The Iron Pincers; or, Mylio and Karvel: A Tale of the Albigensian Crusades. Эжен Сю

them with her dainty fingers that are no less nimble than the spindle itself. Always confined to an ill-lighted chamber, the pure and white skin of the poor serf has not been tanned by the heat of sun; the hard labors of the field have not deformed her delicate hands. Florette sits there so completely absorbed in her own sadness that she does not hear the slight noise that proceeds from the hedge within which the mill is enclosed. Yes, so sorrowful and absent-minded does Florette sit by the stream that she does not even notice Mylio, who, having scaled the hedge, is stepping forward with caution, looking hither and thither as if expecting to see some one. Having noticed the young girl, whose back is turned to him from where she sits, Mylio approaches without being heard by her, and smiling places his two hands over her eyes; but instantly feeling the tears of the serf wet his fingers, he leaps over the trunk of the fallen tree, kneels down before her and says in a voice of tender solicitude:

      "You weep, dear beautiful child?"

      Florette (drying her tears and smiling)—"You are now here, Mylio; I shall try to weep no more. The sight of you gives me strength and courage."

      Mylio—"I feared to miss you at our trysting place. But here I am near you, and I trust I can assuage your grief. Tell me, dear child, what is it that makes you weep?"

      Florette—"This evening my aunt Chaillotte gave me a new skirt and a waist of fine fabric, and she brought me a bunch of roses for me to weave myself a chaplet."

      Mylio—"Why should these means of beautifying yourself cause your tears to flow?"

      Florette—"Alas! My aunt insists on my looking well because she expects seigneur the abbot at the mill to-morrow—he comes to see me, said she."

      Mylio—"The infamous Chaillotte!"

      Florette—"My aunt said to me: 'If seigneur the abbot takes a liking to you, you must not repel him. A girl should refuse nothing to a priest.'"

      Mylio—"And what did you answer?"

      Florette—"That I would obey the holy abbot."

      Mylio—"Would you, indeed!"

      Florette—"I did not wish to irritate my aunt this evening. A refusal might have angered her. She has suspected nothing, and I have been able to come here."

      Mylio—"But to-morrow, when the abbot will come would you consent—"

      Florette—"Mylio, to-morrow you will not be there, as you were a fortnight ago, to dash to my assistance and prevent me from being broken in the wheel of the mill—"

      Mylio—"Do you contemplate dying?"

      Florette—"A fortnight ago and out of fear at the sight of seigneurs the monks, I fell into the water without meaning to—to-morrow I shall voluntarily throw myself into the river. (The young girl wipes her tears with the back of her hand, and drawing from her bosom a little box-wood spindle gives it to the trouvere.) A serf and an orphan, I own nothing in the world but this little spindle. For six years, in order to gain the bread that my aunt frequently begrudged me, this spindle has whirled from morning to night between my fingers; but in the last fortnight it has more than once stood still, every time I interrupted my work to think of you, Mylio—of you who saved my life. I therefore now ask you as a favor that you keep the spindle as a souvenir of me, poor wretched serf!"

      Mylio (with tears in his eyes and pressing the spindle to his lips)—"Dear little spindle, thou, the companion of the lonely watches of the little spinner; thou, who earned for her a bitter enough daily bread; thou, that, lost in revery, she often contemplated hanging from a single thread; dear little spindle, I shall ever keep thee, thou shalt be my most precious treasure. (He takes from his fingers several gold rings ornamented with precious stones and throws them into the stream that runs at his feet.) To the devil with all these impure souvenirs!"

      Florette—"Why do you cast these rings into the water? Why do you throw them away? Why that imprecation?"

      Mylio—"Go! Go! ye shameful souvenirs of an impure life! Ephemeral pledges of a love as fickle as the waters that are now carrying you away! Go! I prefer the spindle of Florette!"

      Florette (takes and kisses the trouvere's hands, and murmurs amid tears)—"Oh, Mylio! I shall die happy!"

      Mylio (closing her in his arms)—"Die! You, die? Sweet, dear child, no! Oh, no! Will you follow me?"

      Florette (sadly)—"You are trifling with me. What an offer do you make to me!"

      Mylio—"Will you accompany me? I know in Blois a worthy woman, to whose house I shall take you. You will remain hidden in the house two or three days. We shall then depart for Languedoc, where I shall meet my brother. During the journey you shall be my sister; upon our arrival you will become my wife. My brother will bless our union. Will you entrust yourself to me? Will you follow me on the spot? Will you come to my country and live near my brother? All that I am telling you can be easily done."

      Florette (has listened to the trouvere with increasing astonishment, she passes her two hands over her forehead and says in a tremulous voice)—"Am I dreaming? Is it yourself who ask me whether I would follow you? Whether I would consent to be your wife?"

      Mylio (kneels down before the young serf, takes her two hands and answers passionately)—"Yes, sweet child. It is myself who am saying to you: 'Come, you shall be my wife! Will you be Mylio's?'"