Passe Rose

Front matter

BOUGHT with' THE INCOME FROM THE

SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND

THE GIFT OF

I

It was well known to all the inmates of the abbey of St. Servais that the abbot was ill, and it was whispered under the arcades of the great cloister and around the wooden tables of the refectory that his Ulness was unto death, — whisperings which were repeated by the guests in the hospitium and their servants in the monastery stables. It was known also that the monk Hugo, physician to the brotherhood, had exhausted to no purpose the herbs in the physic garden adjoining the dispensary, and that the abbot, who felt himself rapidly failing, had determined, as a last resort and without further delay, to have recourse to the blessed relics of St. Servais.

Many of those gathered about the refectory tables looked to see on this occasion the com* plete refutation of certain heresies which Hugo had brought from Salerno, touching the efficacy of herbs and potions apart from all intercession of God, invocation of the martyrs, or sprinkling of holy waters. On the other hand, without doubting the power of the martyrs to change the counsels of God, but remembering rather that to all men it is appointed once to die, the entire community were much disturbed by sundry signs and wonders foreshadowing the abbot's end ; and the recollection of these marvels filled their thoughts to the exclusion of the sober words which fell from the lips of the reader as they finished their noonday meal. Indeed, but an hour before, Lehun, the cellarer who drew the wine in the vaults below the larder, having fixed his light, as was his custom, in the iron ring of the pier between the casks, was suddenly enveloped in darkness, although no draught of air nor any other cause whatsoever could be assigned for the extinction of the torch. Thrice had he relighted it, and thrice was it extinguished in the same manner, as those with him also testified. Moreover, on the preceding day, one of the swallows having their nests within the west portal entered the church at the hour of morning vigU, and, after circling the nave at the height of the vaultings, passed suddenly within the veil of the sanctuary, extinguishing with its wings the light burning before the high altar. But most wonderful of all, before the abbot was seriously ill, being but slightly indisposed, and taking his repasts, for that reason, in his own house, while the two brothers who waited on him were serving his table, darkness filled the room where he ate, it being the sixth hour and the sun without shining brightly. Such were the marvels which agitated the minds of the monks, as the reader closed the volume on the pulpit at the sound of the chapel bell, and they rose from the refectory benches.

Meanwhile, the abbot slept on the stone seat in the convent orchard. Thither he had caused himself and his pillows to be carried, and there, to all appearance unconscious of the agitation of which he was the cause, vrrapped in his long robe, he dozed, and woke, and dozed again.

No sound disturbed him. It was the hour between the noon repast and nones, when, stretched on their narrow beds, the monks were given over to meditation and prayer. At the extreme eastern end of the inner precinct, on the very brow of the steep hiU overlooking Maestricht, the orchard was removed from the clamor of the great western court without the abbey close, while the noises of the town were at this distance blended in Indistinguishable murmurs. In the valley below, the river crept lazily in the bed it had won from the hills. The sun filled this valley with a lucent flood of misty light. It trembled on the hilltops, whose sum-

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mits emerged as islands from an amber sea; it overflowed the dim horizon, where the river shone like a mirror suspended in mid-air. This was the abbot's favorite seat, under the scattered trees whose fruits gleamed in spots of flamelike brightness, and whose boughs overhung the frail wooden crosses which served to mark for scarce a year the sleeping-places of the dead. It were no wonder if to his weakened sense the breath of the tasseled laburnum exhaled a celestial sweetness, or that the dark verdure of the almond-trees and the scant leafage of the peachrows appeared radiant with the light that knows neither waxing nor waning. Perchance, dozing among the graves, he mistook the chant which came faintly from the church over the orchard wall for the choir of the world to which he seemed hastening so fast. But as the solemn sounds drew nearer, first in the pillared aisle, then louder under the porch of the parvis, the abbot opened his eyes, listening attentively ; and when the orchard gate creaked on its iron hinges, he raised himself on his pillows, and turned his head to the entering procession.

The hour of last appeal had come. The monks had laid aside their frocks, for the labor of the afternoon was suspended, and clad in their church robes they filed through the narrow door, filling the inclosure from the wall to the

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crest of the hill. One might have thought the occupants of the scattered graves had shaken off their heavy sleep, and stood each beside the bed where he had so long slumbered in silence, to welcome to his place their dying abbot. Four of the brethren lifted the sick man upon a litter; then, resuming the chant, which floated away over the cliff to the city below, the procession slowly retraced its steps.

The great bell in the tower of St. Gabriel, which rang only when the holy relics were exhibited, had already given its warning, and the abbey gates had long been thronged with the sick and the poor. Mothers whose love no deformity of nature could weaken brought their misshapen offspring in their arms ; cripples had toiled up the rocky road on their crutches ; the blind man, led by the child, held fast to the little hand in the press of the crowd ; and one, a mother, had brought her dead babe, hidden in the warmth of her bosom. AU these wretched beings, animated by so many hopes, fearful of delay, eager to be nearest the shrine, crowding the leper whose contact they feared, forgetting in their passionate desire the very compassion they invoked, filled the passage from the inner gate to the church, and fought their way up the steps of the porch with a desperate expectation. Those who were fortunate enough to have reached .the screen which, just within the door, separated the public from the body of the church, clutching fast the rail to hold their place or withstand the pressure of the throng behind j peered anxiously between the openings of the barrier, their haggard faces pressed against its latticed panels and their lips trembling with rapid prayers.

Within the railing, to and fro before these hungry eyes, paced Friedgis, the abbey porter. His head was tonsured, but in place of the monkish habit he wore a short tunic, girded at the waist by a cord from which hung a bunch of ponderous keys. From time to time he threatened some more daring one of the crowd, who, either pushed from behind or desirous of bettering his position, would have climbed the screen but for the porter's forbidding eye. An old man, whose thin legs trembled under his palsied body, gazed pitifully upon the broad chest, the strong, supple shoulders, the firm, elastic limbs, as they passed back and forth before him, envious of aU that beauty which announced the power to execute the desires of the will. The mother with her dead babe sought to attract the porter's eye as it glanced over the surging crowd, in some vague hope of coming nearer to the screen ; and a woman whose flushed face contrasted strangely with the pale, sunken cheeks of the mother peered eagerly over the latter's shoulder. Whole of body, her sore was of the heart ; for her lover had deserted her, and she had come to summon the aid of the saint to her fading comeliness, and to invoke that vengeance upon another which we so often secretly desire in claiming pity for ourselves.

On the stone floor, between the feet of those in the first row, crouched a girl of extraordinary beauty. The people called her Passe Eose. It was neither ill of body nor ache of heart, but only a burning curiosity, that had brought her to the shrine of the martyr. At break of day she had been first at the gate, waiting the hour when the public were to be admitted ; and profiting by the momentary absence of the porter, gone in search of the hospitaler, to announce the arrival of merchants having cloth to exchange for the potus dulcissimus of the abbey, she had stolen through the door in their train, hoping to find some place where she might hide till the opening of the gates, and thus enter the church with the first of the multitude. But finding no shelter, she was discovered by the porter on his return, and, seized like a child in his arms, amid the laughter of the merchants and the jeers of their servants, had been thrust without the gate. Notwithstanding this rebuff she had succeeded in reaching the screen, where, treasuring up the insult in her wounded heart, she muttered a curse under her breath whenever her assailant came within sight of her flashing eyes.

Heedless of all these emotions, Friedgis gave hardly a glance to the multitude. If he had cast Passe Rose rudely out the monastery gate, it was because the Prior Sergius, when instructing him in the duties of his office, had dwelt long upon this particular, affirming with much emphasis "that as neither David, nor Solomon, nor Adam himself, the perfect work of God, had escaped the caress or deceit of woman, so might one as easily hope to bear coals in his bosom without scorching his vestment as to do what had not been in their power," — instructions which Friedgis had not scrupled to carry out with the disdainful rigor of the Saxon slave who despised the strange conditions of life to which fate had subjected him.

Doubtless the Abbot Rainal, had he not fallen sick immediately on his return from the Saxon campaign on which he had accompanied the king, would have endeavored to bring Friedgis to a more loving service ; for every serf of the domain, whether of those who belonged to the land when the king bestowed it upon the abbot, or of the Saxon captives whom the king had distributed among his vassals, knew that the welfare of his soul was the abbot's chief concern. But the Prior Sergius was more easily satisfied on this point, and, having administered baptism to all according to the canons, scrupled little to enlist the body in God's service, whether the mind were willing or not, — a service which Friedgis, notwithstanding his contempt for a monkish life, executed as porter none the less zealously, and with such impartiality that had it been forbidden the brethren to leave the abbey close he woidd have thrown the transgressor over the wall with as little compunction as he had ejected the maiden.

Now it happened that when the side door was opened, and the chant of the entering procession began to fill the arches, Friedgis stood in front of Passe Rose, hiding from her all that was taking place. For some time she bore patiently with this obstruction of her view, thinking the porter would change his place before the service was over. The minutes passed, and still he did not move. When at last the monks began to chant the Kyrie Eleison her patience was exhausted, and after having in vain essayed to reach him with her silver bodkin, furious lest she should miss the moment, when the reliquary should be exposed, she spat venomously upon his bare legs. Turning with the rapidity of a panther, Friedgis recognized his assailant, and before she could divine his intention, leaping the rail, lie had seized her in his arms, and was bearing her through the press as easily as a ship's prow divides the water. Locked in his grasp of iron, she could not utter a sound, though her nails were deep in his bosom, and, before she realized what was taking place, she found herself once more without the walls, and the gate barred behind her.

While yet panting for breath the gate was reopened, and to her surprise Friedgis appeared again. The frail bodkin was stiU in her tightly closed fingers, and she clutched it closer, resolved to break it in her enemy's heart ; but as he drew nearer she recognized in his hand her necklace of gold, which had become loosened in her struggles.

" Whence hadst thou this ? " he asked, holding it out to her. She extended her hand to take it, speechless with rage. "Answer," said Friedgis, with a gesture of impatience.

" Give it me ; it is mine," she said, breath-

" Answer," repeated Friedgis, advancing a step menacingly.

" Thief ! brigand I " gasped Passe Rose, clasping her bodkin.

Seeing that he could effect nothing by violence, and fearful of remaining longer absent from his post, Friedgis resorted to persuasion.

" If thou answerest truly, thou shalt return," he insisted coaxingly.

" It is too late," she replied, tears of sullen rage filling her eyes.

" Nay, come," he said briefly.

She followed him, trembling with anger and joy, through the gate to the steps of the porch, crowded with those unable to penetrate within the church.

" Hold firmly," he said, lifting her to his shoulder.

" And the necklace, dear porter ? " she whispered in his ear, encircling his neck with her arms.

" If thou wilt come to-night, and knock thrice at the small north gate, I wDl give it thee," said Friedgis.

" By St. Martin, I will come ! " answered the girl quickly.

" Good. Hold fast," he replied ; and, forcing his passage to the screen, he deposited her in the place whence he had so rudely torn her.

Careless of the wondering glances of her neighbors, she scanned eagerly the scene before her. The office was finished. The abbot's litter reposed at the foot of the choir stair; beyond, between the parted curtains, stood the reliquary, in front of the altar.

Whatever the record contained in the annals of the monastery of St. Servais, or in what manner soever the relics of its patron saint are therein connected with the wonderful recovery of its abbot, this is what happened : —

Having been transported into the church, whether from the coolness of the air or because the fever approached its natural term, or whether from the virtue of the herbs of Brother Hugo or the sight of the Prior Sergius, who intrigued to be his successor, the worthy abbot felt at the same time both an abatement of his fever and a ravishing sense of slumber ; so that even before the reliquary had been brought from the crypt below the choir, the chant of the brotherhood, echoing above his head, between the narrow walls of the clerestory, seemed like the soothing song of a mother, and the voice of the celebrant died utterly away to his hearing. When he awoke, the light reflected from the yellow sandstone walls was gone, and for a long time he searched his memory to explain the star shining so close beside him in the night ; till at last, his eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, he perceived the star to be the lamp of holy oil, and that two brothers watched and prayed near his litter. Remembering then all that had occurred, and recognizing by his refreshment the miracle that had been done, having offered thanks to God, he called to the monk nearest him. The monk, thinking the abbot beyond even the succor of St. Servais, shook with terror at seeing his lips move, so that when the abbot bade him summon the porter to assist in carrying him to his own room, the monk's knees sank under him and refused their support ; whereupon his companion, who had also heard the abbot's request, hastened in his stead to the passage which led to the porter's lodging. It was by this passage that Friedgis entered the church to ring the bell for the daily offices. Muttering a« prayer as he went, Brother Dominic — for that was his name — hurried down the corridor, and, being in haste, opened the porter's door precipitately, expecting to find the room dark and Friedgis in the sound sleep of midnight.

If from Passe Rose, who, faithful to her promise, sat on the edge of the low cot, the apparition of the pale face in its black hood called forth a suppressed shriek of terror, the sight of a woman of such loveliness in the chamber of the porter caused the monk a surprise greater than the devil himself could have effected ; and before Passe Rose had finished her cry he was flying down the passage, pursued by its echoes.

Now, however opportune for the abbot had been his appeal to the compassion of St. Servais, his return to consciousness was exceedingly iUtimed both for Friedgis and Passe Eose ; for the

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latter had not recovered her jewel, nor the former learned how she had obtained it. Passe Kose, indeed, had but just come when the appearance of Brother Dominic in the corridor caused her to spring to the door by which she had entered. This door opened into the walk between the church and the hospitium, next to the small gate by which access was had to the abbey close without passing through the great courtyard. Unable to move its heavy bolt, the girl sank upon the floor, convulsed* with terror, her eyes fixed upon the spot where the monk had stood.

Friedgis, more concerned for the information he desired than for the consequences of the monk's discovery, in vain endeavored to allay her fear. " Come," he entreated, kneeling beside her and drawing the necklace from his pouch. " What dost thou fear ? See, here is thy coUar. Tell me who gave it thee." But terror had taken away Passe Rose's power of speech. She had even forgotten her jewel, and continued to gaze at the passage as if she still saw the livid face of the monk looking at her from its dark recesses. "I tell thee they shall not harm thee," said Friedgis, closing the passage door and turning its heavy key. "Fear nothing. I wiU crack them one by one, like fagots, over my knee. See," he repeated, pressing the necklace into her hand, " here is thy collar."

"Let me go," implored the eyes of Passe Rose,

" On my faith thou shalt go. Look." The porter drew back the bolt. " Only tell me first."

As he spoke, footsteps were heard in the corridor. They did not escape the quick ear of the girl, to whom they imparted the energy of a fresh fear. " Save me ! save me ! " she cried, springing ftom the floor, and throwing herself upon the porter's neck.

" I will save thee ; I will carry thee out myself," said Friedgis disdainfully, endeavoring to unlock the girl's arms. " See, we are going." And renouncing all hope of calming her, he lifted her in his arms. " Only tell me where I may find thee. Whisper it in my ear." But while he spoke the arms about his neck relaxed their hold, the head on his shoulder fell back, and the body slid from his grasp. Passe Rose had swooned.

Holding his burden as best he could with one arm, Friedgis sought to open the door by which the girl had come, and while his hand was on the latch the grating of a bolt was heard in the walk without. He threw his shoidder against the oaken frame.

The door was barred fast on the outer side.

Passe Rose, when any one asked whence she came or who were her parents, lifted her eyebrows as if to say. What difference does that make ? But when she chose to be communicative she had good listeners, whether her tale was grave or gay. Her family had fled from the vicinity of Toulon to escape the pest, which, however, overtook both her father and her mother before they reached the confines of Provence. She next appeared with a company of mountebanks and dancers at Chasseneuil, where the king was assembling his vassals to invade Spain. Fluttering like a rose-leaf in the storm, Passe Rose was swept along in the throng gathering from Burgundy, Bavaria, Lombardy, and Austrasia to follow the banners of Karle beyond the Pyrenees, and reached Chasseneuil in season to dance before Queen Hildegarde at the Easter f §tes, — a performance of which she boasted proudly, and which she assigned to her sixth year. For while Passe Rose knew very well, by counting her rosy fingers, that eighteen and six make twenty-four, this fact taught her no fear and hinted no caution. Life was to her no cup of doubtful flavor, ginjjerly drunk with an eye on the bottom, but an ocean, over whose sparkling expanse she smiled, her lips at the run, drinking alike the sweet and the bitter, with that thirst out of whose fullness spring courage and joy.

It would appear that after Roncevaux she followed the army northward on its way to quell the Saxon insurrection, but abandoned both it and her mountebanks at the Rhine. It is even possible that she passed into Italy, but this is doubtful, for to foUow the itinerary of Passe Rose by her descriptions would be to travel over the known world. Certain it is, however, that she came to the fair of St. Denis with a company of Frankish merchants, at an age when her mere presence was their fortune ; for whether it were pearls or perfumes, Egyptian linen and paper, oil or wine, buyers were plenty within the sound of her laughter and the glance of her eye.

When the fair was over, and the merchants were about to set out for England for purchases of tin and wool, either because they treated her ill, or because she had no desire to travel so far, or perhaps for graver reasons, — for of this matter she would give no account, — Passe Rose fled secretly in the night ; and going a long way in a thick wood without finding any shelter, she lay down beside a wooden cross near the road, where, after saying all the prayers she had ever heard, she fell asleep.

Now Werdric, a gold-beater of Maestricht, returning from the fair with two donkeys and a servant, was hastening home to his wife Jeanne, whom he loved above everything else in the world, and with whom he lived in perfect happiness, except — for they had no children, a lack which both sorely lamented. It was all in vain that Jeanne fasted, and that Werdric made a golden image exciting the envy of all who saw it, and which he gave to the church of St. Sebastian ; so that, being now old, he thought no more about it, but Jeanne still prayed and fasted. Passing through the wood in the early morning, Werdric was astonished to see so fair a girl sleeping alone in such a place, and descending from his donkey he awoke her, asking where was her home, and if she would go thither with him.

" Willingly," said Passe Rose.

" And where may it be ? " asked Werdric.

" It is where thou art going," said Passe Rose.

Thinking that she spoke of some village or hamlet to which they would soon come, he set her upon the servant's donkey and pursued his way, marveling at her dress, which had silver lacing-cords and a hood lined with vair.

" How far may thy home be ? " presently asked Passe Rose.

Then Werdric remembered the fasts and prayers of Jeanne, and deemed that God had answered them, — a fact of which Jeanne made no doubt when he told her how he had found the young girl alone and asleep by the roadside, under the cross.

Perhaps it was because she fared so muck better with the gold-beater and his wife than with either the merchants or the dancers that Passe Kose remained with the former to this day. For Jeanne gave her a chamber above the shop, having a small turret in the corner overhanging the street, through whose window of horn one might see in both directions all who passed by or stopped below for affairs of trade. In the chamber was a bed with curtains, a priedieu chair with cushions on which were stamped a design of the sun, and a box for clothes, of which Passe Eose was very fond, although she had none to put into it except when she was in her bed, — a want, however, which Jeanne soon supplied. For there was nothing the goodwife would not have given her, even to a name. This name — Theodora — came to her thought in the middle of the night ; but the girl would have none of it, and declared her name was Passe Rose. Perhaps this name recalled some vague memories of Provence. Certain it is that when she passed by, it was as a breath from the land of orange, and olive, and rosemary. The hues of the Southern Sea were in her eyes and under the rose-brown flush of her skin; the sound of its waves was in the ripple of her laughter ; and the odor of samphire, myrtle, and lentisk, glistening wet in its spray, in her hair.

Nothing would persuade Mother Jeanne, as she might now in good truth caU. herself, that all this was not the gift of God ; and when Passe Rose told strange stories or related wild adventures, Jeanne, with a faith undisturbed by such prattle and nonsense, smiled.

It is needless to say that many who passed the goldsmith's shop were fain to gather this rose, and that many a gallant would have given his life for one of its petals, — " So they say," laughed Passe Rose, knowing also that when the rose drops its petals, then it begins to fade. In a way she loved them aU, at once and by turns, and so impartially that one would as soon think to be angry vdth the sun, which shines upon aU, as with her. At all events, she was truthful and sincere. She hated when she hated vigorously and well, and laughed when she laughed from her red lips to her sandaled feet. If she spat on Friedgis's bare leg, it was because she desired ardently to see the shrine of the blessed St. Servais ; and if she whispered softly in his ear, it was because she wished very much for her collar of gold. She wounded pride and she flattered self-love, just as the rain disappoints

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and the sun cheers, as it were in the very course of nature, with a naturalness and good faith so complete as to disarm all complaint. If selfishness had gotten hold of Passe Rose ! — ah, that would have been a different matter. Does any one caU the sun selfish, even when he hides his face ? When a lover tired her, A'ie! aie ! ai'e ! said Passe B.ose, and, like the sun, went to shine elsewhere.

But the love of Jeanne Passe Rose requited. Thus, for a whole year she hoarded every copper denier in her chest, till one morning she set out with three silver sous in her crimson purse, to buy the marten's fur which she knew the dame desired for the border of her dress. On her way she met Adelha'ide, sister to Robert, Count of Tours, master of the hunt and of the king's stables ; and this lady was attired so richly and had so great a retinue with her that at the sight of such splendor the three silver sous of Passe Rose seemed to her of no value. But after Adelhai'de had passed by. Passe Rose laughed, pressing the pieces together in her hand, and having gotten, by fair words or a fair face, the worth of four sous for three, ran home singing. On her part, the goodwife did all in the power of love to spoil Passe Rose ; but the latter possessed too sturdy a nature to be far diverted from her own course, — sturdy and willowy.

like a young ash in the wood, which sways to the wind, but grows straight upward without bend or flaw.

If one should contrast the safe and quiet life which Passe Rose now enjoyed with the troublous period of her early years, it might be thought that she had determined to close the chapter of her wandering existence, and to order the remainder of her days in sobriety. For with aU the pleasures of roving, hunger and cold and harsh words had not been wanting ; and like one who, fleeing down a narrow street pursued by enemies, suddenly perceives an open door, and, entering quickly, closes it upon all disquietude, so Passe Rose had left aU pursuing ills at the place where the goldsmith had found her. Such, however, is human nature, that no sooner are former evils passed away than those which are present call to mind the pleasures which disappeared with them, filling the heart with regrets and sighs. Passe Rose was not discontented, but in her new condition new hopes and ambitions assailed her. She had put aside her mountebank's dress even to the armlets of Greek coin whose jingle made once such pleasing music in her ears ; and with the garments which Jeanne gave her she had put on the disdain for her former companions which every good citizen felt, however eagerly they might flock to witness jugglers' magic or feats of dancers' skill. Only, while Jeanne despised their mode of life and did not hesitate to call them children of Satan, Passe Rose despised their condition. As to their mode of life, it pleased her well, for liberty was its motto ; and this liberty itself, as weU as the love of it, she carried in with her to her retreat when she closed the door. But whatever the plans she cherished or the hopes she nourished, her laugh was as merry and her hand as ready as ever. There was no menial labor she scorned to do, nor any courtly service she hesitated to demand. Jeanne herself scarce knew when to wonder most : whether when, in the kitchen, Passe Rose made savory pasties of cream and pounded almonds and pistachios, or when, having put on her favorite dress, fastened close about the waist and wrists, she went out to take the air. For being the gift of God, how should she know the best flour was of the second grinding, or that jeUy of apple was the better for rosewater, which on the other hand impaired the flavor of quince ? Moreover, Passe Rose brought from God knows where new inventions : comfit of purslane, marchpane of honey and the white of eggs, and frumenty with poppy seeds. " Who ever heard of fennel in cheese ! " Jeanne exclaimed; or, "Balm of mint in the soup, indeed ! " she cried, opening wide her eyes. But