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"But," meseems I hear you, my son Jocelyn, still insist, "why should old Araim, who has too little or too much to say, why should he begin his narrative to-day, rather than yesterday, or why did he not postpone starting to write until to-morrow?"
He then removed his cap and stepped towards Araim, the oldest member of the household: "Long life and happy days to hospitable people! This is Hevin the Peddler's wish to yourself and your family. I am a Breton. I was going to Falgoët, when the night and the tempest overtook me on the beach. I saw the light of this house from a distance; I came, I called, and the door was opened to me.
His disappearance gave so much pain to our grandfather Araim that he died of a broken heart, and shortly after we lost our mother, who was almost crazed with grief. Our father Jocelyn alone withstood the bereavement. Oh, our brother Karadeucq was but too heavily punished for wishing to see the Korrigans!" "The Korrigans, aunt Roselyk!" cried Yvon, Kervan's son.
The good Joel could not be any prouder of his family than I, old Araim, am of my grandchildren!
I now also say, with the poor mother, who incessantly runs to the door demented in the hope that she may be able to see whether her son is coming back: "The gods have punished Karadeucq, my pet, for having wished to see the Korrigans!" My father Araim died of a broken heart shortly after the departure of my second son. He left me the family archives.
But in the course of my nephew's narrative, our descendants will find the secret of that mystery that my grandfather Araim had not the courage to put in writing: "How the Gallic people, who had known how to emancipate themselves from the powerful Roman yoke, fell and remained under the yoke of the Franks, whom they surpass a thousandfold in courage and in numbers."
Long live Gaul." Two years have passed since the death of Count Neroweg. We are now in winter; the wind moans, the snow falls. It was on the day following a similar night that, nearly fifty years ago, Karadeucq, the grandson of old Araim left the paternal roof, under which the following narrative takes place, in order to run the Bagaudy, seduced thereto by a peddler's story.
That, then, my son Jocelyn, is the reason why neither your grandfather Goridek nor his father wrote a line themselves. "And why," you will insist, "did you, Araim, my father, why did you wait so long, until you had a son and grandchildren, before you paid your tribute to our chronicle?"
As he led him, the Vagre said to himself: "I came dangerously near betraying myself when I heard the Frankish King speak of the bravery of the Breton race; my heart beat with pride fit to crack my ribs; then, besides, I thought of good old grandfather Araim, who used to call me his pet!
Read this narrative, it will recall to your mind the family gathering of the previous evening, my son Jocelyn it will also inform you of something that you do not know. You will not thereafter ask again: "Why did good Araim start this narrative to-day, and not yesterday?"
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