PIERRE AND HÉLÈNE

A STORY OF LOWER BRITANNY

ONCE there were two orphans who lived in a village, a brother and a sister; the brother’s name was Pierre, and the sister’s Hélène. Pierre was married. The woman he married was wicked and jealous, and from the moment she entered Pierre’s house she hated her sister-in-law; Hélène was good.

A year passed, and Pierre became the father of a little girl.

“Hélène shall be her godmother!” said he.

“As you like,” said his wife, casting an angry glance upon the poor girl.

Little Hélène grew; and when she began to say a few words she was always lisping that of her good godmother. Pierre’s wicked wife was very indignant at it.

“Hypocrite!” cried she in a rage, “is she going to deprive me of my child’s affection as she has of my husband’s love? I will find some sure means of driving this perfidious creature out of the house.”

One day she went to her husband. “See here,” said she, “it is I who do all the work; your sister takes her pleasure when your wife is worn out with fatigue; she folds her arms from morning to night while I do her work and mine. Send her away, then, and you will see that everything will go better in our household.”

Pierre was very sad at these words, for he loved Hélène tenderly.

“My sister,” said he to her the next day, “it is not right that you should eat the bread that others have earned, and be idle yourself.”

“I milk, I bake the bread, I make the butter,” said Hélène; “what more do you wish me to do?”

But the wicked woman could not restrain her hatred, and a few days after this she said,—

“I cannot stand it any longer; she must go!”

And she ran to the stable and killed an ox.

“Pierre, Pierre!” cried she to her husband, “see what your sister Hélène has done; she has killed one of your oxen.”

“My sister, why did you do this?” said Pierre to her, greatly mortified.

“I did not do it, brother,” answered Hélène sweetly.

The next day the second ox died.

“Pierre, Pierre!” cried the wicked woman, “see; your other ox is dead, and it is Hélène who killed this one also.”

“I shall be ruined if I have no beasts to take into the fields,” said Pierre to his sister, “and this is the second one of my oxen that you have killed.”

“I did not do it, brother,” answered Hélène quietly.

The next day the horse was found dead in the stable.

“Pierre, Pierre! see what your sister has done. Next thing she will set the house on fire.”

“Sister,” said Pierre, “how could you kill my horse? Do you wish me to be obliged to beg my bread?”

“I did not do it, brother,” Hélène answered sadly.

“Pierre, Pierre!” cried the wicked woman, the day after, “come see what your demon of a sister has done. Look at our child; I found her smothered in her bed.”

Pierre tore out his hair in despair, and sent for Hélène, who had gone out to her work early in the morning.

“Sister,” said he angrily, “you killed my oxen and my horse, and I pardoned you; but now you have killed my child: you must leave this house, and receive the punishment for your crimes!”

Then Pierre cut off Hélène’s two arms; and they prepared to go away.

“Where are you going to take me?” said Hélène.

“You will see,” said Pierre.

“Give me my mass-book, brother, and let my little dog go with me.”

Pierre took Hélène a long distance, and they came at last to a great forest; the wind blew through the trees and made the leaves shake. Suddenly a large oak-tree fell. Pierre took his sister in his arms and placed her up among the branches; he opened the mass-book and laid it on her lap, and the little dog played nimbly by his mistress’ side.

“Farewell, my sister!” said Pierre, turning away to wipe his tears.

“Farewell!” answered Hélène.

At that moment she saw that Pierre had hurt himself, and that there was a thorn in his foot.

“Go on, brother,” said she to him; “some day I will come and take it out.”

Pierre went on his way, and when he returned to his dwelling, he sat down beside his hearth-stone; and suddenly the thorn grew immensely, and a great tree sprang up from his foot and went up the chimney. He was thus condemned to remain where he was seated and to wait till his sister should come to set him free as she had promised him.

Hélène continued in the forest, seated in the top of the great tree, and the wind turned the leaves of the mass-book she had on her knees. Hélène prayed.

At the hour for meals, twice a day, the oak-tree bent down as if blown down by the wind, and the little dog jumped to the ground and went to look for his mistress’ breakfast.

There was in the neighborhood a castle where a young lord and his mother lived.

Every day, for some time, the lady of the castle had remarked, on sitting down to her table, that several of her dishes had been partly consumed.

“See here!” said she to her astonished servants, “who is permitted to eat of the meats before they are brought to the table? Is it proper that my son and I should eat what our servants leave?”

“Madam,” said the steward, “I placed those meats there only a moment ago, and I assure you they had not been touched.”

“Very well,” said the lady angrily; “find out as soon as possible who this insolent creature is, who feeds upon our meats before we have tasted them ourselves.”

The next day, at the dinner hour, the steward took his place near the table, which was all served for dinner. Suddenly a little dog leaped in at the open window; he held a handkerchief between his teeth. With one bound he was on the table; and seizing several bits of meat, some bread, and a few pieces of fruit, he fled away. The steward was completely confounded.

“Well?” said the lady as she entered.

“I have seen him!” cried the steward; “I have seen him!”

“Who?” she asked.

And he explained all that had passed.

“You must follow it,” said the lady of the castle.

“I will try, madam.”

The next day, at the same hour, the steward took his place near the table. The dog came in through the window and took his provision as usual; then, seeing they were watching for him, he fled away rapidly. The steward tried to follow him in vain; the little animal disappeared in the forest.

“Leave it to me,” said the young lord; “I will find out where this dog goes.”

And the next day he took the steward’s place. The window had been left open purposely. At the usual hour the little dog appeared. The lord of the castle did not interfere with him; but when he saw him take the four corners of Hélène’s handkerchief between his teeth, he darted out and ran in pursuit of the thief.

He followed the dog for several minutes; but soon worn out by the useless chase, he threw himself at the foot of a tree, breathless, but not discouraged.

“To-morrow,” said he resolutely, “to-morrow I will find out where this dog goes.”

So the next day he had his horse saddled, and, taking his place under the window, he waited. The little dog appeared, jumped on the table, chose among the dishes that were served, a breakfast for his mistress; but when he started as usual to return to his retreat, the gallop of a horse resounded behind him.

The dog stopped suddenly; one of the oak-trees bent down just then, and the intelligent little animal took his place near his mistress. The young lord of the castle, looking up, saw a charming young girl seated among the branches at the top of the tree. He was struck with her beauty. A book was lying on her lap, and the wind turned the leaves of it as she read; for oh, strange! the poor child had been deprived of both her arms.

He questioned Hélène; and she answered his questions.

The lord of the castle heard all the young girl’s history. His heart was moved with pity. He came to see her often; and one day he swore he would have no one but her for his wife.

One day a carriage stopped at the foot of the oak-tree, which bent down; and the young husband received his betrothed in his arms.

When the ceremony was over, the old lady of the castle, looking at the young wife, said to herself,—

“So this is my son’s wife!” and an expression of hatred came over her face. “Patience!” she added, in a low voice, “patience! the day will come when she shall leave my house forever.”

A few months after, the young husband went away to the war.

One morning the crabbed old lady of the castle came into the young wife’s room. Twin babies had just been born to her; and they were resting quietly by her side in a gilded cradle.

“Ah!” she muttered with disgust, and went out. Her hand trembled with anger as she dipped the pen into the ink and wrote the news to her son:—

“Well,” said she, “your wife has brought two very ugly little children into the world.”

The springtime came: but still the lord of the castle had sent no tidings of himself.

“Your husband is dead,” said Hélène’s wicked mother-in-law to her one day; “I do not wish you to be any longer under my roof. Go; neither you nor your brats shall disgrace this castle any longer.”

“Alas, madam!” answered Hélène, “I can go away very well; but who will carry my dear little ones?”

“You yourself,” said the horrible woman. “Do you suppose I would put my servants at your service? They would refuse to go with a beggar like you.”

“Alas!” replied Hélène, “I have no arms, as other mothers have, to carry my poor children.”

“We will manage it,” said the hard-hearted mother-in-law.

And the next day Hélène left the castle, carrying the two innocent little ones in a cloth which was tied round her waist.

She wandered a long time in the forest, followed by her little dog; and when evening came on, weariness overcame her, and she was very thirsty. A fountain flowed a few steps from her. Hélène sighed.

“Alas!” she thought, “if I only had one arm, I could catch some water in the palm of my hand and quench my thirst.”

And as she uttered the words, a little bird, perched on the edge of the fountain, began to twitter. He said, in his language,—

“Do not cry, poor Hélène.”

Hélène, astonished, stopped to listen to it; but the little bird continued to sing. Hélène approached the fountain, and leaned over the water; she tried to drink.

But before her lips could reach the water, one of her nurslings fell into the fountain. Poor Hélène! who would give her little baby back to her?

But the bird went on singing; and in its language it said,—

“Dip what there is left of your right arm into the fountain, and fear nothing for your child.”

Hélène obeyed the little bird, and dipped what remained of her arm; and at once a strong and active arm and a supple hand grew out in place of the right arm and hand that she had lost.

Hélène picked up her child with delight; but at the same moment the other dropped from the cloth that held it, and fell into the water, as his brother had done. But the little bird kept on singing; and in its joyous language it said,—

“Dip what remains to you of your left arm into the fountain, and fear nothing for your child.”

Hélène dipped what there was left of her other arm, and immediately she had a new left arm.

Hélène picked up her other child.

A cabin under the shade of an oak-tree sheltered Hélène and her children. One day the two children were playing on the threshold. A stranger passed by. He stopped before the two children.

“I, too,” cried he bitterly, “I would one day have been surrounded by fair young ones; but Hélène has fled from my home.” When suddenly Hélène appeared at the cabin door.

“It is she!” cried the stranger.

But he drew back as if struck by lightning. This woman had two arms, and her fingers fondled her children’s hair. His Hélène had both arms cut off.

Meanwhile, she had also recognized the stranger, and sprang towards him.

A few hours after, a magnificent carriage stopped at Pierre’s farm. Hélène descended quickly from her carriage, and went into the house. Poor Pierre was still seated beside the fire. He suffered terribly, and his wicked wife never consoled him. When she heard the carriage stop, and saw her sister-in-law get out of it, she suddenly disappeared.

“Where is your wife?” asked Hélène of her brother.

“I do not know,” answered Pierre. “Heaven has punished me for my crime, for I have not had a day of happiness since I left you in the forest; and my wife, who caused me to do such a deed, leaves me to my misery.”

At this moment they heard the voice of the wicked woman. “Hélène,” said she, coming forward, and speaking in a sweet voice, “I hope you have pardoned me; Heaven has punished us, and we are, as you see, very unhappy. But come,” she added, leading the way to the upper story.

“I cannot,” said Hélène; “I must cure my brother first.”

“Come up, so that I may show you what Heaven has left me to console me in my misfortune.”

Hélène, thinking her sister-in-law wished to show her a new baby, started towards the winding stairway.

“Go first,” said Pierre’s wife, with hypocritical respect.

“No,” said Hélène; “I do not wish to go in front of you. I am always poor Hélène, Pierre’s sister.”

The sister-in-law then went up first, and suddenly a loud noise was heard; two steps of the stairway fell in with a great crash, and the wicked woman fell into a pot of boiling water that she had prepared for Hélène. She thought she had counted the steps, and was sure of the success of her treachery; but hatred bewildered her, and made her the victim of her own perfidy. Hélène turned away her head in horror and descended the stair.

“My brother,” said she to Pierre, “Heaven has punished the crime; your wife is dead: she fell into the snare she set for me. But you see I have come to fulfill my promise. Show me your foot, and I will take out the thorn which has caused you so much suffering.”

“Alas, my sister! this thorn is a great tree whose branches already cover the roof of my dwelling,” said Pierre.

But as he spoke, Hélène touched her brother’s foot, and in a moment the tree disappeared up the chimney, and fell with a crash on the other side of the house.

Marguerite de Belz, “La Clef des Champs.”