University of Virginia Library

Anear the palace of the King of France
Arose the monastery's gloomy walls,
That grimly frowned upon the passers-by.
Without could naught be seen save windows barred,
And drawbridge and deep mote, like castle strong
Of some great baron; but within the walls
Was the fair chapel with its altar tall,
All covered with Madonnas, strangely carved
In precious wood or cut in marble white,
And hung with costly jewels and bright gold,
The gifts of pious nobles to the Church.
Unto the preacher's desk was firm attached,
By a short silver chain, the Book of God,
With velvet cover, broidered o'er in gold,
And written on rich vellum of all tints;
While on the margin wide of every page
Were pictures of the saints and holy men.
The chapel walls around were tapestried
With heavy hangings, all embroidered rich
With deeds of saints, of martyrs, and of Popes,
And costly ornaments were strewed around.
Here lay a silver vase with incense filled,
And there a golden, holding precious drops
Of brackish water from the Holy Land,
By some good pious pilgrim brought to France.
Beside the chapel was the Council Room,
Where met the Brothers, to decide upon
Some weighty question on occasions grave.
Of flowered damask was the Abbot's chair,
All framed in ebony, carved curious,
And raised upon broad steps of marble pure.
Here, too, appeared the gifts of pious men,
And sacred relics from far distant shrines;
For at his death, to expiate his sins,
Each noble deemed he should endow the Church,
And of all orders there was none so dear
As this, “The Monks of good Saint Augustine.”
Helgaut, the Abbot, was a frowning man,
With fierce, cold, gleaming eyes, e'er glitt'ring forth
From out the shadow of his darksome cowl.
Stern, grasping, and severe, 't was said of him,
He had himself outlived his icy heart,
And all the monks did tremble 'neath his rule.
Yet some of these were jolly-humored souls,
Who, faring well from out the vessels rich
Of the old monastery, bore its ills
Right patiently, and all the laws obeyed.
While others, still, in all, their abbot grave
Did imitate, and worship as a saint.
Such was the monastery near the King,
When, in the black and stormy night in which
Queen Bertha to her infant Prince gave birth,
Above the thunder's roar and beating rain
Was heard a knock upon the outer gate,
Prolonged and loud; and when the doors were oped
And drawbridge raised, within the gloomy night
No sign of man or woman could be seen:
But, looking down, the monks espied a child
Upon the threshold of the portal tall.
Then hastily they bore the infant in
Unto the light, and found it all deformed,
A monster hateful to the eye of man,
That stared around unmeaningly and strange.
The priests recoiled before the horrid sight,
And, with one voice, proposed to throw the child
Into the mote around the outer wall.
But here a tender-hearted monk advanced,
And said, “Alas! the child's deserted now
By all of human kind. 'T is sadly cursed,
And monstrously malformed, but what of that?
O brethren, in the bitter hour of death
Our sinning souls may seem deformed and dark
And hateful to the eye of God, as now
This child doth seem to us. Forget ye not
The Leper, touched by a far greater hand,
But prove that this poor child, although by man
Abandoned, shall be saved in God's own house.
Then let us bear it to the Abbot good,
And pray that he will keep it in these walls,
And try to guard it from all further ill.”
Thus spoke the good old Brother Innocent,
With such a tender pleading in his tones,
And such kind pity for the loathsome thing,
That all the monks were touched and bowed their heads.
So Innocent then raised the hateful babe
And bore it to the Abbot, stern Helgaut,
Who, when he saw the infant horror there,
And heard the good monk, Brother Innocent,
Thus beg him for its life with tender words,
Cried forth, as though his heart were softened too.
“Although I cannot bear to have this child
Within these sacred walls, yet still, for thee
I'll shelter it this night, and in the morn
We all will meet within the Council Room,
And there decide upon its future fate.”
The good old Innocent, with grateful heart,
Low to the Abbot bowed, and bore the child
Again within his arms unto his cell,
His own small chamber, and he left it there.
And though his sight with loathing turned from it.
Yet, as a sacred duty, did he guard
The malformed infant, close anear his couch,
And with his prayers he blended prayers for it.
Gay morn arose, all fair and smiling bright,
As though unconscious of the night's wild storm.
She came, and breathed forth light and hope anew,
And with her glowing touch the curtains black
Of the dark night did part, and wove for them
A rich, bright-orange fringe. Then, while the wheels
Of her gold chariot rolled o'er the sky,
All changed to glory and to light, and soon
A cloudless azure heaven smiled on France.
Then, too, the little droplets of the rain
Had in their heart a tiny golden sun,—
Reflection of the mighty one on high,—
And so they twinkled like a thousand eyes,
And peered from every bush and leafy shrub
And tree and flower, smiling merrily
To the great eye of day, the sun on high.

From early dawn, within the holy walls
Of the old monastery all was life;
And after the long worship of the morn
And early meal were o'er, the monks repaired
Unto the Council with the babe deformed.
The walls were now hung round in deepest black,
That hid the gorgeous arras underneath;
The crucifix in mourning, too, was veiled
At every hour, to remind the monks
Of Robert's sin, and Gregory's dread curse
Upon fair France, their wicked King's estate.
Then, when Helgaut God's blessing had invoked
Upon th' assembled monks, and prayed for light
Within their souls, to see the better path,
And do His will upon the cursèd child,
The horrid thing deformed was brought before
The Council of the Priests, and all around
In silence waited for the Abbot's words.
But ere he spoke the hangings of the door
Were waved aside, and there appeared without
A menial, a lay-brother, who then craved
Admission of the Abbot for a maid
Coming with some grave message from the Queen.
Helgaut, with haste, a mantle black threw o'er
The child beside him, and then bade the monk
Bring forth the maiden to his presence there.
The monk obeyed, and entered with Gisèle,
Still pale from nights of anxious watching late,
With delicate slight form, and white arms crossed
Upon her bosom, o'er her robe of black,
With step all firm, but eyes upon the ground,
A pale-pink blush suffusing the pure cheek.
Up the long aisle, between the gazing priests,
Gisèle advanced; then, meekly bowing low,
She stood before the Abbot, nor dared speak
Until he bade her tell her mission there;
And then, with womanly, low, thrilling voice:
“I come,” she said, “to ask you, in the name
Of Bertha, Queen of France, some holy priest
To bless her little new-born infant prince,
A lovely babe all innocent of sin.”
“A lovely babe,” the cruel Abbot thought;
And then compared it with the child deformed
That lay concealed beside his chair of state.
And, suddenly, a thought flashed through his brain,—
A fiendish thought,—and then he said aloud,
“'T is well, fair maid! Myself will follow you
Unto the Queen, her little prince to bless,
And try to turn her from her sinful ways.”
Then did he bid Gesèle await without,
And called a few most trusty priests to him,
And, whispering with them, he left the hall;
Then, with Gisèle, he went unto the Queen.

Right glad was Bertha when she saw again
Another human face beneath her roof.
“Welcome!” she cried, “O reverend father here;
I pray thee bless this little new-born babe,
And bear it to King Robert in thy arms,
And bid him bless it with a father's love.”
But to her words the Abbot answered not,
And only murmured “Benedicite”
Over the innocent doomed babe, and took
Its passive form within his arms; and then
Did Bertha bid farewell unto her child,
With one long kiss upon its angel brow,
The seal of all her new-born mother-love.

All solemnly Helgaut withdrew, and left
The chamber of the Queen, and then the hall,
And then essayed he not to find the King,
But stealthily he issued from the door,
And, bearing in his arms the infant prince,
Unseen he passed into the open air,
And wound his way unto the forest paths.

Right by the entrance of the wood there flowed
A little streamlet, narrow, and yet deep,
And over it the drooping grasses long
Made a green fringe, that hid it from the eye
Of the indifferent passer-by. But those
Who lived anear well knew the stream, and so
Helgaut crept slowly on until he reached
The deep blue waters of the little brook,
That looked as though a sapphire from heaven
Had fallen 'mid the emeralds of earth.
And there, all suddenly, the priest sank down
On one knee in the smooth, green, velvet turf
That carpeted the borders of the stream,
And, looking in the babe's soft, azure eyes,
He smiled a cruel smile and dropped the child,
Like a pale rose-leaf, on the flowing waves.
But God's great gift of life already had
Grown dear, and so one feeble cry awoke
The sleeping echoes, but they died away,
And all was still. And then the babe arose
And floated dead upon the river's breast,
Like a white lily calmly on a lake.
Then hastily the Abbot seized again
The little body floating out of reach,
And, binding round its form a heavy stone,
He let it drop once more, and down it sank,
Stirring the ripples for its requiem.
The happy birds sang on their loving songs,
The azure sky smiled down upon the land,
The green leaves of the trees, far overhead,
Still seemed to weave a delicate, fine lace,
With mingling of their trembling branches fair
Against the blue of heaven, and still the stream
Flowed on all gurgling low beneath the rocks,
And soft between the grass-enlinèd banks,
In ripple, wave, and eddy flowed along,
And told not of that fragile burden small
That lay so far below, or, if it did,
It sang in such a tender, gentle tone,
That none could understand the words it spoke.

When all was quiet once again Helgaut
Arose and turned unto the old retreat,
The frowning monastery. Then, when he
Had passed the portal, with a mocking grace,
A “blessing on the inmates and the roof,”
He entered the great Council Hall again,
Where all the monks were still awaiting him,
And took his seat upon the chair of state.
“Most worthy, reverend brethren,” said he then,
“Ye know that by the sinful Queen, erewhile,
I was besought to bless her new-born babe,
And that, in answer to her call, I went.
I went, my brothers, and she gave to me
Her child to bear unto the wicked King;
Then knowing our Father Gregory,
The holy Pope's commands, and holding more
The welfare of the soul than life, I bore
The babe from out that atmosphere of sin,
And then I drowned it in the passing stream
And prayed to God it might not be too late
To save its soul. And now we all can take
This monster to the King, and say it is
The fruit of sinning Bertha; then will he
Believe this is a judgment on his head,
And part from her at last; and Gregory,
The Father of us all, will then, perchance,
Reward our little service, and enrich
Our Order with some monastery new.
Then, too, we each will feel within our souls
That we have done what 's pleasing unto God,
And cleared from all pollution our vile King.
What say ye, O my brethren, unto this?”
He ceased, and suddenly the cry burst forth,
“God bless our holy Abbot, good Helgaut,
And give him after death rich recompense
For all his pious deeds!” But Innocent
Alone, of all the monks, sighed low, and groaned
And cursed himself that he had saved the child,
While down his cheeks there coursed two silent tears.
Alas, poor little prince of one short night,
Whose death has caused such bitter tears to flow,
Thy life has been more blessed than some more long!

Then rose Helgaut and took the child deformed
Within his arms, and, with four other priests,
He bore it to the palace of the King,
And through the halls unto his chamber-door.
And then they entered all King Robert's room,
And found him praying, low upon his knees,
With fervor of devotion; but he rose
With mingled looks of gladness and surprise,
At seeing once again, within his court,
New faces strange, and bid them welcome there,
And asked them what their mission was with him.
Then first advanced the stern Helgaut, and held
Within his arms the loathsome child deformed,
And said, “O King, we come to clear you now
Of all pollution, for we bring to you
A sign and proof that you offend your God
By living with your most unlawful Queen.
For while she lay unconscious in her trance
She bore a babe, and this child is her fruit!
Oh, pause awhile, and think upon your fate!
The awful Thousandth Year doth now approach
When all the world shall die, and Earth resolve
Once more into that chaos whence she sprang.
The Lord will now judge every secret thing,
And every secret work, howe'er concealed,
If good or evil. Oh, beware, beware!
Soon shall the silver cord, O King, be loosed,
The golden bowl be broken at the fount,
Man's flesh return to dust that erst it was,
Man's spirit to the God who gave it life.
For now the dreaded Thousandth Year is nigh,
And woe, O King, if thou dost disregard
This proof of God's just anger at thy deeds.”
And, saying this, he offered to the King
The hateful infant; but the King drew back
And groaned, and hid his face to see it not.
“Away!” cried he; “oh, torture me not thus!
I see, I see my own sin and my Queen's,
But still I cannot think this thing is hers.
Oh, see ye not the agony of mind
That I have suffered, and that wracks me now?
Oh, tell me, tell me that this is not hers!”
“Nay, nay,” replied Helgaut, “it is, in sooth,
The offspring of your Queen, and we will swear,
By all most sacred in this life or heaven,
That it is hers.” “Then swear,” replied the King,
“For my crazed mind refuseth to believe.”
Then first Helgaut, the Abbot, bowed, and made
The sign upon his bosom of the cross,
And murmured, “By the blessed blood of Christ
I swear this child is Bertha's and your own.”
And then another came and swore by Heaven;
And, lastly, did they all appeal to God,
And swear 't was Bertha's and King Robert's child,
Then Robert groaned and wept and tore his hair,
And cried, “Alas! God's anger smiteth me,
And I will part from her.” Then said Helgaut,
“Swear by the Church!” And then the King, “I swear.”
And then another cried, “Oh, swear by Christ.”
And, in a low and broken voice, the King,
“I swear.” And then the others said, “Oh, swear
By God.” And, broken by an anguished sob,
“I swear by God in heaven to part with her,
And never to behold her face again!”
Then did the Brothers go from out the hall,
And leave King Robert with his mighty grief.
And when he found himself alone once more
He burst forth with a passionate despair,—
“Oh, must I part with thee, at last, my Queen,
And never see thy lovely face again,
And never hear thy low and thrilling voice,
Nor even bid thee now a last farewell?
Oh, must the tender light of those blue eyes
Forever vanish from my yearning sight,
And leave me dark and lonely? Must that form
Which was to me the precious casket fair
That held all gems that made life bright for me,
Forever disappear, now, like a dream
Of beauty and of joy? Despite the sin,
Despite God's judgment on us both, my Queen,
My noble Bertha, oh, I love thee still.
I love thee with a love more passionate,
More deep, more rich than e'er I loved before;
It swells up in my heart as though 't would burst
That feeble prison, small to hold so much.
O Bertha, Bertha, yes, I love thee still,
Despite that hideous deformity,—
Thy fruit, thy gift to me. And even thou
Wilt deem my heart is faithless unto thee,
And thou wilt curse and hate me, O my Queen.
Ay, sooner that, still sooner would I have
My harshness turn the love that burns within
Thy noble heart for me, to deepest hate,
Than have thee feel such pangs of fruitless love
As I feel now.” He ceased, and, rising slow,
He opened wide his arms, and then he gave
A long, despairing, piercing cry that held
His soul, his passion, and his love, and cried,
“Farewell, farewell forever!” Then he fell
Exhausted, fainting, and unconscious, low
Upon his face, as though all life had fled.

Into the chamber of King Robert's queen
There entered, all alone, the Abbot grave,
Helgaut, who, walking on with solemn pace,
Stopped at her bedside, bending low to her.
Queen Bertha looked an instant at the priest,
Then cried, “Where is my child? What harm has come?”
“What child?” exclaimed the monk with feigned surprise;
“That hateful monster that you gave to me,
To show unto the King? Oh, call you that
Your child and do not blush?” “No, no,” cried she,
“My little cherub, my sweet, rosy child,
That you erewhile did take from out my arms.
Come, come, oh, mock me not with these vain fears,
But give to me once more my lovely babe.”
Then solemnly and slowly spoke the monk,—
“I know not of a lovely little babe;
I know no more than that you gave to me
A child malformed and hateful. Unto you,
I well can fancy, it seemed beautiful,
But to all others 't was a monster dread,
And e'en the King did find it horrible.”
“Nay, nay,” then cried the terror-stricken Queen,
“It was no monster, cruel-hearted monk;
And if it were, I'll love it still the same,
And cherish it, and think it beautiful,
If you will but restore it unto me.”
Then went the monk from out the chamber-door,
And, entering again, he brought with him
The child deformed, and gave it to the Queen.
She looked at it a moment, then recoiled,
All wildly shrieking, “Give me back my babe,
For this is none of mine! Where is my boy?”
“Well knew I,” said the monk, “that none could be
E'er blinded unto such deformities.
This is the awful judgment of the Lord;
For this, Queen Bertha, this child is your own.”
And then Queen Bertha rose upon her couch,
As though she had not heard his words, and cried,—
“Where have you left my babe, oh, cruel monk?
If in your hard and rocky heart there be
One tender spot, oh, give me back my child!
I see, I see, you would but raise my fears,
And make me doubly happy when you bring,
Once more, my little blooming child to me.
But mock no more, for see, I will go mad!
Oh, say no longer that this thing is mine!
Then will I pardon you the agony
You cause me now. Fear not, I'll pardon all.”
“Alas!” replied Helgaut, with artful sigh,
“All gladly would I bring some little child,
With merry, laughing, pretty infant face,
And swear it was your own, if Truth were not
Above all else with me. But this child is
The same one that you gave me as your own.
And, as a proof that this is so, the King
Saw only God's just chastisement and wrath
And bade me tell you, you must part from him,
And leave at once his palace and his home,
And nevermore behold his face again.”
A moment since, all flushed and warm, she stood
Beside her couch, while weeping bitter tears,
And with both arms outstretched, as though in prayer;
But now each tear rushed backward to its source,
And froze upon her brain; her arms dropped down
Beside her form, the rosy color fled
From cheek and lip, and left no sign of life,
Save the quick gasp, the choking, painful breath,
And one long shudder that ran o'er her frame.
Helgaut had looked for violence and tears,
And cursings and loud cries, but none such came,
While one great tear coursed down her pallid cheek.
With dry, wide-opened eyes she looked at him,
Nor spoke nor moved. Then a long sigh upheaved
Her snowy breast, and thus she spoke to him,
Not madly, but with low and saddened tone,
And slow as though all life and strength had gone.
“Since Robert, since my noble lord, believes
That this thing is the child I bore to him,
I, also, now believe that it is mine,
For in all things I ever think with him.”
And meekly did she bow her queenly head,
And all again was silent. Then the monk:
“What parting message shall I give the King?”
Again, in low, soft tones, she answered him.—
“Tell Robert that his loyal Queen obeys
His least commands, and leaves his home to-day.”
She spoke so low and painfully, Helgaut
Feared each word was her last, but still essayed
One question more. “This child, your child?” said he.
Again, in soft and choking tones she spoke:
“Go, take it with you, tend and try to love,
And God will bless you; but, oh, show it not
Unto my tearless eyes again. Now go,
Put all your heart and passion and past youth
Into one word, and say it to the King,
And be that word ‘Farewell.’” The monk withdrew,
And slowly went from out the royal halls.
Then, sinking down upon her couch again,
The Queen lay there all calm and pale and still,
And wept not, nor could pray, but only said,
“‘To leave at once his palace and his home,
And nevermore behold his face again.’”
And o'er and o'er repeated this, until
The words had lost all meaning in her ears.

Low in the Western sky the full round sun
Was piercing with his darts of fire the clouds,
Of purple and of gold around his throne,
And sinking all in glory to his rest;
While in the East there hung the pale-faced moon,
Like a round silver mirror, burnished bright,
For the great sun, who saw his image there
Reflected palely in its polished disk.
Then twilight fell upon the busy earth,
And clothed with mystery each tree and bush;
And, sparkling in the darkness, twinkled forth,
From out the azure mantle of the skies,
The diamond stars, erst hid within its folds.
All sounds died out upon the plain and hill,
Save the low cricket chirp, or the soft burr
Of grasshopper concealed beneath the leaves.
No more was heard upon the twilight air,
While France lay 'neath the Pope's dread interdict,
The pealing of the mellow vesper-bell,
But all around was hushed in still repose.
Then, when the quiet of that peaceful hour,
On each and all had fallen, slowly forth,
From out the palace of the King of France,
There came a stately woman robed in black,
With such a pallid, calm, and saddened face,
With such great, yearning, tearless azure eyes,
With such a fixed and vacant gaze, she seemed
The Angel of Despair upon this earth.
Her steps were slow, and often did she pause
For strength and breath before she could pursue
Her short, but wearisome and painful path,
That led unto the convent's gloomy walls,
Arising near the palace of the King.
And now she seemed so sad and faint and ill,
That scarcely could she reach the gate alone.
At length she came before the portal tall,
And, knocking there, a white-robed nun appeared,
And asked her what she would in those old walls.
Then answered she, “I crave admission here
To wipe away my sin with prayers and tears,
For I am Bertha, once the Queen of France.”
And when the gentle-hearted sisters heard
That she had been their good and noble Queen,
And found her thus in grief and misery,
They welcomed her within the convent walls,
And prayed for her, and spoke not of her sin,
But promised, on the morrow, she could take
The black veil of the nun, nor wait the time
That should expire in novitiate.
The little chapel of the convent old
Was lighted up with slender tapers bright,
The incense rose from waving censers full,
The great high altar was with flowers decked.
When Bertha entered, robed right regally
In fairest white, with all her golden hair
Upon her snowy shoulders waving down,
And crowned now with a wreath of lilies pure,
That could not pierce her brain and wound her heart,
As the rich crown of gold she erst had worn.
No color lighted up the marble cheek,
No tears had yet relieved the aching eyes,
But beautiful, surpassing earthly grace,
She looked, as slowly up the chapel-aisle,
And followed by the white-robed chanting nuns,
She walked unto the altar. There she fell
Before it prostrate on her face, and then
The sisters o'er her flung the great black veil
That covered all her form; and half the nuns,
In low and tender voices, chanted slow,
With musical soft tones, “Our sister's dead.”
And all the rest, in rich and thrilling voice,
That seemed to pierce the high and vaulted roof,
Then chanted loud, “Alive in Jesus Christ!”
And after this they went to raise the veil,
And lo! the chants were true, for she was dead.