CHAPTER I.
THE BOHEMIANS.
Early one morning in the month of March, 1770, a woman bearing in herarms a new-born infant, was hastening along the left bank of the Garden,a small river that rises in the Cevennes, traverses the department ofthe Gard, and empties into the Rhone, not far from Beaucaire. It wouldbe difficult to find more varied and picturesque scenery than that whichborders this stream whose praises have been chanted by Florian, andwhich certainly should not be unknown to fame since it was here theRomans constructed the Pont du Gard, that gigantic aqueduct whichconveyed the waters of Eure to Nimes.
The woman of whom we speak was at that moment very near the famous Pontdu Gard--which is only a short distance from the spot on which thelittle village of Lafous now stands, and directly opposite Remoulins, atown of considerable size situated on the right bank of the river--andat a point where the highway from Nimes to Avignon intersects the roadleading up from the villages that dot the river banks. The woman pausedon reaching the place where these roads meet, not to take breath, but todecide which course she should pursue. But she did not hesitate long.After casting an anxious glance behind her, she hastened on again,directing her steps toward the Pont du Gard, which was distant not morethan half a mile.
The air was very cold; the wind had been blowing furiously all night,and at day-break it was still raging, ruffling the water, bending thetrees, snatching up great clouds of dust, and moaning and shriekingthrough the clumps of willows that bordered the stream, while immensemasses of gray and white clouds scudding rapidly across the sky,imparted to it the appearance of a tempest-tossed ocean. Some of theseclouds were so low that they seemed almost to touch the earth as theyrushed wildly on, pursued by the fury of the gale, and assuming strangeand fantastic forms in their erratic course. Undeterred by the violenceof the tempest, the stranger advanced steadily, apparently with but oneaim in view: to reach her journey's end with all possible expedition inorder to protect her sleeping infant from the inclemency of the weather.
She was a young woman, not yet twenty years of age. Her luxuriant goldenhair hung in wild disorder from the brilliant-hued kerchief that wasbound about her head; and her garments were as remarkable for theirpeculiarity of form as for their diversity of color. She wore a short,full dress of blue de laine bordered with yellow, and confined at thewaist by a red silk girdle. Over this, she wore a gray cape of coarsewoollen stuff. Her legs were bare, and her feet were protected only byrude sandals, held in place by leathern thongs. Many rents, more or lessneatly repaired by the aid of thread or if material of another color,revealed the fact that these faded garments had been in long andconstant use. Even the sandals were so dilapidated that the feet oftheir wearer were upon the ground. Her whole attire, in short, waswretched and poverty-stricken in the extreme.
But no face could be more charming. Her pure and delicate features shoneout from their framework of golden hair with marvellous beauty, in spiteof the sorrow and fatigue which had left their impress upon her face.Her eyes, shaded by long dark lashes and dewy with tears, wereremarkably beautiful and expressive. The sunburn that disfigured hercharming face, her exquisitely formed hands and her tiny feet, whichwere scarcely larger than those of a child, extended no further. Uponthose portions of her body that were protected by her clothing, her skinwas white and delicate, and scarcely colored by the young blood thatcoursed through her veins. Such was this woman, and it would have beendifficult to divine her origin if the tambourine that hung at hergirdle, and the hieroglyphics embroidered upon her sleeves had notrevealed it beyond all question.
Tiepoletta, for that was her name, belonged to one of those wanderingtribes that leave Spain or Hungary each spring to spend some months inSouthern France, advancing as far as Beaucaire, Avignon andArles--sleeping as fate wills, under the arches of bridges, intumbledown barns, or in the open air; living sometimes by theft, butoftener by their own exertions; the men dealing in mules and in rags;the women telling fortunes, captivating young peasants, extorting moneyfrom them, and selling glassware of their own manufacture--the childrenimploring charity. These people, scattered throughout Europe--thesepeople, whose manner of life is so mysterious and whose origin is moremysterious still--seem to be closely allied both to the Moors and to theHindoos, not only in appearance but in their phlegm, fanaticism andrapacity. Such of our readers as have travelled in Southern Europe musthave frequently encountered these Bohemians, who come from no one knowswhere only to disappear again like the swallows at the approach ofwinter.
Their language is a mixture of the Spanish and the Sclavonic. Somejabber a little French. The men are generally athletic, very darkcomplexioned and have strong, energetic features, wavy hair and sonorousvoices. The women, when young, are remarkably beautiful; but like allwho lead an exposed and migratory life, they become hideous before theyare thirty. They live in families or tribes, each family consisting offifteen or twenty members, and obeying the orders of the oldest woman,who is dignified by the title of queen, and from whose decisions thereis no appeal, though she, in turn, owes allegiance to one great queen.These Bohemians are tolerated in the countries through which they pass;but people seldom enter into any closer relations with them than arenecessary to effect the purchase of a horse or mule, or to obtain aprediction concerning the future. They know the feeling of repulsionthey inspire, so they seldom approach thickly settled districts, andonly the women and children venture into the villages to solicit alms.
It was to this race that Tiepoletta belonged; and though the color ofher hair, the delicacy of her features and the fairness of her skin didnot accord with her supposed origin, her memory hinted at nothing thatdid not harmonize with what had been told her concerning her parentage.It is not the aim of this story to investigate the truth or the falsityof this assertion. That Tiepoletta had Bohemian blood in her veins; thatshe had, as a child, been stolen from her friends; that she was thefruit of some mysterious love affair; all these hypotheses were equallyplausible, but there was nothing to prove that the first was not thetrue one, nor had her imagination ever engaged in a search for anyother; but the people of her tribe seemed to suspect that she was ofdifferent blood, for they evidently regarded her with aversion.Preserved from the pernicious counsels and examples of those around herby some secret instinct, she had remained pure. With the aid of a bookpicked up on the roadside, she had learned to read and to speak a fewFrench words. This was more than enough to convince her companions thatshe was haughty and proud. When she was a child, they beat herunmercifully because she refused to beg. As she grew older, she had amost cruel enemy in her beauty, which was the cause of much of hermisery. Subjected to temptations to which she saw young girls around heryield without a thought, she escaped only by a miracle, but it broughtdown upon her, anger, hatred and cruel vengeance. She increased these byrefusing to choose a husband from among the young men with whom she hadbeen reared.
They resolved to compel her to marry one of her companions. She fled,but they succeeded in recapturing her without much difficulty. They thenshut her up, telling her that she should remain a prisoner until shepromised obedience. It was the most trying time of her whole life. Beseton every side, beaten, buffetted, tyrannized over, fed on food that wasonly fit for a dog, she would certainly have died in the struggle hadnot destiny sent her a protector in the person of Borachio, a young manabout twenty-five years of age, whose heart was touched by hermisfortunes.
He was so bold, so strong and so terrible in his anger that the wholetribe stood in awe of him. He took compassion on their victim andcompelled her tormentors to cease their persecution. Tiepoletta was notungrateful, and she afterward married her preserver to the great disgustof the young girls of the tribe, with whom Borachio was a greatfavorite.
According to custom, the queen solemnized the marriage without delay;and at nineteen Tiepoletta had a master whose coarse tenderness wassweet, indeed, in comparison with the harsh treatment to which she hadbeen subjected heretofore. But this happiness was destined to be ofshort
duration. Borachio was found dead upon the roadside one morning,his breast pierced by eight dagger thrusts. Envious of his beauty, hisauthority and his lovely young wife, one of his comrades hadassassinated him and made Tiepoletta a widow some time before she was tobecome a mother. Six months went by, during which they seemed to respecther grief. Then, in a cave near the Pont du Gard, she gave birth to adaughter. The very next evening, while she was lying, half asleep, onsome straw on the floor of the cave, with her child beside her, sheoverheard a conversation that was going on outside. They were talking ofher. She listened eagerly. Picture her fear and horror when she heardthem scheming to deprive her of her infant and then drive her from theirmidst, thus ridding the tribe of a useless member and retainingBorachio's child. It was Corcovita, the mother of the poor heart-brokencreature, who was the strongest advocate of this shameful outrage.
"We shall leave here to-morrow to go to Avignon," said she. "We mustobtain possession of the child and then find an opportunity to abandonTiepoletta on the road."
This plan gave general satisfaction, and Corcovita was charged with itsexecution. Tiepoletta had heard enough. Wild with terror she endeavoredto devise some means of escape from this new peril, and during the longwatches of the night she finally resolved to flee with her child. Thenext morning at day-break the little band was on its way. A seat in thecarriage was offered to Tiepoletta. She accepted it, knowing she mustsave all her strength if she would carry her plan into successfulexecution.
After a long march, they paused at nightfall to encamp near Avignon.Tiepoletta, a prey to the most intense anxiety, had detected theinterchange of divers signs that convinced her they were only waitingfor her to fall asleep to steal her child from her. She watched. Ateight o'clock the men had gone to stroll around the suburbs of the city;the old women were dozing; the young people were laughing and teasingone another, and the children were sound asleep. Tiepoletta profited bya moment when no one was observing her to steal from the camp ontip-toe. She proceeded perhaps a hundred paces in this way, then, seizedwith sudden fright, she began to run, holding her child pressed close toher heart; fancying she heard her mother's voice behind her, she rushedwildly on, never pausing until she sank exhausted on the lonely road.
She had pursued her flight for more than an hour without even askingherself where she was going, and with no thought save that of escapingfrom her persecutors. She was now beyond their reach. Still she couldnot dismiss her fears. Dreading pursuit, she soon resumed her journey,turning her steps in the direction of the Pont du Gard, in the hopethat her former companions would not think of looking for her there, andthat she might find in the cave they had just deserted a little strawupon which she could rest her weary limbs, and some fragments of foodthat would keep her alive until she had decided upon her future course.She walked all night. When she found herself near the Pont du Gard daywas breaking.
The wind was still blowing; but the clouds had scattered before itsviolence like a flock of frightened sheep, and a pale light wasbeginning to shine upon the drenched fields. Gloomy and majestic in itscentury-old impassibility, the Pont du Gard--a colossus upheld by twomountains, and accustomed to defy alike the tempest and the ravages oftime--seemed to laugh at the gale which beat against its massive pillarsand rushed into its gigantic arches with a sound like thunder. Thesestrong yet graceful arches seem so many frames through which theastonished eyes of the traveller seize the landscape bit by bit: thequiet valley, watered by the Gardon, the luxuriant green of the willows,the clear waves dancing along over their sandy bed, the blue skyreflected there, the mountains that border the horizon.
Nothing can be more wildly beautiful than this secluded spot, which isas silent and lonely as if it had never been trodden by the foot of man.Judging from the prodigality with which nature has lavished her richeshere, it would seem that she wishes the sole credit of this superbpanorama. The massive aqueduct alone attests the existence of man.Looming up in its mighty grandeur--the imperishable monument of adeparted civilization, and the only one of its kind--the beholder feelsthat it is no unworthy rival of the works of Deity.
But the majestic scene made no impression upon Tiepoletta. That poorcreature, fainting with hunger and fatigue, did not even notice thegrandeur around her. With half-closed eyes, arms cramped by the weightof the precious burden upon which she now maintained her hold only by asuperhuman effort, and lips parched by the wind, she plodded on with ameasured, automatic step. She was hungry; she was thirsty; she wasshivering with the cold. Her feet were swollen; but her sufferings wereforgotten when she neared her journey's end. She passed under the Pontdu Gard. The path on the other side of the aqueduct winds along betweenthe base of the cliffs and the bed of the stream. Under one of thesecliffs nature has hewn out a grotto of such liberal dimensions that thepeople of the neighborhood assemble there on fete days to dance and makemerry.
It was there the Bohemians had encamped a few days before; it was thereTiepoletta had given birth to the tiny creature whom she had justrescued from the heartless wretches who had conspired to despoil amother of her child. This comfortless cavern where she had suffered somuch seemed to her now a Paradise, in which she would be content todwell forever.
She rushed into the cave. The sunlight illumined only a small portion ofthe grotto; the rest of it was veiled in shadow. Tiepoletta glancedaround her and uttered a cry of joy. In one dim corner she discerned alittle straw, enough, however, to serve as a bed. She laid her sleepinginfant upon it, covered the child with her mantle; then gathering up afew bits of bread and some half-picked bones which had been left uponthe floor of the cave, she proceeded to appease her hunger. When thiswas satisfied, she ran to the river, quenched her thirst, bathed hersore and bleeding feet, and then returned to the cave after walkingabout awhile in the sunlight to warm herself. Flinging herself down uponthe straw, she covered herself with her tattered garments as best shecould, and drawing her child to her gave it the breast. The little oneroused from its slumber uttered a moan and applied its pale lips to thebosom upon which it was dependent for sustenance; but it soon exhaustedthe supply of milk, whose abundance had been greatly diminished by thefatigues of the preceding night, and again fell asleep.
Then, in the midst of this profound silence and solitude, Tiepoletta,providentially rescued from her persecutors, experienced an intense joythat made her entirely forget the hardships she had just undergone.There were undoubtedly new misfortunes in store for her. She must,without delay, find some way to earn her own living and that of herchild; but their wants were few. Birds and Bohemians are accustomed toscanty fare. She could work: she was accustomed to labor: she was inuredto fatigue. Besides, who would be so hard-hearted as to refuse her breadwhen she said: "I am willing to earn it." This artless creature, whoseambition was so modest, consoled her troubled mind with these hopes, andtrembled only when she thought of those from whom she had just fled. Noone had ever told Tiepoletta that there was a God. She did not know howto pray; nevertheless, in the refuge she had found, her soul lifteditself up in fervent adoration to the unknown God whose power hadprotected her, though she was ignorant of His existence and of His name.It was in the midst of this feverish exaltation of spirit that sleepovercame her before she had even thought to ask herself what she shoulddo on awaking.
For several hours she slumbered on undisturbed, but suddenly she woke.She fancied she heard in her sleep a frightful noise like the rumblingof heavy thunder, a noise which mingled with the shrieks of the wind andfinally drowned them entirely. At first she thought she must be thevictim of some terrible dream. But the sound grew louder and louder.This was no dream; it was reality. She sprang to her feet, seeking someloophole of escape from the unknown peril that threatened her. Above thetumult she could distinguish human cries. She thought these must comefrom her pursuers. But no; these distant voices were calling for succor.She caught up her child and ran from the cave. A grand but terriblesight met her gaze and riveted her to the spot in motionless horror.
The Gardon had ove
rflowed its banks. With the rapidity thatcharacterizes its sudden inundations and transforms this peaceful streaminto the most impetuous of torrents, the water had risen over the banksthat border it and flooded the fields, sweeping away everything thatstood in its path. This water now laved the feet of the young Bohemian;and as far as the eye could reach she could see nothing but a mass ofboiling, turbulent waves, bearing on their crests floating fragments ofhouses and furniture, as well as trees, animals and occasionally humanbodies. The cries she had heard came from some women who had beenovertaken by the torrent while engaged in washing their linen at theriver, and who had taken refuge upon a rock on the side of the nowinundated road.
The river continued to rise. This immense volume of water was vainlyseeking an outlet through the narrow defile formed by the hills andwhich ordinarily sufficed for the bed of the Gardon; but, finding thepassage inadequate now, it dashed itself violently against the rocks andagainst the supports of the aqueduct which haughtily defied the furiousflood; then, converted into a mass of seething foam, it returned overthe same road it had just traversed until it met the new waves that werebeing constantly formed by the current. It was the shock of this meetingthat caused the noise which had roused Tiepoletta from her slumber. Astormy sea could not have appeared more angry, or formed more formidablebillows. One might have called it a fragmentary episode of the universaldeluge.
Five minutes more than sufficed to give Tiepoletta an idea of the extentof the inundation. She stood with wild eyes and unbound hair, thepicture of terror and dismay. Suddenly an enormous wave broke not farfrom her with the roar of a wild beast, and the water dashed up to hervery feet. She pressed her child closer to her breast and recoiled.Another wave dashed up, blinding her with its spray. Would the waterinvade the cave? Her blood froze in her veins. Frenzy seized her. Thisnew misfortune, added to those she had suffered during the past threedays, was more than she could bear. From that moment she acted under theinfluence of actual madness caused by her terror. She must flee. But bywhat road? To reach either of the neighboring villages was impossible.The foaming waters covered the entire plain.
Suddenly Tiepoletta recollected that on the summit of the hill above herthere was a chateau which the Bohemians had visited sometimes in pursuitof alms. She could reach it by means of a broad footpath thatintersected the road only a few yards from the grotto. It was there sheresolved to go for shelter. But to reach this path she must walk throughthe raging flood. She did not hesitate. Each moment of delay aggravatedher peril, and might place some insurmountable barrier between her andher only chance of salvation. She lifted her skirts, fastened her childupon her back and bravely waded into the torrent.
What agony she endured during that short journey. The water was higherthan her waist; the ground was slippery; the current, rapid andcapricious. It required an indomitable will to sustain her--to keep herfrom yielding twenty times to the might of this unchained monster.Frequently she was obliged to pause in order to regain her breath. Thestruggle lasted only ten minutes, but those ten minutes seemed so manyages. At last she reached the path leading to the chateau. She wassaved!
She let fall her tattered skirts about her slender limbs, and, withoutwasting time in looking back upon the perilous road she had justtraversed, she hastened up the hill. A few moments later she reached thedoor of the chateau in a plight most pitiable to behold. It was time. Amoment more and her limbs trembling with excitement and exhaustion,would have refused to sustain her. She fell on her knees and depositedher burden upon some tufts of heather; then with a mighty effort sheseized and pulled a chain suspended at the side of the door. The soundof a bell was instantly heard. As if her strength had only waited untilthis moment to desert her, she fell to the ground unconscious at thevery instant the door opened.