The Golden Ember

In the heart of the Brussels Forest, in a dugout entwined with branches, lived three orphaned brothers. They were charcoal burners, toiling day and night to barely make ends meet. One evening, after they had filled the furnace with charcoal, Jean, the eldest brother, said to the younger ones:

"Brothers, we're almost done with our work; all that's left is to keep the fire in the furnace going. I'm off to Pempont to dance at Jerome Chouan's wedding."

"Alright, go ahead," said Jacques and François.

Jean immediately went into the hut and began dressing for the wedding.

He put on an old jacket, trousers with only two patches—one on the knee, the other on the seat—shoes recently resoled with new soles, and his Sunday wide-brimmed hat. Once dressed, he left, humming a tune.

After Jean had gone, the second brother thought:

"Do both of us really need to tend the fire in the furnace? Little François can handle it just fine on his own. Why should I stay home and die of boredom when all the boys and girls are gathered at Julien Genel's place today, drinking cider, eating roasted chestnuts, and telling stories?"

And so Jacques also left, instructing François to watch over the furnace, as if the fire went out, all their hard work would be for nothing.

François was in his fourteenth year. He was an obedient and kind boy, and his older brothers often took advantage of this.

That evening, the poor child was utterly exhausted. After helping his brothers all day, he still had to stay awake for a good part of the night to keep the fire going.

But without complaint, he took the poker and began stirring the coals to keep the fire from dying.

The hours dragged on, and no matter how hard François fought his fatigue, sleep gradually overcame him. To stay awake, he started walking back and forth from the furnace to the hut and back. But nothing helped, and in the end, François, exhausted, sat down and fell asleep.

He dreamed that he was a king, herding cows while sitting on a large white horse. He was so rich that he ate white bread and pork fat every day. If anyone had seen François sleeping at that moment, they would have seen bliss on his face, brought on by this wonderful dream.

But, oh, what disappointment and sorrow awaited him when he woke up! He was no longer a handsome prince riding across the steppe; he was a poor charcoal burner, the fire in the furnace had gone out, and he knew his brothers would surely beat him for it.

What to do? How to fix this? How to remedy the disaster? Matches were not yet known then, and every morning women would go from house to house with an old wooden clog, searching for a burning ember.

Poor François, in despair, tore at his hair and called upon all the saints for help.

Suddenly, looking up at the sky, he noticed tongues of flame in the distance, high above the trees.

"Hey!" he shouted. "It looks like some charcoal burners have lit a big bonfire to protect themselves from the night dew. I'll go quickly and ask them for a few embers."

He ran in the direction of the flames, and as he got closer, he was very surprised to see that the fire shimmered with different colors: blue, white, yellow, red.

It shone so brightly that François could clearly see the part of the forest he had wandered into.

He froze in place. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He was just a few steps away from the Tressellien clearing, near the Baranton Spring, where the fairies gathered!

The bell tower in Pempont struck midnight.

And then François remembered what he had heard from people, that forest spirits gathered here at night. Here they played and danced. And any mortal who tried to catch a glimpse of them would be drawn into their hellish dance and forced to dance until they dropped dead from exhaustion.

Should he go forward? Or run back? And was it even possible to escape now?

As he pondered, several forest fairies emerged from the thicket. They surrounded him, grabbed him, and led him away. François was terrified but had no choice but to follow. He found himself in the middle of the clearing before a huge bonfire, where the god of oaks was warming his feet.

Seeing François, the forest god shouted in a terrible voice:

"Mortal! What are you doing here?"

François, weeping, told of his misfortune, how he had slipped up and feared a beating. The forest god, listening to him, realized that the poor boy was not lying and softened. Pointing to the fire, he said almost kindly:

"Well, young man, take some fire on your shovel and use it in good health, but don't come back here again."

The little charcoal burner didn't need a second invitation: he thrust his shovel into the fire and pulled out a blazing ember, by whose light he easily found his way home. Running back to his furnace, he threw the ember in, and the fire flared up as if by magic.

When the brothers returned home, the charcoal burning was complete, and they never found out what had happened in their absence.
II

In the morning, François, as usual, had to clean the stove.

Preoccupied with thoughts of the events of the previous night, he shoveled out the ashes and started in surprise when he saw beneath them yesterday's ember, which still glowed brightly with some kind of magical radiance.

Recovering from his astonishment, François moved closer, turned the ember this way and that, saw that it wasn't burning, wiped it with the edge of his apron, and finally realized that what lay before him was a huge ingot of gold—and that this gold belonged to him!

His brothers had gone to sell coal, and François spent the entire day thinking about his discovery. Having been left to his own devices since childhood, he was easily swayed by dark passions. "Such a golden log," he said to himself, "is worth a great deal of money. This is wealth, and wealthy people are happy and live joyfully. The gold is mine; it was given to me alone. Jean and Jacques have no claim to it."

His conscience rebelled against such thoughts and said to him, "You were left an orphan at a very young age, and your brothers took the place of your deceased father and mother."

But his darker feelings prevailed and whispered to him:

"Since then, you've worked constantly and repaid them many times over for everything they did for you. You're long since even with them; don't let this trouble you, and keep the gold for yourself."

Comforted by such thoughts, François dug a hole under a beech tree and buried his treasure there.

From that day on, he knew not a moment of peace. He bid farewell forever to serene and joyful dreams. His life had completely changed. He was haunted by an unrelenting anxiety. He avoided his brothers, his old friends, everyone. He wandered alone through the forest, thinking about the time when he would leave these places, go to Paris, exchange his gold, and then return to buy up all the land in their district, so that his acquaintances would burst with envy. He had already been seized by the demon of vanity.

But despite the golden ember, François was penniless and couldn't embark on his desired journey. Many years passed before he saved enough money, penny by penny, for the trip.

He worked all day, helping his brothers, silent, never uttering a single word to them, and he dreamed constantly of future happiness, counted his savings, which he kept in a sock, and spent hours staring at his treasure.

He couldn't save as much as he wanted, so he left his brothers to work with other charcoal burners who paid well.

III

And at last, the long-awaited day arrived.

Without saying goodbye to anyone, François left his homeland, carrying his gold on his back, wrapped in old rags and tied with ropes.

Looking at this scrawny young man, pale, thin, and seemingly frail and pitiful, no one would have believed that he was the owner of a great fortune.

He walked to Paris, moving from village to village, surviving in Brittany on nothing but apples and chestnuts that he picked up under the trees, and further on, beyond Brittany, on grapes he secretly plucked from vineyards and ripe blackberries. He gladly accepted the hospitality of peasants who fed him out of pity, deceived by his wretched appearance. After many wanderings, he one evening saw in the distance the rooftops of the great city. Soon, exhausted from fatigue, he entered a Parisian suburb and began searching for a place to spend the night.

The next morning, he broke his golden ember into pieces and went to sell them to jewelers. He earned a vast sum of money.

In one merchant's shop, François shed his charcoal burner's clothes and dressed in city attire. The new clothes and his pale face made him resemble a noble gentleman.

He settled in a hotel and soon tasted all the pleasures that Paris had to offer.

Possessing a rare intellect, a handsome and appealing appearance, and scattering gold by the handful, he quickly became acquainted with noble people and acquired refined manners. A whole entourage of new friends eased his entry into high society. All doors opened before him, and the Marquis de Compé—as he now called himself—soon became a true nobleman, flattered, spoiled, and envied by all.

But all these successes, which he had initially pursued, quickly bored him. He was a Breton, and memories of his homeland never left him.

Amid the most lavish and merry feasts, the charcoal burner François thought of the tall trees of the Brocéliande forest, of the fields filled with the scent of blooming buckwheat, and often said to himself, "I could have just as much fun there, in my homeland, and feast with friends."

IV

And so, one fine morning, true to his habit of not saying goodbye to anyone, he left a ball, bought a horse and weapons—for in those days the roads were not as safe as they are now—and set off for Brittany.

The journey went smoothly, and upon his arrival, François bought a magnificent castle in the vicinity of Plélan.

A merry life began. Nobles from all around were invited to the castle.

Packs of hounds bayed in the castle courtyards. The sound of horns echoed through the forest. Music always rang out in the castle chambers.

Banquets, balls, and hunts followed one after another without end. Extravagance knew no bounds, and only the poor remained forgotten and neglected.

With such a lifestyle, the gold of the Marquis de Compé noticeably dwindled, and to make matters worse, he decided to recoup his squandered wealth through gambling. This was his downfall. He lost everything he had left.
After one feast, François lost everything down to the last penny in a single night and became as poor as he had been in his youth.

The game was in full swing when he was informed that a fire had broken out in the castle stables and could not be extinguished. But François was too engrossed in the game. He wanted to win quickly so he could try his luck again. In response, he merely shrugged.

A few hours later, all the buildings were consumed by the flames, and nothing could be saved.

When the fire had destroyed everything, the guests dispersed to their homes, but none of them invited François to stay with them. His drinking companions now avoided him. The unfortunate man was left alone among the ruins and ashes.

He stayed there for an entire day, completely absorbed in his misfortune. Hunger forced him to seek shelter somewhere. Only then did he remember that he had brothers, and he made his way to the old hut.

Jean and Jacques were lighting a fire in the stove and singing as they worked.

They had seen the marquis several times before when he rode past with his pack of hounds, and they noticed some resemblance to their younger brother. But it never occurred to them that it could actually be him. However, when he entered the hut, they had no doubt that it was François, dressed as a noble lord.

"Brother," they said, "you must be very rich: you have a castle, horses, dogs, which must cost more to maintain than feeding all the peasants in our forest, and you have so many friends!"

"No, I am no longer rich," François replied. "My castle has burned down, the horses and dogs have been sold, the money has been spent, and my friends have abandoned me. I have nothing, and I am dying of hunger and cold."

"Then share our meal and warm yourself by the fire," said the charcoal burners, pointing to the hearth and the pot of black bread stew. "There is always room here for a poor man."

François satisfied his hunger and approached the fire, while his brothers continued working.

This friendly reception seemed more humiliating to him than the rudest refusal of shelter. He suffered from the fact that his brothers were better off than he was, and he did not want to stay with them.

Besides, he had completely forgotten how to work and understood perfectly well that he could not stay with his brothers if he did not work alongside them.

"Ah! Whatever happens, I'll try my luck one last time!" he said to himself. "I'll go to the forest spirits at the Tres-sellen clearing."

He waited for darkness and left the hut.

V

Around midnight, the unfortunate marquis, struggling with fear, made his way toward the clearing.

The weather was terrible; thunder roared, and lightning streaked across the sky.

Just like the first time, François saw multicolored flames glowing above the tops of the tallest trees.

Owls hooted ominously. Bats and nightjars flitted like shadows over the bushes. It was summer—the time when frogs and toads, grasshoppers and crickets sing and chirp all night long. But on this night, they showed no signs of life. Only the wind rustled in the thicket, the larches sighed, the ferns trembled, and the heather swayed—all of nature groaned and lamented.

The marquis, mustering all his courage, moved forward.

Suddenly, bursts of laughter, voices, and singing came from the thicket. Soon, the unfortunate man was surrounded by fairies, who dragged him to the clearing and whirled him in a frenzied dance.

The god of the oaks, upon seeing François, immediately recognized him and shouted in a terrible voice:

"Mortal, why have you come here?"

François began to tell him the same story about the extinguished fire in the stove. But the old man interrupted him:

"I've heard, I've heard, but I find it hard to believe! However," he added, chuckling, "we'll see if you're telling the truth. Dip the shovel into the fire and try to pull out a burning log."

Pale and with a wandering gaze, the poor man approached the fire, thrust the shovel into the flames, and tried to pull it back out. But he couldn't. It seemed as if some invisible force was holding it.

His hands convulsed with tension. They seemed to fuse with the shovel he was holding. The flames first licked the shovel, then the unfortunate marquis's hands, and finally engulfed him entirely. Screaming in agony, he disappeared into the fire.

By dawn, the dancing had ceased, the fairies had vanished, the flames had died down, and only the charred corpse of the unfortunate François remained on the clearing.

Time passed, and the body became covered with bark; shoots began to sprout from the bark, and now an old, withered tree stands in that place, its branches touching the ground. It is called the "charcoal burner's tree."

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The Golden Ember

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