THE LAST CAMPAIGN OF VIRVILLE

THE LAST CAMPAIGN OF VIRVILLE
A French Military Yarn of the Napoleonic Era
Translated and retold by Sandra Dermark

In the village of Gémeaux, not far from Dijon, there once lived one Monsieur de Virville, whose memory has become quite celebrated throughout the shire and has given origin to the following legend:

Captain de Virville was a gallant officer in the armies of old Bonaparte. After the Battle of Waterloo, he hung up the sword and went to live in his native village of Gémeaux. In the daytime, he was rarely seen in public, and, by night, he was always wide awake.
And nearly every evening, as the rest of the village went to bed, there were heard the hoofbeats of a fiery steed, after which came a carriage, from within which a deep voice was heard:
"Are you sleeping, Virville? Shall you tarry?"
An instant later, the reply was heard: 
"At your service, mon général!"
And the rolling of the wheels was heard loud as thunder, some days in one direction and some days in the opposite direction. At that moment, the valley sank once more into silence.
Some of the villagers, peeking through half-open windows, saw the carriage pass by, without being able to distinguish anything more than the two silhouettes. They had also seen that on some nights, a few minutes before twelve sharp, a horseman remained still, in silent, before the crucifix on the marketplace. It was the visitor of M. de Virville. But what was he doing there?
The villagers had found out that both riders set course for the battlefield on the outskirts of Gémeaux, where, after being called by name, their fallen comrades appeared: first of all, the generals; then, the officers; and, at last, the rank and file. They took up their formation, and, to the voice of command, "Avancez!", they all fought against an imaginary enemy. At the break of day, all of them had disappeared, and every drop of dew had turned to a drop of blood.
And even more details where found out. Jules Bonnot, "un esprit fort" who feared neither god nor beast nor man, assured that he had seen the fantastic horse, all made of cold steel, that many a time came to seek out M. de Virville.
One night, M. Bonnot braced himself to wait for them. In fact, it was not such a long wait. The horse appeared, trotting down the hill. As soon as it saw M. Bonnot, it whinnied loudly for rage. Then, the poor curious fellow, trembling like a leaf, saw how the steed grew... and grew... and grew... until it was the size of a full-grown elephant. And still it kept on growing even more; but poor Jules Bonnot was not able to see it, for the dread and the shock of it made him stumble and fall senseless on the ground.
Thus was he found by some labourers when, at the crack of dawn, they went out into the fields to till their soil.
Then came a night when, to the question of the stranger on horseback, M. de Virville did not answer: "At your service, mon général!" He was sleeping the last sleep, nevermore to awaken.
The night before his funeral, a long file of horsemen in uniform passed in silence through the marketplace of Gémeaux, and, in front of the crucifix, they bowed as low as they could in deep reverence.
Among them was the soul, or ghost, of M. de Virville.

THE FROGS OF SERIPHOS

THE FROGS OF SERIPHOS
The frogs of the island of Seriphos are silent, and no one has ever heard them croak on their native soil; but, if they are brought to any other place, they let out discordant and shrill ribbits. 'Tis still told by the islanders, full of local conceit, that when their foster child Perseus returned victorious from his fight against the Gorgon, he lay down for a sleep on the shores of a lake; but the frogs, with their croaking, did not allow him to fall asleep. And thus, the demigod asked his father Zeus to make them shut up. And Zeus, out of love for his son, condemned these frogs to perpetual silence.

GRODORNA PÅ SERIFOS
Grodorna på ön Serifos är stumma, och ingen har aldrig hört dem kväka i deras födelseland, men, om de förs bort till vilken annan plats som helst, yttrar de disharmoniska och gälla kväkanden. Än berättas det på ön, av människor fulla av orts-stolthet, att när Serifos' fosterbarn Perseus återvände segerrik från sin strid mot gorgonen, lade han sig ner för att sova vid en insjös strand; men grodorna, med deras kväkande, lät honom inte somna in. Slunda bad halvguden sin far Zeus att få grodorna att tiga. Och Zeus, av ren kärlek för sin son, fördömde dessa grodor till livstids tystnad.

A FRENCH PUCK

A French Puck

Among the mountain pastures and valleys that lie in the centre of France there dwelt a mischievous kind of spirit, whose delight it was to play tricks on everybody, and particularly on the shepherds and the cowherds, and whoever herded tame animals. They never knew when they were safe from him, as he could change himself into a human adult or child, a stick, a goat, a ploughshare, any object for that matter. Indeed, there was only one thing whose shape he could not take, and that was a needle. At least, he could transform himself into a needle, but try as he might he never was able to imitate the hole, so every woman would have found him out at once (except if he had concealed himself in a haystack), and this he knew.
Now the hour oftenest chosen by this naughty sprite (whom we will call Puck) for performing his pranks was about midnight, just when the shepherds and cowherds and gooseherds, tired out with their long day's work, were sound asleep. Then he would go into the cowsheds and unfasten the chains that fixed each beast in its own stall, and let them fall with a heavy clang to the ground. The noise was so loud that it was certain to awaken the cowherds, however fatigued they might be, and they dragged themselves wearily to the stable to put back the chains. But no sooner had they returned to their beds than the same thing happened again, and so on till the morning. Or perhaps Puck would spend his night in plaiting together the manes and tails of two of the horses, so that it would take the grooms hours of labour to get them right in the morning, while Puck, hidden among the hay in the loft, would peep out to watch them, enjoying himself amazingly all the time.
One evening, more than one hundred and eighty years ago, a young man named William was passing along the bank of a stream when he noticed a sheep who was bleating loudly. William thought it must have strayed from the flock, and that he had better take it home with him till he could discover its owner. So he went up to where it was standing, and as it seemed so tired that it could hardly walk, he hoisted it on his shoulders and continued on his way. The sheep was pretty heavy, but the good man was merciful and staggered along as best he could under his load.
'It is not much further,' he thought to himself as he reached an avenue of walnut trees, when suddenly a voice spoke out from over his head, and made him jump.
'Where are you?' said the voice, and the sheep answered:
'Here on the shoulders of a donkey.'
In another moment the sheep was standing on the ground and William was running towards home as fast as his legs would carry him. But as he went, a laugh, which yet was something of a bleat, rang in his ears, and though he tried not to hear, the words reached him, 'Oh, dear! What fun I have had, to be sure!'
Puck was careful not always to play his tricks in the same place, but visited one village after another, so that everyone trembled lest he should be the next victim. After a bit he grew tired of cowherds and shepherds, and wondered if there was no one else to give him some sport. At length he was told of a young couple of fiancés who were going to the nearest town to buy all that they needed for setting up house. Quite certain that they would forget something which they could not do without, Puck waited patiently till they were jogging along in their cart on their return journey, and changed himself into a horsefly in order to overhear their conversation.
For a long time it was very dull—all about their wedding day next month, and who were to be invited. This led the bride to her wedding dress, and she gave a little scream.
'Just think! Oh! how could I be so stupid! I have forgotten to buy the different coloured reels of cotton to match my clothes!'
'Dear, dear!' exclaimed the young man. 'That is unlucky; and didn't you tell me that the dressmaker was coming in tomorrow?'
'Yes, I did,' and then suddenly she gave another little scream, which had quite a different sound from the first. 'Look! Look!'
The bridegroom looked, and on one side of the road he saw a large ball of thread of all colours—of all the colours, that is, of the dresses that were tied on to the back of the cart.
'Well, that is a wonderful piece of good fortune,' cried he, as he sprang out to get it. 'One would think a fairy had put it there on purpose.'
'Perhaps she has,' laughed the girl, and as she spoke she seemed to hear an echo of her laughter coming from the horse, but of course that was nonsense.
The dressmaker was delighted with the thread that was given her. It matched the stuffs so perfectly, and never tied itself in knots, or broke perpetually, as most thread did. She finished her work much quicker than she expected and the bride said she was to be sure to come to the church and see her in her wedding dress.
There was a great crowd assembled to witness the ceremony, for the young people were immense favourites in the neighbourhood, and their parents were wealthy, of course. The doors were open, and the bride could be seen from afar, walking under the chestnut avenue.
'What a beautiful girl!' exclaimed the men. 'What a lovely dress!' whispered the women. But just as she entered the church and took the hand of the bridegroom, who was waiting for her, a loud noise was heard.
'Crick! crack! Crick! crack!' and the wedding gown fell to the ground in shreds, to the great confusion of the wearer.
Not that the ceremony was put off for a little thing like that! Cloaks in profusion were instantly offered to the young bride, but she was so upset that she could hardly keep from tears. One of the guests, more curious than the rest, stayed behind to examine the dress, determined, if she could, to find out the cause of the disaster.
'The thread must have been rotten,' she said to herself. 'I will see if I can break it.' But search as she would she could find none.
The thread had vanished!
From 'Littérature Orale de l'Auvergne,' par Paul Sébillot.

THE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTERS

THE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTERS
By Eliza Cook

This is an alleged legend that there happened in an English village about some gamblers who lived there.

A stranger journeyed through our town, 
One dark and wintry night; 
And, as he passed the ivied church, 
He marked a flitting light. 

It shed a restless waving gleam 
Through the Gothic window pane 
And now it vanished for a space, 
And now it came again. 

He stood, and thought it wondrous strange 
That such a scene should be; 
He stood, and now the pale red beam 
Shone strong and steadily. 

He looked around; all else was dark, 
Not e'en a star was left; 
The townsfolk slumbered, and he thought 
Of sacrilege and theft. 

He roused two sleepers from their beds, 
And told what he had seen; 
And they, like him, were curious 
To know what it should mean. 

They hied together to the church, 
And heard strange sounds within 
Of undistinguishable words, 
And laughter's noisy din! 

The window's high; a ladder, quick, 
Is placed with stealthy care, 
And one ascends — he looks below; 
Oh! what a sight is there! 

The white communion-cloth is spread 
With cards, and dice, and wine; 
The flaming wax-lights glare around, 
The gilded sconces shine. 

And three of earthly form have made 
The altar-rail their seat, 
With the Bible and the books of prayer 
As footstools for their feet. 

Three men, with flashing bloodshot eyes 
And burning fevered brows, 
Have met within those holy walls 
To gambol and carouse. 

But the darkest work is not yet told: 
Another guest is there, 
With the earth-worm trailing o'er his cheek 
To hide in his matted hair! 

He lifted not the foaming cup, 
He moved not in his place; 
There was slime upon his livid lips, 
And dust upon his face. 

The foldings of a winding-sheet 
His body wrapped around, 
And many a stain the vestment bore 
Of the clay from the charnel ground. 

A rent appeared, where his withered hands 
Fell out on the sacred board; 
And between those hands a goblet stood, 
In which bright wine was poured. 

Oh! he was not like the other three, 
But ghastly, foul, and cold; 
He was seated there a stiffened corpse 
All horrid to behold. 

He had been their mate for many a year, 
Their partner many a game; 
He had shared alike their ill-got gold 
And their deeply tarnished fame. 

He had died in the midst of his career, 
As the sinful ever die, 
Without one prayer from a good man's heart, 
One tear from a good man's eye! 

He had died a guilty one, unblessed, 
Unwept, unmourned by all; 
And scarce a footstep ever bent 
To his grave by the old church wall. 

The other three had met that night, 
And revelled in drunken glee, 
And talked of him who a month ago 
Formed one of their company. 

They quaffed another brimming glass, 
And a bitter oath they swore 
That he who had joined their game so oft 
Should join their game once more. 

And away they strode to the old church wall, 
Treading o'er skull and tomb, 
And dragged him out triumphantly, 
In the midnight murky gloom. 

They carry him down the chancel porch, 
And through the fretted aisle, 
And many a heartless, fiendish laugh 
Is heard to ring the while. 

They place him at the hallowed shrine, 
They call upon his name, 
They bid him wake to life again, 
And play his olden game. 

They deal the cards: — the ribald jest 
And pealing laugh ring on. 
A stroke — a start — the echoing clock 
Proclaims the hour of one! 

And two of the three laugh louder still, 
But the third stares wildly round: 
He drops the cards, as if his hand 
Were palsied at the sound! 

His cheeks have lost their deepened flush, 
His lips are of paler hue, 
And fear hath fallen on the heart 
Of the youngest of that crew! 

His soul is not yet firmly bound 
In the fetters of reckless sin! 
Depravity hath not yet wrought 
Its total work within! 

The strong potation of the night 
Drowned all that might remain 
Of feeling; and his hand shrunk not 
While madness fired his brain! 

But now the charm hath lost its spell, 
The heated fumes have passed; 
And banished reason to her throne, 
Usurped, advances fast. 

He rises — staggers — looks again 
Upon the shrouded dead! 
A shudder steals upon his frame: 
His vaunted strength is fled! 

He doubts — he dreams — can, can it be? 
A mist is o'er his eyes; 
He stands aghast. — " Oh! what is this? 
Where? where? " — he wildly cries. 

" Where am I? — see the altar-piece — 
The holy Bible: say — 
Is this the place where I was brought 
A tiny boy to pray? 

" The church — the church-yard too — I know 
I have been there to-night; 
For what? Ha! mercy! see that corpse! 
Oh, hide me from the light! 

" I have been deemed a profligate, 
A gamester, and a knave, 
But ne'er was known to scoff at God 
Or violate the grave! 

" I've long been what man should not be, 
But not what I am now. 
Oh help me! help! My tongue is parched! 
There's fire upon my brow! 

" Oh save me! hide me from myself! 
I feel my pulses start: 
The horror of this drunken crime 
Hath fixed upon my heart! 

" Again! I feel the rushing blood! 
I die! — the unforgiven! 
Again, it comes; all — all is dark — 
I choke — Oh! mercy, Heaven! " 

One struggling groan — he reels — he falls — 
On the altar-steps he lies; 
And the others gasp with fear, for now 
Two corpses meet their eyes! 

But, hark! swift footsteps echo round: 
Encircled now they stand: 
Surprised, detected, they are seized 
By many a grappling hand. 

And soon the dreadful tale is spread, 
And many a finger raised 
To point them out; while the listening one 
Looks fearfully amazed. 

They are shunned by all; the son, the sire, 
The heedless and the gay; 
Their old associates leave their side, 
And turn another way. 

Hate, shame, and scorn, have set a mark 
Upon them. One by one, 
Of all they knew, forsakes their path, 
Till they are left alone. 

And they have sought another land, 
And breathe another clime; 
Where men may deem them fellow-men, 
Nor hear their blasting crime! 

And gossips, in their native town, 
Even now are heard to tell 
Of the sacrilegious crew that turned 
The old church to a hell.

JACK FROST - A LEGEND

Now listen : Once upon a time,
There lived a foolish boy,
Who would not be contented
With any pretty toy.

But one thing did he wish for,
You ll think it very droll
For sure enough he wanted
To see the great North Pole.

He rode upon a donkey,
Once in the summer weather,
These two fit companions
Went on their way together.

They travelled through great deserts,
And forests that were greater ;
They waded through the seas, and then
Jumped over the Equator.

And so they journeyed Northward,
A long, long, weary way ;
It was a toilsome journey
For the longest summer day.

At last they reached the great North Pole,
And it, with age, was white ;
To see it there so stiff and still
It was a wondrous sight.

Then, foolish boy, he touched it
With one finger only one
But quickly he repented
What he had rashly done !

For three tall icebergs round him,
Each shook its great white head,
And then there were no icebergs there,
But three tall men instead.

" Foolish little boy,"said one,
"You shall be always cold."
The second said, "And you shall live
Till you are very old."

The third said, "You may tremble,
For all we say is true,
And everything you breathe upon
Shall be as cold as you."

And so it is we always know
When that little boy is near,
And when our lips are pinched and blue,
We say, "Jack Frost is here."

He walks about at nightfall,
And kills the poor field-mice ;
He breathes upon the rivers,
And they are turned to ice.

He passes through our gardens,
We see where he has been,
For every little blade of grass
Is white instead of green ;

And if a foolish snowdrop
Lifts up too soon its head,
He holds it in his prickly hand
Till the little thing is dead.

He stays here all the winter,
Sometimes till almost May,
Then come the gentle summer winds
And blow him quite away.