him her wish. She longed to learn from his lips an enchantment which would keep him ever near her, which would so bind him to her in 69 the chains of love that nothing in the world could part him from her. Hearkening to her plea, he taught her such enchantment as would render him love’s prisoner for ever.

Evening was shrouding the forest in soft shadows when Merlin sank to rest. Vivien, waiting until his deep and regular breathing told her that he was asleep, walked nine times around him, waving her cloak over his head, and muttering the mysterious words he had taught her. When the sage awoke he found himself in the Joyous Garden with Vivien by his side.

“You are mine for ever,” she murmured. “You can never leave me now.”

“My delight will be ever to stay with you,” he replied, enraptured. “And oh, beloved, never leave me, I pray you, for I am bespelled so as to love you throughout eternity!”

“Never shall I leave you,” she replied; and in such manner the wise Merlin withdrew from the world of men to remain ever in the Joyous Garden with Vivien. Love had triumphed over wisdom.

The Arthurian version of the story does not, of course, represent Vivien as does the old Breton legend. In Geoffrey of Monmouth’s book and in the Morte d’Arthur she is drawn as the scheming enchantress who wishes to lure Merlin to his ruin for the joy of being able to boast of her conquest. In some romances she is alluded to as Nimue, and in others is described as the daughter of Dyonas, who perhaps is the same as Dylan, a Brythonic (British) sea-god. As the Lady of the Lake she is the foster-mother of Lancelot, and we should have no difficulty in classing her as a water deity or spirit very much like the Korrigan.

But Merlin is a very different character, and it is probable that the story of his love for Vivien was composed at a comparatively late date for the purpose of rounding off his fate in Arthurian legend. A recent hypothesis concerning him is to the effect that “if he belongs to the pagan period [of Celtic lore] at all, he was probably an ideal magician or god of magicians.”[27] Canon MacCulloch smiles at the late Sir John Rhys’s belief that Merlin was “a Celtic Zeus,” but his later suggestion seems equally debatable. We must remember that we draw our conception of Merlin as Arthurian archimagus chiefly from late Norman-French sources and Celtic tradition. Ancient Brythonic traditions concerning beings of much the same type as Merlin appear to have existed, however, and the character of Lailoken in the life of St Kentigern recalls his life-story. So far research on the subject seems to show that the legend of Merlin is a thing of complex growth, composed of traditions of independent and widely differing origin, most of which were told about Celtic bards and soothsayers. Merlin is, in fact, the typical Druid or wise man of Celtic tradition, and there is not the slightest reason for believing that he was ever paid divine honours. As a soothsayer of legend, he would assuredly belong to the pagan period, however much he is indebted to Geoffrey of Monmouth for his late popularity in pure romance.

In the country of Broceliande lies the magic fountain of 71 Baranton, sequestered among hills and surrounded by deep woods. Says a thirteenth-century writer of this fountain:

“Oh, amazing wonder of the Fountain of Brecelien! If a drop be taken and poured on a certain rock beside the spring, immediately the water changes into vapour, forms itself into great clouds filled with hail; the air becomes thick with shadows, and resonant with the muttering of thunder. Those who have come through curiosity to behold the prodigy wish that they had never done so, so filled are their hearts with terror, and so does fear paralyse their limbs. Incredible as the marvel may seem, yet the proofs of its reality are too abundant to be doubted.”

Huon de Méry was more fortunate than Wace. He sprinkled the magic stone which lay behind the fountain with water from the golden basin that hung from the oak that shaded it, and beheld many marvels. And so may he who has the seeing eye to-day.

The old fragmentary romance of Bruno of La Montagne is eloquent of the faëry spirit which informs all Breton lore. Butor, Baron of La Montagne, had married a young lady when he was himself of mature years, and had a son, whom he resolved to take to a fountain where the fairies came to repose themselves. The Baron, describing this magic well to the child’s mother, says (we roughly translate):

The Seigneur gave his infant son into the keeping of Bruyant, a trusty friend of his, and they set out for the fairy fountain with a troop of vassals. They left the infant in the forest of Broceliande. Here the fairies soon found him.

“Ha, sisters,” said one whose skin was as white as the robe of gossamer she wore, and whose golden crown betokened her the queen of the others, “come hither and see a new-born infant. How, I wonder, does he come to be here? I am sure I did not behold him in this spot yesterday. Well, at all events, he must be baptized and suitably endowed, as is our custom when we discover a mortal child. Now what will you give him?”

“I will give him,” said one, “beauty and grace.”

“I endow him,” said a second, “with generosity.”

“And I,” said a third, “with such valour that he will 73 overthrow all his enemies at tourney and on the battlefield.”

The Queen listened to these promises. “Surely you have little sense,” she said. “For my part, I wish that in his youth he may love one who will be utterly insensible to him, and although he will be as you desire, noble, generous, beautiful, and valorous, he will yet, for his good, suffer keenly from the anguish of love.”

“O Queen,” said one of the fairies, “what a cruel fate you have ordained for this unfortunate child! But I myself shall watch over him and nurse him until he comes to such an age as he may love, when I myself will try to engage his affections.”

“For all that,” said the Queen, “I will not alter my design. You shall not nurse this infant.”

The fairies then disappeared. Shortly afterward Bruyant returned, and carried the child back to the castle of La Montagne, where presently a fairy presented herself as nurse.

Unfortunately the manuscript from which this tale is taken breaks off at this point, and we do not know how the Fairy Queen succeeded with her plans for the amorous education of the little Bruno. But the fragment, although tantalizing in the extreme, gives us some insight into the nature of the fairies who inhabit the green fastnesses of Broceliande.

Nearly all fairy-folk have in time grown to mortal height. Whether fairies be the decayed poor relations of more successful deities, gods whose cult has been forgotten and neglected (as the Irish Sidhe, or fairy-folk), or diminutive animistic spirits, originating in the belief 74 that every object, small or great, possessed a personality, it is noticeable that Celtic fairies are of human height, while those of the Teutonic peoples are usually dwarfish. Titania may come originally from the loins of Titans or she may be Diana come down in the world, and Oberon may hail from a very different and more dwarfish source, but in Shakespeare’s England they have grown sufficiently to permit them to tread the boards of the Globe Theatre with normal humans. Scores of fairies mate with mortal men, and men, as a rule, do not care for dwarf-wives. Among Celts, at least, the fay, whatever her original stature, in later times had certainly achieved the height of mortal womanhood.

In Upper Brittany, where French is the language in general use, the usual French ideas concerning fairies prevail. They are called fées or fetes (Latin fata), and sometimes fions, which reminds us of the fions of Scottish and Irish folk-lore.[28] There are old people still alive who claim to have seen the fairies, and who describe them variously, but the general belief seems to be that they disappeared from the land several generations ago. One old man described them as having teeth as long as one’s hand, and as wearing garments of sea-weed or leaves. They were human in aspect, said another ancient whom Sébillot questioned; their clothes were seamless, and it was impossible to say by merely looking at them whether they were male or female. Their garments were of the most brilliant colours imaginable, but if one approached them too closely these gaudy hues disappeared. They wore a kind of bonnet shaped like a crown, which appeared to be part of their person.

The people of the coast say that the fairies are an accursed race who are condemned to walk the earth for a certain space. Some even think them rebellious angels who have been sent to earth for a time to expiate their offences against heaven. For the most part they inhabit the dolmens and the grottos and caverns on the coast.[29]

On the shores of the Channel are numerous grottos or caverns which the Bretons call houles, and these are supposed to harbour a distinct class of fairy. Some of these caverns are from twenty to thirty feet high, and so extensive that it is unwise to explore them too far. Others seem only large enough to hold a single person, but if one enters he will find himself in a spacious natural chamber. The inhabitants of these depths, like all their kind, prefer to sally forth by night rather than by day. In the day-time they are not seen because they smear themselves with a magic ointment which renders them invisible; but at night they are visible to everybody.

There was once upon a time a labourer of Saint-Cast named Marc Bourdais, but, according to the usage of the country, he had a nickname and was called Maraud. One day he was returning home when he heard the sound of a horn beneath his feet, and asked a companion who chanced to be with him if he had heard it also.

“Of course I did,” replied the fellow; “it is a fairy horn.”

“Umph,” said Maraud. “Ask the fairies, then, to bring us a slice of bread.”

His companion knelt down and shouted out the request, but nothing happened and they resumed their way.

They had not gone far, however, when they beheld a slice of beautiful white bread lying on a snowy napkin by the roadside. Maraud picked it up and found that it was well buttered and as toothsome as a cake, and when they had divided and eaten it they felt their hunger completely satisfied. But he who has fed well is often thirsty, so Maraud, lowering his head, and speaking to the little folk beneath, cried: “Hullo, there! Bring us something to drink, if you please.”

He had hardly spoken when they beheld a pot of cider and a glass reposing on the ground in front of them. Maraud filled the glass, and, raising it to his lips, quaffed of the fairy cider. It was clear and of a rich colour, and he declared that it was by far the best that he had ever tasted. His friend drank likewise, and when they returned to the village that night they had a good story to tell of how they had eaten and drunk at the expense of the fairies. But their friends and neighbours shook their heads and regarded them sadly.

“Alas! poor fellows,” they said, “if you have eaten fairy food and drunk fairy liquor you are as good as dead men.”

Nothing happened to them within the next few days, however, and it was with light hearts that one morning they returned to work in the neighbourhood of the spot where they had met with such a strange adventure. When they arrived at the place they smelt the odour of cakes which had been baked with black corn, and a fierce hunger at once took possession of them.

“Ha!” said Maraud, “the fairies are baking to-day. Suppose we ask them for a cake or two.” “No, no!” replied his friend. “Ask them if you wish, but I will have none of them.”

“Pah!” cried Maraud, “what are you afraid of?” And he cried: “Below there! Bring me a cake, will you?”

Two fine cakes at once appeared. Maraud seized upon one, but when he had cut it he perceived that it was made of hairs, and he threw it down in disgust.

“You wicked old sorcerer!” he cried. “Do you mean to mock me?”

But as he spoke the cakes disappeared.

Now there lived in the village a widow with seven children, and a hard task she had to find bread for them all. She heard tell of Maraud’s adventure with the fairies, and pondered on the chance of receiving a like hospitality from them, that the seven little mouths she had to provide for might be filled. So she made up her mind to go to a fairy grotto she knew of and ask for bread. “Surely,” she thought, “what the good people give to others who do not require it they will give to me, whose need is so great.” When she had come to the entrance of the grotto she knocked on the side of it as one knocks on a door, and there at once appeared a little old dame with a great bunch of keys hanging at her side. She appeared to be covered with limpets, and mould and moss clung to her as to a rock. To the widow she seemed at least a thousand years old.

“What do you desire, my good woman?” she asked.

“Alas! madame,” said the widow, “might I have a little bread for my seven children? Give me some, I beseech you, and I will remember you in my prayers.”

“I am not the mistress here,” replied the old woman. “I am only the porteress, and it is at least a hundred years since I have been out. But return to-morrow and I will promise to speak for you.”

Next day at the same time the widow returned to the cave, and found the old porteress waiting for her.

“I have spoken for you,” said she, “and here is a loaf of bread for you, and those who send it wish to speak to you.”

“Bring me to them,” said the widow, “that I may thank them.”

“Not to-day,” replied the porteress. “Return to-morrow at the same hour and I will do so.”

The widow returned to the village and told her neighbours of her success. Every one came to see the fairy loaf, and many begged a piece.

Next day the poor woman returned to the grotto in the hope that she would once more benefit from the little folks’ bounty. The porteress was there as usual.

“Well, my good woman,” said she, “did you find my bread to your taste? Here is the lady who has befriended you,” and she indicated a beautiful lady, who came smilingly from the darkness of the cavern.

“Ah, madame,” said the widow, “I thank you with all my heart for your charity.”

“The loaf will last a long time,” said the fairy, “and you will find that you and your family will not readily finish it.”

“Alas!” said the widow, “last night all my neighbours insisted on having a piece, so that it is now entirely eaten.”

“Well,” replied the fay, “I will give you another loaf. So long as you or your children partake of it it will not grow smaller and will always remain fresh, but if you should give the least morsel to a stranger the loaf will disappear. But as I have helped you, so must you help me. I have four cows, and I wish to send them out to 79 pasture. Promise me that one of your daughters will guard them for me.”

The widow promised, and next morning sent one of her daughters out to look for the cows, which were to be pastured in a field where there was but little herbage. A neighbour saw her there, and asked what she was doing in that deserted place.

“Oh, I am watching the fairy cows,” replied she. The woman looked at her and smiled, for there were no cows there and she thought the girl had become half-witted.

With the evening the fairy of the grotto came herself to fetch the cows, and she said to the little cowherd:

“How would you like to be godmother to my child?”

“It would be a pleasure, madame,” replied the girl.

“Well, say nothing to any one, not even to your mother,” replied the fairy, “for if you do I shall never bring you anything more to eat.”

A few days afterward a fairy came to tell the girl to prepare to come to the cavern on the morrow, as on that day the infant was to be named. Next day, according to the fairy’s instructions, she presented herself at the mouth of the grotto, and in due course was made godmother to the little fairy. For two days she remained there, and when she left her godchild was already grown up. She had, as a matter of fact, unconsciously remained with the ‘good people’ for ten years, and her mother had long mourned her as dead. Meanwhile the fairies had requested the poor widow to send another of her daughters to watch their cows.

When at last the absent one returned to the village she went straight home, and her mother on beholding her gave a great cry. The girl could not understand her 80 agitation, believing as she did that she had been absent for two days only.

“Two days!” echoed the mother. “You have been away ten years! Look how you have grown!”

After she had overcome her surprise the girl resumed her household duties as if nothing particular had happened, and knitted a pair of stockings for her godchild. When they were finished she carried them to the fairy grotto, where, as she thought, she spent the afternoon. But in reality she had been away from home this time for five years. As she was leaving, her godchild gave her a purse, saying: “This purse is full of gold. Whenever you take a piece out another one will come in its place, but if any one else uses it it will lose all its virtue.”

When the girl returned to the village at last it was to find her mother dead, her brothers gone abroad, and her sisters married, so that she was the only one left at home. As she was pretty and a good housewife she did not want for lovers, and in due time she chose one for a husband. She did not tell her spouse about the purse she had had from the fairies, and if she wanted to give him a piece of gold she withdrew it from the magic purse in secret. She never went back to the fairy cavern, as she had no mind to return from it and find her husband an old man.

A fisherman of Saint-Jacut-de-la-Mer, walking home to his cottage from his boat one evening along the wet sands, came, unawares, upon a number of fairies in a houle. They were talking and laughing gaily, and the fisherman observed that while they made merry they 81 rubbed their bodies with a kind of ointment or pomade. All at once, to the old salt’s surprise, they turned into ordinary women. Concealing himself behind a rock, the fisherman watched them until the now completely transformed immortals quitted their haunt and waddled away in the guise of old market-women.

The fisherman waited until they were well out of sight, and then entered the cavern, where the first object that met his gaze was the pot of ointment which had effected the marvellous change he had witnessed. Taking some of the pomade on his forefinger, he smeared it around his left eye. He afterward found that he could penetrate the various disguises assumed by the fairies wherever he met them, and that these were for the most part adopted for the purposes of trickery. Thus he was able to see a fairy in the assumed shape of a beggar-woman going from door to door demanding alms, seeking an opportunity to steal or work mischief, and all the while casting spells upon those who were charitable enough to assist her. Again, he could distinguish real fish caught in his net at sea from merwomen disguised as fish, who were desirous of entangling the nets or otherwise distressing and annoying the fishermen.

But nowhere was the disguised fairy race so much in evidence as at the fair of Ploubalay, where he recognized several of the elusive folk in the semblance of raree-showmen, fortune-tellers, and the like, who had taken these shapes in order to deceive. He was quietly smiling at their pranks, when some of the fairies who composed a troupe of performers in front of one of the booths regarded him very earnestly. He felt certain that they had penetrated his secret, but ere he could make off one of them threw a stick at him with such 82 violence that it struck and burst the offending left eye.

Fairies in all lands have a constitutional distaste for being recognized, but those of Brittany appear to visit their vengeance upon the members with which they are actually beheld. “See what thieves the fairies are!” cried a woman, on beholding one abstract apples from a countrywoman’s pocket. The predatory elf at once turned round and tore out the eye that had marked his act.

A Cornish woman who chanced to find herself the guardian of an elf-child was given certain water with which to wash its face. The liquid had the property of illuminating the infant’s face with a supernatural brightness, and the woman ventured to try it upon herself, and in doing so splashed a little into one eye. This gave her the fairy sight. One day in the market-place she saw a fairy man stealing, and gave the alarm, when the enraged sprite cried:

She was immediately stricken blind in the right eye, her fairy foster-child vanished, and she and her husband sank into poverty and want.

Another Breton tale recounts how a mortal woman was given a polished stone in the form of an egg wherewith to rub a fairy child’s eyes. She applied it to her own right eye, and became possessed of magic sight so far as elves were concerned. Still another case, alluded to in the Revue Celtique,[30] arose through ‘the sacred bond’ formed between a fairy man and a mortal woman where both stood as godparents to a child. The association 83 enabled the woman to see magically. The fairy maiden Rockflower bestows a similar gift on her lover in a Breton tale from Saint-Cast, and speaks of “clearing his eyes like her own.”[31]

The Breton fairies, like others of their race, are fond of kidnapping mortal children and leaving in their places wizened elves who cause the greatest trouble to the distressed parents. The usual method of ridding a family of such a changeling is to surprise it in some manner so that it will betray its true character. Thus, on suspicion resting upon a certain Breton infant who showed every sign of changeling nature, milk was boiled on the fire in egg-shells, whereupon the impish youngster cried: “I shall soon be a hundred years old, but I never saw so many shells boiling! I was born in Pif and Paf, in the country where cats are made, but I never saw anything like it!” Thus self-revealed, the elf was expelled from the house. In most Northern tales where the changeling betrays itself it at once takes flight and a train of elves appears, bringing back the true infant. Again, if the wizened occupant of the cradle can be made to laugh that is accepted as proof of its fairy nature. “Something ridiculous,” says Simrock, “must be done to cause him to laugh, for laughter brings deliverance.”[32] The same stratagem appears to be used as the cure in English and Scots changeling tales.

The Breton fays were prone, too, to take the shape of 84 animals, birds, and even of fish. As we have seen, the sea-fairies of Saint-Jacut-de-la-Mer were in the habit of taking the shape of fish for the purpose of annoying fishermen and damaging their gear. Another Breton tale from Saint-Cast illustrates their penchant for the fish shape. A fisherman of that town one day was lucky enough to catch the King of the Fishes disguised as a small golden fish. The fish begged hard to be released, and promised, if he were set free, to sacrifice as many of his subjects as would daily fill the fisherman’s nets. On this understanding the finny monarch was given his liberty, and fulfilled his promise to the letter. Moreover, when the fisherman’s boat was capsized in a gale the Fish King appeared, and, holding a flask to the drowning man’s lips, made him drink a magic fluid which ensured his ability to exist under water. He conveyed the fisherman to his capital, a place of dazzling splendour, paved with gold and gems. The rude caster of nets instantly filled his pockets with the spoil of this marvellous causeway. Though probably rather disturbed by the incident, the Fish King, with true royal politeness, informed him that whenever he desired to return the way was open to him. The fisherman expressed his sorrow at having to leave such a delightful environment, but added that unless he returned to earth his wife and family would regard him as lost. The Fish King called a large tunny-fish, and as Arion mounted the dolphin in the old Argolian tale, so the fisherman approached the tunny, which

The fisherman at once

Before dismissing the fisherman, however, the Fish King presented him with an inexhaustible purse—probably as a hint that it would be unnecessary for him on a future visit to disturb his paving arrangements.

Two questions which early obtrude themselves in the consideration of Breton fairy-lore are: Are all the fays of Brittany malevolent? And, if so, whence proceeds this belief that fairy-folk are necessarily malign? Example treads upon example to prove that the Breton fairy is seldom beneficent, that he or she is prone to ill-nature and spitefulness, not to say fiendish malice on occasion. There appears to be a deep-rooted conviction that the elfish race devotes itself to the annoyance of mankind, practising a species of peculiarly irritating trickery, wanton and destructive. Only very rarely is a spirit of friendliness evinced, and then a motive is usually obvious. The ‘friendly’ fairy invariably has an axe to grind.

Two reasons may be advanced to account for this condition of things. First, the fairy-folk—in which are included house and field spirits—may be the traditional remnant of a race of real people, perhaps a prehistoric race, driven into the remote parts of the country by strange immigrant conquerors. Perhaps these primitive folk were elfish, dwarfish, or otherwise peculiar in 86 appearance to the superior new-comers, who would in pride of race scorn the small, swarthy aborigines, and refuse all communion with them. We may be sure that the aborigines, on their part, would feel for their tall, handsome conquerors all the hatred of which a subject race is capable, never approaching them unless under compulsion or necessity, and revenging themselves upon them by every means of annoyance in their power. We may feel certain, too, that the magic of these conquered and discredited folk would be made full use of to plague the usurpers of the soil, and trickery, as irritating as any elf-pranks, would be brought to increase the discomfort of the new-comers.

There are, however, several good objections to this view of the origin of the fairy idea. First and foremost, the smaller prehistoric aboriginal peoples of Europe themselves possessed tales of little people, of spirits of field and forest, flood and fell. It is unlikely that man was ever without these.

The idea of animism, the belief that everything had a personality of its own, certainly belonged to the later prehistoric period, for among the articles which fill the graves of aboriginal peoples, for use on the last journey, we find weapons to enable the deceased to drive off the evil spirits which would surround his own after death. Spirits, to early man, are always relatively smaller than himself. He beholds the “picture 87 of a little man” in his comrade’s eyes, and concludes it to be his ‘soul.’ Some primitive peoples, indeed, believe that several parts of the body have each their own resident soul. Again, the spirit of the corn or the spirit of the flower, the savage would argue, must in the nature of things be small. We can thus see how the belief in ‘the little folk’ may have arisen, and how they remained little until a later day.

A much more scientific theory of the origin of the belief in fairies is that which sees in them the deities of a discredited religion, the gods of an aboriginal people, rather than the people themselves. Such were the Irish Daoine Sidhe, and the Welsh y Mamau (‘the Mothers’)—undoubtedly gods of the Celts. Again, although in many countries, especially in England, the fairies are regarded as small of stature, in Celtic countries the fay proper, as distinct from the brownie and such goblins, is of average mortal height, and this would seem to be the case in Brittany. Whether the gorics and courils of Brittany, who seem sufficiently small, are fairies or otherwise is a moot point. They seem to be more of the field spirit type, and are perhaps classed more correctly with the gnome race; we thus deal with them in our chapter on sprites and demons. It would seem, too, as if there might be ground for the belief that the normal-sized fairy race of Celtic countries had become confounded with the Teutonic idea of elves (Teut. Elfen) in Germany and England, from which, perhaps, they borrowed their diminutive size.

But these are only considerations, not conclusions. Strange as it may seem, folk-lore has by no means solved the fairy problem, and much remains to be accomplished ere we can write ‘Finis’ to the study of fairy origins.

Another Breton name for the fairies is les Margots la fée, a title which is chiefly employed in several districts of the Côtes-du-Nord, principally in the arrondissements of Saint-Brieuc and Loudéac, to describe those fairies who have their abode in large rocks and on the wild and extensive moorlands which are so typical of the country. These, unlike the fées houles, are able to render themselves invisible at pleasure. Like human beings, they are subject to maladies, and are occasionally glad to accept mortal succour. They return kindness for kindness, but are vindictive enemies to those who attempt to harm them.

But fairy vindictiveness is not lavished upon those unwitting mortals who do them harm alone. If one chances to succeed in a task set by the immortals of the forest, one is in danger of death, as the following story shows.

A poor little fellow was one day gathering faggots in the forest when a gay, handsomely dressed gentleman passed him, and, noticing the lad’s ragged and forlorn condition, said to him: “What are you doing there, my boy?”

“I am looking for wood, sir,” replied the boy. “If I did not do so we should have no fire at home.”

“You are very poor at home, then?” asked the gentleman.

“So poor,” said the lad, “that sometimes we only eat once a day, and often go supperless to bed.”

“That is a sad tale,” said the gentleman. “If you 89 will promise to meet me here within a month I will give you some money, which will help your parents and feed and clothe your small brothers and sisters.”

Prompt to the day and the hour, the boy kept the tryst in the forest glade, at the very spot where he had met the gentleman. But though he looked anxiously on every side he could see no signs of his friend. In his anxiety he pushed farther into the forest, and came to the borders of a pond, where three damsels were preparing to bathe. One was dressed in white, another in grey, and the third in blue. The boy pulled off his cap, gave them good-day, and asked politely if they had not seen a gentleman in the neighbourhood. The maiden who was dressed in white told him where the gentleman was to be found, and pointed out a road by which he might arrive at his castle.

“He will ask you,” said she, “to become his servant, and if you accept he will wish you to eat. The first time that he presents the food to you, say: ‘It is I who should serve you.’ If he asks you a second time make the same reply; but if he should press you a third time refuse brusquely and thrust away the plate which he offers you.”

The boy was not long in finding the castle, and was at once shown into the gentleman’s presence. As the maiden dressed in white had foretold, he requested the youth to enter his service, and when his offer was accepted placed before him a plate of viands. The lad bowed politely, but refused the food. A second time it was offered, but he persisted in his refusal, and when it was proffered to him a third time he thrust it away from him so roughly that it fell to the ground and the plate was broken.

“Ah,” said the gentleman, “you are just the kind of servant I require. You are now my lackey, and if you are able to do three things that I command you I will give you one of my daughters for your wife and you shall be my son-in-law.”

The next day he gave the boy a hatchet of lead, a saw of paper, and a wheelbarrow made of oak-leaves, bidding him fell, bind up, and measure all the wood in the forest within a radius of seven leagues. The new servant at once commenced his task, but the hatchet of lead broke at the first blow, the saw of paper buckled at the first stroke, and the wheelbarrow of oak-leaves was broken by the weight of the first little branch he placed on it. The lad in despair sat down, and could do nothing but gaze at the useless implements. At midday the damsel dressed in white whom he had seen at the pond came to bring him something to eat.

“Alas!” she cried, “why do you sit thus idle? If my father should come and find that you have done nothing he would kill you.”

“I can do nothing with such wretched tools,” grumbled the lad.

“Do you see this wand?” said the damsel, producing a little rod. “Take it in your hand and walk round the forest, and the work will take care of itself. At the same time say these words: ‘Let the wood fall, tie itself into bundles, and be measured.’”

The boy did as the damsel advised him, and matters proceeded so satisfactorily that by a little after midday the work was completed. In the evening the gentleman said to him:

“Have you accomplished your task?”

“Yes, sir. Do you wish to see it? The wood is cut and tied into bundles of the proper weight and measurement.”

“It is well,” said the gentleman. “To-morrow I will set you the second task.”

On the following morning he took the lad to a knoll some distance from the castle, and said to him:

“You see this rising ground? By this evening you must have made it a garden well planted with fruit-trees and having a fish-pond in the middle, where ducks and other water-fowl may swim. Here are your tools.”

The tools were a pick of glass and a spade of earthenware. The boy commenced the work, but at the first stroke his fragile pick and spade broke into a thousand fragments. For the second time he sat down helplessly. Time passed slowly, and as before at midday the damsel in white brought him his dinner.

“So I find you once more with your arms folded,” she said.

“I cannot work with a pick of glass and an earthenware spade,” complained the youth.

“Here is another wand,” said the damsel. “Take it and walk round this knoll, saying: ‘Let the place be planted and become a beautiful garden with fruit-trees, in the middle of which is a fish-pond with ducks swimming upon it.’”

The boy took the wand, did as he was bid, and the work was speedily accomplished. A beautiful garden arose as if by enchantment, well furnished with fruit-trees of all descriptions and ornamented with a small sheet of water.

Once more his master was quite satisfied with the result, 92 and on the third morning set him his third task. He took him beneath one of the towers of the castle.

“Behold this tower,” he said. “It is of polished marble. You must climb it, and at the top you will find a turtle-dove, which you must bring to me.”

The gentleman, who was of opinion that the damsel in white had helped his servant in the first two tasks, sent her to the town to buy provisions. When she received this order the maiden retired to her chamber and burst into tears. Her sisters asked her what was the matter, and she told them that she wished to remain at the castle, so they promised to go to the town in her stead. At midday she found the lad sitting at the foot of the tower bewailing the fact that he could not climb its smooth and glassy sides.

“I have come to help you once more,” said the damsel. “You must get a cauldron, then cut me into morsels and throw in all my bones, without missing a single one. It is the only way to succeed.”

“Never!” exclaimed the youth. “I would sooner die than harm such a beautiful lady as you.”

“Yet you must do as I say,” she replied.

For a long time the youth refused, but at last he gave way to the maiden’s entreaties, cut her into little pieces, and placed the bones in a large cauldron, forgetting, however, the little toe of her left foot. Then he rose as if by magic to the top of the tower, found the turtle-dove, and came down again.[36] Having completed his task, he took a wand which lay beside the cauldron, and when he touched the bones they came together again and the 93 damsel stepped out of the great pot none the worse for her experience.

When the young fellow carried the dove to his master the gentleman said:

“It is well. I shall carry out my promise and give you one of my daughters for your wife, but all three shall be veiled and you must pick the one you desire without seeing her face.”

The three damsels were then brought into his presence, but the lad easily recognized the one who had assisted him, because she lacked the small toe of the left foot. So he chose her without hesitation, and they were married.

But the gentleman was not content with the marriage. On the day of the bridal he placed the bed of the young folks over a vault, and hung it from the roof by four cords. When they had gone to bed he came to the door of the chamber and said:

“Son-in-law, are you asleep?”

“No, not yet,” replied the youth.

Some time afterward he repeated his question, and met with a similar answer.

“The next time he comes,” said the bride, “pretend that you are sleeping.”

Shortly after that his father-in-law asked once more if he were asleep, and receiving no answer retired, evidently well satisfied.

When he had gone the bride made her husband rise at once. “Go instantly to the stables,” said she, “and take there the horse which is called Little Wind, mount him, and fly.”

The young fellow hastened to comply with her request, and he had scarcely left the chamber when the master 94 of the castle returned and asked if his daughter were asleep. She answered “No,” and, bidding her arise and come with him, he cut the cords, so that the bed fell into the vault beneath. The bride now heard the trampling of hoofs in the garden outside, and rushed out to find her husband in the act of mounting.

“Stay!” she cried. “You have taken Great Wind instead of Little Wind, as I advised you, but there is no help for it,” and she mounted behind him. Great Wind did not belie his name, and dashed into the night like a tempest.

“Do you see anything?” asked the girl.

“No, nothing,” said her husband.

“Look again,” she said. “Do you see anything now?”

“Yes,” he replied, “I see a great flame of fire.”

The bride took her wand, struck it three times, and said: “I change thee, Great Wind, into a garden, myself into a pear-tree, and my husband into a gardener.”

The transformation had hardly been effected when the master of the castle and his wife came up with them.

“Ha, my good man,” cried he to the seeming gardener, “has any one on horseback passed this way?”

“Three pears for a sou,” said the gardener.

“That is not an answer to my question,” fumed the old wizard, for such he was. “I asked if you had seen any one on horseback in this direction.”

“Four for a sou, then, if you will,” said the gardener.

“Idiot!” foamed the enchanter, and dashed on in pursuit. The young wife then changed herself, her horse, and her husband into their natural forms, and, mounting once more, they rode onward.

“Do you see anything now?” asked she.

“Yes, I see a great flame of fire,” he replied.

Once more she took her wand. “I change this steed into a church,” she said, “myself into an altar, and my husband into a priest.”

Very soon the wizard and his wife came to the doors of the church and asked the priest if a youth and a lady had passed that way on horseback.

“Dominus vobiscum,” said the priest, and nothing more could the wizard get from him.

Pursued once more, the young wife changed the horse into a river, herself into a boat, and her husband into a boatman. When the wizard came up with them he asked to be ferried across the river. The boatman at once made room for them, but in the middle of the stream the boat capsized and the enchanter and his wife were drowned.

The young lady and her husband returned to the castle, seized the treasure of its fairy lord, and, says tradition, lived happily ever afterward, as all young spouses do in fairy-tale.

The idea of the evil spirit, malicious and revengeful, is common to all primitive peoples, and Brittany has its full share of demonology. Wherever, in fact, a primitive and illiterate peasantry is found the demon is its inevitable accompaniment. But we shall not find these Breton devils so very different from the fiends of other lands.

The nain is a figure fearsomely Celtic in its hideousness, resembling the gargoyles which peer down upon the traveller from the carven ‘top-hamper’ of so many Breton churches. Black and menacing of countenance, these demon-folk are armed with feline claws, and their feet end in hoofs like those of a satyr. Their dark elf-locks, small, gleaming eyes, red as carbuncles, and harsh, cracked voices are all dilated upon with fear by those who have met them upon lonely heaths or unfrequented roads. They haunt the ancient dolmens built by a vanished race, and at night, by the pale starlight, they dance around these ruined tombs to the music of a primitive refrain:

Saturday and Sunday they dare not mention as being days sacred from fairy influence. We all remember that in the old tale of Tom Thumb the elves among whom the hero fell sang such a refrain. But wherefore? It would indeed be difficult to say. Deities, credited and 97 discredited, have often a connexion with the calendar, and we may have here some calendric reference, or again the chant may be merely a nonsense rhyme. Bad luck attached itself to the human who chanced to behold the midnight revels of the nains, and if he entered the charmed circle and danced along with them his death was certain to ensue before the year was out. Wednesday was the nains’ high-day, or rather night, and their great nuit festale was the first Wednesday in May. That they should have possessed a fixed festival at such a period, full of religious significance for most primitive peoples, would seem to show that they must at one time have been held in considerable esteem.

But although the nains while away their time in such simple fashion as dancing to the repetition of the names of the days of the week, they have a less innocent side to their characters, for they are forgers of false money, which they fabricate in the recesses of caverns. We all recall stories of fairy gold and its perishable nature. A simple youth sells something on market day to a fairy, and later on turning over in his pocket the money he has received he finds that it has been transformed into beans. The housewife receives gold from a fairy for services rendered, and carefully places it in a drawer. A day when she requires it arrives, but, alas! when she opens the cabinet to take it out she finds nothing but a small heap of withered leaves. It is such money that the nains manufacture in their subterranean mints—coin which bears the fairy impress of glamourie for a space, but on later examination proves to be merely dross.

The nains are also regarded as the originators of a cabalistic alphabet, the letters of which are engraved 98 on several of the megalithic monuments of Morbihan, and especially those of Gavr’inis. He who is able to decipher this magic script, says tradition, will be able to tell where hidden treasure is to be found in any part of the country. Lest any needy folk be of a mind to fare to Brittany to try their luck in this respect it is only right to warn them that in all probability they will find the treasure formula in ogham characters or serpentine markings, and that as the first has long ago been deciphered and the second is pure symbolism they will waste their time and money in any event.

Sorcery hangs about the nain like a garment. Here he is a prophet and a diviner as well as an enchanter, and as much of his magic power is employed for ill, small wonder that the Breton peasant shudders and frowns when the name of the fearsome tribe is spoken and gives the dolmens they are supposed to haunt the widest of wide berths au clair de la lune.

Brittany has a species of dwarfs or gnomes peculiar to itself which in various parts of the country are known as crions, courils, or gorics. It will at once be seen how greatly the last word resembles Korrigan, and as all of them perhaps proceed from a root meaning ‘spirit’ the nominal resemblance is not surprising. Like the nains, these smaller beings inhabit abandoned Druidical monuments or dwell beneath the foundations of ancient castles. Carnac is sometimes alluded to in Breton as ‘Ty C’harriquet,’ ‘the House of the Gorics,’ the country-folk in this district holding the belief that its megalithic monuments were reared by these manikins, whom they describe as between two and three feet high, but 99 exceedingly strong, just as the Scottish peasantry speak of the Picts of folk-lore—‘wee fouk but unco’ strang.’ Every night the gorics dance in circles round the stones of Carnac, and should a mortal interrupt their frolic he is forced to join in the dance, until, breathless and exhausted, he falls prone to the earth amid peals of mocking laughter. Like the nains, the gorics are the guardians of hidden treasure, for the tale goes that beneath one of the menhirs of Carnac lies a golden hoard, and that all the other stones have been set up the better to conceal it, and so mystify those who would discover its resting-place. A calculation, the key to which is to be found in the Tower of London, will alone indicate the spot where the treasure lies. And here it may be of interest to state that the ancient national fortalice of England occurs frequently in Breton and in Celtic romance.[37] Some of the immigrant Britons into Armorica probably came from the settlement which was later to grow into London, and may have carried tales of its ancient British fortress into their new home.

The courils are peculiar to the ruins of Tresmalouen. Like the gorics, they are fond of dancing, and they are quite as malignantly inclined toward the unhappy stranger who may stumble into their ring. The castle of Morlaix, too, is haunted by gorics not more than a foot high, who dwell beneath it in holes in the ground. They possess treasures as great as those of the gnomes of Norway or Germany, and these they will sometimes bestow on lucky mortals, who are permitted, however, to take but one handful. If a person should attempt to seize more the whole of the money vanishes, and the offender’s ears are soundly boxed by invisible hands.

The night-washers (eur tunnerez noz) are evil spirits who appear at night on the banks of streams and call on the passers-by to assist them to wash the linen of the dead. If they are refused, they seize upon the person who denies them, drag him into the water, and break his arms. These beings are obviously the same as the Bean Nighe, ‘the Washing Woman’ of the Scottish Highlands, who is seen in lonely places beside a pool or stream, washing the linen of those who will shortly die. In Skye she is said to be short of stature. If any one catches her she tells all that will befall him in after life. In Perthshire she is represented as “small and round and dressed in pretty green.”

In the district of Morlaix the peasants are terribly afraid of beings they call teursts. These are large, black, and fearsome, like the Highland ourisk, who haunted desert moors and glens. The teursta poulict appears in the likeness of some domestic animal. In the district of Vannes is encountered a colossal spirit called Teus or Bugelnoz, who appears clothed in white between midnight and two in the morning. His office is to rescue victims from the devil, and should he spread his mouth over them they are secure from the Father of Evil. The Dusii of Gaul are mentioned by St Augustine, who regarded them as incubi, and by Isidore of Seville, and in the name we may perhaps discover the origin of our expression ‘the deuce!’

The Nicole is a spirit of modern creation who torments the honest fishermen of the Bay of Saint-Brieuc and 101 Saint-Malo. Just as they are about to draw in their nets this mischievous spirit leaps around them, freeing the fish, or he will loosen a boat’s anchor so that it will drift on to a sand-bank. He may divide the cable which holds the anchor to the vessel and cause endless trouble. This spirit received its name from an officer who commanded a battalion of fishermen conscripts, and who from his intense severity and general reputation as a martinet obtained a bad reputation among the seafaring population.

The Mourioche is a malicious demon of bestial nature, able, it would seem, to transform himself into any animal shape he chooses. In general appearance he is like a year-old foal. He is especially dangerous to children, and Breton babies are often chided when noisy or mischievous with the words: “Be good, now, the Mourioche is coming!” Of one who appears to have received a shock, also, it is said: “He has seen the Mourioche.” Unlucky is the person who gets in his way; but doubly so the unfortunate who attempts to mount him in the belief that he is an ordinary steed, for after a fiery gallop he will be precipitated into an abyss and break his neck.

Perhaps there is no spirit of evil which is so much dreaded by the Breton peasantry as the Ankou, who travels the duchy in a cart, picking up souls. In the dead of night a creaking axle-tree can be heard passing down the silent lanes. It halts at a door; the summons has been given, a soul quits the doomed house, and the 102 wagon of the Ankou passes on. The Ankou herself—for the dread death-spirit of Brittany is probably female—is usually represented as a skeleton. M. Anatole le Braz has elaborated a study of the whole question in his book on the legend of death in Brittany,[38] and it is probable that the Ankou is a survival of the death-goddess of the prehistoric dolmen-builders of Brittany. MacCulloch[39] considers the Ankou to be a reminiscence of the Celtic god of death, who watches over all things beyond the grave and carries off the dead to his kingdom, but greatly influenced by medieval ideas of ‘Death the skeleton.’ In some Breton churches a little model or statuette of the Ankou is to be seen, and this is nothing more nor less than a cleverly fashioned skeleton. The peasant origin of the belief can be found in the substitution of a cart or wagon for the more ambitious coach and four of other lands.

Dark and gloomy are many of the Breton legends, of evil things, gloomy as the depths of the forests in which doubtless many of them were conceived. Most folk-tales are tinged with melancholy, and it is rarely in Breton story that we discover a vein of the joyous.

Among the peaks of the Montagnes d’Arrée lies a vast and dismal peat bog known as the Yeun, which has long been regarded by the Breton folk as the portal to the infernal regions. This Stygian locality has brought forth many legends. It is, indeed, a remarkable territory. In summer it seems a vast moor carpeted by glowing purple heather, which one can traverse up to a 103 certain point, but woe betide him who would advance farther, for, surrounded by what seems solid ground, lies a treacherous quagmire declared by the people of the neighbourhood to be unfathomable. This part of the bog, whose victims have been many, is known as the Youdic. As one leans over it its waters may sometimes be seen to simmer and boil, and the peasants of the country-side devoutly believe that when this occurs infernal forces are working beneath, madly revelling, and that it is only the near presence of St Michael, whose mount is hard by, which restrains them from doing active harm to those who may have to cross the Yeun.

Countless stories are afloat concerning this weird maelstrom of mud and bubbling water. At one time it was the custom to hurl animals suspected of being evil spirits into its black depths. Malevolent fiends, it was thought, were wont to materialize in the form of great black dogs, and unfortunate animals of this type, if they evinced such peculiarities as were likely to place them under suspicion, were taken forthwith to the Youdic by a member of the enlightened priesthood of the district, and were cast into its seething depths with all the ceremonies suitable to such an occasion.

A story typical of those told about the place is that of one Job Ann Drez, who seems to have acted as sexton and assisted the parish priest in his dealings with the supernatural. Along with the priest, Job repaired one evening after sunset to the gloomy waters of the Youdic, dragging behind him a large black dog of the species most likely to excite distrust in the priestly mind. The priest showed considerable anxiety lest the animal should break loose.

“If he should get away,” he said nervously, “both of us are lost.”

“I will wager he does not,” replied Job, tying the cord by which the brute was led securely to his wrist.

“Forward, then,” said the priest, and he walked boldly in front, until they came to the foot of the mountain on the summit of which lies the Youdic.

The priest turned warningly to Job. “You must be circumspect in this place,” he said very gravely. “Whatever you may hear, be sure not to turn your head. Your life in this world and your salvation in the next depend absolutely on this. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

A vast desolation surrounded them. So dark was the night that it seemed to envelop them like a velvet curtain. Beneath their feet they heard the hissing and moaning of the bog, awaiting its prey like a restless and voracious wild beast. Through the dense blackness they could see the iridescent waters writhing and gleaming below.

“Surely,” said Job half to himself, “this must be the gateway to hell!”

At that word the dog uttered a frightful howl—such a howl as froze Job’s blood in his veins. It tugged and strained at the cord which held it with the strength of a demon, striving to turn on Job and rend him.

“Hold on!” cried the priest in mortal terror, keeping at a safe distance, however. “Hold on, I entreat you, or else we are undone!”

Job held on to the demon-dog with all his strength. Indeed, it was necessary to exert every thew and sinew if the animal were to be prevented from tearing him to pieces. Its howls were sufficient to strike terror to the 105 stoutest heart. “Iou! Iou!” it yelled again and again.

But Job held on desperately, although the cord cut his hands and blood ran from the scarified palms. Inch by inch he dragged the brute toward the Youdic. The creature in a last desperate effort turned and was about to spring on him open-mouthed, when all at once the priest, darting forward, threw his cloak over its head. It uttered a shriek which sounded through the night like the cry of a lost soul.

“Quick!” cried the priest. “Lie flat on the earth and put your face on the ground!”

Scarcely had the two men done so than a frightful tumult ensued. First there was the sound of a body leaping into the morass, then such an uproar as could only proceed from the mouth of the infernal regions. Shrieks, cries, hissings, explosions followed in quick succession for upward of half an hour; then gradually they died away and a horrible stillness took their place. The two men rose trembling and unnerved, and slowly took their way through the darkness, groping and stumbling until they had left the awful vicinity of the Yeun behind them.

I have entitled this chapter ‘World-Tales’ to indicate that the stories it contains are in plot or motif if not in substance common to the whole world—that, in short, although they are found in Brittany, they are no more Breton than Italian, Russian, American, or Australian. But although the story which tells of the search for the golden-haired princess on the magic horse is the possession of no one particular race, the tales recounted here have the Breton colouring and the Breton spirit, and in perusing them we encounter numerous little allusions to Breton customs or manners and obtain not a few sidelights upon the Breton character, its shrewdness and its goodwill, while we may note as well the narrowness of view and meanness so characteristic of peoples who have been isolated for a long period from contact with other races.

The first two of these tales are striking ones built upon two world-motifs—those of the magic horse and the search for the golden-haired princess, who is, of course, the sun, two themes which have been amalgamated in not a few deathless stories.

One day the Marquis of Coat-Squiriou was returning from Morlaix, when he beheld lying on the road a little fellow of four or five years of age. He leapt from his horse, picked the child up, and asked him what he did there.

“I do not know,” replied the little boy.

“Who is your father?” asked the Marquis.

“I do not know,” said the child for the second time.

“And your mother?” asked the kindly nobleman.

“I do not know.”

“Where are you now, my child?”

“I do not know.”

“Then what is your name?”

“I do not know.”

The Marquis told his serving-man to place the child on the crupper of his horse, as he had taken a fancy to him and would adopt him. He called him N’Oun Doare, which signifies in Breton, ‘I do not know.’ He educated him, and when his schooling was finished took him to Morlaix, where they put up at the best inn in the town. The Marquis could not help admiring his adopted son, who had now grown into a tall, handsome youth, and so pleased was he with him that he desired to signify his approval by making him a little present, which he resolved should take the form of a sword. So they went out into the town and visited the armourers’ shops in search of a suitable weapon. They saw swords of all kinds, but N’Oun Doare would have none of them, until at last they passed the booth of a seller of scrap-metal, where hung a rusty old rapier which seemed fit for nothing.

“Ha!” cried N’Oun Doare, “that is the sword for me. Please buy it, I beg of you.”

“Why, don’t you see what a condition it is in?” said the Marquis. “It is not a fit weapon for a gentleman.”

“Nevertheless it is the only sword I wish for,” said N’Oun Doare.

“Well, well, you are a strange fellow,” said the Marquis, but he bought the sword nevertheless, and they returned to Coat-Squiriou. The next day N’Oun Doare examined 108 his sword and discovered that the blade had the words “I am invincible” engraved upon it.

Some time afterward the Marquis said to him: “It is time that you had a horse. Come with me to Morlaix and we will purchase one.” They accordingly set out for Morlaix. In the market-place they saw many fine animals, but with none of them was N’Oun Doare content. On returning to the inn, however, he espied what looked like a broken-down mare standing by the roadside, and to this sorry beast he immediately drew the attention of the Marquis.

“That is the horse for me!” he cried. “I beg of you, purchase it for me.”

“What!” cried the Marquis, “that broken-down beast? Why, only look at it, my son.” But N’Oun Doare persisted, and at last, despite his own better judgment, the Marquis bought the animal. The man who sold it was a cunning-looking fellow from Cornouaille, who, as he put the bridle into N’Oun Doare’s hand, whispered:

“You see the knots on the halter of this animal?”

“Yes,” replied N’Oun Doare; “what of them?”

“Only this, that each time you loosen one the mare will immediately carry you five hundred leagues from where you are.”

The Marquis and his ward returned once more to the château, N’Oun Doare riding his new purchase, when it entered into his head to untie one of the knots on the halter. He did so, and immediately descended in the middle of Paris—which we must take the story-teller’s word for it is five hundred leagues from Brittany!

Several months afterward the Marquis had occasion to go to Paris, and one of the first people he met there was N’Oun Doare, who told him of his adventure. 109 The Marquis was going to visit the King, and took his protégé along with him to the palace, where he was well received.

Some nights afterward the youth was walking with his old mare outside the walls of Paris, and noticed something which glittered very brightly at the foot of an ancient stone cross which stood where four roads met. He approached it and beheld a crown of gold, set with the most brilliant precious stones. He at once picked it up, when the old mare, turning its head, said to him: “Take care; you will repent this.”

Greatly surprised, N’Oun Doare thought that he had better replace the crown, but a longing to possess it overcame him, and although the mare warned him once more he finally resolved to take it, and, putting it under his mantle, rode away.

Now the King had confided to his care part of the royal stables, and when N’Oun Doare entered them their darkness was immediately lit up by the radiance of the crown which he carried. So well had the Breton lad attended to the horses under his charge that the other squires had become jealous, and, observing the strange light in N’Oun Doare’s part of the stable, they mentioned it to the King, who in turn spoke of it to the Marquis of Coat-Squiriou. The Marquis asked N’Oun Doare the meaning of the light, and the youth replied that it came from the ancient sword they had bought at Morlaix, which was an enchanted weapon and shone at intervals with strange brilliance. But one night his enemies resolved to examine into the matter more closely, and, looking through the keyhole of the stable, they saw that the wondrous light which had so puzzled them shone from a magnificent crown of gold. They ran at once to 110 tell the King, and next night N’Oun Doare’s stable was opened with a master-key and the crown removed to the King’s quarters. It was then seen that an inscription was engraved upon the diadem, but in such strange characters that no one could read it. The magicians of the capital were called into consultation, but none of them could decipher the writing. At last a little boy of seven years of age was found who said that it was the crown of the Princess Golden Bell. The King then called upon N’Oun Doare to approach, and said to him:

“You should not have hidden this thing from me, but as you are guilty of having done so I doom you to find the Princess Golden Bell, whom I desire shall become my wife. If you fail I shall put you to death.”

N’Oun Doare left the royal presence in a very perturbed state of mind. He went to seek his old mare with tears in his eyes.

“I know,” said the mare, “the cause of your sorrow. You should have left the golden crown alone, as I told you. But do not repine; go to the King and ask him for money for your journey.”

The lad received the money from the King, and set out on his journey. Arriving at the seashore, one of the first objects he beheld was a little fish cast up by the waves on the beach and almost at its last gasp.

“Throw that fish back into the water,” said the mare. N’Oun Doare did so, and the fish, lifting its head from the water, said:

“You have saved my life, N’Oun Doare. I am the King of the Fishes, and if ever you require my help call my name by the seashore and I will come.” With these words the Fish-King vanished beneath the water.

A little later they came upon a bird struggling vainly to escape from a net in which it was caught.

“Cut the net and set that poor bird free,” said the wise mare.

Upon N’Oun Doare doing so the bird paused before it flew away and said:

“I am the King of the Birds, N’Oun Doare. I will never forget the service you have rendered me, and if ever you are in trouble and need my aid you have only to call me and I shall fly swiftly to help you.”

As they went on their way N’Oun Doare’s wonderful mare crossed mountains, forests, vast seas, and streams with a swiftness and ease that was amazing. Soon they beheld the walls of the Château of the Golden Bell rising before them, and as they drew near they could hear a most confused and terrible noise coming from it, which shook N’Oun Doare’s courage and made him rather fearful of entering it. Near the door a being of the most curious aspect was hung to a tree by a chain, and this peculiar individual had as many horns on his body as there are days in the year.

“Cut that unfortunate man down,” said the mare. “Will you not give him his freedom?”

“I am too much afraid to approach him,” said N’Oun Doare, alarmed at the man’s appearance.

“Do not fear,” said the sagacious animal; “he will not harm you in any manner.”

N’Oun Doare did so, and the stranger thanked him most gratefully, bidding him, as the others whom he had rescued had done, if he ever required help to call upon Grifescorne, King of the Demons, for that was his name, and he would be with him immediately.

“Enter the château boldly and without fear,” said the 112 mare, “and I will await you in the wood yonder. After the Princess Golden Bell has welcomed you she will show you all the curiosities and marvels of her dwelling. Tell her you have a horse without an equal, which can dance most beautifully the dances of every land. Say that your steed will perform them for her diversion if she will come and behold it in the forest.”

Everything fell out as the mare had said, and the Princess was delighted and amused by the mare’s dancing.

“If you were to mount her,” said N’Oun Doare, “I vow she would dance even more wonderfully than before!”

The Princess after a moment’s hesitation did so. In an instant the adventurous youth was by her side, and the horse sped through the air, so that in a short space they found themselves flying over the sea.

“You have tricked me!” cried the infuriated damsel. “But do not imagine that you are at the end of your troubles; and,” she added viciously, “you will have cause to lament more than once ere I wed the old King of France.”

They arrived promptly at Paris, where N’Oun Doare presented the lovely Princess to the monarch, saying:

“Sire, I have brought to you the Princess Golden Bell, whom you desire to make your wife.”

The King was dazed by the wondrous beauty of the Princess, and was eager for the marriage to take place immediately, but this the royal maiden would not hear of, and declared petulantly that she would not be wed until she had a ring which she had left behind her at her château, in a cabinet of which she had lost the key.

Summoning N’Oun Doare, the King charged him with 113 the task of finding the ring. The unfortunate youth returned to his wise mare, feeling much cast down.

“Why,” said the mare, “foolish one! do you not remember the King of the Birds whom you rescued? Call upon him, and mayhap he will aid you as he promised to do.”

With a return of hope N’Oun Doare did as he was bid, and immediately the royal bird was with him, and asked him in what way he could help him. Upon N’Oun Doare explaining his difficulty, the Bird-King summoned all his subjects, calling each one by name. They came, but none of them appeared to be small enough to enter the cabinet by way of the keyhole, which was the only means of entrance. The wren was decided to be the only bird with any chance of success, and he set out for the château.

Eventually, with much difficulty and the loss of the greater part of his feathers, the bird procured the ring, and flew back with it to Paris. N’Oun Doare hastened to present the ring to the Princess.

“Now, fair one,” said the impatient King, “why delay our wedding longer?”

“Nay,” said she, pouting discontentedly, “there is one thing that I wish, and without it I will do nothing.”

“What do you desire? You have only to speak and it shall be brought.”

“Well, transport my château with all it contains opposite to yours.”

“What!” cried the King, aghast. “Impossible!”

“Well, then, it is just as impossible that I should marry you, for without my château I shall not consent.”

For a second time the King gave N’Oun Doare what seemed an insurmountable task.

“Now indeed I am as good as lost!” lamented the youth as they came to the château and he saw its massive walls towering above him.

“Call Grifescorne, King of the Demons, to your assistance,” suggested the wise mare.

With the aid of the Demon-King and his subjects N’Oun Doare’s task was again accomplished, and he and his mare followed the demon army to Paris, where they arrived as soon as it did.

In the morning the people of Paris were struck dumb to see a wonderful palace, its golden towers flashing in the sun, rising opposite to the royal residence.

“We shall be married at last, shall we not?” asked the King.

“Yes,” replied the Princess, “but how shall I enter my château and show you its wonders without a key, for I dropped it in the sea when N’Oun Doare and his horse carried me over it.”

Once more was the youth charged with the task, and through the aid of the Fish-King was able to procure the key, which was cut from a single diamond. None of the fishes had seen it, but at last the oldest fish, who had not appeared when his name was pronounced, came forward and produced it from his mouth.

With a glad heart the successful N’Oun Doare returned to Paris, and as the Princess had now no more excuses to make the day of the wedding was fixed and the ceremony was celebrated with much splendour. To the astonishment of all, when the King and his betrothed entered the church N’Oun Doare followed behind with his mare. At the conclusion of the ceremony the mare’s skin suddenly fell to the ground, disclosing a maiden of the most wonderful beauty.

Smiling upon the bewildered N’Oun Doare, the damsel gave him her hand and said: “Come with me to Tartary, for the king of that land is my father, and there we shall be wed amid great rejoicing.”

Leaving the amazed King and wedding guests, the pair quitted the church together. More might have been told of them, but Tartary is a far land and no news of them has of late years reached Brittany.

There was once an old charcoal-burner who had twenty-six grandchildren. For twenty-five of them he had no great difficulty in procuring godparents, but for the twenty-sixth—that, alas! was a different story. Godmothers, indeed, were to be found in plenty, but he could not find anyone to act as godfather.

As he wandered disconsolately along the high road, dwelling on his bad luck, he saw a fine carriage coming toward him, its occupant no less a personage than the King himself. The old man made an obeisance so low that the King was amused, and threw him a handful of silver.

“My good man,” he said, “here are alms for you.”

“Your Majesty,” replied the charcoal-burner, “I do not desire alms. I am unhappy because I cannot find a godfather for my twenty-sixth grandchild.”

The King considered the matter.

“I myself will be godfather to the child,” he said at length. “Tell me when it is to be baptized and I will meet you at the church.”

The old man was delighted beyond measure, and in due time he and his relatives brought the child to be baptized. When they reached the church, sure enough, 116 there was the King waiting to take part in the ceremony, and in his honour the child was named Charles. Before taking leave the King gave to the charcoal-burner the half of a coin which he had broken in two. This Charles on reaching his eighteenth birthday was to convey to the Court at Paris, as a token whereby his godfather should know him. His Majesty also left a thousand crowns, which were to be utilized in the education and general upbringing of the child.

Time passed and Charles attained his eighteenth birthday. Taking the King’s token, he set out for the royal abode. As he went he encountered an old man, who warned him on no account to drink from a certain well which he would pass on his way. The lad promised to regard the warning, but ere he reached the well he had forgotten it.

A man sat by the side of the well.

“You are hot and tired,” he said, feigning courtesy, “will you not stop to drink?”

The water was cool and inviting. Charles bent his head and drank thirstily. And while he drank the stranger robbed him of his token; but this he did not know till afterward.

Gaily Charles resumed his way, while the thief went to Paris by a quicker route and got there before him.

Boldly the thief demanded audience of the King, and produced the token so wickedly come by. The sovereign ordered the other half of the coin to be brought out, and lo! they fitted exactly. And because the thief had a plausible face the good King did not doubt that he was indeed his godson. He therefore had him treated with all honour and respect, and bestowed gifts upon him lavishly.

Meanwhile Charles had arrived in Paris, and, finding that he had been deprived of his only means of proving his identity to the King, he accepted the situation philosophically and set about earning his living. He succeeded in obtaining a post as herdsman on the royal estates.

One day the robber was greatly disconcerted to find the real Charles at the very gates of the palace. He determined to be rid of him once for all, so he straightway approached the King.

“Your Majesty, there is a man among your retainers who has said that he will demand of the sun why it is so red at sunrise.”

“He is indeed a foolish fellow,” said the King. “Our decree is that he shall carry out his rash boast to-morrow ere sunset, or, if it be but idle folly, lose his head on the following morning.”

The thief was delighted with the success of his plot. Poor Charles was summoned before the King and bidden to ask the sun why he was so red at sunrise. In vain he denied having uttered the speech. Had not the King the word of his godson?

Next morning Charles set out on his journey. Ere he had gone very far he met an old man who asked him his errand, and afterward gave him a wooden horse on which to ride to the sun. Charles thought this but a sorry joke. However, no sooner had he mounted his wooden steed than it rose into the air and flew with him to where the sun’s castle towered on the peak of a lofty mountain.

To the sun, a resplendent warrior, Charles addressed his query.

“In the morning,” said the sun, “I pass the castle of the 118 Princess of Tronkolaine, and she is so lovely that I must needs look my best.”

Charles, mounted on his wooden horse, flew with this answer to Paris. The King was satisfied, but the thief gnashed his teeth in secret rage, and plotted yet further against the youth.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “this herdsman who tends your herds has said that he will lead hither the Princess of Tronkolaine to be your bride.”

“If he has said so,” replied the King, “he shall lead her hither or forfeit his life.”

“Alas!” thought Charles, when he learned of the plot, “I must bid farewell to my life—there is no hope for me!”

All the same he set out boldly enough, and by and by encountered the old man who had helped him on his previous mission. To him Charles confided his troubles, begging for advice and assistance.

The old man pondered.

“Return to the Court,” he said, “and ask the King to give you three ships, one laden with oatmeal, another with bacon, and the third with salt meat. Then sail on till you come to an island covered with ants. To their monarch, the Ant-King, make a present of the cargo of oatmeal. He will direct you to a second island, whereon dwell fierce lions. Fear them not. Present your cargo of bacon to their King and he will become your friend. Yet a third island you will touch, inhabited only by sparrow-hawks. Give to their King your cargo of salt meat and he will show you the abode of the Princess.”

Charles thanked the sage for his advice, which he promptly proceeded to follow. The King granted him 119 the three ships, and he sailed away in search of the Princess.

When he came to the first island, which was swarming with ants, he gave up his cargo of grain, and so won the friendship of the little creatures. At the second island he unloaded the bacon, which he presented to the King of the Lions; while at the third he gave up the salt beef to the King of the Sparrow-hawks, who directed him how to come at the object of his quest. Each monarch bade Charles summon him instantly if he had need of assistance.

Setting sail from the island of the sparrow-hawks, the youth arrived at length at the abode of the Princess.

She was seated under an orange-tree, and as Charles gazed upon her he thought her the most beautiful woman in the world, as indeed she was.

The Princess, looking up, beheld a comely youth, beneath whose ardent gaze her eyes fell. Smiling graciously, she invited him into her castle, and he, nothing loath, followed her into the great hall, where tempting viands were spread before him.

When he had supped he made known his errand to the Princess, and begged her to accompany him to Paris. She agreed only on condition that he would perform three tasks set him, and when Charles was curious to know what was required of him she led him into another room where was a large heap of every kind of seed—corn, barley, clover, flax—all mixed up anyhow.

“This is the first task,” said the Princess: “you must put each kind of seed into a different heap, so that no single seed shall be out of its place. This you must accomplish ere to-morrow at sunrise.” With that she left the room.

Charles was in despair, until he bethought him of his friend the King of the Ants, whom he begged to help him. Scarcely had he uttered the words when ants began to fill the room, coming from he knew not where. In less time than it takes to tell they had arranged the seeds into separate heaps, so that no single seed was out of its place.

When the Princess arrived in the morning she was astonished to find the hero fast asleep and the work accomplished. All day she entertained him hospitably in her castle, and at nightfall she showed him the second task. An avenue of great oaks led down from the castle. Giving him a wooden axe and a wooden saw, the Princess bade him cut down all the trees ere morning.

When she had left him Charles called upon the King of the Lions. Instantly a number of lions bounded upon the scene, and with teeth and claws soon performed the task.

In the morning the Princess, finding Charles asleep and all the trees cut down, was more astonished than ever.

The third task was the most difficult of all. A high mountain had to be levelled to the plain in a single night. Without the help of the sparrow-hawks, Charles would certainly have failed, but these faithful creatures worked with a will, and soon had the great mountain carried away piece by piece and dropped into the sea.

When the Princess came for the third time and found the hero asleep by the finished task she fell in love with him straightway, and kissed him softly on the brow.

There was now nothing further to hinder his return, and he begged the Princess to accompany him to Paris. In due time they arrived in that city, to be welcomed 121 with great warmth by the people. The beauty of the lady won all hearts. But great was the general astonishment when she declared that she would marry, not the King, but the youth who had brought her to Paris! Charles thereupon declared himself the true godson of the King, and the monarch, far from being angry, gave the couple his blessing and great estates; and when in course of time he died they reigned in his stead.

As for the thief, he was ordered to execution forthwith, and was roasted to death in a large oven.

This is another tale which introduces the search for the sun-princess in a peculiar setting.

In the long ago there lived near the Lake of Léguer a jolly miller who found recreation after his work in shooting the wild swans and ducks which frequented that stretch of water. One December day, when it was freezing hard and the earth was covered with snow, he observed a solitary duck near the edge of the lake. He shot at it, and went forward to pick it up, when he saw to his amazement that it had changed into a beautiful princess. He was ready to drop into the snow with fright, but the lady came graciously forward to him, saying:

“Fear not, my brave fellow, for know that I have been enchanted these many years under the form of a wild duck, because of the enmity of three malicious demons. You can restore me permanently to my human shape if you choose to show only a little perseverance and courage.”

“Why, what do you desire me to do, madam?” 122 stammered the miller, abashed by the lady’s beauty and condescension.

“What only a brave man could accomplish, my friend,” she replied; “all that you have to do is to pass three consecutive nights in the old manor which you can see over there.”

The miller shuddered, for he had heard the most terrible stories in connexion with the ruined manor, which had an evil name in the district.

“Alas! madam,” he said, “whom might I not encounter there! Even the devil himself——”

“My good friend,” said the Princess, sadly, “if you do as I ask you will have to encounter not one but a dozen devils, who will torment you in every possible way. But fear nothing, for I can provide you with a magic ointment which will preserve you entirely from all the injuries they would attempt to inflict upon you. Even if you were dead I could resuscitate you. I assure you that if you will do as I ask you will never regret it. Beneath the hearthstone in the hall of the manor are three casks of gold and three of silver, and all these will belong to you and to me if you assist me; so put your courage to the proof, I pray you.”

The miller squared his shoulders. “Lady,” he said, “I will obey you, even if I have to face a hundred devils instead of twelve.”

The Princess smiled encouragingly and disappeared. On the following night the miller set out for the old manor, carrying a bundle of faggots to make a fire, and some cider and tobacco to refresh him during his vigil. When he arrived in the dismal old place he sat himself down by the hearth, where he had built a good fire, and lit his pipe. But he had scarcely done so when he 123 heard a most tremendous commotion in the chimney. Somewhat scared, he hid himself under an old bed which stood opposite the hearth, and, gazing anxiously from his place of concealment, beheld eleven grisly fiends descend from the flue. They seemed astonished to find a fire on the hearth, and did not appear to be in the best of tempers.

“Where is Boiteux?” cried one. “Oh,” growled another, who appeared to be the chief of the band, “he is always late.”

“Ah, behold him,” said a third, as Boiteux arrived by the same road as his companions.

“Well, comrades,” cried Boiteux, “have you heard the news?” The others shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads sulkily.

“Well,” said Boiteux, “I am convinced that the miller of Léguer is here, and that he is trying to free the Princess from the enchantment which we have placed upon her.”

A hurried search at once took place, the demons scrambling from one part of the room to the other, tearing down the curtains and making every effort to discover the hiding-place of the intruder. At last Boiteux, peering under the bed, saw the miller crouching there, and cried out: “Here is the rogue beneath the bed.”

The unlucky miller was then seized by the foot and dragged into the shrieking and leaping circle. With a gesture of command the chief demon subdued the antics of his followers.

“So, my jolly miller,” said he, “our friend the Princess has found a champion in you, has she? Well, we are going to have some sport with you, which I fear will 124 not be quite to your taste, but I can assure you that you will not again have the opportunity of assisting a princess in distress.”

With this he seized the miller and thrust him from him with great force. As he flew like a stone from a sling, another of the fiends seized him, and the unhappy man was thrown violently about from one to the other. At last they threw him out of the window into the courtyard, and as he did not move they thought that he was dead. But in the midst of their laughter and rejoicing at the easy manner in which they had got rid of him, cockcrow sounded, and the diabolic company swiftly disappeared. They had scarcely taken their departure when the Princess arrived. She tenderly anointed the miller’s hurts from the little pot of magic ointment she had brought with her, and, nothing daunted, now that he was thoroughly revived, the bold fellow announced his intention of seeing the matter through and remaining in the manor for the two following nights.

He had scarcely ensconced himself in his seat by the chimney-side on the second night when the twelve fiends came tumbling down the chimney as before. At one end of the room was a large heap of wood, behind which the miller quickly took refuge.

“I smell the smell of a Christian!” cried Boiteux. A search followed, and once more the adventurous miller was dragged forth.

“Oho!” cried the leader, “so you are not dead after all! Well, I can assure you that we shall not botch our work on this occasion.”

One of the grisly company placed a large cauldron of oil upon the fire, and when this was boiling they seized their victim and thrust him into it. The most dreadful 125 agony seized the miller as the liquid seethed around his body, and he was just about to faint under the intensity of the torture when once again the cock crew and the fiendish band took themselves off. The Princess quickly appeared, and, drawing the miller from the cauldron, smeared him from head to foot with the ointment.

On the third night the devils once more found the miller in the apartment. In dismay Boiteux suggested that he should be roasted on a spit and eaten, but unluckily for them they took a long time to come to this conclusion, and when they were about to impale their victim on the spit, the cock crew and they were forced to withdraw, howling in baffled rage. The Princess arrived as before, and was delighted to see that this time her champion did not require any assistance.

“All is well now,” she said. “You have freed me from my enchantment and the treasure is ours.”

They raised the hearthstone from its place, and, as she had said, the three casks of gold and the three casks of silver were found resting beneath it.

“Take what you wish for yourself,” said the Princess. “As for me, I cannot stay here; I must at once make a journey which will last a year and a day, after which we shall never part again.”

With these words she disappeared. The miller was grieved at her departure, but, consoling himself with the treasure, made over his mill to his apprentice and, apprising one of his companions of his good luck, resolved to go upon a journey with him, until such time as the Princess should return. He visited the neighbouring countries, and, with plenty of money at his disposal, found existence very pleasant indeed. After 126 some eight months of this kind of life, he and his friend resolved to return to Brittany, and set out on their journey. One day they encountered on the road an old woman selling apples. She asked them to buy, but the miller was advised by his friend not to pay any heed to her. Ignoring the well-meant advice, the miller laughed and bought three apples. He had scarcely eaten one when he became unwell. Recalling how the fruit had disagreed with him, he did not touch the other apples until the day on which the Princess had declared she would return. When on the way to the manor to meet her, he ate the second apple. He began to feel sleepy, and, lying down at the foot of a tree, fell into a deep slumber.

Soon after the Princess arrived in a beautiful star-coloured chariot drawn by ten horses. When she saw the miller lying sleeping she inquired of his friend what had chanced to him. The man acquainted her with the adventure of the apples, and the Princess told him that the old woman from whom he had purchased them was a sorceress.

“Alas!” she said, “I am unable to take him with me in this condition, but I will come to this place to-morrow and again on the following day, and if he be awake I will transport him hence in my chariot. Here are a golden pear and a handkerchief; give him these and tell him that I will come again.”

She disappeared in her star-coloured equipage. Shortly afterward the miller wakened, and his friend told him what had occurred and gave him the pear and the kerchief. The next day the friends once more repaired to the spot where the Princess had vanished, but in thoughtlessness the miller had eaten of the third apple, 127 and once more the Princess found him asleep. In sorrow she promised to return next day for the last time, once more leaving a golden pear and a handkerchief with his friend, to whom she said:

“If he is not awake when I come to-morrow he will have to cross three powers and three seas in order to find me.”

Unluckily, however, the miller was still asleep when the Princess appeared on the following day. She repeated what she had said to his friend concerning the ordeal that the unfortunate miller would have to face before he might see her again, and ere she took her departure left a third pear and a third handkerchief behind her. When the miller awoke and found that she had gone he went nearly crazy with grief, but nevertheless he declared his unalterable intention of regaining the Princess, even if he should have to travel to the ends of the earth in search of her. Accordingly he set out to find her abode. He walked and walked innumerable miles, until at last he came to a great forest. As he arrived at its gloomy borders night fell, and he considered it safest to climb a tree, from which, to his great satisfaction, he beheld a light shining in the distance. Descending, he walked in the direction of the light, and found a tiny hut made of the branches of trees, in which sat a little old man with a long white beard.

“Good evening, grandfather,” said the miller.

“Good evening, my child,” replied the old man. “I behold you with pleasure, for it is eighty years since I have seen any human being.”

The miller entered the hut and sat down beside the old man, and after some conversation told him the object of his journey.

“I will help you, my son,” said the ancient. “Do you see these enchanted gaiters? Well, I wore them at your age. When you buckle them over your legs you will be able to travel seven leagues at a single step, and you will arrive without any difficulty at the castle of the Princess you desire so much to see again.”

The miller passed the night in the hut with the old hermit, and on the following morning, with the rising of the sun, buckled on the magic gaiters and stepped out briskly. All went well to begin with, nothing arrested his progress, and he sped over rivers, forests, and mountains. As the sun was setting he came to the borders of a second forest, where he observed a second hut, precisely similar to that in which he had passed the previous night. Going toward it, he found it occupied by an aged woman, of whom he demanded supper and lodging.

“Alas! my son,” said the old woman, “you do ill to come here, for I have three sons, terrible fellows, who will be here presently, and I am certain that if you remain they will devour you.”

The miller asked the names of the sons, and was informed by the old woman that they were January, February, and March. From this he concluded that the crone he was addressing was none other than the mother of the winds, and on asking her if this was so she admitted that he had judged correctly. While they were talking there was a terrible commotion in the chimney, from which descended an enormous giant with white hair and beard, breathing out clouds of frost.

“Aha!” he cried, “I see, mother, that you have not neglected to provide for my supper!”

“Softly, softly, good son,” said the old dame; “this is 129 little Yves, my nephew and your cousin; you must not eat him.” The giant, who seemed greatly annoyed, retired into a corner, growling. Shortly afterward his brothers, February and March, arrived, and were told the same tale regarding the miller’s relationship to them.

Our hero, resolved to profit by the acquaintanceship, asked the gigantic February if he would carry him to the palace of the Princess, whom he described.

“Ah,” said February, “without doubt you speak of the Princess Starbright. If you wish I will give you a lift on my back part of the way.”

The miller gratefully accepted the offer, and in the morning mounted on the back of the mighty wind-giant, who carried him over a great sea. Then, after traversing much land and a second ocean, and while crossing a third spacious water, February expressed himself as quite fatigued and said that he could not carry his new cousin any farther. The miller glanced beneath him at the great waste of waters and begged him to make an effort to reach the land on the other side. Giving vent to a deep-throated grumble, February obeyed, and at last set him down outside the walls of the town where the castle of the Princess Starbright was situated. The miller entered the town and came to an inn, and, having dined, entered into conversation with the hostess, asking her the news of the place.

“Why,” said the woman, amazed, “where do you come from that you don’t know that the Princess Starbright is to be married to-day, and to a husband that she does not love? The wedding procession will pass the door in a few moments on its way to the church.”

The miller was greatly downcast at these words, but 130 plucking up courage he placed on a little table before the inn the first of the pears and handkerchiefs that the Princess had left with his friend. Shortly afterward the wedding procession passed, and the Princess immediately remarked the pear and the kerchief, and also recognized the miller standing close by. She halted, and, feigning illness, begged that the ceremony might be postponed until the morrow. Having returned to the palace, she sent one of her women to purchase the fruit and the handkerchief, and these the miller gave the maiden without question. On the following day the same thing happened, and on the third occasion of the Princess’s passing the same series of events occurred. This time the Princess sent for the miller, and the pair embraced tenderly and wept with joy at having recovered each other.

Now the Princess was as clever as she was beautiful, and she had a stratagem by which she hoped to marry the miller without undue opposition on the part of her friends. So she procured the marriage garments of the prince, her fiancé, and attiring the miller in them, took him to the marriage feast, which had been prepared for the fourth time at a late hour; but she hid her lover in a secluded corner from the public gaze. After a while she pretended to be looking for something, and upon being asked what she had lost, replied:

“I have a beautiful coffer, but, alas! I have lost the key of it. I have found a new key, but it does not fit the casket; should I not search until I have recovered the old one?”

“Without doubt!” cried every one. Then the Princess, going to the place where the miller was concealed, led him forth by the hand.

“My lords and gentles,” she said, “the coffer I spoke of is my heart; here is the one key that can fit it, the key that I had lost and have found again.”

The Princess and the miller were married amid universal rejoicings; and some time after the ceremony they did not fail to revisit the Lake of Léguer, the scene of their first meeting, the legend of which still clings like the mists of evening to its shores.

This quaint and curious tale, in which the native folk-lore and French elements are so strangely mingled, deals, like its predecessor, with the theme of the search for the fairy princess. We turn now to another tale of quest with somewhat similar incidents, where the solar nature of one of the characters is perhaps more obvious—the quest for the mortal maiden who has been carried off by the sun-hero. We refrain in this place from indicating the mythological basis which underlies such a tale as this, as such a phenomenon is already amply illustrated in other works in this series.

There once lived a peasant who had seven children, six of them boys and the seventh a girl. They were very poor and all had to work hard for a living, but the drudges of the family were the youngest son, Yvon, and his sister, Yvonne. Because they were gentler and more delicate than the others, they were looked upon as poor, witless creatures, and all the hardest work was given them to do. But the children comforted each other, and became but the better favoured as they grew up.

One day when Yvonne was taking the cattle to pasture she encountered a handsome youth, so splendidly garbed 132 that her simple heart was filled with awe and admiration. To her astonishment he addressed her and courteously begged her hand in marriage. “To-morrow,” he said, “I shall meet you here at this hour, and you shall give me an answer.”

Troubled, yet secretly happy, Yvonne made her way home, and told her parents all that had chanced. At first they laughed her to scorn, and refused to believe her story of the handsome prince, but when at length they were convinced they told her she was free to marry whom she would.

On the following day Yvonne betook herself to the trysting-place, where her lover awaited her, even more gloriously resplendent than on the occasion of his first coming. The very trappings of his horse were of gleaming gold. At Yvonne’s request he accompanied her to her home, and made arrangements with her kindred for the marriage. To all inquiries regarding his name and place of abode he returned that these should be made known on the wedding morning.

Time passed, and on the day appointed the glittering stranger came to claim his wife. The ceremony over, he swept her into a carriage and was about to drive away, when her brothers reminded him of his promise to reveal his identity.

“Where must we go to visit our sister?” they asked.

“Eastward,” he replied, “to a palace built of crystal, beyond the Sea of Darkness.”

And with that the pair were gone.

A year elapsed, and the brothers neither saw nor heard anything of their sister, so that at length they decided to go in search of her. Yvon would have accompanied them, but they bade him stay at home.

“You are so stupid,” they said, “you would be of no use to us.”

Eastward they rode, and ever eastward, till at length they found themselves in the heart of a great forest. Then night came on and they lost the path. Twice a great noise, like the riot of a tempest, swept over their heads, leaving them trembling and stricken with panic.

By and by they came upon an old woman tending a great fire, and of her they inquired how they might reach the abode of their brother-in-law.

“I cannot tell,” said the old woman, “but my son may be able to direct you.”

For the third time they heard the noise as of a great wind racing over the tree-tops.

“Hush!” said the old woman, “it is my son approaching.”

He was a huge giant, this son of hers, and when he drew near the fire he said loudly:

“Oh ho! I smell the blood of a Christian!”

“What!” cried his mother sharply. “Would you eat your pretty cousins, who have come so far to visit us?”

At that the giant became quite friendly toward his ‘cousins,’ and when he learned of their mission even offered to conduct them part of the way.

Notwithstanding his amiability, however, the brothers spent an anxious night, and were up betimes on the following morning.

The giant made ready for departure. First of all he bade the old woman pile fresh fuel on the fire. Then he spread a great black cloth, on which he made the brothers stand. Finally he strode into the fire, and when his clothes were consumed the black cloth rose 134 into the air, bearing the brothers with it. Its going was marked by the sound of rushing wind which had terrified them on the preceding day. At length they alighted on a vast plain, half of which was rich and fertile, while the other half was bleak and arid as a desert. The plain was dotted with horses, and, curiously enough, those on the arid side were in splendid condition, whereas those on the fertile part were thin and miserable.

The brothers had not the faintest idea of which direction they ought to take, and after a vain attempt to mount the horses on the plain they decided to return home. After many wanderings they arrived at their native place once more.

When Yvon learned of the ill-success which had attended their mission he decided to go himself in search of his sister, and though his brothers laughed at him they gave him an old horse and bade him go.

Eastward and eastward he rode, till at length he reached the forest where the old woman still tended the fire. Seeing that he was strong and fearless, she directed him by a difficult and dangerous road, which, however, he must pursue if he wished to see his sister.

It was indeed a place of terrors. Poisonous serpents lay across his track; ugly thorns and briers sprang underfoot; at one point a lake barred his way.

Finally a subterranean passage led him into his sister’s country, where everything was of crystal, shining with the splendour of the sun itself. At the end of a gleaming pathway rose a castle built entirely of crystal, its innumerable domes and turrets reflecting the light in a thousand prismatic hues.

Having gained access to the castle through a cave, Yvon wandered through its many beautiful chambers, 135 till in one of these he came upon his sister asleep on a silken couch.

Entranced with her beauty, and not daring to wake her, he slipped behind a curtain and watched her in silence; but as time went on he marvelled that she did not wake.

At eventide a handsome youth—Yvon’s brother-in-law—entered the chamber, struck Yvonne sharply three times, then flung himself down by her side and went to sleep. All night Yvon waited in his place of concealment. In the morning the young man rose from his couch, gave his wife three resounding blows, and went away. Only then did Yvon emerge and wake his sister.

Brother and sister exchanged a tender greeting, and found much to talk of after their long separation. Yvon learned that the country to which he had come was a peculiar place, where meat and drink could be entirely dispensed with, while even sleep was not a necessity.

“Tell me, Yvonne,” he said, remembering what he had seen of his brother-in-law, “does your husband treat you well?”

Yvonne assured him that her husband was all she could wish—that she was perfectly happy.

“Is he always absent during the day?” he asked anxiously.

“Always.”

“Do you know where he goes?”

“I do not, my brother.”

“I have a mind,” said Yvon, “to ask him to let me accompany him on his journey. What say you, sister?”

“It is a very good plan,” said Yvonne.

At sundown her husband returned home. He and Yvon became very good friends, and the latter begged 136 to be allowed to accompany him on his journey the following day.

“You may do so,” was the response, “but only on one condition: if you touch or address anyone save me you must return home.”

Yvon readily agreed to accept the condition, and early next morning the two set off. Ere long they came to a wide plain, one half of which was green and fruitful, while the other half was barren and dry. On this plain cattle were feeding, and those on the arid part were fat and well-conditioned, while the others were mean and shrivelled to a degree. Yvon learned from his companion that the fat cattle represented those who were contented with their meagre lot, while the lean animals were those who, with a plentiful supply of worldly goods, were yet miserable and discontented.

Many other strange things they saw as they went, but that which seemed strangest of all to Yvon was the sight of two trees lashing each other angrily with their branches, as though each would beat the other to the ground.

Laying his hands on them, he forbade them to fight, and lo! in a moment they became two human beings, a man and wife, who thanked Yvon for releasing them from an enchantment under which they had been laid as a punishment for their perpetual bickering.

Anon they reached a great cavern from which weird noises proceeded, and Yvon would fain have advanced farther; but his companion forbade him, reminding him that in disenchanting the trees he had failed to observe the one essential condition, and must return to the palace where his sister dwelt.

There Yvon remained for a few days longer, after which 137 his brother-in-law directed him by a speedy route to his home.

“Go,” said the prince, “but ere long you will return, and then it will be to remain with us for ever.”

On reaching his native village Yvon found all trace of his dwelling gone. Greatly bewildered, he inquired for his father by name. An old greybeard replied.

“I have heard of him,” he said. “He lived in the days when my grandfather’s grandfather was but a boy, and now he sleeps in the churchyard yonder.”

Only then did Yvon realize that his visit to his sister had been one, not of days, but of generations!

Famous among all peoples is the tale of the husband surrounded by mystery—bespelled in animal form, like the Prince in the story of Beauty and the Beast, nameless, as in that of Lohengrin, or unbeheld of his spouse, as in the myth of Cupid and Psyche. Among uncivilized peoples it is frequently forbidden to the wife to see her husband’s face until some time after marriage, and the belief that ill-luck will befall one or both should this law be disregarded runs through primitive story, being perhaps reminiscent of a time when the man of an alien or unfriendly tribe crept to his wife’s lodge or hut under cover of darkness and returned ere yet the first glimmer of dawn might betray him to the men of her people. The story which follows, however, deals with the theme of the enchanted husband whose wife must not speak to anyone until her first child receives the sacrament of baptism, and is, perhaps, unique of its kind.

There lived at one time in the old château of Kerouez, in the commune of Loguivy-Plougras, a rich and 138 powerful seigneur, whose only sorrow was the dreadful deformity of his son, who had come into the world with a horse’s head. He was naturally kept out of sight as much as possible, but when he had attained the age of eighteen years he told his mother one day that he desired to marry, and requested her to interview a farmer in the vicinity who had three pretty young daughters, in order that she might arrange a match with one of them.

The good lady did as she was requested, not without much embarrassment and many qualms of conscience, and after conversing upon every imaginable subject, at length gently broke the object of her visit to the astonished farmer. The poor man was at first horrified, but little by little the lady worked him into a good humour, so that at last he consented to ask his daughters if any one of them would agree to marry the afflicted young lord. The two elder girls indignantly refused the offer, but when it was made plain to them that she who espoused the seigneur would one day be châtelaine of the castle and become a fine lady, the eldest daughter somewhat reluctantly consented and the match was agreed upon.

Some days afterward the bride-to-be happened to pass the castle and saw the servants washing the linen, when one cried to her:

“How in the world can a fine girl like you be such a fool as to throw herself away on a man with a horse’s head?”

“Bah!” she replied, “he is rich, and, let me tell you, we won’t be married for long, for on the bridal night I shall cut his throat.”

Just at that moment a gay cavalier passed and smiled at the farmer’s daughter.

“You are having a strange conversation, mademoiselle,” he said. She coloured and looked somewhat confused.

“Well, sir,” she replied, “it is hateful to be mocked by these wenches because I have the bad luck to be espoused to a seigneur with a horse’s head, and I assure you I feel so angry that I shall certainly carry out my threat.”

The unknown laughed shortly and went his way. In time the night of the nuptials arrived. A grand fête was held at the château, and, the ceremony over, the bridesmaids conducted the young wife to her chamber. The bridegroom shortly followed, and to the surprise of his wife, no sooner had the hour of sunset come than his horse’s head disappeared and he became exactly as other men. Approaching the bed where his bride lay, he suddenly seized her, and before she could cry out or make the least clamour he killed her in the manner in which she had threatened to kill him.

In the morning his mother came to the chamber, and was horrified at the spectacle she saw.

“Gracious heavens! my son, what have you done?” she cried.

“I have done that, my mother,” replied her son, “which was about to be done to me.”

Three months afterward the young seigneur asked his mother to repair once more to the farmer with the request that another of his daughters might be given him in marriage. The second daughter, ignorant of the manner of her sister’s death, and mindful of the splendid wedding festivities, embraced the proposal with alacrity. Like her sister, she chanced to be passing the washing-green of the castle one day, and the laundresses, knowing of her espousal, taunted her 140 upon it, so that at last she grew very angry and cried:

“I won’t be troubled long with the animal, I can assure you, for on the very night that I wed him I shall kill him like a pig!”

At that very moment the same unknown gentleman who had overheard the fatal words of her sister passed, and said:

“How now, young women, that’s very strange talk of yours!”

“Well, monseigneur,” stammered the betrothed girl, “they are twitting me upon marrying a man with a horse’s head; but I will cut his throat on the night of our wedding with as little conscience as I would cut the throat of a pig.” The unknown gentleman laughed as he had done before and passed upon his way.

As on the previous occasion, the wedding was celebrated with all the pomp and circumstance which usually attends a Breton ceremony of the kind, and in due time the bride was conducted to her chamber, only to be found in the morning weltering in her blood.

At the end of another three months the seigneur dispatched his mother for the third time to the farmer, with the request that his younger daughter might be given him in marriage, but on this occasion her parents were by no means enraptured with the proposal. When the great lady, however, promised them that if they consented to the match they would be given the farm to have and to hold as their own property, they found the argument irresistible and reluctantly agreed. Strange to say, the girl herself was perfectly composed about the matter, and gave it as her opinion that if her sisters had met with a violent death they were entirely 141 to blame themselves, for some reason which she could not explain, and she added that she thought that their loose and undisciplined way of talking had had much to do with their untimely fate. Just as her sisters had been, she too was taunted by the laundresses regarding her choice of a husband, but her answer to them was very different.

“If they met with their deaths,” she said, “it was because of their wicked utterances. I do not in the least fear that I shall have the same fate.”

As before the unknown seigneur passed, but this time, without saying anything, he hurried on his way and was soon lost to view.

The wedding of the youngest sister was even more splendid than that of the two previous brides. On the following morning the young seigneur’s mother hastened with fear and trembling to the marriage chamber, and to her intense relief found that her daughter-in-law was alive. For some months the bride lived happily with her husband, who every night at set of sun regained his natural appearance as a young and handsome man. In due time a son was born to them, who had not the least sign of his semi-equine parentage, and when they were about to have the infant baptized the father said to the young mother:

“Hearken to what I have to say. I was condemned to suffer the horrible enchantment you know of until such time as a child should be born to me, and I shall be immediately delivered from the curse whenever this infant is baptized. But take care that you do not speak a word until the baptismal bells cease to sound, for if you utter a syllable, even to your mother, I shall disappear on the instant and you will never see me more.”

Full of the resolve not to utter a single sound, the young mother, who lay in bed, kept silent, until at last she heard the sound of bells, when, in her joy, forgetting the warning, she turned to her mother, who sat near, with words of congratulation on her lips. A few moments afterward her husband rushed into the room, the horse’s head still upon his shoulders. He was covered with sweat, and panted fiercely.

“Ah, miserable woman,” he cried, “what have you done? I must leave you, and you shall never see me more!” and he made as if to quit the room. His wife rose from her bed, and strove to detain him, but he struck at her with his fist. The blood trickled out and made three spots on his shirt.

“Behold these spots,” cried the young wife; “they shall never disappear until I find you.”

“And I swear to you,” cried her husband, “that you will never find me until you have worn out three pairs of iron shoes in doing so.”

With these words he ran off at such speed that the poor wife could not follow him, and, fainting, she sank to the ground.

Some time after her husband had left her the young wife had three pairs of iron shoes made and went in search of him. After she had travelled about the world for nearly ten years the last pair of shoes began to show signs of wear, when she found herself one day at a castle where the servants were hanging out the clothes to dry, and she heard one of the laundresses say:

“Do you see this shirt? I declare it is enchanted, for although I have washed it again and again I cannot rub out these three spots of blood which you see upon it.”

When the wanderer heard this she approached the 143 laundress and said to her: “Let me try, I pray you. I think I can wash the shirt clean.”

They gave her the shirt, she washed it, and the spots disappeared. So grateful was the laundress that she bade the stranger go to the castle and ask for a meal and a bed. These were willingly granted her, and at night she was placed in a small apartment next to that occupied by the lord of the castle. From what she had seen she was sure that her husband was the lord himself, so when she heard the master of the house enter the room next door she knocked upon the boards which separated it from her own. Her husband, for he it was, replied from the other side; then, entering her room, he recognized his wife, and they were happily united after the years of painful separation. To the wife’s great joy her husband was now completely restored to his proper form, and nothing occurred to mar their happiness for the rest of their lives.

Weird and terrible as are many of the darksome legends of Brittany, it may be doubted if any are more awe-inspiring than that which we are now about to relate. “Those who are affianced three times without marrying shall burn in hell,” says an old Breton proverb, and it is probably this aphorism which has given the Bretons such a strong belief in the sacred nature of a betrothal. The fantastic ballad from which this story is taken is written in the dialect of Léon, and the words are put into the mouth of a maiden of that country. Twice had she been betrothed. On the last occasion she had worn a robe of the finest stuff, embroidered with twelve brilliant stars and having the figures of the sun and 144 moon painted upon it, like the lady in Madame d’Aulnoy’s story of Finette Cendron (Cinderella). On the occasion when she went to meet her third fiancé in church she almost fainted as she turned with her maidens into the little road leading up to the building, for there before her was a great lord clad in steel cap-à-pie, wearing on his head a casque of gold, his shoulders covered by a blood-coloured mantle. Strange lights flashed from his eyes, which glittered under his casque like meteors. By his side stood a huge black steed, which ever and again struck the ground impatiently with his hoofs, throwing up sparks of fire.

The priest was waiting in the church, the bridegroom arrived, but the bride did not come. Where had she gone? She had stepped on board a barque with the dark steel-clad lord, and the ship passed silently over the waters until it vanished among the shadows of night. Then the lady turned to her husband.

“What gloomy waters are these through which we sail, my lord?” she asked.

“This is the Lake of Anguish,” he replied in hollow tones. “We sail to the Place of Skulls, at the mouth of Hell.”

At this the wretched bride wept bitterly. “Take back your wedding-ring!” she cried. “Take back your dowry and your bridal gifts!”

But he answered not. Down they descended into horrid darkness, and as the unhappy maiden fell there rang in her ears the cries of the damned.

This tale is common to many countries. The fickle maiden is everywhere regarded among primitive peoples with dislike and distrust. But perhaps the folk-ballad which most nearly resembles that just related is the Scottish ballad of The Demon Lover, which inspired 145 the late Hamish MacCunn, the gifted Scottish composer, in the composition of his weird and striking orchestral piece, The Ship o’ the Fiend.

Another tradition which tells of the fate of an unhappy maiden is enshrined in the ballad of The Baron of Jauioz. Louis, Baron of Jauioz, in Languedoc, was a French warrior of considerable renown who flourished in the fourteenth century, and who took part in many of the principal events of that stirring epoch, fighting against the English in France and Flanders under the Duke of Berry, his overlord. Some years later he embarked for the Holy Land, but, if we may believe Breton tradition, he returned, and while passing through the duchy fell in love with and actually bought for a sum of money a young Breton girl, whom he carried away with him to France. The unfortunate maiden, so far from being attracted by the more splendid environment of his castle, languished and died.

“I hear the note of the death-bird,” the ballad begins sadly; “is it true, my mother, that I am sold to the Baron of Jauioz?”

“Ask your father, little Tina, ask your father,” is the callous reply, and the question is then put to her father, who requests the unfortunate damsel to ask her brother, a harsh rustic who does not scruple to tell her the brutal truth, and adds that she must depart immediately. The girl asks what dress she must wear, her red gown, or her gown of white delaine.

“It matters little, my daughter,” says the heartless mother. “Your lover waits at the door mounted on a great black horse. Go to him on the instant.”

As she leaves her native village the clocks are striking, and she weeps bitterly.

“Adieu, Saint Anne!” she says. “Adieu, bells of my native land!”

Passing the Lake of Anguish she sees a band of the dead, white and shadowy, crossing the watery expanse in their little boats. As she passes them she can hear their teeth chatter. At the Valley of Blood she espies other unfortunates. Their hearts are sunken in them and all memory has left them.

After this terrible ride the Baron and Tina reach the castle of Jauioz. The old man seats himself near the fire. He is black and ill-favoured as a carrion crow. His beard and his hair are white, and his eyes are like firebrands.

“Come hither to me, my child,” says he, “come with me from chamber to chamber that I may show you my treasures.”

“Ah, seigneur,” she replies, the tears falling fast, “I had rather be at home with my mother counting the chips which fall from the fire.”

“Let us descend, then, to the cellar, where I will show you the rich wines in the great bins.”

“Ah, sir, I would rather quaff the water of the fields that my father’s horses drink.”

“Come with me, then, to the shops, and I will buy you a sumptuous gown.”

“Better that I were wearing the working dress that my mother made me.”

The seigneur turns from her in anger. She lingers at the window and watches the birds, begging them to take a message from her to her friends.

At night a gentle voice whispers: “My father, my 147 mother, for the love of God, pray for me!” Then all is silence.

In this striking ballad we find strong traces of the Breton love of country and other national traits. The death-bird alluded to is a grey bird which sings during the winter in the Landes country in a voice soft and sad. It is probably a bird of the osprey species. It is thought that the girl who hears it sing is doomed to misfortune. The strange and ghostly journey of the unhappy Tina recalls the mise en scène of such ballads as The Bride of Satan, and it would seem that she passes through the Celtic Tartarus. It is plain that the Seigneur of Jauioz by his purchase of their countrywoman became so unpopular among the freedom-loving Bretons that at length they magnified him into a species of demon—a traditionary fate which he thoroughly deserved, if the heartrending tale concerning his victim has any foundation in fact.

The tale of the man who is helped by the grateful dead is by no means confined to Brittany. Indeed, in folk-tale the dead are often jealous of the living and act toward them with fiendish malice. But in the following we have a story in which a dead man shows his gratitude to the living for receiving the boon of Christian burial at his hands.

There was once a merchant-prince who had gained a great fortune by trading on land and sea. Many ships were his, and with these he traded to far countries, reaping a rich harvest. He had a son named Iouenn, and he was desirous that he too should embrace the career of a merchant and become rich. When, therefore, 148 Iouenn declared his willingness to trade in distant lands his father was delighted and gave him a ship full of Breton merchandise, with instructions to sell it to the best advantage in a foreign country and return home with the gold thus gained.

After a successful voyage the vessel arrived at a foreign port, and Iouenn presented his father’s letters to the merchants there, and disposed of his cargo so well that he found himself in possession of a large sum of money. One day as he was walking on the outskirts of the city he saw a large number of dogs gathered round some object, barking at it and worrying it. Approaching them, he discovered that that which they were worrying was nothing less than the corpse of a man. Making inquiries, he found that the unfortunate wretch had died deeply in debt, and that his body had been thrown into the roadway to be eaten by the dogs. Iouenn was shocked to see such an indignity offered to the dead, and out of the kindness of his heart chased the dogs away, paid the debts of the deceased, and granted his body the last rites of sepulture.

A few days afterward he left the port where these things had happened and set out on his homeward voyage. He had not sailed far when one of the mariners drew his attention to a strange ship a little distance away, which appeared to be draped entirely in black.

“That is indeed a curious vessel,” said Iouenn. “Wherefore is it draped in black? and for what reason do those on board bewail so loudly?”

While he spoke the ship drew nearer, and Iouenn called to the people who thronged its decks, asking why they made such loud laments.

“Alas! good sir,” replied the captain of the strange ship, “not far from here is an island inhabited by an enormous serpent, which for seven years has demanded an annual tribute of a royal princess, and we are now bearing another victim to her doom.”

Iouenn laughed. “Where is the Princess?” he asked. At that moment the Princess came on deck, weeping and wringing her hands. Iouenn was so struck by her beauty that he there and then declared in the most emphatic manner that she should never become the prey of the serpent. On learning from the captain that he would hand over the maiden if a sufficient bribe were forthcoming, he paid over to him the last of the money he had gained from his trading, and taking the Princess on his own vessel sailed homeward.

In due time Iouenn arrived home and was welcomed with delight by his father; but when the old man learned the story of what had been done with his money he was furious; nor would he believe for a moment that the lady his son had rescued was a veritable princess, but chased Iouenn from his presence with hard and bitter words. Nevertheless Iouenn married the royal lady he had rescued, and they started housekeeping in a tiny dwelling. Time went on, and the Princess presented her husband with a little son, but by this time fortune had smiled upon Iouenn, for an uncle of his, who was also a merchant, had entrusted him with a fine vessel to trade in Eastern lands; so, taking with him the portraits of his wife and child, he set out on his voyage. With a fresh wind and favourable conditions generally he was not long in coming to the city where his wife’s father reigned. Now, some mariners of the port, having entered the ship out of 150 curiosity, observed the portrait of the Princess, and informed the King of the circumstance. The King himself came to the ship and demanded to know what had become of his daughter. Iouenn did not, of course, realize that the monarch was his father-in-law, and assured him that he knew nothing of his daughter, whereupon the King, growing very angry, had him cast into prison and ordered his ship to be broken to pieces and burned. In prison Iouenn made friends with his gaoler, to whom he related his history, which the gaoler in turn told the King, with the result that the prisoner was brought before the monarch, who desired him to set out at once to bring his daughter back, and for this purpose fitted him out with a new vessel. But the old monarch took the precaution of sending two of his ministers along with the Breton sailor in case he should not return. The party soon came to Brittany, and found the Princess and her infant safe.

Now one of the King’s ministers had loved the Princess for a long time, and consequently did not regard her husband with any great degree of favour; so when they re-embarked on the return journey to her father’s kingdom her suspicions were aroused, and, fully aware of the minister’s crafty nature, she begged her husband to remain with her as much as possible. But Iouenn liked to be on the bridge, whence he could direct the operations of his mariners, and laughed at his wife’s fears. One night as he leaned over the side of the vessel, gazing upon the calm of the star-strewn sea, his enemy approached very stealthily and, seizing him by the legs, cast him headlong into the waters. After this he waited for a few moments, and, hearing no sound, 151 cried out that the captain had fallen overboard. A search was made, but with no avail. The Princess was distraught, and in the belief that her husband had perished remained in her cabin lamenting. But Iouenn was a capital swimmer and struck out lustily. He swam around for a long time, without, however, encountering any object upon which he could lay hold to support himself. Meanwhile the ship sailed on her course, and in due time arrived at the kingdom of the Princess’s father, by whom she was received with every demonstration of joy. Great festivities were announced, and so pleased was the old King at his daughter’s return that he willingly consented to her marriage with the treacherous minister, whom he regarded as the instrument of her deliverance. But the Princess put off the wedding-day by every possible artifice, for she felt in her heart that her husband was not really lost to her.

Let us return now to Iouenn. After swimming for some time he came upon a barren rock in the middle of the ocean, and here, though beaten upon by tempests and without any manner of shelter save that afforded by a cleft in the rock, he succeeded in living for three years upon the shell-fish which he gathered on the shores of his little domain. In that time he had grown almost like a savage. His clothes had fallen off him and he was thickly covered with matted hair. The only mark of civilization he bore was a chain of gold encircling his neck, the gift of his wife. One night he was sitting in his small dwelling munching his wretched supper of shell-fish when an eerie sound broke the stillness. He started violently. Surely these were human accents that he heard—yet not altogether human, for their weird cadence held something of the supernatural, 152 and cold as he was he felt himself grow still more chilly.

“Cold, cold,” cried the voice, and a dreadful chattering of teeth ended in a long-drawn wail of “Hou, hou, hou!”

The sound died away and once more he was left amid the great silence of the sea.

The next evening brought the same experience, but although Iouenn was brave he dared not question his midnight visitor. On the third occasion, however, he demanded: “Who is there?”

Out of the darkness there crawled a man completely naked, his body covered with blood and horrible wounds, the eyes fixed and glassy.

Iouenn trembled with horror. “In the name of God, who are you?” he cried.

“Ha, so you do not remember me, Iouenn?” asked the phantom. “I am that unfortunate man whose body you gave decent burial, and now I have come to help you in turn. Without doubt you wish to leave this desert rock on which you have suffered so long.”

“I do, most devoutly,” replied Iouenn.

“Well, you will have to make haste,” said the dead man, “for to-morrow your wife is going to be married to the minister of your father-in-law, the wretch who cast you into the sea. Now if you will promise to give me a share of all that belongs to yourself and your wife within a year and a day, I will carry you at once to the palace of your father-in-law.”

Iouenn promised to do as the phantom requested, and the dread being then asked him to mount upon his back. Iouenn did so, and the corpse then plunged into the sea, and, swimming swiftly, soon brought him to the port where his father-in-law reigned. When it had 153 set him safely on shore it turned and with a wave of its gaunt white arm cried, “In a year and a day,” then plunged back into the sea.

When the door-keeper of the palace opened the gate in the morning he was astounded to see what appeared to be an animal crouching on the ground outside and crying for help. It was Iouenn. The palace lackeys crowded round him and threw him morsels of bread, which he devoured with avidity. One of the waiting-women told the Princess of the strange being who crouched outside. She descended in order to view him, and at once observed the golden chain she had given to her husband round his neck. Iouenn immediately rushed to embrace her. She took him to her chamber and clothed him suitably. By this time the bridal preparations had been completed, and, like the Princess in the story of the Miller of Léguer, the bride asked the advice of the company as to whether it were better to search for an old key that fitted a coffer in her possession or make use of a new key which did not fit; the coffer, of course, being her heart and the respective keys her husband and the minister. All the company advised searching for the old key, when she produced Iouenn and explained what she had meant. The crafty minister grew pale as death at sight of Iouenn, and the King stormed furiously.

“Ho, there!” he cried, “build a great fire, varlets, and cast this slave into it.” All the company thought at first that his words were intended to apply to Iouenn, but when they saw him point at the minister whose guilt the Princess had made plain, they applauded and the wretch was hurried away to his doom.

Iouenn and the Princess lived happily at the Court, and 154 in time a second little son was born to them. Their first child had died, and they were much rejoiced at its place being filled. Iouenn had entirely forgotten his indebtedness to the dead man, but one day in the month of November, when his wife was sitting quietly by the fire nursing her infant, with her husband opposite her, three loud knocks resounded upon the door, which flew open and revealed the horrible form of the corpse to which Iouenn owed his freedom. The Princess shrieked at sight of the phantom, which said in deep tones: “Iouenn, remember thy bargain.”

Trembling, Iouenn turned to his wife and asked her for the keys of their treasure-house, that he might give their terrible visitor a portion of their wealth, but with a disdainful wave of its arm the apparition bade him cease. “It is not your wealth I require, Iouenn,” it said in hollow tones. “Behold that which I desire,” and it pointed to the infant slumbering in its mother’s arms.

Once more the Princess cried aloud, and clasped her little one to her bosom.

“My infant!” cried Iouenn in despair. “Never!”

“If you are a man of honour,” said the corpse, “think of your promise made on the barren rock.”

“It is true,” said Iouenn, wringing his hands, “but oh, remember how I saved your body from the dogs.”

“I only ask what is my due,” said the ghost. “Besides, I do not desire all your infant, but a share of it only.”

“Wretch!” cried Iouenn, “are you without a heart? Have then your wish, for honour with me is above all.” The infant was then undressed and laid between the two upon a table.

“Take your sword,” said the phantom, “and cut off a portion for me.”

“Ah, I would that I were on that desert rock in the middle of the ocean!” cried the unhappy father. He raised his weapon and was about to strike, when the phantom called upon him to hold.

“Harm not your infant, Iouenn,” it cried. “I see clearly that you are a man of honour and that you have not forgotten the service I rendered you; nor do I fail to remember what you did for me, and how it is through you that I am able to dwell in Paradise, which I would not have been permitted to enter had my debts not been paid and my body given burial. Farewell, until we meet above.” And with these words the apparition vanished.

Iouenn and the Princess lived long, respected by all, and when the old King died Iouenn, the man of his word, was made King in his place.

The stories told here under the title of ‘folk-tales’ are such as do not partake so much of the universal element which enters so largely into Breton romance, but those which have a more national or even local tinge and are yet not legendary. The homely flavour attached to many stories of this kind is very apparent, and it is evident that they have been put together in oral form by unknown ‘makers,’ some of whom had either a natural or artistic aptitude for story-telling. In the first of the following tales it is curious to note how the ancient Breton theme has been put by its peasant narrator into almost a modern dress.

An aged Breton couple had two sons, the elder of whom went to Paris to seek his fortune, while the younger one was timid by nature and would not leave the paternal roof. His mother, who felt the burden of her age, wished the stay-at-home to marry. At first he would not hear of the idea, but at last, persuaded by her, he took a wife. He had only been married a few weeks, however, when his young bride sickened and died. La Rose, for such was his name, was inconsolable. Every evening he went to the cemetery where his wife was buried, and wept over her tomb.

One night he was about to enter the graveyard on his sad errand when he beheld a terrible phantom standing before him, which asked him in awful tones what he did there.

“I am going to pray at the tomb of my wife,” replied the terrified La Rose.

“Do you wish that she were alive again?” asked the spirit.

“Ah, yes!” cried the sorrowing husband. “There is nothing that I would not do in order that she might be restored to me.”

“Hearken, then,” said the phantom. “Return to this place to-morrow night at the same hour. Provide yourself with a pick and you will see what comes to pass.”

On the following night the young widower was punctually at the rendezvous. The phantom presented itself before him and said:

“Go to the tomb of your wife and strike it with your pick; the earth will turn aside and you will behold her lying in her shroud. Take this little silver box, which contains a rose; open it and pass it before her nostrils three times, when she will awake as if from a deep sleep.”

La Rose hastened to the tomb of his wife, and everything happened as the phantom had predicted. He placed the box containing the rose to his wife’s nostrils and she awoke with a sigh, saying: “Ah, I have been asleep for a long time.” Her husband provided her with clothes which he had brought with him, and they returned to their house, much to the joy of his parents.

Some time afterward La Rose’s father died at a great age, and the grief-stricken mother was not long in following him to the grave. La Rose wrote to his brother in Paris to return to Brittany in order to receive his portion of the paternal inheritance, but he was unable to leave the capital, so La Rose had perforce to journey to Paris. He promised his wife before 158 leaving that he would write to her every day, but on his arrival in the city he found his brother very ill, and in the anxiety of nursing him back to health he quite forgot to send his wife news of how he fared.

The weeks passed and La Rose’s wife, without word of her husband, began to dread that something untoward had happened to him. Day by day she sat at her window weeping and watching for the courier who brought letters from Paris. A regiment of dragoons chanced to be billeted in the town, and the captain, who lodged at the inn directly opposite La Rose’s house, was greatly attracted by the young wife. He inquired of the landlady who was the beautiful dame who sat constantly weeping at her window, and learned the details of her history. He wrote a letter to her purporting to come from La Rose’s brother in Paris, telling her that her husband had died in the capital, and some time after paid his addresses to the supposed widow, who accepted him. They were married, and when the regiment left the town the newly wedded pair accompanied it.

Meanwhile La Rose’s brother recovered from his illness, and the eager husband hastened back to Brittany. But when he arrived at his home he was surprised to find the doors closed, and was speedily informed of what had occurred during his absence. For a while he was too grief-stricken to act, but, recovering himself somewhat, he resolved to enlist in the regiment of dragoons in which the false captain held his commission. The beauty of his handwriting procured him the post of secretary to one of the lieutenants, but although he frequently attempted to gain sight of his wife he never succeeded in doing so. One day the captain entered 159 the lieutenant’s office, observed the writing of La Rose, and asked his brother officer if he would kindly lend him his secretary for a few days to assist him with some correspondence. While helping the captain La Rose beheld his wife, who did not, however, recognize him. Greatly pleased with his work, the captain invited him to dinner. During the repast a servant, who had stolen a silver dish, fearing that it was about to be missed, slid it into La Rose’s pocket, and when it could not be found, accused the secretary of the theft. La Rose was brought before a court-martial, which condemned him to be shot.

While in prison awaiting his execution La Rose struck up an acquaintance with an old veteran named Père La Chique, who brought him his meals and seemed kindly disposed to him.

“Père La Chique,” said La Rose one day, “I have two thousand francs; if you will do as I ask you they shall be yours.”

The veteran promised instantly, and La Rose requested that after he was shot La Chique should go to the cemetery where he was buried and resuscitate him with the magic rose, which he had carefully preserved. On the appointed day La Rose was duly executed, but Père La Chique, with his pockets full of money, went from inn to inn, drinking and making merry. Whenever the thought of La Rose crossed his mind, he muttered to himself in bibulous accents: “Poor fellow, poor fellow, he is better dead. This is a weary world; why should I bring him back to it?”

When Père La Chique had caroused with his comrades for some days the two thousand francs had almost disappeared. Then remorse assailed him and he made up 160 his mind to do as La Rose had wished. Taking a pick and an axe he went to the graveyard, but when he struck the grave with his tools and the earth rolled back, disclosing the body of La Rose, the old fellow was so terrified that he ran helter-skelter from the spot. A draught of good wine brought back his failing courage, however, and he returned and passed the rose three times under the nostrils of his late acquaintance. Instantly La Rose sat up.

“By my faith, I’ve had a good sleep!” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Where are my clothes?”

Père La Chique handed him his garments, and after he had donned them they quitted the graveyard with all haste.

La Rose now found it necessary to cast about for a living. One day he heard the sound of a drum in the street, and, following it, found that it was beaten by a crier who promised in the King’s name a large reward to those who would enlist as sentinels to guard a chapel where the King’s daughter, who had been changed into a monster, was imprisoned. La Rose accepted the offer, and then learned to his dismay that the sentinel who guarded the place between the hours of eleven and midnight was never seen again. On the very first night that he took up his duties this perilous watch fell to his lot. He felt his courage deserting him, and he was about to fly when he heard a voice say: “La Rose, where are you?”

La Rose trembled. “What do you wish with me?” he asked.

“Hearken to me, and no evil will befall you,” replied the voice. “Soon a great and grisly beast will appear. Leave your musket by the side of the sentry-box, 161 climb on the top, and the beast will not touch you.”

As eleven o’clock struck La Rose heard a noise and hastened to climb on the top of the sentry-box. Soon a hideous monster came out of the chapel, breathing flames and crying: “Sentinel of my father, where art thou, that I may devour thee?” As it uttered these words, it fell against the musket, which it seized between its teeth. Then the creature disappeared into the chapel and La Rose descended from his perch. He found the musket broken into a thousand pieces.

The old King was delighted to learn that his sentinel had not been devoured, for in order that his daughter should be delivered from her enchantment as a beast it was necessary that the same sentinel should mount guard for three consecutive nights between the hours of eleven and midnight.

On the following night La Rose was pacing up and down on guard, when the same voice addressed him, telling him on this occasion to place his musket before the door of the chapel. The beast issued as before, seized the musket, broke it into small pieces, and returned to the chapel. On the third night the voice advised him to throw open the door of the chapel, and when the beast came out to run into the building himself, where he would see a leaden shrine, behind which he could take refuge, and where he would find a small bottle, with the contents of which he was to sprinkle the beast’s head. With its usual dreadful roar the monster issued from the chapel. La Rose leapt past it and ran for the leaden shrine. It followed him with hideous howls, and he only reached the protective sanctuary in time. Seizing the little bottle which lay there, he fearlessly 162 fronted the beast and sprinkled its contents over its head. Instantly it changed into a beautiful princess, whom La Rose escorted to her delighted parents. La Rose and the princess were betrothed and duly married, and shortly afterward the King gave up his throne to his son-in-law.

One day the new King was inspecting the regiment of dragoons to which he had once belonged.

“Colonel,” he said, “I miss a man from your regiment.”

“It is true, sire,” replied the Colonel. “It is an old fellow called Père La Chique, whom we have left at the barracks playing his violin, the old good-for-nothing!”

“I wish to see him,” said the King.

Père La Chique was brought forward trembling, and the King, tearing the epaulettes from the shoulders of the captain who had stolen his wife, placed them on those of Père La Chique. He then gave orders for a great fire to be lit, in which were burned the wicked captain and the wife who had so soon forgotten her husband.

La Rose and his Queen lived happily ever afterward—which is rather odd, is it not, when one thinks of the treatment meted out to his resuscitated spouse? But if the lights in folk-tale are bright, the shadows are correspondingly heavy, and rarely does justice go hand in hand with mercy in legend!

Brittany has an entire cycle of folk-tales dealing with the subject of the winds—which, indeed, play an extraordinary part in Breton folk-lore. The fishermen of the north coast frequently address the winds as if they were living beings, hurling opprobrious epithets 163 at them if the direction in which they blow does not suit their purpose, shaking their fists at them in a most menacing manner the while. The following story, the only wind-tale it is possible to give here, well illustrates this personalization of the winds by the Breton folk.

There was once a goodman and his wife who had a little field on which they grew flax. One season their patch yielded a particularly fine crop, and after it had been cut they laid it out to dry. But Norouas, the North-west Wind, came along and with one sweep of his mighty wings tossed it as high as the tree-tops, so that it fell into the sea and was lost.

When the goodman saw what had happened he began to swear at the Wind, and, taking his stick, he set out to follow and slay Norouas, who had spoiled his flax. So hasty had he been in setting forth that he had taken no food or money with him, and when evening came he arrived at an inn hungry and penniless. He explained his plight to the hostess, who gave him a morsel of bread and permitted him to sleep in a corner of the stable. In the morning he asked the dame the way to the abode of Norouas, and she conducted him to the foot of a mountain, where she said the Winds dwelt.

The goodman climbed the mountain, and at the top met with Surouas, the South-west Wind.

“Are you he whom they call Norouas?” he asked.

“No, I am Surouas,” said the South-west Wind.

“Where then is that villain Norouas?” cried the goodman.

“Hush!” said Surouas, “do not speak so loud, goodman, for if he hears you he will toss you into the air like a straw.”

At that moment Norouas arrived, whistling wildly and vigorously.

“Ah, thief of a Norouas,” cried the goodman, “it was you who stole my beautiful crop of flax!” But the Wind took no notice of him. Nevertheless he did not cease to cry: “Norouas, Norouas, give me back my flax!”

“Hush, hush!” cried Norouas. “Here is a napkin that will perhaps make you keep quiet.”

“With my crop of flax,” howled the goodman, “I could have made a hundred napkins such as this. Norouas, give me back my flax!”

“Be silent, fellow,” said Norouas. “This is no common napkin which I give you. You have only to say, ‘Napkin, unfold thyself,’ to have the best spread table in the world standing before you.”

The goodman took the napkin with a grumble, descended the mountain, and there, only half believing what Norouas had said, placed the napkin before him, saying, “Napkin, unfold thyself.” Immediately a table appeared spread with a princely repast. The odour of cunningly cooked dishes arose, and rare wines sparkled in glittering vessels. After he had feasted the table vanished, and the goodman folded up his napkin and went back to the inn where he had slept the night before.

“Well, did you get any satisfaction out of Norouas?” asked the hostess.

“Indeed I did,” replied the goodman, producing the napkin. “Behold this: Napkin, unfold thyself!” and as he spoke the magic table appeared before their eyes. The hostess, struck dumb with astonishment, at once became covetous and resolved to have the napkin for herself. So that night she placed the goodman in a handsome apartment where there was a beautiful bed 165 with a soft feather mattress, on which he slept more soundly than ever he had done in his life. When he was fast asleep the cunning hostess entered the room and stole the napkin, leaving one of similar appearance in its place.

In the morning the goodman set his face homeward, and duly arrived at his little farm. His wife eagerly asked him if Norouas had made good the damage done to the flax, to which her husband replied affirmatively and drew the substituted napkin from his pocket.

“Why,” quoth the dame, “we could have made two hundred napkins like this out of the flax that was destroyed.”

“Ah, but,” said the goodman, “this napkin is not the same as others. I have only to say, ‘Napkin, unfold thyself,’ and a table covered with a most splendid feast appears. Napkin, unfold thyself—unfold thyself, dost thou hear?”

“You are an old fool, goodman,” said his wife when nothing happened. Her husband’s jaw dropped and he seized his stick.

“I have been sold by that rascal Norouas,” he cried. “Well, I shall not spare him this time,” and without more ado he rushed out of the house and took the road to the home of the Winds.

He slept as before at the inn, and next morning climbed the mountain. He began at once to call loudly upon Norouas, who was whistling up aloft, demanding that he should return him his crop of flax.

“Be quiet, down there!” cried Norouas.

“I shall not be quiet!” screamed the goodman, brandishing his bludgeon. “You have made matters worse by cheating me with that napkin of yours!”

“Well, well, then,” replied Norouas, “here is an ass; you have only to say ‘Ass, make me some gold,’ and it will fall from his tail.”

The goodman, eager to test the value of the new gift, at once led the ass to the foot of the mountain and said: “Ass, make me some gold.” The ass shook his tail, and a rouleau of gold pieces fell to the ground. The goodman hastened to the inn, where, as before, he displayed the phenomenon to the hostess, who that night went into the stable and exchanged for the magical animal another similar in appearance to it. On the evening of the following day the goodman returned home and acquainted his wife with his good luck, but when he charged the ass to make gold and nothing happened, she railed at him once more for a fool, and in a towering passion he again set out to slay Norouas. Arrived at the mountain for the third time, he called loudly on the North-west Wind, and when he came heaped insults and reproaches upon him.

“Softly,” replied Norouas; “I am not to blame for your misfortune. You must know that it is the hostess at the inn where you slept who is the guilty party, for she stole your napkin and your ass. Take this cudgel. When you say to it, ‘Strike, cudgel,’ it will at once attack your enemies, and when you want it to stop you have only to cry, ‘Ora pro nobis.’”

The goodman, eager to test the efficacy of the cudgel, at once said to it, “Strike, cudgel,” whereupon it commenced to belabour him so soundly that he yelled, “Ora pro nobis!” when it ceased.

Returning to the inn in a very stormy mood, he loudly demanded the return of his napkin and his ass, whereupon the hostess threatened to fetch the gendarmes.

“Strike, cudgel!” cried the goodman, and the stick immediately set about the hostess in such vigorous style that she cried to the goodman to call it off and she would at once return his ass and his napkin.

When his property had been returned to him the goodman lost no time in making his way homeward, where he rejoiced his wife by the sight of the treasures he brought with him. He rapidly grew rich, and his neighbours, becoming suspicious at the sight of so much wealth, had him arrested and brought before a magistrate on a charge of wholesale murder and robbery. He was sentenced to death, and on the day of his execution he was about to mount the scaffold, when he begged as a last request that his old cudgel might be brought him. The boon was granted, and no sooner had the stick been given into his hands than he cried, “Strike, cudgel!”

And the cudgel did strike. It belaboured judge, gendarmes, and spectators in such a manner that they fled howling from the scene. It demolished the scaffold and cracked the hangman’s crown. A great cry for mercy arose. The goodman was instantly pardoned, and was never further molested in the enjoyment of the treasures the North-west Wind had given him as compensation for his crop of flax.

The weird tale which follows has many parallels in world folk-lore, but is localized at Tréguier, an old cathedral town in the Côtes-du-Nord at the junction of the Jaudy and the Guindy, famous for the beautiful windows of its celebrated church, founded by St Tugdual.

Gwennolaïk was the most noble and beautiful maiden in 168 Tréguier, but, alas! she was almost friendless, for at an early age she had lost her father, her mother, and her two sisters, and her sole remaining relative was her stepmother. Pitiful it was to see her standing at the door of her manor, weeping as if her heart would break. But although she had none of her own blood to cherish she still nursed the hope that her foster-brother, who had journeyed abroad for some years, might one day return, and often would she stand gazing fixedly over the sea as if in search of the vessel that would bring him home. They had been playmates, and although six years had passed since he had left the country, the time had gone quickly, and when Gwennolaïk thought of the young man it was as the boy who had shared the games and little amusements of her childhood. From these day-dreams she would be rudely awakened by the harsh voice of her stepmother calling to her: “Come here, my girl, and attend to the animals. I don’t feed you for loafing and doing nothing.”

Poor Gwennolaïk had a sad life with her stepmother. Noble as she was she was yet forced by the vindictive old woman to rise in the early hours of the morning, even two or three hours before daylight in winter, to light the fire and sweep the house and perform other menial work. One evening as she was breaking the ice in the well in order to draw water for the household she was interrupted by a cavalier returning to Nantes.

“Good e’en to you, maiden. Are you affianced to anyone?”

The girl did not reply, but hung her head.

“Come, don’t be afraid,” said the handsome horseman, “but answer my question.”

She looked at him almost fearfully. “Saving your grace, I have never been affianced to anyone.”

“Good,” replied the cavalier. “Take this gold ring and say to your stepmother that you are now affianced to a cavalier of Nantes who has been in a great battle and who has lost his squire in the combat; and you may also add that he has been wounded in the side by a sword-stroke. In three weeks and three days, when my wound is healed, I will return and will take you to my manor with joy and festival.”

The maiden returned to the house and looked at the ring. It was the same as her foster-brother used to wear on his left hand!

Three weeks ran by, but the cavalier did not return. Then the stepmother said one morning: “It is time, daughter, that you should marry, and I may tell you that I have found you a husband after my own heart.”

“Saving your grace, good stepmother, I do not wish to marry anyone except my foster-brother, who has returned. He has given me a golden wedding-ring, and has promised to come for me within a few days.”

“A fig for your gold ring,” cried the malignant hag. “Bon gré, mal gré, you shall marry Job the Witless, the stable boy.”

“Marry Job! Oh, horror! I should die of grief! Alas, my mother, were you but here now to protect me!”

“If you must howl, pray do so in the courtyard. You may make as many grimaces as you please, but in three days you shall be married for all that.”

The old gravedigger slowly patrolled the road, his bell in his hand, carrying the news of those who had died from village to village. In his doleful whine he 170 cried: “Pray for the soul of a noble cavalier, a worthy gentleman of a good heart, who was mortally wounded in the side by the stroke of a sword in the battle near Nantes. He is to be buried to-day in the White Church.”

At the marriage feast the bride was all in tears. All the guests, young and old, wept with her, all except her stepmother. She was conducted to the place of honour at supper-time, but she only drank a sip of water and ate a morsel of bread. By and by the dancing commenced, but when it was proposed that the bride should join in the revels she was not to be found; she had, indeed, escaped from the house, her hair flying in disorder, and where she had gone no one knew.

All the lights were out at the manor, every one slept profoundly. The poor young woman alone lay concealed in the garden in the throes of a fever. She heard a footstep close by. “Who is there?” she asked fearfully.

“It is I, Nola, your foster-brother.”

“Ah, is it you? You are truly welcome, my dear brother,” cried Gwennolaïk, rising in rapture.

“Come with me,” he whispered, and swinging her on to the crupper of his white horse he plunged madly into the night.

“We fly fast,” she cried. “We must have ridden a hundred leagues, I think. Ah, but I am happy with thee! I will never leave thee more.”

The owl hooted and night noises came to her ears.

“Ah, but thy horse is swift,” said she, “and thine armour, how brilliant it is! How happy I am to have found thee, my foster-brother! But are we near thy manor?”

“We shall arrive there in good time, my sister,” he replied.

“Thy heart is cold, thy hair is wet! Ah, how chill are thy hands!”

“Listen, my sister; do you not hear the noise of the gay musicians who shall play at our wedding?” He had not finished speaking when his horse threw itself back on its haunches all at once, trembling and whinnying loudly.

Gwennolaïk looked around, and found herself on an island where a crowd of people were dancing. Lads and lasses, they danced most bravely beneath the green trees heavy with apples, and the music to which they tripped was as that of heaven.

Suddenly the sun rose above the eastern mountains and flooded this strange new world with rich light, and there Gwennolaïk found her mother and her two sisters, and there was nothing in her heart but beauty and joy.

On the following morning, as the sun rose, the young women carried the body of Gwennolaïk and laid it in the tomb of her foster-brother in the White Church.

In this ballad—for the original from which we take the tale is cast in ballad form—we are once more in touch with the Celtic Otherworld. It is a thousand pities that this interesting piece breaks off where it does, thus failing to provide us with a fuller account of that most elusive realm. The short glimpse we do get of it, however, reminds us very much of the descriptions of it we possess in Irish lore. We have also once more the phenomenon of the dead lover who comes to claim the living bride, the midnight gallop, and other circumstances 172 characteristic of ballad literature. There was a tradition in Lower Brittany, however, that no soul might be admitted to the other world which had not first received burial, but here, of course, we must look for Christian influence.

“The legend,” says Gomme, in a passage most memorable for students of folk-lore as containing his acute and precise definition of the several classes of tradition, “belongs to an historical personage, locality, or event,”[40] and it is in this general sense that the term is employed in regard to the contents of this chapter, unless where mythic or folk-lore matter is introduced for the sake of analogy or illustration. There is, however, a broad, popular reading of the term as indicating the fanciful-historical. When we read of the King of Ys, or Arthur, for example, we are not aware whether they ever existed or not, but they are alluded to by tradition as ancient rulers of Brittany and Britain, just as Cymbeline and Cole are spoken of as British monarchs of the distant past. They linger as personal figures in the folk-memory, but they scarcely seem as the personages of folk-tale. Let us say, then, for the purposes of our classification of Breton tradition, that we include in the term ‘legend’ all tales of great personal figures who are historical or over whom folk-tale has cast an historical vraisemblance, remembering at the same time that in the case of personages whose existence is doubtful we may be dealing with a folk-tale disguised or even a distorted myth.

Of the dark and terrible legends to which Brittany has given birth, one of the most gloomy and romantic is the story of Gilles de Retz, alchemist, magician, and arch-criminal. 174 But the story is not altogether legendary, although it has undoubtedly been added to from the great stores of tradition. Gilles is none other than the Bluebeard of the nursery tale, for he appears to have actually worn a beard bluish-black in hue, and it is probable that his personality became mingled with that of the hero of the old Oriental story.

Gilles de Laval, Lord of Retz and Marshal of France, was connected with some of the noblest families in Brittany, those of Montmorency, Rocey, and Craon, and at his father’s death, about 1424, he found himself lord of many princely domains, and what, for those times, was almost unlimited power and wealth. He was a handsome youth, lithe and of fascinating address, courageous, and learned as any clerk. A splendid career lay before him, but from the first that distorted idea of the romantic which is typical of certain minds had seized upon him, and despite his rank and position he much preferred the dark courses which finally ended in his disgrace and ruin to the dignities of his seigneury.

Gilles took his principal title from the barony of Retz or Rais, south of the Loire, on the marches of Brittany. As a youth he did nothing to justify an evil augury of his future, for he served with zeal and gallantry in the wars of Charles VI against the English and fought under Jeanne Darc at the siege of Orléans. In virtue of these services, and because of his shrewdness and skill in affairs, the King created him Marshal of France. But from that time onward the man who had been the able lieutenant of Jeanne Darc and had fought by her side at Jargeau and Patay began to deteriorate. Some years before he had married Catherine de Thouars, and with her had received a large dowry; but he had 175 expended immense sums in the national cause, and his private life was as extravagant as that of a prince in a fairy tale. At his castle of Champtocé he dwelt in almost royal state; indeed, his train when he went hawking or hunting exceeded in magnificence that of the King himself. His retainers were tricked out in the most gorgeous liveries, and his table was spread with ruinous abundance. Oxen, sheep, and pigs were roasted whole, and viands were provided daily for five hundred persons. He had an insane love of pomp and display, and his private devotions were ministered to by a large body of ecclesiastics. His chapel was a marvel of splendour, and was furnished with gold and silver plate in the most lavish manner. His love of colour and movement made him fond of theatrical displays, and it is even said that the play or mystery of Orléans, dealing with the story of Jeanne Darc, was written with his own hand. He was munificent in his patronage of the arts, and was himself a skilled illuminator and bookbinder. In short, he was obviously one of those persons of abnormal character in whom genius is allied to madness and who can attempt and execute nothing except in a spirit of the wildest excess.

The reduction of his fortune merely served his peculiar and abnormal personality with a new excuse for extravagance. At this time the art of alchemy flourished exceedingly and the works of Nicolas Flamel, the Arabian Geber, and Pierre d’Estaing enjoyed a great vogue. On an evil day it occurred to Gilles to turn alchemist, and thus repair his broken fortunes. In the first quarter of the fifteenth century alchemy stood for scientific achievement, and many persons in our own enlightened age still study its maxims. A society 176 exists to-day the object of which is to further the knowledge of alchemical science. A common misapprehension is current to the effect that the object of the alchemists was the transmutation of the baser metals into gold, but in reality they were divided into two groups, those who sought eagerly the secret of manufacturing the precious metals, and those who dreamed of a higher aim, the transmutation of the gross, terrestrial nature of man into the pure gold of the spirit.

The latter of these aims was beyond the fevered imagination of such a wild and disorderly mind as that of Gilles de Retz. He sent emissaries into Italy, Spain, and Germany to invite adepts in the science to his castle at Champtocé. From among these he selected two men to assist him in his plan—Prelati, an alchemist of Padua, and a certain physician of Poitou, whose name is not recorded. At their instigation he built a magnificent laboratory, and when it was completed commenced to experiment. A year passed, during which the necessities of the ‘science’ gradually emptied many bags of gold, but none returned to the Marshal’s coffers. The alchemists slept soft and fed sumptuously, and were quite content to pursue their labours so long as the Seigneur of Retz had occasion for their services. But as the time passed that august person became greatly impatient, and so irritable did he grow because of the lack of results that at length his assistants, in imminent fear of dismissal, communicated to him a dark and dreadful secret of their art, which, they assured him, would assist them at arriving speedily at the desired end.

The nature of the experiment they proposed was so grotesque that its acceptance by Gilles proves that he was either insane or a victim of the superstition of his 177 time. His wretched accomplices told him that the Evil One alone was capable of revealing the secret of the transmutation of the baser metals into gold, and they offered to summon him to their master’s aid. They assured Gilles that Satan would require a recompense for his services, and the Marshal retorted that so long as he saved his soul intact he was quite willing to conclude any bargain that the Father of Evil might propose.

It was arranged that the ceremony should take place within a gloomy wood in the neighbourhood. The nameless physician conducted the Lord of Retz to a small clearing in this plantation, where the magic circle was drawn and the usual conjurations made. For half an hour they waited in silence, and then a great trembling fell upon the physician. A deadly pallor overspread his countenance. His knees shook, he muttered wildly, and at last he sank to the ground. Gilles stood by unmoved. The insanity of egotism is of course productive of great if not lofty courage, and he feared neither man nor fiend. Suddenly the alchemist regained consciousness and told his master that the Devil had appeared to him in the shape of a leopard and had growled at him horribly. He ascribed Gilles’ lack of supernatural vision to want of faith. He then declared that the Evil One had told him where certain herbs grew in Spain and Africa, the juices of which possessed the power to effect the transmutation, and these he obligingly offered to search for, provided the Lord of Retz furnished the means for his travels. This Gilles gladly did, and of course never beheld the Poitevin knave again.

Days and months passed and the physician did not 178 return. Gilles grew uneasy. It was imperative that gold should be forthcoming immediately, for not only was he being pressed on every side, but he was unable to support his usual magnificence. In this dilemma he turned to Prelati, his remaining alchemical assistant. This man appears to have believed in his art or he would not have made the terrible suggestion he did, which was that the Lord of Retz should sign with his own blood a compact with the Devil, and should offer up a young child in sacrifice to him. To this proposal the unhappy Gilles consented. On the following night Prelati quitted the castle, and returned shortly afterward with the story that the fiend had appeared to him in the likeness of a young man who desired to be called Barron, and had pointed out to him the resting-place of a hoard of ingots of pure gold, buried under an oak in the neighbouring wood. Certain conditions, however, must be observed before the treasure was dug up, the chief of which was that it must not be searched for until a period of seven times seven weeks had elapsed, or it would turn into slates. With these conditions de Retz would not comply, and, alarmed at his annoyance, the obliging Prelati curtailed the time of waiting to seven times seven days. At the end of that period the alchemist and his dupe repaired to the wood to dig up the treasure. They worked hard for some time, and at length came upon a load of slates, inscribed with magical characters. Prelati pretended great wrath, and upbraided the Evil One for his deceit, in which denunciation he was heartily joined by de Retz. But so credulous was the Seigneur that he allowed himself to be persuaded to afford Satan another trial, which meant, of course, that Prelati led him on from day to day with 179 specious promises and ambiguous hints, until he had drained him of nearly all his remaining substance. He was then preparing to decamp with his plunder when a dramatic incident detained him.

For some time a rumour had been circulating in the country-side that numerous children were missing and that they had been spirited away. Popular clamour ran high, and suspicion was directed toward the castle of Champtocé. So circumstantial was the evidence against de Retz that at length the Duke of Brittany ordered both the Seigneur and his accomplice to be arrested. Their trial took place before a commission which de Retz denounced, declaring that he would rather be hanged like a dog, without trial, than plead before its members. But the evidence against him was overwhelming. It was told how the wretched madman, in his insane quest for gold, had sacrificed his innocent victims on the altar of Satan, and how he had gloated over their sufferings. Finally he confessed his enormities and told how nearly a hundred children had been cruelly murdered by him and his relentless accomplice. Both he and Prelati were doomed to be burned alive, but in consideration of his rank he was strangled before being cast into the flames. Before the execution he expressed to Prelati a hope that they would meet in Paradise, and, it is said, met his end very devoutly.

The castle of Champtocé still stands in its beautiful valley, and many romantic legends cluster about its grey old walls. “The hideous, half-burnt body of the monster himself,” says Trollope, “circled with flames—pale, indeed, and faint in colour, but more lasting than those the hangman kindled around his mortal form in 180 the meadow under the walls of Nantes—is seen, on bright moonlight nights, standing now on one topmost point of craggy wall, and now on another, and is heard mingling his moan with the sough of the night-wind. Pale, bloodless forms, too, of youthful growth and mien, the restless, unsepulchred ghosts of the unfortunates who perished in these dungeons unassoiled ... may at similar times be seen flitting backward and forward, in numerous groups, across the space enclosed by the ruined wall, with more than mortal speed, or glancing hurriedly from window to window of the fabric, as still seeking to escape from its hateful confinement.”[41]

As has been said, the story of Gilles de Retz is connected by tradition with that of Bluebeard, but it is probable that this traditional connexion arises simply from the association of two famous tales. The other legend in question is that of Comorre the Cursed, whose story is told in the frescoes which cover the wall of the church of St Nicolas de Bieuzy, dedicated to St Triphyne, in which the tale of Bluebeard is depicted as the story of the saint, who in history was the wife of Comorre. Comorre was a chief who ruled at Carhaix, in Finistère, and his tale, which owes its modern dress to Émile Souvestre, himself a Breton, and author of Derniers Bretons and the brilliant sketch Un Philosophe sous les Toits. The tale, translated, runs as follows:

Guerech, Count of Vannes, ‘the Country of White Corn,’ had a daughter, Triphyna, whom he tenderly loved. One day ambassadors arrived from Comorre, a prince of Cornouaille, ‘the Country of Black Corn,’ demanding 181 her in marriage. Now this caused great distress, for Comorre was a giant, and one of the wickedest of men, held in awe by every one for his cruelty. As a boy, when he went out, his mother used to ring a bell to warn people of his approach; and when unsuccessful in the chase he would set his dogs on the peasants to tear them to pieces. But most horrible of all, he had had four wives, who had all died one after the other, it was suspected either by the knife, fire, water, or poison. The Count of Vannes, therefore, dismissed the ambassadors, and advanced to meet Comorre, who was approaching with a powerful army; but St Gildas went into Triphyna’s oratory and begged her to save bloodshed and consent to the marriage. He gave her a silver ring, which would warn her of any intended evil by turning as black as a crow’s wing at the approach of danger.

The marriage took place with great rejoicings. The first day six thousand guests were invited; on the next day as many poor were fed, the bride and the bridegroom themselves serving at the tables. For some time all went well. Comorre’s nature seemed altered; his prisons were empty, his gibbets untenanted. But Triphyna felt no confidence, and every day went to pray at the tombs of his four wives. At this time there was an assembly of the Breton princes at Rennes, which Comorre was obliged to attend. Before his departure he gave Triphyna his keys, desiring her to amuse herself in his absence. After five months he unexpectedly returned, and found her occupied trimming an infant’s cap with gold lace. On seeing the cap Comorre turned pale; and when Triphyna joyfully announced to him that soon he would be a 182 father he drew back in a rage and rushed out of the apartment. Triphyna saw that her ring had turned black, which betokened danger, she knew not why. She descended into the chapel to pray. When she rose to depart the hour of midnight struck, and suddenly a sound of movement in the silent chapel chilled her at the heart; shrinking into a recess, she saw the four tombs of Comorre’s wives open slowly, and the women all issued forth in their winding-sheets.

Faint with terror, Triphyna tried to escape; but the spectres cried: “Take care, poor lost one! Comorre seeks to kill you.”

“Me,” said the Countess. “What evil have I done?”

“You have told him that you will soon become a mother; and, through the Spirit of Evil, he knows that his child will slay him. He murdered us when we told him what he has just learned from you.”

“What hope, then, of refuge remains for me?” cried Triphyna.

“Go back to your father,” answered the phantoms.

“But how escape when Comorre’s dog guards the court?”

“Give him this poison which killed me,” said the first wife.

“But how can I descend yon high wall?”

“By means of this cord which strangled me,” answered the second wife.

“But who will guide me through the dark?”

“The fire that burnt me,” replied the third wife.

“And how can I make so long a journey?” returned Triphyna.

“Take this stick which broke my skull,” rejoined the fourth spectre.

Armed with the poison, the rope, and the stick, Triphyna set out, silenced the dog, scaled the wall, and, miraculously 183 guided on her way through the darkness by a glowing light, proceeded on her road to Vannes. On awaking next morning Comorre found that his wife had fled, and pursued her on horseback. The poor fugitive, seeing her ring turn black, turned off the road and hid herself till night in the cabin of a shepherd, where there was only an old magpie in a cage at the door, and here her baby was born. Comorre, who had given up the pursuit, was returning home by that road, when he heard the magpie trying to imitate her complaints and calling out “Poor Triphyna!” Guessing that his wife had passed that way, he set his dog on the track.

Meanwhile Triphyna felt she could proceed no farther, and lay down on the ground with her baby boy. As she clasped the child in her arms she saw over her head a falcon with a golden collar, which she recognized as her father’s. The bird came at her call, and giving it the warning ring of St Gildas she told it to fly with it to her father. The bird obeyed, and flew like lightning to Vannes; but almost at the same instant Comorre arrived. Having parted with her warning ring, Triphyna, who had no notice of his approach, had only time to conceal her babe in the cavity of a tree when Comorre threw himself upon her, and with one blow from his sword severed her head from her body.

When the falcon arrived at Vannes he found the Count at dinner with St Gildas. He let the ring fall into the silver cup of his master, who, recognizing it, exclaimed:

“My daughter is in danger! Saddle the horses, and let Saint Gildas accompany us.” Following the falcon, they soon reached the spot where Triphyna lay dead. After they had all knelt in prayer, St Gildas said to the corpse: “Arise, take thy head and thy child, and follow 184 us.” The dead body obeyed, the bewildered troop followed; but, gallop as fast as they could, the headless body was always in front, carrying the babe in her left hand, and her pale head in the right. In this manner they reached the castle of Comorre.

“Count,” called St Gildas before the gates, “I bring back thy wife such as thy wickedness has made her, and thy child such as heaven has given it thee. Wilt thou receive them under thy roof?”

Comorre was silent. The Saint three times repeated the question, but no voice returned an answer. Then St Gildas took the new-born infant from its mother and placed it on the ground. The child marched alone to the edge of the moat, picked up a handful of earth, and, throwing it against the castle, exclaimed: “Let the Trinity execute judgment.” At the same instant the towers shook and fell with a crash, the walls yawned open, and the castle sunk, burying Comorre and all his partners in crime. St Gildas then replaced Triphyna’s head upon her shoulders, laid his hands upon her, and restored her to life, to the great joy of her father. Such is the history of Triphyna and Comorre.

The legend of the submerged city of Ys, or Is, is perhaps the most romantic and imaginative effort of Breton popular legend. Who has not heard of the submerged bells of Ys, and who has not heard them ring in the echoes of his own imagination?

This picturesque legend[42] tells us that in the early days 185 of the Christian epoch the city of Ys, or Ker-is, was ruled by a prince called Gradlon, surnamed Meur, which in Celtic means ‘the Great.’ Gradlon was a saintly and pious man, and acted as patron to Gwénnolé, founder and first abbé of the first monastery built in Armorica. But, besides being a religious man, Gradlon was a prudent prince, and defended his capital of Ys from the invasions of the sea by constructing an immense basin to receive the overflow of the water at high tide. This basin had a secret gate, of which the King alone possessed the key, and which he opened and closed at the necessary times.

Gradlon, as is so often the case with pious men, had a wayward child, the princess Dahut, who on one occasion while her father was sleeping gave a secret banquet to her lover, in which the pair, excited with wine, committed folly after folly, until at last it occurred to the frivolous girl to open the sluice-gate. Stealing noiselessly into her sleeping father’s chamber she detached from his girdle the key he guarded so jealously and opened the gate. The water immediately rushed in and submerged the entire city.

But, as usual, there is more than one version of this interesting legend. The city of Ys, says another account, was a place rich in commerce and the arts, but so given over to luxury as to arouse the ire of St Gwénnolé, who, in the manner of Jeremiah, foretold its ruin. It was situated where now a piece of water, the Étang de Laval, washes the desolate shores of the Bay of Trépassés—though another version of the tale has it that it stood in the vast basin which now forms the Bay of Douarnenez. A strong dike protected it from the ocean, the sluices only admitting sufficient water for the 186 needs of the town. Gradlon constantly bore round his neck a silver key which opened at the same time the vast sluices and the city gates. He lived in great state in a palace of marble, cedar, and gold, and his only grief was the conduct of his daughter Dahut, who, it is said, “had made a crown of her vices and taken for her pages the seven capital sins.” But retribution was at hand, and the wicked city met with sudden destruction, for one night Dahut stole the silver key for the purpose of opening the city gates to admit her lover, and in the darkness by mistake opened the sluices. King Gradlon was awakened by St Gwénnolé, who commanded him to flee, as the torrent was reaching the palace. He mounted his horse, and, taking his worthless daughter behind him, set off at a gallop, the incoming flood seething and boiling at his steed’s fetlocks. The torrent was about to overtake and submerge him when a voice from behind called out: “Throw the demon thou carriest into the sea, if thou dost not desire to perish.” Dahut at that moment fell from the horse’s back into the water, and the torrent immediately stopped its course. Gradlon reached Quimper safe and sound, but nothing is said as to his subsequent career.

An ancient ballad on the subject, which, however, bears marks of having been tampered with, states, on the other hand, that Gradlon led his people into extravagances of every kind, and that Dahut received the key from him, the misuse of which precipitated the catastrophe. Dahut, the ballad continues, became a mermaid and haunted the waters which roll over the site of the city where she loved and feasted. “Fisherman,” ends the ballad, “have you seen the daughter of the sea combing her golden hair in the midday sun 187 at the fringes of the beach?” “Yes,” replies the fisherman, “I have seen the white daughter of the sea, and I have heard her sing, and her songs were plaintive as the sound of the waves.”

The legend of Ys, of the town swallowed up by the sea, is common to the several branches of the Celtic race. In Wales the site of the submerged city is in Cardigan Bay, and in Ireland it is Lough Neagh, as Tom Moore says:

This legend had its rise in an extraordinary story which was given currency to by Giraldus Cambrensis in his Topography of Ireland, to the effect that a certain extremely wicked tribe were punished for their sins by the inundation of their territory.

“Now there was a common proverb,” says Gerald, “in the mouths of the tribe, that whenever the well-spring of that country was left uncovered (for out of reverence shown to it, from a barbarous superstition, the spring was kept covered and sealed), it would immediately overflow and inundate the whole province, drowning and destroying the whole population. It happened, however, on some occasion that a young woman, who had come to the spring to draw water, after filling her pitcher, but before she had closed the well, ran in great haste to her little boy, whom she had heard crying at a spot not far from the spring where she had left him. But the voice of the people is the voice of God; and on her way back she met such a flood of water from the spring that it swept off her and the boy, and the inundation was so violent that they both, and the whole tribe, with 188 their cattle, were drowned in an hour in this partial and local deluge. The waters, having covered the whole surface of that fertile district, were converted into a permanent lake. A not improbable confirmation of this occurrence is found in the fact that the fishermen in that lake see distinctly under the water, in calm weather, ecclesiastical towers, which, according to the custom of the country, are slender and lofty, and moreover round; and they frequently point them out to strangers travelling through these parts, who wonder what could have caused such a catastrophe.”

In the Welsh version of this fascinating legend it is the bard Gwyddno, of the twelfth century, who tells of the downfall of the submerged city, and two of the strophes which occur in his poem are also found in the Breton poem. The Welsh bard may have received the story from Breton sources, or the converse may be the case.

The legend that Cardigan Bay contains a submerged territory is widely known, and strangely enough seems to be corroborated by the shape of the coast-line, the contour of which suggests the subsidence of a large body of land. Like their brothers of Ireland, the fishermen of Wales assert that at low tide they can see the ruins of ancient edifices far down beneath the clear waters of the bay.[43]

Before the days of the French Revolution there was still to be seen at Quimper, between the two towers of the cathedral, a figure of King Gradlon mounted on his faithful courser, but in the stormy year of 1793 the name of king was in bad odour and the ignorant populace deprived the statue of its head. However, in 1859 it 189 was restored. Legend attributes the introduction of the vine into Brittany to King Gradlon, and on St Cecilia’s Day a regular ritual was gone through in Quimper in connexion with his counterfeit presentment. A company of singers mounted on a platform. While they sang a hymn in praise of King Gradlon, one of the choristers, provided with a flagon of wine, a napkin, and a golden hanap (or cup), mounted on the crupper of the King’s horse, poured out a cup of wine, which he offered ceremoniously to the lips of the statue and then drank himself, carefully wiped with his napkin the moustache of the King, placed a branch of laurel in his hand, and then threw down the hanap in the midst of the crowd below, in honour of the first planter of the grape in Brittany. To whoever caught the cup before it fell, and presented it uninjured to the Chapter, was adjudged a prize of two hundred crowns.

There is a distinct savour of myth about all this. Can it be that Gradlon was a Breton Bacchus? There are notices of Celtic goddesses in whose honour Bacchic rites were held, and the place of these was sometimes taken by a corn god. Later the festival in its memorial aspect appears to have been associated with different kings[44] in the various parts of the Celtic world, and it seems likely that Gradlon was such a monarch who had taken the place of a vanished deity. It must be left to Celtic scholars to determine whether the name Gradlon possesses any deific significance hidden in its etymology.

Jeanne de Rohan, daughter of Alain, fifth of the name, Viscount of Rohan, married in the year 1236 Matthew, 190 Seigneur of Beauvau, son of René, Constable of Naples. Breton popular poetry has in many ballads recounted the adventures of Jeanne and her husband, one of which is as follows[45]:

At the age of thirteen Jeanne consented to be married, but she desired that she herself should be allowed to choose her husband. Accordingly the cavaliers and barons of the district were invited to pay their court to her, and she fixed her affections upon the Seigneur of Beauvau, a valiant noble with large possessions in Italy. He was loyal and courteous, and when the pair were wedded their happiness seemed perfect.

At this period the war in Palestine against the infidels was agitating the whole of Europe. The Seigneur of Beauvau desired to join the Crusaders, but his wife was by no means anxious that he should leave his home. But his principle was noblesse oblige. “I am of the most noble blood,” he said; “therefore it behoves me to be the first to lead the way.”

He confided the care of his estates and his affairs in general to his wife’s cousin, who was known as the Clerk of Rohan, and begged him to look well after Jeanne and his little son. Then, having bid farewell to them all, he mounted his horse and rode away to the wars.

Jeanne was inconsolable. For days she wandered about the château carrying her baby boy in her arms and sobbing. All the domestic circle seemed disturbed at the Seigneur’s departure except the Clerk of Rohan, 191 to whom Count Matthew had so trustingly confided the charge of his affairs.

The Seigneur had declared that he would return within a year’s time. A year passed, however, and no news of him had been received. Now the Clerk was a perfidious and wicked schemer, and one morning as he and Jeanne were in conversation he hinted that the year within which the Seigneur had promised to return was now gone by and that the war in which he had been engaged had come to an end. He made no secret of his passion for the lady, but she on her part turned upon him angrily, saying: “Is it the fashion nowadays for women to consider themselves widows, knowing well that their husbands are alive? Go to, miserable Clerk, thy heart is full of wickedness. If my husband were here he would break thee in little pieces!”

When the Clerk heard this he went secretly to the kennels, and there he slew the Seigneur’s favourite greyhound. Taking some of its blood, he wrote with it a letter to Count Matthew telling him that his wife was most unhappy because of an accident which had occurred; that she had been hunting the deer, and that in the chase his favourite greyhound had died from over-exertion. The Seigneur duly received the letter, and in his reply told the Clerk to comfort the lady, as he was quite able to replace the hound. At the same time he desired that hunting should cease for the present, as the huntsmen seemed unskilful in their conduct of the chase.

The wicked Clerk once more sought the lady.

“Alas!” said he, “you are losing your beauty by weeping night and day.”

“I will know how to recover my beauty when my husband returns,” she replied coldly.

“Do not cheat yourself,” he said. “Surely you can see by this time that he is either dead or has taken another wife. In the East there are many beautiful girls who are far wealthier than you.”

“If he has taken another wife,” said the lady, “I shall die; and if he be dead I ask for naught but death. Leave me, miserable wretch. Thy tongue is poisoned with deceit.”

When the Clerk had sufficiently recovered from this second rebuff, he betook himself to the stables, where the Seigneur’s horse, the most beautiful in the country, stood champing in its stall. The wretch, drawing his poignard, thrust it into the noble steed’s entrails, and, as he had done in the case of the greyhound, took some of the blood and wrote once more to the Count.

“Another accident has occurred at the château,” he said, “but, my dear Seigneur, pray do not trouble yourself on account of it. When your wife was returning from a feast in the night your favourite horse fell and broke two of his legs, and had to be destroyed.”

The Seigneur replied that he was grieved to hear of the circumstance, and that in order to avoid further mischances of the sort it would be better that his wife should frequent no more feasts.

A third time the perfidious Clerk sought the lady. On this occasion he threatened her with death if she would not be his, but she replied in the most spirited manner that she loved death a thousand times better than him. At these words he could not contain his rage, and, drawing his dagger, thrust fiercely at her head. But the lady’s guardian angel turned the stroke 193 and the weapon struck harmlessly against the wall. She fled from the room, closing the door behind her as she went; whereupon the Clerk rushed downstairs to the nursery where her child was quietly sleeping in its cradle, and, seeing no one beside it, stabbed the slumbering infant to the heart.

Then he wrote to the Seigneur: “Hasten your return, I beg of you, for it is necessary that you should be here to establish order. Your dog and your white courser have perished, but that is not the worst. Your little son, alas! is also dead. The great sow devoured him when your wife was at a ball with the miller for a gallant.”

When the Seigneur received this letter he returned at once from the wars, his anger rising higher and higher with every homeward league. When he arrived at the château he struck three times upon the door with his hand, and his summons was answered by the Clerk.

“How now, evil Clerk,” shouted the infuriated Count, “did I not leave my wife in your care?” and with these words he thrust his lance into the Clerk’s open mouth, so that the point stood out at the nape of his neck. Then, mounting the stairs, he entered his wife’s chamber, and without speaking a word stabbed her with his sword.

The ballad then goes on to speak of the burial of the victims of the wicked Clerk. The lady, dressed all in white, was laid in her tomb by the light of the moon and the stars. On her breast lay her little son, on her right the favourite greyhound, and on her left the white courser, and it is said that in her grave she first caresses one and then the other, and the infant, as if jealous, nestles closer to his mother’s heart.

The château of La Garaye, near Dinan, is rendered famous by the virtues and boundless charity of its Count, Claude Toussaint Marot de La Garaye, and his wife. Their interesting story is told in the charming poem of Mrs Norton, The Lady of La Garaye:

Count Claude de La Garaye and his wife were young, beautiful, and endowed with friends, riches, and all that could make life bright and happy. They entertained generously and enjoyed the pleasures and amusements of the world. But one day misfortune overtook them, for the Countess was thrown from her horse, and she was left a cripple for life, while all expectations of an heir vanished. Both were inconsolable at their disappointment. One day a monk came to visit them, and tried to comfort them, seeking by his conversation to turn their thoughts from earthly afflictions to heavenly consolation.

“Ah, my father,” said the lady, “how happy are you, to love nothing on earth!”

“You are mistaken,” answered the monk; “I love all those who are in sorrow or suffering. But I submit myself to the will of the Almighty, and bend myself with resignation to every blow He strikes.”

He proceeded to show them that there was still a great deal of happiness in store for them in ministering to the needs of others. Following his counsel, they went to 195 Paris, where for three years the Count studied medicine and surgery, and his wife became a skilful oculist. On their return to La Garaye they gave up all the amusements of society and devoted themselves to relieving the sufferings of their fellow-creatures. Their house was converted into a hospital for the sick and afflicted, under the ministering care of the Count and his benevolent wife:

Nor was their philanthropy confined to their own province. In 1729 they offered themselves to M. de Belsunce—“Marseilles’ good bishop”—to assist him during the visitation of the plague. The fame of their virtues reached even the French Court, and Louis XV sent Count de La Garaye the Order of St Lazarus, with a donation of 50,000 livres and a promise of 25,000 more. They both died at an advanced age, within two years of each other, and were buried among their poor at Taden. Their marble mausoleum in the church was destroyed during the French Revolution. The Count left a large sum to be distributed among the prisoners, principally English, pent up in the crowded gaols of Rennes and Dinan. He had attended the English prisoners at Dinan during a contagious fever called the 196 ‘peste blanche,’ and in acknowledgment of his humanity Queen Caroline sent him two dogs with silver collars round their necks, and an English nobleman made him a present of six more.

The ruined château is approached by an ivy-covered gateway, through an avenue of beeches. As Mrs Norton renders it:

The ruin is fast falling to pieces. The principal part remaining is an octagonal turret of three stories, with elegant Renaissance decoration round the windows.

An interesting and picturesque ballad sung in the Black Mountains is that of The Falcon. Geoffrey, first Duke of Brittany, was departing for Rome in the year 1008, leaving the government of the country in the hands of his wife Ethwije, sister of Richard of Normandy. As he was about to set out on his pilgrimage the falcon which he carried on his wrist after the manner of the nobles of the period, swooped down on and killed the hen of a poor peasant woman. The woman in a rage seized a large stone and cast it at the bird with such violence that it slew not only the falcon but the Duke himself. The death of the Duke was followed by a most desperate insurrection among the people. History does not enlighten us as to the cause of this rising, but tradition attributes it to the invasion of Brittany by the Normans (whom the widow of Geoffrey at once brought into the country on the demise of her husband) and the 197 exactions which were wrung from the peasants by these haughty aliens.

The ballad, which was used as a war-song by the Bretons at a later day, begins in true ballad style: “The falcon has strangled the fowl, the peasant woman has slain the Count who oppressed the people, the poor people, like a brute-beast.”

The hate of the stranger so characteristic of the old Bretons then flashes forth. “The country has been polluted by the foreigner, by the men of the Gallic land, and because of the death of a hen and a falcon Brittany is on fire, blood flows, and there is great dole among the people.”

On the summit of the Black Mountain thirty stout peasants had gathered to celebrate the ancient feast of the good St John. Among them was Kado the Striver, who stood there gravely leaning on his iron pitchfork. For a while he looked upon his comrades; then he opened his lips:

“What say you, fellow-peasants? Do you intend to pay this tax? As for me, I shall certainly not pay it. I had much rather be hanged. Nevermore shall I pay this unjust tax. My sons go naked because of it, my flocks grow less and less. No more shall I pay. I swear it by the red brands of this fire, by Saint Kado my patron, and by Saint John.”

“My fortunes are broken, I am completely ruined,” growled one of his companions. “Before the year is out I shall be compelled to beg my bread.”

Then all rose at once as if by a common impulse.

“None of us will pay this tax! We swear it by the Sun and by the Moon, and by the great sea which encircles this land of Brittany!”

Kado, stepping out from the circle, seized a firebrand, and holding it aloft cried: “Let us march, comrades, and strike a blow for freedom!”

The enthusiasm of his companions burst out afresh. Falling into loose ranks they followed him. His wife marched by his side in the first rank, carrying a reaping-hook on her shoulder and singing as she marched.

“Quickly, quickly, my children! We go to strike a blow for liberty! Have I brought thirty sons into the world to beg their bread, to carry firewood or to break stones, or bear burdens like beasts? Are they to till the green land and the grey land with bare feet while the rich feed their horses, their hunting-dogs, and their falcons better than they are fed? No! It is to slay the oppressors that I have borne so many sons!”

Quickly they descended the mountains, gathering numbers as they went. Now they were three thousand strong, five thousand strong, and when they arrived at Langoad nine thousand strong. When they came to Guérande they were thirty thousand strong. The houses of those who had ground them down were wrapped in flames, fiercely ends the old ballad, “and the bones of those who had oppressed them cracked, like those of the damned in Tartarus.”

History tells us nothing concerning Kado the Striver, but it is most unlikely that he is a mere figment of popular imagination. What history does record, however, is that the wicked Duchess and her host of mercenary Normans were forced to flee, and that her place was taken by a more just and righteous ruler.

Breton tradition speaks of a wild young nobleman, Louis-François de Guérande, Seigneur of Locmaria, who flourished in the early part of the seventeenth century. He was wealthy, and lived a life of reckless abandon; indeed, he was the terror of the parish and the despair of his pious mother, who, whenever he sallied forth upon adventure bent, rang the bell of the château, to give the alarm to the surrounding peasantry. The ballad which tells of the infamous deeds of this titled ruffian, and which was composed by one Tugdual Salaün, a peasant of Plouber,[46] opens upon a scene of touching domestic happiness. The Clerk of Garlon was on a visit to the family of his betrothed.

“Tell me, good mother,” he asked, “where is Annaïk? I am anxious that she should come with me to dance on the green.”

“She is upstairs asleep, my son. Take care,” added the old woman roguishly, “that you do not waken her.”

The Clerk of Garlon ran lightly up the staircase and knocked at Annaïk’s door.

“Come, Annaïk,” he cried; “why are you asleep when all the others go to dance upon the village green?”

“I do not wish to go to the dance, for I fear the Marquis of Guérande,” replied the girl.

The Clerk of Garlon laughed. “The Marquis of Guérande cannot harm you so long as I am with you,” he said lightly. “Come, Annaïk; were there a hundred such as he I should protect you from them.”

Reassured by her lover’s brave words, the girl rose and put on her dress of white delaine. They were a joyous and beautiful pair. The Clerk was gaily dressed, with a peacock’s feather in his hat and a chain on his breast, while his betrothed wore a velvet corsage embroidered with silver.

On that evening the Marquis of Guérande leaped on his great red steed and sallied forth from his château. Galloping along the road, he overtook the Clerk of Garlon and his betrothed on their way to the dance.

“Ha!” he cried, “you go to the dance, I see. It is customary to wrestle there, is it not?”

“It is, Seigneur,” replied the Clerk, doffing his hat.

“Then throw off your doublet and let us try a fall or two,” said Guérande, with a wicked look at Annaïk which was not lost upon her lover.

“Saving your grace, I may not wrestle with you,” said the Clerk, “for you are a gentleman and I am nobody. You are the son of a lord and I am the son of a peasant.”

“Ha! what! The son of a peasant, say you, and you take your choice of the pretty girls of the village?”

“Seigneur, pardon me. I did not choose this maiden; God gave her to me.”

During this parley Annaïk stood by, trembling violently. She had heard of the Marquis of Guérande, and was only too well aware of the evil and reckless character he bore. The Clerk tried to calm her fears by whispered words and pressures of the hand, but the wicked Marquis, observing the state of terror she was in, exulted in the alarm he was causing her.

“Well, fellow,” said he, “since you cannot wrestle with me perhaps you will try a bout of sword-play.”

At these words Annaïk’s rosy cheeks became deathly white; but the Clerk of Garlon spoke up like a man.

“My lord,” he said, “I do not wear a sword. The club is my only weapon. Should you use your sword against me it would but stain it.”

The wicked Marquis uttered a fiendish laugh. “If I stain my sword, by the Saints, I shall wash it in your blood,” he cried, and as he spoke he passed his rapier through the defenceless Clerk’s body.

At the sight of her slain lover the gentle heart of Annaïk broke, and a great madness came upon her. Like a tigress she leapt upon the Marquis and tore his sword from his hand. Without his rapier he was as a child in the grasp of the powerful Breton peasant woman. Exerting all her strength, in a frenzy of grief she dragged the wretch to the green where the dance was in progress, haling him round and round it until exhausted. At last she dropped his senseless body on the green turf and hastened homeward.

And once again we encounter the haunting refrain: “My good mother, if you love me make my bed, for I am sick unto death.”

“Why, daughter, you have danced too much; it is that which has made you sick.”

“I have not danced at all, mother; but the wicked Marquis has slain my poor Clerk. Say to the sexton who buries him: ‘Do not throw in much earth, for in a little while you will have to place my daughter beside him in this grave.’ Since we may not share the same marriage-bed we shall at least sleep in the same tomb, and if we have not been married in this world we shall at least be joined in heaven.”

The reader will be relieved to learn that the hero of 202 this ballad, the Clerk of Garlon, was not killed after all, and that for once fact is enabled to step in to correct the sadness of fiction; for, when one comes to think of it, there are few sadder things in the world than the genuine folk-ballad, which, although at the time it may arouse æsthetic emotions, may yet afterward give rise to haunting pain. We are glad to be able to chronicle, then, that the worthy Clerk did not die of his wound as stated by Tugdual Salaün of the parish of Plouber, author of the ballad, and that the wicked Marquis escaped the halter, which, according to Breton custom, he would not otherwise have done had the Clerk died. His good mother took upon herself the burden of an annual pension to the Clerk’s aged parents, and adopted the second child of Annaïk, who had duly married her sweetheart, and this little one she educated, furthering its interests in every possible manner. As for the Marquis, he actually settled down, and one cannot help feeling chagrined that such a promising rogue should have turned talents so eminently suitable for the manufacture of legendary material into more humdrum courses. Conscious of the gravity of his early misdemeanours, he founded a hospital for the poor of the parish, and each evening in one of the windows of this place the peasants could see a light which burned steadily far into the night. If any asked the reason for this illumination he was told: “It is the Marquis of Guérande, who lies awake praying God to pardon his youth.”

The châteaux of Brittany may truly be called the historical and legendary shrines of the province, for within their halls, keeps, and donjons Breton tradition 203 and history were made. It is doubtful, indeed, if the castellated mansions of any other country, save, perhaps, those of the Rhine, harbour so many legends, arising either from the actual historical happenings connected with them or from those more picturesque yet terrible associations which they are popularly supposed to have with the powers of evil. The general appearance of such a building as the Breton château admirably lends itself to sombre tradition. The massy walls seem thick enough to retain all secrets, and the cry for vengeance for blood spilt within them cannot pass to the outer world through the narrow meurtrières or arrow-slits of the avant-corps. The broad yet lofty towers which flank the front rise into a toiture or coiffe like an enchanter’s conical cap. The lucarnes, or attic casements, are guarded on either side by gargoyles grim of aspect, or perhaps by griffins holding the shield-borne arms of dead and gone seigneurs. Seek where you will, among the wizard-houses of old Prague, the witch-dens of ancient Edinburgh, the bat-haunted castles of Drachenfels or Rheinstein, you will come at nothing built of man more informed with the soul of the Middle Ages, more drenched with their peculiar savour of mystery, than these stark keeps whose crests and girouettes rise above encircling woods or frown upon mirroring rivers over the length and breadth of the Breton land.

One of the most typical of the châteaux of Brittany is that of La Roche-Jagu, at one time the guardian of the mouth of the river Trieux. It is built on the top of a hill which overhangs the Trieux, and from one of its battlemented galleries a splendid view of the windings 204 of the river can be obtained. The wall on this side of the fortress is so thick as to allow of a chapel being hewn out of its solidity. A most distinctive architectural note is struck by the fourteen wonderful chimney-shafts of cut stone ornamented with iron spikes.

Some miles farther down the river, but on its opposite side, is the imposing castle of Tonquédec, perhaps the finest remnant of the medieval military architecture of Brittany. It has always remained in the family of the Viscounts of Coêtman, who ranked among the foremost of the Breton nobility, though one of them espoused the cause of the Constable Clisson against Duke John IV, and had the anguish of seeing his ancestral fortress razed to the ground. Under Henry IV, however, the castle was restored, only to be again demolished by order of Cardinal Richelieu, who strongly and forcibly disapproved of such powerful fortalices.

It had an outer enclosure, and had to be entered by a drawbridge, and it was strengthened in every way conceivable to the military art of the times. It was surrounded by dwellings for the convenience of the seigneur’s retainers, a fine salle d’armes still remaining. To the keep, four stories high, a flying bridge led, in order to facilitate the withdrawal of the garrison in case of siege. Behind walls ten feet thick, so long as food and ammunition lasted, the inmates could hold the enemy in scorn.

The château of Clisson, once the property of the great Constable Oliver de Clisson, whom the Viscount of 205 Coêtman and the Bretons of Penthièvre had championed, is now only a grand old ruin, a touching monument of the architectural splendours of former days. By moonlight it makes a scene not easily forgotten, gaunt and still and ruggedly imposing, the silent reminder of events and people tales of whom will not readily die, the treasurer of secrets it will probably never yield. Its antithesis is the castle of Nantes, with the stamp of the Renaissance upon its delicately sculptured balconies and window-frames. It is now an arsenal, a fact which robs it of some of the romantic interest of Clisson, or, indeed, of ruins in general, yet within its walls are the prison chambers in which Gilles de Laval, the ambitious Finance Minister Fouquet, the Cardinal de Retz, and the Duchess of Berry once languished. For many years it served as one of the political prisons of France, though it is also associated with brighter and happier times; for here, on pleasure bent, lingered many of the Kings of France from Louis XI onward, and here in 1675 Madame de Sévigné sojourned, a circumstance which casts about it a literary as well as a romantic glamour. The great well in the courtyard, with its ornamental railing of wrought iron, is quite equal to the famous well of Quentin Matsys at Antwerp.

The castle of Josselin, also associated with the history of the great Constable Clisson and his allies, as well as with the notorious League whose followers wrought such intolerable misery in Brittany, is built on a rocky foundation near the river Oust. With its imposing front and conically roofed towers it is one of the best examples of a twelfth-century fortress-château. Very 206 different in tone is the architecture of the interior court, being that of the period when the lighter traceries and more imaginative lines of the Renaissance were in favour. The window-openings of the two first stories are beautiful enough to rival those of Chambord and equal those of Blois. Above the windows an open gallery runs, and in the space between each the device of the Rohans is carved, with their motto, A Plus, this celebrated family having built this part of the château. About the year 1400 Clisson added a keep, walls, and parapets, but in 1629, when the fortress was no longer a stronghold of the League, these were permitted to fall into ruin. Through the courtesy of the family now in residence this wonderfully preserved castle may be visited, a circumstance for which the tourist in Brittany should indeed be grateful. Interest within these massy walls clings around the well, with its ornamental railings, the noble and lofty hall, the library, with its magnificent chimney-piece, repeating again, in stone, the Rohan motto, A Plus, and the equestrian statue of Clisson, by Frémiet, in the dining-room.

Of the old château of Hennebont, where John of Montfort breathed his last after escaping from the Louvre of his day, only a heap of stones remains. The old fortress of Largoet is in much the same condition, nothing of the ancient structure having been conserved save the famous Tour d’Elven, considered to be the most beautiful castle keep in all Brittany, which has also a literary distinction as being the scene of some of the most touching episodes in Octave Feuillet’s Roman d’un jeune Homme pauvre.

At Châteaubriant, which owes its name to the compounding of the word ‘château’ with that of ‘Briant,’ the family style of its original lord, the old feudal fortress is now a ruin, but the castle, built by Jean de Laval, Governor of Brittany under Francis I, is in good repair. An inscription giving the date of the completion of the new château as 1538 is above the portal of the colonnade. There is a gruesome legend associated with the old château, in which for some time dwelt the unfortunate Françoise de Foix, Countess of Châteaubriant and beloved of Francis I. Tiring or becoming suspicious of her royal lover, she decided to return to her husband, the old Count of Laval. The reunion, however, was not productive of happiness, owing to the fever of jealousy in which her elderly husband lived because of the love affair with the King. This jealousy eventually flared into mania when he heard that she had actually visited her former lover in prison after he had been captured at Pavia. Instantly he “shut his young wife up in a darkened and padded cell, and finally had her cut into pieces by two surgeons,” so the story goes. Terrified at what he had done and of the consequences which were sure to follow when the King heard of his savagery, the Count fled the country immediately afterward.

The château of Brodineuf (dating from the twelfth century) and that of Caradeuc are in good repair, but the latter is ancient only in parts. It shelters two Murillos within its walls. The picturesque château of Combourg was in early times a feudal fortress, and in it René Châteaubriand’s infancy was passed. This place 208 may be visited by interested sightseers, and there they may view the writing-table of the author of Le Génie du Christianisme, and, in the bedroom he occupied at Combourg, the bed on which he died in Paris. The château of Vitré is also in a state of preservation, and is considered one of the best specimens of military architecture in the province. Comparatively near is the château of Rochers, once the home of Mme de Sévigné, and in consequence one of the famous sights of the country. The many letters she dated from this castle paint a vivid and detailed picture of social life in the seventeenth century, and fortunately the atmosphere of the time has been happily retained in the building itself.

Another twelfth-century structure is that of the château of Rustefan, near Quimperlé. It was built by Stephen, Count of Penthièvre, and belonged in the next century to Blanche of Castile, the mother of St Louis. The ruins now in existence are those of the château built in the fifteenth century, and its cylindrical tower, pinnacled doorway, and the stone mullions of the windows still remain fairly intact. The château of Kerjolet, in Concarneau, is one which has been saved from decay, restored as it was by Countess Chaveau-Narishkine and presented by her to the department. It contains a museum in which are specimens of all the costumes and coiffes of Lower Brittany, and antiquities of prehistoric and medieval times, which all students of Breton and Celtic lore should see.

The château of Tourlaville is situated among very beautiful surroundings, and is built in the classic style 209 of the Renaissance, with an angular tower. On chimney-piece and fireplace throughout the castle there are numerous sentimental devices in which Cupids and flaming hearts and torches figure largely, with the occasional accompaniment of verses and mottoes of an equally amatory nature. These are all seventeenth-century examples and may be taken as expressions of the time. In a boudoir called the Blue Chamber, because of the colour of its draperies and decorations, many coats-of-arms are emblazoned; but all the greatness to which these testify has become a thing of the past, for the château has now been turned into a farmhouse.

The château of Dinan may also be classed among the palaces of the past, for now, despite the fact that it was built by the Dukes of Brittany, it has become a prison. From the tourist as well as the romantic point of view this is somewhat of a tragedy. The Tower of Coëtquen, one of the ancient towers of the city wall, is practically part of the castle, and the keep, or Queen Anne’s Tower, is the most distinctive feature remaining. This keep is of four stories, and is over a hundred feet high, the last story being reached by a spiral staircase. What was once the oratory of the Duchess Anne is now the guard-room. There are still several dungeons whose original gruesomeness has been left untouched, and whose use in bygone days can well be imagined.

The château of Suscino is one of the chief sights of the neighbourhood of Vannes, because it is the ruin of what was once a marvellous structure of the thirteenth century, and follows the finest Gothic traditions of the time. All 210 the roofing of the building has quite disappeared, but its battlemented towers and walls remain to give a good idea of the architectural perfection that must have belonged to it. At one time it fell into the hands of Charles of Blois, only to be retaken by his rival, Montfort, in 1364, and in 1373 it was occupied by an English garrison. Eventually it was bestowed upon John of Châlons, Prince of Orange, by Anne of Brittany, but in time Francis I relieved him of it in order to present it to Françoise de Foix, the celebrated Lady of Châteaubriant. The irregular pentagon formed by the château is possibly somewhat modified from the original plan of 1320, and of the seven towers which flanked its gates and walls in the beginning six have weathered the storms of the times through which they have passed. Its orchid-shaped machicolations have also survived, and even to-day they are noticeably beautiful. The new tower is a fine cylindrical keep, dating from the fourteenth century, and over the entrance this legend still remains:

We have already dealt with many of the stories connected with the ancient castles of Brittany, and these will be found in nearly every chapter of this book, so varied are they. But no tale, however vivid, can hope to capture and retain all the wonder and mystery of these grand old strongholds, which must be seen in order to leave upon the imagination and memory the full impress of their weird and extraordinary fascination.

Soon after the Vicomte Hersart de la Villemarqué published his Barzaz-Breiz, a collection of popular ballads from the Breton, critics who possessed a knowledge of the language and were acquainted with its literature exposed the true nature of the work, acting, indeed, as did British critics when Macpherson published his fragments of Ossian. Villemarqué was, in fact, a Breton Macpherson. He would hear a Breton ballad sung or recited, and would then either enlarge upon it and torture it out of all resemblance to its original shape, or he would instigate a literary friend to do so. We must remember that such a proceeding was fashionable at the time, as no less a personage than Sir Walter Scott had led the way, and he had been preceded by Burns in the practice. But whereas Burns made no secret of what he did and greatly enhanced the poetical value of the songs and ballads he altered, Scott and his friends, Kirkpatrick Sharpe, Leyden, and others, indulged in what they described as the “mystification” of their acquaintances by these semi-forgeries. Like theirs, Villemarqué’s work had usually an historical or legendary basis, but it is impossible to say how much of it is original matter of folk-song and how much his own invention, unless we compare his versions with those furnished by M. Luzel in his Guerziou Breiz-Izel (1868), which, however, only contains a few of the originals of the tales given in the Barzaz-Breiz, and those not the most interesting.

I have cast the following tales into narrative form from the ballads published in the Barzaz-Breiz, where they 212 obviously appear as traditional tales in a polished, modern dress.[47] They may be regarded, largely, as efforts of the modern imagination regarding the Breton past. In any case the author of a book on Breton romances would not be justified in omitting all mention of Villemarqué and refraining from affording the reader a specimen of his work, any more than he would be in founding solely upon the labours of the Vicomte.

Morvan, chief of Léon, so celebrated in the history of the ninth century as one of the upholders of Breton independence, and known to tradition as ‘the Prop of Brittany,’ is the subject of a remarkable series of ballads or hero-tales in the Barzaz-Breiz which together constitute what is almost an epic. These tell of his life, death, adventures, travels, and the marvellous feats of derring-do he accomplished. In some measure he is to Breton legend what Arthur is to British or Holger to that of Denmark. That he is familiar to Breton tradition there can be no question, and whether Villemarqué himself wove the following adventures around him or not they are certainly typical of the age in which the hero flourished.

One day the child Morvan was sitting at the edge of the forest when a cavalier issued from its depths 213 armed at all points and riding a great charger. The boy, excited by his martial appearance, ran from him in terror, calling out that here indeed was St Michael; but the cavalier rode so swiftly that he soon came up with the lad, who devoutly threw himself on his knees and made the sign of the Cross, calling out:

“Seigneur Saint Michael, in the name of God I pray thee do me no harm!”

The knight laughed loudly. “Why, lad,” he said, “I am no more Saint Michael than I am a thief, but merely a belted knight, such as one may meet with by the score in this land of chivalry.”

“I have never seen a knight,” replied Morvan; “and what may that be which you carry?”

“That is called a lance, my boy.”

“And what are these that you wear on your head and breast?”

“The one is a casque and the other a breast-plate. They are intended to protect me from the stroke of sword and spear. But tell me, lad, have you seen any one pass this way?”

“Yes, Seigneur, a man went by this very road not half an hour agone.”

“Thank you, boy,” replied the knight. “If you are asked who spoke to you, say the Count of Quimper,” and with these words he spurred his horse and set off down the road in the direction which the little Morvan had indicated.

Morvan returned to his mother, who had been sitting some distance away, and began to tell her of his meeting. He was so full of the gallantry of the knight he had met, his grace and martial bearing, that the good dame 214 could not stem the torrent of words which flowed from him.

“Oh, mother,” he babbled on, “you never saw anyone so splendid as him whom I have seen to-day, a man more beautiful than the Lord Michael the Archangel, whose image is in our church.”

His mother smiled and patted him fondly on the cheek.

“Come, my son,” she said, “there is no man so beautiful as the Archangel Michael.”

But little Morvan shook his head.

“Saving your grace, there are, my mother,” he said gravely. “There are many men more splendid than Saint Michael, and they are called knights. How I wish that I might grow up and become a knight too!”

At these words the poor lady, who had lost her husband in battle and who dreaded that her only son might be taken from her, was seized with such dismay that she sank to the ground unconscious. The little Morvan, without turning his head, entered the stables and led out a fresh horse. Jumping lightly on the steed’s back, he turned its head in the direction in which the splendid cavalier had gone and rode hastily after him.

Ten years passed—years full of martial achievement and adventure for young Morvan. Then a desire to return to the ancestral mansion seized upon the youth, and he made his way homeward. But great was his dismay when he entered the courtyard of the manor and looked about him, for the blackberry bushes and the nettles were growing round the threshold of the house and the walls were half ruined and covered with ivy. As he was about to enter he observed a poor old blind woman standing in the entrance.

“Pardon me, dame, but perhaps you can give me hospitality for the night,” he said.

“Alas! sir, we have but little,” she replied. “This house has been allowed to go to ruin since its son and heir quitted it.”

As she ceased speaking a young damsel descended the broken stone steps, and after regarding Morvan for a moment burst into tears.

“How now, maiden,” said Morvan, “wherefore do you weep?”

“Alas, Seigneur,” replied the maiden, “I have a brother who left us ten years ago to lead the life of a warrior, and every time that I see a youth about his age I feel myself compelled to weep.”

“Tell me, my child,” said Morvan, “have you no other brother?”

“None in the world, Sir Knight.”

“And your mother, what of her?”

“Alas! sir, she too is gone. There is no one but myself and my old nurse in the house. My poor mother died of grief when my brother rode off to become a knight.”

On hearing these words Morvan was deeply affected.

“Alas!” he cried, “wretch that I am, I have slain her who gave me birth!”

When he spoke thus the damsel turned deadly pale.

“In the name of heaven, sir, who are you?” she cried. “How are you named?”

“I am Morvan, son of Conan, and Lez-Breiz is my surname, my sister.”

The young girl stared for a moment, sighed, and then 216 fell into his arms; but soon she opened her eyes and praised God that she had found her long-lost brother.

But Lez-Breiz could not remain long at home. The tented field was his fireside, the battle his sport. Adventure followed adventure in his full and stirring life. One day he said to his young squire:

“Arouse you, my squire, and furnish my sword, my casque, and my shield, that I may redden them in the blood of the Franks, for with the help of God and this right arm I shall carry slaughter into their ranks this day.”

“Tell me, my lord,” asked the squire, “shall I not fight along with you to-day?”

Morvan smiled at the lad’s eagerness, perhaps because he remembered his own on the day he met the Count of Quimper, then a grave shadow crossed his face.

“Think of your mother, lad,” said he. “What if you never return to her? Think of her grief should you die this day.”

“Ah, Seigneur,” entreated the stripling, “if you love me, grant my prayer; let me fight along with you.”

When Morvan rode out to battle an hour later his squire rode beside him, knee to knee. Passing near the church of St Anne of Armor they entered.

“O Saint Anne, most holy dame,” prayed Morvan, “I am not yet twenty years old and I have been in twenty battles. All those I have gained by your aid, and if I return again to this land I shall make you a rich gift. I shall give you enough candles to go three times round the walls of your church, and thrice round your churchyard—aye, 217 thrice round your lands, when I come home again; and further I shall give you a banner of white satin with an ivory staff. Also shall I give you seven silver bells which will ring gaily night and day above your head. And three times on my knees will I draw water for your use.”

The enemy saw Morvan coming from afar. He was mounted on a small white ass with a halter of hemp, to signify his contempt for them. Lorgnez, his chief foe, came against him with a troop of warriors, while Morvan had only his little squire behind him. The foemen came on, ten by ten, until they reached the Wood of Chestnuts. For a moment the little squire was dismayed, but a word from his master rallied him, and, drawing his sword, he spurred forward. Soon they came front to front with Lorgnez and hailed him in knightly fashion.

“Ho! Seigneur Lorgnez, good day to you.”

“Good morrow, Seigneur Morvan. Will you engage in single combat?”

“No; I despise your offer. Go back to your King and tell him that I mock him; and as for yourself, I laugh at you and those with you. Return to Paris, stay among your women, take off your mail and put on the silken armour of fops.”

Lorgnez’s face flamed with anger.

“By heaven!” he cried, “the lowest varlet in my company shall hew your casque from your head for this!”

At these words Morvan drew his great sword.

The old hermit of the wood heard some one knocking on the door of his cell. He opened it quickly and saw the young squire standing before him. He started 218 back at the sight of the youth’s blood-stained armour and death-pale countenance.

“Ha, my son,” he cried, “you are sorely hurt. Come and wash your wounds at the fountain and repose for a little.”

“I may not rest here, good father,” replied the squire, shaking his head. “I have come to find water to take to my young master, who has fallen in the fight. Thirty warriors lie slain by his hand. Of these the Chevalier Lorgnez was the first.”

“Brave youth!” said the hermit. “Alas that he has fallen!”

“Do not grieve, father. It is true that he has fallen, but it is only from fatigue. He is unwounded and will soon recover himself.”

When he was recovered Morvan betook him to the chapel of St Anne and rendered the gifts he had promised her.

“Praise be to Saint Anne,” cried he, “for she it is who has gained this victory.”

One day the King of the Franks was sitting among his courtiers.

“Would that some one would rid me of this pestilent Morvan, who constantly afflicts the Frankish land and slays my doughtiest warriors,” he said, on hearing of a fresh exploit on the part of the Breton chief.

Then the King’s blackamoor, who heard these words, arose and stood before his master. He was tall and great of thew and sinew—a giant among men, towering head and shoulders even above the tall Frankish warriors.

“Allow me to fulfil your wishes, sire,” he said. “Sir Morvan has sent me his glove, and if to-morrow I do not bring you his head I will willingly part with my own.”

On the next morning Morvan’s squire came to his master trembling violently.

“Seigneur,” he said, with ashy countenance, “the King’s Moor is here and bids you defiance.”

Morvan rose and took his sword.

“Alas! my dear master,” said the squire, “take heed what you do, I pray you, for I assure you that this Moor is nothing but a demon who practises the most horrible enchantments.”

Morvan laughed. “Well, we shall see whether this demon can withstand cold steel or not,” he said. “Go and saddle my black horse.”

“Saving your grace,” said the page, “if you will hearken to my words you will not fight on the black charger. He has been bewitched. Moreover, you will notice that when you enter the lists to fight the Moor he will cast his mantle to the ground. But do not follow his example, for should your mantle fall beneath his the strength of the black giant will be doubled. When the Moor advances to the attack make the sign of the Cross with the shaft of your lance, and when he rushes upon you in his battle-fury receive him with the steel. If you do this you may be sure that your lance will not break.”

The heroes met within the lists. The King of France and his nobles had followed the giant Moor in order to witness the combat, and when all had been seated the trumpets sounded and the two champions rushed together with the utmost fury. They circled round one 220 another like eagles seeking an opening to strike. Now one struck, then the other, and the blood flowed down their bright armour. The Frankish King in high excitement called out:

“Ho! black crow of the sea, pierce me now this merle.”

At these words the giant assailed Morvan most furiously, as a great tempest assails a ship. The lances crossed, but that of the Moor broke like matchwood. Both leaped to earth, sword in hand, and rushed at each other like lions. Many lusty strokes were given and taken, and from their armour flew sparks like those from a smith’s anvil. Then the Moor, grasping his sword with both hands, made ready to strike a mighty blow, when swift and trenchantly Morvan thrust his blade far into the arm-pit and the heart and the giant tumbled to the earth like a falling tree. Morvan placed his foot on the dead man’s breast, withdrew his sword, and cut off the Moor’s head. Then, attaching the bleeding trophy to the pommel of his saddle, he rode home with it and affixed it to the gate of his castle. All men praised him for his doughty deed, but he gave the grace of his victory entirely to St Anne, and declared that he would build a house of prayer in her honour on the heights between Léguer and the Guindy.

One day Morvan sallied forth to encounter the King of the Franks himself. The King brought no fewer than five thousand mounted men-at-arms. As this host was about to set out, a great clap of thunder resounded in the vault of heaven, and the King’s nobles perforce regarded it as a bad omen.

“For heaven’s sake, sire, go not hence,” said one of them, “since the day has begun with such an evil token.”

“Impossible,” was the royal reply. “I have given the order; we must march.”

That morning, on the other hand, the sister of Morvan said to her brother: “My dear brother, if you love me seek not this combat, for if you do you will certainly go to your death, and what will become of me afterward? I see on the shore the white sea-horse, the symbol of Brittany. A monstrous serpent entwines him, seizing him round the hind legs and the body with his enormous coils. The sea-steed turns his head to seize the reptile. The combat is unequal. You are alone; the Franks are legion!”

But Morvan was already beyond ear-shot.

As the hermit of the wood of Helléan[48] slept three knocks sounded on his door.

“Good hermit,” said some one, “open the door. I seek an asylum and help from you.”

The wind blew coldly from the country of the Franks. It was the hour when savage beasts wander here and there in search of their prey. The hermit did not rise with alacrity.

“Who are you who knock at my door at this hour of night demanding an entrance?” he asked sulkily; “and by what sign shall I know whether you are a true man or otherwise?”

“Priest, I am well known in this land. I am Morvan Lez-Breiz, the Hatchet of Brittany.”

“I will not open my door to you,” said the hermit hastily. 222 “You are a rebel; you are the enemy of the good King of the Franks.”

“How, priest!” cried Morvan angrily, “I am a Breton and no traitor or rebel. It is the King of the Franks who has been a traitor to this land.”

“Silence, recreant!” replied the hermit. “Rail not against the King of the Franks, for he is a man of God.”

“Of God, say you? Nay, rather of the devil! Has he not ravaged and wasted the Breton land? The gold that he wrings from the Breton folk is expended for the good of Satan. Open, hermit, open!”

“Not so, my son, for should I do so the Franks would surely fix a quarrel upon me.”

“You refuse?” shouted Morvan in a voice of thunder. “Good; then I shall burst into your cell,” and with these words he threw himself against the door, which creaked ominously.

“Hold, my son, hold!” cried the old hermit in tremulous tones. “Forbear and I will open to you”; and seizing a torch he lit it at the remains of his fire and went to open the door.

He unlocked it and drew it back, but as he did so he recoiled violently, for he saw advancing upon him a terrible spectre, holding its head in its two hands. Its eyes seemed full of blood and fire, and rolled round and round in a most horrible manner. The hermit was about to shriek in terror when the head of the apparition, after laughing grimly, addressed him:

“Come now, old Christian, do not be afraid. God permits this thing to be. He has allowed the Franks 223 to decapitate me, but for a time only, and as you see me now I am only a phantom. But He will permit you yourself to replace my head on my shoulders if you will.”

The hermit stammered and drew back. This was not his first encounter with the supernatural, which he had good reason to dread, but like all Bretons he had come under the magnetism of Morvan, even although he believed that the King of the Franks was his rightful overlord; so, steeling himself against his natural timidity, he said:

“If God permits this thing I shall be very willing to replace your head on your shoulders.”

“Take it, then,” said the decapitated Morvan, and with trembling hands the priest took the gory trophy and replaced it on the Breton chief’s shoulders, saying at the same time: “I replace your head, my son, in the name of God the Father, the Son, and the Spirit.”

And by virtue of this benediction the phantom once more became a man.

“Morvan,” said the hermit, “you must do penance, heavy penance, with me. You must carry about with you for seven years a robe of lead, padlocked to your neck, and each day at the hour of twelve you must go to fetch water from the well at the summit of the mountain yonder.”

“I will do as you desire,” said Morvan; “I will follow your saintly wish.”

When the seven years of the penance had passed the robe had flayed Morvan’s skin severely, and his beard, which had become grey, and the hair of his head, fell almost to his waist. Those who saw him did not recognize him; but a lady dressed in white, who passed 224 through the greenwood, stopped and gazed earnestly at him and her eyes filled with tears.

“Morvan, my dear son, it is indeed you,” she said. “Come here, my beloved child, that I may free you of your burden,” and she cut the chain which bound the shirt of lead to the shoulders of the penitent with a pair of golden scissors, saying:

“I am your patron, Saint Anne of Armor.”

Now for seven years had the squire of Morvan sought his master, and one day he was riding through the greenwood of Helléan.

“Alas!” he said, “what profits it that I have slain his murderer when I have lost my dear lord?”

Then he heard at the other end of the wood the plaintive whinnying of a horse. His own steed sniffed the air and replied, and then he saw between the parted branches a great black charger, which he recognized as that of Lez-Breiz. Once more the beast whinnied mournfully. It almost seemed as if he wept. He was standing upon his master’s grave!

But, like Arthur and Barbarossa, Morvan Lez-Breiz will yet return. Yes, one day he will return to fight the Franks and drive them from the Breton land!

We have sundry intimations here of the sources from which Villemarqué drew a part at least of his matter. There are resemblances to Arthurian and kindred romances. For example, the incident which describes the flight of young Morvan is identical with that in the Arthurian saga of Percival le Gallois, where the child Percival quits his mother’s care in precisely the same fashion. The Frankish monarch and his Court, too, are distinctly drawn in the style of the chansons de gestes, which celebrated the deeds of Charlemagne and 225 his peers. There are also hints that the paganism against which Charlemagne fought, that of the Moors of Spain, had attracted the attention of the author, and this is especially seen in his introduction of the Moorish giant, so common a figure in the Carlovingian stories.

A sorrowful and touching ballad, claimed by Villemarqué as being sung in the Breton dialect of Léon, tells of the warrior Bran, who was wounded in the great fight of Kerlouan, a village situated on the coast of Léon, in the tenth century. The coast was raided by the Norsemen, and the Bretons, led by their chief, Even the Great, marched against them and succeeded in repelling them. The Norsemen, however, carried off several prisoners, among them a warrior called Bran. Indeed, a village called Kervran, or ‘the village of Bran,’ still exists near the seashore, and here it was, tradition relates, that the warrior was wounded and taken by the Scandinavian pirates. In the church of Goulven is to be seen an ancient tablet representing the Norse vessels which raided the coast.

The ballad recounts how Bran, on finding himself on the enemy’s ship, wept bitterly. On arriving in the land of the Norsemen he was imprisoned in a tower, where he begged his gaolers to allow him to send a letter to his mother. Permission to do so was granted, and a messenger was found. The prisoner advised this man, for his better safety, to disguise himself in the habit of a beggar, and gave him his gold ring in order that his mother might know that the message came from her son in very truth. He added: “When you arrive in 226 my country proceed at once to my mother, and if she is willing to ransom me show a white sail on your return, but if she refuses, hoist a black sail.”

When the messenger arrived at the warrior’s home in the country of Léon the lady was at supper with her family and the bards were present playing on their harps.

“Greeting, lady,” said the messenger. “Behold the ring of your son, Bran, and here is news from him contained in this letter, which I pray you read quickly.”

The lady took the missive, and, turning to the harpers, told them to cease playing. Having perused the letter she became extremely agitated, and, rising with tears in her eyes, gave orders that a vessel should be equipped immediately so that she might sail to seek her son on the morrow.

One morning Bran, the prisoner, called from his tower: “Sentinel, Sentinel, tell me, do you see a sail on the sea?”

“No,” replied the sentinel, “I see nothing but the sea and the sky.”

At midday Bran repeated the question, but was told that nothing but the birds and the billows were in sight. When the shadows of evening gathered he asked once more, and the perfidious sentinel replied with a lie:

“Yes, lord, there is a ship close at hand, beaten by wind and sea.”

“And what colour of a sail does she show?” asked Bran. “Is it black or white?”

“It is black, lord,” replied the sentinel, in a spirit of petty spite.

When the unhappy warrior heard these words he never spoke more.

That night his mother arrived at the town where he 227 had been imprisoned. She asked of the people: “Why do the bells sound?”

“Alas! lady,” said an ancient man, “a noble prisoner who lay in yonder tower died this night.”

With bent head the lady walked to the tower, her white hair falling upon her folded arms. When she arrived at its foot she said to the guard: “Open the door quickly; I have come to see my son.”

And when the great door was opened she threw herself upon the corpse of Bran and breathed her last.

On the battlefield of Kerlouan there is an oak which overshadows the shore and which marks the place where the Norsemen fled before the face of Even the Great. On this oak, whose leaves shine in the moon, the birds gather each night, the birds of the sea and the land, both of white and black feather. Among them is an old grey rook and a young crow. The birds sing such a beautiful song that the great sea keeps silence to hear it. All of them sing except the rook and the crow. Now the crow says: “Sing, little birds, sing; sing, little birds of the land, for when you die you will at least end your days in Brittany.”

The crow is of course Bran in disguise, for the name Bran means ‘crow’ in the Breton tongue, and the rook is possibly his mother. In the most ancient Breton traditions the dead are represented as returning to earth in the form of birds. A number of the incidents in this piece are paralleled in the poem of Sir Tristrem, which also introduces a messenger who disguises himself for the purpose of travelling more safely in a foreign country, a ring of gold, which is used to show the messenger’s bona-fides, a perfidious gaoler, 228 and the idea of the black or white sail. The original poem of Sir Tristrem was probably composed about the twelfth or thirteenth century, and it would seem that the above incidents at least have a Breton source behind them. A mother, however, has been substituted for a lover, and the ancient Breton dame takes the place of Ysonde. There is, indeed, little difference between the passage which relates the arrival of the mother in the Norsemen’s country and that of Ysonde in Brittany when she sails on her last voyage with the intention of succouring Tristrem. Ysonde also asks the people of the place why the bells are ringing, one of the ancient inhabitants tells her of the death of her lover, and, like the Breton mother, she casts herself on the body of him she has lost.

“This passage,” says Villemarqué, with wonderful sang-froid, “duly attests the prior claim of the Armorican piece!” But even if he had been serious, he wrote without the possession of data for the precise fixing of the period in which the Breton ballad was composed; and in any case his contention cannot assist the Breton argument for Armorican priority in Arthurian literature, as borrowing in ballad and folk-tale is much more flagrant than he, writing as he did in 1867, could ever have guessed—more flagrant even than any adaptation he himself ever perpetrated!

He adds, however, an antiquarian note to the poem which is of far greater interest and probably of more value than his supposition. He alludes to the passage contained in the ballad regarding the harpers who are represented as playing in the hall of Bran’s mother while she sits at supper. The harp, he states, is no longer popular in Brittany, and he asks if this was 229 always the case. There can be very little doubt that in Brittany, as in other Celtic countries—for example, Wales, Ireland and Scotland—the harp was in ancient times one of the national instruments. It is strange that it should have been replaced in that country by the biniou, or bagpipe, just as the clairschach, or Highland harp, was replaced by the same instrument in the Highlands of Scotland.

Guy Eder de Fontenelle, a son of the house of Beaumanoir, was one of the most famous partisans of the Catholic League, and, according to one who saw him in 1587, had then begun to show tendencies to the wild life he was afterward to lead. He was sent as a scholar to Paris to the College of Boncotest, but in 1589, when about sixteen years of age, he became impatient of scholastic confinement, sold his books and his robe, and bought a sword and poignard. Leaving the college, he took the road to Orléans, with the object of attaching himself to the army of the Duke of Mayenne, chief of the Catholic party in France, but, returning to his native Brittany, he placed himself at the head of the populace, which had risen in arms on behalf of the Leaguers. As he was of good family and a Breton and displayed an active spirit, they obeyed him very willingly. Soon he translated his intentions into action, and commenced to pillage the smaller towns and to make captive those who differed from him politically. He threatened Guingamp, which was held for the King, and made a sally into Léon, carrying away the daughter of the Lady of Coadelan, a wealthy heiress, who was only about eight or nine years of age. This 230 occurrence Villemarqué has related for us in Breton verse, assuring us that it was ‘recovered’ by the Comte de Kergariou, a friend of his. Fontenelle is supposed to have encountered the little heiress plucking flowers in a wayside ditch.

“Tell me, little one,” said he, “for whom do you pluck these flowers?”

“For my foster-brother, whom I love. But I am afraid, for I know that Fontenelle is near.”

“Ha, then, so you know this terrible Fontenelle, my child?”

“No, sir, I do not know him, but I have heard tell of him. I have heard folk say that he is a very wicked man and that he carries away young ladies.”

“Yes,” replied Fontenelle, with a laugh, “and, above all, heiresses.”

He took the child in his arms and swung her on to the crupper of his saddle. Then, dashing the spurs into his charger’s flanks, he set off at a gallop for Saint-Malo, where he placed the little heiress in a convent, with the object of marrying her when she had arrived at the age of fourteen.

Years afterward Fontenelle and the heiress, who was now his wife, went to live at their manor of Coadelan. They had a little child beautiful as the day, who greatly resembled his father. One day a letter arrived for the Seigneur, calling upon him to betake himself to Paris at once. His wife was inconsolable.

“Do not set forth alone for Paris, I pray you,” she said, “for if you do I shall instantly follow you. Remain at home, I beg of you, and I will send a messenger in your stead. In the name of God, do not go, husband, for if you do you will never return.”

But Fontenelle disregarded his wife’s entreaties, and, begging her to take good care of their son during his absence, set forth on his journey to the capital. In due time he arrived in Paris and stood before the King and Queen. He greeted them courteously, but they looked coldly on him, and the King told him bluntly that he should not return to Coadelan, adding: “There are sufficient chains in my palace to restrain you.”

On hearing this Fontenelle called his little page and begged him to return at once to his mistress and tell her to discard her finery, because she would soon be a widow, and to bring him back a coarse shirt and a white sheet, and, moreover, to bring a gold plate on which his enemies might expose his head after his death.

“And, little page,” he added, “take a lock of my hair and place it on the door of Coadelan, so that all men as they go to Mass may say, ‘God have mercy on the soul of Fontenelle.’”

The page did as he was bidden, but as for the plate of gold it was useless, for Fontenelle’s head was thrown on the pavement to serve as a ball for the children of the gutter.

All Paris was surprised when one day a lady from a distant country arrived and made great stir in its narrow streets. Every one asked his neighbour who this dame might be. It was the heiress of Coadelan, dressed in a flowing robe of green. “Alas!” said the pitiful burgesses, “if she knew what we know she would be dressed in black.” Shortly she stood before the King. “Sire,” said she, “give me back my husband, I beg of you.”

“Alas! madam,” replied the King, with feigned sorrow, “what you ask is impossible, for but three days ago he was broken on the wheel.”

“Whoso goes to Coadelan to-day will turn away from it with grief, for the ashes are black upon the hearth and the nettles crowd around the doorway—and still,” the ballad ends naïvely, “still the wicked world goes round and the poor folk weep with anguish, and say, ‘Alas that she is dead, the mother of the poor.’”

There is a good deal of evidence to show that a considerable body of Bretons accompanied the invading army of William the Conqueror when he set forth with the idea of gaining the English crown. They were attached to his second battle corps, and many of them received land in England. A ballad which, says Villemarqué, bears every sign of antiquity deals with the fortunes of a young Breton, Silvestik, who followed in the train of the Conqueror. The piece is put into the mouth of the mother of Silvestik, who mourns her son’s absence, and its tone is a tender and touching one.

“One night as I lay on my bed,” says the anxious mother, “I could not sleep. I heard the girls at Kerlaz singing the song of my son. O God, Silvestik, where are you now? Perhaps you are more than three hundred leagues from here, cast on the great sea, and the fishes feed upon your fair body. Perhaps you may be married now to some Saxon damsel. You were to have been wed to a lovely daughter of this land, Mannaïk de Pouldergat, and you might have been among us surrounded by beautiful children, dwelling happily in your own home.

“I have taken to my door a little white dove which sits in a small hollow of the stone. I have tied to his neck a letter with the ribbon of my wedding-dress and have sent it to my son. Arise, my little dove, arise on your two wings, fly far, very far across the great sea, and discover if my son is still alive and well.”

Silvestik rested in the shade of an English wood, and as he did so a familiar note fell upon his ear.

“That sound resembles the voice of my mother’s little white dove,” he said. The sound grew louder; it seemed to say, “Good luck to you, Silvestik, good luck to you. I have here a letter for you.”

Silvestik in high happiness read the letter, and resolved to return home to his sorrowing parent.

Two years passed, three years passed, and the dove did not return to delight the heart of the longing mother, who day by day walked the dismal seashore waiting for the vessel that never came. One day of storm she was wandering on the beach as usual when she saw a vessel being driven with great force upon the iron coast. Even as she watched it it dashed upon the rocks. Soon there were cast upon the shore the forms of many dead, and when the gale abated and the heart-sick mother was able to search among them she found Silvestik!

Several competent judges are of opinion that this ballad is contemporary with the events which it relates. Many of the Breton lords who sailed with William the Conqueror did not return for several years after the expedition had accomplished its object, and some not at all. Nothing is known regarding the hero. The bird is frequently the messenger between lovers in ballad literature, but it is seldom that it is found 234 carrying letters between a mother and her son—indeed, this is perhaps the only instance known.

This ballad has reference to the Breton expedition which sailed for Wales in 1405 to assist the Welsh under Owen Glendower to free their principality from the English yoke. The Bretons rendered material assistance to their Welsh brothers, and had the satisfaction on their return of knowing that they had accomplished that which no French king had ever been able to achieve—the invasion of English territory. The expedition was commanded by Jean de Rieux, Marshal of France, and numbered ten thousand men.

The ballad tells how a young man on the morning after his betrothal received orders to join the standard of de Rieux “to help the Bretons oversea.” It was with bitterness in his heart, says the lover, that he entered the house of his betrothed with the object of bidding her farewell. He told her that duty called him, and that he must go to serve in England. At this her tears gushed forth, and she begged him not to go, reminding him how changeful was the wind and how perfidious the sea.

“Alas!” said she, “if you die what shall I do? In my impatience to have news of you my heart will break. I shall wander by the seashore, from one cottage to another, asking the sailors if they have heard tell of you.”

“Be comforted, Aloïda,” said her lover, “and do not weep on my account. I will send you a girdle from over the sea, a girdle of purple set with rubies.”

They parted at daybreak, he to embark on the sea, she 235 to weep, and as he sought his ship he could hear the magpies cackle: “If the sea is changeable women are even more so.”

When the autumn had arrived the young girl said: “I have looked far over the sea from the heights of the mountains of Arez. I have seen upon the waters a ship in danger, and I feel that upon it was him whom I love. He held a sword in his hand, he was engaged in a terrible combat, he was wounded to death and his garments were covered with blood. I am certain that he is dead.”

And before many weeks had passed she was affianced to another.

Then good news arrived in the land. The war was finished and the cavalier returned to his home with a gay heart. No sooner had he refreshed himself than he went to seek his beloved. As he approached her dwelling he heard the sound of music, and observed that every window in the house was illuminated as if for a festival. He asked some revellers whom he met outside the cause of this merrymaking, and was told that a wedding was proceeding.

It is the custom in Brittany to invite beggars to a wedding, and when these were now admitted one of them asked hospitality for the night. This was at once granted him, but he sat apart, sad and silent. The bride, observing this, approached him and asked him why he did not join in the feasting. He replied that he was weary with travel and that his heart was heavy with sorrow. Desirous that the marriage festivities should not flag, the bride asked him to join her in the dance, and he accepted the invitation, saying, however, that it was an honour he did not merit.

Now while they danced he came close to her and murmured in her ear:

“What have you done with the golden ring that you received from me at the door of this very house?”

The bride stared at him in wild dismay. “Oh, heaven,” she cried, “behold, I have now two husbands! I who thought I was a widow!”

“You think wrongly, ma belle,” hissed the beggar; “you will have no husband this side of the grave,” and drawing a dagger from under his cloak he struck the lady to the heart.

In the abbey of Daoulas there is a statue of the Virgin decorated with a splendid girdle of purple sparkling with rubies, which came from across the sea. If you desire to know who gave it to her, ask of a repentant monk who lies prostrate on the grass before the figure of the Mother of God.

It is strange that the faithless damsel should have alleged that she saw her lover perish in a naval combat when in the very year to which the circumstances of the ballad refer (1405) a Breton fleet encountered and defeated an English flotilla several leagues from Brest. “The combat was terrible,” says a historian of the Dukes of Burgundy, “and was animated by the ancient hate between the English and the Bretons.” Perhaps it was in this sea-fight that the lady beheld her lover; and if, as she thought, he was slain, she scarcely deserves the odium which the balladeer has cast upon her memory.

This ballad somewhat belies its name, for it has some relation to an extraordinary incident which was the 237 means rather of preventing than precipitating a battle. In 1758 a British army was landed upon the shores of Brittany with the object of securing for British merchant ships safety in the navigation of the Channel and of creating a diversion in favour of the German forces, then our allies. A company of men from Lower Brittany, from the towns of Tréguier and Saint-Pol-de-Léon, says Villemarqué, were marching against a detachment of Scottish Highlanders. When at a distance of about a mile the Bretons could hear their enemies singing a national song. At once they halted stupefied, for the air was one well known to them, which they were accustomed to hear almost every day of their lives. Electrified by the music, which spoke to their hearts, they arose in their enthusiasm and themselves sang the patriotic refrain. It was the Highlanders’ turn to be silent. All this time the two companies were nearing one another, and when at a suitable distance their respective officers commanded them to fire; but the orders were given, says the tradition, “in the same language,” and the soldiers on both sides stood stock-still. Their inaction, however, lasted but a moment, for emotion carried away all discipline, the arms fell from their hands, and the descendants of the ancient Celts renewed on the field of battle those ties of brotherhood which had once united their fathers.

However unlikely this incident may seem, it appears to be confirmed by tradition, if not by history. The air which the rival Celts sang is, says Villemarqué,[49] common 238 to both Brittany and “the Highlands of Scotland.” With the music before me, it seems to bear a marked resemblance to The Garb of Old Gaul, composed by General Reid (1721-1807). Perhaps Reid, who was a Highlander, based his stirring march on an older Celtic theme common to both lands.

One of the most famous of Breton nautical traditions tells of the chivalry displayed by a Breton crew toward the men of a British warship. During the American War of Independence much enthusiasm was excited in France in connexion with the valiant struggle for liberty in which the American colonies were engaged. A number of Breton ships received letters of marque enabling them to fight on the American side against Great Britain, and these attempted to blockade British commerce. The Surveillante, a Breton vessel commanded by Couédic de Kergoaler, encountered the British ship Quebec, commanded by Captain Farmer. In the course of the action the Surveillante was nearly sunk by the British cannonade and the Quebec went on fire. But Breton and Briton, laying aside their swords, worked together with such goodwill that most of the British crew were rescued and the Surveillante was saved, although the Quebec was lost, and this notwithstanding that nearly every man of both crews had been wounded in the fighting.

I have here attempted a very free translation of the stirring ballad which relates this noteworthy incident, which cannot but be of interest at such a time as the present.