"That is nothing: if your mother loves you truly, she will forgive you."
"If she loves me!" cried Sylvestre Ker. "Oh, yes, she loves me with her whole heart."
Some chestnuts still remained, and Bihan sh.e.l.led one while he said,--
"Certainly, certainly, mothers always love their children; but Matheline is not your mother. You are one-eyed, you are lame, and you have sold your little patrimony to buy your furnaces. Nothing remains of it. Where is the girl that can wait seven years? Nearly the half of her age!... If I were in your place, I would not throw away my luck as you are about to do, but at the hour of Matins I would work for my happiness."
Sylvestre Ker was standing before the fireplace. He listened, his eyes bent down, with a frown upon his brow.
"You have spoken well," at last he said; "my dear mother will forgive me. I shall remain, and will work at the hour of Matins."
"You have decided for the best!" cried Bihan. "Rest easy; I will be with you in case of danger. Open the door of your laboratory. We will work together; I will cling to you like your shadow!"
Sylvestre Ker did not move, but looked fixedly upon the floor, and then, as if thinking aloud, murmured,--
"It will be the first time I have ever caused my dear mother sorrow!"
He opened a door, but not that of the laboratory, pushed Pol Bihan outside, and said,--
"The danger is for myself alone; the gold will be for all. Go to the Christmas Ma.s.s in my place; say to Matheline that she will be rich, and to my dear mother that she will have a happy old age, since she will live and die with her fortunate son."
VI.
When Sylvestre Ker was alone, he listened to the noise of the waves dashing upon the beach and the sighing of the wind among the great oaks,--two mournful sounds. And he looked with conflicting feelings at the empty seats of Matheline and of his dear mother Josserande. Little by little had he seen the black hair of the widow become gray, then white, around her sunken temples. That night memory carried him back even to his cradle, over which had bent the sweet, n.o.ble face of her who had always spoken to him of G.o.d.
But whence came those golden ringlets that mingled with Josserande"s black hair, and which shone in the sunlight above his mother"s snowy locks? And that laugh, oh! that silvery laugh of youth, which prevented Sylvestre Ker from hearing, in his pious recollections, the calm, grave voice of his mother. Whence did it come?
Seven years! Pol had said. "Where is the girl who can wait seven years?"
and these words floated in the air. Never had the son of Martin Ker heard such strange voices amid the roaring of the ocean, nor in the rushing winds of the forest of the Druids.
Suddenly the tower also commenced to speak, not only through the cracks of the old windows where the mournful wind sighed, but with a confusion of sounds that resembled the busy whispering of a crowd, that penetrated through the closed doors of the laboratory, under which a bright light streamed. Sylvestre Ker opened the door, fearing to see all in a blaze, but there was no fire; the light that streamed under the door came from the round, red eye of his furnace, and happened to strike the stone of the threshold. No one was in the laboratory; still, the noises, similar to the chattering of an audience awaiting a promised spectacle, did not cease. The air was full of speaking things; the spirits could be felt swarming around, as closely packed as the wheat in the barn or the sand on the seash.o.r.e. And, although not seen, they spoke all kinds of phantom-words, which were heard right and left, before and behind, above and below, and which penetrated through the pores of the skin like quicksilver pa.s.sing through a cloth.
They said,--
"The Magi has started, my friend."
"My friend, the Star shines in the East."
"My friend, my friend, the little King Jesus is born in the manger, upon the straw."
"Sylvestre Ker will surely go with the shepherds."
"Not at all; Sylvestre Ker will not go."
"Good Christian he was."
"Good Christian he is no longer."
"He has forgotten the name of Joseph."
"And the name of Mary."
"No, no, no!"
"Yes, yes, yes!"
"He will go!"
"He will not go!"
"He will go, since he promised Dame Josserande."
"He will not go, since Matheline told him to stay."
"My friend, my friend, to-night Sylvestre Ker will find the golden secret."
"To-night, my friend, my friend, he will win the heart of the one he loves."
And the invisible spirits, thus disputing, sported through the air, mounting, descending, whirling around like atoms of dust in a sunbeam, from the flag-stones of the floor to the rafters of the roof.
Inside the furnace, in the crucible, some other thing responded, but it could not be well heard, as the crucible had been hermetically sealed.
"Go out from here, you wicked crowd," cried Sylvestre Ker, sweeping around with a broom of holly branches. "What are you doing here? Go outside, cursed spirits, d.a.m.ned souls--go, go!"
From all the corners of the room came laughter; Matheline seemed everywhere. Suddenly there was profound silence, and the wind from the sea brought the sound of the bells of Plouharnel, ringing the second peal for the midnight Ma.s.s.
"My friend, what are they saying?"
"They say Christmas, my friend--Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!"
"Not at all! They say, Gold, gold, gold!"
"You lie, my friend!"
"My friend, you lie!"
And the other voices, those that were grumbling in the interior of the furnace, swelled and puffed.
The fire, that no person was blowing, kept up by itself, hot as the soul of a forge should be. The crucible became red, and the stones of the furnace were dyed a deep scarlet.
In vain did Sylvestre Ker sweep with his holly broom; between the branches, covered with sharp leaves, the spirits pa.s.sed,--nothing could catch them; and the heat was so great the boy was bathed in perspiration.
After the bells had finished their second peal, he said,--
"I am stifling. I will open the window to let out the heat as well as this herd of evil spirits."
But as soon as he opened the window, the whole country commenced to laugh under its white mantle of snow--barren heath, ploughed land, Druid stones, even to the enormous oaks of the forest, with their glistening summits, that shook their frosty branches, saying,--