Béarn and the Pyrenees | Page 5

wall. There is a
little recess in one corner, and a narrow window, through whose minute
opening a fine prospect may be seen.
This small chamber, tradition says, was once adorned with "azure and
vermilion;" though it could scarcely have ever presented a very gay
appearance, even when used as the private retreat of the luxurious
master of the castle. However, such as it is, we are bound to look upon
this spot with veneration; for it is asserted, that here a child was born in
secrecy and mystery, and that here, by this imperfect light, his beautiful
mother gazed upon the features of the future hero of Normandy.
However unlike a bower fitted for beauty and love, it is said that here
Arlette, the skinner's daughter, was confined of William the Conqueror.
It is said, too, that from this height, the sharp-sighted Duke his father,
gazing from his towers, first beheld the lovely peasant girl bathing in
the fountain which still bears her name. In this retreat, concealed from
prying eyes, and where inquisitive ears found it difficult to catch a
sound, the shrill cry of the wondrous infant was first uttered,--a sound
often to be repeated by every echo of the land, when changed to the war
note which led to victory.
Little, perhaps, did his poor mother exult in his birth, for she was of
lowly lineage, and had never raised her eyes to the castle but with awe,
nor thought of its master but with fear; her pleasures were to dance, on
holidays, under the shade of trees with the simple villagers, her
companions; her duties, to wash her linen on the stones of the silver
stream, as her townswomen do still at the present day--that silver
stream which probably flowed past her father's cottage, as it still flows,
bathing the base of cottages as humble and as rudely built as his could
have been. There might, perchance, have been one, amongst the youths
who admired her beauty, whom she preferred to the rest; her ambition

might have been to become his bride, her dreams might have imaged
his asking her of her father, whose gracious consent made them both
happy: in her ears might have rung the pealing bells of St. Gervais--the
vision of maidens, in bridal costumes, strewing flowers in her path,
might have risen before her view--her lover with his soft words and
smiles--his cottage amongst the heath-covered rocks of Noron--all this
might have flitted across her mind, as she stood beside the fountain,
beneath the castle walls, unconscious that eyes were gazing on her
whose influence was to fix her destiny. A mail-clad warrior, terrible
and powerful, whose will may not be resisted, whose gold glitters in
her father's eyes, or whose chains clank in his ears, has seen and
coveted her for his own, and her simple dream must be dispersed in air
to make way for waking terrors. The unfortunate father trembles while
he feebly resists, he listens to the duke's proposal, he has yet a few
words of entreaty for his child: he dares not tell her what her fate must
be, he hopes that time and new adventures will efface Arlette from the
mind of her dangerous lover; but, again, he is urged, heaps of gold
shine before him, how shall he turn from their tempting lustre? Is there
not in yonder tower an oubliette that yawns for the disobedient vassal?
He appeals to Arlette, she has no reply but tears; men at arms appear in
the night, they knock at the skinner's door and demand his daughter,
they promise fair in the name of their master; they mount her on a steed
before the gentlest of their band, his horse's hoofs clatter along the
rocky way--the father hears the sobs of his child for a little space, and
his heart sinks,--he hides his eyes with his clenched hand, but suddenly
he starts up--his floor is strewn with glittering pieces--he stoops down
and counts them, and Arlette's sorrows are forgotten.
Arlette returns no more to her father's cottage. She remains in a turret
of the castle, but not as a handmaiden of the duchess; her existence is
not supposed to be known, though the childless wife of Duke Robert
weeps in secret, over her wrongs.
All this is pure fancy, and may have no foundation in reality.
"Look here upon this picture and on that."
Perhaps Arlette did not repine at her fate; she might have been

ambitious and worldly, vain and presuming, have possessed cunning
and resolve, and have used every artifice to secure her triumph. Some
of the stories extant of her would seem to prove this, and some to
exculpate her from blame, inasmuch as she believed herself to have
fulfilled a sacred duty in conforming to