Title: The Iron Trevet or Jocelyn the Champion - A Tale of the Jacquerie
Author: Sue, Eugène, 1804-1857
Language: English
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THE IRON TREVET

OR

JOCELYN THE CHAMPION

A Tale of the Jacquerie

By EUGENE SUE

TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL FRENCH BY
DANIEL DE LEON

NEW YORK LABOR NEWS COMPANY, 1906

Copyright, 1906, by the
NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO.



TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.


Etienne Marcel, John Maillart, William Caillet, Adam the Devil and
Charles the Wicked, King of Navarre, are the five leading personages in
this story. Their figures and actions, the virtues and foibles of the
ones, the vices of the others, the errors of all, are drawn with strict
historic accuracy, all the five being historic characters. Seeing the
historic importance of the epoch in which they figured, and the types
that these five men represent, the story of "The Iron Trevet; or,
Jocelyn, the Champion" is more than an historic narrative, it is more
than a treatise on the philosophy of history, it is a treatise on human
nature, it is a compendium of lessons inestimable to whomsoever his or
her good or evil genius throws into the clash of human currents, and to
those who, though not themselves participants, still may wish to
understand that which they are spectators of and which, some way or
other, they are themselves affected by and, some way or other, are bound
to either support or resist.

In a way, "The Iron Trevet; or, Jocelyn the Champion" is the uniquest of
the series of brilliant stories that the genius of Eugene Sue has
enriched the world with under the collective title of "The Mysteries of
the People"--we can recall no other instance in which so much profound
and practical instruction is so skillfully clad in the pleasing drapery
of fiction, and one within so small a compass.

To America whose youthful years deprive her of historic perspective,
this little story, or rather work, can not but be of service. To that
vast English-speaking world at large, now throbbing with the pulse of
awakening aspirations, this translation discloses another treasure
trove, long and deliberately held closed to it in the wrappage of the
foreign tongue in which the original appeared.

DANIEL DE LEON.

New York, April 13, 1904.



INDEX


Translator's Preface                                                 iii

Part I.   The Seigniory of Nointel.

    Chapter 1.   The Tavern of Alison the Huffy                       10

    Chapter 2.   The Amende Honorable                                 26

    Chapter 3.   The Tournament                                       34

    Chapter 4.   The Judicial Combat                                  39

    Chapter 5.   Sheet Lightenings                                    50

    Chapter 6.   Prophecies and Premonitions                          58

    Chapter 7.   Wrecked Hearts                                       65

Part II.   The Regency of Normandy.

    Chapter 1.   The States General                                   74

    Chapter 2.   Etienne Marcel                                       77

    Chapter 3.   The Man of the Furred Cap                            83

    Chapter 4.   The Serpent Under the Grass                          97

    Chapter 5.   Charles the Wicked                                  105

    Chapter 6.   The Meeting at the Cordeliers                       118

    Chapter 7.   Popular Justice                                     126

    Chapter 8.   "The Hour Has Sounded!"                             143

Part III.   The Jacquerie.

    Chapter 1.    Captain Griffith and His Chaplain                  154

    Chapter 2.    The Fox's Burrow                                   161

    Chapter 3.   The Castle of Chivry                                175

    Chapter 4.   Jacquerie! Jacquerie!                               180

    Chapter 5.    The Orville Bridge                                 191

    Chapter 6.   "On to Clermont!"                                   207

    Chapter 7.    Clermont                                           211

Part IV.   John Maillart.

    Chapter 1.   The Wages of Envy                                   228

    Chapter 2.   Last Day at Home                                    239

    Chapter 3.   Darkening Shadows                                   247

    Chapter 4.   Plotters Uncovered                                  258

    Chapter 5.   The Gate of St. Antoine                             267

Epilogue                                                             270



PART I.

THE SEIGNIORY OF NOINTEL.



CHAPTER I.

THE TAVERN OF ALISON THE HUFFY.


On a Sunday, towards the end of the month of October of 1356, a great
stir was noticeable since early morning in the little town of Nointel,
situated a few leagues from the city of Beauvais, in the department of
Beauvoisis. The tavern of Alison the Huffy--so nicknamed from her hot
temper, although she was a good woman--was rapidly filling with
artisans, villeins and serfs who came to wait for the hour of mass at
the tavern, where, due to the prevailing poverty, little was drunk and
much talked. Alison never complained. As talkative as huffy, dame Alison
preferred to see her tavern full with chatterers than empty of tipplers.
Still fresh and buxom, though on the shady side of thirty, she wore a
short skirt and low bodice--probably because her bust was well rounded
and her limbs well shaped. Black of hair, bright of eyes, white of
teeth, and quick of hands, more than once since her widowhood, had
Alison broken a bumper over the head of some customer, whom liquor had
rendered too expressive in his admiration for her charms. Accordingly,
like a prudent housekeeper, she had taken the precaution of replacing
her earthenware bumpers with pewter ones. That morning the dame seemed
to be in a particular huffy mood, judging by her rumpling brows, her
brusque motions, and her sharp and cross words.

Presently, the door of the tavern was darkened and in stepped a man of
vigorous age, with an angular and sun-burnt face, whose only striking
features were two little, piercing, crafty and savage eyes half hidden
under his eyebrows thick and grizzly like his hair, that escaped in
disorder from under his old woolen cap. He had traveled a long distance;
his wooden shoes, shabby cloth leggings and patched smock-frock were
covered with dust. He was noticeably tired; it was with difficulty that
he moved his limbs with the support of a knotted stick. Hardly inside
the tavern, the serf, whose name was William Caillet, let himself down
heavily upon a bench, immediately placing his elbows on his knees and
his head upon his hands. Alison the Huffy, already out of humor, as
stated, called to him sharply:

"What do you want here? I do not know you. If you want to drink, pay; if
not, off with you!"

"In order to drink, money is needed; I have none," answered William
Caillet; "allow me to rest on this bench, good woman."

"My tavern is no lazar-house," replied Alison; "be gone, you vagabond!"

"Come now, hostess, we have never seen you in such a bad humor," put in
one of the customers; "let the poor man rest; we invite him to a
bumper."

"Thank you," answered the serf with a somber gesture and shaking his
head; "I'm not thirsty."

"If you do not drink you have no business here," the buxom tavern-keeper
was saying when a voice, hailing from without, called: "Where is the
hostess ... where is she ... a thousand bundles of demons! Is there no
one here to take my horse? Our throats are dry and our tongues hanging
out. Ho, there, hostess, attend to us!"

The arrival of a rider, always a good omen for a hostlery, drew Alison
away from her anger. She called her maid servant while herself ran to
the door to answer the impatient traveler, who, his horse's bridle in
hand, continued finding fault, although good-naturedly. The new arrival
was about twenty-four years of age; the visor of his somewhat rusty
casque, wholly raised, exposed to view a pleasant face, the left cheek
of which was furrowed with a deep scar. Thanks to his Herculean build,
his heavy cuirass of tarnished iron, but still usable, seemed not to
press him any more than a coat of cloth. His coat of mail, newly patched
in several places, fell half over his thigh-armor, made, like his
greaves, of iron, the latter of which were hidden within the large
traveling boots. From his shoulder-strap hung a long sword, from his
belt a sharp dagger of the class called "mercy". His mace, which
consisted of a thick cudgel an arm long, terminating in three little
iron chains riveted to a ball seven or eight pounds heavy, hung from the
pommel of the rider's saddle, together with his steel-studded and ribbed
buckler. Three reserve wooden lance shafts, tied together, and the
points of which rested in a sort of leather bonnet, adjusted to the
strap of one of his stirrups, were held up straight along the saddle,
behind which a sheep-skin satchel was attached. The horse was large and
vigorous. Its head, neck, chest and part of its crupper were protected
by an iron caparison--a heavy armor that the robust animal carried as
easily as its master wore his.

Responding to the redoubled calls of the traveler, Alison the Huffy ran
out with her maid and said in bitter-sweet voice: "Here I am, Sir. Hein!
If ever you are canonized, it will not be, I very much fear, under the
invocation of St. Patience!"

"By the bowels of the Pope, my fair hostess, your pretty black eyes and
pink cheeks could never be seen too soon. As sure as your garter could
serve you for a belt, the prettiest girl of Paris, where I come from,
could not be compared to you. By Venus and Cupid, you are the pearl of
hostesses."

"You come from Paris, Sir Knight!" said Alison with joyful surprise,
being at once flattered by the compliments of the traveler, and proud of
having a guest from Paris, the great city. "You really come from Paris?"

"Yes, truly. But tell me, am I rightly informed? Is there to be a
passage of arms to-day, here in the valley of Nointel?"

"Yes, Sir; you arrive in time. The tourney is to begin soon; right after
mass."

"Well, then, my pretty hostess, while I take my horse to the stable to
have him well fed, you will prepare a good repast for myself, and, to
the end that it may taste all the better, you will share it with me
while we chat together. There is much information that I need from you;"
and raising his coat of mail to enable him to reach his leather purse,
the rider took from it a piece of silver. Giving it to Alison, he said
gaily: "Here is payment in advance for my score. I am none of your
strollers, so frequent in these days, who pay their host with sword
thrusts and by plundering his house;" but noticing that Alison examined
the piece before putting it in her pocket, he added laughing: "Accept
that coin as I did, with eyes shut. The devil take it, only King John
and his minter know what the piece is worth, and whether it contains
more lead than it does silver!"

"Oh, Sir Knight, is it not terrible to think that our master, the King,
is an inveterate false-coiner? What times these are! We are borne down
with taxes, and we never know the value of what we have!"

"True. But I wager, my pretty hostess, that your lover is in no such
annoying ignorance.... Come, you will have overcome your modest blushes
by the time your maid has shown me the way to the stable, after which
you will make my breakfast ready. But you must share it with me; that's
understood."

"As you please, Sir Knight," answered Alison, more and more charmed with
the jolly temper of the stranger. Accordingly, she hastened to busy
herself with the preparations for the meal, and in a short time spread
upon one of the tables of the tavern a toothsome dish of bacon in green
fennel, flanked with fried eggs, cheese and a mug of foaming beer.

The serf, William Caillet, now forgotten by the hostess, his forehead
resting on both his hands, seemed lost to what went on around him, and
kept his seat on a bench not far from the table at which presently
Alison and the traveler took theirs. Back from the stable, the latter
relieved himself of his casque, dagger and sword, laying them down near
to himself, and proceeded to do honor to the repast.

"Sir Knight," said Alison, "you come from Paris? What fine stories you
will have to tell!"

"Mercy, pretty hostess, do not call me 'Sir Knight.' I belong to the
working class, not the nobility. My name is Jocelyn. My father is a
book-seller, and I am a _champion_[1] as my battle-harness attests to
you;--and here I am at your service."

"Can it be!" exclaimed Alison, joining her hands in glad astonishment,
"you are a fighting champion?"

"Yes, and I have not yet lost a single case, as you may judge from my
right hand not yet being cut off--a penalty reserved for all champions
who are vanquished in a judicial duel. Although often wounded, I have at
least always rendered a Roland for my adversary's Oliver. I learned in
Paris that there was to be a tourney here and thinking that, as usual,
it would be followed or preceded by some judicial combat, where I might
represent the appellant or the appellee, I came to the place on a
venture. Now, then, as a tavern-keeper, you are surely informed
thereon."

"Oh, Sir champion! It is heaven that sends you. There will surely be
need of you."

"Heaven, I am of the opinion, mixes but little in my concerns. Let us
leave Gog and Magog to settle their affairs among themselves."

"You should know that, unfortunately, I have a process. I admit that I
am in great trouble."

"You, my pretty hostess?"

"It is now three months ago that I lent twelve florins to Simon the
Hirsute. When I asked him for the money, the mean thief denied the debt.
We went before the seneschal. I maintained what I said; Simon maintained
his side. There were no witnesses either for or against us, and as the
amount involved was above five sous, the seneschal ordered a judicial
battle. But who would take my part?"

"And you have found nobody to be your champion against Simon the
Hirsute?"

"Alas, no! By reason of his strength and his wickedness the fellow is
feared all over this country. No one would venture to fight with him."

"Well, my pretty hostess, you can count with me. I shall fight him as
well for the sake of your pretty eyes as for the sake of your cause."

"Oh, my cause is good, Sir champion. It is as true that I lent Simon the
Hirsute those twelve florins as.... I'll tell you how it was--"

"You need say no more. A pretty mouth like yours would not fib.
Moreover, I'm in the habit of placing confidence in what my clients tell
me. What is wanted is, not solid reasons, but rude blows with the sword,
the lance or the mace. Thus, so long as this right fist is not cut off,
it will offer arguments more conclusive than the subtlest ones of the
most famous jurists."

"I must not conceal from you the fact that that thief of a Simon has
been an archer. He is a dangerous man. Everybody is afraid of him."

"Pretty hostess, there is another custom I have when I am to plead a
case. I never inquire how my adversary fights. In that way I never form
in advance a plan of attack, frequently frustrated in practice. I have a
quick and correct eye. Once on the arena, I size up my man, fall to, and
decide on the spot whether to thrust or to cut. I have ever
congratulated myself on this manner of pleading. You may rely upon me.
The tourney does not open till noon; my arms are in good condition and
my horse is eating his provender. Let's drink a glass: Long live joy, my
pretty hostess! and good luck to the good cause!"

"Oh, helpful champion! If you gain my process I shall give you three
florins. It would not be paying too much for the pleasure of seeing the
scamp of a Simon the Hirsute brought to grief!"

"Agreed! If I gain your process you will give me three florins and a
smacking kiss for good measure, if you like!... Agreed?"

"Oh, Sir, such things are not said."

"Well, then, I shall give you the smacking kiss, seeing the other plan
embarrasses you. But by all the devils, your forehead remains troubled.
Why so? You needed a champion, and heaven--as you said--sends you one
who is impatient to sail into the thief, and yet your pretty forehead
keeps its wrinkles!"

"I should be satisfied, and yet my heart is heavy. I want to tell you
all about it."

"Have you, perchance, some other process, or some unfaithful lover? You
may speak freely to me."

Alison remained for a moment sad and silent, whereupon she resumed with
painful voice.

"Sir champion, you come from Paris; you must be very learned. Perhaps
you may render a service to a poor lad who is much to be pitied, and who
also must himself do battle to-day in a judicial duel, but under very
sad circumstances."

"Explain yourself. What is the matter?"

"In this country of Nointel, when a female serf or bourgeois marries,
the seigneur, if it please him, is entitled to ... the first night of
his female vassal. They call it the 'right of first fruits.' ... At
least do not laugh!"

"Laugh! Not by the devil!" answered Jocelyn, whose face suddenly
overspread with somberness. "Oh, you recall to my mind a melancholy
affair. A short while ago I had to plead a case on the arena near
Amiens. Crossing a village, I saw a gathering of serfs. Upon inquiry I
learned that one of the peasants of the group, a butcher attached to the
fief of the bishopric, had married that very morning a handsome girl of
the parish. The bishop, in the exercise of his right, sent for the bride
to take her to his bed. The serf answered the episcopal bailiff, charged
with the mission: 'My wife is in my hut, I shall bring her out to you';
and coming back a few instants later said to him: 'My wife is a little
bashful, she does not like to come out, go in and bring her out
yourself.' The bailiff went into the hut, and what does he find? The
unhappy girl lying in a pool of blood; she was dead."

"Good God! What a shocking story!"

"In order to ransom her from dishonor, her husband had killed her with a
blow of his axe."

At these words, William Caillet, who until then had remained indifferent
to the conversation between Alison and Jocelyn, shook convulsively,
raised his savage face and listened, while, tears streaming from her
eyes, Alison cried: "Oh, poor woman! To be thus killed! What a terrible
resolution must not have seized her husband to resort to such a
frightful extreme!"

"Resolute men are rare."

"Alas, Sir champion. Those who, degraded by serfdom, remain indifferent
to such ignominy are perhaps less to be pitied than those who resent
it."

"But most of them do resent it," cried Jocelyn. "In vain do the
seigneurs seek to reduce these ill-starred beings to the state of
brutes. Are not even among wild beasts the males seen to defend their
females unto death? Does not man, however coarse, however brutified,
however craven he may be, fire up with jealousy the moment he loves? Is
not love the only possession left to the serfs, the only solace in their
misery? Blood and death! I grow savage at the mere thought of the rage
and despair of a serf at the sight of the humble companion of his
cheerless days sullied forever by a seigneur! By the navel of Satan, by
the horns of Moses, the thought of it exasperates me!"

"Oh, Sir," said Alison with tears in her eyes, "your words tell the
story of that poor Mazurec, the young man I was about to tell you of."

William Caillet again shook convulsively at the sound of the name of
Mazurec, and leaped up, but controlling himself by dint of a violent
effort, he resumed his seat, and lent increased attention to what was
said by Alison and Jocelyn, who himself seemed greatly struck by the
name of Mazurec, that his hostess had just pronounced.

"The serf's name is Mazurec?" he inquired, visibly affected.

"Yes, Sir. Why does the name surprise you?"

"It is one of my own father's given names. Do you know the age of the
young fellow?"

"He can be no more than twenty years; his mother, who has long been
dead, was not of this neighborhood."

"Whence came she?"

"I could not tell you that. She arrived here shortly before the birth of
Mazurec. She begged her bread. Our neighbor the miller of the Gallion
mill, took pity upon her. His own wife had died in childbed about two
months before. The name of Mazurec's mother was Gervaise."

"Gervaise?" repeated Jocelyn, seeming to interrogate his memory, "was
her name Gervaise?"

"Yes, Sir champion. She was so pleasing and sweet to the eyes of the
miller that he said to himself: 'She must soon be brought to bed; if she
is willing, she shall be nurse to both my child and her own.' And so it
was. Gervaise brought up the two boys. She was so industrious and of so
good a character that the miller kept her as a servant. Then a
misfortune happened. The Count of Beaumont declared war to the Sire of
Nointel. That is now five years ago. The miller was compelled to follow
his seigneur to war. During that time the men of Beaumont raided the
place, burning and sacking. They set fire to the mill where Gervaise was
left with the two children. She perished in the flames, together with
the miller's child. Mazurec alone escaped miraculously. Out of pity my
husband and I took him in."

"You are a worthy woman, my hostess. I shall have to cut the throat of
Simon the Hirsute."

"Do not praise me too much, Sir champion. The hardest heart would have
taken an interest in Mazurec. He was the sweetest and best child in the
world. His goodness and mildness won for him the name of Mazurec the
Lambkin."

"And did he make good the promise of his name?"

"He was a real lamb. All night long he cried for his mother and his
foster brother. By day he helped us, according to his strength, in
whatever work we had in hand. When the war closed our neighbor the
miller did not come back. He had been killed. The Sire of Nointel had
the burnt-down mill rebuilt. God only knows what taxes he imposed upon
us, his vassals, to indemnify himself for the expenses of his campaign
against the seigneur of Beaumont. Mazurec took service under the new
miller. Every Sunday, on his way to church, Mazurec stopped here to
thank us for our kindness towards him. There is no more grateful heart
than his. And now I'll tell you how his misfortune came about.
Occasionally he was sent by the miller with bags of flour to the village
of Cramoisy, about three leagues from here, where the Sire of Nointel
has established a fortified post. In that village--poor Mazurec has made
me his confidante--he often saw, seated at the door of her hut, a
beautiful young girl, spinning at her wheel; other times he met her
pasturing her cow along the green borders of the road. This young girl
was known as Aveline-who-never-lied. She had a heart of gold."

"And these two folks loved each other?"

"Indeed! They loved each other passionately. And they were well
matched."

William Caillet listened to Alison's narrative with redoubled attention.
Unable, to keep back a tear that rolled down his emaciated cheeks, he
wiped it off with the back of his hand. The tavern-keeper proceeded:

"Mazurec was a serf of the same seigniory with Aveline and her father.
The latter consented to the marriage. The bailiff of the Sire of Nointel
in the absence of his master, also gave his consent. Everything was
moving smoothly along, and often did Mazurec say to me: 'Dame Alison,
what a pity that my mother cannot witness our happiness!'"

"But how came these happy hopes to be destroyed, my pretty hostess?"

"You know, Sir, that, if the seigneur is willing, the vassals can ransom
themselves of the infamous right that we spoke of a few minutes ago. So
did my deceased husband, without which I would have remained single all
my life. Aveline's father had a cow for only earthly possession. He sold
that, preferring to forfeit the animal that furnished him with food,
rather than to see his adored daughter dishonored by the Sire of
Nointel. The day of the bethrothal Mazurec went to the castle to deliver
to the bailiff the price of the bride's redemption. Unfortunately, the
bailiff happened to be away. The bridegroom returned to Aveline, and her
father decided that they should be married the next morning, and that
immediately after the mass Mazurec should return to the castle to ransom
his wife. The marriage took place, and, according to custom, the bride
remained locked up at the vicarage until the husband could show his
letter of redemption."

"Yes," observed Jocelyn. "And it therefore often happens that, to escape
the disgrace, brides yield themselves to their intended husbands before
marriage. No more than just, under the circumstances."

"But too true; and often also the men thereupon leave the poor girl and
do not marry her. But neither Mazurec nor Aveline entertained such evil
thoughts. In possession of the needed sum for the ransom, he only asked
to acquit himself honestly. After the mass, Mazurec returned to the
castle, carrying the money in a purse suspended from his belt. On the
road he met a knight who inquired for the way to Nointel; and, would you
believe it, Sir? while Mazurec was giving him the directions, the scamp
of a knight stooped down in the saddle as if to adjust the strap of his
stirrup, snatched the purse from poor Mazurec, and, spurring his horse,
galloped off."

"There are hundreds of such thefts committed. The knights look upon them
as mere feats of knighthood. But they are infamous acts!"

"Mazurec, left behind distracted, vainly ran after the thief. He lost
sight of him. An hour later he arrived breathless at the castle, threw
himself at the feet of the bailiff, told him of his mishap, and with
tears in his eyes demanded justice against the thief. The Sire of
Nointel, who had arrived at his manor that very morning from Paris,
accompanied by several friends, happened to cross the corridor at the
very time that Mazurec was imploring the bailiff's help. The Sire of
Nointel, informed of the occurrence, asked, laughing, whether the bride
was pretty. 'There is none prettier in your domain, Sire', answered the
bailiff. Suddenly, his eyes falling upon one of the knights of the
Sire's suite, Mazurec cried: 'It is he who robbed me of my purse, only
an hour ago!' 'Miserable serf', thundered the seigneur, 'dare you charge
one of my guests with robbery? You lie!'"

"Without a doubt the thievish knight denied the robbery."

"Yes, Sir, and Mazurec, on his side, still insisted. Thereupon, after a
whispered conversation with the bailiff and the knight who was accused
of the robbery, the Sire of Nointel gave this decision: 'One of my
equerries, escorted by several men-at-arms, shall forthwith proceed to
the vicarage and conduct the bride here. According to my right, I shall
spend the night with her. To-morrow morning she may be returned to that
vassal. As to the charge of robbery, that he has the effrontery to
prefer against a noble knight, the knight demands the trial of arms, and
if, although defeated, this vile varlet survives the battle, he shall
be tied up in a bag and cast into the river as the defamer of a knight.
Let justice take its course.'"

"Oh!" cried Jocelyn, "the unhappy lad is lost. The knight is the
appellant, as such he has the right to fight on horseback and in full
armor, against the serf in a smock-frock and with a stick for only
weapon."

"Alas, Sir! As you see I had good reasons for being heavy at heart. Poor
Mazurec thought less on the battle than on his bride. He threw himself
sobbing at the feet of his seigneur, and beseeched him not to dishonor
Aveline. And do you know what answer the Sire of Nointel made to him?
'Jacques Bonhomme'[2]--that's the title of derision that the nobles give
their serfs--'Jacques Bonhomme, my friend, I have two reasons for
spending this night with your wife: first, because, as they say, she is
quite comely; and second, because that will be the punishment for your
insolence to charge one of my guests with larceny.' At these words
Mazurec the Lambkin became Mazurec the Wolf. He threw himself furiously
upon his seigneur, meaning to strangle him. But the knights who stood by
felled the poor serf to the floor, pinioned him and thrust him into a
dungeon. Can anything exceed such cruelty? Add to that that the Sire of
Nointel is himself betrothed to be married; his bride, the noble damosel
Gloriande of Chivry, is to be the queen of the tourney about to take
place."

"Shame!" cried Jocelyn, his cheeks aflame with indignation, and
furiously striking the table with his Herculean fist. "An end must be
put to these horrors! They cry for vengeance! They cry for blood!"

"Oh! There will be blood!" whispered a hollow voice in the ear of
Jocelyn. "Floods of blood! The torch and the axe will do their office";
and feeling a strange hand pressing on his shoulder, the champion
turned quickly around. Before him stood William Caillet.

"What do you want?" asked the young man, struck by the sinister and
desperate looks of the peasant. "What do you want of me? Who are you?"

"I am the father of Mazurec's wife."

"You, poor man?" cried the hostess with pity. "Oh! I regret to have been
rude to you. Pardon me, poor father. Alas, what have you come here for?"

"For my daughter," answered William; and he added with a frightful
smile: "She will be now returned to me; the night is over; the infamous
dues are paid."

"My God! My God!" rejoined Alison, unable to repress her tears. "And
when we think that poor Mazurec is a prisoner at the castle, and that
this morning, before mass, he is to make the 'amende honorable' on his
knees before the Sire of Nointel--"

"He! Is he to be subjected to that further indignity?" cried Jocelyn,
interrupting his hostess. "And what is he to apologize for?"

"Alas, Sir champion!" answered Alison, "I have not yet told you the end
of the adventure. While Mazurec was being taken to prison, the bailiff
went for Aveline at the vicarage and brought her to the castle. She
resisted her seigneur with all her strength. He then laughed in her face
and said: 'Ho! you resist me! Very well. I shall now have the pleasure
of exercising my right by judicial decree. It will be a good lesson to
Jacques Bonhomme.' He thereupon had the bride taken to a cell, and
lodged a complaint against her in the court of the seneschal at
Beauvais. Seeing that the law recognizes the right of a seigneur over
his female vassals, the court gave its decree accordingly. It is in the
name of justice that the wretched Aveline was violated last night by our
seigneur; it is in the name of justice that Mazurec is sentenced to beg
the pardon of his seigneur for having intended to oppose him in the
exercise of his seigniorial right; it is in the name of justice that,
after this public expiation, Mazurec is to fight the thief of a knight."

"Aye," put in William Caillet, clenching his fists; "Mazurec is to fight
on foot and armed with a stick against his robber, covered with iron ...
Mazurec will be vanquished and killed, or, if he survive, will be
drowned. I shall try to fish out his body and bury him in some hole ...
Then I shall take away my daughter ... She is to be returned to me this
morning, and who knows but in nine months I may be the grandfather of a
noble brat!" After a short pause the peasant resumed with a sinister and
chilling smile: "Oh! If that child should live ... if it should
live...." But he did not finish his sentence. For a moment he remained
silent; then, laying his horny right hand upon the shoulder of Jocelyn,
he approached the young man's ear and added in a low voice: "Shortly ago
you said an end must be put to these horrors, they call for blood!"

"Yes, and I say so again. These horrors cry for vengeance! They cry for
the death and destruction of our oppressors!"

"He who says that aloud is a man who will act," replied the serf
fastening his small, savage and piercing eyes upon the champion. "If the
time for action arrives, remember William Caillet ... of the village of
Cramoisy, near Clermont."

"I shall not forget your name," Jocelyn returned in a low voice to
Caillet, and clasped his hand. "The hour of justice and vengeance may
sound sooner than you think, especially if there are many serfs like
you!"

"There are," rejoined the peasant in the same low voice. "Jacques
Bonhomme is on his feet. We are preparing a general uprising."

"It was to assure myself regarding that that I rode into this region,"
whispered Jocelyn in the ear of Caillet, without being heard by Alison.
"Silence and courage! The day of reprisal is at hand."

More and more agreeably surprised at meeting in Jocelyn an unexpected
ally, the peasant did not remove his penetrating eyes from the young
man. Habituated by servitude to mistrust, he feared to be deceived by
the promises of an unknown person. Suddenly the chimes of the church of
Nointel fell upon their ears. Alison shivered. "Oh!" said she, "I shall
not have the courage to witness the ceremony!"

"What do you mean?" asked Jocelyn, while the men who had gathered in the
tavern trooped out precipitately, saying: "Let us hasten to the parvise
of the church.... One should see everything there is to be seen...."

"They are going to witness the 'amende honorable' of poor Mazurec,"
answered Alison.

"I shall have more courage than you, my good hostess," said Jocelyn
taking up his sword and casque, and looking for William Caillet, who,
however, had disappeared. "I shall witness that sad ceremony because,
for more reasons than one, the fate of Mazurec interests me. The tourney
will not begin until after mass; I shall have time to return for my
horse so as to have myself forthwith entered by the judge-at-arms as
your defender against Simon the Hirsute."

"My God, Sir! Is there, then, no way to prevent the judicial duel of
poor Mazurec?... It means death to him!"

"If he declines the battle he will be drowned; such is the law of our
feudal lords. But I hope I may be able to give Mazurec some good advice.
I shall try and speak to him. Wait for me here, my pretty hostess, and
do not lose hope."

Saying this, Jocelyn wended his steps towards the parvise of the
church.



CHAPTER II.

THE "AMENDE HONORABLE".


The church of Nointel rose at one end of a spacious square, into which
two tortuous streets ran out. The houses, most of which were constructed
of wood, sculptured with no little art, were topped with slated roofs,
pointed and deeply inclined. Some of these domiciles were ornamented
with balconies, where on this morning numerous spectators stood crowded.
Thanks to his athletic physique, Jocelyn succeeded without much trouble
to reach the edge of the parvise, where, among a number of knights,
stood the Sire of Nointel, a tall young man of haughty and scoffing
mien, whose reddish blonde hair was curled like a woman's. He wore,
according to the fashion of the time, a richly embroidered short velvet
tunic, and silk hose of two different colors. The left side of his
clothing was red, the other yellow. His shoes, made of tender cordwain,
tapered upward like a gilded ram's horn. From his half red, half yellow
velvet bonnet, ornamented with a chain of precious stones, waved a tuft
of ostrich feathers--altogether a head-gear of exorbitant value. The
friends of the Sire of Nointel were, like himself, dressed in
parti-colored garb. Behind this brilliant company, stood the pages and
equerries of the seigneur carrying his colors. One of them held his
banner, emblazoned with three eagle's talons on a red background. At the
sight of that device, the designation of the house of Neroweg, the
hereditary enemy of his own family, Jocelyn shuddered, astonishment
seized him, he became profoundly pensive. The rasping voice of a royal
notary drew Jocelyn from his reverie. Stepping forward to the front of
the parvise, the notary three times called for silence, and then, amidst
the profound stillness of the crowd, he proceeded to read:

     "Whereas the charter and statute on the right of first fruits vests
     in the seigneur of the lands and seigniory of Nointel, Loury,
     Berteville, Cramoisy, Saint-Leu and other places the privilege of
     demanding the first wedded day of all the maids _who are not
     noble_, and who shall marry in said seigniory, after which the said
     seigneur shall no longer touch the said married woman, and shall
     leave her to her husband;

     "And whereas, on the eleventh day of this month,
     Aveline-who-never-lied, a female serf of the parish of Cramoisy,
     was married to Mazurec the Lambkin, a miller serf at the Gallion
     mill;

     "And whereas, our young, high, noble and puissant seigneur, Conrad
     Neroweg, knight and seigneur of the said seigniory herein above
     mentioned, having wished to exercise his right of first fruits on
     the said Aveline-who-never-lied, and the said Mazurec the Lambkin,
     her husband, having sought to oppose himself thereto by using
     unseemly words towards the said seigneur, and the said married
     woman having been required to submit to the said right and having
     obstinately refused, the said seigneur, by reason of the
     disobedience of the said married couple and their unseemly words,
     caused them both to be separately imprisoned and filed a criminal
     bill with his worship the seneschal of Beauvoisis notifying him of
     the above occurrences;

     "And whereas, an inquest was made in writing and by the summoning
     of witnesses upon the ancient right and custom in order to
     ascertain and establish that the said seigneur of Nointel has the
     said right to the first fruits; and the information being gathered
     and inquest made, a sentence was rendered by the court of the
     seneschal of Beauvoisis, as follows, word by word:"

Clenching his fists with rage, Jocelyn observed to himself: "Can law,
can justice consecrate such infamy! To what human power can these
wretched vassals appeal in their despair? Oh, the martyrs of so many
centuries can not fail to demand heavy reprisals!"

The royal notary proceeded to read:

     "The case of the young, high, noble and puissant Conrad Neroweg,
     seigneur of Nointel and other seigniories, reclaimer of the right
     of first fruits upon all maids, not noble, who marry in the said
     seigniory, the party of the one part, and Aveline-who-never-lied,
     recently married to Mazurec the Lambkin, refuser of the said right,
     the party of the other part; and the said seigneur of Nointel, also
     claimant in reparation and chastisement for the unseemly words
     pronounced by the said Mazurec the Lambkin. The court of the
     seneschal of Beauvoisis, in view of the criminal charges of the
     said seigneur and the information and inquests taken, rendering
     justice to the parties concerned, says and declares that _the said
     seigneur is well grounded in law and in reason in claiming the
     first fruits from all maids, not noble, married in his seigniory;_
     and by reason of that which is declared herein above, the said
     court has sentenced and now condemns the said
     Aveline-who-never-lied and the said Mazurec the Lambkin _to render
     obedience to the said seigneur in what concerns his right of the
     first fruits_; and concerning the unseemly words that the said
     Mazurec the Lambkin pronounced against his seigneur, the _said
     court has sentenced and now sentences him to apologise to said
     seigneur and, with one knee on the ground, his head bare, and his
     hands crossed over his breast, to pray his mercy in the presence of
     all who were assembled at his wedding_. And, furthermore, the said
     court orders that the present sentence shall be announced by a
     royal notary or beadle in front of the church of the said
     seigniory."

The decree, which confirmed and consecrated through the organs of law
and justice the most execrable of all the feudal laws, produced
different emotions in the surrounding crowd. Some, stupefied with
terror, misery and ignorance, cowardly resigned to a disgrace that their
fathers had been subjected to and was reserved for their own children,
seemed amazed at the resistance that Mazurec had offered; others, who,
due to a sentiment, if not of love, yet of dignity, prized themselves
happy that, thanks to their money, the ugliness of their wives, or the
accidental absence of the seigneur, they had been able to escape the
ignominy, imagined themselves in the place of the condemned man and were
somewhat moved with pity for him; finally, the larger number, married or
not, serfs, villeins or townsmen, felt violent indignation, hardly
repressed by fear. Hollow murmurs ran through the crowd at the last
words of the notary. But all these sentiments soon made place for those
of anguish and compassion when, led by the seigneur's men-at-arms, the
condemned man appeared at the portico of the church. Mazurec was about
twenty years of age, and the benignity of his face and the mildness of
his nature had earned him the name of Lambkin. On that day, however, he
seemed transfigured by misfortune and despair. His physiognomy was
savage and pinched, his clothes in tatters, his face livid, his eyes
fixed and red with tears and sleeplessness, his hair tumbling--all
imparted to him a frightful appearance. Two men-at-arms unbound the
prisoner, and pressing heavily upon his shoulders forced him to drop
upon his knees before the Sire of Nointel, who together with his
friends, laughed outright at the abject submission of Jacques Bonhomme.
Presently the royal notary said in a loud voice:

"The reparation and amende honorable of the condemned man to his
seigneur must have for witness those who assisted at the marriage of
Mazurec. Let them come forward."

At these words, Jocelyn the Champion saw William Caillet and another
robust serf, called Adam the Devil, step from the front ranks of the
crowd. To judge by the perspiration that bathed his bony and tired face,
the latter had just run a long distance. Struck, at first, by the
determined mien of Adam the Devil, Jocelyn saw him, as well as his
friend William Caillet, suddenly metamorphose himself, so to speak.
Affecting dullness and humble timidity, dropping their eyes, doubling
their backs, and dragging their legs, both doffed their caps with a
pitiful air as they approached the royal notary. Caillet saluted him by
twice bowing to the earth with his arms across his breast and saying in
a trembling voice:

"Pardon ... excuse ... Sir, if we, I and my companion, come alone. The
other witnesses of the wedding, Michael-kill-bread and Big Peter, they
have just been laid up with the fever which they caught draining the
swamp of our good seigneur. Their teeth are clattering and they are
shaking on the straw. That's why they have not been able to come to
town. I am William, the father of the bride; this is my companion, Adam,
who witnessed the wedding."

"These witnesses will suffice, I think, for the amende honorable, will
they not, seigneur?" said the notary to the Sire of Nointel. The latter
answered with an affirmative nod of the head, while continuing to laugh
aloud with his friends at the stupid and timorous appearance of the two
boors. All the while, on his knees a few paces from his seigneur,
Mazurec could not repress his tears at the sight of Aveline's father;
they rolled down slowly from his inflamed eyes while the notary
addressed him, saying: "Cross your hands over your chest, and raise your
eyes to heaven."

The condemned man clenched his fists with rage and did not follow the
notary's orders.

"Ho! pshaw!" cried William Caillet, addressing Mazurec in a reproachful
tone. "Don't you hear what this kind gentleman says? He told you to
cross your two hands, in this way ... look ... this way ... look at me
..."

These last words, "look at me," were pronounced by the peasant with such
force that Mazurec raised his head, and understood the meaning of the
rapid glance that Caillet darted at him. Quickly obeying the orders of
the notary, the condemned man crossed his arms on his breast.

"Now," proceeded the scribe, "raise your head towards our seigneur and
repeat my words: 'Seigneur, I humbly repent having had the audacity of
using unseemly words towards you.'"

The serf hesitated a moment, and then, overcoming his aversion with a
violent effort, he repeated in a hollow voice: "Seigneur, I humbly
repent having had the audacity of ... using ... unseemly words ...
towards you."

"Further," pursued the notary, "I repent no less humbly, my seigneur, of
having wickedly wished to oppose your exercise of your right of the
first fruits upon one of your female vassals, whom I took for my wife."

Mazurec's resignation had reached the end of its tether. The notary's
last words, recalled to the unhappy man's mind the infamous violence
that the sweet maid whom he tenderly loved had been made a victim of; he
uttered a heart-rending cry, hid his face in his hands and, convulsed
with sobs, fell forward with his face on the ground. At that spectacle,
Jocelyn, whose indignation threatened to overpower his prudence, was
about to leap forward, when he again heard the cry of William Caillet.
Stooping down to Mazurec as if to help him rise, he said two words in
his ears so as to be heard by none others, and continued aloud: "Ho!
Pshaw!... What ails you?... Why do you weep, my boy?... You are told
that our good seigneur will pardon your fault when you shall have
repeated the words that you are ordered to.... Go ahead.... Fling them
out quickly, those words!"

With his face bathed in tears and a smile of the damned, Mazurec
repeated these words after the notary had told them over again: "I
repent no less humbly, my seigneur, having wickedly wished to oppose
your exercise of your right of the first fruits upon one of your female
vassals, whom I took for my wife."

"In repentance of which, my seigneur," pursued the notary, "I humbly
place myself at your mercy."

"In repentance of which, my seigneur," stammered Mazurec in a fainting
voice, "I humbly place myself at your mercy."

"Be it so," responded the Sire of Nointel with a haughty and flippant
air. "I grant you mercy. But you shall not be set free until after
having rendered satisfaction in a judicial duel, to which you are
summoned by my guest Gerard of Chaumontel, a nobleman, whom you have
outrageously defamed by accusing him of larceny." Turning thereupon to
one of his equerries: "Let the peasant be guarded until the hour of the
tourney, and let the daughter be delivered to her father;" and stepping
away with his friends towards the door of the church, the young seigneur
said to them, laughing: "The lesson will do Jacques Bonhomme good. Do
you know, gentlemen, that that stupid pack has of late been pricking up
its ears and commenced to bridle up against our rights? Although she was
a comely lassie, I cared little for that peasant's wife; but it was
necessary to prove to the vile rustic plebs that we own it body and
soul; therefore, gentlemen, let us never forget the proverb: 'Smite a
villein and he'll bless you; bless a villein and he'll smite you.'[3]
Now, let us hear the sacred mass; you will tell me whether Gloriande de
Chivry, my betrothed, whom you will see in my seigniorial pew, is not a
superb beauty."

"Happy Conrad!" said Gerard of Chaumontel, the robber knight, "for
bride, a handsome and radiant beauty, who, besides, is the richest
heiress of this region, seeing that after the death of the Count of
Chivry, his seigniory, in default of male heirs, will fall from the
lance to the distaff! Oh, Conrad! What beautiful days of gold and silk
will you not spin, thanks to the opulent distaff of Gloriande of
Chivry!"

At the moment when thus chatting the noblemen entered the church,
Mazurec, who was still kept a prisoner, vanished under the vault, and a
man of the suite of the Sire of Nointel led out Aveline. She was not
quite eighteen. Despite the pallor of her face and her deeply disturbed
features, the girl preserved her surpassing beauty. She moved with
faltering steps, still clad in her humble bride's apparel, of coarse
white cloth. Her loose hair fell upon and half covered her shoulders.
Her lacerated arms still bore the traces of tight hands, seeing that, in
order to triumph over the desperate resistance of his victim, the Sire
of Nointel had her bound fast. Crushed with shame at the thought of
being thus exposed to the gaze of the crowd, the moment she stepped upon
the parvise Aveline closed her eyes with an involuntary movement, and
did not at first see Mazurec who was being taken back to prison.
However, at the heart-rending cry that he uttered, a shudder went over
her frame, she trembled at every limb, and her eyes met the gaze of her
husband, a gaze of desolation, in which passionate love and yet painful
repulsion mixed with ferocious jealousy, raised within his breast by the
thought of the outrage that his wife had been subject to, were all
depicted at once. The last of these feelings was betrayed by an
involuntary movement, made by the wretched young man, who, avoiding the
beseeching looks of Aveline, made a gesture of horror, covered his face
with his hands, and rushed under the vault like one demented, followed
by the men-at-arms who had him in charge.

"He despises me," murmured the girl with fainting voice and following
her husband with haggard eyes. "He now no longer loves me." Saying this,
Aveline became livid, her knees yielded under her, she lost
consciousness and would have rolled upon the ground without Caillet,
who, hastening to meet her, received her in his arms, saying: "Your
father remains to you." Then, helped by Adam the Devil, he raised her
up, and both, carrying the swooning young bride in their arms,
disappeared in the crowd.

Jocelyn the Champion, a witness to this distressing scene, rushed into
the vault that opened upon the parvise, overtook the keepers of Mazurec
and said to one of them:

"The serf they are taking away yonder has been summoned to a judicial
combat, is it so comrade?"

"Yes," answered the man-at-arms, "he is to combat with the knight Gerard
of Chaumontel. Such is the sentence."

"I must speak to that serf."

"He is to communicate with nobody."

"I am his judicial second in this combat, will you venture to keep me
from seeing and speaking with my client? By Satan! I know the law. If
you refuse--"

"There is no need of bawling so loud. If you are Jacques Bonhomme's
judicial second, come ... you have a sorry principal!"



CHAPTER III.

THE TOURNAMENT.


The tourney, a ruinous spectacle offered to the nobility of the
neighborhood by the Sire of Nointel in celebration of his betrothal, was
held on a large meadow that stretched before the gates of the town. The
lists were according to the royal ordinance of the year 1306,
twenty-four paces long by forty wide, and surrounded by a double row of
fences four feet apart. In this latter space the horn and clarion
blowers were posted; likewise the valets of the combatting knights were
allowed in this latter enclosure, ready to carry their masters from the
mêlée, or to run to their assistance when unhorsed, seeing that these
valiant jousters were covered with such heavy and thick armor that they
could move only with difficulty. Within these barriers were also seen
the heralds and sergeants-at-arms, charged with preserving order at the
tourney, and passing upon foul blows.

The plebs of the town and neighboring fields, having hastened to witness
the spectacle at the close of the mass, crowded on the outside. A more
ragged, wan, miserable and worn-out mass could hardly be imagined than
that presented by the crowd whose crushing labors supplied the
prodigalities of their seigneurs. The only satisfaction enjoyed by these
cowed and brutified people was that of being allowed to assist from a
distance, as on this day, at the sumptuous displays that they paid for
with their sweat and their marrow. The vassals, leaving their mud-huts,
where, exhausted with hunger and broken by toil--at night they huddled
pell-mell on the marshy ground like animals in their pens--contemplated
with an astonishment that was sometimes mixed with savage hatred, the
brilliant assemblage covered with silks and velvets, embroideries and
precious stones, seated on a spacious amphitheater, that, decked with
tapestries and rich hangings, rose along one of the sides of the lists,
and was reserved for the noble dames, the seigneurs and the prelates of
the vicinage. On either side of the amphitheater, which was sheltered by
tent-cloths from the rays of the sun and from the rain, were two tents
intended for the knights who participated in the jousts. There they don
their heavy armors before the combat, and thither are they transported
when hurt or unhorsed. Numerous banners emblazoned with the arms of the
Sire of Nointel floated from the top of poles that surround the lists.
The queen of the tournament is Gloriande, a noble young lady, the
daughter of Raoul, count and seigneur of Chivry, and betrothed since the
previous month to Conrad of Nointel. Magnificently bedizened in a
scarlet robe embroidered with gold, her black hair braided with pearls,
tall and of remarkable beauty but of a haughty and bold type, with
disdainful lips and imperious mien, Gloriande was throned superbly under
a species of canopy contrived in the center of the platform, whence she
could command a view of the arena. Her father, proud of his daughter's
beauty, stood behind her. The noblemen and ladies of all ages, were
seated on benches flanking either side of the canopy where the young
queen of the tournament paraded her wealth and her charms. Suddenly the
clarions sound the opening of the passage of arms; and a herald, clad in
red and yellow, the colors of Nointel, advances to the center of the
arena and cries the formula:

"Hear ye, hear ye, seigneurs and knights, and people of all
estates:--our sovereign seigneur and master, by the grace of God, John,
King of the French, forbids under penalty of life and of forfeiture of
goods, all speaking, crying out, coughing, expectorating or uttering and
giving of any signs during the combat."

The profoundest silence ensues. One of the bars is lowered, and the Sire
of Nointel, cased in a brilliant steel armor tipped with gold ornaments,
rides into the arena. Mounted on a richly caparisoned charger that he
causes to prance and caracole with ease, he reins in before the canopy
of Gloriande, and the damosel, taking from her own neck the necklace of
gold strands, ties it to the iron of the lance that her betrothed lowers
before her. By that act he is accepted by the lady as her knight of
honor, a quality by which he is to exercise sovereign surveillance over
the combatants, and if the point of the weapon from which hangs the
necklace touch any of the jousters, he must immediately withdraw from
the combat. In giving her necklace to her knight, Gloriande's shoulders
and bosom remain naked, and she receives without blushing the
testimonies of admiration showered upon her by the knights in her
vicinity, whose libertine praises savor strongly of the obscene
crudities peculiar to the language of those days. After having made the
tour of the field, during which he displays anew his skill in
horsemanship, the Sire of Nointel returns to the foot of the platform
where the queen of the tournament is seated, and raises his lance. The
clarions forthwith resound, the bars are let down at the opposite sides
of the arena, and each gives passage to a troop of knights armed
cap-a-pie, visors down, recognizable only by their emblems or the color
of their shields and the banners of their lances. The two sets, mounted
on horses covered with iron, remain for an instant motionless like
equestrian statues, at the extremities of the arena. The lances of these
gallants, six feet long and stripped of their iron, are, in the parlance
of tourneys, "courteous"; their thrust, no wise dangerous, can have for
its only effect to roll the ill-mounted combatant off his horse. The
Sire of Nointel consults the radiant Gloriande with the eye. With a
majestic air she waves her embroidered handkerchief, and immediately her
knight of honor utters three times the consecrated formula: "Let them
go! Let them go! Let them go!"

The two sets break loose; the horses are put to a gallop; and, lances in
rest, they rush to the center of the lists, where they dash against one
another, horses and riders, with an incredible clatter of hardware. In
the shock the larger number of lances fly into splinters. The disarmed
tilters thus declare themselves vanquished, and their armor and mounting
belong by right to the vanquisher. Accordingly, these tourneys are as
much a game of hazard as is a game of dice. Not a few renowned tilters,
hankering after florins more than after a puerile glory, derive large
revenues from their skill in these ridiculous jousts; almost always do
the adversaries whom they have overcome ransom their arms and horses
with considerable sums. At a signal of the Sire of Nointel, a few
minutes' truce followed upon the disarming of two of the knights who
rolled down upon the thick bed of sand that the ground is prudently
covered with. There is nothing so pitifully grotesque as the appearance
of these disarmed gallants. Their valets raise them up in almost one
lump within their thick iron shell that impedes their movements, and
with legs stiff and apart, they reach the barrier steaming in
perspiration, seeing that, in order to soften the pressure, these noble
combatants wear under their armor a skin shirt and hose thickly padded
with horse's hair. The vanquished abandon the lists in disgrace, while
the vanquishers, after prancing over the arena, approach the platform
where the queen of the tournament is enthroned. There they lower their
lances to her in token of gallant homage. The charmed Gloriande answers
them with a condescending smile and they leave the lists in triumph. The
remaining knights now continue the struggle on foot and with
swords--swords no less "courteous" than their lances, without either
point or edge, so that these valiant champions skirmish with steel bars
three feet and a half long, and they carry themselves heroically in a
combat that is all the less perilous, seeing that they are protected
against all possible danger by their padded undergarments laid over by
an impenetrable armor.

At a fresh signal from the Sire of Nointel, a furious conflict is
engaged in by the remaining combatants. One of them slips and falls over
backward and remains motionless, as little able to rise as a tortoise
laid on its back. Another of the Cæsars has his sword broken in two in
his own hands. Only two combatants now remain, and continue the struggle
with rage. The one carries a green buckler emblazoned with an argent
lion, the other a red buckler emblazoned with a gold dolphin. The knight
of the argent lion deals with his sword such a hard blow upon his
adversary's casque, that, dazed by the shock, the latter falls heavily
upon his haunches on the sand. The great conqueror superbly enjoyed his
triumph by proudly contemplating his vanquished adversary, ridiculously
seated at his feet; and, responding to the enthusiastic acclamations of
the assembled nobility, he approached the throne of the queen of the
tourney, bent one knee, and raised his visor. After placing a rich
collar around the conqueror's neck in token of his prowess, Gloriande
stooped down, and, following the custom of the time, deposited a loud
and long kiss upon his lips. This duty, attached to her distinguished
office, Gloriande fulfilled without blushing, and with an off-handedness
that denoted ample experience. Thanks to her beauty, the young lady of
Chivry had been often before chosen queen of tournaments. The clarions
announced the victory of the knight of the argent lion, who, strutting
proudly with the trophy around his neck, placed his right hand on his
hip, walked around the arena, and marched out at the barriers.

These first passages of arms were followed by an interval during which
the valets of the Sire of Nointel, carrying cups, plates, and flagons of
gold and silver, that glistened in the dazzled eyes of the peasants,
served the noble company on the platform with spiced wines, refreshments
and choice pastries, ample honor being done by all to the munificence of
the Sire of Nointel.



CHAPTER IV.

THE JUDICIAL COMBAT.


The seigneurs, their wives and daughters on the platforms had just
enjoyed the refection, while commenting upon the incidents of the
tourney, when a shudder ran through the crowd of peasants and bourgeois
massed outside of the barriers. Until then and while witnessing the
jousts and the passages of arms they had been animated with curiosity
only. In the combat, which it was murmured among them was to follow
these harmless struggles, the populace felt themselves concerned. It was
to be a combat to the death between a vassal and a knight, the latter on
horseback and in full armor, the vassal on foot, dressed in his blouse
and armed with a stick. Even the more timid and brutalized ones among
the vassals revolted at the thought of so crassly unequal a conflict, in
which one of their class was inevitably destined to death. It was,
accordingly, amidst a silence laden with anxiety and suppressed anger
that one of the heralds uttered three times from the center of the arena
the consecrated formula: "Let the appellant enter!"

The knight Gerard of Chaumontel, now summoned to the trial of a judicial
combat against the accusation of theft made by Mazurec, issued from one
of the contiguous tents and entered the arena on horseback, in full
armor. His buckler hangs from his neck; his visor is up; in his hand he
carries a little image of St. James, for whom the pious knight seemed to
entertain a peculiar devotion. His two seconds, on horseback like
himself, ride beside him. With him they make the round of the arena
while the fair Gloriande says to her father disdainfully: "What a shame
for the nobility to see a knight reduced, in order to prove his
innocence, to do combat with a varlet!"

"Oh, my daughter! What evil days these are that we live in!" answered
the aged seigneur with a growl. "Those accursed king's jurists are
crossing their pencils over all our rights under the impertinent pretext
of legalizing them. Was not a decree of the court of the seneschal of
Beauvoisis requisite in order to authorize our friend Conrad to exercise
his seigniorial right over a miserable female serf in revolt?"
Remembering, however, that his daughter was the betrothed of the Sire of
Nointel, the Count of Chivry stopped short. Gloriande surmised the cause
of her father's reticence and said to him with a haughtiness that verged
on anger: "Do you think that I am jealous of such as her? Can I look
upon these female serfs as rivals?"

"No, no; I am not placing such an insult upon you, my daughter ... but
after all, the rebellion of that female vassal is as novel as it is
monstrous. Oh, the spirit of revolt among the populace, although partly
broken to-day, has spread into our domains and has infested our peasants
also; and that is taken by the crown for a pretext to add to our
troubles by encroaching upon our rights, claiming that they must be
first sanctioned by the jurists. A curse upon all reform kings!"

"But, father, our rights remain."

"Blood and thunder, my daughter! Do our privileges stand in need of
confirmation by the men of the gown? Does not our class hold its rights
by the right of our ancestors' swords? No, no, the crown aims at
monopolizing all rights, and to be the sole exploiter of the plebs."

"Have not the kings," observed another knight, "taken from us one of our
best sources of revenue, the minting of money in our seigniories, under
the pretext that we coined false money? The devil take kings who hold up
law! May hell consume the gentry of the pen!"

"Blood and thunder! It is enough to make one's blood boil in his veins,"
cried the Count of Chivry. "Is there in the whole world any worse money
than the king's. False coiners have been quartered who are less thievish
than our King John and his predecessors."

"Let that good prince look elsewhere than here for support," put in
another knight. "The truce with England will soon expire. If war breaks
out anew, King John will see neither a man nor a gold piece out of my
domain. He may, for all I care, leave his carcass on the field of
battle."

"Oh, gentlemen," said Gloriande gulping down a yawn, "how uninteresting
is your conversation! Let us rather talk about the Court of Love that is
soon to hold its sessions in Clermont, and for which I shall order the
most skillful hairdressers from Paris. I am also expecting a Lombard who
is to bring me magnificent silks, woven with gold and silver, and which
I shall wear during the solemnity."

"And what do you expect to pay all those fine things with?" cried the
Count of Chivry. "How are we to meet the expenses of brilliant tourneys
and the sumptuous displays of the Court of Love if, on the one side, the
King ruins us, and, on the other, Jacques Bonhomme refuses to work?"

"Oh! Oh! Dear father!" replied the fair Gloriande, laughing aloud.
"Jacques Bonhomme will meekly bend the neck. At the first crack of the
whip of one of our hunters you will see those varlets lie down flat upon
their faces. And mind you," added the young lady, redoubling her
laughter, "just turn your eyes to that bugaboo of a Jacques Bonhomme,
does he not look redoubtable?" and she pointed with her finger at
Mazurec the Lambkin, who, at the second call of the herald, had stepped
into the arena accompanied by his two seconds, Jocelyn the Champion and
Adam the Devil. Mazurec, dressed in his "blaude," the ancient Gallic
blouse, made of coarse cloth and of the same fabric as his hose, wore on
his head a woolen cap while his wooden shoes partly hid his bare feet.
Jocelyn, his second, held in his hand a stout stick of sorb, four feet
long, and freshly cut by himself in a neighboring thicket, with an eye
to the fact that, when fresh, the sorb wood is heavy and does not
easily break. The appellee, as well as the appellant, in the judicial
battle were required to make the round of the arena before engaging in
combat. The serf filled the formality in slow and measured steps,
accompanied by his two seconds.

"My brave fellow," Jocelyn said to Mazurec, "do not forget my advice,
and you stand a chance of worsting your noble robber, for all that he
may be on horseback and armed cap-a-pie."

"I'd as lief die," answered the serf, marching dejectedly between his
two seconds with his head down and his eyes fixed: "When I saw Aveline
this morning it was as if a knife had entered my heart," he added
sobbing. "Oh, I am a lost man!"

"By the navel of the Pope! No feebleness," replied Jocelyn with emphasis
and alarmed at the despondent voice of his principal. "Where is your
courage? This morning from a lambkin you became a wolf."

"To now live with my poor wife would be a daily torture to me," murmured
the serf. "I would rather the knight killed me outright."

Thus conversing, half the field had been covered by Mazurec in company
with his seconds. The latter, more and more alarmed at the unhappy young
man's despondency, were at that moment passing at the foot of the
amphitheater where the nobility of the neighborhood were seated with the
fair Gloriande in their midst. Casting an expressive look at the
champion, Adam the Devil nudged Mazurec with his elbow and said to him
in a low voice: "Take a look at the betrothed of our seigneur.... I
swear she's handsome!... That will make a pretty wedding! Hm!... Won't
the two lovers be happy?" At these words, which fell like molten lead
upon the bleeding wound in his heart, the vassal shook convulsively.
"Take a good look at the handsome young lady," proceeded Adam the Devil.
"See how happy she is in her rich clothes. Do you hear her laugh?... Go
to! No doubt she's laughing at you and at your wife, who was violated
last night by our seigneur.... But do take a look at the beauty! I wager
she is jeering at you."

Drawn from his dejection, and rage mounting to his heart, Mazurec
brusquely raised his head. For an instant his eyes fiery and red with
weeping, fastened on the betrothed of his seigneur, the haughty damosel,
resplendent in attire and personal beauty, radiant with happiness, and
surrounded by brilliant knights, who, courting her smiles, crowded near
her.

"At this hour," the caustic voice of Adam the Devil whispered to the ear
of Mazurec, "your own bride is drinking her shame and her tears. What!
In order to avenge Aveline and yourself would you not make an attempt to
kill the nobleman who robbed you!... That thief is the cause of all your
misfortune."

"My stick!" cried the vassal leaping forward, transported with rage, at
the same instant that one of the sergeants-at-arms hurried by to notify
him that it was not allowed to stop on the arena and look at the ladies,
but that he was to betake himself to one of the tents in order, before
the combat, to take the customary oaths with the vicar of Nointel. Now
inflamed with hatred and rage, Mazurec quickly followed the
sergeant-at-arms, while, walking more slowly, Jocelyn said to Adam the
Devil:

"You must have suffered a great deal in your lifetime ... I overheard
you a minute ago. You know how to fire hatred--"

"Three years ago," broke in the serf with a wild look, "I killed my wife
with an axe, and yet I loved her to distraction--"

"Was that at Bourcy--near Senlis?"

"Who told you of it? How come you to know it?"

"I happened to ride through the village on the day of the murder. You
preferred to see your wife dead rather than disgraced by your episcopal
seigneur."

"Exactly. That's the way I felt on the subject."

"But how did you become a serf of this seigniory?"

"After I killed my wife, I kept in hiding for a month in the forest of
Senlis, where I lived on roots; thereupon I came to this country.
Caillet gave me shelter. I offered my services as a butcher to the
superintendent of the seigniory of Nointel. After the lapse of a year I
was numbered among the vassals of the domain. I remained here out of
friendship for Caillet."

During this conversation between his two seconds Mazurec had arrived
near the tent where he, as well as the Knight of Chaumontel, was to take
the customary oath. Clad in his sacerdotal robes and holding a crucifix
in his hands, the vicar addressed the serf and the knight.

"Appellant and appellee, do not ye shut your eyes to the danger to which
you expose your souls in combating for a bad cause. If either of you
wishes to withdraw and place himself at the mercy of his seigneur and
the King, it is still time. It will soon be too late. One of you is
about to cross the gates of the other world. You will there find seated
a God who is merciless to the perjurer. Appellant and appellee, think of
that. All men are equally weak before the tribunal of divine justice.
The eternal kingdom is not entered in armor. Is either of you willing to
recede?"

"I shall maintain unto death that this knight has robbed me; he has
caused my misfortunes; if God is just, I shall kill this man," answered
Mazurec in a voice of concentrated rage.

"And I," cried the knight of Chaumontel, "swear to God that that vassal
lies in his throat, and outrageously slanders me. I shall prove his
imposture with the intercession of our Lord and all his saints,
especially with the good help of St. James, my blessed patron."

"Aye," put in Jocelyn, "and above all with the good help of your armor,
your lance and your sword. Infamous man! To battle on horseback, helmet
on head, cuirass on body, sword at your side, lance in your hand,
against a poor man on foot and armed only with a stick. Aye, you behave
like a coward. Cowards are thieves; consequently, you stole the purse
of my principal!"

"How dare you address me in such words!" cried the knight of Chaumontel.
"Such a common fellow as you! Miserable vagabond! Intolerable criminal!"

"Heavens be praised! He utters insults!" exclaimed Jocelyn with delight.
"Oh, Sir thief, if you are not the most cowardly of two-legged hares,
you will follow me on the spot behind yonder pavillion, or else I shall
slap your ignoble scamp's face with the scabbard of my sword."

Livid with rage, Gerard of Chaumontel was, to the extreme joy of
Jocelyn, about to accept the latter's challenge, when one of his seconds
said to him:

"That bandit is trying to save his principal by provoking you to a
fight. Fall not into the trap. Do not mind him, mind the vassal."

Taking this prudent advice, Gerard of Chaumontel contemptuously answered
Jocelyn: "When arms in hand I shall have convicted this other varlet of
imposture, I shall then consider whether you deserve that I accept your
insolent challenge."

"You evidently desire to taste the scabbard of my sword," cried Jocelyn.
"By heaven, I shall not deprive you of the dish; and if your hang-dog
face does not redden with shame, it will redden under my slaps. Coward
and felon--"

"Not another word, or I shall order one of my men to expel you from the
arena," said the herald-at-arms to Jocelyn; "a second has no right to
insult the adversary of his own principal."

Jocelyn realized that he would be compelled to yield to force, held his
tongue, and cast a distracted look at Mazurec. The vicar of Nointel
raised the crucifix and resumed in his nasal voice: "Appellant and
appellee, do you and each of you still insist that your cause is just?
Do you swear on the image of the Saviour of mankind?" and the vicar
presented the crucifix to the knight, who took off his iron gauntlet
and placing his hand upon the image of Christ, declared:

"My cause is just, I swear to God!"

"My cause is just," said in turn Mazurec; "and I take God for my
witness; but let us combat quickly; oh, quickly!"

"Do you swear," proceeded the vicar, "that neither of you carries about
his person either stone, or herb, or any other magic charm, amulet or
incantation of the enemy of man?"

"I swear," said the knight.

"I swear," said Mazurec panting with rage. "Oh, how much time is lost!"

"And now, appellant and appellee," cried the herald-at-arms, "the lists
are open to you. Do your duty."

The knight of Chaumontel seized his long lance and jumped upon his
horse, which one of his seconds held for him, while Jocelyn, pale and
deeply moved, said to Mazurec, while giving him his stick: "Courage!...
Follow my advice ... I expect you will kill that coward ... But one last
word.... It regards your mother ... Did she never tell you the name of
your father?"

"Never ... as I told you this morning in prison. My mother always
avoided speaking to me of my father."

"And her name was Gervaise?" asked Jocelyn pensively. "What was the
color of her hair and eyes?"

"Her hair was blonde, her eyes black. Poor mother."

"And had she no other mark?"

"She had a small scar above her right eye-brow--"

The clarions sounded at this point. It was the signal for the judicial
duel. Unable to restrain his tears, Jocelyn pressed Mazurec in his arms
and said to him: "I may not at a moment like this reveal to you the
cause of the double interest that you inspire me ... My suspicions and
hopes, perhaps, deceive me ... But courage ... Hit your enemy on the
head."

"Courage!" put in Adam the Devil in an undertone. "In order to keep
your blood boiling, think of your wife ... remember the betrothed of
your seigneur laughed at you.... Kill the thief, and patience.... It
will some day be our turn to laugh at the noble damosel.... Think above
all of your wife ... of her last nights shame and of your own....
Remember that you have both been made forever unhappy, and fall to
bravely upon that nobleman! Be brave.... You have a cane, nails and
teeth!"

Mazurec the Lambkin uttered a cry of rage and rushed into the lists at
the moment when, in answer to a motion from the Sire of Nointel, the
marshal of the tourney gave the signal for the combat to the appellant
and appellee by calling three times the consecrated words: "Let them
go!"

The noble spectators on the platform laughed in advance at the sorry
discomfiture of Jacques Bonhomme; but among the plebeian crowd all
hearts stopped beating with anxiety at this decisive moment. The knight
of Chaumontel, a vigorous man, armed in full panoply, mounted on a tall
charger covered with iron, and his long lance in rest, occupied the
center of the arena, while Mazurec dashed to the spot barefoot, clad in
his blouse and holding his stick in his hands. At sight of the serf, the
knight, who, out of contempt for such an adversary, had disdained to
lower his visor, put the spurs to his horse, and lowering his pointed
iron-headed lance, charged upon the serf certain of transfixing him then
and there, and then trampling over him with his horse. But Mazurec,
mindful of Jocelyn's recommendations, avoided the lance thrust by
suddenly letting himself down flat upon his face; and then, partly
rising up at the moment when the horse was about to grind him under its
hoofs, he dealt the animal two such heavy blows with his stick on its
forelegs that the courser, stung with pain, reared, slipped its footing
and almost fell over, while its rider was shaken out of position on the
saddle.

"Felony!" cried the Sire of Nointel with indignation. "It is forbidden
to strike a horse!"

"Well done, my brave woolen cap!" cried the populace on the outside,
palpitating with suspense and clapping their hands, despite the
strictness and severity of the royal ordinances which commanded profound
silence to the spectators at a tourney.

"Fall to, Mazurec!" simultaneously cried Jocelyn and Adam the Devil.
"Courage! Kill the nobleman! Kill him! Death to the thief!"

Mazurec rose, and seeing the knight out of poise and holding to the bow
of his saddle, dropped his stick, picked up a fistful of sand, leaped
upon the horse behind Gerard of Chaumontel, while the latter was seeking
to regain his equilibrium, lost no time in clutching the knight around
the neck with one hand, turned him half over backward, and with the
other rubbed his eyes with the sand he had just picked up. Almost
half-blinded, the noble robber dropped his lance and reins and sought to
carry his hands to his eyes. Mazurec seeing the movement, put his arms
around the knight, and, after a short struggle, succeeded in making him
wholly lose his balance and tumble down to the ground, where both fell
rolling on the arena, while the crowd of serfs, now considering the serf
the victor over the knight, clapped their hands, stamped on the ground
with joy and cried: "Victory for the woolen cap!"

Gerard of Chaumontel, however, although blinded by the sand and dazed by
the fall, gathered fresh strength from the rage that took possession of
him at finding himself unhorsed by a peasant, and with little difficulty
regained the upper hand over his unskilled adversary. In the unequal
struggle against the man clad in iron, the tight clasp of the virtually
naked serf was in vain; his nails broke off against, or glided
harmlessly over the polished armor of his adversary, while the latter,
finally succeeding in planting his two knees upon the serf's chest,
bruised his head and face with a shower of hammer blows dealt with his
iron gauntlet. His face beaten to pulp and bleeding, Mazurec pronounced
once more the name of Aveline and remained motionless. Gerard of
Chaumontel, who was gradually regaining his sight, not satisfied with
having almost beaten the serf's face out of shape, then drew his dagger
to finish his victim. But quickly recalling himself, and animated by a
feeling of refined cruelty, he replaced the dagger in his belt, rose
upright, and placing one of his iron shod feet upon the chest of the
prostrate and moaning Mazurec, cried in a stentorian voice: "Let this
vile impostor be bound up, put in a bag and thrown into the river as he
deserves. It is the law of the duel; let it be carried out!"



CHAPTER V.

SHEET LIGHTNINGS.


An oppressive silence followed the close of the judicial combat, as
Gerard of Chaumontel, leaving the outstretched body of the serf on the
sand, rejoined his seconds while rubbing his irritated eyelids, and
jointly they quitted the arena. The sergeant-at-arms had proceeded to
pick up the prostrate body of the vassal in order to carry it to the
bridge that spanned the near-by river; and the vicar of Nointel had
followed on the tracks of the mournful train, in order to administer the
last sacraments to the condemned man so soon as he should recover
consciousness, and before he was bundled into a bag, agreeable to the
ordinance, and cast into the river. For a moment struck dumb with terror
by the issue of the judicial combat, the plebs crowd was slowly
recovering its voice, and, despite its habit of respect towards the
seigneurs, had begun to murmur with rising indignation. Several voices
were heard to say that the knight having been unhorsed by the vassal,
the latter was to be considered the victor and should not be killed. The
turmoil was on the increase, when an unexpected event suddenly drew to
itself the attention of the crowd and cut short its criminations. A
large troop of men-at-arms, covered with dust and one of whom bore a
white flag emblazoned with the fleur-de-lis,[4] hove in sight at a
distance over the field and rapidly approached the fenced-in arena.
Mazurec was forgotten. Sharing the astonishment of the assembled
nobility at the sight of the armed troop that had now reached the
barriers, the Sire of Nointel applied both spurs to his horse, rode
rapidly forward, and addressing himself to one of the new arrivals, a
herald with the fleur-de-lis jacket, saluted him courteously and
inquired:

"Sir herald, what brings you hither?"

"An order of the King, my master. I am charged with a message to all the
seigneurs and noblemen of Beauvoisis. Having learned that a large number
of them were gathered at this place, I came hither. Listen to the envoy
of King John."

"Enter the lists and read your message aloud," answered Conrad of
Nointel to the herald, who, producing a parchment from a richly
embroidered bag, rode to the center of the arena and prepared to read.

"This extraordinary message augurs nothing good," said the seigneur of
Chivry to his daughter Gloriande. "King John is going to demand some
levy of men of us for his war against the English, unless it be some new
edict on coinage, some fresh royal pillage."

"Oh, father! If, like so many other seigneurs, you had only chosen to go
to the court at Paris ... you would then have shared in the largesses of
King John, who, we hear, is so magnificently prodigal towards the
courtiers. You would then have gained on the one side what you lost on
the other. And then also ... they say the court is such a charming place
... continuous royal feasts and dances, enhanced by choicest gallantry.
After our marriage Conrad must take me to Paris. I wish to shine at the
royal court."

"You are a giddy-headed girl," observed the aged seigneur shrugging his
shoulders, and half closing his fist, which he applied to his ear for a
trumpet, so as to be better able to hear the royal herald, he remarked
to himself: "What devil of a song is he going to sing to us?"

"John, by the grace of God, King of the French," said the herald reading
from his parchment, "to his dear, beloved and faithful seigneurs of
Beauvoisis; Greeting!"

"Proceed, proceed; we can do very well without your politeness and
greetings," grumbled the aged seigneur of Chivry. "They are gilding the
pill for us to swallow."

"Pray, father, let me hear the messenger," said Gloriande impatiently.
"The royal language has a court perfume that ravishes me."

The herald proceeded: "The mortal enemy of the French, the Prince of
Wales, son of the King of England, has perfidiously broken the truce
that was not to expire for some time longer. He is advancing at the head
of a strong army."

"There we are," cried the Count of Chivry, angrily stamping with his
feet. "It is a levy of men that we are going to be asked for. Blood and
massacre! To the devil with the King!"

The herald continued reading: "After having set fire to everything on
their route, the English are marching towards the heart of the country.
In order to arrest this disastrous invasion, and in view of this great
public danger, we impose upon our peoples and our beloved nobility a
double tax for this year. Furthermore, we enjoin, order and command all
our dear, beloved and faithful seigneurs of Beauvoisis to take up arms
themselves, levy their men, and join us within eight days at Bourg,
whence we shall take the field against the English, whom we shall
vanquish with the aid of God and our valiant nobility. Let everyone be
at his post of battle. Such is my will. JOHN."

This appeal from the King of the French to his valiant nobility of
Beauvoisis was received by the noble assemblage with a mute stupor, that
speedily made place for murmurs of anger and rebellion.

"We refuse to give men and money. To the devil with King John!" cried
the Count of Chivry. "Already has he imposed subsidies upon us for the
maintenance of his troops. Let him take them to war! We propose to
remain at our manors!"

"Well said!" exclaimed another seigneur. "The King evidently kept up no
army. All our moneys have been squandered in pleasures and festivities.
The court at Paris is an insatiable maw!"

"What!" interjected a third; "we are to wear ourselves out making
Jacques Bonhomme sweat all the wealth he can, and the cream thereof is
to go into the King's coffers? Not by all the devils! Already have we
given too much."

"Let the King defend himself. His domains are more exposed than our own.
Let him protect them!"

"It is all we can do, we and our own armed forces, to protect our
castles against the bands of marauders, of Navarrais and of the hired
soldiery that ravages our lands! And are we to abandon our homes in
order to march against the English? By the saints! Fine goslings would
we be!"

"And in our absence, Jacques Bonhomme, who seems to indulge in dreams of
revolt, will put in fine strokes!"

"By heavens, messieurs!" cried a young knight, "We, nevertheless, may
not, to the shame of knighthood, remain barracked on our own manors
while battles are being fought on the frontier."

"Well! And who keeps you back, my dear fire-eater?" cried the Count of
Chivry. "Are you curious to make acquaintance with war? Very well;
depart quickly, and soon.... Each one disposes at his will of his own
person and men."

"As to me," loudly put in the radiant Gloriande with fiery indignation,
"I shall not bestow my hand on Conrad of Nointel if he does not depart
for the war, and return crowned with the laurels of victory, leading to
my feet ten Englishmen in chains. Shame and disgrace! Gallant knights to
stay at home when their King calls them to arms! I shall not acknowledge
for my lord and husband any but a valiant knight!"

Despite Gloriande's heroic words and a few other rare protests against
the selfish and ignominious cowardice of the larger number of seigneurs,
a general murmur of approval received the words of the aged seigneur of
Chivry, who, encouraged by the almost unanimous support of the
assembly, stepped upon his bench and answered the herald in a stentorian
voice:

"Sir, in the name of the nobility of Beauvoisis, I now answer you that
we have our hands so full on our own domains, that it would be
disastrous for us to take the field in distant regions. For the rest,
the request of the King will be considered when the deputies of the
nobility and the clergy shall be assembled in the States General of the
Kingdom. Until then we shall remain at home."

A sudden outburst of hisses from the crowd of peasants and bourgeois
answered the words of the seigneur of Chivry; and Adam the Devil,
leaving Jocelyn the Champion for a moment alone with Mazurec, who,
having regained consciousness, was resignedly expecting the hour of his
death, thrust himself among several groups of serfs saying:

"Do you hear them? Fine seigneurs they are!... What are they good
for?... Only to combat in tourneys with pointless lances and edgeless
swords, or to indulge in bravados in combats, where they are fully
armed, against Jacques Bonhomme, armed only with a stick!"

"That's so!" answered several angry voices. "To the devil with the
nobility!"

"Poor Mazurec the Lambkin! It is enough to make one's heart ache to see
his face bleeding under the iron gauntlet of the Knight."

"And now they are to put him in a bag and throw him into the water!... I
declare.... That's what they call justice...."

"Ah! When, thanks to the cowardice of our seigneurs, the English will
have penetrated to this region," resumed Adam the Devil, "what with our
masters on one side and the English on the other, we shall be like iron
beaten on the anvil by the hammer. Oppressed by these, pillaged and
sacked by the others, our lot will be twice as hard. Woe is us!"

"That's what happens now when bands of marauders descend upon our
villages. We flee for safety to the woods, and when we return, we find
our homes in flames or in ashes!"

"O, God! What a lot is ours!"

"And yet our vicar says that secures our salvation ... in heaven!
Another fraud upon us!"

"Woe is us if on top of all our ills we are to be ravaged and tortured
by the English. That means our end."

"Yes, and we are all to go down through the cowardice of our seigneurs,"
put in Adam the Devil, "themselves, their families and retainers safely
entrenched and provisioned in their fortified castles, they will allow
us to be pillaged and massacred by the English! Oh! What a fate is in
store for us!"

"And when everything we have will have been devastated," replied another
serf in despair, "our seigneur will then tell us, as he told us when the
last gang of marauders passed over the region like a hurricane: 'Pay
your taxes, Jacques Bonhomme,' 'But, Sire, the marauders have carried
away everything; they have left us only our eyes to weep with, and we
weep!' 'Oh, you rebel, Jacques Bonhomme! Give him quick a beating and
put him to the torture!' Oh, it is too much ... too much!... That must
end. Death to the nobles and their helpers, the clergy!"

The murmurs among the rustic plebs, at first low and rumbling, presently
broke out into loud hisses and imprecations, and these were so menacing
and direct against the nobles, that the seigneurs, for a moment taken
aback by the incredible audacity of Jacques Bonhomme, bridled up
furiously, drew their swords, and, in the midst of alarmed cries of the
elder and younger ladies, precipitately descended the steps of the
platform to chastise the varlets at the head of the sergeants of the
tourney, their own men-at-arms and also of those of the royal herald,
who promptly sided with the noblemen against the plebs.

"Friends," cried Adam the Devil, rushing from one group of the serfs to
another to inflame their courage, "if the seigneurs are a hundred, we
are a thousand. Have you not a minute ago seen Mazurec unhorse a knight
all alone, with his stick and only a handful of sand? Let's prove those
nobles that we are not afraid of them. Pick up stones and sticks! Let's
deliver Mazurec the Lambkin! Death to the nobles!"

"Yes! Take up stones and sticks! Let's deliver Mazurec!" responded the
more daring ones. "The devil take the seigneurs who wish to leave us at
the mercy of the English!"

Under the pressure of this furious mob a portion of the barrier around
the lists was soon torn up and a large number of vassals, arming
themselves with the debris of the fence, redoubled their threats and
imprecations against the seigneurs. Attracted by the tumult and catching
a glimpse of Adam the Devil, who with glistening eyes was brandishing
one of the posts of the barrier, Jocelyn left Mazurec and ran towards
the serf to whom he cried out: "Those wretches will be mowed down ...
you will lose everything.... The right time has not yet come!"

"It is always in time to kill noblemen," answered Adam the Devil,
grinding his teeth, saying which he redoubled his vociferations: "Stones
and sticks! Let's deliver Mazurec!"

"But you lose him by that!" cried Jocelyn in despair. "You will lose
him! I hoped to save him!" and turning to the surrounding serfs he said:
"Do not attack the seigneurs; you are in the open field, they on
horseback; you will be trampled under foot. Come, now! Disperse!"

The voice of Jocelyn was lost in the tumult, and his efforts remained
fruitless in the midst of the exasperation of the mob. A reflux of the
crowd separated him from Adam the Devil, and soon the foresight of the
champion was but too well verified. For a moment taken by surprise and
even frightened at the aggressive attitude of Jacques Bonhomme, a
spectacle they had never before witnessed, the seigneurs presently
recovered their composure. Headed by the Sire of Nointel and supported
by about fifty men-at-arms, sergeants and knights who speedily mounted
their horses, the armed nobility now advanced in good order, and
charged upon the revolted serfs with swords and lances. The women and
children who happened to be in the crowd, were thrown down and trampled
over by the horses, and filled the air with their heart-rending cries.
The peasants, without order and without leadership, and already
frightened at their own audacity whose consequences they now dreaded,
fled in all directions over the meadow. Some few of the more valorous
and determined stood their ground and were either cut down by the
knights or severely wounded and taken prisoners. In the heat of the
fray, Adam the Devil, who had been thrown down by a sabre cut, was
seeking to rise when he felt a Herculean hand seize him by the collar,
raise him and despite his resistance, drag him far away from the field
of carnage. The serf recognized Jocelyn who said to him while dragging
him along: "You will be a precious man on the day of uprising ... but to
allow yourself to be killed to-day is an act of folly.... Come, let us
preserve ourselves for a later day."

"Mazurec is lost!" cried the serf in the agony of despair and struggling
against Jocelyn; but the latter, without making answer, compelled Adam
the Devil, who was greatly enfeebled by the loss of blood, to take
shelter behind a heap of lumber that had been brought thither for the
construction of the barrier around the lists, but had been found
unnecessary. Both lay themselves down flat upon the grass.



CHAPTER VI.

PROPHECIES AND PREMONITIONS.


The sun has gone down; night is drawing nigh. The noble dames,
frightened by the recent popular commotion, have left the platform of
the tourney and returned to their manors either on their palfreys or on
the cruppers of their cavaliers' horses. At a short distance from the
lists where lay the corpses of a considerable number of serfs, killed in
their futile attempt at revolt, flows the Orville River. On one side its
banks are precipitous, but on the other they slope gently, covered with
reeds. The river is crossed by a wooden bridge. To the right of the
bridge are a few old willows. Their branches have almost all been
freshly lopped off with axes. The few remaining ones, strongly supported
and spreading out, have been turned into gibbets. From them now hang the
bodies of four of the vassals who had been captured in the revolt. The
pendent bodies resemble shadows cast upon the clear sky of the dusk.
Night approaches rapidly. Standing on the middle of the bridge
surrounded by his friends, among whom is Gerard of Chaumontel, the Sire
of Nointel makes a sign, and the last of the revolted and captured serfs
is, despite his cries and entreaties, hanged like his companions from a
branch of a willow on the bank of the river. A man then brings to the
bridge a large bag of coarse grey material, of the kind used by the
millers. A strong cord inserted at its mouth like a purse-string enables
its being tied closely. Mazurec the Lambkin is led forward tightly
pinioned. Up to then he had been seated at one end of the bridge near
the vicar. The latter after having placed the crucifix to the mouths of
the serfs that had been hanged, returned to the victim about to be
drowned. Mazurec is no longer recognizable. His bruised face covered
with clotted blood is hideous to behold. One of his eyes has been
knocked out and his nose crushed under the fierce blows dealt him by the
knight of Chaumontel with his iron gauntlet. The executioner opens the
mouth of the bag while the bailiff of the seigniory approaches Mazurec
and says: "Vassal, your felony is notorious; you have dared to charge
Gerard, a nobleman of Chaumontel, with robbery; he appealed to a
judicial duel where you were vanquished and convicted of calumny and
defamation; in obedience to the royal ordinance, you are to be submerged
until death does ensue. Such is the supreme and irrevocable sentence."

Mazurec steps forward, and as he is about to be seized and thrust into
the bag, he raises his head, and addressing the Sire of Nointel and
Gerard, says to them as if inspired with prophetic exaltation:

"It is said among our people that those about to perish become seers.
Now, this is what I foretell: Gerard of Chaumontel, you robbed me and
now you have me drowned ... you will die drowned. Sire of Nointel, you
have done violence to my wife ... your wife will be done violence to.
Mayhap my wife may bring to the world the child of a noble; ... your
wife may bring to the world the child of a serf. May God take charge of
my vengeance. The day of reprisals will come!"

Mazurec the Lambkin had barely uttered these words when the executioner
proceeded to tie him up in the bag. Conrad grew pale and shivered at the
sinister prophecy of his vassal, and was unable to utter a word. Gerard,
however, addressing the serf who was being "bagged" burst out laughing
and pointed to the five hanged serfs who rocked in the evening breeze,
and whose outlines were dimly perceptible like spectres in the twilight,
said:

"Look at the corpses of those villeins who dared to rebel against their
seigneurs! Look at the water that runs under the bridge and that is
about to swallow you up ... should Jacques Bonhomme still dare to kick,
there are our long lances to pierce him through, wide branched trees to
hang, and rivers to drown him."

Mazurec was the while tied in the bag, and at the moment when the
executioner was about to hurl him into the river, the vassal's voice was
heard for the last time from within the canvas. "Gerard of Chaumontel,
you will be drowned; Sire of Nointel, your wife will be violated...."

A peal of contemptuous laughter from the knight answered the serf's
prediction, and amidst the silence of night the splash was heard of
Mazurec's body dropping into the deep waters of the river.

"Come away, come away," said the Sire of Nointel to Gerard in a
faltering voice; "let's return to the castle; this place frightens me.
The prophecy of that miserable villein makes me shudder despite
myself.... He mentioned reprisals."

"What feebleness! Conrad, are you becoming weak-minded?"

"Everything that happened to-day is of ill-omen. I tremble at the
future."

"What do you mean?" replied Gerard, following his friend who was walking
away at a rapid pace. "What is that you said about ill-omen? Come,
explain the cause of your terror."

"This evening, before returning to Chivry, Gloriande said to me:
'Conrad, to-morrow my father celebrates our betrothal in the chapel of
his castle; I desire that you depart that same evening to join the
forces of the King; and even then I shall not be your wife unless you
lead back from battle and place at my feet, as a pledge of your bravery,
ten Englishmen in chains and captured by yourself.'"

"The devil take such folly!" cried Gerard. "The romances of knighthood
have turned her head!"

"'I wish,' added Gloriande, 'that my husband be illustrious by his
prowesses. Therefore, Conrad, to-morrow I shall take the oath at the
altar to finish my days in a monastery, if you are killed in battle, or
if you fail in the promises that I have demanded of you!'"

"By the saints! That girl is gone daft on her Englishmen in chains.
There are only blows to be fetched in war, and your betrothed runs the
chances of seeing you return without an eye, a leg or an arm ... if you
do return.... The devil take her whims!"

"I am bound to yield to Gloriande's wishes. There is no more stubborn
head than hers. Besides, she loves me as I do her. Her wealth is
considerable. I have dissipated a good part of my fortune at the court
of King John. I cannot renounce the marriage. Whatever it may cost me, I
must join the army with my men. Sad it is, but there is no choice!"

"Be it so! But then fight ... prudently and moderately."

"I am anxious to live so that I may marry Gloriande ... provided during
my absence the prediction of that miserable vassal--"

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" broke in the knight of Chaumontel, laughing out aloud.
"You surely are not troubled with the fear that during your absence
Jacques Bonhomme will violate your wife?"

"These villeins, an unheard of thing, have dared to insult, to menace
and to throw themselves upon us like the wild beasts that they are."

"And you saw that rag-tag flee before our horses like a set of hares.
The executions of this evening will complete the lesson, and Jacques
Bonhomme will remain the Jacques Bonhomme of ever. Come! Make your mind
easy! While I prefer a hundred times the hunt, the tourneys, wine, game
and love to the stupid and dangerous feats of war, I shall accompany you
to the army, so as to bring you back soon to the beautiful Gloriande. As
to the English prisoners that you are to lead in chains to her feet as a
pledge of your valor, we shall scrape together a few leagues from our
lady's manor the first varlets that we can lay our hands on. We shall
bind them and threaten them with hanging if they utter a single word;
and they will do well enough for the ten English prisoners. Is not the
idea a jolly one? But, Conrad, what are you brooding over?"

"Perhaps I was wrong in exercising my right over that vassal's wife,"
replied the Sire of Nointel with a somber and pensive mien. "It was a
mere libertine caprice, because I love Gloriande. But the resistance of
the scamp, who, besides, charged you with theft, irritated me." And
resuming after a moment of silence, the Sire of Nointel addressed his
friend: "Tell me the truth; here among ourselves; did you really rob the
villein? It would have been an amusing trick.... I only would like to
know if you really did it?"

"Conrad, the suspicion is insulting--"

"Oh, it is not in the interest of the dead serf that I put the question,
but it is in my own."

"How? Explain yourself more clearly."

"If that vassal has been unjustly drowned ... his prophecy would have
more weight."

"By heavens! Are you quite losing your wits, Conrad? Do you see me
saddened because Jacques Bonhomme has predicted to me that I was to be
drowned?... The devil! It is I who mean to drown your sadness in a cup
of good Burgundy wine.... Come, Conrad, to horse ... to horse!... Supper
waits, and after the feast pretty female serfs! Long live joy and love!
Let's reach the manor in a canter--"

"Perhaps I did wrong in forcing the serf's wife," the Sire of Nointel
repeated to himself. "I know not why, but a tradition, handed down from
the elder branch of my family, located at Auvergne, comes back to me at
this moment. The tradition has it that the hatred of the serfs has often
been fatal to the Nerowegs!"

"Hallo, Conrad, to horse! Your valet has been holding your stirrup for
the last hour," broke in the cheerful voice of Gerard. "What are you
thinking about?"

"I should not have violated the vassal's wife," the Sire of Nointel
still mumbled while swinging himself on his horse's back, and taking the
route to his manor accompanied by Gerard of Chaumontel.



CHAPTER VII.

WRECKED HEARTS.


The ground floor of the house of Alison the Huffy is closed. A lamp
burns inside, but the door and windows are bolted within.
Aveline-who-never-lied lies half stretched out upon a bench. Her hands
lie across her breast, her head reclines on the knees of Alison. She
would be thought asleep were it not for the tremors that periodically
convulse her frame. Her discolored visage bears the traces of the tears,
which, rarer now, still occasionally escape from her swollen eyelids.
The tavern-keeper contemplates the unfortunate girl with an expression
of profound pity. William Caillet, seated near by, with his elbows on
his knees, his forehead in his hands, takes not his eyes from his
daughter. He remembered Alison, and relying on her kind-heartedness, had
taken Aveline to the tavern with the aid of Adam the Devil, who
immediately had gone out again to the tourney to meet Jocelyn the
Champion, by whom he was later snatched from the fray.

Suddenly sitting up affrighted, Aveline cried semi-delirious: "They are
drowning him.... I see it.... He is drowned!... Did you not hear the
splash of his body dropping into the water?... My bridegroom is
dead...."

"Dear daughter," said Alison, breaking into tears, "calm yourself....
Have confidence in God.... They may have had mercy upon him--"

"She is right.... This is the hour," said William Caillet in a low
hollow voice. "Mazurec was to be drowned at nightfall. Patience! Every
night has its morn. The unfortunate man will be avenged."

Hearing a rap at the door, Alison, who was holding Aveline in her arms,
turned to William: "Who can it be at this hour?"

The old peasant rose, approached the door and asked: "Who's that?"

"I, Jocelyn the Champion," a voice answered.

"Oh!" murmured Aveline's father, "he comes from the river"; saying which
he opened.

Jocelyn entered with quick steps. At the sight, however, of Mazurec's
wife, held in a swooning condition in the arms of Alison, he stopped
short, turned to Caillet, and whispered to him: "He is saved!"

"He?" cried the serf stupefied. "Saved?"

"Silence!" said Jocelyn, pointing to Aveline. "Such news may prove fatal
if too suddenly conveyed."

"Where is he? Where did he take refuge?"

"Adam is bringing him hither.... He can hardly stand.... I came ahead of
them.... He is weeping incessantly.... We came across the field.... The
curfew has sounded. We met nobody. Poor Mazurec is saved--"

"I shall go out to meet him," said Caillet, panting with emotion. "Poor
Mazurec! Dear son! Dear child!"

Jocelyn approached Aveline, who, with her arms around Alison's neck was
sobbing bitterly. "Aveline," said Jocelyn to her, "listen to me, please.
Have courage and confidence--"

"He is dead," murmured Aveline moaning and not heeding Jocelyn. "They
have drowned him."

"No ... he is not dead," Jocelyn went on saying. "There is hope of
saving him."

"Good God!" cried Alison, now weeping with joy and embracing Aveline in
a transport of happiness. "Do you hear, dear little one? He is not
dead."

Aveline joined her hands and essayed to speak, but the words died away
on her lips that trembled convulsively.

"This is what happened," explained Jocelyn. "Mazurec was put into a bag
and he was thrown into the water. Fortunately, however," Jocelyn
hastened to add, seeing Aveline utter a smothered cry, "Adam the Devil
and myself, profiting by the darkness, had hidden ourselves among the
reeds that border the bank of the river about a hundred paces from the
bridge. The current was toward us. With the aid of a long pole we sought
to drag towards us the bag in which Mazurec was tied up, and to pull him
out in time."

"Oh!" stammered the young girl. "Help came too late."

"No, no! Calm yourself. We succeeded in drawing the bag to the bank.
Adam cut it open with one rip of his knife, and we took Mazurec out of
the canvas still breathing."

"He lives!" exclaimed the girl in a delirium of joy. Her first movement
was to precipitate herself towards the door, and there she fell in the
arms of her father, who, having just returned, stood on the threshold.

"Yes, he lives!" said Caillet to his daughter, closing her to his
breast. "He lives ... and he is here!"

That same instant Mazurec appeared at the threshold, pale, faint,
dripping water, his face unrecognizable, and supported by Adam the
Devil. Instead of running to the encounter of her husband, Aveline
staggered back frightened and cried: "It is not he!"

She did not recognize Mazurec. His crushed eye, encircled with black and
blue concussions, his crushed nose, his lips split and swollen, so
completely changed his once sweet and attractive features, that the
hesitation of the vassal's wife lasted several seconds; but soon
recovered from her painful surprise, she threw herself at the neck of
Mazurec, and kissed his wounds with frantic excitement.

Mazurec returned the embrace of his wife and murmured sadly: "Oh, poor
wife ... although I still live, yet you are a widow."

These words, reminding as they did the young couple that they were
forever separated by the infamous outrage that Aveline had been the
victim of and that might mean maternity to her, caused them both to
break forth into a flood of tears that flowed while they remained
closely locked in a gloomy and mute embrace.

"Oh!" exclaimed William Caillet, even whose harsh features were now
moistened with tears at the sight of the ill-starred couple, "to avenge
them.... How much blood.... Oh! how much blood.... What conflagrations
... what massacres ... the reprisals must be terrible."

"That seigniorial race must be strangled out of existence," put in Adam
the Devil, biting his nails with suppressed rage. "They must be
extirpated ... they must be killed off ... all of them ... even the
whelps in the cradle ... not a vestige of the seigniory must be left in
existence." And turning to Jocelyn, the peasant added with savage
reproach: "And you, you tell us to be patient--"

"Yes," answered Jocelyn, interrupting him; "yes, patience, if you wish
on one day to avenge the millions of slaves, serfs and villeins of our
race, who for centuries have been dying, crushed down, tortured and
massacred by the seigneurs. Yes, patience, if you desire that your
vengeance be fruitful and accomplish the deliverance of your brothers!
To that end I conjure you, and you, Caillet, also--no partial revolts!
Let all the serfs of Gaul rise simultaneously, on one day, at the same
signal. The seigniorial race will not see the morrow of that day."

"To wait," replied Adam the Devil, scowling with impatience; "always to
wait!"

"And when will the signal of revolt come?" asked Caillet. "Whence is it
to come? Answer me that!"

"It will come from Paris, the city of revolts and of popular uprisings,"
answered Jocelyn; "and that will be within shortly."

"From Paris," exclaimed the two peasants in a voice expressive of
astonishment and doubt. "What! Those Parisians ... will they be ready to
revolt?"

"Like you, the Parisians are tired of the outrages and exactions of the
seigneurs; like you, the Parisians are tired of the thieveries of King
John and his court, both of whom ruin and starve the country; like you,
they are tired of the cowardice of the nobility, the only armed force in
the country, and that, nevertheless, allows Gaul to be ravaged by the
English; finally, the Parisians are tired of praying and remonstrating
with the King to obtain from him the reform of execrable abuses. The
Parisians are, therefore, decided to appeal to arms against the royalty.
The rupture of the truce with the English, just announced by the royal
messenger, will undoubtedly hasten the hour of revolt. However, until
that solemn hour shall sound, patience, or all is lost."

"And these Parisians," replied Caillet with redoubled attention, "who
directs them? Have they a leader?"

"Yes," answered Jocelyn with enthusiasm, "a most courageous, wise and
good man. He is an honor to our country!"

"And his name?"

"Etienne Marcel, a bourgeois, a draper, and provost of the councilmen of
Paris. The whole people are with him because he aims at the welfare and
the enfranchisement of the people. A large number of the bourgeois of
the communal towns, that have fallen back into the royal power and who
are ready to rise, are in touch with Marcel. But he realizes that the
bourgeois and artisans would be guilty of a wicked act if they did not
offer their advice and help to the serfs of the country and aid them
also to break the yoke of the seigneurs. By acting in concert--serfs,
artisans and bourgeois--we could easily prevail over the seigneurs and
the royal house. Count ourselves; count our oppressors. How many are
they? A few thousand at the most, while we are millions!"

"That's true," said Caillet, exchanging looks of approval with Adam.
"The towns and the country combined, that's the world! The seigneurs and
their clergy are insignificant."

"I came to this place," proceeded Jocelyn, "by the advice of Etienne
Marcel, calculating that, as a rule, tourneys attract a large number of
vassals. I was to ascertain whether the sentiment of rebellion existed
in this province as it did in others. I have no longer any doubt on the
subject. I have met you, William and Adam, and no longer ago than this
afternoon I have seen, much as I regretted the partial and hasty
movement, that Jacques Bonhomme, tired of his burden of shame, misery
and sufferings, is ripe for action. I shall now return to Paris with a
heart full of hope. Therefore, patience! Friends, patience! Soon will be
the hour of reprisals sound, the hour of inexorable justice. Then, death
to our oppressors!"

"Yes," answered Caillet; "we shall settle the accounts of our ancestors
... and I shall settle the accounts of my daughter.... Do you see my
child? Do you?" and the old peasant pointed to Aveline who sat near
Mazurec. Overcome with sorrow, mute, their eyes fixed on the floor and
holding each other's hands the smitten couple presented a picture of
unutterable woe.

"But coming to think of it," said Jocelyn. "Mazurec cannot remain in
this territory."

"I have thought of that," rejoined Caillet. "To-night I shall return to
Cramoisy with my daughter and her husband. I know a grotto in the
thickest part of the forest. The hiding-place was long of service to
Adam. I shall take Mazurec thither. Every night my daughter will take to
him a share of our pittance. The poor child feels so desolate that to
separate her entirely from her husband would be to kill her. He shall
remain in hiding until the day of vengeance shall have arrived. You may
rely on me, upon Adam and upon many others."

"But who will give the signal at which the towns and country folks are
to rise?" asked Adam the Devil.

"Paris," responded Jocelyn. "Before long I shall have moneys brought to
you, or I may bring them myself, with which to purchase arms. Be careful
not to awaken the suspicions of the seigneurs. Buy your arms one by one
in town ... at fairs, and hide them at home. If you know any safe
blacksmiths, get them to turn out pikes ... town money will furnish you
with iron ... and with iron you will be able to purchase revenge and
freedom. Who has iron has bread!"

A prolonged neighing just outside the door interrupted the conversation.
"It is Phoebus, my horse," cried Jocelyn, agreeably reminded that he had
left the animal tied close to the tourney. "He must have grown tired of
waiting for me, must have snapped the strap and returned to the tavern
after me, where, however, he has been only once before. Brave Phoebus,"
Jocelyn added, proceeding to the door. "This is not the first proof of
intelligence that he has given me." Hardly had Jocelyn opened the upper
part of the door than the head of Phoebus appeared; the animal neighed
anew and licked the hands of his master, who said to him: "Good friend,
you shall have a good supply of oats, and then we shall take the road."

"What, Sir, you intend to depart this very night?" asked Alison the
Huffy, drying her tears that had not ceased to flow since the return of
Mazurec. "Do you mean to depart, despite the dark and the rain? Remain
with us at least until to-morrow morning."

"The royal messenger has brought tidings that hasten my return to Paris,
my pretty hostess. Keep a corner for me in your heart, and ... we shall
meet again. I expect to be soon back in Nointel."

"Before leaving us, Sir champion," insisted Alison, rummaging in her
pocket, "take these three franks. I owe them to you for having won my
case."

"Your case?... I have not yet pleaded it!"

"You have gained my case without pleading it."

"How is that?"

"This forenoon, when you returned for your horse to ride to the tourney,
Simon the Hirsute came out of his house as you passed by. 'Neighbor,'
said I to him, 'I have not until now been able to find a champion. I now
have one.' 'And where is that valiant champion?' answered Simon
sneering. 'There,' said I, 'do you see him? It is that tall young man
riding yonder on the bay horse.' Simon then ran after you, and after a
careful inspection that took you in from head to foot, he came back
crestfallen and said to me: 'Here, neighbor, I give you three florins,
and let's be quits.' 'No, neighbor, you shall return to me my twelve
florins, or you will have to settle with my champion, if not to-day,
to-morrow.' A quarter of an hour later, Simon the Hirsute, who had now
turned sweet as honey, brought me my twelve florins. Here are the three
promised to you, Sir champion."

"I have not pleaded, and have nothing coming to me from you, my pretty
hostess, except a kiss which you will let me have when you hold my
stirrup."

"Oh, what a large heart you have, Sir champion!" cordially answered
Alison. "One embraces his friends, and I am certain you now entertain
some affection for me."

After Phoebus had eaten his fill and Jocelyn had thrown a thick
traveling cloak over his armor, he returned to the room. Approaching
Mazurec he said to him with deep emotion: "Courage and patience ...
embrace me ... I know not why, but I feel an interest in you beside that
which your misfortunes awaken ... I shall ere long have clarified my
doubts"; and, then addressing Aveline: "Good-bye, poor child; your hopes
are shattered; but at least the companion of your sorrows has been saved
to you. Often will your tears mingle with his and they will seem less
bitter"; turning finally to Caillet and Adam the Devil, whose horny
hands he pressed in his own: "Good-bye, brothers ... remember your
promises; I shall not forget mine; let us know how to wait for the great
day of reprisal."

"To see that day and avenge my daughter, to exterminate the nobles and
their tonsured helpers, is all I desire," answered Caillet; "after that
I shall be ready to die."

After planting a cordial kiss on the red lips of Alison, who was
holding his stirrup, and two on her rosy cheeks, Jocelyn the Champion
bounded on his horse, and despite the rain and the thick darkness,
hastily resumed the road to Paris.

"Happy trip and speedy return!" cried out Alison after him.



PART II.

THE REGENCY OF NORMANDY



CHAPTER I.

THE STATES GENERAL.


The Frankish conquerors of Gaul founded about a thousand years before
the date of this narrative the first dynasty that reigned in the land.
Clovis, the first of the kings, established and his successor followed
the custom of almost yearly convoking their leudes, or chiefs of bands,
to gatherings that they named Fields of May. At these assemblies, from
which the Celtic or conquered people were wholly excluded and to which
only the warrior ruler class was admitted, the Frankish chiefs or feudal
lords deliberated with their supreme sovereign, the king, in their own
or Germanic tongue upon new martial enterprises; or upon new imposts to
be laid upon the subjected race. It was at these Fields of May that
later, during the usurpatory dominion of the stewards of the palace, the
do-nothing kings, those last scions of Clovis, unnerved and degenerate
beings, appeared once a year with artificial beards as the grotesque and
hollow effigies of royalty. These assemblies were continued under the
reign of Charles the Great and the Carlovingian kings--the dynasty that
in 752 succeeded that of Clovis. The bishops, accomplices of the
conquerors, joined in these assemblies, where, accordingly, only the
nobility, that is, the conquerors, and the clergy had seats. Under Hugh
Capet and his descendants, the dynasty of the Capets, which succeeded
that of the Carlovingians in 987, continued the practice of the Fields
of May, but under a different name. At irregular intervals they held in
their domains Courts or Parliaments--assemblies composed of seigneurs
and prelates, but from which the newly shaping class of bourgeois or
townsmen was excluded, along with the artisans and serfs, essentially as
was the case under the previous dynasties. These assemblies represented
exclusively the interests of the ruling class and its accomplices.

Towards the close of 1290, the legists or lawyers, a new class of
plebeian origin, began to enter the parliaments. The royal power, that
had reared its head upon the ruins of the independence of the feudal
lords, grew ever more oppressive and absolute, and the functions of the
parliaments were by degrees restricted to servilely registering and
promulgating the royal ordinances, instead of remaining what they
originally were, free gatherings where kings, seigneurs and prelates
deliberated as peers upon the affairs of the State--that is to say,
their own private interests, to the exclusion of those of the people. In
course of time, despite these registrations, neither law nor ordinance
was carried out, and the government became wholly autocratic. Then came
a turn. The spirit of liberty breathed over Gaul, and a species of
general insurrection broke out against the crown. The townsmen,
entrenched in their towns, the seigneurs in their castles, the bishops
in their dioceses, reused to pay the imposts decreed at the royal
pleasure. Thus Philip the Fair, in the early part of the eleventh
century, was unable to enforce the ordinance that levied a fifth of all
incomes. Although the decree was registered by parliament, the officers
of the King were met with swords, sticks and showers of stones in Paris,
Orleans and other places, and remained unable to fetch the money to the
royal treasury. At that juncture Enguerrand de Marigny, an able
minister, who was later hanged, said to Philip the Fair: "Fair Sire, you
are not the strongest; therefore, instead of ordering, request, pray,
entreat, if necessary. To that end convoke a national assembly, States
General, composed of prelates, seigneurs and bourgeois or townsmen,
jointly deputed. In our days, fair Sire, we must reckon with the
townsmen, that bourgeois class that has succeeded in emancipating
itself. To that national assembly submit gently, mildly and frankly the
needs that press you. If you do, there is a good chance of your wishes
being met."

The advice was wise. Philip the Fair followed it. Thus it came about
that for the first time since nine centuries, and thanks to the communal
insurrections, the bourgeois--those plebeians who represented the
subjugated class--took their seats in the national assembly beside the
seigneurs, who represented the oppressors, and the bishops, their
accomplices. Before these States General, that thus came into existence,
the king now appeared in humble posture, affecting poverty and good
will, and obtained the levies of men and subsidies that he needed. After
Philip the Fair, his descendants, greedy, prodigal and needy, convoked a
national assembly whenever they required a new levy of taxes or of men.
The bourgeois deputies ever appeared at these assemblies in a defiant
mood. They never were convoked except to exact gold and the blood of
their race from them. To exact is the correct term. Vain it was for the
bourgeois deputies to refuse, as they did, the levies of men and moneys
that seemed to them unjust. Their refusal was annulled, and the method
of annulment was this: The States General consisted of three
estates--the nobility, the clergy and the bourgeoisie--each being
represented by an equal number of deputies. Accordingly, the bourgeoisie
was out-voted by the combined estates of the nobility and the clergy,
both of which were ever found anxious to meet the royal wishes on the
head of taxation.

The reason was plain. The prelates and seigneurs, being exempt of
taxation in virtue of the privileges of the nobility of the one and the
alleged sanctity of the other, and sharing, thanks to the prodigalities
of the kings, in the taxes levied on the bourgeoisie, granted with
gladsome hearts all the levies for money that the crown ever requested.

Thus stood things at the beginning of the reign of John II. Though the
position of the people continued to be grievous, yet marked progress had
been made.



CHAPTER II.

ETIENNE MARCEL.


The hopeless minority in which the bourgeoisie found itself in the
States General rendered its participation in government a fiction. It
remained for a great man and the proper juncture in order to turn the
fiction into a reality. The juncture set in during the year 1355, when
King John II found his treasury empty through his ruinous prodigalities,
and Gaul in flames through the pretensions of the King of England to the
ownership of the country and his efforts to reconquer it, while in the
south Charles the Wicked, King of Navarre, whom John II. had given his
daughter in marriage, was arms in hand, capturing several provinces to
which he laid claim as part of his wife's dower. The man of the occasion
arose in Etienne Marcel.

With the country torn up by war and his treasury bankrupt, John II
convoked the States General. He needed stout levies of men and stouter
levies of money. The Archbishop of Rouen, then the royal chancellor,
haughtily presented the King's demands. But the imperious chancellor had
counted without Etienne Marcel, one of the greatest men who ever added
luster to the name of Gaul. The great commoner, deputed to the States
General by the city of Paris and indignant at seeing the nobility and
clergy disregard the just protests of the deputies of the bourgeoisie,
thundered against the odious practice, and, sustained by the menacing
attitude of the Parisians, he uttered the memorable declaration that
_the alliance of the nobility and the clergy was no longer to be of
controlling force upon the deputies of the bourgeoisie_, and that if,
contrary to the vote of the bourgeoisie, the seigneurs and prelates
granted levies of men and moneys to the King without any guarantee as to
the proper employment of such forces and funds for the public welfare,
the towns would have to refuse obedience to such decrees and furnish
neither men nor moneys to the crown.

These energetic and wise words, never heard before, imposed upon the
States General. In the name of the deputies of the bourgeoisie, Marcel
submits to the crown the conditions under which the third estate would
consent to grant the men and subsidies asked for; and the crown accepts,
knowing the people of Paris stood ready to sustain their spokesman.
Unfortunately, and the experience was to be more than once made by
Marcel, he soon realized the hollowness of royal promises. The moneys
granted by the national assembly are insanely dissipated by the King and
his courtiers. The levies of men, instead of being employed against the
English, whose invasion spread over wider areas of the national
territory, are turned to the private wars of the King against some of
the seigneurs, and intended either to protect or enlarge his own
domains. The audacity of the English redoubles; they break the truce and
threaten the very heart of the land; and King John then hastily summons
his faithful and well-beloved nobility to join him in the defence of the
nation.

The reception given to the royal herald by the valiant jousters, warm
from the passage of arms at the tourney of Nointel, has been narrated.
Nevertheless, with good or ill will, the majority of the gallants, all
of whom were made to fear for their own estates by the foreign invasion,
dragged their vassals after them, and joined John II near Poitiers. At
the first charge of the English archers the brilliant gathering of
knights turn their horses' heads, ply their spurs, cowardly take to
flight, and leave the poor people that they had compelled to follow them
at the mercy of the invader who falls upon them and ruthlessly puts them
to the sword. King John himself remains a prisoner on the field, while
his son Charles, Duke of Normandy, a stripling barely twenty years of
age, escapes with his brothers the disgraceful defeat of his father only
by riding full tilt to Paris, where, in his capacity of Regent, he
convokes the States General for the purpose of obtaining fresh sums to
ransom the seigneurs who remained in the hands of the enemy.

Without Etienne Marcel, the draper, Gaul would have been lost; but the
ascendancy of his genius and patriotism dominated the assembly. In
answer to the chancellor, who conveyed the demands of the Regent, Marcel
declared that before attending to the ransom of the King and knights,
the nation's safety demanded attention. The nation's safety demanded
urgent and radical reforms. He recited them. And, losing sight of
nothing, but developing superhuman activity, he caused Paris to be
protected with new fortifications in order to render the town safe from
the English who had advanced as far as St. Cloud. He armed the people;
organized the street police; made provisions for food by large
importations of grains; calmed and reassured the alarmed spirits; by his
example imparted a similar temper to the other towns; and, faithful in
the midst of all other cares to the plan of reform that he had pursued
and ripened during the long years of his obscure and industrious life,
he caused the appointment of a committee of twenty-four bourgeois
deputies charged with the drafting of the reforms that were to be
demanded from the Regent. The deputies of the nobility and the clergy
withdrew disdainfully from the national assembly, shocked at the
audacity of the bourgeois legislators. These, however, masters of the
situation and laboring under the high inspiration of Etienne Marcel,
drew up a plan of reforms that in itself meant an immense revolution. It
was the republican government of the ancient communes of Gaul, now
extended beyond the confines of the town and made to cover the entire
nation; it was the substitution of the power of deputies elected by the
whole country for the absolute power of the crown. The King becomes
merely the chief agent of the States General, and he has no power
without their sovereign consent to dispose of a single man, or a single
florin. These reforms, the fruit of many vigils on the part of Etienne
Marcel, were accepted and solemnly sworn to by Charles, Duke of
Normandy, in the capacity of Regent for his father, then a prisoner in
the English camp, and they were promulgated in the principal towns of
Gaul with the sound of trumpets, under the title of "Royal Ordinance of
the 17th day of January, 1357." The ordinance was as follows:

     The States General shall henceforth meet whenever they may think
     fit and without requiring the consent of the King, to deliberate
     upon the government of the kingdom, and the vote of the nobility
     and clergy shall have no binding power over the deputies of the
     communes.

     The members of the States General shall be under the protection of
     the king, the Duke of Normandy and their successors. And,
     furthermore, members of the States General shall be free to travel
     throughout the kingdom with an armed escort that shall be charged
     with causing them to be respected.

     The moneys proceeding from the subsidies granted by the States
     General shall be levied and distributed, not by royal officers, but
     by deputies elected by the States General; and they shall swear to
     resist all orders of the King and his ministers, in case the King
     or his ministers wish to turn the moneys to other expenses than
     those provided for by the States General.

     The King shall grant no pardon for murder, rape, abduction or
     infringement of truce.

     The offices of justice shall not be sold or farmed out.

     The costs of processes, inquests and administration in the chambers
     of parliament and of accounts shall be lowered, and the officials
     of those departments who may refuse, shall be expelled as
     extortionists of the public fund.

     All seizures of food, clothing or money in the name and for the
     service of the King or of his family shall be forbidden; and power
     is given to the inhabitants to gather at the call of their town
     bell and to pursue the seizers.

     To the end of avoiding all monopoly and extortion, no officer of
     the King shall be allowed to carry on any trade in merchandise or
     money.

     The expenses of the household of the King, the Dauphin and of the
     princes shall be moderated and reduced to reasonable bounds by the
     States General; and the stewards of the royal households shall be
     obliged to pay for what they buy.

     Finally, the King, the Dauphin, the princes, the nobility, the
     prelates of whatever rank, shall bear the burden of taxation the
     same as all other citizens, as justice requires.

Compared with the Fields of May of olden days, where the conquering
Franks and their bishops disposed of the people of Gaul like cattle,
the national assemblies, held under the ordinance that Etienne Marcel
had wrung from the crown--assemblies dominated by the industrious class
which by its labor, commerce, trades and arts enriched the country while
the royalty, nobility and clergy devoured it--the progress was gigantic.

No less distinguished were the services of Etienne Marcel at this
juncture against the foreign invader, who was advancing with rapid
marches upon the capital of the land. Paris, originally circumscribed to
the island that is washed by the two arms of the Seine, extended itself
from century to century beyond its original cradle to the right and to
the left, until under the reign of John II it had grown to a town of
large proportions. The old part of the city, that which is bounded by
the two arms of the river, continued at this time to be called the Cité
and served as the headquarters of the clergy, whose houses seemed to
cuddle under the shadow of the high towers of the tall church of Notre
Dame. The Bishop of Paris had almost the entire Cité for his
jurisdiction. On the right bank of the Seine and at the place where rose
the thick tower of the gate of the Louvre, began the fortified premises
of what was generally called the town. It was peopled with merchants,
artisans and bourgeois, and it contained the square at one end of which
stood the pillory, where malefactors were exposed or executed before
taking their corpses to the gibbets of Montfaucon. The girdle of
fortresses that surround Paris to the north extends from the thick tower
of the Louvre to the gate of S. Honoré. From there, the wall winding
towards the Coquiller gate, reaches the gate of Mont Martre, makes a
curve near St. Denis street, continues in the direction of the gate of
St. Antoine, and arrives at the Barbette gate, which is flanked by the
large tower of Billy, built on the borders of the Seine opposite Notre
Dame and the isle of Cows. The girdle of the ramparts, interrupted at
this spot by the river, is resumed on the left bank. It skirts the
quarter of the University, which is inhabited by the students and which
has for its issues the gates of St. Vincent, St. Marcel, St. Genevieve,
St. James and St. Germain. Thence it flanks the palace of Nesle and runs
out into the tower of Philip-Hamelin, built on the left bank opposite
the tower of the Louvre, which rises on the right bank. This vast
enclosure which insured the defense of Paris was completed by arduous
labors of fortification due to the genius and the prodigious activity of
Etienne Marcel. He caused the ramparts to be equipped with numerous
engines of war of the new kind that then began to come in vogue named
_cannons_--tubes made of bars of iron held fast by rings of the same
metal. By means of a powder recently invented by a German monk, these
cannons expelled stone and iron balls with what was then considered
marvelous velocity, force and noise, and to a then equally marvelous
distance. Without those immense works, all of which were executed within
three months, the capital of Gaul would have inevitably fallen into the
hands of the English.



CHAPTER III.

THE MAN OF THE FURRED CAP.


Many weeks had elapsed since the night when Jocelyn the Champion rode
back to Paris from the little village of Nointel. A man wearing a woolen
cap, clad in an old blouse of grey material, carrying a knapsack on his
back and a heavy stick in his hand entered Paris by the gate of St.
Denis. It was William Caillet, the father of Aveline-who-never-lied. The
old peasant looked even somberer than when last seen at Nointel. His
hollow and fiery eyes, his sunken cheeks, his bitter smile--all
betokened a profound and concentrated sorrow. This, however, yielded
presently to astonishment at the tumultuous aspect of the streets of
Paris, where he now found himself for the first time in his life. The
multitude of busy people wearing different costumes, the horses,
carriages, litters that crossed in all directions, gave the rustic a
feeling akin to vertigo, while his ears rung with the deafening cries
incessantly uttered by the merchants and their apprentices, who,
standing at the doors of their shops solicited customers. "Hot stoves!
Hot baths!" cried the keepers of bathing houses; "Fresh and warm cakes!"
cried the pastry venders; "Fresh wine, just arrived from Argenteuil and
Suresne!" cried a tavern-keeper armed with a large pewter tumbler, and
with looks and gestures inviting the topers to drink; "Whose coat needs
mending?" asked the tailor; "The oven is warm, who wants to have his
bread baked?" vociferated a baker; further off a royal edict was being
proclaimed, announced by drum and trumpet; in among the crowd several
monks, collectors for a brotherhood, held out their purses and cried:
"Give for the ransom of the souls in purgatory!" while beggars,
exhibiting their real or assumed deformities exclaimed: "Give to the
poor, for the love of God!" Before venturing further into Paris, William
Caillet sat down on a stone step placed near a door meaning both to rest
himself and to accustom his eyes and ears to a noise that was so utterly
new to him.

Presently a distant rumbling, proceeding from Mauconseil street, almost
drowned the cross-fire of cries. At intervals the roll of drums and
mournful clarion notes mingled with the approaching and rumbling din,
and soon Caillet heard repeated from mouth to mouth in accents at once
sorrowful and angry: "That's the funeral of the poor Perrin Macé." All
the passers-by started, and a great number of merchants and apprentices
left their shops in charge of the women behind the counters, and ran
towards Mauconseil and Oysters-are-fried-here streets, where the funeral
procession was to pass after traversing St. Denis street.

Struck by the eagerness of the Parisians to witness the funeral, which
seemed to be a matter of public mourning, Caillet followed the crowd,
whose confluence from several other streets soon became considerable.
Accident threw him near a student of the University of Paris. The young
man, about twenty years of age, was named Rufin the Tankard-smasher, a
nickname that was borne out by the jovial and convivial mien of the
strapping youngster. He had on his head a crazy felt hat that age had
rendered yellow, and he wore a black coat no less patched up than his
hose. He looked as threadbare as ever did a Paris student. Held back by
his rustic timidity, Caillet did not venture to open a conversation with
Rufin the Tankard-smasher, notwithstanding several remarks dropped by
the crowd around him and by the student himself increased the rustic's
curiosity in the young man.

"Poor Perrin Macé!" said a Parisian, "To have his hand cut off and then
be hanged without trial! And all because it so pleased the Regent and
his courtiers!"

"That's the way the court respects the famous ordinance of our Marcel!"

"Oh, this nobility!... It is the pest and ruination of the country!...
It and its clergy!"

"The nobles!" cried Rufin the Tankard-smasher; "they are merely
caparisoned and plumed parade horses; good to prance and not to carry or
draw. The moment they are called to do work, they rear and kick!"

"And yet, master student," ventured a large sized man with a furred cap,
"the noble knighthood deserves our respect."

"The knighthood!" cried Rufin, laughing contemptuously, "the knighthood
is good only to figure in tourneys, attracted by the lure of profit. The
horse and arms of the vanquished belong to the vanquisher. By Jupiter!
Those doughty chaps seek to throw down their adversaries just as we
students seek to knock down the nine-pins at a bowling game on the
college grounds. But so soon as their skins are in danger in battle,
where there is no profit to be fetched other than blows, that same
nobility shamefully takes to flight, as happened at the battle of
Poitiers, where it gave the signal for run-who-run-can to an army of
forty thousand men pitted against only eight thousand English archers!
By the bowels of the Pope! Your nobles are not men, they are hares!"

"Come, now, master student," laughingly put in another townsman; "let us
not be too hard upon the nobility; did it not rid us of King John by
leaving him a prisoner in the hands of the English?"

"Yes!" exclaimed another, "but we shall have to pay the royal ransom,
and in the meantime must submit to the government of the Regent, a
stripling of twenty years, who orders people to be hanged when they
demand the moneys owing to them by the royal treasury, and object when
we strike them, as did Perrin Macé."

"With the aid of heaven, our friend Marcel will soon put a stop to that
sort of thing."

"Marcel is the providence of Paris."

"Friends," resumed the man of the furred cap, smiling disdainfully,
"you seem to have nothing but the name of Marcel in your mouths.
Although Master Marcel is a provost and president of the town council,
yet he is not everything on earth. The other councilmen are his
superiors in trade. Take, for instance, John Maillart, there you have a
worthy townsman--"

"Who is it dare compare others with the great Marcel!" cried Rufin the
Tankard-smasher. "By Jupiter, whoever utters such foolishness quacks
like a goose!"

"Hm! Hm!" grumbled the man of the furred cap; "I said so!"

"Then it is you who quack like a goose!" promptly replied the
Tankard-smasher. "What! You dare maintain that Marcel is not the
foremost townsman! He, the friend of the people!"

"Aye, aye!" came from the crowd. "Marcel is our saviour. Without him
Paris would by this time have been taken and sacked by the English!"

"Marcel," resumed the Tankard-smasher with increasing enthusiasm, "he
who restored economy in our finances, order and security in the city! By
the bowels of the Pope! I know something about that! Only a fortnight
ago, towards midnight, I with my chum Nicolas the Thin-skinned were
beating at the door of a public house on Trace-Pute street. The woman of
the house refused us admission, pretending that the girls we were
looking for were not in. Thereat I and my friend came near breaking in
the door. At that a platoon of cross-bowmen, organized by Marcel to
maintain order in the streets, happens to go by, and they arrest and
lodge both of us at the Chatelet, despite our privileges as students of
the Paris University!... Now dare say that Marcel does not keep order in
town!"

"That may all be," answered the man of the furred cap; "but any other
councilman would have done as much; and Master John Maillart--"

"John Maillart!" exclaimed Rufin. "By the bowels of the Pope! Had he or
any other, the King himself, dared to encroach upon the franchises of
the University, the students, rising en masse, would have poured, arms
in hands, out of their quarter of St. Germain and there would have been
a battle in Paris. But what is allowed to Marcel, the idol of Paris, is
not allowed to any other."

"The student is right!" went up from the crowd. "Marcel is our idol
because he is just, because he protects the interests of the bourgeois
against the court people, of the weak against the strong. Long live
Etienne Marcel!"

"Without the activity of Marcel, his courage and his foresight, Paris
would have been burned down and deluged in blood by the English."

"Did not Marcel also keep our town from starvation, when he went himself
at the head of the militia as far as Corbeil to protect a cargo of grain
that the Navarrais meant to pillage?"

"I don't deny that," calmly observed the man of the furred cap with
envious insistence. "All I maintain is that, put in the place of Marcel,
Maillart would have done as well."

"Surely, provided the councilman had the genius of Marcel. If he had, he
surely would have done as well as Marcel!" rejoined the Tankard-smasher.
"If my sweetheart wore a beard, she would be the lover and somebody else
the sweetheart!"

This sally of the student was received with a universal laughter of
approval. The immense majority of the Parisians entertained for Marcel
as much attachment as admiration.

Wrapt in his somber silence, William Caillet had listened attentively to
the altercation, and he saw confirmed that which Jocelyn the Champion
had stated to him a short time ago at Nointel concerning the influence
of Marcel upon the Parisian people. By that time, the roll of drums, the
notes of the clarions and the din of a large multitude had drawn nearer.
The procession turned into Mauconseil in order to cross St. Denis
street. A company of the town's cross-bowmen, commanded by a captain,
marched at the head and opened the way, preceded by the drummers and
clarion blowers, who alternately struck up funeral bars. Behind the
cross-bowmen came the town's heralds, dressed in the town colors, half
red and half blue. From time to time the heralds recited solemnly the
following mournful psalmody:

     "Pray for the soul of Perrin Macé, a bourgeois of Paris, unjustly
     executed!

     "John Baillet, the treasurer of the Regent, had borrowed in the
     name of the King a sum of money from Perrin Macé.

     "Macé demanded his money in virtue of the new edict that orders the
     royal officers to pay for what they buy and return what they borrow
     for the King, under penalty of being brought to law by their
     creditors.

     "John Baillet refused to pay, and furthermore insulted, threatened
     and struck Perrin Macé.

     "In the exercise of his right of legitimate defence, granted him by
     the new edict, Perrin Macé returned blow for blow, killed John
     Baillet and betook himself to the church of St. Méry, a place of
     asylum, from where he demanded an inquest and trial.

     "The Duke of Normandy, now Regent, immediately sent one of his
     courtiers, the marshal of Normandy, to the church of St. Méry,
     accompanied with an escort of soldiers and the executioner.

     "The marshal of Normandy dragged Perrin Macé from the church, and
     without trial Macé's right hand was cut off and he was immediately
     hanged.

     "Pray for the soul of Perrin Macé, a bourgeois of Paris, unjustly
     executed."

Regularly after these sentences, that were alternately recited by the
heralds in a solemn voice, the muffled roll of drums and plaintive
clarion notes resounded, but they hardly served to hush the imprecations
from the crowd, indignant at the Regent and his court. Behind the
heralds followed priests with their crucifixes and banners, and then,
draped in a long black cloth embroidered in silver, came the coffin of
the executed bourgeois, carried by twelve notables, clad in their long
robes and wearing the two-colored hats of red and blue, such as were
worn by almost all the partisans of the popular cause. The collars of
their gowns were held by silver brooches, likewise enameled in red and
blue, and bearing the inscription "To a happy issue," a device or
rallying cry given by Marcel. Behind the coffin marched the councilmen
of Paris with Etienne Marcel at their head. The obscure bourgeois, who
had stepped out of his draper's shop to become one of the most
illustrious citizens of Gaul, was then in the full maturity of his age.
Of middle height and robust, Etienne Marcel somewhat stooped from his
fatigues, seeing that his prodigious activity of a man of both thought
and action left him no repose. His open, manly and characterful face
bore at the chin a thick tuft of brown beard, leaving his cheeks and
lips clean shaven. The feverish agitation of the man and the incessant
cares of public affairs had furrowed his forehead and left their marks
on his features without, however, in any way affecting the august
serenity that an irreproachable conscience imparts to the physiognomy of
an honorable man. There was nothing benigner or more affectionate than
his smile when under the influence of the tender sentiments so familiar
to his heart. There was nothing more imposing than his bearing, or more
threatening than his looks when, as powerful an orator as he was a great
citizen, Etienne Marcel thundered with the indignation of an honest and
brave soul against the acts of cowardice and treason and the crimes of
the feudal nobility and the despotic crown. The provost wore the red and
blue head-gear together with the emblazoned brooch that distinguished
the other councilmen. Among these, John Maillart often during the
procession gave his arm to Marcel, who, fatigued by the long march
through the streets of Paris, cordially accepted the support of one of
his oldest friends. Since youth Marcel had lived in close intimacy with
Maillart, but the latter, ever keeping concealed the enviousness that
the glory of Marcel inspired him with, could not now wholly repress a
bitter smile at the enthusiastic acclaim that saluted Marcel along the
route.

A woman clad in long mourning robes and whose presence seemed out of
place at such a ceremony marched beside Maillart. It was his wife,
Petronille, still young and passing handsome, but of atrabilious and
harsh mien. Each time that the heralds finished the mournful psalmody
and before they began it anew, Petronille Maillart would break out into
sobs and moans, and raising and wringing her arms in despair cried out:
"Unhappy Perrin Macé! Vengeance upon his ashes! Vengeance!" The
plaintive outcries and the contortions of Madam Maillart seemed,
however, to excite more surprise than interest with the crowd.

"By Jupiter!" cried Rufin the Tankard-smasher, "what brings that
bellowing woman to this funeral? What makes her demean herself like
that, as if she were possessed? She is neither the widow nor any
relative of Perrin Macé."

"For that reason her presence is all the more admirable," observed the
man of the furred cap addressing the crowd. "Behold her, friends! Do you
see how her despair testifies the extent to which she, as well as her
husband, share in the terrible fate of poor Perrin Macé?... You are
witnesses, friends, that Dame Petronille is the only councilman's wife
who assists at the ceremony!"

"That's true!" said several voices. "Poor, dear woman! She must feel
sadly distracted."

"Yes, indeed. And surely that is not the case with the wife of Marcel,
our first magistrate. She and the others remain calmly at home, without
at all concerning themselves about this public sorrow," put in the man
of the furred cap. "Fail not to take notice!"

"By the bowels of the Pope!" cried the Tankard-smasher. "Marcel's wife
acts like a sensible body. She is right not to come out and exhibit
herself and utter shrieks fit to deafen Beelzebub just when the drums
are silent.... The affliction of that bellowing woman looks to me like a
sheet of music, marked on time. That woman is playing a comedy."

"You vainly try to pass the matter off as a joke, master student,"
rejoined the man of the furred cap. "It will, nevertheless, be noted
that the wife of Maillart assisted at the funeral of Perrin Macé, and
that the wife of Marcel did not. Hm! Hm! My friends, that gives room for
many suspicions; or, rather, it confirms certain rumors."

"What suspicions?" asked Rufin; "What rumors? Explain yourself."

But without answering the student the man of the furred cap was lost in
the crowd, while continuing to whisper to those that he came in contact
with. During this slight incident, the funeral procession had continued
to file by. Notable townsmen, carrying funeral torches, marched behind
the councilmen; they were followed by the trade guilds, each headed by
its banner; finally the rear was brought up by a long line of people of
all conditions uttering imprecations against the Regent and his court,
and acclaiming Marcel with ever increasing enthusiasm. Marcel, the crowd
declared, would know how to avenge the fresh and sanguinary court
iniquity.

From mouth to mouth the announcement was carried that, after the
ceremony, Marcel would address the people in the large hall of the
Convent of the Cordeliers. William Caillet silently assisted at this
scene which seemed to impress him deeply. After a few moments'
reflections he overcame his rustic timidity and drew Rufin the
Tankard-smasher aside by the arm just as the latter was about to walk
away. The student turned around, and yielding to the joviality of his
nature as well as purposing to haze the rustic after the time-honored
practice of the University of Paris, said to him banteringly: "I wager,
dear rustic, that you overheard me speaking of one of my sweethearts!
Hein! I see through you, my sylvan swain! You would like to admire the
town beauties. By the bowels of the Pope! You shall have your pick--"

Hurt by the student's banter, William Caillet answered him gruffly: "I
am a stranger in Paris; I come from a great distance--"

"Oh! You would like to enter the University, would you?" Rufin
interrupted him with redoubled hilarity. "You are somewhat too bearded
for a bachelor; but that does not matter; what faculty would you choose?
theology or medicine? arts, letters or canonical law?"

"Oh, these townsmen!" exclaimed the old peasant with pungent bitterness.
"They are no better than the people of the castles. Go, Jacques
Bonhomme, you have enemies everywhere and nowhere a friend."

Saying this, Caillet started to walk away. But touched by the sad accent
of the peasant, Rufin held him back: "Friend, if I have hurt your
feelings, excuse me. We townsmen are not the enemies of Jacques Bonhomme
for the reason that our enemies are common to us both."

Ever suspicious, Caillet remained silent and sought to discover from the
face of the student whether his words did not conceal a trap or implied
some fresh ridicule. Rufin surmised the apprehensions of the serf,
examined him once more attentively, and now struck by the lines of
sorrow on his face, said to him: "May I die like a dog if I am not
speaking sincerely to you. Friend, you seem to have suffered much; you
are a stranger; I am at your disposal! I do not offer you my purse
because it is empty; but I offer you half of the pallet on which I sleep
in a student's room with a chum from my province, and a part of our
meager pittance."

Now convinced by the frankness of the townsman, the peasant answered: "I
have no time to stay in Paris; I only wish to speak with Jocelyn the
Champion and Marcel; could you help me to that?"

"You know Jocelyn the Champion?" Rufin asked with deep interest, while a
cloud of sadness darkened his countenance.

"Did any misfortune befall him?"

"He left here to assist at a tourney in Beauvoisis some time ago, and
the poor fellow never returned.... His aged and infirm father died of
grief at the disappearance of his son. Brave Jocelyn! I entered the
University the year before he left it. He was the best and most
courageous lad in the world.... He must have been killed at the tourney,
or assassinated on his return to Paris. Highwaymen infest the roads."

"No; he was not killed at the tourney of Nointel. The night after the
passage of arms I saw him take his horse to return to Paris."

"Are you from Beauvoisis?"

"Yes," answered Caillet; and he added with a sigh: "Well, that young
man is dead! Great pity! There are few like him who love Jacques
Bonhomme." After a moment's silence the peasant resumed: "How can I
manage to meet Marcel?"

"By following me to the convent of the Cordeliers where he is to address
the people after the funeral of Perrin Macé. Come with me."

"Go ahead," said Caillet; "I shall follow you."

"Come, we shall go out by the Coquiller gate; that's the shortest
route."

The old peasant walked in silence by the side of Rufin who sought to
draw from him some words on the subject of his trip. But the serf
remained impenetrable. Going out by the gate of St. Denis and following
the streets of the suburbs, that were much less crowded than those of
the city, Caillet and his guide had just left Traversine to enter
Montmartre street when they heard the distant funeral chant of priests
interspersed from time to time with plaintive clarion notes. The peasant
noticed with surprise that as the chant drew nearer the residents along
the streets closed and bolted their doors.

"By the bowels of the Pope!" exclaimed the student. "Accident is serving
us well. You have seen honors paid to the remains of Perrin Macé by the
officials and the people; you will now see the honors paid to John
Baillet, the cause of the iniquity that Paris is feeling indignant
about. Yes, Baillet's remains are honored by the Regent and his court.
Come quick; the procession is probably going to the convent of the
Augustian monks." Hastening his steps and followed by the peasant, the
student reached the corner of Montmartre and Quoque-Heron streets,
opposite which stood the convent, whose doors opened to receive the
coffin. "Look," said the student turning to Caillet. "How significant is
not the contrast presented by these two funerals. At Perrin Macé's a
large concourse of people were present, serious and moved with just
indignation; at John Baillet's nobody assists but the Regent, the
princes, his brothers, the courtiers and the officers of the royal
household--not one representative of the people! The townsmen leave a
deep void around this royal demonstration which is indulged in as a sort
of challenge to the popular one. Tell me, friend, does not the very
aspect of the two processions appeal to the eye. At the funeral of
Perrin Macé we saw a great mass composed of bourgeois and artisans
plainly or even poorly dressed; at the funeral of John Baillet we see
only a handful of courtiers and officers brilliantly attired in gold and
silk and velvet, and decked in magnificent uniforms."

William Caillet listened to the student, seeking to bore through him
with his eyes, and shaking his head answered pensively: "Jocelyn did not
deceive me," and after a pause he proceeded: "But what are the Parisians
still waiting for? We are ready, and have long been!"

"What do you mean?" asked Rufin.

Immediately relapsing into his former close-mouthedness, the peasant
made no answer. The procession just turned into the street. The coffin
of John Baillet, heavily inlaid with gold and preceded by royal heralds
and sergeants-at-arms was borne by twelve menials of the Regent in
costly livery. The young prince and his brothers, accompanied by the
seigneurs of the court, alone followed the coffin. Charles, the Duke of
Normandy and now Regent of the French, as the eldest son of King John,
at the time an English prisoner, had, like his brothers and the French
nobility, fled ignominiously from the battlefield of Poitiers. The young
man who now governed Gaul was barely twenty years of age. He was of
frail physique and pale complexion. His sickly face concealed under a
kind and timid mien a large fund of obstinacy, of perfidy, of wile and
of wickedness--odious vices usually rare in youths, except of royal
lineage. Magnificently dressed in gold-embroidered green velvet, a black
head-gear ornamented with a chain and brooch of costly stones on his
head, the mean-spirited and languishing Regent marched slowly leaning on
a cane. At a short distance behind him advanced his brothers, and then
came the seigneurs of the court, among them the marshal of Normandy,
who, ordered by the young prince, had superintended the mutilation and
subsequent execution of Perrin Macé. The marshal, who was the Sire of
Conflans, one of the Regent's favorites, superb and arrogant, cast upon
the few and straggling spectators disdainful and threatening looks, and
exchanged a few words with the Sire of Charny, a courtier no less loved
by the prince than he was detested by the people. Suddenly Rufin the
Tankard-smasher felt his arm rudely seized by the vigorous hand of
Caillet, who with distended and flaming eyes, and his breast heaving
with pain, gasped out:

"Look!... There they are!... There are the two! The Sire of Nointel and
that other, the knight of Chaumontel!... Oh, do you see them both with
their scarlet hats, down there with the tall man in an ermine cloak?"
cried out Caillet despite himself.

"Yes, yes; I see the two seigneurs," answered the student, astonished at
the emotion manifested by the peasant. "But what makes you tremble so?"

"Down in the country they are thought dead or prisoners of the English,"
exclaimed Caillet. "Fortunately it is not so.... There they are ...
there they are ... I have seen them with my own eyes!" and contracting
his lips with a frightful smile the serf added raising his two fists to
heaven: "Oh, Mazurec!... Oh, my daughter!... Here I see the two men at
last!... They will return home for the marriage of the handsome
Gloriande.... We've got them!... We've got them!"

"The looks of this man make me shiver," thought the student to himself,
gazing at the peasant with stupor, and he proceeded aloud: "Who are
those two seigneurs that you are speaking of?"

Without heeding Rufin, Caillet proceeded to say: "Oh, now more than ever
am I anxious to see Marcel without delay. I must speak with the
provost!"

"In that case," the student said to him, "come and rest at my lodging.
In the evening we shall wait upon the provost at the convent of the
Cordeliers. He is to address the people there this evening. But, once
more, what is the reason of your excitement at the sight of those two
seigneurs in the Regent's suite?"

The peasant cast a suspicious side-glance at the student, remained
silent and his face assumed a somberer hue.

"By the bowels of the Pope!" thought Rufin the Tankard-smasher, "I have
run up against an odd customer; he alternates between dumbness and
riddles. He saddens even me who am not given to melancholy! He
positively frightens even me who am no poltroon!"

And accompanied by William Caillet, the student wended his steps towards
the quarter of the University.



CHAPTER IV.

THE SERPENT UNDER THE GRASS.


Etienne Marcel's house was located near the church of St. Eustace in the
quarter of the market. His shop, filled with rolls of cloth that were
exposed on the shelves, communicated with a dining room. A staircase ran
into this room, leading to the chambers on the floor above.

It being night and the shop closed, Marguerite, Marcel's wife, and
Denise her niece, had gone upstairs into one of the chambers where they
took up some sewing which they were busily at by the light of the lamp.
Marguerite was about forty-five years. She must have been handsome in
her younger days. Her face betokened kindness and was now pensive and
grave. Denise was close to eighteen. Her cheerful face, habitually
serene and candid, seemed this evening profoundly sad. The two women
remained long in silence, each engaged in her work. By degrees, however,
and without raising her head Denise's needle relaxes, and presently,
dropping her hands upon her lap, the tears roll out of her eyes.
Marguerite, no less pre-occupied than her niece, mechanically raises her
eyes towards the young girl, and noticing her tears, says tenderly:

"Poor child! I know the cause of your sorrow because I know the bent of
your mind. I would not have you share a hope that I myself hardly
retain. But, after all, although the continued absence of Jocelyn
justifies our fears, we should not despair.... He may yet return...."

"No, no," answered Denise, now giving free course to her tears. "If
Jocelyn still lived, he would not have left his aged father in the
uncertainty that hastened his death. If Jocelyn still lived he would
have communicated with my uncle Marcel, whom he loved and venerated
like a father. No, no", she exclaimed amid sobs, "He is dead. I shall
never see him again!"

"My child, it is quite possible that carried away by his imprudent
courage, Jocelyn went to the battle of Poitiers, where he may have
remained in the hands of the English. Prisoners return. I conjure you,
do not yield to despair. I suffer to see you weep."

In lieu of answer the young girl rose and walked up to Marguerite, took
her two hands, kissed them and said: "Dear, good aunt, you brush aside
your own sorrows to think of mine, and you seek to console me.... I am
ashamed not to know better and to repress my sorrow while you bear up so
courageously before Master Marcel and your son!"

"Truly, Denise, I do not understand you", remarked Marguerite slightly
embarrassed. "My life is so happy, I need no special courage to bear
it--"

"Oh, oh! Do I not see you daily receive Master Marcel and your son Andre
with a smile on your lips and a serene face, while your heart is in a
storm of anxieties--"

"You are mistaken, Denise!"

"Oh, believe me; it is no indiscreet curiosity that guided me when I
sought to penetrate your feelings. It was the desire to say nothing that
might wound your secret thoughts whenever I am alone with you, as now so
often happens good dear aunt."

"You dear child!" exclaimed Marguerite embracing Denise with effusion
and now making no effort to restrain her own tears. "How could I fail to
be profoundly effected by so much delicacy and tenderness? How could I
fail to respond with unreserved confidence?" Marguerite stopped but
after a last few moments of hesitancy and making a supreme effort she
proceeded: "'Tis true; you did not deceive yourself. Yes, my life is now
spent amid anxieties and alarms. I thank you for having drawn the secret
from me. I shall now, at least, be able to weep before you without
reserve, and give a loose to my heart. Having paid that tribute to
feebleness, I shall be able all the better to appear serene before my
husband and my son! Oh ... I admit it; my only fear is to have them
discover that I suffer! I know Marcel's love for me. It reciprocates
mine. If he knew I was wretched I might cause his own calmness and
fortitude to weaken that never yet have abandoned him and that he needs
now more than ever in these perilous days."

"Oh, the women who envy you would at this moment pity you, did they but
see and hear you, dear aunt!"

"Yes", replied Marguerite with bitterness; "the wife of Marcel, the idol
of the people ... of Marcel, the real king of Paris, is envied. They
envy the companion of that great citizen. Oh, they should rather pity
her.... Tender indulgences ... sweet joys of the hearth, the happiness
of the humblest ... since long I know you no more! The artisan, the
merchant, their day's labors being done, at least enjoy in the bosom of
their families some rest until the morrow. My poor husband, on the
contrary, spends his nights at work ... while I, his wife, remain a prey
to constant uneasiness night and day, ever fearing for his life or his
son's!"

"You have no reason to tremble for the life of Master Marcel, who can
not take a step without he is surrounded by a crowd of devoted friends."

"I fear the Regent's hatred, and that of the nobles and prelates."

At that moment Agnes the Bigot, Marguerite's confidential servant,
entered the room and said to her mistress: "Madam, the wife of Master
Maillart, the councilman, has come to visit you."

"So late! Did you tell her I was home?"

"Yes, madam."

Marguerite made a gesture of impatience and annoyance, dried her tears
and said to Denise in an undertone: "You just mentioned envious
women.... Petronille Maillart is of the number.... Hide your tears, I
pray you, to avoid her drawing wrongful conclusions from our sadness.
She is cruelly jealous of the popularity of Marcel; and Maillart, I
believe, shares the feelings of his wife."

"Can Maillart be jealous of my uncle, the friend of his childhood!"

"Maillart is a weak man whom his wife dominates."

"Maillart is always speaking about running to arms, and of massacring
the nobles and priests."

"Violence is not strength, Denise; the most excited natures usually are
the least firm.... But silence! Here is Petronille.... What can be the
purpose of a visit at this hour?"

Petronille Maillart entered. She was still in her mourning garb. From
the instant of her entrance she darted an inquisitive glance at the wife
of Marcel and at Denise, and undoubtedly observed the traces of recent
tears, seeing that a smile flitted over her lips. Affecting great
sympathy she said:

"Excuse me, Dame Marguerite, for coming to your house at so late an
hour; but I wished to speak to you upon serious matters."

"You are always welcome, Dame Petronille."

"I fear not, at this moment. Sorrow loves solitude, and I notice with
pain that your eyes and those of your dear niece are still red with
tears. Just heaven! Do you entertain any fears for our excellent friend
Marcel. Do the people, perhaps, incline to deny the value of the
services he has rendered Paris? Ingratitude of the masses!"

"Be at ease, Dame Petronille," answered Marguerite interrupting her.
"Thanks to God, I entertain no fears on the score of my husband. It is
true Denise and I feel sad. Shortly before you came in, we were speaking
of a friend whose fate is making us uneasy. You have often seen him
here. It is Jocelyn the Champion."

"Surely; I remember him well. A veritable Hercules ... was the poor
fellow killed?"

"No; we are not ready to believe that such a misfortune has happened.
But it is a long time we have not heard from him."

"Nothing more natural, Dame Marguerite. I can now account for your
tears.... But let me come to the purpose of my visit, which, seeing the
lateness of the hour, must seem strange to you. The curfew has sounded
long ago. You know how attached Maillart and I are to you and your
husband."

"I feel thankful for your friendship."

"Now, then, the duty of good friends is to speak frankly."

"Certainly, there is nothing more precious than sincere friends. Pray
speak, Dame Petronille!"

"Very well, dear Marguerite; your absence from the funeral of poor
Perrin Macé has been noticed. I attended the ceremony; you see it on my
clothes. In my quality of a councilman's wife I felt bound to render
this last homage to the memory of the poor victim of an iniquity."

"Madam ... I can only pity such a victim."

"And do you not revolt at the fate of the unfortunate man?"

"That great iniquity has revolted my husband. In his quality of the
first magistrate of the town, he was bound to head the procession."

"First magistrate of the town!" rejoined Dame Petronille with
ill-suppressed bitterness. "Yes, until his successor is elected. Any one
of the councilmen can be chosen provost. The election decides that."

"Surely," answered Marguerite, exchanging looks with Denise who had
resumed her sewing. "My husband's duty," continued Marcel's wife, "was
first to protest against the crime of the Regent's courtiers by solemnly
attending the funeral of Perrin Macé.... As to me, Dame Petronille,
knowing that it is not the custom for women to assist at these sad
ceremonies, I stayed at home."

"But do people care for custom in such grave circumstances?" cried
Maillart's wife. "One consults only his heart, as I did. Dressed in
black from head to foot, I joined the funeral procession, moaning and
weeping all the tears I had. I thought I would let you know it as a
friend, my dear Dame Marguerite. It is much to be regretted that you
did not follow my example."

"Each is the judge of his own conduct, Madam."

"No doubt, when none is concerned but ourselves. But in this matter,
your husband, our excellent friend Marcel, was also concerned. I
therefore fear that, under the circumstances, you have done him great
harm in the popular esteem."

"What is it you mean?"

"Oh, my God! Poor dear dame! Do you think I would have made haste to
come to you after curfew if my purpose were not to give you charitable
advice?"

"I do not question your good intentions. Marcel himself imparted to the
funeral of Perrin Macé the solemn character that has been attached to
it. He attended it at the head of the councilmen. In that he fulfilled
his duty."

"I know that my husband marched after yours, madam," spitefully rejoined
the envious woman, "seeing that in his quality of provost, Master Marcel
has precedence over all the councilmen.... He is acknowledged by all as
the leader."

"Oh, madam! There is no question of rank," cried Marguerite. "I only
meant to say that Marcel attended the funeral."

"Yes; but you did not, Dame Marguerite; and people said so. They
remarked: 'See, the wife of Master Maillart, the councilman, follows the
hearse of Perrin Macé! Oh! Oh! She does not care about custom, not she!
She meant, like her husband, to protest with her presence and her tears
against the iniquity of the court. How, then, does it happen that the
wife of the first magistrate remains at home? Can it be that Master
Marcel takes the action of the Regent and court less to heart than he
pretends? Can it be that, as the proverb puts it, he is trying to run
with the hares and hunt with the hounds? Is he secretly laying the pipes
for a reconciliation between himself and the court? Can Master Marcel
contemplate betraying the people?'"

"Oh! That's infamous!" cried out Denise, unable to control her
indignation. "To dare accuse Master Marcel of treason because his wife
did not attend the funeral procession and parade an affected sorrow!"

"Denise!" Marguerite quickly called out to the impetuous young girl,
fearing the conversation, puerile in appearance, would take a still more
acrid turn, and entail dangerous results for Marcel.

It was too late. Rising, Dame Petronille addressed Denise in a bitter
tone: "Listen, learn, my friend, that my pain, no less than my
husband's, was not affectation!"

"Dame Petronille," Marguerite interposed anxiously, "that was not
Denise's meaning.... Listen to me ... I pray you."

"Madam," dryly answered Maillart's wife, "I came here to warn you as a
true friend of the thoughtless, no doubt, but nevertheless, dangerous
rumors against Master Marcel's popularity. These rumors are at this very
hour circulating in Paris.... So far from thanking me, I am received
here with insult. The lesson is good. I shall profit by it."

"Dame Petronille--"

"Enough, Madam. Neither I nor my husband shall ever again set foot in
your house. I meant, like a friend, to point out to you the danger that
Master Marcel's good name is running. I have done my duty, let come what
may!"

"Dame Petronille," Marguerite answered with sad but severe dignity,
"since Marcel consecrated his life to public affairs, there is not a
word or action of his that he cannot answer for with head erect. He has
done good for good's sake, without even expecting anything from the
gratitude of men. He will remain indifferent to their ingratitude. If
ever his services are not appreciated, he will take with him into his
retirement the consciousness of ever having acted like an honorable man.
As to me, I shall bless the day when my husband should quit public
affairs so that we may resume our obscure lives and ordinary
occupations."

So obvious was the sincerity with which Marguerite expressed herself in
speaking of her delight to return to obscurity, that Dame Petronille,
furious at having been unable to wound the woman whom she envied, lost
all control of herself. "You err," she declared, "in these days, it does
not depend upon a man like Master Marcel to quietly bury himself in a
retreat. No! No! When one has been the idol of Paris, you must either
keep or lose the confidence of the people. If it is lost, you are looked
upon as a traitor. And do you know what is dealt out to traitors?
Death!"

"Can the enemies of Marcel have the audacity of pointing at him as a
traitor?" cried Marguerite with tears in her eyes. "Do they aim at his
life? Come, Dame Petronille, your silence upsets me."

Petronille was about to answer when the voice of Marcel was heard
outside the chamber cheerfully announcing: "Marguerite! Denise! I have
good news! Good news!" Dame Petronille remained silent, and stiffly
bowing, rapidly took her departure without uttering a word.



CHAPTER V.

CHARLES THE WICKED.


Marcel entered. The radiant joy that suffused his face upon entering the
house now made room for amazement at the silent and brusque departure of
Maillart's wife, who swept by him at the door. He looked at Marguerite
and Denise inquiringly, and noticing the disquietude and even alarm
depicted on their faces by the odious calumnies of Petronille, he
hastened to ask: "What is the matter, Marguerite? Why did our friend's
wife leave in that strange manner?"

"Oh, uncle!" broke out the young girl with tears in her eyes. "There are
very wicked people ... serpents and vipers."

"They are to be pitied, my child. But I hope you do not refer to wicked
people in connection with Maillart's wife?"

"My friend," said Marguerite with embarrassment, "idle talk deserves
contempt only. Nevertheless, in times like these idle talk may have
serious consequences."

"Well," observed Marcel dejectedly, "I have but an hour to spend with
you. I am tired out. I hoped to enjoy some rest. I came full of joy with
good news that was to make you happy as it made me. And here it is all
spoiled. But these minutes of quiet and relaxation are sweet to me at
your side, dear objects of my love."

"These moments are quite rare," said Marguerite sighing, "and they are
as precious to us as to you ... do not doubt, beloved Marcel!"

"I know it. Fortunately, you are not one of those spiritless women,
whose constant anxieties are a torment to their husbands, who love them
and suffer through their uneasiness. No, you are brave. You accept with
fortitude the conditions that circumstances raise around us, convinced
that my conduct is upright. I see you ever serene, and a smile on your
lips. I feel refreshed in your wise and sweet tranquility, and gather
new strength for the struggle, for the present my life is one continuous
struggle. It is a holy struggle, glorious, fruitful ... but it exhausts
... nevertheless, thanks to you, dear Marguerite, I ever find at our
hearth the happy quiet, the confident ease that are to the soul what a
peaceful sleep is to the body--"

"Dear Etienne, we shall speak later on the visit of Dame Petronille,"
Marguerite broke in, fearing to disturb the rest her husband had come in
search of in her company. "You have been announcing a good news.... We
are waiting for it."

"Yes, I prefer that," answered the provost with a sigh of relief, taking
a seat between his wife and Denise, while the latter quietly removed his
hat and cloak. "Coming upstairs I told Agnes to place an additional
cover at supper."

"Will our son return this evening from the Bastille of St. Antoine?"
quickly inquired Marguerite. "Was that the good news you brought us? We
shall be glad to see him."

"No, no! Andre will not return before to-morrow morning. He is to keep
watch over night at the Bastille with his company of cross-bowmen. My
son must put the example of order in the service. He will neglect none
of his duties."

"And who is to take supper with us, uncle?"

"Why, dear Denise?" answered Marcel smiling. "Who? One of our best
friends. Guess, if you can."

"Simon the Feather-dealer?... Peter Caillet?... Master Delille?...
Philip Giffart?... John Goddard?... Josserand?... John Sorel?..."

"No, Denise. Look not for our guest among my friends of the council. He
is not yet old enough to figure in such serious functions. But, so as to
help you guess, I shall add that our guest for this evening has just
arrived from the country."

"Can it be my old cousin who lives with his daughter at Vaucouleurs?
Can he have left the quiet valley of the Meuse to come and see us?"

"No, dear Denise. The friend whom we expect has been away from Paris
only a short time. Cudgel your memory."

"A short time?" Denise repeated mechanically, and struck by a sudden
thought but hardly daring to indulge it, the poor child grew pale,
joined her two trembling hands, and fixing upon her uncle a look at once
full of anxiety and hope, she stammered: "Uncle, what is it you say? Can
it be?..."

"I shall add that the fate of that friend has recently made us feel
uneasy."

"It is he!" cried Denise throwing herself at Marcel's neck. "Can it
be?... Jocelyn is back ... God be praised!"

"Jocelyn!" exclaimed Marguerite joining in the surprise and joy of
Denise. "Have you seen him? Is he in Paris?"

"Yes; I saw the worthy fellow this morning at the town hall. He is in
good health, although he has suffered a good deal during his travels."

The emotion and tears of Denise must be left undescribed. After the
first ebullition of joy was over, Marcel said to his wife: "I was
presiding at the town hall over the council when one of our sergeants
handed me a letter. I opened it and read that Jocelyn requested to speak
with me. I ordered him to be taken upstairs to my room, and immediately
after the session I hastened thither. Oh, my poor Denise! I confess it.
I hardly recognized our friend, he was so changed! He has lost flesh ...
his eyes are hollow ... his cheek-bones stick out."

"What happened to him?" asked Denise. "Did he go to fight the English,
as my aunt feared. Does he come from prison?"

"He comes from prison, but did not go to war," answered Marcel. "This is
what happened: As you know, he left for Nointel in Beauvoisis. After he
left Nointel at night, and taking rest for an hour the next morning at
Beaumont-sur-Oise, he resumed his journey. A short while after he heard
the rapid gallop of a horse approaching behind him; turning he saw a
man with a woman on his horse's crupper fleeing before three armed
knights who followed at a distance. The couple drew in a few steps from
Jocelyn, and the man, a lad of about twenty, said to our friend: 'We are
fleeing from the castle of the Sire of Beaumont; he is the guardian of
my sister who accompanies me, and he sought to violate her. He is riding
after us with his men. You are armed. For pity's sake defend us; help me
to protect my sister!..."

"I know the heart and courage of Jocelyn," said Denise deeply moved. "He
surely took the part of the unfortunate girl!"

"Without hesitating, because, as he said to me, in his capacity of
champion he could not refuse so good a case. The Sire of Beaumont
arrived with his two equerries...."

"And the combat started!" cried Denise joining her hands. "Poor Jocelyn!
Alone against three!"

"He was strong enough to overcome them. Unfortunately, however, at the
very start of the action one of the combatants dealt him such a furious
blow from behind with a mace on the head that Jocelyn's casque was
broken. He fell from his horse unconscious ... and when he awoke he
found himself half naked lying on straw, and aching at every limb at the
bottom of a dungeon."

"Poor Jocelyn!" said Marguerite. "That dungeon, no doubt, was some
prison cell in the castle of Beaumont, whither our wounded friend was
transported after the combat, stripped of his arms and in a dying
condition?"

"Yes, dear Marguerite; and Jocelyn remained in that cell, a prey to a
devouring fever, until his recent release."

"How he must have suffered! But, uncle, how did our poor friend manage
to come out?"

"A few days after taking Jocelyn prisoner, the Sire of Beaumont departed
with his men to fight the English. Whether he was killed or captured at
the rout of Poitiers is not known. But two days ago the Sire of
Beaumont's castle was attacked and taken by the troop of a certain
Captain Griffith."

"That horrible adventurer, who pushed forward as far as St. Cloud and
gave us such a fright?" asked Denise. "I remember you left the city at
the head of the militia, ran against and forced him to retreat. Good
God! In what hands did poor Jocelyn fall!"

"Be not alarmed, dear child! By a singular accident our friend has had
only cause to praise the adventurer. That savage and eccentric warrior
seems sometimes to yield to generous impulses. After having, according
to their wont, sacked the castle of Beaumont, massacred the men and
violated the women, the band delved down into the subterranean passages
in quest of booty. Thus they came to Jocelyn's dungeon, broke his chains
and lead him to Captain Griffith, who on that day happily happened to be
in a good humor. He cross-questioned our friend, and no doubt struck by
his brave and robust appearance, despite all his sufferings, made him an
offer to enlist in his company. Jocelyn declined. Griffith, who was half
in his cups, then ordered Jocelyn to be furnished with clothes and two
florins, and, alluding to our friend's thinness said to him: 'When you
shall have regained some meat on your bones you will prove a rude
customer; if I again run across you I should be pleased to break a lance
with you. You are free. Go! And my patron saint, the Devil, be good to
you!"

"That Griffith is a dreadful bandit!" repeated Denise. "And yet I cannot
but feel thankful to him for having liberated Jocelyn."

"And then," put in Marguerite, "our friend proceeded straight back to
Paris?"

"Yes," answered Marcel sadly, "here another and unexpected sorrow
awaited him."

"Oh!" said Denise, "his father's death? It must have been a severe blow
to him!"

"Yes; the blow was severe. Picture to yourself what he must have felt.
On his arrival, he hastened joyfully to the house of our old friend
Lebrenn, the book-seller. There he first learned of his loss.... He
spent the whole of yesterday and the night in solitude and mourning.
This morning he came to see me at the town hall. This evening we shall
be at least able to offer him the consolation of a tried friendship."

Agnes the Bigot came in at this juncture and handed to Marcel a small
gold medal enameled in green and bearing the letters "C" and "N,"
surmounted by a crown. "A man," she announced, "wrapped up to the nose
in a cloak and whose eyes are barely visible, is in the shop; he wishes
to see Master Marcel without delay; he handed me the medal with orders
to bring it to you."

Marcel was visibly surprised at the sight of the medal, and said to his
wife: "Dear Marguerite, I shall not be able to enjoy even the short hour
of rest that I promised myself. Leave me alone now. Go down with Denise.
Jocelyn cannot now be long coming. Do not stay supper for me"; and
turning to Agnes the Bigot: "Lead the man upstairs."

"Marcel," said Marguerite uneasily, while the servant withdrew to
execute her master's orders, "you are fatigued, and will you not take
even time enough for a meal?"

"In a few minutes, when I go down again, I shall take a few mouthfuls
before leaving."

"What! Another night!"

"I convoked a night meeting to the convent of the Cordeliers," explained
Marcel, assuming a serious expression; "the funeral of Perrin Macé may
be the signal for transcendent happenings. We must be ready for all
eventualities--"

The provost did not finish the sentence, seeing the closely cloaked man
appear at the door led by Agnes. Marguerite left feeling all the more
alarmed, the unfinished words of her husband having recalled to her mind
the recent conversation with Petronille Maillart. After the departure of
the two women, the stranger, first making certain that the door was
closed, removed his cloak and threw it on a chair. The man, extremely
small of stature, twenty-five years at the most, and dressed plainly in
a buff jacket, was of distinguished and regular features; yet despite
the gracefulness of his carriage, the affability of his manners and the
almost caressing melody of his voice, there lingered a sardonic and
insidious leer in his smile that betrayed the wickedness of his soul and
the perversity of his heart. More and more concerned by the man's
presence, Marcel seemed to accept his visit as one of those disagreeable
duties that men in public life must frequently submit to; nevertheless
his icy attitude and his look of suspicion fully revealed the aversion
he entertained for his caller, to whom he said: "I did not expect to
receive this evening the King of Navarre in my house."

Charles the Wicked--that was the man's well deserved nickname--answered
with a smile and with his insinuating voice, that most perfidious of all
his charms: "Do not kings pay each other mutual visits? What is there
surprising in that Charles, King of Navarre, should pay a visit to
Marcel, King of the people of Paris? We are sovereigns, both of us."

"Sire," answered Marcel impatiently, "please to state the purpose of
your visit. What do you wish of me? No useless words!"

"You are short of speech."

"Shortness is the language of business. Moreover, it is well to measure
the words one utters in your presence."

"Do you, then, continue to mistrust me?"

"Always, more than ever."

"I love frankness."

"Come, to the point, direct, and without mental reservation."

For a moment Charles the Wicked remained silent; then boldly fixing his
viper's eyes upon the provost, he answered, slowly weighing each word:

"What do I wish, Marcel? I wish to be King of the French.... This
astonishes you!"

"No," answered the provost with a coolness that stupefied Charles the
Wicked; "sooner or later you were bound to make the disclosure."

"You foresaw things from a great distance.... How long is it since you
foresaw it?"

"Since I saw your creature Robert le Coq, Bishop of Laon, throw himself
with ardor on the side of the popular party, and show himself one of the
most violent enemies of King John, whose daughter you married--"

"Nevertheless, if my memory does not fail me, you made good use of the
influence of the Bishop of Laon in the States General to induce them to
accept your famous ordinance of reforms."

"I use any instrument that aids me in doing good."

"And then you break it?"

"If necessary. But Robert le Coq is too subtle to be broken.
Nevertheless, despite his finesse, I have penetrated his secret
motives."

"And that is?"

"The people of Paris have with their keen eyes and tongues surnamed the
Bishop of Laon 'a two-edged dirk;' the people, Sire, are right. By
showing himself so hostile to King John, your father-in-law, and
afterwards so hostile to the Regent, your brother-in-law, the Bishop of
Laon played a double game. He aimed, with the aid of the popular party,
to first of all dethrone the reigning dynasty; and then ... to give the
crown to you. That is the reason, Sire, why I am not taken by surprise
at your admission that you wish to be King of the French."

"What do you think of my pretensions?"

"Your chances are fair of mounting the throne. I am ready to admit
that."

"With your help, Marcel?"

"I might enter into your projects."

"Is that true!" cried the King of Navarre, unable to conceal his joy;
but after a short moment's reflection, and casting upon the provost a
defiant look, he presently proceeded: "Marcel, you are laying a trap for
me.... I know how and more than once you have expressed yourself
regarding me. Your words were extremely severe."

"Sire, you are called _Charles the Wicked_. I hold the name fits you.
But you are active, subtle, venturesome; you command numerous armed
bands; your partisans are powerful; your wealth considerable. You are a
force, that, at a given moment, may be useful. For that reason I caused
your release from prison where your father-in-law kept you locked up."

"So that I, Charles, King of Navarre, am to be merely an instrument in
the hands of Marcel, the cloth merchant."

"Sire, you have your views; I have mine, and I shall express them to
you. The Regent, hypocritic and stubborn, mocks at his oaths. He signed
and promulgated the reform ordinances; he embraced me in tears, calling
me his good father; he swore by God and all the saints that he desired
the welfare of the people and that he would loyally adhere to the great
measures decreed by the national assembly. The Regent has broken all his
promises. His ruse, his well calculated indolence, his ill will, the
increasing audacity of the court and the nobility, who rule supreme in
their domains, either hamper or prevent the execution of the new edicts.
The Regent is secretly inciting the jealousy of a large number of
communal cities against Paris, that, as they put it, 'is seeking to
govern Gaul'. The nobility in its deliberate inaction, and sheltered by
its fortified castles, allows the English to extend their depredations
to the very gates of Paris. The royal false money continues to ruin
commerce and to destroy credit. Finally, only two days ago, the Regent's
favorite caused a bourgeois of Paris to be mutilated and executed under
our very eyes, thereby proclaiming the contempt of the court for the
laws enacted by the States General. The plan of the court is simple: to
tire out the country by disasters: to render impossible the good results
that were justly expected from the national assembly, a popular
government where the King is no longer master but servant: finally, the
court expects that one of these days it can tell the people, whose
sufferings will have become intolerable by these machinations: 'Ye
people, behold the fruit of your rebellion. In lieu of having remained
submissive, as in the past, to the sovereign authority of your kings,
you have wished to reign, yourselves, by sending your deputies to the
States General; you now pay the penalty of your audacity. May this rough
lesson prove to you once more that princes are born to command and the
people to obey. And now, pay your taxes and resume your secular yoke
with humble repentance'!"

"So help me God! You could not have been better instructed upon the
projects of my brother-in-law and his councilors if you had attended
their secret meetings! And if they triumph, would you despair?"

"Despair?--For the present, Sire; but I would remain full of hope in the
future. The conquest of freedom is as assured as it is slow, laborious
and painful.... I do not even now despair of the present. I propose to
make a last attempt with the Regent."

"And if you fail, will you come to me?"

"Between two evils, Sire, one is forced to choose the lesser."

"In short, you believe you will find in me what the Regent lacks?"

"You have an immense advantage over him. You wish to become King of the
French, while the Regent is that by birth."

"Do you forget my royalty of Navarre?"

"To speak truly, I did forget it, Sire ... just as you forget it for the
crown of France. As I was saying, a King by the right of birth looks
upon all reform as an encroachment upon his power.... You, on the
contrary, look upon the reforms as a means whereby to usurp power. Now,
then, however perfidious, however wicked you, Charles the Wicked, may
be, I dare you to fail to announce your access to the throne--and that
in your own interest--by great and useful measures to the public
welfare. That much would be gained ... later, we shall see...."

"And throw me down?"

"I shall work to that end, Sire, with all my powers, the moment you turn
from the straight path. You are forewarned."

"And, Master Marcel, you would destroy your own work without scruple?"

"Without scruple! Moreover, better so than as it happened with the first
and second dynasties when the stewards of the royal palace or the large
feudal seigneurs dethroned the kings and changed dynasties."

"And who would then accomplish the rough task? I would like to know the
artisan."

"The people, Sire!... That people, still in its infancy and credulous,
must learn that at its breath it can waft away the sovereign masters who
impose themselves upon it by force and cunning, and whom the church
consecrated. Some day, this very century perhaps, that people will come
of age; it will realize the ruinous and superfluousness of the royal
power. But that day is not yet. In our days, the people, ignorant and
enslaved to habit, would wish to crown a new master the moment they
overthrow an old one. They rely on princes. You, Sire, are one of these
predestined beings. You can even pretend to reign over Gaul by virtue of
one of your ancestors, who was himself deprived of the crown for the
benefit of his cousin Philip of Valois, the father of King John. It is,
accordingly, not impossible that you may some day reign over France ...
a deplorable possibility ... yet tangible enough!"

"You must have courage to speak that wise to me."

"Instead of telling you the truth, I would otherwise be basely
flattering you, whose first thought, if to-morrow you are King, would be
to rid yourself of me. I indulge in no illusions on that head."

"Rid myself of you, who would have served me!"

"For that very reason! My presence would be a constant reminder of your
debt. But that matters not. Whether I die to-day or to-morrow, whether
you be king or not, whether or not my last effort with the Regent fail,
whether the court party triumph or is now vanquished--whatever may
happen, the future belongs to the popular party even if the present may
slip. Yes; whatever people may do, the ordinance of the reforms of 1356
and the sovereign act of the national assembly in this generation will
leave imperishable traces behind them. I have sowed too hastily, some
say, and they add, 'a slow crop follows a hasty planting.' Be it so! But
I have sowed. The seed is in the earth. Sooner or later the future will
gather the crop. My task is done. I can die. And now, Sire, I sum up: If
I fail in my last attempt with the Regent, I shall take recourse with
you. You will be first appointed captain-general of Paris ... it will be
your first step towards the throne.... We shall then take measures to
lead things to a happy issue, according to our device."

"My first words on coming in were: 'Marcel, I wish to be King of the
French.' I had my project. I renounce it to join yours," said Charles
the Wicked resuming his cloak. "You are one of those inflexible men who
can not be convinced any more than they can be corrupted. I shall not
seek to change your views concerning me, nor yet to purchase your
alliance. However dangerous it may be to me, I accept it as you offer
it. I return to St. Denis to await the event. In case my presence shall
be necessary in Paris, write to me and I shall come. I only demand of
you absolute secrecy on this interview."

"Our common interests demand secrecy."

"Adieu, Marcel! May God prosper you."

"Adieu, Sire!"

Enveloping himself anew up to his eyes, the King of Navarre left the
provost. The latter followed him with his eyes, and after the departure
of Charles the Wicked said to himself: "Fatal necessity! To have to aid
in the elevation of this man! And yet it may be necessary! The change of
dynasty may help me to save Gaul, should the Regent wreck to-morrow my
last hope.... Yes, Charles the Wicked, with the view of usurping and
keeping the crown, will be compelled to enter the wide path of the
reforms that alone can lighten the weight now crushing the townsmen and
above all the peasantry. Oh, poor rustic plebs, so patient in your
secular martyrdom! Oh, poor Jacques Bonhomme, as the nobility in its
insolent haughtiness loves to call you, your day of deliverance is
approaching! For the first time united in a common cause with the
bourgeoisie, the people of the towns, when you will stand erect, Jacques
Bonhomme, in arms as your brothers of the towns, we shall see whether
this Charles the Wicked, however execrable a man he may be, will dare to
deviate from the path that he is ordered to march!"

A bell rang and recalled Marcel from his reverie. "I shall have barely
time to reach the convent of the Cordeliers, in order to prepare our
friends for to-morrow's measures ... terrible measures!... yet as
legitimate as the law of retaliation ... supreme and unavoidable law in
such gloomy days as these, when violence can be opposed and overcome
with violence only! Oh! Let the blood fall upon the heads of those who,
having driven the people to extremities, have by their conduct provoked
these impious struggles!"

Saying this, Marcel descended the stairs to take his leave from his
wife, his niece and Jocelyn the Champion, who, at the invitation of the
provost was then taking supper with his family, and, gathered around the
table, presented a charming picture of peace and good will.



CHAPTER VI.

AT THE CORDELIERS.


After taking some rest at Rufin's lodging, William Caillet accompanied
his host to the convent of the Cordeliers, where a large crowd was
gathering, greedy to hear Marcel's address. The Cordeliers, a poor
monastic order that aroused the profound enviousness of the high and
splendidly endowed clergy, had ranked themselves on the side of the
people against the court. The large hall of their convent was the
habitual place for the holding of large popular mass meetings.
Acquainted with the brother who attended the gate, Rufin received from
him permission to speak with Marcel in the refectory which he would have
to cross on the way to the hall where he was to address the people. The
spacious hall, walled and vaulted with stone, and lighted only by the
lamps that burned on a sort of tribune situated at one of its
extremities, was packed with a dense and impatient crowd, on the front
ranks alone of which fell the light of the lamps; the deeper ranks, and
in the measure that they stood further and further away from the lighted
platform, remained in a semi-obscurity, that deepened into complete
darkness at the other end of the hall. The audience consisted of
bourgeois and artisans, a large number of whom wore head covers of red
and blue, the colors adopted by the popular party, and brooches with the
device "To a happy issue."

The two funerals that had taken place during the day, and both the
contrast and significance of which were so obvious, formed the subject
of conversation with the seething mass. The least clear-sighted among
them foresaw a decisive crisis and an inevitable conflict between the
court and the people, represented respectively by the Regent and Marcel.
Accordingly, the arrival of the latter was awaited with as much
impatience as anxiety. A few minutes later Marcel entered by a door near
the platform, accompanied by several councilmen, John Maillart among
them. Jocelyn the Champion, Rufin the Tankard-smasher and William
Caillet brought up the rear. The last of these had just enjoyed a long
conversation with Marcel and Jocelyn. Enthusiastic cheers greeted Marcel
and the councilmen. The former mounted the platform followed by all the
councilmen, except Maillart who remained below, and took seats behind
the speaker. In the midst of profound silence, Marcel said:

"My friends, the hour is critical. Let us indulge neither in
faint-heartedness nor in illusions. The regent and the court have
dropped the mask. This morning, to our solemn protest against the
iniquitous and sanguinary act that in defiance of law smote Perrin Macé,
the court answered by following the hearse of John Baillet. This is a
challenge.... Let us take up the gauge! Let us make ready for battle."

"Aye! Aye!" came the thundering response from the audience. "The Regent
and his courtiers shall not make us retreat."

"For a moment frightened by the firmness of the national assembly",
Marcel proceeded, "the Regent granted the reforms and swore to carry
them out. The deputies of the towns of Gaul, gathered at Paris in the
States General, were, with the loyal aid of the Regent, to rule the
whole country wisely and paternally, as the magistrates of the communes
rule the towns. Thus there would no longer be any royal and feudal
tyranny; no more ruinous prodigalities; no more false money; no more
venal justice; no more excessive taxes; no more arbitrary imposts; no
more pillaging in the name of the King and princes; no more odious
privileges for church and nobility; in short, there would be an end of
the infamous and horrible seigniorial rights that cause the heart to
rise, and reason to revolt. That is what we wanted; and that is just
what the Regent and the court resist energetically."

"Blood and death!" cried Maillart in a loud voice, rising from his seat
with violent gesticulation. "They will have to submit; if not we shall
massacre every one of them from the Regent down to the last courtier!
Death to the traitors! To arms! Let's set fire to the palace and the
castles."

A large number applauded the excited words of Maillart; and the man of
the furred cap, who insinuated himself into this meeting as he had done
in the morning among the crowds that witnessed the funeral procession of
Perrin Macé, moved about saying: "Hein, my friends, what an intrepid man
is this Master Maillart! He speaks only of blood and massacre! Master
Marcel, on the contrary, seems always afraid to compromise himself. It
does not surprise me; it is said he has secretly embraced the side of
the court."

"Marcel ... betray the people of Paris!" answered several men. "You are
raving, good man! Go on your way!"

"All the same," insisted the man of the furred cap, "Marcel keeps quiet
and does not respond to the appeal to arms so bravely made by Master
Maillart."

"How do you expect Marcel to speak in the midst of all this noise? But,
silence! Quiet is being restored. Marcel is about to resume. Let's
listen!"

"No criminal weakness," proceeded Marcel; "but neither let there be any
blind revenge. Soon perhaps the cry 'To arms!' will resound from one
confine of Gaul to the other, both in towns and country!"

"Eh! What do we care about the country?" cried Maillart. "Let's mind our
own business. Let's roll up our sleeves and strike without mercy!"

"My friend, your courage carries you away," Marcel answered Maillart in
an accent of cordial reproach. "Shall the boon of freedom be the
privilege of some only? Are we, the bourgeois and artisans of the towns,
the whole people? Are there not millions of serfs, vassals and villeins
given up to the mercy of feudal power? Who cares for these unfortunate
people? Nobody! Who represents their interests in the States General?
Nobody!" And turning to William Caillet, who, standing aside and under
the shadow was attentively listening to the provost, he pointed to the
poor peasant and added: "No, I was mistaken. On this day the serfs are
here represented. Contemplate this old man and listen to me!"

All eyes turned to Caillet, who in his rustic timidity lowered his head.
Marcel continued:

"Listen to me, and your hearts, like mine, will boil with indignation.
With me you will cry: 'Justice and vengeance! War upon the castles,
peace to the cottages!' The history of this vassal is that of all of our
brothers of the country. This man had a daughter, the only solace to his
sorrows. The name of that child, who was as beautiful as wise, will
indicate her candor to you. It is Aveline-who-never-lied. She was
affianced to a miller lad, a vassal like herself. By reason of the
goodness of his disposition he was called Mazurec the Lambkin. The day
of their marriage is set.... But in these days the wife's first night
belongs to her seigneur.... The nobles call it the right of first
fruits."

"Shame!" cried the audience in furious indignation. "Execrable shame!"

"And this execrable shame are we not the accomplices of by allowing our
brothers to remain subject to it?" cried Marcel in a voice that
dominated the thrill of anger which ran through the audience. Silence
being again restored, Marcel proceeded: "If the bride is homely, or if
it so happen that the seigneur is unable to violate her, he puts on the
mien of a good prince; he receives money from the bridegroom, and the
latter escapes the ignominy. William Caillet, that is the name of the
bride's father, that man yonder, wished to ransom his daughter from such
shame; in the absence of the seigneur, the bailiff consented to a money
indemnity. Caillet sells his only property, a milch-cow, and gives the
money to Mazurec, who, with bounding joy, proceeds to the castle to
redeem the honor of his wife. A knight happens to cross his path and
robs the vassal. The latter reaches the manor in tears and recognizes
the robber among the guests of his seigneur, who had just arrived. The
vassal prays for mercy for his wife, and for justice against the robber.
'O, your bride, I am told is beautiful and you charge one of my noble
guests with theft,' said the seigneur to him, 'I shall take your bride
into my bed, and you shall be punished with death for defaming a
knight.' That's not all!" cried Marcel suppressing with a gesture a
fresh explosion from the audience whose indignation was rising to
highest pitch. "Driven to despair, the vassal assaults his seigneur; he
is thrown into prison; the bride is dragged to the castle; she resists
her seigneur ... he has the right to have her pinioned. Does he do so?
No! He meant to give Jacques Bonhomme a striking lesson. He meant to
show that he could take the vassal's wife not only by the right of the
strongest but also in the name of the law, of justice and even of that
which is most sacred in the world, of God himself! The seigneur indulges
this savage pleasure. He files a complaint with the seneschal of
Beauvoisis 'against the resistance of the vassal!' The judges meet, and
a decision is rendered in the name of right, justice and law in these
terms: 'Whereas, the seigneur has the right of first fruits over the
bride of his vassal, he shall exercise his right over her; whereas, the
bridegroom has dared to revolt against the legitimate exercise of that
right, he shall make the amende honorable to his seigneur with arms
crossed and upon his knees! Furthermore, whereas the said vassal has
charged a knight with robbery, and the latter has demanded to prove his
innocence by arms, we decree a judicial combat. According to law, the
knight shall combat in full armor and on horseback, the serf on foot and
armed with a stick; and if the vassal is vanquished and survives, he
shall be drowned as the defamer of a knight.'"

At these last words of Marcel's an explosion of fury broke forth from
the audience. Caillet hid his pale and somber face in his hands. Marcel
restored quiet and proceeded:

"Justice has spoken; the decree is enforced. The bride is bound and
carried to the bed of the seigneur; he dishonors her and then returns
her to her husband. The latter makes the amende honorable on his knees
before his seigneur; he is thereupon taken to the arena to fight half
naked the iron-cased knight.... You may guess the issue of the duel....
The vassal being vanquished, he is put into a bag and thrown into the
river.... Such is feudal justice!"

"And to-day," now cried out William Caillet stepping forward, a
frightful picture of hate and rage, "my daughter carries in her bosom
the child of her seigneur! What shall be done to that child, townsmen of
Paris, if born alive? You have wives and daughters and sisters! Answer,
what would you do? Is that child of shame to be loved? Is it to be hated
as the child of Aveline's executioner? Should I at the whelp's birth
break in his head lest he grow into a wolf? What to do?"

An oppressive silence followed upon the words of William Caillet. None
dared answer. Marcel continued:

"This, then, is what is going on at the very gates of our town. The
country people are pitilessly left to the mercy of the seigneurs! The
women are violated, and the men put to death! We have been the
accomplices of the executioners of so many victims; we have been so by
our criminal indifference, and to-day we pay the penalty of our
selfishness. We, the townspeople, believed we would be strong enough to
overcome the seigneurs and the crown; we imagined we could compel them
to reform the execrable abuses that oppress us. To-day we should admit
that we have thought too highly of our own power. The Regent and his
partisans violate their own sworn oaths, and shatter our hopes. Vainly
have I, in the name of the States General, again and again requested an
audience from the Regent to remind him of his sacred promises. The gates
of Louvre remained shut in my face. The audacity of our enemies
proceeds from the circumstance that our power ends outside of the gates
of our towns. Let us join hands with the serfs of the country; let us
cease separating our cause from theirs, and matters will take on a
different aspect. We never shall obtain lasting and fruitful reforms
without a close alliance with the country folks. If to-morrow at a given
signal the serfs should rise in arms against their seigneurs, and the
towns against the officers, then no human power would be able to
overcome such a mass-uprising. The Regent, the seigneurs and their
troops would be swept aside and annihilated by the storm. Then would the
peoples of Gaul, resuming possession of their country's soil and
re-entering upon their freedom, see before them a future of peace, of
grandeur and of prosperity without end.... Do you desire to realize that
future by joining hands with our brothers the peasants?"

"Aye! Aye! We will!" cried the councilmen.

"Aye! Aye! We will!" re-echoed from thousands of voices with boundless
enthusiasm. "Let's join our brothers of the country. Let our device be
theirs also--'To a happy issue,' for townsmen and peasants!"

"Come, poor martyr!" cried Marcel with tears in his eyes and embracing
Caillet, who was not less moved than the provost. "I take heaven and the
cries that escape from so many generous hearts, moved by the recital of
the sufferings of your family, as witnesses to the indissoluble alliance
concluded this day between all the children of our mother country! Let
us stand united against our common enemy! Artisans, bourgeois and
peasants--_each for all, and all for each_, and to a happy issue the
good cause! War upon the castles!"

Sublime was the sensation, holy the enthusiasm of the crowd at the sight
of the provost, dressed in his magisterial robe, closing in his arms the
horny-handed serf dressed in rags.

Profoundly moved and even surprised by what he saw and heard, Caillet,
despite his rugged nature, almost fainted. Tears streamed down his
face. He leaned against the wall to avoid dropping to the floor, while
Marcel cried out:

"Let all who desire to lead the good cause to a happy issue meet
to-morrow morning arms in hand upon the square of St. Eloi church."

"Count upon us, Marcel," came from the crowd; "we shall all be there! We
shall follow you with closed eyes! Long live Marcel! Long live the
peasants! To a happy issue! To a happy issue! War on the castles, peace
to the huts!" Amid these exclamations the crowd tumultuously evacuated
the hall of the Cordeliers.

"Do you see, friends, how far this Marcel goes in his defiance of the
people of Paris?" remarked the man of the furred cap to several townsmen
near him as they were leaving the hall. "Did you hear him?"

"What did he say that was so bad? Come, now, my good man, you are losing
your wits!"

"What did he say? Why, he calls for help to the vagabonds and strollers
in the country! Are we not brave enough to do our own work without the
support of Jacques Bonhomme? Verily, never before did Master Marcel show
so completely the contempt he entertains for us! John Maillart is quite
another friend of the people! Long live John Maillart!"



CHAPTER VII.

POPULAR JUSTICE.


It is some time since sunrise. The Regent, who has recently and for good
cause moved to the tower of the Louvre, has just risen from his bed,
which is located in the rear of a vast chamber, roofed with gilded
rafters and magnificently furnished. Rich carpets hang from the walls. A
few favorites are accorded the august honor of assisting the treacherous
and wily youth, who is reigning over Gaul, in his morning toilet. One of
the courtiers, the seigneur of Norville, jealous of his servitude to the
prince, is kneeling at his feet in the act of adjusting his long
tapering shoes, while, seated on the edge of his bed, his head down,
careworn, pensive and twirling his thumbs as was his habit, the Regent
mechanically allows himself to be shod. Hugh, the Sire of Conflans and
marshal of Normandy, he who presided at the mutilation and execution of
Perrin Macé, is conversing in a low voice with Robert, marshal of
Champagne, another councilor of the Regent, in the embrasure of a window
at the other end of the chamber. After a long time watching his thumbs
twirl, the Regent raised his head, called the marshal of Normandy in his
shrill voice and asked: "Hugh, at what hour is the barrier of the Seine
closed, below the postern that opens on the river bank?"

"Sire, the barrier is closed at nightfall"; and the marshal added
sardonically. "Such are the orders of Marcel."

"After nightfall, no vessel can leave Paris?"

"No, Sire. After nightfall no one can leave Paris either by land or
water. Such, again, are the orders of Marcel."

"In that case," the Regent replied without looking up and after a
moment's reflection, "you will procure a vessel this morning, have it
moored outside of the barrier at a little distance from the postern gate
at the foot of the little staircase. You and Robert," proceeded the
Regent pointing to the marshal of Champagne, "will hold yourselves ready
to accompany me. Prudence and discretion."

For a moment the two favorites remained mute with astonishment. The
marshal of Normandy broke the silence with the question: "Do you
contemplate leaving Paris by night and furtively, Sire? Would you not be
leaving the field to that miserable Marcel? Why, by the saints! If that
insolent bourgeois annoys you, Sire, follow the advice I have so often
given you! Have Marcel and his councilmen hanged as I hanged Perrin
Macé! Did his execution cause Paris to riot? No; not one of the
good-for-nothings has dared to kick; they contented themselves with
attending in mass the funeral of the hanged fellow. Charge me with
relieving you of Marcel along with his gang. It is done quickly."

"Among other scamps that should be hanged high and short," added the
marshal of Champagne, "is one Maillart, who is profuse in violent
denunciations of the court!"

"Maillart! Allow not a hair on Maillart's head to be touched!" said the
Regent with lively interest, while bestowing a sinister and false leer
upon the courtiers.

"It will be as you say, Sire," answered the marshal of Normandy, not a
little astonished at the prince's words. "We shall spare Maillart. But
by God! Order that the other insolent creatures be put to death, Marcel
first of all! Your orders shall be executed."

"Hugh," answered the prince, rising on his feet to put on his robe that
the seigneur of Norville was pressing upon his master after having shod
him, "let the vessel be ready this evening as I ordered. Be punctual.
Prudence and discretion."

"You do not then listen to my advice!" cried the marshal almost
angrily. "Your clemency for those vile bourgeois will yet be the undoing
of you! Your goodness misleads you!"

"My clemency! My goodness!" repeated the prince, casting a sinister look
upon the marshal.

Understanding now the secret thoughts of his master, the courtier
answered: "If you have decided to mete out prompt justice to that
insolent bourgeoisie, why wait so long, Sire?"

"Oh! Oh! Why!" said the young man shrugging his shoulders. He then
relapsed into silence, and presently repeated: "Let the vessel be ready
this evening."

The Regent's favorites were too well acquainted with the youth's
stubbornness and profound powers of dissimulation to endeavor to obtain
from him any further light upon his plans. Nevertheless, the marshal of
Normandy was about to return to the charge, when an officer of the
palace entered and said: "Sire, the seigneur of Nointel and the knight
of Chaumontel request admission to take leave from you, a favor that you
have accorded them."

At a sign of the Regent the officer left walking backward, and returned
almost immediately accompanied by Conrad of Nointel and the knight of
Chaumontel. The trials of war had no wise affected the health of the two
seigneurs. The two had been among the first to turn tail at the battle
of Poitiers. The groom of the beautiful Gloriande was not leading back
to her feet the ten chained English prisoners that she had demanded as
the pledge of her future husband's valor.

"Well, Conrad of Nointel, you are leaving the court to return to your
seigniory?" said the Regent. "We hope to see you again in more
prosperous days. We ever love to number a Neroweg among our faithful
vassals, seeing that it is said your family is as old as that of the
first Frankish kings. Have you not an elder brother?"

"Yes, Sire. The elder branch of my family inhabits Auvergne, where it
owns estates that it owes to the sword of my ancestors, Clovis'
companions of war. My father left his castle of Plournel, situated near
Nantes, to come to Nointel which reverted to him upon my mother's death.
He preferred the neighborhood of Paris and of the court to that of
savage Brittany. I am of my father's opinion, and I do not expect ever
to return to the domains that I own in that region and which are
governed by my bailiffs."

"I rely on your promise. The illustriousness of your house makes me
anxious to keep it near my court."

"Sire, I shall return for a double reason. First of all to please the
Regent, and also to please my betrothed, the damosel of Chivry, who much
desires to see the court. But I must hasten to leave Paris in order to
collect the money for my own and my friend's ransom. It is a large sum
that we have to pay."

"Then you were both taken by the English?"

"Yes, Sire," answered the knight of Chaumontel; "but seeing that my
casque and sword are my only property, Conrad, as a loyal brother in
arms, has taken it upon himself to pay for me--"

"Did the English set you free on parole? They are generous enemies."

"Yes, Sire," answered Conrad. "I was taken by the men of the Duke of
Norfolk, and he placed our ransom at six thousand florins. But I said to
him: 'If you retain me a prisoner, my bailiff will never be able to
raise from my vassals so large a sum; the vigorous hand of their own
seigneur is required to seize so much money from those villeins; let me,
therefore, return to my domains, and on my faith as a Christian and a
knight I shall speedily bring to you the six thousand florins for our
ransom.'"

"And the Englishman accepted?"

"Without hesitation, Sire. Moreover, learning that my seigniory was in
Beauvoisis, he said to me: 'You will run in that region across a certain
bastard named Captain Griffith, who for some time has been raiding the
region of Beauvoisis with his band.'"

"That is so!" exclaimed one of the courtiers. "Fortunately, however, the
fortified castles of the seigneurs are protected from the ravages of
that chief of adventurers. He falls upon the plebs of the open fields,
and his bands put everything to fire and to the sword. He is a savage
warrior."

"Well," resumed the Regent with a cruel smile, "let the bourgeois who
presume to govern in our stead stop these disasters!" And turning to the
Sire of Nointel: "But what has that adventurer of a captain to do with
your ransom?"

"It is to him I am to deliver our ransom, together with a letter that
the Duke of Norfolk gave me for him."

At this moment the marshal of Normandy, who had inclined his head toward
the window, interrupted Conrad, saying: "What noise is that?... I hear
near and approaching clamors."

"Clamors!" cried the seigneur of Norville, "who would be so impudent as
to clamor in the vicinity of the King's palace? Give the order, Sire, to
punish the varlets."

"It is not clamors merely, but threatening cries," put in the marshal of
Champagne running to the door which he opened, and through which a wild
outburst of furious imprecations penetrated into the royal chamber.
Almost at the same time an officer of the palace ran in from the
gallery. He was pale and frightened, and came screaming: "Flee, Sire!
The people of Paris are invading the Louvre! They have disarmed your
guards!"

"Stand by, my friends!" cried the Regent, livid with terror and taking
refuge in his bed, behind the curtains of which he sought to hide
himself. "Defend me!... The felons mean to kill me!"

At the first signal of danger, the marshals of Normandy and Champagne,
the same as a few other courtiers, resolutely drew their swords. Conrad
of Nointel and his friend the knight of Chaumontel, however, guided by a
valor that was tempered by extreme prudence, searched with their eyes
for some issue of escape, while the seigneur of Norville, jumping upon
the bed, tried to hide himself behind the same curtain with the Regent.
Suddenly another door, one facing that of the gallery, flew open, and a
large number of palace officers, prelates and seigneurs, ran in
helter-skelter, screaming: "The Louvre is invaded by the people! Marcel
is heading a band of murderers.... Save the Regent!"

These cries had hardly been uttered when the courtiers saw Marcel,
followed by a compact troop armed with pikes, axes and cutlasses, appear
at the other end of the gallery that communicated with the royal
apartment. These men, bourgeois and artisans of Paris, uttered not a
sound. Only their foot-falls were heard on the stone slabs. The silence
of the armed crowd seemed more ominous than its previous clamors. At
their head marched the provost, calm, grave and resolute. A few steps
behind him came William Caillet armed with a pike, Rufin the
Tankard-smasher with a battle mace, and Jocelyn the Champion with drawn
sword. During the few seconds that it took Marcel to cross the gallery,
the distracted courtiers held a sort of council in broken words. None of
the confused and hasty views prevailed. The Regent remained hidden
behind the curtains of his bed together with the seigneur of Norville.
Trembling and pale but kept from fleeing by a sense of self-respect, the
majority of the courtiers crowded back into the furthest corner of the
apartment, while the less scrupulous Conrad of Nointel and his friend,
having slid themselves near the second door that led to another
apartment, prudently took themselves off.

When he presented himself at the threshold of the royal chamber, Marcel
met there none to defend it besides the two marshals who stood with
drawn swords. Be it, however, that at that supreme moment they felt
imposed by the aspect of the provost, or that they realized the
uselessness of a struggle that meant inevitable death to themselves,
both lowered their swords.

"Where is the Regent?" inquired Marcel in a loud and firm voice. "I
wish to speak with him. He has nothing to fear from the people."

The accent of the provost was so sincere and the loyalty of his word was
so generally acknowledged, even by his enemies, that yielding both to a
sentiment of royal dignity and to the confidence inspired by Marcel's
words, the Regent came out from behind the curtains, not a little
encouraged at the same time by the presence of the court people and the
quiet demeanor of the armed crowd that had invaded the Louvre.

"Here I am," said the Regent taking a few steps toward Marcel yet
unable, despite his powers of dissimulation, to wholly conceal the rage
that had succeeded his fright. "What do you want of me? The Regent waits
to hear you!"

Marcel turned towards the armed men who had followed him and ordered
them with a gesture to guard silence and not to cross the threshold of
the royal chamber which he now entered alone. On the other hand, after a
short and whispered consultation with his courtiers, the Regent
gradually regained composure and addressed the provost in these words:
"Your audacity is great!... To enter my palace in arms!"

"Sire! I have long been requesting an interview from you by letters, and
failed; I have been compelled to force open your doors in order to make
you hear, in the name of the country, the language of sincere
severity--"

"To the point," broke in the Regent impatiently. "What do you want?
Speak!"

"Sire! The people demand, first of all the loyal enforcement of the
reform ordinances which you have signed and promulgated."

"You are called the King of Paris," answered the Regent with a caustic
smile; "well, then, rule!... Save the country!"

"Sire! The voice of the national assembly has been heard in Paris and in
some other large towns. But your partisans and your officers, sovereign
in their seigniories or in the domains which they govern in your name,
have banded themselves to prevent the execution of the laws upon which
the safety of Gaul depends. Such a state of things must promptly cease,
Sire!... Aye, very promptly. The people so wills it."

The Regent turned to the group of prelates and seigneurs at the head of
whom stood the Marshal of Normandy; a hurried council was again held by
the courtiers who hastened around their chief; and then returning to the
provost, the Regent answered haughtily: "Is that your only grievance?
Let's hear the rest!!"

"We have imperative demands."

"What else do you want?"

"An act of justice and reparation, Sire! Perrin Macé, a bourgeois of
Paris, has been mutilated and then put to death in defiance of right and
of law by the order of some of your courtiers.... The seigneur who
ordered the execution of an innocent man must be sentenced to death! It
is the law of retaliation."

"By the cross of the Saviour!" cried the Regent. "You dare come and
demand of me the condemnation and execution of the marshal of Normandy,
my best friend!"

"That man is causing your ruin with his detestable advice. He shall
expiate his crime."

"Impudent scamp!" cried out the marshal of Normandy in a fit of rage,
threatening Marcel with his sword. "You have the audacity to make
charges against me!"

"Not another word!" ordered the Regent interrupting his favorite and
beckoning him to lower his sword. "It is for me to answer in this place.
I order you, Master Marcel, to leave this place, and upon the spot!"

"Sire!" answered the provost with patronizing commiseration, "you are
young, my hairs are grey.... Your age is impetuous, mine is calm.... I
therefore have the right and the duty to lecture to you. I beseech you
in the name of the country, in the name of your crown, to loyally
fulfill your promises, and, however painful it may seem to you, to
grant the reparation that I demand in the name of justice. Prove in that
manner that, when the law is audaciously violated, you punish the
guilty, whatever his rank.... Sire! It is still time for you to listen
to the voice of equity!--"

"And I tell you, Master Marcel," yelled the Regent furiously, "that it
is time, high time, to put an end to your insolent requests! Be gone,
instantly!"

"Away with this varlet in rebellion against his King," cried the
courtiers, like the Regent re-assured and deceived by the attitude of
Marcel's armed escort, that remained mute and motionless, and turning to
them the marshal of Normandy called out: "As to you, good people of
Paris, who now regret the criminal errand on which this bedeviled rebel
has brought you despite yourselves, join us, the true friends of your
King, in punishing the treason of this miserable Marcel.... Let his
blood fall upon himself!"

The provost smothered a sigh of regret, stepped back a few paces so as
to place himself beyond the reach of the marshal's sword, turned to his
people and said: "Carry out the orders that brought you here."

These words were hardly uttered when Marcel's armed men, anxious to make
amends for the silence and prolonged restraint imposed upon them by his
orders, burst loose in an explosion of cries of indignation and of
threats that struck the Regent and his courtiers with stupor and
consternation. Rufin the Tankard-smasher bolted upon the marshal of
Normandy, seized him by the collar and cried: "You had Perrin Macé
mutilated and hanged; now you shall be hanged! The gibbet is ready!"

"And this for you, caitiff," responded the marshal, quick as lightning
transfixing the student's left arm with a thrust of his sword. "The cord
that is to hang me is not yet twisted."

"No, but the iron that will smash you to death is forged, my noble
gentleman," answered the student dealing with his mace a furious blow
upon the marshal's head. "I have been Rufin the Tankard-smasher; now I
am Rufin the Head-smasher!"

The student spoke true. The marshal's skull was crushed; he fell and
expired at the Regent's feet bestaining with his blood the latter's
robe. During the tumult that ensued, the marshal of Champagne rushed at
Marcel dagger in hand. But William Caillet, who had all the while been
seeking with burning eyes for the Sire of Nointel from among the
brilliant bevy of courtiers, threw himself in front of the provost ahead
of Jocelyn, who had darted forward with the same intention, and the old
peasant thrust his pike into the bowels of the marshal. The corpse of
the courtier rolled upon the floor. Popular vengeance was taken.

The other seigneurs and prelates, who had run to the royal chamber, fled
back distracted by the door that had admitted them. When the Regent,
who, fainting with terror, had crouched back upon the bed with his face
hidden in his hands, looked up again, he found himself alone with Marcel
and not far from the prostrate corpses of his two councilors. Marcel's
armed men had slowly departed through the gallery together with Caillet,
while Jocelyn was engaged near a window in bandaging with his
handkerchief the wound of the student.

Finally, protruding under the drapery of the bed behind which he had
held himself all the while motionless as a mouse, the feet were seen of
the seigneur of Norville, who had lacked even the strength to flee.

"Mercy, Master Marcel!" cried the Regent, trembling with fear and
throwing himself at Marcel's feet with arms outstretched in supplication
and his face in tears. "Do not kill me; have pity upon me, my good
father! Mercy!"

"We have no thought of killing you," Marcel answered, painfully touched
by the suspicion; and stooping down to raise the Regent added: "May my
name be accursed if such a crime ever entered my mind! Fear not, Sire!
Rise! The people of Paris are good."

"Oh, my good father! I beg your pardon on my knees for having ignored
your wise counsels and listened to bad advisers." Breaking out into
sobs, the young prince added, wringing his hands in despair: "Oh, good
God! Alone and so young to be far away from my father, who is held a
prisoner, is it any fault of mine if I placed confidence in the men
around me?" The Regent's eyes fell upon the corpses of the two marshals.
In heart-rending accents he proceeded: "There they are, the men who
misled me! They loved me! They knew me since my cradle! But, like
myself, they were blind in their error. Oh, good father! Reproach me not
for weeping over the fate of these unfortunate men. It is my last adieu
to them," and still on his knees, the Regent crouched lower, his face in
his hands and continued sobbing--with rage, not repentance.

Although long made acquainted by experience with the Regent's profound
duplicity--a degree of duplicity almost incredible at so tender an
age--Marcel was deceived by what seemed the sincerity of the young man's
distressful accent. His touching prayer, his tears, the sorrow which he
did not fear to express at the death of his two councilors--all combined
to induce the belief that, frightened by the terrible reprisals that had
taken place under his own eyes, the Regent was sincerely contrite at his
errors, and that, convinced at last regarding his own interests, which
commanded him to break with the evil past, he now really desired to
march on the straight path. Marcel congratulated himself on the happy
change, and said to Jocelyn in a low voice: "Order our people away from
the gallery. Let them leave the palace and assemble under the large
window of the Louvre. You and Rufin may stay with me. I shall take the
Regent out of this chamber. The sight of the corpses is too painful to
him."

Jocelyn and the student executed the orders of Marcel. Crouching on the
floor the Regent did not cease moaning and sobbing. The seigneur of
Norville left his hiding place without being noticed by the prince, and
approaching him on tip-toe whispered in his ear: "Sire, the most
faithful of all your servitors is happy of having braved a thousand
dangers and deaths sooner than to leave you alone with these bandits and
rebels. Allow me, my noble and dear master, to help you to rise."

The Regent obeyed mechanically, and noticing that Marcel, who was just
giving his instructions to Jocelyn and Rufin, could neither see nor hear
him, he whispered back to Norville: "Do not leave me. Watch for a moment
when I can speak to you without being seen by anybody"; observing
thereupon that Marcel was again approaching, while the champion and
Rufin both left the room, he uttered a piteous moan, turned to the
corpses of the two marshals and muttered in a smothered voice: "Adieu,
oh, you who loved me and whose sad errors I shared. May God receive you
in his Paradise!"

"Come, Sire, come," said Marcel with kindness, leading the Regent to the
gallery; "come, lean upon me!"

The seigneur of Norville followed the prince from whom he did not take
his eyes and said to the provost in an undertone: "Oh, Master Marcel! Be
the protector, the tutor of my poor young master.... He always had a
tender feeling for you!"

"Now, Sire," Marcel said to the Regent after they had gone a little way,
"I place confidence in your promise ... I believe in the salutary effect
of the terrible example you witnessed. Oh, these painful extremes; but
violence fatedly engenders violence!... It now depends upon you, Sire,
to prevent the recurrence of similar acts of reprisal. Give the example
of respect for the law. All will then look to the law instead of
resorting to force, the last recourse of men when they have vainly
invoked justice! The present moment is decisive. If you should still
belie our hopes ... our new hopes; if unfortunately it should be shown
to us that you are incapable or unworthy of ruling under the watchful
and severe vigilance of the States General, elected by the nation
herself, I tell you sincerely, Sire, the people, finding their patience
exhausted, and impatient of further deceit, sufferings, disasters and
misery, might respect your life, but they would then choose another King
who shall be more thoughtful of the public weal.... You will then cease
to reign."

"Oh, good father! Why threaten me! I am a poor young man, and am at your
mercy. Have pity upon me!"

"Sire! I do not threaten you. Far from me be such cruelty! I only place
things before you such as they are. It depends upon you to help towards
the public safety."

"Speak, speak, good father.... I shall obey you as a most respectful
son, I swear to you upon my salvation.... Moreover, you shall be my only
councilor.... Speak, what do you order?"

"The people are assembled before the Louvre.... They are informed of the
death of the marshal of Normandy.... Show yourself at the window.... Say
a few good words to the crowd.... Announce plainly your good
resolves.... Declare that the cause of the people is above all yours ...
and here, Sire," added Marcel, taking off his hat and offering it to the
Regent, "as a token of our alliance, good will and harmony, wear my hat
with the popular colors. The inhabitants of Paris will be pleased at
this first proof of condescension and agreement."

"Give it to me.... Give it to me," the Regent said with avidity,
hastening to don Marcel's hat of red and blue. "A friend like you, my
good father ... only such a friend could give me such an advice.... Open
the window; I wish to speak to my well beloved people of Paris," added
the Regent addressing the seigneur of Norville, who having held himself
at a distance during the conversation of Marcel and the prince, now
again drew near as ordered. "Open the window wide," said the prince.

"Jocelyn," observed Rufin in a low voice to the champion while the
Regent, slowly moving towards the window that the seigneur of Norville
hastened to open, seemed to be consulting Marcel, "what do you think of
the good resolutions of that youngster?"

"Like Master Marcel, I believe him sincere. Not that I trust in the
heart of that royal stripling, but because it is to his interest to
follow wise counsel."

"Hm! Hm! To me it looks as if he is playing a comedy. A prince's word is
poor guarantee."

"Do you imagine the Regent is so double-faced or so foolish as to try to
deceive Master Marcel?"

"As true as Homer is the king of rhapsodists, never was my wench Margot
about to play me some scurvy trick without she called me her 'musk-rat,'
her 'beautiful king,' her 'gold canary,' and other names no less
flattering than deceitful."

"But what connection is there between Margot and the Regent? Quit your
fooling!"

"Listen to me to the end. I happen to have an assignment with her for
this evening near the Louvre, on the river bank, because by what she
says, her friend Jeannette does not want to see me at her house. Very
well. I swear by Ovid, the poet beloved of Cupid, Margot acted the
gentle puss and induced me to go and inhale the mists of the Seine
simply because she had made up her mind to go elsewhere this evening."

"Rufin, let's talk seriously!"

"Seriously, Jocelyn. I fear that the promises of the Regent are like
those of Margot! I can assure you, much as the sword thrust I received
smarts me devilishly, I would have preferred having pocketed one more in
return for having settled the accounts of that puling youngster as I did
the accounts of the marshal of Normandy."

"Come, now! Those are excesses worthy only of John Maillart.... But, by
the way, did he accompany us hither?"

"No. After he had, despite all your and Marcel's entreaties, driven a
few miserable brutes to massacre Master Dubreuil when he crossed our
march on his mule, Maillart disappeared. I place no reliance on him.
Heaven and earth! That murder was deplorable! The marshals of Normandy
and Champagne were enough----"

"Listen!" cried Jocelyn interrupting his friend, and pointing to the
Regent, who, having advanced to the balcony, was addressing the people
gathered on the street.

"Beloved inhabitants of my good city of Paris," the Regent was saying in
a moved and tearful voice, "I appear before you firmly resolved to make
amends for my wrongful conduct. I swear by these colors that are your
own, and that henceforth will be mine," he added, carrying his hand to
the red and blue hat he wore on his head. "The marshal of Normandy, one
of my councilors, unjustly ordered the execution of Perrin Macé, an
honest bourgeois of Paris. The marshal has just been put to death. May
that reparation satisfy you, dear and good Parisians! Let us forget our
dissensions; let us join in a common accord for the country's good....
Let us love one another! Let us help one another! I admit my errors!
Will you pardon them? Oh, I am so young! Evil councilors led me astray.
But I shall henceforth have only one.... That councilor ... here he is!"
and the Regent, turning towards Marcel, added: "Good inhabitants of
Paris, receive this embrace which I now give you from the bottom of my
heart in the person of the great citizen whom we all cherish, whom we
all venerate." While pronouncing these last words, the young prince
threw himself weeping into the arms of the provost and pressed him to
his breast,--the embrace of rulers, a mortal caress!

At the touching spectacle, the enthusiastic clamors of the mobile and
credulous mass resounded loud, and prolonged cries of "Long live
Marcel!" "Long live the Regent!" "To a happy issue!" greeted the
reconciliation as a happy augury of the future.

Profoundly moved himself, Marcel said to the Regent upon returning with
him into the gallery: "Sire, full of hope and of confidence, the people
acclaimed with their joyous cries an era of peace, of justice, of
grandeur and of prosperity. Do not shatter so many hopes. Good is so
easy for you to achieve! It is so beautiful to bequeath to posterity a
glorious name, blessed by all."

"My good father!" answered the Regent, panting for breath, "my eyes have
been opened to the light; my heart expands.... I am reborn for a new
life.... You shall not leave me to-day; only to-night if you must....
Let's go to work.... Let us jointly take prompt, energetic measures....
Oh! Your wishes shall be realized.... I shall bequeath to posterity a
name blessed by all.... Come, my good father!" and passing his arm
around the neck of Marcel with filial familiarity, the young man took a
few steps with him in the gallery towards his cabinet. But suddenly
stopping, he added in the most natural manner, as if struck by a
thought: "Oh, I forgot!" He then left Marcel and stepped back towards
the seigneur of Norville, whom he called. The latter hastened to respond
and the Regent whispered to him: "This evening, at nightfall, let a
vessel manned with two trusty sailors be ready for me just outside the
barrier facing the postern gate of the Louvre.... Gather all my gold and
precious stones in a coffer, and keep yourself ready to accompany me.
Prudence and discretion!"

"Sire, rely upon me!"

"Well, Jocelyn," said Marcel to the champion during the secret
conversation of the Regent and his courtier, "you see it.... My hopes
have not been deceived.... The lesson was terrible and salutary. Return
home and tell Marguerite that I do not expect to be back until late. I
wish to profit on the spot by the young man's repentance. He and I will
probably work together a part of the night."

"Pardon me, my good father," said the Regent to the provost, returning
to him; "we shall doubtlessly be up late together, and I wished to
notify the Queen that I may not see her again to-day"; and again placing
his arm around Marcel's neck he said to him while walking towards the
cabinet: "Now, to work! Good father, to work! And quickly!"

Thus, followed by the seigneur of Norville, the two quitted the gallery,
from which also Jocelyn and Rufin took their departure together.

"After what you have just heard," remarked the champion to the student,
"can you still entertain any doubts concerning the Regent's sincerity?
Do you still believe he plays a comedy?"

"Do you remember, Jocelyn, that at the University we were in the habit
of taking aim with a stone saying: 'If my stone hits, my first wish will
be realized?'"

"Rufin!" sadly answered the champion, "since on my arrival in Paris I
learned of my father's death, I have lost my sense of humor. As I said
to you before, I say now, let us talk seriously, my friend."

"I would not, my worthy Jocelyn, seem to make light of your bereavement;
and yet, out of place as my words may seem, they are, by Jupiter, to the
point! All I shall say is this: Day before yesterday, my wench Margot
gave me, with a good many monkey tricks and pussy purrings, an
assignment at the river bank. If Margot is faithful to her promise, I
shall then believe the Regent to be sincere in his good resolves; not
before."

"The devil take the fool!" said Jocelyn impatiently and he walked away
ahead of Rufin, who pensively said to himself: "My friend Rufin the Head
smasher, you are become as much of a fatalist as a Mohamedan! That's a
shameful thing for a free thinker!"



CHAPTER VIII.

THE HOUR HAS SOUNDED!


Marcel had not yet arrived home although night was far advanced.
Marguerite, Denise and William Caillet were seated together in one of
the upper chambers of the house. The two women listened with wrapt and
grief-stricken attention to the narrative of Jocelyn who had just
finished the story of Aveline and Mazurec.

"Delivered from the dungeon in the castle of Beaumont, thanks to the
bizarre generosity of Captain Griffith," the champion was saying, "I
hastened to Paris, and at my arrival," added the young man unable to
contain his tears, "I learned of the death of my venerated father."

"Ah! At least he loved you with his last breath," said Denise sharing
the emotions of Jocelyn. "Your father came here almost every day, and we
only spoke of you."

"Let that thought console you, Jocelyn," observed Marguerite. "Your
father considered you an exemplary son."

"I know it, Dame Marguerite; and the thought does afford me some
consolation in my bereavement. Before dying my father gave me a proof of
the confidence he placed in my respect and affection. He made an
important revelation."

"On what?" asked Marguerite.

"I told you of the profound interest that Mazurec inspired me with,
Mazurec, the husband of Caillet's daughter," answered Jocelyn with deep
emotion. "Well, then, after the last revelation made by my father, I can
doubt no longer that Mazurec is my brother!"

"Are you certain?" Marguerite and Denise cried in one voice. "That
unfortunate lad, that martyr, your brother!"

"Is it possible?" asked Caillet in turn and no less astonished. "How do
you know it?"

"When my mother died," explained Jocelyn, "I was a child and my father
quite young. One evening, some four or five years later, as he was
entering Paris, he found on the road a young peasant woman lying on the
ground unconscious and bleeding of a wound. Moved by compassion, he
raised and carried her to a neighboring inn. The young woman regained
consciousness and informed him that she was a vassal of the Bishop of
Paris, and that, having lost her mother since early childhood, she was
then fleeing from a merciless step-mother who that same day came near
killing her. The young woman was named Gervaise. Touched by her youth,
her misfortune and her beauty, my father apprenticed her to a
washerwoman who lived near us. He often visited his protegé. Both loved
each other, and one day Gervaise informed my father that she carried
under her heart the fruit of their joint indiscretion. My father, as an
honest man, realized his duty, but being at that season forced to leave
Paris on a trip, promised Gervaise under oath to marry her upon his
return. Several weeks, a month and two passed by and my father did not
return--"

"But he was a man incapable of violating a sacred promise," interjected
Marguerite. "During the long years that we knew your father, we learned
to appreciate the straightforwardness of his nature and the goodness of
his heart. Undoubtedly some serious accident must have kept him away."

"Almost at the end of his journey, my father was attacked by a band of
highwaymen. He was robbed, wounded and left for dead on the road."

"And that prevented him from communicating with Gervaise?"

"He was picked up and for a long time he languished between life and
death. The unhappy woman thought herself deserted. The consequences of
her error began to betray her weakness. A prey to shame and despair she
left Paris!"

"Her condition should have earned the sympathy of people."

"Barely convalescent, my father hastened to write to Gervaise announcing
his speedy return. But when he arrived she had disappeared. Despite all
the inquiries that he instituted, he never succeeded in finding her
again. Her disappearance was a great sorrow to him, and remorse haunted
him the rest of his days. Such was his confession in a letter that he
wrote to me shortly before his death, and in which he conjured me, if by
some accident, impossible to foresee, I should meet Gervaise or her
child, to atone for the injury that he had involuntarily done to both."

"And thus, thanks to a strange coincidence," observed Marguerite, "you
now feel certain that the unhappy Mazurec, whose distressing story you
have told us, is indeed your brother?"

"I can have no doubt. After leaving Paris, Gervaise arrived in
Beauvoisis begging for her bread, shortly before giving birth to
Mazurec, and he himself told me that his mother's name was Gervaise;
that she was blonde; that her eyes were black, and that she had a little
scar above the left eye-brow. The description corresponds exactly with
that which my father left me of the poor creature. The scar came from a
blow that she received from her step-mother. Finally, by naming her son
Mazurec, one of my father's names, the poor woman furnished the last
link to the chain of evidence."

"Your father was at least saved a bitter sorrow," remarked Denise sadly,
"of never having learned the horrible fate of Gervaise's son."

Steps were at that moment heard mounting the stairs. Marguerite listened
attentively, and quickly rising and stepping to the door exclaimed: "It
is Marcel! God be praised!" and turning in a low voice to Denise who had
followed her: "I could hardly conceal my uneasiness; my husband's late
absence was seriously alarming me. May God be praised for his return!"

The provost entered, and after answering the tender caresses of his wife
and niece, said to them: "I suppose you think I am tired of the night at
work with the Regent, yet never have I felt so easy in mind and so light
of heart. Happiness is such a sweet recreation! I was profoundly happy
to see that young man return to the path of duty and equity as if by
enchantment, and express regret at his errors, and promise to atone for
them. Well was I in the right to say that we must never despair of
youth."

"Then, my friend," asked Marguerite, "the Regent did not deceive your
last hopes?"

"He went beyond them. We have just taken prompt and energetic measures
looking to the realization of the just and fruitful reforms that were
enacted last year by the national assembly. We shall now appeal to the
nation's courage and devotion to put an end to the disastrous war with
the English. We are to call, not upon the nobility only, but upon the
whole people--peasants, townsmen and artisans--to take up arms in this
holy war. That great triumph is to be the signal for the deliverance of
our rustic brothers," added Marcel reaching out his hand to Caillet.
"Yes, those who will have gloriously vanquished and chased away the
enemy, having become free men by their victory, are for ever after to be
free from the tyranny of the seigneurs who have not even known how to
protect our native country. Oh, my friend, how many agonies and
sufferings does not that hope wipe off from my heart and mind! The hope
of seeing Gaul at last victorious and free, peaceful and prosperous!"

"Master Marcel! Treason!... Treason!" suddenly resounded from a voice
rushing up the stairs. The provost held his breath, all others in the
chamber trembled with fear, and Rufin the Tankard-smasher rushed in
breathless, repeating: "Treason!... Master Marcel, treason!"

"Who betrays?" cried Jocelyn. "Speak!"

"Do you remember this morning at the Louvre?" answered Rufin. "I told
you then that if Margot, my wench, keeps the appointment she made with
me, I shall then believe in the sincerity of the Regent, but not
before!"

"Young man," put in Marcel with severity, seeing his wife and niece
blush at the amorous confidences of the student, "is it for the purpose
of cracking bad jokes that you have come to alarm my household?"

"The news I bring will be an apology, Master Marcel," respectfully
answered Rufin mopping his forehead that streamed with perspiration;
"the Regent has fled from Paris...."

"The Regent has fled!" cried Marcel stupefied. "Impossible! It is hardly
half an hour since I was with him."

"And that is less time than he needed to descend from the Louvre, to go
out by the postern gate that opens upon the river outside of the barrier
and to jump upon a skiff that was waiting for him!"

"You are dreaming!" replied Jocelyn, while Marcel seemed thunderstruck,
unable to understand what he heard. "You are dreaming, my gay Rufin, or
you have just left some tavern the fumes of whose wine have upset your
mind."

"By Bacchus, the god of wine, and by Morpheus, the god of slumbers!"
cried the student, "I am as certain that I am wide awake as that I am
not drunk! I saw the Regent with my two eyes step into the vessel, and
with my two ears I heard the Regent say to the friend who accompanied
him: 'I leave this accursed town, and I swear not to set foot in it
again until Marcel, the councilmen and the other chiefs of rebels shall
have paid with their heads for their insolent audacity and for the
revolt of these accursed Parisians.' Is that clear enough? Moreover,
would I dare come here and tell yarns to Master Marcel, whom I admire
and respect as much as any one could? And above all when, in the teeth
of the privileges of the University, he had me housed at the Chatelet,
together with my chum Nicholas the Thin-skinned because of the racket we
made one night on the street?" Noticing that despite certain irrelevant
details of his report, the people in the chamber began to attach faith
to his words, Rufin continued, while Marcel seemed racked with painful
astonishment and a prey to overpowering indignation: "As I was telling
you, I had an assignation with my wench Margot, on the river bank,
outside the barriers. Tired of waiting in vain for this fallacious
creature, I was about to leave when I perceived a lighted lantern on the
other side of the barrier and just under the postern of the Louvre.
Knowing as well as anybody that the vaulted corridor of that issue runs
out on one of the stairs of the large tower, a suspicion flashed through
my mind. The night was silent. At the risk of drowning and of going to
Pluto to meet Margot, only this time on the borders of the Styx, I
reached the stairs by clambering along the poles and the chain of the
barriers. At that moment the bearer of the lantern, who must have meant
to make sure that the vessel was there, re-entered the palace. I slid
along the wall of the Louvre up to the postern and there, screened by
the gate which was left open, I soon heard a voice saying: 'Come, come,
Sire; the vessel and the two boats are near the shore.' At which the
Regent answered in the way I have just stated to Master Marcel--'I leave
the accursed town, and I swear not to set foot in it again until Marcel,
the councilmen and the other chiefs of rebels shall have paid with their
heads for their insolent audacity and for the revolt of these accursed
Parisians.' The Regent and his companion marched quietly to the bank of
the river, and soon the sound of oars told me that the boat was leaving
rapidly. It vanished in the darkness of the night." Turning to Jocelyn
with a triumphant air, the student remarked: "Well, what did I tell you
this morning? You took me for a fool! And now you see the Regent has
fled from Paris threatening the inhabitants with vengeance! By the
bowels of the Pope! The belief in fatalism is a great thing!"

Learning that Marcel was now running fresh dangers, Marguerite exchanged
glances of anxiety with Denise, while seeking to conceal her alarm from
her husband lest she increased his worries. On the other hand,
foreseeing that the Regent's treason would hasten the uprising of the
rustic serfs, Caillet shrugged his shoulders with sinister gladness.
Finally, Marcel, with his arms crossed upon his breast, his head
lowered, his lips contracted with a bitter smile, broke the silence with
these words uttered deliberately: "When we parted the Regent said to me:
'My good father, I beseech you, go and take a little rest; night is
falling; I desire to-morrow early to renew our work with fresh ardor. Go
and take rest, my good father, and you will enjoy as much as myself the
restful sleep that will come to us from knowledge of having done right.'
Such were the last words I had from that young man."

"Oh, Marcel," said Marguerite, "how will you not regret the confidence
you placed in him!"

"Let us never regret having had faith in the repentance of a man. If we
do, we shall become merciless. Moreover, there are treasons so black and
monstrous that in order to suspect them one must be almost capable of
committing them." After another short interval of contemplative silence
Marcel resumed: "I hoped to save Gaul fresh bloodshed! Vain hope! That
unhappy fool wants war! How much is he not to be pitied for being so
ill-advised!"

"You pity him!" cried Marguerite; "and yet his last words threatened you
with death!"

"Dear wife; if my head were all that was at stake, I would not enter
into a terrible struggle to preserve it. I have achieved things that
sooner or later will bear fruit. My share in this world has been
handsome and large. I am ready to quit life. It is not my head that I
would dispute to the Regent, it is the lives of our councilmen, it is
the lives of a mass of our fellow townsmen, all of them menaced by the
merciless revenge of the court! What I wish to defend is our freedom so
dearly bought by our fathers; what I wish to secure is the
enfranchisement of those millions of serfs who are driven to extremities
by the tyranny of the seigneurs. Finally, what I aim at is the welfare
of Gaul, to-day exhausted and moribund! The dice are cast. The Regent
and seigneurs want war! They shall have war!... a terrible war!... Such
a war as human memory does not recall!" Saying this, Marcel sat down at
a table and rapidly wrote a few lines upon a parchment.

"No!" replied William Caillet in a tremor of rage. "No; never will that
have been seen that will be seen now! Up, Jacques Bonhomme!" cried the
old peasant in savage exaltation. "Up! Seize the fagot! Fall to! Take in
the harvest, Jacques Bonhomme, and be not dainty about it! Take up your
scythe in your bare arms--the short and sharp scythe! Let not a blade be
left to be gleaned after you!" and reaching out his trembling hand to
Marcel, the serf added: "Adieu, I depart well satisfied. By to-morrow
evening I shall be in the country. At dawn of the next day Jacques
Bonhomme will be up and doing in Beauvoisis, in Picardy, in Laonnais and
in many other districts!"

"Postpone your departure just one hour," answered Marcel while sealing
the letter he had just written. "I am going to the Louvre. You shall
depart at my return."

"My friend," exclaimed Marguerite in alarm, "what do you want at the
Louvre?"

"To make certain of the Regent's departure, although the account given
by Rufin leaves me no doubt on that head. I wish, before resorting to
terrible extremes, to be absolutely certain of the Regent's treason."

As Marcel was uttering the last words, Agnes the Bigot entered
precipitately and delivered to her master a letter that one of the town
sergeants had just brought in great haste. Marcel took the letter, read
it quickly and cried: "The councilmen have assembled at the town hall
and expect me. One of them, instructed by a man connected with the
palace on the flight of the Regent, ran to the Louvre, assured himself
of the fact, and hastily convoked the council. No doubt now. The
Regent's treason is confirmed." Delivering to Jocelyn the letter he had
just written, Marcel said to him: "Take horse, and carry this letter to
the King of Navarre at St. Denis. Wait for no answer."

"I shall jump on your horse's crupper, Jocelyn," cried Caillet. "I shall
that way reach the country a few hours sooner."

"Done!" said the champion; and turning to Marcel: "After I shall have
delivered your letter to the King of Navarre, I shall pursue my route
with Caillet to join by brother Mazurec."

"It is your duty, go!" answered Marcel stretching his arms out to
Jocelyn. "Embrace me. Who knows whether we shall ever again meet!" And
after having pressed the champion to his breast, he took the hand of
Denise who turned away her head to hide her tears, and added: "Whatever
may befall me, Denise shall be your wife upon your return; you could
have no worthier mate, nor could she choose a worthier husband; may
heaven grant that I assist at your wedding. If later any danger should
threaten you, you will find a safe retreat in Lorraine at Vaucouleurs
with the relatives of my niece."

Breaking out into tears and almost fainting, but supported by
Marguerite, Denise stretched out her hand to Jocelyn who covered it with
kisses, while Marcel said to Caillet: "Now, the hour has sounded! To
arms, Jacques Bonhomme! Peasants, artisans, townsmen, all for each! Each
for all! To the happy issue of the good cause!"

"To the happy issue of the good cause!" rejoined the serf shaking with
impatience. "To an evil issue the cause of the seigneurs and their
clergy! Up, Jacques Bonhomme! War upon the castles!"

"And I," cried the student addressing Caillet while Marcel was giving
his last instructions to Jocelyn, "I also will accompany you. I have
shins of steel to tire out a horse. I shall ride ahead of Jocelyn's
steed. To a happy issue the good cause! I represent the alliance of the
University with the rustic folks. Rufin the Tankard-smasher was my name
of peace; Rufin the Head-smasher becomes my name of war! And by the god
Sylvanus, the genius of the fields and forests, I shall make havoc in
this sylvan war! Forward! Forward!..."

A few minutes later William Caillet departed from Marcel's domicile
accompanied by the champion and the student, all three bound for
Beauvoisis.



PART III.

THE JACQUERIE.



CHAPTER I.

CAPTAIN GRIFFITH AND HIS CHAPLAIN.


The morning after William Caillet, Jocelyn the Champion and Rufin the
Tankard-smasher left Paris, a band of English adventurers, commanded by
Captain Griffith, and who for some time had been raiding the region of
Beauvoisis, was marching under a balmy May sun in the direction of the
village of Cramoisy. The men, about a hundred all told, and armed with
weapons of different descriptions, marched in disorder with the
exception of about fifty archers who carried on their shoulders their
six-feet-long ash bows, a favorite weapon with the English, and which
they handled with such dexterity that at the battle of Poitiers ten
thousand of them were enough to put to rout the army of King John,
consisting of more than forty thousand men commanded by the élite of the
French nobility.

Several empty carts, hitched to horses and oxen and led by peasants who
had been pressed into Captain Griffith's band under pain of death, were
intended for the prospective booty. The English sold to the contiguous
towns the proceeds of their thefts from the castles, as well as the
droves of cattle that they took from the fields. In these towns the
raiders were certain of purchasers for the sufficient reason that
whoever refused was hanged on the spot. Captain Griffith affected a
lordly generosity towards his customers in consenting to leave with them
the spoils of his thieving exploits in exchange for moneys that it was
in his power to rob them of. In his quality of the bastard of a great
lord, the Duke of Norfolk, he prided himself of acting courteously, "as
a true Englishman," according to his favorite phrase, and not scurvily
like so many other leaders of mercenary bands.

Captain Griffith--a man in the full vigor of his age, robust and
corpulent, and with hair and beard of a reddish blonde--rode at the head
of his archers, the élites of his troop. Although in full armor, he had
hung his casque on the pommel of his saddle, and now wore on his head a
bonnet of fox-skin. Boldness, incontinence and a sort of cruel joviality
stood out from the features of the Englishman that wore a rubicund tint
from the potations and meats that he was in the habit of swallowing in
enormous quantities. The morning air having sharpened his appetite, if
ever it can be said to have been satisfied, the bastard of Norfolk was
picking a ham, and from time to time lovingly resorted to a wine pouch
that also hung from the pommel of his saddle. At his side rode his
lieutenant, whom with impious mockery he styled his "Chaplain." Guilty
of all the crimes on the calendar, Captain Griffith took, like Rolf the
Norman pirate before him, a diabolical delight in all manner of
sacrilege.

The Chaplain, a hulky scamp with a toper's face and as vigorous of bone
as his Captain, wore under his iron coat of mail a monk's gown and on
his head a steel helmet.

"My son," said he to the bastard of Norfolk, "without meaning to offend
you, I shall have to call your attention to the fact that this is the
third time you put your wine pouch to your mouth without offering your
brother in Beelzebub to quench his thirst."

"What have you eaten, Chaplain, to make you so thirsty?"

"By the devil! I have been eating with my eyes the ham that you have
been devouring with your teeth."

"Why, then, quench your thirst by seeing me drink! Your health, friend!"

"Sacrilege! To refuse wine to a thirsty chaplain! I would prefer, for
the sake of your salvation, to see you again journey a whole day on a
stretch in a chariot drawn by St. Patrick, the abbot, and his
'chapter.'"

"Pshaw!" hissed Griffith; "there were relays."

"True, several relays, each of twelve monks, and they were successively
hitched. It was in your favor."

"There, devil's Chaplain, drink! Drink to my amorous exploits!"

After having kept for a seemingly interminable time his lips glued to
the orifice of the pouch that the Captain had passed over to him, the
Chaplain detached them for a moment, not so much for the purpose of
answering his worthy chief as for the purpose of taking breath.
Breathing heavily, he asked: "What amorous exploits? Sacred or profane
ones?" and then proceeded to quaff.

"I mean that winsome tavern-keeper, who escaped us at the pillage of the
little town of Nointel. Since that day, the pretty ankles of the
brunette have not ceased trotting in my brain. As sure as I am Norfolk's
bastard," added the Captain while the Chaplain continued to drain the
contents of the pouch at long draughts, "there are two things that I
would sell my soul to Beelzebub for. First, to snatch up that luscious
tavern-keeper, second to fight with that tall scamp whom we released
from the dungeons of Beaumont. He was then but a bag of bones, but when
he will have been fatted up, I would wager your neck, Chaplain, that
there is not the likes of him in this whole poltroon country of Gaul. I
am tired of seeing only puny knights at the point of my lance whom I run
down as if they were nine-pins. What a set of cowards these French
noblemen are!"

At this point, the lieutenant, who had never ceased drinking, emitted a
long gurgling sound, while with his free hand he pointed to a small
troop of armed foot-men headed by a rider, and who pursued a route that
somewhat led away from that of the English, but that ran out upon the
same clearance at the top of a hill. The rider who led the foot-men,
ordered a halt, and galloping over the meadow approached the English
troop with his right hand up as a sign that he had no hostile
intentions. Fearing, nevertheless, some ambuscade, Captain Griffith also
ordered his troop to halt, but he placed his archers in line, donned
his casque, took his long stout lance from the hands of one of his men,
and seeing the Chaplain still clinging to the pouch of wine struck it
from his lips with so dexterous a lance thrust that, slightly grazing
the drinker's nose, the weapon hurled the pouch ten paces off. "You have
watered quite enough!" he said with a gruff laugh.

"Fortunately the pouch is now empty," said the Chaplain wiping his mouth
with the back of his right hand; "not a drop has been lost."

The unknown rider approached the while, but suddenly reined in seeing
the archers, as was their wont before shooting their bolts, plant their
left feet in the center of their bows in order to bend them.

"I come as a friend!"

"Who are you?" demanded the bastard of Norfolk. "What do you want?"

"I am the bailiff of the Sire of Nointel, the seigneur of these domains.
I wish to speak with the valiant Captain Griffith."

"I am he.... What do you want?"

"Sir, is it you who have just pillaged the burgs and villages of our
seigneur, the Sire of Nointel?"

"Would you, perchance, want to prevent me?"

"On the contrary, Sir; I have come in the name of my seigneur to offer
you the advice of my old experience in order to help you to collect
ransom from these villeins. Jacques Bonhomme is a wily customer; he has
hiding places where he keeps his coin under shelter, and even provisions
and cattle."

"Chaplain," the Captain broke in upon the bailiff, "we shall have to cut
the ears of this fellow who comes here to mock us. Draw your cutlass and
give him absolution for his sins."

"Sir, listen to me, and you will be convinced that I am not joking!"
cried the bailiff. "Are you the son of the Duke of Norfolk?"

"A bastard son by my mother's virtue. But seeing she bestowed upon me a
good fist, good eyes and good teeth I hold her quits. I remain noble
from one side."

"The Duke your father knows that you hold the field in this region, and
he is charmed with your prowesses. He wrote so to my master."

"A short time ago, on the occasion of one of my archers' return to
Guyenne, I wrote to my father: 'My lord, in your life you gave me
nothing but a kick with your left foot which I still feel; but I am none
the less your affectionate bastard who is doing havoc in Gaul and who
signs himself--Captain Griffith.'"

"Sir," said the bailiff handing a letter to the Captain, "here is the
answer of the noble Duke, your father."

Greatly astonished, Captain Griffith broke the seal on the parchment and
read: "One of the poltroon French knights whom I took prisoner at the
battle of Poitiers will deliver this letter to you and also six thousand
florins for his ransom. You are a fine scamp. Persevere in your
exploits--Norfolk."

"What a father!" exclaimed the Chaplain raising his hands to heaven.
"What a son!"

"Six thousand florins!" cried Captain Griffith. "Well! The good man must
have remembered my worthy mother"; and addressing the bailiff he asked:
"Where are the six thousand florins?"

"In the purses of the vassals of my seigneur, the Sire of Nointel, who
was taken prisoner at the battle of Poitiers by the noble Duke of
Norfolk. But, oh! My master is ruined by the costs of war and not a
florin in the castle. But he gave his word as a Christian and a knight
to pay his ransom to your father or to you, Sir. He will keep his word.
It is an established custom that the vassals must ransom their seigneurs
when taken prisoner. I therefore come, Sir Captain, to offer to you, by
order of my master what little service I can render to you to the end of
aiding you in collecting the sum, a very difficult thing to do without
our aid. If you want a proof, all you have to do is to follow me not far
from here, and you will see something that will greatly astonish you."

Captain Griffith, whose curiosity was now pricked, started his horse at
the pace of the bailiff's, and resuming its march the troop descended
the flank of the hill at whose foot lay the straggling village of
Cramoisy, consisting of about three hundred cottages and houses. The
silence of the tomb reigned in these homes. They were deserted, and the
open doors showed their interiors to be empty and bare. Stupefied,
Captain Griffith reined in his horse and said to the bailiff:

"By the devil! Where are the inhabitants of these shanties?"

"The other villages of this seigniory are as deserted as this one. You
will find there, Sir, neither women, nor men, nor children, nor cattle,"
answered the bailiff. "There are left, as you see, only the four walls
of the houses. You will, therefore, find it difficult to collect here
even the smallest fraction of your six thousand florins. Jacques
Bonhomme is a sly fox; he had wind of your coming and has run into the
earth to escape you. But, to a sly fox a sly limehound. I know the
burrow of Jacques Bonhomme. Follow me, Sir."

"Where to? Whither do you lead us?"

"Only one league from here.... But we shall have to descend from our
horses at the outskirts of the forest. You can leave there the gross of
your troop. A dozen of your archers will be enough for the job I have in
mind. The risk is slight."

"Why would you have me descend from horseback, and leave behind the bulk
of my troop?"

"It will, in the first place, be impossible for us to ride on horseback
over the quagmires, jungles and bogs that we shall have to cross in
order to arrive at the hiding place of Jacques Bonhomme. In the second
place, the fox has a sharp ear. The noise made by a large troop would
give him the alarm."

"Captain," suggested the Chaplain, "suppose this scamp were but leading
us into an ambuscade?"

"Chaplain, never did Griffith recoil before danger," was the Captain's
answer; "moreover, if this bailiff with a marten's snout should deceive
us, let him be forewarned. At the first suspicion of treachery we shall
promptly hack him to pieces."

"That's right," returned the Chaplain. "Let's march! His skin answers
for our lives."

"March!" ordered Captain Griffith, and guided by the bailiff, who had
been rejoined by his men, the troop left the village of Cramoisy and
wended its way towards a forest, the skirt of which drew its length
along the horizon.



CHAPTER II.

THE FOX'S BURROW.


About two leagues from the village of Cramoisy, and in the thickest of
the seigniorial forest of Nointel, is a vast subterranean grotto, cut
into the chalky rock that offers little resistance to the pick and the
mattock. The cavern dates from the far-back troubled days when the
Norman pirates were in the habit of rowing up the Somme, the Seine and
the Oise and raiding the surrounding lands. Such of the serfs whose dire
misery did not reach the pitch of constraining them to join the Normans,
and who sought to escape the flood of pillage and massacre, had dug the
underground place of refuge. Carrying thither their little havings, and
even cattle, they remained hidden until the pirates left the country.
Similar places were in later years contrived in almost all parts of Gaul
by the vassals of the nobility for the purpose of escaping the
brigandage of the English, of the robber bands and of the bands of
mercenaries who devastated the provinces, finally also to escape the
extortions of the seigneurs that now became intolerable, seeing that
Jacques Bonhomme was forced to pay the ransom of their masters who had
been taken prisoners at the battle of Poitiers. In other regions of Gaul
the peasants withdrew with their families upon rafts which they anchored
midstreams of rivers, and which frequently were either submerged or
carried away by the floods to be finally swamped with the wretched mass
of humanity that they bore. Never before had desolation and panic
reached such a pitch in the unfortunate country; the huts were almost
all abandoned, the fields uncultivated and a famine was apprehended
similar to that which desolated Gaul in the year 1000.

The underground retreat whither the inhabitants of Cramoisy and several
other villages of the seigniory of Nointel took refuge consists of a
long vault, at the extremity and to the right and left of which are
several other galleries in which cattle, goats and sheep are crowded. A
well, used for a drinking trough, is dug in the center of the principal
gallery. Above, an opening, partially masked with stones and underbrush,
admits some light and air to the dark and icy asylum that oozes with the
moisture of the earth. There, more than a thousand people crowded
together--men, women and children who fled from their homes. The milk of
the cattle, a few handfuls of rye or wheat pounded between two stones
entertain rather than appease the tortures of hunger. A steaming,
suffocating and nauseous heat, produced by the agglomeration of people
and cattle, pervades the gloomy place. Now plaintive wails are heard,
then the outbursts of violent quarrels, such as are certain to break out
among semi-savages whom suffering exasperates. Wan and half naked
children, who, however, preserve the carelessness of their age, played
at this moment at the edge of the well which just happened to be lighted
by a ray of sunlight that filtered through the rocks and underbrush
which concealed the only air-hole of the vault. That sun ray also
lighted a group of three persons, huddled together in a dug-out near the
well. The three persons were Aveline, Alison and Mazurec.

When the little village of Nointel was pillaged by the troupe of Captain
Griffith, the handsome tavern-keeper succeeded in saving what moneys she
had and fled to Cramoisy where she joined Aveline. Learning there that
the English were still ravaging the neighborhood, she joined the
peasants in their flight to the underground retreat.

Aveline, now far advanced in pregnancy, expected every day to be
delivered of the child of her disgrace and the fruit of the iniquity
perpetrated upon her by her seigneur. Barely covered in a few rags, she
lay on the cold and bare earth. Ever sympathetic, Alison held upon her
knees the languishing and pale head of the young girl, whose thinness
had now become shocking. Her hollow cheeks imparted monstrous size to
her eyes, which she attached beseechingly upon Mazurec, engaged at the
moment in sharpening upon a stone the teeth of a pitch-fork while
muttering to himself: "William is long in returning from Paris; we are
waiting for him so as to start the massacre ... sacred reprisals!"

Thus muttering to himself, Mazurec continued sharpening his fork. He had
become a hideous sight. Having lost his right eye since the judicial
combat with the knight of Chaumontel, the now hollow, quivering and half
closed eyelids on that side of his face exposed a blood-clotted cavity.
His crushed nose is a mass of scars, purplish like his torn-up upper lip
which exposes his broken teeth. His long matted hair falls upon the
ragged goat-skin jacket which he wears and from which protrude his
nervy, but now haggard arms. Attaching upon her husband a beseeching
look, Aveline said to him in a weak and sad voice: "Mazurec, if I give
birth to a child before dying ... promise me not to kill it!... Answer
me ... I beseech you in God's name.... Have mercy on the innocent
creature."

"I promise nothing," answered the vassal in a hollow voice without
stopping from his work; "we shall see what's to be done."

"He will kill the innocent child, Dame Alison!" cried Aveline weeping
and hiding her head.

"Keep still!" replied Mazurec with the mien of a tiger that rendered his
face still more frightful; "Keep still, or I may believe you are proud
of having a child of your seigneur."

Aveline answered with a hysterical sob, while Alison cried indignantly:
"Wretch, you will yet be the cause of your wife's death!"

"I had as lief she was dead as alive ... as to the child she now carries
... he shall not live ... I shall smother the noble whelp."

"Well, then, why don't you kill both mother and child. That would be
less cruel than to kill Aveline by little and little as you are doing!"
And looking at Mazurec with eyes of angry reproach, Alison added: "Oh,
Mazurec the Lambkin, the unfortunate girl whose death you now wish, once
made your heart bound with joy when you passed the door at which she
used to spin!"

At these words which recalled to Mazurec the spring-tide of his love,
days that were sweet even to the wretched serf, the young man broke down
in tears, threw the fork aside, and closely embracing his wife, whose
pale face he covered with kisses, he said: "Pardon me, my poor
Aveline!... Oh, my blood has turned to gall ... I have suffered so
much.... I still suffer so much.... Pardon me, my dear wife!"

Mazurec was uttering these words when suddenly the species of air-hole
above the well was almost wholly obstructed with large stones that were
being rolled about by the men of the bailiff of Nointel, and the bailiff
himself, applying his mouth as closely as he could to the little opening
that was left, shouted down into the cavity: "All of you, vassals of the
parish of Cramoisy and neighboring villages, you are taxed, as your
quota of the ransom of our very noble, very high, very dear and very
powerful seigneur, the sum of one thousand florins; the other parishes
of the seigniory shall be similarly taxed. Rummage around your purses
quickly so that you meet the sum demanded. You have hiding places where
you bury your valuables. Choose quickly between death and your money. If
within the time it shall take me to utter a 'pater'[5] and an 'ave,'[6]
one of you does not come out with the money, you will all be smoked to
death like so many foxes in their burrow, after which the corpses will
be rifled."

The bailiff stopped; the air-hole was tightly closed with clods of
earth; and the cavern was plunged into utter darkness.

"Oh, my God! What's going to happen? Leave me not Mazurec," cried
Aveline in a tremor and throwing her arms around her husband who jumped
up the better to hear the announcement made by the bailiff, and which,
repeated from mouth to mouth by the vassals, left them steeped in gloomy
silence. The unhappy serfs clung all the more tightly to their little
coin, their last resource, the only fruits left to them of their
crushing labors and homicidal privations, seeing that they had succeeded
in saving it from the rapacity of their seigneurs only by dint of untold
privations and nameless devices, often struggling against the torture
itself that was frequently inflicted upon them in the hope of wringing
from them the disclosure of the hiding places where they kept their
little treasure buried. The first shock being over, cries of indignation
and revolt resounded in the cavern. The noise increased more and more.

"We leave our homes to live in holes like wild beasts, and we are hunted
down even here!"

"To be pillaged by the English, and be forced besides to pay for the
ransom of our seigneurs!"

"No! No! Let them choke us with smoke, let them burn us, let them
massacre us.... They shall get not one denier from us!"

"We shall throw our few remaining sous into the well, sooner than
deliver them to our butcher!"

It did not take the bailiff long to say his "pater" and "ave." Seeing
none of the serfs coming out of the cavern to bring him the sum
demanded, he ordered the burrow of Jacques Bonhomme to be smoked. The
work was easily done. The cavern was entered by a narrow and steep
passage cut into the rock. The Englishmen of Captain Griffith and the
retinue brought by the bailiff heaped up at the mouth of the entrance a
mass of dry leaves and branches, set fire to the same, and with the aid
of their long lances shoved on the brasier a heap of green branches the
thick and acrid smoke of which soon filled the interior of the cavern,
the only opening that could have allowed the smoke to escape having been
tightly closed in advance.

Ghastly was the scene that ensued. Suffocated and blinded by the black
and pungent smoke, the vassals were a prey to distracting pain. The
cattle, submitted to the identical trial, became furious, broke their
ropes and rolled in the darkness amid the crowd whom they trampled under
foot or gored with their horns. The wails of women and children, the
imprecations of men, the lowing of the cattle made an infernal concert.
Several of the serfs succeeded in groping their way to the well and
threw themselves in to escape prolonged torture; others threw themselves
headlong towards the mouth of the cavern, but smothered by the thick
smoke and the flames that entered the passage and that now converted the
entrance into a furnace, dropped down into the middle of the flames and
were consumed; others again threw themselves down flat upon the ground,
scratched the earth with their nails and, burying their faces in the
earth imagined in their wild delirium they could thus take breath;
lastly not a few were the mothers who, wishing to spare their children a
long agony, strangled them quickly to death.

Mazurec held Aveline tightly in his arms while he shuddered at the
thought of the horrible death that awaited her. The tender sentiments of
their happier days took possession of his heart and mind and he racked
his brain for a means of escape. It was in vain. Long worn out by misery
and sorrow, the young woman was not equal to so rude an additional
strain. In her death agony she fastened her lips to Mazurec's as though,
wishing to escape suffocation, she strove to inhale her husband's
breath.

By degrees her hold on him was relaxed, with one convulsive effort she
embraced her husband and then her arms dropped by her side.

"Dead!" shrieked the serf; "dead and unavenged, my dearly beloved
Aveline!"

"You can still revenge her and save us both and many more of these
unfortunates," came panting from Alison, who still preserved her senses
and energy. "Let us hasten!" continued the tavern-keeper with an ever
more oppressed voice. "Let us endeavor to get out of here; ... I shall
give the bailiff three hundred florins that I have sewn in my clothes;
... he will allow us to escape; ... if he does not, kill him; ... take
your pitch-fork; ... it lies there.... Let's flee!..."

Mazurec emitted a cry of savage joy. The imminence of danger and the
hope of revenge increased his strength tenfold. He seized the fork with
his right hand, with his left he dragged Alison after him, and guided by
the ruddy glow at the mouth of the cavern, the vassal plied his fork so
as to clear a passage through the crowd that ran about delirious. Some
he threw down, others he walked over. Finally he reached the approaches
of the burning pile near which a number of corpses lay strewn. Dropping
the hand of Alison and hitting upon a plan that had occurred to none
during the general panic, Mazurec thrust his pitch-fork into the midst
of the burning pile, scattered it, threw some of it behind him, opened a
passage to himself, cleared the space which was covered with burning
embers, and after a few bounds found himself at the issue of the cavern.
For a moment Mazurec stood still inhaling the free air; his strength
returned speedily; and making one last effort he rushed out. At the
unexpected sight of Mazurec, foaming at the mouth with rage and
brandishing his fork, both the Englishmen and the bailiff's men drew
back in terror. Mazurec lost no time; he rushed upon the bailiff, buried
the fork in the bowels of his seigneur's menial, threw him down, and,
maddened with rage, trampled him under foot while he again and again
thrust his pitch-fork into the bailiff's breast, his face and every part
of his body that he could reach, uttering at every thrust: "This is for
your having dragged Aveline to your master's bed!... This is for your
having now smothered Aveline to death!"

At the sight of the terrific spectacle Captain Griffith broke out in a
loud guffaw saying: "I take this expert poker under my protection. I
admire his dexterity in the use of his pitch-fork!" In the midst of
these exclamations Captain Griffith suddenly remained silent, then
clapping his hands he proceeded in new ecstacy: "By the devil! Here are
my two beautiful black eyes and plump ankles! Oh, this time you will not
escape me, my belle! Mine be your treasures!"

The English captain uttered these cries at the sight of Alison, who now
appeared at the entrance of the cavern, pale, with disheveled hair, her
clothes half burnt, breathing fast and so feeble that she was unable to
walk except supporting herself by the rocks that lay near by. Captain
Griffith, without being moved at the lamentable aspect of the woman, and
listening only to his own amorous suggestions, made one bound at his
prey, took her in his arms and cried: "This time I hold you! Now you are
mine!"

"Mercy!" cried Alison, struggling to free herself. "I shall give you all
the money I have.... Mercy!"

"Love first, money afterwards!" was the answer of Norfolk's bastard
carrying Alison off.

"Help, Mazurec! Help!" cried the tavern-keeper as loudly as her weak
voice allowed her. But Mazurec, exasperated with suffering and now drunk
with bloodshed and the transports of revenge, continued to hack with his
pitch-fork the corpse of the bailiff, and heard not the appeal of
Alison.

Suddenly, stepping out of a thick bush and appearing on the top of a
rocky eminence, Jocelyn the Champion precipitated himself upon the
ravisher, followed by Adam the Devil, William Caillet, Rufin the
Tankard-smasher and several serfs armed with axes, forks and scythes.
This small troop, attracted by the cries of Alison, had rushed forward
ahead of a large number of revolted peasants, who, crossing a denser
part of the forest, marched slowlier.

"Here I am, my charming hostess!" cried Jocelyn, leaping from rock to
rock, sword in hand; "here I am ... ready to defend you!"

"My Hercules of the castle of Beaumont!" exclaimed Captain Griffith,
drawing his sword at the sight of Jocelyn whom he immediately
recognized; and relinquishing Alison he rushed, sword in hand, at
Jocelyn, saying: "Only to-day I requested but two things from Satan: to
embrace that belle and to find you again a little fattened, my sturdy
boy! Let's commence with you; the belle shall have her turn!"

"I have not yet gathered much meat on my bones," responded the champion,
intrepidly attacking the bastard of Norfolk, "but you shall not be long
in admitting that my wrist has not yet lost any of its strength."

A mad combat was immediately engaged in between the champion and the
Captain, while Caillet, Adam the Devil, Rufin and several of the serfs
who accompanied them, threw themselves furiously upon Captain Griffith's
Chaplain and the archers who had come with him when he left the gross of
his troop near the skirt of the forest, as the bailiff had advised.

"Kill, kill the English!... Death to the English!"

Overpowered and crushed by numbers, cut to pieces with the scythes,
disemboweled with the forks, knocked down with the hatchets, not one of
Captain Griffith's men escaped the carnage. After heroically defending
himself against Adam the Devil, who was armed with a short scythe and
against Rufin who wielded a long sword, the Chaplain fell under their
blows. His attention being now drawn again from his frenzy against the
corpse of the bailiff by the arrival of the peasants who came with
Caillet, Mazurec turned to them and brandishing his fork first joined
their side of the combat; but struck with a sudden thought, he climbed
the hillock where the air-hole had been contrived over the cavern, and
which had recently been closed by the orders of the bailiff of Nointel.
With the assistance of his fork he rolled off the stones from the
aperture, and the smoke, now finding an issue, escaped therefrom in
thick and black puffs. Climbing down, Mazurec disappeared within the
cavern.

At that moment, though wounded in the arm, Jocelyn was holding Captain
Griffith to the ground with both his knees pressing on the Englishman's
chest, and was looking for the dagger at his belt to bury it in his
throat saying: "You shall die, English dog, who do not respect even
dying women!"

"As true as you are the best blade that I have yet met in this country,
my only regret is that I leave that belle behind!"

Such were the last words of the bastard of Norfolk. At the same moment
Mazurec issued from the cavern with the corpse of Aveline in his arms,
saying:

"William Caillet, here is your daughter and my wife. All of you who have
wives, children, parents or friends step into that cavern. Look for them
among the dead and dying. Our seigneur, the Sire of Nointel, had us
smoked in our refuge because we refused to contribute money towards his
ransom!"

At this announcement a large number of peasants ran into the cavern,
while Caillet approached Mazurec, who still held his wife's body in his
arms, and calmly said: "Lay her down on the grass.... We shall dig her
grave." But the words were hardly uttered by the old man than throwing
himself down beside the lifeless body of his daughter, he broke out in
convulsive sobs while kissing her cold face.

"I have cried so much that I have no tears left," said Mazurec
contemplating the spectacle with a dry and fiery eye, while Adam the
Devil silently dug Aveline's grave with the aid of his short scythe.

A clump of roots and trees had until now concealed the sad spectacle
from Jocelyn, who, not having noticed his brother in the heat of the
combat, sat down on the grass supported by Rufin, and left his arm to be
attended by Alison. Always brave and helpful, despite the different
emotions that stormed through her heart, the tavern-keeper had ripped up
her neck-cloth, and kneeling down beside Jocelyn, looked upon him with
tenderness while staunching his wound.

"When we first met, you won my case; to-day I owe to you life and honor.
How can I ever repay such a debt. Oh, I know too well how you contemn
money to offer you three hundred franks that I have sewed in my skirt."

"Do you wish, dear and good hostess, to repay your debt? Go to Paris.
When you arrive there, ask where Master Marcel lives. Everybody will
show you the place. Tell his wife that I have been slightly wounded and
that there is no danger. That will assure Dame Marcel and also her niece
... my betrothed."

"Oh, you are betrothed, Sir!" exclaimed Alison with some confusion, and
gulping down a sigh, she added in an unsteady voice: "May God protect
your love! I shall do as you say. I shall go to Paris ... I shall calm
the anxieties of the girl you love. In her place I would be happy,
indeed.... Oh, so happy to be reassured regarding him whom I love,"
saying which Alison lowered her head to conceal a furtive tear that
shone on her beautiful black eyes.

"Oh, Jocelyn!" Rufin said in a low voice, charmed with the grace and
kindness of Alison, "a comely and honest body like that is worth a
hundred Margots."

"Dear hostess!" resumed Jocelyn after a moment's reflection, "Will you
allow me to give you advice? In times like these, a woman who travels
alone runs great dangers. Take this friend of mine, Rufin, for your
escort."

"Jocelyn," said the student with a lively movement, "I wish to remain
with you to fight the nobility."

"You fought bravely despite the wound that you received only day before
yesterday, and which still gives you much pain. You can render our cause
a great service by returning and notifying Marcel that the peasants are
in arms in this province and that William Caillet has given the signal
for the uprising. Marcel awaits this news to act.... And if he has any
confidential message for me, he will send it through you. You will then
rejoin me in Beauvoisis. You will be easily able to learn the
whereabouts of Caillet's troops, which I shall not leave"; and seeing
that the student was about to yield, Jocelyn added in a low voice:
"Despite the indiscretions of your youth, you are an upright fellow;
promise me that you will guard Alison as you would your own sister."

"I promise, Jocelyn; and you can trust my word! I shall be a good
guardian to Alison."

Suddenly a tremor ran over Jocelyn. He had just noticed Mazurec and
Caillet carrying the body of Aveline. He understood what had happened,
profound sorrow depicted itself upon his face, and kneeling down he
said: "Kneel, Rufin ... kneel, my good hostess ... I shall have to wait
till after this funeral to inform Mazurec that I am his brother."

Adam the Devil had finished digging the grave of Aveline. Caillet and
Mazurec, holding the body by the shoulders and feet, laid it down in the
tomb. The peasants who witnessed the ceremony fell upon their knees. The
funeral of the poor female serf piously performed under the vault of the
forest in the midst of the heaped-up rocks at the mouth of the
cavern--the immense tomb of so many other victims--was a spectacle of
mournful grandeur. Everything contributed to render the scene terrible
and imposing. There lay the mutilated and bloody members of the bailiff,
the pitiless executer of the Sire of Nointel's orders; yonder were
strewn the corpses of the English, no less execrated than the seigneurs
by the people of the fields; further at a distance was the kneeling
crowd of serfs, bare-headed, clad in rags, holding strange and
murderous weapons in their hands, and hardly able to restrain their
fury; finally there were the father and the husband laying with their
own hands into her grave her who should have been the solace of the
former's old age and the joy and love of the latter's youth!

As soon as the body of the dead girl was laid in the fosse, Adam the
Devil began filling it up with earth, while William Caillet standing at
the head of his daughter's sepulchre and holding Mazurec to his breast
cried out in a voice that pulled at the heart-strings of all present:

"Adieu, my daughter! Adieu, my poor Aveline! You who never lied! You who
never did wrong! Adieu! For evermore adieu!" and raising his trembling
hands heavenward, the old peasant proceeded solemnly: "I swear here by
the body of my child whom I have buried with my own hands! By the bones
of our friends and our relatives whose grave is that cavern! By the
sufferings that we endure! By the blood and the sweat of our
forefathers! I shall revenge my daughter! I shall revenge our fathers! I
shall revenge our race for the tortures it has endured! War upon the
castles, without let or mercy!"

Carried away by these words, the surrounding serfs rose to their feet,
and brandishing their staves, their scythes, their forks and their axes,
all responded in chorus with a voice that the echoes of the forest
answered back: "Vengeance!" "Justice!"

In the meantime the peasants who had run into the cavern were coming
back with terror marked on their faces: "Dead.... They are all dead or
dying! Women and children, old and young ... all are dead!"

"All dead!" Caillet repeated in a terrific voice, "the little children!
The women! The old men and the young! All dead! Up, Jacques Bonhomme!
Up, my Jacques! Let the Jacquerie commence!"

"It shall commence with the castle of Chivry," cried Adam the Devil.
"Our seigneur is to be this very day at the castle of Chivry to wed the
gorgeous Gloriande ... on the day of the tourney she laughed at
Mazurec!... It will now be your turn to laugh at the haughty damosel....
Up, my Jacques, let the Jacquerie commence!"

"Ha! Ha! The belle Gloriande!" Mazurec repeated with a ferocious and
semi-delirious laughter. "I shall appear before her with one eye knocked
out and my nose crushed! Oh! The gorgeous Gloriande!... What a fright
she'll have!... Her husband took my bride.... Up, up, my Jacques! The
Jacquerie commences!... War upon the castles!"

The revolted peasants tumultuously followed Caillet, Adam the Devil and
Mazurec across the forest crying: "To Chivry.... Up, Jacques.... The
Jacquerie commences!"

"Good-bye, hostess!" said Jocelyn rising and preparing to follow
Mazurec. "Good-bye, Rufin. Guard with the solicitude of a brother this
worthy woman who confides herself to your protection."

"I trust your friend," answered Alison, "because you told me to trust
him."

"I swear," put in the student deeply moved, "that you can trust me as
fully as you would Jocelyn himself, pretty hostess."

"Good-bye, Rufin; I shall join my brother, disclose to him the bonds
that unite us, and battle at his side. Once more, good-bye, Alison. Say
to Dame Marcel and to Denise, my betrothed, that if I do not see them
again, my last thoughts will have been to them. As to you, Rufin, say to
Marcel that the peasants of this province are at work exterminating the
seigneurs."

"Good-bye, Jocelyn," Rufin answered sadly, extending his hand to his
friend. "If Master Marcel should have any message for you I shall ask
him to commission me to bring it to you!"

Once more the champion pressed his friend's hand and hastened to join
the Jacques whose vociferations were heard in the distance. Before
following the student, the good Alison knelt down at the grave of
Aveline and amidst tears bade the last adieu to the ill-starred young
woman.



CHAPTER III.

THE CASTLE OF CHIVRY.


The castle of Chivry, situated about three leagues from Nointel, and
like almost all other feudal manors, built on the brow of a precipitous
mountain, has nothing to fear from an attack from without. Defended both
by a hundred men-at-arms and its own natural position, it can resist a
long siege. For such an attack, artillery and other engines of war would
have been requisite. The interior magnificence of this seigniorial
edifice matches its defensive strength. Among its many sumptuous
features is the throne hall, or hall of honor, which presents a dazzling
sight. Its rafters, painted and gilded, glisten under the blue of the
ceiling. Rich hanging carpets cover the walls, and enormous fire-places
of sculptured stone, where whole trunks of trees are burned, rise at the
two extremities of the vast apartment which is lighted by ten ogive
windows of glass bearing armorial designs. The hall, virtually a
gallery, is two hundred feet long, by one hundred wide--vast dimensions,
indispensible to the state ceremonies which the stewards of the Sire of
Chivry, as is the custom, attend mounted on horseback, entering by one
of the doors of the hall, and solemnly carrying on the silver platters
the "dishes of honor" such as peacocks and roasted pheasants, prepared
with their own heads, and out-spread tails and wings, or gigantic
pastries representing the seigniorial manor, ornamented with an
escutcheon painted in lively colors--a glorious dish that the pages
place on the table before the queen of the feast, and that must be cut
by the equerry.

On this day, a brilliant company--the nobles, seigneurs and dames,
damosels and children of the neighboring estates--assembled in the
throne hall of the castle of Chivry, and pressed around the beautiful
Gloriande, who sat triumphant on the throne--a sort of raised seat
covered and canopied with gold brocades. Never did the damosel seem more
superb and brilliant in the eyes of her admirers. Her attire was
dazzling. Her black hair, braided with a thread of pearls and
carbuncles, is half hid under her virginal bride's veil. Her robe of
white velvet, embroidered with silver, boldly exposes her breast and
plump arms. A scarf of Oriental silk, fringed with pearls, girds her
supple and well-shaped waist. With brilliant eyes, pink cheeks and
smiling lips, Gloriande receives the compliments of the noble assemblage
who congratulate her on her wedding, the celebration of which is soon to
be announced by the bell of the castle's chapel. The aged Count of
Chivry enjoys the happiness of his daughter and the homage she is the
recipient of. Nevertheless, despite the gladness denoted by her face,
from time to time Gloriande puckers up her black eyebrows, while
throwing impatient looks towards the doors of the gallery. Noticing one
of these looks of impatience, the Count of Chivry says to his daughter
smiling: "Be at ease ... Conrad will soon be here.... There he is....
Behold your bridegroom! What a noble presence!"

At the moment when the noble seigneur was saying these words a
triumphant procession entered the spacious hall. Clarion players opened
the march with a bravoure, they were followed by the pages bearing the
livery of Nointel who in turn were followed by the seigneur's equerries.
These led ten hideous looking men in chains. Their faces and skulls,
smoothly shaven, are of dark brown color. Sad and dejected, they hold
their heads down. They are clad in new white and green blouses, the
armorial colors of the house of Chivry. From time to time the captives
noisily clank their chains and emit lamentable moanings. Behind them
marches the Sire of Nointel, superbly astride of a charger, with visor
down, lance in hand and accoutred in battle armor. At his side but on
foot marches Gerard of Chaumontel, also in full armor and seeming to
share his friend's glory. The cheers of the noble assemblage greet the
procession, and the radiant Gloriande, whose cheeks are now red with
pride, rises from her seat and waving her handkerchief cries:

"Glory to the victor! Honor to the bravest gallant!"

"Glory to the victor!" is echoed back by the noble assemblage. "Honor to
the bravest gallant! Long live the seigneur of Nointel!"

The Sire of Nointel descends from his horse, raises the visor of his
casque and while his equerries beckon the captives to kneel down, he
delivers himself of the following sentence:

"My lady-love ordered me to go to war against the English and to bring
ten prisoners to her feet. The duty of all gallant knights is to obey
the queen of their thoughts. Here are the ten English soldiers that I
took at the battle that we have fought. And I, a captive of the god of
love, now lead these chained men to the feet of my lady-love."

These chivalrous and gallant words threw the assemblage into transports
of enthusiasm. The Sire of Nointel bows his head and proceeds:

"These prisoners belong to my lady-love. Let her dispose of them at her
sovereign will."

"Seeing that my valiant knight requests me to decide over the fate of
these prisoners," answered Gloriande, "I order that they be delivered of
their chains ... and that they be set free! The day of my marriage shall
be a day of joy for all"; and extending her hand to Conrad who drops on
one knee before his bride, she proceeds: "Here is my hand, Sire of
Nointel. I can give it to no more valorous a knight."

"Happy day to the wedded couple!" cries the assemblage. "Glory and
happiness to Gloriande of Chivry and Conrad of Nointel!"

While the brilliant company was thus manifesting its share in the
gladness of the young couple, the Count of Chivry approached the knight
of Chaumontel and asked him in a low voice:

"Gerard, what devil of Englishmen are these fellows.... Why, they are
dark as moles!"

"Sir Count," gravely answered the knight, "these scamps are of the
English tribe of _Ratamorphrydich!_"

"How do you call that tribe?" again inquired the aged seigneur stupefied
at the barbarous name; "I never heard of it before."

"The _Ratamorphrydich_," explained the knight, "are one of the most
ferocious tribes of northern England. They are supposed to descend from
a gypsy or Syrian colony that migrated from Moscovy to the shores of
Albion upon the back of marine horses."

"Well! Well!" rejoined the aged count enraptured at the geographic
knowledge of the knight. "That is a very complete and clear
explanation."

The bell of the castle's chapel now sounded, and the seigneur of Chivry
said to the knight: "This is the first peal of the wedding mass. Oh,
Gerard, this is a beautiful day for my old years ... doubly beautiful
because it shines in otherwise sad times."

"But it seems, Sire, that you have no cause to complain of the events.
Conrad returns to you covered with laurel. True enough, he is a paroled
prisoner of the English, but at this very moment his vassals are
emptying their purses for his ransom. He is beloved by your daughter,
whom he adores. Your castle, well fortified and provisioned, and
defended by a courageous garrison, has nothing to fear from either the
English or the marauding bands. Jacques Bonhomme, still sore at every
limb from the lesson he received last year at the tourney of Nointel,
dare not raise his nose above the ditches where he is at work for you.
You may live in peace and contentment. Long live love, and let the
future take care of itself!"

"Father," said Gloriande to the Count of Chivry, "the bell has sounded
the second call for mass.... Let us start."

"Very well, my impatient bride," the Count replied smiling upon his
daughter, "give your hand to Conrad and we shall start for the altar."

"Oh, father, do you know that Conrad spoke of me to the Regent, our
Sire? The young and lovely prince wishes to see me at court.... We shall
have time to order three dresses, one of brocade, the other of silver
... the third laminated in flower work."

"You may order ten dresses, twenty if you wish, and of the richest.
Nothing is too beautiful for Gloriande of Chivry when she makes her
appearance at court! It is well to show those kings, who seek to crowd
the seigneurs, that we are as great seigneurs as themselves. You shall
not lack for money. My bailiffs shall levy a double tax upon my vassals
in honor of your wedding, as is customary. But here comes another
impatient hot-blood who implores you to take pity on his martyrdom,"
gaily added the Count pointing at Conrad who now approached. The Sire of
Nointel lovingly took the hand of his bride, the procession formed and,
followed by the pages and equerries, the noble assembly marched to the
chapel of the manor.

The English prisoners, who had been freed of their chains by the order
of Gloriande, brought up the rear. While crossing the threshold of the
gallery a large newly sharpened knife with a coarse wooden handle
dropped from the blouse of one of the prisoners.

"Adam the Devil," whispered another prisoner, "pick up your knife before
it attracts the attention of the soldiers."



CHAPTER IV.

"JACQUERIE! JACQUERIE!"


The marriage of the damosel of Chivry with the seigneur of Nointel took
place in the morning. In the afternoon, the large number of guests
invited to the brilliant wedding were gathered in the large throne hall,
now transformed into a banquet room. The banquet was continued deep into
the evening, and was now nearing its end. For the last six hours the
noble guests had been doing ample honor to the interminable meal. While
Jacques Bonhomme barely preserves existence with decayed beans and
water, the seigneurs eat fit to split their stomachs. It was so at the
nuptials of the belle Gloriande. The first course, intended to open the
appetite, consisted of citrons, fruit cooked in vinegar, sour cherries,
salted dishes, salads and other toothsome preparations. The second
course was of lobster patties, cream almonds, soups of meat, of rice, of
oats, of wheat, of macaroni, of fricandelles, each served in the
different colors that expert cooks impart to them and that please the
eyes of the gourmands--soups in white, in blue, in yellow, in red, in
green or of golden hue were spread in harmonious combinations. The third
course had roasts with sauce, and what a variety of sauces!--cinnamon,
nutmeg, raisin, jennet, rose, flower--all these sauces likewise colored
differently. The fourth course consisted of pastries of all sorts, of
boars, of deer, monstrous pastries that held, floating on goose fat, a
whole stuffed lamb, finally tarts of rose leaves, of cherries, of
chestnuts, and in the middle of all these a monumental fabric of pastry
three feet high, representing the donjon-keep, the towers and the
ramparts of the noble manor of Chivry. The long table loaded down with
costly plate which reflected one another by the light of wax candles
presented the aspect of gladsome disorder. The flagons and silver
decanters, filled with spiced wines and circulating from hand to hand,
redoubled the conviviality of the hour. Some of the guests grew unsteady
in their seats, their heads swimming in the fumes of approaching
drunkenness. The cheeks and eyes of several of the dames and their
daughters, even without having celebrated Gloriande's nuptials to a
Bacchic excess, had become purple and inflamed; their breasts heaved,
and they laughed boisterously at the licentious stories told by the
seigneurs who sat near and drank out of the same cup with them. Outside
of the banquet table, the servants, and even the men-at-arms, were
sharing the convivial joys of their masters, and celebrated the nuptials
of their seigneur's daughter with deep potations of beer, cider, and
even wine. Many were asleep in the profound slumbers of inebriety.

Alone Gloriande and her bridegroom have remained free from the effects
of the overfeeding and drinking. Their intoxication is sweeter. They
love each other, and soon the hour would come for their retirement. From
time to time they exchanged furtive glances of impatience. Ardent are
the looks of Conrad; troubled those of Gloriande. Her beautiful bosom
undulates attractively the necklace of pearls and diamonds that rests
upon it. She even frowns and shrugs her white shoulders upon hearing her
father, now in an advanced stage of intoxication, bellowing at the top
of his voice for silence and announcing that he would sing an old
drinking song of twenty-eight verses, and each couple, drinking from the
same goblet, was to empty it at each couplet, after which the bride and
bridegroom would be ceremoniously conducted by her maids of honor to the
bridal chamber, whose door opened into the hall. At her father's
proposition to sing twenty-eight verses, a proposition that was received
with general acclaim, Gloriande cast a desolate look upon Conrad, and
the latter, turning to his friend Chaumontel, whispered in his ear: "The
devil take the drunken old man ... along with his song."

"By the way," answered the half intoxicated knight, laughing loudly,
"the old man asked me this morning how our English prisoners happened to
be dark as moles;" and turning from the Count of Chivry the knight
reflected a moment and then proceeded: "But, Conrad, were there not
originally eleven rustics instead of ten that we picked up near the
forest, from which they had just issued with forks, scythes and axes?
They said they were hunting for a wolf that caused them much damage. Ah!
Ah! I must still laugh when I think of our capture.... By the devil....
It was eleven and not ten rustics that we caught.... How does it come
that, being eleven, there should only be ten now?"

"Do you forget that one of them ran away on the road?"

"That's a ray of light!" cried Gerard, counting on his fingers with the
gravity of a drunken man. "The rustics were eleven. Good.... One of them
escapes.... Consequently there should be only ten left! Conrad, you are
the brightest of mortals!"

At that moment the seigneur of Chivry struck up the fourth couplet of
his Bacchic song. No longer could the beautiful Gloriande endure her
amorous martyrdom. She exchanged a few signs of intelligence with
Conrad, and almost immediately uttered a slight cry, while seizing her
father's arm, near whom she was seated. The old seigneur abruptly broke
off his song and said to Gloriande, in blank amazement:

"What is the matter, dear daughter? Are you not well?"

"I feel giddy; I am not well; I shall withdraw to my room."

"My dearly beloved Gloriande," said the Sire of Nointel, rising quickly,
"allow me to accompany you."

"Yes, I wish you would, Conrad.... I shall take some air at the window
of my room.... I think that will do me good."

"Come, my children," said the seigneur of Chivry, resignedly, "I shall
start my song all over again at to-morrow's feast;" and then added:
"Let the maids of honor kindly accompany the bride, according to custom,
as far as the door of the nuptial chamber."

At these words several of the young ladies regretfully quitted the
knights near whom they sat and surrounded the bride, while Conrad walked
around the immense table to join his wife, and two pages threw open the
doors of the bridal chamber, brilliantly lighted by torches of perfumed
wax. The nuptial couch was seen at the end of the chamber, surmounted
with an armorial canopy, and half concealed behind curtains of tapestry
that glistened with silver thread. Suddenly the voice of Gerard of
Chaumontel, more and more intoxicated, was heard crying:

"Noble dames and damosels, I request leave to prove to you that I am a
man ... of singular powers of divination!"

"Prove it! Prove it!" gayly came from the guests. "Prove it to us,
to-night! We listen! Give us the proof!"

"Last year," proceeded Gerard, "on the day of the tourney of Nointel,
where all of you were present, and where Jacques Bonhomme kicked some
capers, Conrad ordered several of the scamps to be hanged, and to drown
the one whom I vanquished in a judicial combat, all according to usage
and custom."

"I very much would like to see a villein drown," cried a lad of eleven
years, son of the Sire of Bourgeuil. "I have seen villeins whipped, I
have seen their ears cropped, I have seen them hanged and quartered, but
never have I seen any drowned. Father, ... will you not have a villein
drowned ... for me to see?... I would like to see a villein drowned....
I have taken the fancy."

"My son," the Sire of Bourgeuil answered the child in a magisterial
tone, "your interruption is unbecoming. You should have waited till the
knight finished before expressing your wish to me."

"Well," continued Gerard of Chaumontel, "the rustic whom I vanquished,
at the moment of taking his first and last bath, cried out to me with
the voice of a devil who has caught cold: 'You cause me to be drowned,
you shall be drowned!' and to Conrad: 'You outraged my wife, your wife
shall be outraged!'"

"The knight of Chaumontel is tipsy," murmured several guests.

"Such lugubrious stories about hanging and drowning are out of place at
a wedding."

"Enough, Sir knight! Enough!"

"Drink your wine in peace, good Sir!"

"Wait till I prove it to you ... how I am a man of singular powers of
divination," continued Gerard. But the hisses drowned his voice, and the
Sire of Nointel, shivering despite himself at the mournful recollection
now evoked by his friend, took the hand of Gloriande whom the maids of
honor surrounded and said to her while marching towards the nuptial
chamber: "Listen not to the fool; he is tipsy.... Come, my beloved....
Love awaits us."

Suddenly an equerry appeared like a specter at the large door of the
hall. His face was livid and his body streamed blood. He took two steps
forward, swayed on his feet and dropped down upon the stone slabs which
he reddened with his blood. With his last dying breath he uttered these
words "My seigneur.... Oh, my seigneur.... Save yourself!"

At the spectacle a cry of horror and fear leaped from every mouth. The
belle Gloriande, seized with terror, threw herself into Conrad's arms.
The guests, pale and stupefied, were for an instant struck silent, while
from the distance a formidable noise seemed to approach. Another
equerry, also pale as a ghost and bleeding, ran in screaming in a broken
voice:

"Treason!... Treason!... The English prisoners have cut the throats of
the guards at the main gate of the castle.... They opened it to a
furious multitude.... The assailants are here!"

Immediately the cry of "Jacquerie! Jacquerie!" repeated from hundreds
of throats, resounded outside the banquet hall, and the glasses of the
windows, beaten in with axes and pitchforks, flew in all directions with
a wild rush.

A numerous band of Jacques, led by Adam the Devil and his blackened
companions who had performed the rôle of English prisoners in that same
hall that same morning, now rushed in through the doors and broken
windows. Guided by an identical impulse, the terror-stricken noble
assemblage crowded towards the principal door expecting to escape at
that issue. Their exit was, however, intercepted by William Caillet and
Mazurec, who appeared at the threshold at the head of still another band
of Jacques armed with staves, scythes, forks and axes. Almost all these
peasants in arms were vassals of the seigneurs of Chivry and Nointel. At
the sight of the wan, savage, blood-stained, half-naked mob, bearing on
their bodies the impress of serfdom, the dames and damosels uttered
cries of terror and huddled together in wild panic into the extreme
corner of the hall. The seigneurs, having according to usage doffed
their armor to don their gala dress, seized the table knives and the
flagons of glass and silver to defend themselves. The joyous fumes of
wine that at first confused their minds were soon dissipated and they
ranked themselves into an improvised barrier before the women.

William Caillet swung his axe three times. At that signal the tumultuous
clamors of the Jacques was hushed by little and little until the silence
became profound, disturbed only by exclamations and moans from the
affrighted noble women.

"My Jacques!" cries Caillet. "You brought ropes along. First of all bind
fast all the noblemen; kill on the spot whoever resists; but keep alive
the father and the husband of the bride; also to keep alive the knight
of Chaumontel. We have an account to settle with them."

"I shall take charge of those three," said Adam the Devil. "Follow me,
my alleged Englishmen. Get the ropes ready."

The vassals flew upon the seigneurs. A few of them offered a desperate
resistance and were killed, but the larger number of the knights,
demoralized and terror-stricken by the suddenness of the attack allowed
themselves to be bound. Among these were the aged seigneur of Chivry,
Gerard of Chaumontel and the Sire of Nointel, the last of whom was torn
from the arms of his bride. More furious than frightened, Gloriande gave
a loose to imprecations and insults that she hurled at the revolted
serfs. Adam the Devil seized and overpowered her, tearing in the attempt
her wedding dress to shreds, and tied her hands behind her back, while
with refined ferocity he observed:

"To each his turn, my noble damosel.... Last year you laughed at us at
the tourney of Nointel.... Now it is our turn to laugh at you, my
amorous belle!"

"This English prisoner knows me!" exclaimed Gloriande. "Is all this but
a horrible dream? Conrad, revenge your wife!"

"I am a vassal of the seigniory of Nointel, and not an Englishman, my
belle," answered Adam the Devil. "The rôle of prisoner was imposed upon
us by your noble husband, your valiant knight, the Sire of Nointel, too
much of a coward to make real prisoners. He met us just outside of the
forest and ordered us under pain of hanging to accompany him hither and
be the accomplices of his trick upon you by figuring as the English
prisoners that he was to lead to you from the battle that was fought. We
consented to the masquerade. It helped us in our plan to enter your
father's castle. One of us, managing to escape on the road, took to our
companions the order to draw near the manor by nightfall. We cut the
throats of the guards, lowered the bridge and let our Jacques in. Now we
are going to laugh at you, my belle ... just as you laughed at us at the
tourney of Nointel! It is now our turn to feast."

Gloriande allowed Adam the Devil to speak without interrupting him. And
shuddering with painful indignation she cried: "Conrad lied.... Conrad
is a coward!"

"Yes, your nobleman of a husband is a liar and a coward," rejoined Adam
the Devil, dragging Gloriande towards the other extremity of the hall.
"A beauty like you deserves a braver husband. I shall take you to the
kind of lover you have been dreaming of."

Gloriande of Chivry forgot for a moment the dangers that beset her and
the terror that had begun to seize her mind. Overwhelmed by the idea,
horrible to her pride, that Conrad of Nointel was a coward, she let
herself be dragged without resistance towards the other end of the hall.

In the center of the Jacques who had formed a circle stood William
Caillet reclining on the handle of his heavy axe; near him were Jocelyn
the Champion with his arms across his breast, and Mazurec the Lambkin,
now the widower of Aveline-who-never-lied. Only partly clad in rough
sheep-skin, his hair matted, his arms bare and blood-bespattered, with
the cavity of one eye hollow, his nose crushed, his upper lip split--the
serf presented a repulsive aspect. Adam the Devil pushed Gloriande
towards Mazurec saying: "There is your new husband! Come, my pretty
lass, embrace your lord and master!"

At the sight of the disfigured serf Gloriande drew back and uttered a
cry of fright; but terror palsied her brain when she saw Mazurec slowly
advancing upon her with his one eye burning with hatred, and laying his
callous hand upon her shoulder say in a hollow voice: "In the name of
force ... you are mine ... the same as in the name of force my bride
Aveline belonged to Conrad of Nointel...."

"What is the monster saying?" muttered the distracted Gloriande drawing
back and seeking to free herself from the grasp of the vassal.
"Father!... Come to my help, father!"

The noble seigneur of Chivry lay nearby bound hand and foot, the same as
Gerard of Chaumontel and Conrad of Nointel, the last of whom, out of his
senses with fright and crushed with remorse, neither heard nor saw
aught, but was muttering between his teeth: "Have mercy upon me, my Lord
God!... I am a great sinner.... I repent having outraged that vassal's
bride...."

"Help, father!" Gloriande continued to cry, ever seeking to escape the
grip of Mazurec, whose nails, now long and bent like those of a bird of
prey, dug deep into the flesh of the Sire of Nointel's bride and held
her firmly while he exclaimed: "This noble damosel is mine!"

"Vassal!" cried the seigneur of Chivry gasping for breath and addressing
Caillet: "You are the chief of these bandits; save my daughter's life
and honor and I promise to pardon you.... Be merciful.... I swear by the
living God, I shall remit the punishment that your crimes deserve!"

"Noble seigneur," replied the chief of the Jacques with ominously
sinister calmness, "the wedding day of the child whom we love is a
beautiful day! It is a beautiful day for the nobles--"

"Oh, indeed I believed this morning that the wedding day of my daughter
Gloriande would be a beautiful day for me."

"So did I imagine on the morning of the day when my daughter
Aveline-who-never-lied wedded.... A vassal has a father's heart.... I
tenderly loved my daughter.... She was a sweet and pure girl, the pride
of my miserable life.... Your son-in-law, the Sire of Nointel, had my
daughter dragged to his bed ... the next day he returned her to me!"

"The Sire of Nointel only exercised the right he has over all brides who
are not noble!... It is his right of first fruits.... It is the feudal
law!"

"Conrad of Nointel exercised a right that he derived from force....
To-day the Jacques are stronger, and they will, in turn, exercise their
right," answered Caillet without abandoning his savage calmness.
"Mazurec, my daughter's bridegroom sought to resist the ignomy she was
threatened with.... In punishment for his rebellion he was compelled to
make the amende honorable on his knees before his seigneur.... Yesterday
my daughter, together with so many other victims, was smothered to death
by the smoke that the bailiff of the Sire of Nointel ordered the cavern
in which they had taken refuge to be filled with.... 'An eye for an eye,
a tooth for a tooth!' ... So says Scripture.... The Sire of Nointel has
outraged the bride of Mazurec the Lambkin.... Now the bride of the Sire
of Nointel belongs to Mazurec."

The Jacques greeted the sentence of their chief with triumphant acclaim,
while with one kick Adam the Devil broke open the door of Gloriande's
nuptial chamber, and by the light of the torches of perfumed wax that
burned within from massive candlesticks of silver, the Jacques saw the
dazzling interior of the apartment.

Painting with terror Gloriande still struggled with Mazurec who dragged
her to the nuptial couch. "Father! Deliver me!" cried the agonized
belle.

"Thus did Aveline call me to her help," said William Caillet with his
foot on the Count of Chivry. "You shall drain the cup to the lees!"

"Oh, death! rather than to witness such atrocities!" cried the Sire of
Nointel. "Heaven and earth! To see that miserable vassal dare to lay
hands upon Gloriande! The scamp is tearing down the curtains! He means
to violate my bride!"

"Oh! Oh! You are a rebel!" cried Adam the Devil laughing loudly. "We now
sentence you to make the amende honorable on both knees before your
master and seigneur, Jacques Bonhomme, in the person of Mazurec; and you
shall beg his pardon for having insulted him ... for calling him scamp!"

"Conrad, let us know how to die!" cried the knight of Chaumontel. "We
shall soon be revenged upon these scamps; not one of them will escape
the lances of the knights."

Jocelyn the Champion, who had until then stood by an impassive witness,
now stepped forward and heavily laying his iron gauntlet upon the
knight's shoulder said to him: "You fought cased in iron against my
brother Mazurec who was half naked and armed only with a stick. I have
decided that you shall now fight him, yourself half naked and armed with
a stick, he cased in iron. If you are vanquished you shall be thrown
into a bag and drowned. To-day, from appellee, Jacques Bonhomme has
become appellant."

"But before the combat," cried Adam the Devil, "let us take supper, my
Jacques; the table is set; plenty of wine is still left in the flagons;
also meats on the dishes!... Let us feast before the eyes of these
seigneurs, the fathers, brothers or husbands of yonder dames and
damosels!... Fall to, my Jacques! Long live love and wine! After the
feast we shall lock up this whole nobility, men, women and children, in
the underground prisons of the castles! The ruins of the burnt-down
manor shall be their fitting tombstone.... Fall to, Jacques Bonhomme....
Long live love and wine, and ours be the dames and damosels of these
nobles!"



CHAPTER V.

THE ORVILLE BRIDGE.


Night is about to yield to day; the moon is setting; the first
glimmerings of dawn begin to crimson the eastern sky. The troop of
Jacques, who fired the manor of Chivry after putting its noble tenants
to the sword, is now marching towards the bridge that spans the Orville
river, and from which, the year before, tied in a bag, Mazurec was
thrown into the water. At the head of the troop march William, Mazurec,
Jocelyn and Adam the Devil. Behind them follow the Jacques leading the
Sire of Nointel and the knight of Chaumontel, half naked, unarmed and
pinioned. His head covered with the casque, clad in the cuirass and coat
of mail, and armed with the dagger and sword of the knight of
Chaumontel, Mazurec marches between Jocelyn the Champion and Caillet.
Halting at the crest of the hill they had just ascended, and which
commanded a wide view of the surrounding country, the latter cried
pointing in several directions of the horizon that was either lighted
with flames or darkened with black clouds:

"Do you see the castles of Chivry, of Bourgeuil, of Saint-Prix, of
Montsorin, of Villiers, of Rochemur and so many others, aye, so many
others, set this night on fire, sacked and their noble masters put to
the sword by bands of revolted serfs?... Do you hear the village bells
summoning the serfs to arms?... They sound still! They are summoning the
Jacques to the hunt of the nobles!"

Indeed, the hurried peals of the bells, loudly sounding from a large
number of villages that lay scattered in the fields and forests, reached
the hill, carried thither by the morning breeze. The horizon, reflecting
the flames that were devouring so many feudal manors, itself seemed on
fire. Hardly were the first rays of the sun able to penetrate the
thickness of the somber mass of smoke.

"The sight is worth the music!" remarked Adam the Devil listening to the
sound of the bells. Crossing his arms behind him, spreading out his
legs, and poising himself on his robust loins he swept with an eager eye
the flaming curtain of the distant conflagrations. "There they are on
fire and in ruins, those proud donjons cemented in the blood and the
sweat of our people, and that for centuries have been the terror of our
fathers! Ha! Ha! Ha!" and laughing boisterously the serf proceeded:
"What mournful scenes must now be enacting at those manors!"

"At this hour," observed Caillet, "in Beauvoisis, in Laonnais, in
Picardy, in Vermandois, in Champagne, everywhere, in the Isle of France,
Jacques Bonhomme is making similar bonfires! Everywhere the nobility and
their supporting priests are being massacred!"

"I wish I could see all the fires!" exclaimed Adam the Devil, raising
his head. "I would like to hear all the cries uttered by these nobles!"

"Oh!" observed Jocelyn, with profound sorrow, "if the cries of our
fathers, the male and female serfs and vassals, who for so many hundreds
of years have endured martyrdom, could reach us across the centuries!...
Oh! if the cries of our mothers, borne down by serfdom, starved in
misery, and outraged by the seigneurs, could now reach us across these
many centuries.... If that could be, then the frightful concert of
maledictions, of imprecations and of cries of pain that would reach us
would drown that which now goes up from these feudal strongholds!... The
hour of justice has come at last!"

"Brother," said Mazurec, sad and dejected, while hastening his steps so
as to leave Caillet and Adam the Devil behind and snatch a few moments
of privacy with Jocelyn, "I have an admission to make to you ... and
perhaps also to pray your indulgence for a weakness of my heart.... When
I had dragged the bride of Conrad into her nuptial chamber ... and after
the door was closed behind us, Gloriande threw herself at my feet, and
with joined hands she implored mercy. I said to myself: 'My poor Aveline
must have prayed for mercy ... she must have suffered terribly.' I wept
at the thought of Aveline; I forgot my hatred and my vengeance. Seeing
me weep, Gloriande redoubled her supplications. I then said to her: 'In
my condition of serf I had but one joy in the world, the love of
Aveline-who-never-lied.... She was outraged by my seigneur, your
bridegroom.... After months of suffering and despair she died, smothered
by smoke in the cavern of Nointel shortly before being delivered of the
child of her shame.... It seems to me I see my poor Aveline, on her
knees, like you now, asking for mercy.... It is her whom I pity.... You
need not fear me!' And Gloriande took my hands in hers, kissed and
moistened them with her tears.... She begged me to allow her to escape
by a secret passage. I consented. I remained in the room, thinking of
Aveline until they set fire to the castle. I did not wish to outrage my
seigneur's bride.... Vengeance would not have restored to me my lost
happiness."

"Oh, my poor brother! Gentle soul! Generous heart!" answered Jocelyn,
deeply moved. "You whom nature made Mazurec the Lambkin and whom your
master's ferocity transformed into Mazurec the Wolf! You were born to
love, not to hate! Oh, you speak truly! Vengeance does not return the
lost happiness! Sublime martyr, you need no indulgence for your generous
conduct! Your heart did not fail you; it inspired itself with the
principle of mercy proclaimed by the young carpenter of Nazareth!" And
seeing that Adam the Devil and Caillet were approaching, Jocelyn added,
in a low voice: "Brother, let none know that you respected Gloriande;
above all, Conrad must, for his punishment, believe that his bride was
dishonored!" Turning then to Caillet, who had just joined the two,
Jocelyn observed: "We shall soon be at the Orville bridge. Our friends
are anxious we should reach the spot quickly. The work of punishment is
not yet finished."

The slanting rays of the sun now glisten in the rapid waters of the
Orville that the previous year had swallowed up Mazurec pinioned and
tied in a bag. On its banks still stand the trunks of the old willow
trees from which were hanged the serfs caught in the riot of the
tourney. The morning breeze agitates the reeds that concealed Adam the
Devil and Jocelyn during the preparations for the death of Mazurec, and
from behind which they had succeeded in rescuing him.

The Jacques arrived at the bridge, crossed it and stepped upon the broad
meadow in the middle of which the last year's tourney given by the
seigneur of Nointel was held. They halted there. A large number of them
had been spectators of the passage of arms, and had afterwards witnessed
the judicial duel between Mazurec and the knight of Chaumontel. Obedient
to the orders of Caillet, several peasants proceeded to cut it with
their scythes young tree branches, that they stuck in the ground,
forming an enclosure about thirty feet square, in imitation of the fence
or barrier of tourneys. The enclosure being ready, the Jacques crowded
in dense ranks around it.

At a signal, William Caillet approached the men who led the pinioned
Sire of Nointel and the knight of Chaumontel. The latter, though pale,
still preserved his resoluteness; the former, however, looking dejected
and discouraged, was now a prey to superstitious terror. He sees
verified the sinister prophecy of his vassal, who the year before had
said to him: "You have outraged my bride, your bride shall be outraged."

Of all his attire, the Sire of Nointel has preserved only his jerkin and
velvet shoes, now in shreds from the roughness of the road. Cold drops
of perspiration gather at his temples. Caillet addresses him: "Last year
my daughter was forcibly placed in your bed ... last night Mazurec, the
wronged bridegroom whom we saved from the watery grave that you decreed
to him, returned outrage for outrage.... My daughter and many other
victims died an atrocious death in the cavern of the forest of Nointel,
last night your bride and many other nobles died in the underground
dungeons of the castle of Chivry that Jacques Bonhomme set on fire....
But that is not yet enough. Mazurec was sentenced to make the amende
honorable to you because he insulted you; seeing that you insulted
Mazurec when he dragged away your wife, you shall now make the amende
honorable on your knees before Mazurec. If you refuse," added Caillet,
seeing the enraged seigneur stamp the ground with his feet, "if you
refuse, I shall then sentence you to the same death that you have
inflicted upon several of your vassals. Two young and strong trees shall
be bent, you shall be tied by the feet to the one and by the arms to the
other, the saplings will then be let free to straighten themselves up
again.... You are forewarned, Sire of Nointel!"

"I witnessed the death of my friend Toussaint the Heavy-bell, who was
dismembered in that manner by your orders between two oak saplings!"
interposed Adam the Devil. "I know exactly how it must be done in order
to manage that torture successfully. Now choose between the amende
honorable or the death we just described."

"Submit, Conrad!" said the knight of Chaumontel, with bitter disdain.
"Let us submit to the extreme limit of the excesses of these varlets. We
will be revenged. Oh, soon again the casque will resume the upperhand
over the woolen cap, and the lance over the fork."

Shivering with dismay at the threatened torture, Conrad of Nointel
answered his friend in a hoarse voice: "Gerard, do not leave me alone!"

"I shall be your faithful companion to the end," answered the knight.
"We have joyously emptied more than one cup together, we shall die
together."

Led by Jacques, the two nobles were placed in the center of the
enclosure, around which stood the revolted vassals. Many of them had
also witnessed the amende honorable of Mazurec, who, now armed in the
armor of the knight of Chaumontel, is standing near the center of the
lists, reclining on his long sword.

"On your knees!" ordered Adam the Devil to the Sire of Nointel, and
pressing down with his strong hands the seigneur's shoulders, he made
him drop on his knees at the feet of Mazurec. "And now, noble seigneur,
repeat my words:

"Seigneur Jacques Bonhomme, I blame myself and humbly repent having used
unseemly words against you when last night you dragged my noble
bride...."

Outbursts of laughter, jeers and cat-calls from the Jacques greeted
these words, which recalled to the Sire of Nointel both the forfeiture
of his happiness and the disgrace of his bride. He shrank together,
emitted a roar of pain, and burning tears dropped from his eyes while
grinding his teeth he muttered: "Death and massacre!"

"That is quite painful, is it not, Sire of Nointel," suggested Caillet,
"to be forced to beg pardon on one's knees for having wished to resist
the outrage that is racking your mind? Poor Mazurec the Lambkin went
through this shame only last year, as you are doing now!... It is
justice!... Stay on your knees!"

"Come, let's hurry!" resumed Adam the Devil, "make the amende honorable
on your knees before Jacques Bonhomme, if not, you shall be dismembered
on the spot, my noble Sire!"

The Sire of Nointel answered only with a fresh roar of rage, writhing in
his bonds: "Oh, my unhappy life!"

"Conrad," said Gerard, "repeat the empty words, yield to these cowardly
varlets. What can you do against force? There is nothing but to submit."

"Never!" cried the Sire of Nointel, in a frenzy of rage. "Sooner a
thousand deaths! To ask pardon of that miserable serf ... when before
my own eyes he dragged away my bride ... my beautiful and proud
Gloriande ...," and breaking out again in a cry of rage: "Blood and
massacre! A minute ago I felt overwhelmed.... I now feel hell burning in
my breast.... Oh, if only I were free ... I would tear these varlets to
pieces with my nails and teeth! I would put them through a thousand
deaths!"

"Sire of Nointel, if upon your knees you make the amende honorable to
Mazurec, I shall then put a sword in your hand," said Jocelyn the
Champion slowly drawing near. "I promise to fight with you, and you will
then at least die as a man. Come, on your knees!"

"True?" mumbled Conrad, his mind wandering with despair and rage, "you
will give me a sword?... I shall be able to die seeing the blood of one
of you flow ... you miserable rebels!"

Seizing the naked sword that his brother held in his hand, Jocelyn took
it and threw it on the ground a few paces from Conrad, and planting his
foot upon the blade said: "Make the amende honorable--you will then be
unbound and you may take this sword ... then there shall be a combat to
the death between us two, son of Neroweg!"

"Come, my handsome Sir," resumed Adam the Devil addressing Conrad,
"come, repeat after me--'Seigneur Jacques Bonhomme, I blame myself and
humbly repent....'"

"Seigneur Jacques Bonhomme," repeated Conrad of Nointel in a voice
strangling with rage and casting a furtive look at the sword only the
sight of which imparted to him the necessary strength to perform the
revolting expiatory act. "Seigneur Jacques Bonhomme, I blame myself and
humbly repent.... Shame and humiliation!"

"Having used unseemly words against you, Seigneur Jacques Bonhomme,"
proceeded Adam the Devil amidst new outbursts of laughter and jeers
from the Jacques, "when last night you were about to outrage my bride on
the nuptial bed ... my belle Gloriande of Chivry."

"No, no, never," cried Conrad of Nointel, foaming at the mouth, "I never
shall repeat those infamous words!"

Jocelyn took off and threw his casque at a distance, unbuckled his steel
corselet, threw away his armlets, pulled off his leather jerkin,
preserving only that part of his armor that covered his thighs and lower
extremities, removed his shirt, leaving his breast bare, and said to the
Sire of Nointel: "Here is flesh to bore holes through, if you can.... I
am wounded in the thigh ... that evens up your chances; moreover, I
swear I shall strike only at your breast; yes, I swear it, as truly as,
freeman or serfs, my ancestors have during the centuries that rolled
over us crossed swords with yours!"

"Oh, you dog whom my ancestors conquered.... I shall kill you!" cried
Conrad of Nointel nearly delirious. Retaining his posture on his knees
before Mazurec, he muttered, gasping for breath: "I repent, seigneur
Jacques Bonhomme ... of having used unseemly words ... against you ...
when you sought ... to outrage ... my bride in her nuptial bed...."

"The belle Gloriande of Chivry, and pronounce the name distinctly," said
Adam the Devil. "Now, hurry up!"

"The ... belle ... Gloriande ... of ... Chivry ..." repeated Conrad, as
if tearing the words from his breast.

"High, puissant and redoubtable seigneur of Nointel, Jacques Bonhomme
pardons you for the outrage he perpetrated upon you!" now put in Mazurec
in the midst of a fresh explosion of triumphant laughter and
contemptuous jeers uttered by the Jacques.

"The sword! The sword!" cried Conrad rising livid and fearful with
rage, but with his hands still pinioned behind him, and addressing
Jocelyn. "You promised me blood ... yours ... or mine.... I wish to die
seeing blood.... To the sword, to the sword!"

"Remove his bonds," said the champion with his feet still on the sword
that lay on the ground and drawing his own.

While the Jacques were unfastening the bonds that held the arms of the
seigneur of Nointel, the knight of Chaumontel took a step towards his
friend and said to him: "Farewell, Conrad ... you are blinded with rage
... you are weakened by the trials of last night ... you will be killed
by that Hercules ... a champion by profession.... But we shall be
revenged."

"I killed!" cried the Sire of Nointel with a ghostly smile. "No, no; it
is I who will kill the dog.... I will cut the vagabond's throat!"

"Recommend your soul to St. James," said Gerard in a penetrating voice
to Conrad; "an invocation to him is sovereign in cases of duels."

"Oh, I shall invoke my hatred," replied Conrad twitching his arms that
Adam the Devil was about to unloosen. But Jocelyn made a sign to his
companion to wait a moment before untying the Sire of Nointel, and then
turning to the revolted serfs he made to them this vigorous and terse
address:

"It is now eleven hundred years ago ... one of my ancestors, _Schavanoch
the Soldier_--the foster brother of Victoria the Great, the emperor
woman who predicted the enfranchisement of Gaul--fought against one of
the chiefs of the Frankish hordes who then threatened to invade Gaul,
our mother country; that Frankish chieftain was called _Neroweg the
Terrible Eagle_, and he was the ancestor of the Sire of Nointel, whom
you there see before you.... Two centuries later, the Franks, thanks to
the complicity of the Bishop of Rome, had succeeded in conquering Gaul
and in reducing her inhabitants to a condition of most cruel slavery;
our land thereupon became a prey to our conquerors, and we moistened it
with our sweat, our tears and our blood.... During the first years of
the Frankish conquest, Karadeuk the Bagaude, the ancestor of both
Mazurec and myself, a revolted slave, fought with Neroweg, Count of
Auvergne, count by the right of rapine and murder. That Neroweg had
subjected to a cruel torture Loysik the Working-Hermit and Ronan the
Vagre, sons of Karadeuk the Bagaude. Bagaudie and Vagrerie were the
Jacquerie of those days. Vagres and Bagaudes revenged themselves then as
the Jacques do now for the oppression of the seigneurs. In that fight
between Karadeuk the Bagaude and the Count Neroweg, Neroweg fell under
the axe of Karadeuk.... Coming down to three centuries ago, another of
my ancestors, Den-Brao the Mason was buried alive together with several
other serfs, his fellow workmen, by Neroweg IV, Count of Plouernel in
Brittany."

"That noble thereby buried together with Den-Brao the secret of an
underground passage that they had been made to construct, leading from
the feudal manor into the forest. The grandson of Den-Brao, who remained
a serf of the seigniory of Plouernel, was called Fergan the Quarryman.
Neroweg VI kidnapped a son of Fergan for the purpose of applying the
child to the bloody sorceries of a witch. Fergan succeeded in rescuing
his child, but he witnessed the murder of his two relatives Bezenecq the
Rich and Bezenecq's daughter Isoline. Unable to pay an enormous ransom
imposed upon him by Neroweg VI, Bezenecq perished under the torture,
while Isoline, the witness of her father's torment, became insane and
died. Then came the days of the Crusades. Fergan and his seigneur met
face to face and alone in the middle of the desert of Syria. Fergan
could have killed him by surprise, but he fought him and vanquished....
Finally, only a year ago, my brother Mazurec the Lambkin has seen his
bride dishonored by the Sire of Nointel, the scion of the Nerowegs of
old, he forced my brother to make him the amende honorable at his feet,
and thereupon to fight half naked with the knight of Chaumontel in full
armor. Vanquished in this unequal combat and sentenced to be drowned in
a bag, Mazurec would have perished but for Adam the Devil and myself,
who succeeded in drawing him out of the river betimes, but his wife,
Aveline-who-never-lied, died an atrocious death only a few days ago. The
history of my family's sufferings is the history of the families of us
all, the enslaved and oppressed of your class, Sire of Nointel, during
so many centuries! Aye, among the thousands upon thousands of revolted
vassals, who at this hour are running to arms, there is not one whose
family has not undergone what mine has! The narrative of Mazurec's
family and mine is theirs also. Do you now understand the treasury of
hatred and of vengeance that has been heaping up from century to century
in the indignant breast of Jacques Bonhomme? Do you understand that from
age to age the fathers bequeathed this hatred to their children as the
only heritage left to them by servitude? Do you understand that the
vassal has a frightful account to settle with his seigneur? Do you
understand how, in his turn, Jacques Bonhomme has no mercy and no pity?
Do you, finally, understand that if at this moment, instead of fighting
you, I were to kill you like a wolf caught in a trap, the act would be
just? You have but one life, but innumerable are the lives of the Gauls
taken by you, and much larger yet those taken by your class!"

An explosion of fury from the Jacques marked the close of these words.
Sufficiently exasperated against the Sire of Nointel, they felt that the
narrative of Jocelyn's family was that of the martyrdom on earth endured
by Jacques Bonhomme.

"Death to the seigneur!... Death without combat!" repeated the
insurgents. "Death to him, like a wolf caught in a trap!"

"Vassal, you promised to fight with me!" cried Conrad of Nointel. "Of
what use are these ancient stories?"

"Do you repudiate the acts of your ancestors? Do you repudiate your
class?"

"Even with your sword at my throat I shall to the very end pronounce
myself proud of belonging to the warrior class that has held you under
the whip and the stick, ye miserable serfs.... Even dying would I smite
your faces!"

With a wafture of his hand Jocelyn restrains a fresh explosion of fury
from the Jacques, and says to Adam the Devil: "Deliver the seigneur of
his bonds.... Once more in the course of the centuries a son of Joel and
a son of Neroweg shall take each other's measure, sword in hand!"

"And may my stock again meet yours to the undoing of your own!" answered
Conrad of Nointel in a hollow voice. "The elder branch of my family
still occupies its domains in Auvergne ... and my father's brother has
sons! The race of the Nerowegs will reappear across the ages!"

"Battle!... Battle!" said Jocelyn. "It shall be a battle to the death,
without quarter or mercy.... Battle!"

"And also I, brother, shall have neither pity nor mercy for that thief,
the cause of all my misfortunes!" cried Mazurec, pointing at the knight
of Chaumontel, and added: "Adam, untie also his hands. There is room
enough here for a double combat. My brother shall have the seigneur....
I shall take this thief of a knight. Give me a pitch-fork, the fork is
the lance of Jacques Bonhomme."

Freed of his bonds and clad only in his shirt and hose, Gerard of
Chaumontel receives from William Caillet a stick to defend himself with,
and from Adam the Devil a rude push that throws him in front of Mazurec,
who, protected from head to foot by the knight's own armor, holds up his
three-pronged and sharp fork.

"Come up, you double thief!" Mazurec called out; "must I step forward to
meet you?"

[The knight of Chaumontel, pale from fright and pursued by the cries of
(these words missing due to printer's error, here translated from the
French version by the etext transcriber)] the Jacques, grasps his stick
with both hands and forcing a smile on his lips answers: "The
heralds-at-arms have not yet given the signal."

In the meantime, Conrad of Nointel, whose arms have been unbound,
stooped down to seize the sword from which Jocelyn had not yet lifted
his foot.

"One moment!" cried the champion, always with his foot firmly on the
sword. "Sire of Nointel, look me in the face ... if you dare!"

Conrad raised his head, fastened his glistening eyes upon his adversary
and asked: "What do you want?"

"Worthy Sire, I wish to goad you to the combat. I mistrust your courage.
You fled like a coward at the battle of Poitiers, and a minute ago you
referred to me as a vile slave fit only for the whip and the cane--"

"And I say so again!" yelled Conrad turning red and white with rage,
"you vagabond!"

"Take this for the insult!" came from Jocelyn like a flash while
buffeting the livid face of Conrad of Nointel. "These slaps are the goad
I promised you. Even if you were more cowardly than a hare, fury will
now serve you instead of courage!" Saying this Jocelyn made a leap
backward, placing himself on his guard and leaving the sword on the
ground free. Crazed with rage, Conrad of Nointel seized the weapon and
rushed upon Jocelyn at the very moment that, armed with his stick,
Gerard of Chaumontel was rapidly retreating before the approaching
prongs of Mazurec's fork.

"Infamous thief!" cried the vassal pressing the knight with his fork; "I
had more courage than you.... I threw myself under the feet of your
horse, and seized you hand to hand!"

"My Jacques!" cried out Adam the Devil seeing the knight of Chaumontel
still retreating before Mazurec, "cross your scythes behind that knight
of cowardice; let him fall under your iron if he tries to escape
Mazurec's fork."

The Jacques followed Adam the Devil's suggestion; at the same time that
Mazurec ran forward with his fork Gerard of Chaumontel perceived a
formidable array of scythes rise behind him.

"Cowardly varlets! Infamous scamps! You abuse your strength!"

"And you, worthy knight," answered Adam the Devil, "did not you abuse
your strength when you fought on horseback and in full armor against
Mazurec half naked and with only a stick to defend himself?"

During this short dialogue, the Sire of Nointel was impetuously charging
upon Jocelyn. Rendered dexterous in the handling of the sword by the
practice of the tourneys, young, agile and vigorous, he aims many an
adroit blow at Jocelyn, who, however, parries them all like a consummate
gladiator, while pricking his adversary with the contemptuous remark.
"To know how to handle a sword so well, and yet to retreat so pitifully
at the battle of Poitiers! What a shame!"

With a rapid step back Jocelyn evades at that instant a dangerous thrust
of Conrad of Nointel's sword, retorts with a vigorous pass, smites his
adversary on the shoulder and, to his great astonishment, sees him
suddenly roll on the ground, seem to stiffen his members, and then
remain motionless.

"What?" observed the champion lowering his sword, "dead with so little?
Beaten down so quickly?"

"Brother, look out ... it probably is a ruse!" cried Mazurec, at whom
Gerard of Chaumontel had finally aimed so furious a blow with his stick
that it broke into splinters against the iron casque on the vassal's
head. "Without the casque I would now be a dead man. Oh! that's a good
practice you knights have of fighting so well armed against half naked
Jacques Bonhomme!" Although somewhat dazed by the shock, Mazurec plunged
his fork into the bowels of the robber knight, who fell blaspheming.
Observing that Conrad still remained motionless on the ground, Mazurec
repeated the warning: "Look out, brother! It is a ruse!"

And so it was. Astonished at the fall of his adversary Jocelyn was
stooping over him when the Sire of Nointel suddenly rose on his
haunches, seized the champion's leg with one hand, and with the other
sought to stab his adversary in the flank with a dagger that he had kept
concealed in his hose. Taken by surprise and pulled by a leg, Jocelyn
lost his balance.

"Viper!" cried Jocelyn dropping his sword and falling upon Conrad whose
hand he struggled to overpower. "I was on the look-out.... I thought
your death was feigned!" and wresting the dagger from Conrad's hand,
Jocelyn plunged it in his adversary's breast: "Die, thou son of the
Nerowegs!"

"Gerard!" muttered Conrad, dying, "I ... was wrong ... in violating the
vassal's wife.... Oh, Gloriande!"

Hardly had Jocelyn stepped aside from the corpse of the Sire of Nointel
when his vassals, so often the victims of his cruelty, precipitated
themselves upon the arena, and plying their forks, scythes and axes with
savage fury on the still warm body of their recent tyrant, mutilated it
beyond recognition. In the meantime, aided by other Jacques, Adam the
Devil raised the knight of Chaumontel, who, though mortally wounded by
the thrust of Mazurec's fork, was still alive, and called out: "Fetch
the bag and ropes!"

A peasant brought a bag with which they had provided themselves at the
castle of Chivry. The bleeding body of the knight of Chaumontel was
placed within and tied fast so as to allow his cadaverous head to stick
out, and the bundle was carried to the Orville bridge.

"Do you recall my prophecy," Mazurec asked the knight, with a diabolical
smile; "I prophesied you would be drowned."

Gerard of Chaumontel uttered a deep moan. A superstitious terror now
overpowered him. His wonted haughtiness was no more. In a fainting voice
he murmured: "Oh, St. James, have pity upon me.... Oh, St. James,
intercede for me.... with our Lord and all his saints.... I am justly
punished.... I stole the vassal's purse.... Oh, Lord, Oh, Lord, have
pity upon me!"

Arrived at the Orville bridge, the peasants threw the bagged body of the
knight of Chaumontel into the river amid the frantic cheers of the
Jacques, who exclaimed: "May thus perish all seigneurs!"



CHAPTER VI.

ON TO CLERMONT!


Tarrying a moment on the Orville bridge, which the Jacques had left on
the march to join other bands and proceed in stronger force against
other seigniories, Jocelyn noticed a rider approaching at full gallop. A
few minutes later he recognized the rider to be Rufin the
Tankard-smasher, who soon reined in near the bridge, followed at a
distance by a considerable number of insurgents.

Jumping off his horse Rufin said to Jocelyn: "I learned from the
peasants coming up behind me that there was a large gathering of Jacques
at this place; I thought I would find you among them and hastened hither
to deliver to you a letter from Master Marcel.... Great events are
transpiring in Paris."

Jocelyn eagerly took the missive, and while he read it, Rufin the
Tankard-smasher went on saying: "By Jupiter! The company of an honorable
woman brings good luck. When I used to have Margot on my arms, I always
ran up against some accident; on the other hand, nothing could have been
happier than this trip of mine to Paris with Alison the Huffy, who, I
fancy, is huffy only at Cupid. We arrived in Paris without accident, and
Dame Marguerite received Alison with great friendship. Oh, my friend! I
worship that tavern-keeper. Fie! What an improper term! No! That Hebe!
And was not Hebe the Olympian tavern-keeper? Oh, if Alison would only
have me for her husband, we would set up a lovely tavern, intended
especially for the students of the University. The shield would be
splendid. It would exhibit Greek and Latin verses appealing to the
topers, such as: "Like Bacchus does----"

Jocelyn here interrupted the student, saying with much animation after
he had finished Etienne Marcel's letter: "Rufin, I return with you to
Paris; the provost has orders for me. Mazurec is revenged. Everywhere
the Jacques are rising according to the information that reaches Marcel
from the provinces. The formidable movement must now be directed and
utilized. The Jacquerie must be organized. Wait for me a minute. I shall
be back immediately."

Jocelyn thereupon called to Adam the Devil, Mazurec and William Caillet,
who had also remained behind, took them aside and said: "Marcel calls me
to his side. The Regent has withdrawn to Compiegne; he has declared
Paris out of the pale of the law and is preparing to march upon the city
at the head of the royal troops; they are waiting for him, and will give
him a warm reception. All the communal towns, Meaux, Amiens, Laon,
Beauvais, Noyons, Senlis are in arms. Everywhere the peasants are rising
and the bourgeois and guild corporations are joining them. The King of
Navarre is captain-general of Paris. The man deserves the nickname of
'Wicked,' nevertheless he is a powerful instrument. Marcel will break
him if he deviate from the right path and refuse to bow before the
popular sovereignty. The hour of Gaul's enfranchisement has sounded at
last. In order to carry the work to a successful issue, the Jacquerie
will have to be regulated. These scattered and dispersed bands must
gather together, must discipline their forces and form an army capable
of coping, first with that of the Regent, and then with the English. We
must first crush the inside foe and then the foreign one."

"That is right," said Caillet, thoughtfully. "Ten scattered bands can
not accomplish much; the ten together can. I am known in Beauvoisis. Our
Jacques will follow me wherever I lead them. Once the seigneurs are
exterminated, we shall fall upon the English, a vermin that gnaws at the
little that seigneurs and their clergy leave us."

"Yesterday's butcheries have opened my appetite," cried Adam the Devil,
brandishing his scythe. "We shall mow down the English to the last man.
Death to all oppressors!"

"The crop will be fine if we mow together," replied Jocelyn. "Meaux,
Senlis, Beauvais and Clermont are awaiting the Jacques with open arms.
Their gates will be opened to the peasants. These will find there food
and arms."

"Iron and bread! We need no more!" put in William Caillet. "And what is
Marcel's plan?"

"These fortified cities, occupied by the Jacques and the armed
bourgeoisie, will hold the Regent's troops in check in the provinces,"
answered Jocelyn. "The other sections of the country are to organize
themselves similarly. Now, listen well to Marcel's instructions. The
King of Navarre is on our side because he expects with the support of
the popular party to dethrone the Regent. He occupies Clermont with his
troops. Thence he is to proceed to Paris and meet the royal army under
the walls of the city. He needs reinforcements. Marcel mistrusts him.
Now, then, you are to gather all the bands of Jacques into a body and
proceed to Clermont at the head of eight thousand men. You can then join
Charles the Wicked without fear, although he is never to be trusted. But
as his own forces barely number two thousand foot soldiers and five
hundred horsemen, in case of treason they would be crushed by the
Jacques, who would out-number them four to one."

"Agreed," answered William Caillet, after carefully listening to the
champion, "and from Clermont are we to march straight to Paris?"

"Upon your arrival at Clermont you will receive further instructions
from Marcel. To overpower the nobility, dethrone the Regent and chase
the foreigners from our soil--that is the provost's programme. When the
campaign shall be over, the hour of Jacques Bonhomme's enfranchisement
will have come. Delivered from the tyranny of the seigneurs and the
pillaging of the English, free, happy and at peace, the peasant will
then be able to enjoy the fruits of his arduous labors and will be able
to taste without molestation the sweet pleasures of the hearth.... Yes,
you William Caillet, you Adam the Devil, you Mazurec, and so many
others who have been wounded in your tenderest feelings, you will have
been the last martyrs of the seigneurs and clergy, you will be the
liberators of your kind."

"Jocelyn, whatever may now happen, vanquisher or vanquished, I can die
in peace. My daughter is revenged!" said William Caillet. "I promise to
lead more than ten thousand men to the walls of Clermont. The blood of
the seigneurs and their priests who have outraged us, the conflagrations
of their castles and churches, from which they issued to oppress us,
will mark the route of the Jacques."

"Marcel recalls me to Paris; I shall return to him; but you will meet me
at Clermont, where I shall convey to you further instructions." And
pressing Mazurec to his heart: "Adieu, my brother, my poor brother! We
shall soon meet again. William, I leave him with you. Watch over the
unfortunate lad!"

"I love him as I did my daughter! She will be the topic of our
conversation. And we shall fight like men who no longer care for life."

After this exchange of adieus, Jocelyn turned back to Paris with Rufin
the Tankard-smasher on the crupper of his horse.



CHAPTER VII.

CLERMONT.


Charles the Wicked, King of Navarre, occupied at Clermont, in the
province of Beauvoisis, the castle of the count of the place--a vast
edifice one of whose towers dominated the square called the "Suburb."
The first floor of the donjon, lighted by a long ogive window, formed a
large circular hall. There, near a table, sat Charles the Wicked. It was
early morning. The prince asked one of his equerries:

"Has the scaffold been erected?"

"Yes, Sire, you can see it from this window. It is just as you ordered
it."

"What face do the bourgeois make?"

"They are in consternation; all the shops are closed; the streets are
deserted."

"And the masses?... the artisans.... Are they heard to murmur?"

"Sire, after yesterday's massacre, there are none more of the poorer
class to be seen ... neither on the streets nor the squares.... The
people are scarce."

"But some must still be left."

"Those that are left are in consternation and stupor like the
bourgeois."

"All the same, let my Navarrians keep sharp watch at the gates of the
town, on the ramparts and on the streets. Let them kill on the spot any
bourgeois, peasant or artisan who dares this morning to put his nose
outside of his house."

"The order has been given, Sire. It will be carried out."

"And the chiefs of those accursed Jacques?"

"They remain impassive, Sire!"

"Blood of Christ! They will become livelier, and that soon.... Has a
trevet been procured. Let the executioner hold himself ready."

"Yes, Sire. Everything is prepared according to your orders."

"Let everything be ready at the stroke of seven."

"All shall be ready, Sire."

Charles the Wicked reflected a moment, and then resumed, taking up an
enameled medallion with his monogram that lay near him on the table:
"Did the man arrive who was arrested at the gates last night, and who
sent me this medallion?"

"Yes, Sire. He has just been brought in unarmed and pinioned, as you
ordered. He is kept under watch in the lower hall. What is your
pleasure?"

"Let him be brought up."

The equerry stepped out. Charles the Wicked rose, and approached the
window that opened upon the square where the scaffold was erected. After
throwing it partly open so as to be able to look out, he reclosed it and
returned to his seat near the table, his lips contracted with a sinister
smile. He had barely sat down again when the equerry returned preceding
the archers in the middle of whom walked Jocelyn the Champion with his
hands bound behind his back and his face inflamed with anger. The prince
made a sign to the equerry, who thereupon withdrew with the Navarrians,
leaving Charles the Wicked and Jocelyn alone, the latter, however, still
pinioned.

"Sire, I am the victim either of a mistake or of unworthy treason!"
cried Jocelyn. "For the sake of your honor, I hope it is a mistake....
Order me to be unbound."

"There is no mistake in the case."

"Then it is treason! To disarm me! To pinion me!... Me, the carrier of
the medallion that I sent to you together with a letter that I brought
to you from Master Marcel! That is treason, Sire! Disgraceful felony!"

"There is in all this neither mistake nor felony. A truce with your
imprudent words!"

"What else is it?"

"A simple measure of prudence," coolly answered Charles the Wicked; "you
signed the letter 'Jocelyn the Champion'.... Is that your name and
profession?'

"Yes, Sire; I am a defender of the oppressed."

"Did Marcel send you to me?"

"I told you so, and proved it by forwarding the medallion. What do you
want of me? Ask; I shall answer."

"What is the purpose of your message?"

"You shall know it when you will have set me free of my bonds."

"The bonds do not tie your tongue ... seems to me! You can answer very
well as you are."

"You ignore my character of ambassador! I have come in that capacity."

"That's subtle ... but be careful; the minutes are precious; your
message is certainly important.... Its success may be endangered by a
prolonged silence."

"Sire, I came to you, if not as a friend, still as an ally. You treat me
like an enemy. Master Marcel will be thankful for my reserve----"

"Very well," said Charles the Wicked, ringing a bell. The call was
forthwith answered by the equerry. "Let this man be taken outside of the
town, and the gates closed after him. Do not allow him in again."

After a brief struggle with himself, Jocelyn resumed: "However
outrageous be the reception you give an envoy of Marcel, I shall speak
and fulfill my mission."

At another sign from the King of Navarre, the equerry stepped out again
and the former said to Jocelyn: "What is your message?"

"Master Marcel charged me to say to you, Sire, that it was time to open
the campaign; the Regent's army is marching upon Paris; all the vassals
are up in arms; numerous troops of Jacques must be approaching Clermont
to join you. Indeed, I am astonished at not having met any Jacques."

"By what gate did you enter Clermont? From what side did you cross the
walls?"

"By the gate of the Paris road. It was dark when I arrived and sent you
one of the archers who arrested me."

"You spoke with no soldier?"

"I was locked up alone in one of the turrets of the rampart. I could
speak with nobody. I communicated only with your archers."

"Proceed ... with your message."

"Marcel wishes to know what your plan of campaign will be when your
troops have been reinforced by eight or ten thousand Jacques, who,
according to our information, may any time arrive in Clermont."

"We shall speak about that presently.... First tell me what the public
sentiment is in Paris. Are more rebellions feared?"

"The adversaries of Marcel and partisans of the Regent are very active.
They seek to mislead the population by imputing to the revolt all the
ills that the city suffers from. Royal troops seized Etamps and Corbeil
to prevent the arrival of grains in Paris and starve out the city.
Marcel took the field with the bourgeois militia, and after a murderous
conflict he threw the royalists back and secured the subsistence of
Paris. But the provost's adversaries are redoubling their underhand
manoeuvres with a view to bring a portion of the bourgeoisie back to the
Regent. The people, more accustomed to privations, are easily resigned;
full of hope in the future that is to bring them deliverance, they
weaken neither in energy nor in devotion to Marcel, especially since the
tidings of the revolts of the Jacques reached Paris. The vassals of the
whole valley of Montmorency are now in revolt ..."; but suddenly
breaking off, Jocelyn said: "Sire, order these bonds to be removed from
my hands; they are a disgrace to me and to you.... You treat me like a
prisoner!"

"You were saying that the Regent's partisans are active? Is not Maillart
among the leaders in that movement?"

"No ... at least not openly. The avowed leaders of the court party are
all nobles; among them is the knight of Charny and the knight James of
Pontoise. Prompt and resolute action is necessary. Your chances of
reigning over Gaul are excellent if you come to the help of the
Parisians, take the field against the forces of the Regent, and utilize,
as Master Marcel suggests, the powerful aid offered by the Jacquerie.
Next to the clergy and the seigneurs, there are no more implacable
enemies of the peasants than the English. Marcel's purpose in
encouraging the insurrections of the Jacques and organizing their bands
is above all to hurl them in mass against the English in the name of the
country that the invaders are ravaging with their predatory bands, and
to drive them from our soil. Triumph is assured if the present
enthusiasm of the Jacques is utilized by turning it into that sacred
channel towards the safety and deliverance of the country. That is the
reason, Sire, why Master Marcel has been seeking to effect the junction
of the Jacques with the forces that you command."

"Our friend Marcel," Charles the Wicked observed caustically, "made an
excellent choice of allies for me in the revolted peasants!" saying
which he rang the bell. The equerry entered and left after the prince
had whispered a few words in his ear.

"Sire," again remonstrated Jocelyn, "your manners are mysterious. Are
you hatching some other plot against me? You may be frank; I am in your
power."

"There is no plot hatching," coolly answered Charles the Wicked,
shrugging his shoulders. "I am merely taking precautions to insure the
quiet and calmness of our interview as becomes people like ourselves."

"Sire, have I perchance failed in calmness and quiet? My language is
self-possessed."

"So far ... you are right ... but presently your moderation may be put
to a severe test ... my precautions are wise----"

The entrance of two other robust equerries in the company of the
prince's confidante interrupted his last words, and without Jocelyn,
whose hands were tied, being able to offer any effective resistance, he
was thrown on the floor, where, however, despite his being pinioned, he
resented the treatment with Herculean though vain efforts to disengage
himself from his assailants.

"By God! You are a Hercules ... what athletic vigor you display! Am I
wrong if I take precautions against the consequences of our further
interview, despite your assurances of calmness and moderation?"

Not without much difficulty the three equerries finally succeeded in
binding Jocelyn's legs as firmly as his arms. When that was done,
Charles the Wicked said: "Place the envoy on the settee near the window.
He may sit up or lie down, as he chooses.... You may now go."

Again alone with Jocelyn, who was writhing in impotent rage, the prince
pursued: "Our interview can now proceed peacefully."

"Oh, Charles the Wicked, every day you strive to justify your name!"
cried Jocelyn. "My suspicions did not deceive me. You have some infamous
act of treason to inform me of!"

Nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders, the prince answered: "Vassal, if I
did you the honor of fearing you I would have had you hanged before
this.... If I was betraying Marcel I would be at Compiegne beside the
Regent.... You are not hanged, and I am not at Compiegne! Let us now
tranquilly resume the conversation that was interrupted when you were
speaking about the Jacques.... Well, now, the Jacques did come in
bands.... The worthy allies of your friend Marcel came----"

"Here to Clermont?"

"They came here ... to Clermont, in the number of eight or ten
thousand."

"Where are they?"

"Oh! Oh!... Where are they?" Charles the Wicked answered back with a
Satanic leer. "Where are they?... That is an embarrassing question, that
is!... Since man is man it has been the despair of those who seek to
fathom the secret of where we go ... when we leave this world.... They
are where we all shall go!"

"What is that? The Jacques?----"

"They are where we all shall go.... Do you not understand me?"

"Dead!?" cried Jocelyn, stupefied with terror. "Dead! Massacred! My
God!"

"Come, keep cool.... Listen to the details of the adventure ... you are
to transmit it to your friends."

"This man frightens me!" thought Jocelyn, a cold perspiration bathing
his forehead. "Is it some trap he is laying for me?"

"The Jacques came," resumed Charles the Wicked, "those wild beasts that
pillage and burn down castles, massacre priests and seigneurs, outrage
women, and pitilessly cut the throats of children, to the end, as these
devils put it, of annihilating the nobility!"

"Oh, God!" cried Jocelyn, sitting up, "the reprisals of Jacques Bonhomme
lasted one day ... his martyrdom centuries!----"

"Vassal!" the King of Navarre haughtily interrupted Jocelyn, "the rights
of the conqueror over the conquered, of the seigneur over the serf, are
absolute and from heaven!... A villein or peasant in revolt deserves
death. It is the feudal law."

The champion shivered, and looking fixedly at the King of Navarre said:
"Charles the Wicked, you will not let me leave this place alive; you
would be a lost man if I carried your words to Marcel!"

"You will leave this place alive," coldly answered the prince, "and
besides my words, you will report the facts to Marcel."

A prey to irrepressible agony, Jocelyn fell back upon the settee and
Charles the Wicked proceeded:

"You will first of all tell Marcel that, however wily he may be, I have
not been his dupe. The chiefs of the Jacques whom he sent to me as
auxiliaries were expected to become my watchers, and, if need be, my
butchers ... if I deviated from the path marked out by that insolent
bourgeois. I was in his hands, said he to me, but an 'instrument that he
would break if need be'.... Very well! I have broken one of Marcel's
redoubtable instruments.... I have annihilated the Jacquerie ... and at
this very moment my friends, Gaston Phoebus, the Count of Foix and the
Captal of Buch are crushing in Meaux the last coils of that serpent of
revolt that sought to rise against the nobility----"

"The Jacquerie crushed! annihilated!" exclaimed Jocelyn, more and more
beside himself. But returning to his first suspicion, he gathered voice
to say: "Charles the Wicked, you are the most cunning man on earth ...
you are laying some trap for me.... If the Jacques came to Clermont to
the number of eight or ten thousand, you were not in command of
sufficient forces to exterminate them."

"Sir envoy, you are too hasty in your conclusions. Listen first, you
will then be able to judge. I promised facts to you. Here they are.
Yesterday, towards noon, I was apprised of the approach of the Jacques.
The bourgeoisie of Clermont and the corporation of artisans, infected
with the old communal leaven, went out to meet the malefactors and to
feast them. I encouraged their plans, and while the Jacques halted in
the valley near Clermont, three of their chiefs presented themselves at
the drawbridge demanding to entertain me."

"What were their names?"

"William Caillet ... Adam the Devil ... and Mazurec the Lambkin.... I
ordered the three Jacques chiefs to be brought to me; I received them
with great courtesy; I touched their hands, called them my comrades and
gave them fraternal embraces. We agreed that, obedient to Marcel's
wishes, they should be my auxiliaries, and that we would speedily start
on the march to Paris. In the meantime their men were to remain encamped
in the valley. After issuing their orders to this effect, the three
chiefs conferred with me upon the plan of campaign. So said, so done.
The three chiefs returned to their encampment to order matters and came
back to me. My first act then was to throw all three into prison. I knew
that, deprived of their chiefs, the execrable bandits were half
overcome. I then sent one of my officers, the Sire of Bigorre, to inform
the Jacques that at the conference I had with their chiefs, they desired
that their men should immediately begin to exercise themselves with my
archers and cavalrymen, in order to accustom themselves to military
manoeuvres. The Jacques tumbled into the trap, gladly accepted the
proposition, and were formed into battalions."

Noticing the indignation and rage of Jocelyn, that betrayed themselves
through his involuntary twitchings in his bonds, Charles the Wicked
interrupted his narrative for a moment in order to interject the remark:
"I congratulate myself more and more upon having had you bound fast.
Waste not your fury. It will soon have stronger matter upon which to
expend itself.... I now proceed.... The bourgeois and artisan guilds of
Clermont had tapped a large number of barrels to feast their friends the
Jacques with. Their hilarity was soon complete. With loud cries the
Jacques called for their first exercise in military marching. The Sire
of Bigorre, an able captain, commanded the manoeuvre. He did it in such
a way that, after a few marches and countermarches, the Jacques found
themselves huddled and crowded together like a herd of cattle at the
bottom of the valley, an easy mark to my archers stationed on the
surrounding eminences, while my cavalry occupied the only two issues
from which the fleers could escape out of the deep hollow."

"You princes are experts at massacres!" cried Jocelyn, in bitter
despair.

"It was a regular slaughter of wolves," answered Charles the Wicked.
"The Jacques, like stupid and ferocious brutes, and full of vain-glory
at parading before the bourgeois of Clermont, put out their chests, and
carried their staves, forks and scythes with as much pride as if they
carried the noble arms of knighthood; they even applauded the excellent
order of my men-at-arms who held the crests round about the hollow in
which they were penned up. Suddenly the clarions gave a signal. The
music greatly delighted the revolted varlets. But their delight is soon
ended. At the clarion's first notes my archers bent their bows and a
hail storm of murderous bolts, shot by my soldiers from above into the
compact mass of Jacques in the hollow, decimated the bandits. A panic
took possession of the savage herd; the brutes sought to flee by the two
issues in the valley; but there they found themselves face to face with
my five hundred cavalrymen, cased in iron, who, with lances, swords and
iron maces furiously charged upon the canaille, while my archers
continued riddling with their bolts both the flanks of the band and
those who sought to climb up the hill.... It was a superb slaughter....
The ground was heaped with the dead!"

Jocelyn uttered a hollow groan. Charles the Wicked smiled satisfied and
proceeded:

"Nothing more cowardly can be conceived than those varlets after their
first exaltation. Such was their fright, as told me by the Sire of
Bigorre, that they allowed themselves to be killed like sheep; they fell
upon their knees, bared their throats to the swords, their breasts to
the arrows and their heads to the iron maces. In short, all those whom
iron did not pierce were smothered under the corpses. A large number of
bourgeois and town plebs, spectators of the slaughter, and also crowded
down in the valley, shared the fate of their comrade Jacques Bonhomme.
Thus with one blow I relieved myself of the peasants and of the town
plebs together with a considerable number of communal bourgeois. I now
hold their town in my power, and keep it. That is their affair with me.
And, now, Sir ambassador, tell Marcel in my name no more to mix up the
Jacques in our operations. There are now few of these ferocious beasts
left; moreover, they are evil companions. You shall presently be freed
of your bonds and your horse shall be returned to you. Should you doubt
my words and wish to make sure of the facts before returning to Paris,
go out by the side of the valley, look around, and, above all, close
your nose ... the carcasses of those accursed Jacques are beginning to
emit rank odors."

Forgetting in his rage that he was pinioned, Jocelyn turned to rush upon
Charles the Wicked. The prince, however, proceeded smiling as before:

"Ungrateful fellow.... You would strangle me.... Yet you ignore how
generous I have been.... I have saved the lives of the three chiefs of
that band of raving wolves.... Do you doubt it?" he inquired, answering
a painful sigh that escaped from the breast of Jocelyn, whose thoughts
ran upon his brother; "you question my clemency and generosity!"

"Could it be true?" cried Jocelyn, yielding to a vague hope; "did my
brother Mazurec really escape?"

"If you talk calmly instead of bellowing like a staked steer, I shall
give you my word as a knight that you will see your brother."

"Mazurec lives.... I shall see him!"

"He lives.... You will see him ... upon the word of a knight. But let us
talk sensibly. We must now consider the means by which Marcel and I can
co-operate in the accomplishment of our common projects."

"Marcel will not co-operate with the butcher of so many innocent
victims!" cried Jocelyn. "Marcel will not ally himself with you, who
just told me that all rebellious vassals deserve death!... The fatal
alliance he entered into with you, compelled thereto by stress of
circumstances, is now forever sundered. It has been a terrible lesson.
It will enlighten the people who seek the support of princes in the
struggle against their oppressors."

"You slander Marcel's good judgment, whose political sagacity none
appreciates more than I. That clothier is a master-man. Do you know what
he will answer you when, back to Paris, you will have reported to him
the carnage of the Jacquerie?"

"Oh, indeed I do!"

"He will say this: 'The bourgeoisie and the Jacquerie were my army; I
expected to discipline it and to be able to say to the King of Navarre:
"My army is superior to yours; accept my conditions; let us jointly
march against the Regent; I promise you his crown if you consent to
submit to the national assembly as the supreme power. If you prefer
allying yourself with the Regent, do so. The bourgeoisie holds the
towns, the Jacquerie the country. I do not fear you." But here is the
Jacquerie, the bulk of my army, annihilated.' Marcel will thoughtfully
add: 'The disaster is irreparable. I now have but one of two courses
open: either submission to the Regent, and deliver up to him my head and
the heads of my friends, or promote the projects of the King of Navarre,
who has an army capable of coping with the royal forces. Accordingly,
instead of dictating terms to the King of Navarre, I am compelled to
accept his terms.' That is what Marcel will say."

"Marcel will never betray the cause to which he has devoted his life."

"So far from betraying the cause of the people, he will insure the
execution of a part of his programme. Do you take me for fool enough to
ignore that, inevitably--Marcel said so to me, and he spoke
truly--inevitably, if I mount the throne, I am compelled to carry out
the larger part of the reforms that that redresser of wrongs has been
pushing so many years? Would not the bourgeois sooner or later rebel
against me as they have done against the Regent if I did not grant them
greater freedom? Marcel furthermore said to me with his usual good
sense: 'You, Sire, who covet the crown, will see in every reform
measure only a means to confirm you upon the throne; the Regent, on the
contrary, considers every measure of reform as a curtailment of his
hereditary sovereign rights.'"

"Charles the Wicked, if such are your plans, if each of your words is
not a lie or does not hide some trap, why did you massacre the Jacques?
Why did you crush that popular uprising? Was it not bound to insure the
freedom of Gaul and chase away the English?"

"Do you take me for a simpleton? What would there be left for me to
reign over if Gaul were entirely free? What would become of the
nobility? No, no! Whether I like it or not, I shall be compelled to
grant a large number of reforms that may satisfy the bourgeoisie; I
would not resign myself to the rôle of a passive instrument of the
national assembly, as Marcel proposes, but I shall want to rule jointly
with the assembly; and I would put forth all my efforts to end the
English war. But as to raising Jacques Bonhomme from his condition--not
at all! If I tried it I would turn every seigneur into an enemy. Jacques
Bonhomme shall remain Jacques Bonhomme. Who would be left to fill the
royal treasury if I enfranchised Jacques Bonhomme? Who would there be
left to be taxed at will? The enfranchisement of Jacques Bonhomme would
be the end of both nobility and royalty!... Those pests of bourgeois
franchises, that issued from the execrable communes, are themselves
enough of a menace to the throne.... This being all understood, you will
say to Marcel that as early as to-morrow I shall begin collecting the
several divisions of my army, and that I shall march upon Paris, whose
gates shall be open to me.... Finally, in order to settle this and some
other matters, you will tell him to meet me at Saint-Ouen, where I shall
be in the evening of the day after to-morrow."

The merciless logic of Charles the Wicked only redoubled the horror that
he inspired Jocelyn with, and the latter was about to give vent to it
when the hour of seven was struck from afar by the parochial church of
Clermont. With his usual smile the prince observed:

"I promised you that you would see your brother.... You are about to see
him. And I want to let you know how I discovered your relationship. I
ordered a fellow who is all ears to be concealed in a secret closet of
the prison of the three chiefs of the Jacquerie. He was instructed to
spy upon the scamps. In that way he heard one of them say to his
accomplices, that he regretted he could not see his brother Jocelyn the
Champion and friend of Marcel once more. When I this morning received
the letter signed 'Jocelyn,' announcing yourself as the envoy of the
provost, I easily discovered your relationship with the Jacques."

"Where is my brother? Where is that poor Mazurec? Have me carried before
him."

"You will see him! Did I not pledge you my word as a knight?... But do
not forget to notify Marcel that I expect to see him at Saint-Ouen day
after to-morrow evening. And may the devil take you!"

The King of Navarre left the room. A few minutes after his departure the
door was again opened and Jocelyn joyfully turned expecting to see his
brother enter. He hoped in vain. It was one of the equerries.

"Your master assured me that I would see my brother, Mazurec," said
Jocelyn, an unaccountable feeling of anxiety creeping over him.

The equerry opened the window near which the champion had been deposited
and pointing to it said: "Look out of this window. Our Sire is faithful
to his promise," and he withdrew, locking the door after him.

Seized with a terrible presentiment, Jocelyn leaned towards the window
as far as his bound limbs allowed him, and the following ghastly scene
was enacted before his eyes:

Below the window, about thirty feet down, is a vast square surrounded
with houses and into which two streets run out, both of which are barred
with strong cordons of soldiers charged to keep the inhabitants of the
town from entering the square. At one end of the square and not far from
Jocelyn's window rises a wide scaffold. In the middle of the scaffold
stands a stake with a stool attached, at either side of which is a block
on which a sharp-pointed pile is firmly fastened. Several executioners
are busy on the scaffold. Some are attaching iron chains to the center
stake; others are standing around a cooking-stove turning on the burning
coals, with the help of tongs, one of those iron trevets or tripods used
by the peasants to cook their porridge in the fire-place. The trevet
begins to be red hot; some of the executioners engaged near the stove
kneel down and blow upon the fire to keep up the flames.

Presently, trumpets are heard approaching from the direction of one of
the two streets; the cordon of soldiers posted at the mouth of that
street part and allow a passage to a first squad of archers. Between
this and the second squad, William Caillet, Adam the Devil and Mazurec
the Lambkin are seen marching with firm tread. Mazurec is only half clad
in an old hose of goat-skin; the two other peasants wear the ancient
Gallic "blaude" or blouse, wooden shoes and woolen cap. It was not
thought necessary to pinion them. Adam and Mazurec have each an arm on
the shoulder of William Caillet, who is placed between the two. Thus
joined in one embrace, the three men march with heads erect, intrepid
looks and resolute carriage towards the scaffold erected for their last
martyrdom.

The archers who compose the rear-guard of the escort spread themselves
over the place, with their bows ready and their eyes searching the
windows of the surrounding houses. One of the lattices clicks open, and
instantly two arrows fly and disappear through the aperture, followed by
an agonizing cry within. The two archers immediately re-fit their bows.
They are executing the orders they received from their chiefs. The town
people occupying the houses around the square had been forbidden to
appear at their windows during the execution of the three chiefs of the
Jacquerie. The three are now at the foot of the scaffold.

Gasping for breath, his face moist with cold perspiration, horrified and
desperate at the sight of such a spectacle, Jocelyn feels his head
swimming. He seems oppressed by a horrible nightmare. He distinguishes
the faces; he hears the voice of Mazurec, of Adam, of Caillet exchanging
a supreme adieu on the scaffold, while the executioners around them are
making ready. William Caillet takes the hands of Adam and Mazurec and
cries out in a strong voice that reaches the champion's ears:

"Firm, my Jacques! Firm to the end! Adam, your wife is revenged!...
Mazurec, our Aveline is revenged!... Our relatives and friends,
smothered to death in the cavern of the forest of Nointel are
avenged.... The executioners are about to torture and put us to death.
What does it matter? Our death will not return life to the noble dames
and seigneurs who fell under our blows in the midst of their happiness.
They sorrowed to leave life ... not so with us, with us whose lives are
brimful of sorrows and tears!... The Jacquerie has revenged us!... Some
day others will finish what we began!... Firm, my Jacques! Firm to the
end!"

"Oh, Jacques Bonhomme, for so many centuries a martyr!" responded Adam
and Mazurec in savage enthusiasm. "The Jacquerie has revenged you!...
Others will finish what we began!... Firm, my Jacques!... Firm to the
end!"

The executioners, engaged in their last dispositions, feel no concern at
what the three peasants may say. Their words can find no echo upon that
deserted place. As soon as the iron trevet is at white heat, one of the
tormentors cried: "Ready! We are ready for the job!"

The archers chain the three Jacques fast to the platform of the scaffold
and deliver them to the executioners. These seize William Caillet and
bind him down upon the seat attached to the stake in the center of the
two blocks with sharp-pointed piles. Mazurec and Adam are stripped of
their clothes except their hose, their hands are tied behind their backs
and they are led to the two blocks. One of the executioners pulls off
the woolen cap that covers the grey-headed William Caillet, while
another seizes with a pair of tongs the little trevet, turns it upside
down with its feet in the air, and placing the white-hot iron on the
skull of the aged peasant cries out: "I crown thee King of the Jacques!"

Caillet bellows with the insufferable pain; his hair takes fire, the
skin of his forehead shrivels, runs blood and rips open under the
pressure of the incandescent iron. The axes of two other executioners
rise over Mazurec and Adam, who are now on their knees each before one
of the blocks.

"Brother!" cries Jocelyn the Champion, overcoming the nightmare pressure
on his chest that suffocated and extinguished his voice; "Brother!"

At the heart-rending cry, Mazurec quickly raises and turns his head
towards the window from which the cry proceeded. But that very instant
the glint of the descending axe of the executioner flashes in Jocelyn's
eyes; his brother's body sinks upon and his head rolls over the
scaffold, reddening it with its blood. The champion is seized with a
vertigo; his heart fails him; and he falls unconscious upon the floor.

When Jocelyn recovered consciousness he found himself unbound and
stretched upon a pallet of straw in a lower hall. An archer mounted
guard over him near a lamp. It was night. Gathering his thoughts as if
he had awakened from some troubled dream, the champion soon recalled the
horrible reality. The archer informed him that he was found unconscious
by the equerries of the prince in the hall of the tower, had been
transported to that place, and, after a fit of delirium, had fallen into
profound torpor. The archer also informed him that his horse and arms
were to be returned to him, and that he could leave Clermont whenever he
wished. Jocelyn requested the archer to take him to one of the officers
of the King of Navarre, hoping to obtain permission to render a pious
homage to Mazurec. The prince granted the request, and Jocelyn, leaving
the castle, proceeded to the place of the execution. By the light of
the moon he mounted the scaffold which was guarded by soldiers. The
corpses of the three Jacques were to remain exposed during the whole of
the next day. After his torture, William Caillet had been beheaded like
his two companions. His head and theirs were stuck to the points of the
piles that surmounted the blocks. Jocelyn religiously kissed the icy
forehead of his brother Mazurec, and turning to descend the scaffold,
his foot struck against the iron trevet which had fallen down after the
decapitation of William Caillet.

"This instrument of torture and witness of my brother's martyrdom shall
join the relics of our family," said Jocelyn the Champion to himself,
picking up and concealing the trevet under his cloak. He then hastened
to his horse that was held ready at the gate of Clermont and left the
town, hastening to rejoin Etienne Marcel in Paris.



PART IV

JOHN MAILLART



CHAPTER I.

THE WAYS OF ENVY.


About a month had elapsed since the death of William Caillet, Adam the
Devil and Mazurec the Lambkin.

Denise, the niece of Etienne Marcel and betrothed to Jocelyn the
Champion, has retired to a large apartment over the cloth shop of the
provost and is busy sewing by a lamp. Uneasiness is depicted on the
sweet face of the young maid. From time to time she stays her needle and
listens towards the window through which the confused talk and hurrying
steps of large numbers of people on the street penetrate into the room.
Gradually the noise on the street subsided and silence reigned again.
These evidences of the excitement that agitated Paris greatly alarmed
Denise.

"My God!" she exclaimed. "The tumult augments. My aunt Marguerite has
not yet returned. Where can she have gone to? Why did she borrow the
cloak of Agnes our servant? Why the disguise? Why did she conceal her
head under a cowl? Can she have gone to the town-hall, where my uncle
and Jocelyn have been since morning?" At the thought of the champion,
Denise blushed, sighed and proceeded: "Oh, should there be any danger,
Jocelyn will watch over my uncle Marcel as he would have done over his
own father.... But the prolonged absence of my aunt causes me mortal
anxiety.... May God guard her...."

Agnes the Bigot, the old domestic of the house, entered the room
precipitately, and said to Denise whom she had known since her birth:
"For the last hour I have noticed three men of sinister looks on our
street. They never stray far from our door. I watched them through the
lattices. Off and on they consult in a low voice and then separate
again. One of them has now planted himself on the left, the second to
the right of the door, and the third opposite.... They must have been
sent to spy upon the people who enter and leave the house."

"Such spyings seem to me ominous; I shall notify my aunt as soon as she
returns."

"I think this is she," answered the servant. "I heard the shop door open
and close; that must be madam."

Indeed Marguerite Marcel soon entered the room. She threw far from her a
cowled cloak that she had on, and said to Agnes: "Leave us."

The provost's wife threw herself into a chair; she was exhausted with
fatigue and emotion. Her dejection, the pallor of her visage and the
visible palpitation of her bosom redoubled the fears of Denise who was
about to interrogate her aunt, when the latter, making an effort over
herself suppressed her agitation and said to Denise collectively:

"Courage, my child; courage!"

"Oh, heaven!... Aunt ... have we any new misfortune to deplore? What has
happened now?"

"No ... not at present; but to-morrow; perhaps this very evening."
Marguerite stopped short for a moment, and then proceeded with still
greater calmness and decision: "I paid a tribute to weakness; I now feel
strong again; I am now prepared for the worst.... I shall at least know
by resignation how to rise to the height of the man whose name I bear!
Oh, never was an honorable man more unworthily misunderstood, or
attacked in more cowardly fashion!"

"Then Master Marcel is exposed to new perils?"

"My presentiments did not deceive me. What I have just learned by myself
confirms them. A plot is hatching against Marcel and his partisans.
Perhaps his own life and the lives of his friends are at stake. Let the
worst come! At the hour of danger Marcel will do his duty and I mine....
I shall stand by my husband unto death."

Marguerite pronounced these last words in an accent of such mournful
determination that a cry of astonishment and fright escaped from Denise.

"My resolution astonishes you, poor child!" resumed Marcel's wife.
"To-day you see me full of courage! And yet last year ... even as late
as yesterday ... I admitted to you my agony and the fears that every day
beset me at the mere thought of the dangers that my husband ran. I then
minded only his fatigue, I then only objected to the overwhelming labors
that barely left him two hours of rest a night, I then looked back
regretfully to the days when, a stranger to political affairs, he busied
himself only with the affairs of our own cloth business. Our then
obscurity at least saved us the sad spectacle of the hatreds and the
envy that have since been unchained against Marcel's glory and
popularity."

"Oh, aunt, you speak truly! Do you remember that wicked and envious
Petronille Maillart? Thank God she never came back since the day of the
funeral of Perrin Macé! We have been spared her presence!"

"I now have no doubt that her husband is one of the leaders in the plot
that is hatching against Marcel."

"Master Maillart!... Uncle's childhood friend! He who only the other day
was so loudly protesting his affection for him!"

"Maillart is a weak man; he yields to his wife's influence over him, and
she is consumed with envy. She envied in me the wife of the man whom
the idolizing people called the King of Paris. In those days I would
have sacrificed Marcel's glory to his repose ... his genius to his
safety! The slightest popular commotion made me fear for him.... I was
then weak and cowardly.... But to-day, when he is pursued by hatred,
ingratitude and iniquity, I feel strong, brave and withal proud of being
the wife of that great citizen. I feel capable of proving to him my
devotion unto death."

"Oh, may heaven prevent that your devotion be put to so terrible a test!
But how did you learn about the plot?"

"I determined this evening to put an end to my suspense, and to
ascertain the actual facts regarding the popular sentiment towards
Marcel. I wrapped myself in that mantle to prevent being discovered, and
moved among numerous groups that gathered in our quarter."

"I now understand it all. And you learned directly...."

"Things that cause me to foresee an imminent and fearful crisis. The
life of Marcel is in great danger."

"Good God! May you not be mistaken?"

"No! The privations, the sufferings and the ills that follow in the wake
of the painful conquest of freedom are laid to Marcel's door. My husband
is at once attacked by the emissaries of the court party and by those of
the party of Maillart. These emissaries circulate among the poor people,
who, credulous of evil as well as of good, are fickle in their
affections, and whimsical in their hatred. It is harped upon to them
that all the evils of these days would have been avoided if Councilman
Maillart, 'the true friend of the people,' had been listened to; others
preach prompt submission to the Regent as the only means to a speedy end
of our public disasters. 'What does the Regent, after all, demand,' ask
his backers, 'What does he exact in return for his pardon? Only eight
hundred thousand gold pieces for the ransom of King John and the heads
of the leaders of the revolt and of its principal partisans! Would it be
paying too dearly with a little shame, a little gold and a little blood
for the peace of the city?'"

"Great God!" cried Denise, pale and trembling, "who are the leaders of
the revolt whose heads the Regent demands?"

"They are Marcel ... my son ... our best friends ... all honorable
people, devoted to the public weal, adversaries of oppression and
iniquity ... uncompromising enemies of the English, who are ravaging our
unhappy land, and who would have put Paris to fire and sword were not
Paris protected by the fortifications that it owes to Marcel's foresight
and zeal! The people to-day seem to have forgotten the services that my
husband has rendered the city; they seem to have forgotten that they owe
to Marcel the reforms that have been imposed upon the Regent and which
guarantee them against rapine and violence from the side of the court."

"Can it be possible that the people are guilty of such ingratitude
against Master Marcel?"

"My husband's soul is too large, his spirit too just to have been swayed
in his public acts by expectations of gratitude. How often has he not
said to me: 'Let us do what is right and just, such acts are their own
reward.' Marcel is prepared for any emergency. Nevertheless, thinking
that my observations might be of benefit to him, I stepped into the
house of our friend Simon the Feather-dealer who lives not far from the
town-hall, and I wrote to my husband what I had seen and heard. My
letter was carried to him by a trusty man----" but observing that the
tears that Denise had long been suppressing now inundated her face,
Marguerite interrupted her report, inquiring tenderly: "Why do you weep,
dear Denise?"

"Oh, aunt! I have neither your strength nor your courage.... The thought
of the dangers that threaten Master Marcel ... and our friends ...
overwhelm me with fear!"

"Poor child! You are thinking of Jocelyn, your lover? He is a true
friend of ours."

"Should there be a riot or a fight, he will rush into the thickest ...
to save Marcel."

"I regret, for the sake of your happiness, dear child, that I ever
called you to Paris. Had you not come, you would now be living
peacefully at Vaucouleurs, away from this center of trouble and strife."

At this instant Agnes the Bigot re-entered, preceding a person whom she
announced, saying: "Dame Maillart has come, she assures me, in order to
render you a great service. She wishes to speak to you without delay."

"I do not wish to see her!" cried Marguerite, impatiently. "I detest the
sight of that woman. I refuse to receive her!"

"Madam, she says she came to render you a great service," answered the
servant, sorry for having involuntarily crossed her mistress' wishes. "I
thought I was doing right to allow her to come up; it is now
unfortunately too late----"

Indeed, Petronille Maillart appeared at that moment at the door of the
room. Triumphant and barely controlled hatred betrayed itself in the
looks that the councilman's wife cast upon Marguerite. But assuming a
mild and kind voice she approached the object of her envy.

"Good evening, Dame Marcel; good evening, poor Dame Marcel."

"This affectation of sympathy conceals some odious perfidy," thought
Denise, whose face was still wet with tears. "I do not like to afford
this wicked woman the spectacle of my sorrow."

The young maid left the room, together with the servant. Alone with the
councilman's wife, Marguerite addressed her dryly:

"I am greatly astonished to see you here, madam; our friendly relations
must cease."

"I understand your astonishment, poor Dame Marguerite, seeing we have
not met since the day of the funeral of Perrin Macé. Oh, Master Marcel's
popularity was then immense; people called him then the King of Paris
... they swore by him ... he was looked upon as the saviour of the
city----"

"Madam, I beg you to speak less of the past and more of the present....
Make your visit short. What do you want of me?"

"First of all to beg you to forget the little quarrel we two had on the
day of the funeral of Perrin Macé. Next I come to render a great service
to poor Master Marcel."

"My husband excites nobody's pity ... he does not need your services."

"Alack! I wish I could leave you in that error, Dame Marguerite. But I
must tell you the truth, and inform you, seeing you are not aware of it,
that you no longer are the 'Queen of Paris' as you were in the days when
Master Marcel was the King. Even at the risk of wounding your legitimate
pride, I must add against my will that your husband's position has
become desperate.... I feel distressed at the sorrow that overwhelms
you----"

"Your excellent heart is unnecessarily alarmed, Dame Petronille. Do not
mind my sorrow."

"Unfortunately, however, I am certain of what I say."

"Madame, I greatly mistrust both your protestations and your
confidences."

"You do not seem to be informed on what is transpiring in Paris."

"I know that there are wicked and envious people in Paris."

"I know you too well, Dame Marguerite, to imagine that a wise and
discreet person like yourself would reproach me with being envious----"

"Indeed, I would not venture, madam.... I would indeed not venture----"

"And you would be right. What is there in your present fate to be
envied. A storm is beating down upon you."

"Envious people do not need much to be envious about. They envy even
the calmness and courage derived from a clean conscience, when
misfortune is on!"

"You admit it?... Misfortune has come upon you and your husband?" cried
the councilman's wife triumphantly, and for a moment forgetting her rôle
of hypocrite. But recalling herself, she added cajolingly: "The avowal
at least makes me hope that you will accept the services of my husband."

Realizing the gravity of the last words of the councilman's wife,
Marguerite fixed a penetrating look upon her and answered:

"Did Master Maillart send you to offer his services to my husband?
Whence such solicitude?"

"Have the two not been friends since their childhood? Is the friendship
of youth ever forgotten? You have earned our affection."

"It is so at least with generous hearts. But if Master Maillart wishes
to render a service to my husband, why should he send you, madam? Does
he not meet Marcel daily at the town-hall?"

"Since last evening, neither Maillart nor any of his friends have set
foot at the town-hall ... and for good reasons. And for another reason
he would not set foot here. That is why he has commissioned me to come
and offer you his advice and services."

"What does he advise ... what are his services?"

"Maillart advises your husband to secretly leave Paris this very night."

"We now know the advice; it implies a great resolution.... As to the
service ... what is it?"

"My husband offers to favor Marcel's flight if you adopt his advice."

"And how?"

"Maillart will send a trusty man to your house towards midnight. He
shall accompany your husband. He is to wrap himself up well so as not to
be recognized, and confidently follow our emissary, who is charged to
see him safely off.... But your husband must be absolutely alone,
otherwise our emissary will refuse to conduct him."

"It seems to me that in his eagerness to advise and serve, Master
Maillart forgets that Marcel and the town council--the governors, as
they are called--are still masters of Paris. The captains of tens and
the guards at the gates still obey them. If it should happen--a thing
that I consider impossible--that my husband should contemplate quitting
his post at the moment of danger, he would take horse with some of his
friends, and would order whatever gate of Paris he chose to be
opened.... He has the right and the power to do so."

"You would be right if Master Marcel's orders would be obeyed, if these
were still the days when, lording it over all Paris, he had the first
place at all ceremonies.... But the times have changed, good Dame
Marguerite. At this very hour in which I am speaking to you, your
husband's authority is about to be ignored. If he tried to order one of
the gates of Paris to be opened, his action would confirm the rumors
concerning his treason. People would cry: 'Hold the traitor! Death to
the traitor!' A hundred avenging arms would rise, and Master Marcel
would fall under their blows dead, disfigured, bleeding, butchered!...
His body would be torn to pieces.... That would then be his fate!"

"Enough! Enough!" stammered Marguerite, shivering and hiding her face in
her hands. "This is horrible. Hold your tongue!"

"Would not such a death be awful, dear Dame Marguerite? Therefore, in
order to save his friends from such a fate, my husband charged me to
come and offer you his services."

Despite the poor opinion in which she held Maillart and his wife, whose
envy she was aware of, Marguerite did not imagine that the proposition
of the councilman, one of Marcel's oldest friends and, like himself, of
the popular party, could conceal a trap or a snare. Marguerite even took
it for a token of sincere pity, easily supposable from the part of
envious people at the moment of their triumph over a rival. Moreover,
did not the state of public opinion in Paris, on which Marguerite had
that very evening sought to assure herself, but too well confirm the
words of the councilman's wife on the subject of Marcel's increasing
unpopularity? On the other hand, Marguerite was too well acquainted with
her husband's force of character and his energy not to feel assured
that, unless he was reduced to utter extremities, he never would decide
to leave Paris as a fugitive. Nevertheless, the hour of that terrible
extremity might arrive. In that case Maillart's offer was not to be
despised. These thoughts rapidly flashed through Marguerite's mind. She
remained pensive and silent for a moment, while the councilman's wife
observed her closely and anxiously awaited her answer.

"Dame Maillart," finally answered Marguerite, "I wish to believe, I
believe in the generous impulses that dictated the tender of services
that you have just made me in the name of your husband."

"Then, it is understood?" said the councilman's wife, with an eagerness
that should have excited Marguerite's suspicion. "The emissary will be
here at midnight. Let your husband follow him without taking any
companion.... He must have no escort.... That is understood."

"Allow me, Dame Petronille. I can not go so far as to accept your offer
in my husband's name. He alone is the judge of his conduct. He gave me
reasons to believe that he would be here this evening to take a few
hours' rest. If my expectations prove true, I shall soon see him.... I
shall notify him of Master Maillart's proposition. Ask your husband to
send his emissary here at midnight. My husband will decide."

"He should not hesitate a moment. Believe me, poor Dame Marguerite, you
must exert your whole influence upon your husband, and decide him to
avail himself of the one opportunity of escape left to him. He is in
great danger."

At this juncture Denise entered the room affecting great hurry and said:
"Aunt, Dame Alison wishes to see you privately; she has no time to
wait." To these words Denise added a significant gesture conveying to
Marguerite the hint to seize the opportunity for putting an end to the
visit of the detested Dame Petronille.

Marguerite understood the thoughts of her niece, and said to the
councilman's wife: "Please excuse me, there is a visitor I must
receive."

"Adieu, good Dame Marcel," said the councilman's wife, taking a step
towards the door. "Fail not to remember my advice.... We must know how
to resign ourselves to what can not be prevented.... The days follow,
but do not resemble each other.... For the rest you understand me. Good
evening, dear Dame Marguerite, I wish you happier days. May God preserve
you and yours!"

As always, not envy here followed hatred, but hatred envy. Born of the
rankling enviousness that the unworthy entertain for the worthy,
Petronille Maillart was consumed with malevolent hatred for the man and
woman whose ruin she was plotting. Casting upon Marguerite the furtive
look of a viper, Dame Petronille took her leave.



CHAPTER II.

LAST DAY AT HOME.


The handsome tavern-keeper, who now entered in response to the summons
of Denise, looked neat and prim as ever. Her beautiful black eyes, her
white teeth, her comely shape, above all her golden heart--all justified
the partiality of the student Rufin for this amiable and honorable woman
to the total eclipse of Margot. Finally, thanks to Jocelyn, Alison had
not only saved her honor from the clutches of Captain Griffith, but also
quite a round sum of gold, sewed in her skirt, from the rapacity of the
English. Jocelyn the Champion, once Alison's defender against Simon the
Hirsute and later her liberator, when exposed to the libertinage of the
bastard of Norfolk, had inspired her with sentiments more tender than
merely those of gratitude. Nevertheless, apprized of the engagement of
Denise and Jocelyn, the young woman struggled bravely against the
promptings of her heart, and seeking to free her mind from the
affectionate thoughts that crowded upon her, had found pleasure in
observing that, despite his turbulence, Rufin the Tankard-smasher lacked
neither devotion, nor heart, nor brightness, nor yet external
attractions. Thus, since the day when, fleeing from the horrors of the
war that desolated Beauvoisis, she had taken refuge in Paris near the
family of the provost to whom she had been recommended by Jocelyn,
Alison often met the student in her little lodgings at the inn where she
housed, and it often occurred to her that, despite his name, which
sounded particularly unpleasant in a tavern-keeper's ear, Rufin the
Tankard-smasher might after all not make a bad husband. Moreover, her
vanity was not a little flattered by the hope of herself opening a
tavern, whose principal customers would be the students of the
University of Paris. Received with kindness by Marguerite and Denise,
Alison entertained for both a deep sense of gratitude. On this evening
she had hastened to Marcel's house in the hope of being of service to
them. Observing the signs of uneasiness depicted on the tavern-keeper's
face, Marguerite said to her affectionately, taking her hands:

"Good evening, dear Alison ... you look alarmed.... Tell us the cause of
your trouble."

"Oh, Dame Marguerite! I have but too much reason for being alarmed, if
not for myself, yet for you"; and interrupting herself she added: "First
of all, and so as not to forget the circumstance, I must warn you that
coming in I saw three men enveloped in cloaks who seem to be in hiding
on some ambuscade. These men seem to have evil intents."

"Agnes, our servant, also noticed them," said Denise; "we are
forewarned."

"They are no doubt spies," replied Marguerite. "But Marcel need not fear
the consequences of being spied upon. Whatever he does is in the public
interest, and none of his acts need concealment. Nevertheless, seeing
that hatred now dogs his steps ... the information may be useful."

"It is distressing to me, Dame Marguerite, to bring what may be bad news
to you, who received me so kindly upon my arrival from Beauvoisis."

"Our friend Jocelyn recommended you to us; he informed us of your
misfortunes and of your tender care of that ill-starred Aveline. Our
good wishes in your behalf were but natural. But what is the matter?"

"This evening I was looking out of the window of my room at the tumult
of the people in the street, because you must know there is an unusual
agitation this evening on the streets of Paris, when a young man all out
of breath, handed me this note from Rufin the Tankard-smasher."

Alison drew from her corsage a slip of paper which she passed to
Marguerite, who nervously seizing it began to read it aloud:

"As true as Venus in her Olympian beauty...."

"Skip that, skip that, Dame Marguerite! Begin at the fourth or fifth
line," said Alison, blushing and smiling at once. "Those are but
flourishes that Master Rufin amuses himself with. Lose no more time over
them than I did myself.... That worthy fellow should have abstained from
his roguishness when writing upon such serious subjects."

After having run her eyes over the first lines of the epistle, during
which the student displayed his amorous and mythological vein,
Marguerite arrived at the essential portion of the missive:

" ... Hurry to the house of Master Marcel; if he is not at home, tell
his honored wife to have him warned not to leave the town-hall without a
strong escort. I am on the track of a plot against him. So soon as I
shall have positive proofs I shall go either to Master Marcel's house,
or to the town-hall to inform him of my discovery. Above all, let him be
on his guard against Councilman Maillart. He has no more mortal enemy.
He ought to order his arrest on the spot ... just as I would on the spot
have your heart for my prison whose turnkey is the gentle bantling
Cupid."

"Skip all that also, Dame Marguerite; those are some more flourishes.
There is nothing more of importance. I am not a little surprised at
seeing master student mix up folly with serious matter in that manner."

"Serious, indeed! Very serious!... This letter increases my
apprehensions," answered Marguerite, trembling; and recalling her recent
conversation with the councilman's wife, she thought to herself: "Could
the councilman's offer be a snare?... And still I can not yet accept the
existence of quite so horrible a plot!"

"My God!" cried Denise bitterly, "and yet uncle, despite all our
presentiments, always answers us when we mention to him our suspicions
regarding Maillart: 'He is not a bad sort of a man; only he is wholly
under the influence of his wife, who is devoured with vanity. Do not
judge him unjustly.'"

"Dear Alison," rejoined Marguerite after a few moments' reflection, "did
you question the messenger who brought you the letter?"

"Indeed, madam ... I asked where he had left Master Rufin."

"What answer did he make?"

"That the student was in a tavern near the arcade of St. Nicholas when
he handed him the letter."

As Alison was uttering the last words, two men wrapped to the eyes in
cloaks entered the room. Marguerite immediately recognized her husband
and Jocelyn the Champion. As they were throwing off their wraps,
Marguerite cried: "At last, here you are!" and unable longer to control
her emotions, she threw her arms around Marcel's neck, while Denise gave
her hand to her lover, who respectfully took it to his lips. Under his
armor Jocelyn wore a black jacket, a piece of clothing that he had
assumed since the day that he witnessed the execution of Mazurec the
Lambkin. Sad and pale, the face of Jocelyn betokened the grief that
beset his mind. After tenderly embracing Marcel, who effusively returned
her caresses, Marguerite said, delivering to him Rufin the
Tankard-smasher's letter:

"My friend, take notice of what this latter contains; our good Alison
just brought it to me in great haste."

Marcel read the letter in a low voice in the midst of the profound
silence of all present, while Marguerite, his niece and Alison
attentively watched his face. He remained calm throughout. He even
smiled at the mythological flourishes of the student. When he had
finished the letter he returned it to Alison, saying kindly:

"I thank you for your anxiety to bring me the missive, Dame Alison; our
friend Rufin is wrongly alarmed."

"Nevertheless, my friend," put in Marguerite with intense seriousness,
"what about the plot that the student mentions, and on the track of
which he says he is?"

"Rufin must have exaggerated to himself the importance of some
insignificant fact, my dear Marguerite."

"But ... did you notice what he said about Maillart?"

"Last evening Maillart affectionately shook me by the hand when leaving
the town-hall after a discussion in which his opinion differed from
mine. 'Men,' said he to me, 'may differ, but the bonds of old friendship
are indissoluble,' he added."

Jocelyn confirmed the episode, but Marguerite insisted, the disclosures
of the student having gone far to confirm her suspicions against the
councilman. "Marcel," said the alarmed wife, "Maillart's wife was here
this evening ... she came to propose a place of refuge for you in case
of danger----"

"The generous offer does not surprise me."

"A man is to come here this midnight ... you are to follow him alone ...
well wrapt in your mantle," said Marguerite with emphasis. "Alone ... do
you hear, Marcel?... and he is to conduct you to a place whence you
shall be able to flee without danger."

"This is too much kindness," Marcel answered with a smile. "I am
grateful for the offer; I do not think of fleeing, that is certain....
We never have been so near the triumph."

"What!" cried Marguerite encouraged by new hope. "Is that true? And yet,
why all this commotion.... Why this tumult in Paris ... why these
alarming rumors?" And her apprehensions that for an instant had been
allayed by the reassuring words of her husband, again regaining the
upperhand, she proceeded sadly: "The precaution that you as well as
Jocelyn took of enveloping yourselves in these cloaks, no doubt for the
purpose of not being recognized on the street--all these things
contribute to make me fear that you are deceiving yourself ... or that
out of consideration for me, you are concealing the true state of
things."

"Aunt forgot to tell you that three men seem to have been watching our
house all evening," said Denise, and it did not escape her that Jocelyn
seemed struck by the circumstance.

"And I also," observed Alison, "noticed at entering that there seemed to
be three spies near the house. Their presence is strange."

"My friend," said Marguerite, seeking to detect from her husband's face
whether his feeling of safety was real or assumed, "I sent you this
evening a note that I wrote to you at our friend's, Simon the
Feather-dealer. I there informed you of my impressions on my personal
observations, and urged you to take precautionary measures."

"I received your letter, my dear wife," said Marcel, tenderly taking
Marguerite's hands. "You trust me, do you not?... Very well; believe me
when I assert that your fears are unfounded. Better than anybody else do
I know what is going on in Paris this evening. Are our enemies active? I
let them talk, certain that I shall lead my work to a happy issue, as my
device proclaims. For the rest, is not my presence here the best proof
of my confidence in the situation? Upon receipt of your letter I decided
to leave the town-hall for a moment in order to come and calm your
fears, to comfort you, and also to beg of you not to alarm yourself if
it should happen that I do not return home all day to-morrow....
To-morrow grave matters will be decided. And to sum up," Marcel
proceeded, cheerfully, "as I mean to overthrow all your objections, you
dear, timid soul, I shall add that it was partly due to my modesty that
I enveloped myself in that cloak. I meant to reach here and return
without being stopped twenty times on the street by the cheers of the
people. Despite the envy and hatred of some of the bourgeois partisans
of the Regent, Marcel continues to be loved by the people of Paris."

"And you would not doubt it, Dame Marguerite," added Jocelyn, "if you
had heard, as I did, the addresses delivered to-day by the trades
guilds, all of which came to pledge their loyalty to Master Marcel."

Jocelyn's words, the cheerful and serene physiognomy of the provost and
the tone of conviction that marked his words, somewhat allayed the
fears of Marguerite and Denise, the latter of whom said to Marcel: "Your
presence suffices to encourage us, dear uncle, just as the sight of the
physician sometimes suffices to allay the pains of a patient."

"My worthy Jocelyn," Marcel said, cheerfully, turning to the champion,
"that applies to you as much as to me ... you happy and beloved lover!"

"Dear Denise," said the champion to the blushing maid, "the mourning for
my poor brother has put off our marriage.... I do not very much regret
the circumstance when I consider that in these days of turmoil I could
not have devoted all my time to you. But believe Master Marcel; better
days are approaching. Need I tell you that they are the subject of my
ardent wishes, seeing that they will witness our union?"

"Dame Alison," cordially put in Marcel, "since marriage is the topic of
the conversation, take pity on the amorous martyrdom of poor Rufin....
He is a good and loyal heart, despite some transports of youth that
earned for him the nickname of 'Tankard-smasher.' I feel quite sure that
the wholesome influence of a kind and honorable woman like yourself
would make an excellent husband of him. It would be a double pleasure to
me to see you and Rufin, Denise and Jocelyn, approach the altar the same
day. What say you?"

"That needs thinking over," answered Alison, meditatively. "That needs
much thinking over, Master Marcel. For the rest," she proceeded, with a
blush and a sigh, "I say neither 'yes' nor 'no'.... I wish to consult
Dame Marguerite."

"Rufin's prospects are good," rejoined the provost. "The woman who says
not nay ever has a strong wish to say aye."

"Marcel would not be so cheerful and jovial did he actually believe
himself and his partisans on the eve of grave dangers," thought
Marguerite, now more and more reassured by the turn of gaiety her
husband's words had taken. "I must have attached exaggerated importance
to what I heard this evening. My husband is right. Even when his
popularity is strongest, calumny pursues him. Maillart may be yielding
simultaneously both to envy and the more generous feelings prompted by
old friendship. He may believe in the loss of popularity by Marcel and
enjoy the idea, and yet wish to save him. That wicked Petronille has
merely thrown poison into an offer that, in itself, is honorable. If it
were otherwise, Maillart would be the vilest of men, and that I am not
ready to believe. Such a degree of perversity would exceed the bounds of
possibility----"

"Denise," said the provost, kissing his niece on the forehead, "order a
lamp to be taken into my cabinet. I have some documents to finish."
Turning to his wife, whom he also kissed on the forehead: "I shall see
you again before I leave," and taking Jocelyn by the arm: "Come, we have
work to attend to."

Denise hastened to carry a lamp into Marcel's cabinet, where she left
her uncle and her lover closeted together.



CHAPTER III.

DARKENING SHADOWS.


Once alone in his cabinet with Jocelyn, Marcel sank into profound
pensiveness. The cheerful serenity that had pervaded his bearing during
the conversation with his wife was now replaced by an expression of
melancholic seriousness. For a few minutes he contemplated in silence
his studious retreat, the witness of the meditations of his riper years.
Finally, leaning over a large table that was strewn with parchments, he
emitted a sigh and said to Jocelyn:

"How many nights have I not spent here, elaborating by the light of this
little lamp the plans of reform that some day, hap now what hap may,
will be the solid basis for the emancipation of our people, the
evangelium of the rights of the citizen!... Here have been spent the
happiest, the most beautiful days of my life!... What a pure joy did I
not then taste!... Sustained by my ardent love for justice and right,
and enlightened by the lessons of the past, I soared upward to the
sublimest theories of freedom!... I then was ignorant of the deceptions,
the evils, the delays, the struggles, the storms that the practice and
application of truth inevitably engender!... I then saw truth in its
radiant simplicity!... I did not then reckon with human passions!... But
that matters not!... Truth is absolute.... Sooner or later it imposes
itself upon humanity that ever is on the march, progresses and improves
itself...."

Jocelyn listened to Marcel in mute reverence. He now beheld that
illustrious man wrapt with pensive brow in ever deeper meditation. A few
instants later, Marcel stepped towards an oaken trunk that age had
blackened. He opened it, took out several rolls of parchment, lay them
on the table, pushed a stool near and sat down to write. His virile and
characterful face betrayed by degrees increasing sadness, and, to
Jocelyn's surprise several tears dropped from the provost's eyes upon
the lines that he was writing. Tears from so great a man, from a man of
such energy, endowed with ancient stoicism, profoundly impressed the
champion. Jocelyn's heart ached, and he began to suspect Marcel's
motives for the affectation of safety that he had shortly before
displayed before his family. Jocelyn saw him dry his tears and seal the
parchment with black wax, using for that purpose the impress of a large
gold ring that he wore on his finger, after which, placing the scroll
together with the others that he had taken from the trunk, he made one
package of all, sealed them together and replaced them in the trunk. He
then locked it, and giving the key to Jocelyn, said to him deliberately:

"Keep this key safe.... I charge you to deliver it to my wife and to
tell her, in case certain events should happen, that she will find in
that trunk, together with my testament and some other papers that it is
well to keep, a letter for herself ... written by me this evening ...
written for my beloved Marguerite...."

"Master Marcel," Jocelyn answered, a cold shudder running over his
frame, "these are lugubrious preparations."

"Lugubrious?... no ... but prudent.... I have fulfilled my sacred
duty.... I now find myself in a singular frame of mind.... The latest
happenings, those of to-day, cast over my mind, not any doubt upon the
decision I should take, but considerable uncertainty on the head of the
means to be adopted. Never yet have I been so in need of a clearness of
judgment as now, when I must take some supreme and irrevocable step. I
imagine that by talking over the general condition of things, these will
stand out more clearly before me. Thought expressed in words becomes
preciser, while mute it often fades from one thing to another and is
lost to the goal in mind. Therefore, listen to me, and if in the rough
sketch that I shall present any omission should strike you, any point
should seem obscure, tell me so.... It is a friendly duty that I now
conjure you to fulfill."

"I listen, Master Marcel."

"Upon your return from Clermont--pardon that I open the wound of your
private sorrow--I also wept over the death of your unfortunate
brother--upon your return from Clermont, you informed me of the massacre
of the Jacques. The following day we learned that the Captal of Buch and
the Count of Foix exterminated at Meaux another considerable troop of
revolted peasants. Finally, recovering from the stupor into which these
formidable insurrections had struck it, the nobility gathered its forces
and running over the country it put a mass of serfs, men, women and
children, to frightful tortures and to death, whether these sympathized
with the Jacquerie or not, and set their villages on fire. That settled,
at least for a long time to come, all thought of an alliance between the
townsfolks and the country people. The destruction of the Jacquerie
reduces the bourgeoisie to its own forces in its struggle against the
Regent. The bourgeoisie has, thereupon, no choice but either to accept
the unequal fight or deliver itself to Charles the Wicked, and instead
of dictating terms to him, accept those that he may choose to dictate to
us."

"That was the calculation of the blood-thirsty knave. He said so
explicitly to me at Clermont."

"Nevertheless, by massacring the Jacques, skillful politician though
Charles the Wicked be, he deprived himself of powerful auxiliaries
against the Regent, whose forces are far superior to those of his own.
He may fail in his calculations."

"The scoundrelly prince! Had he followed your generous advice, his own
hands, re-inforced by thousands of armed peasants and thousands of
bourgeois, would by now have crushed the royal troops. And profiting by
the general enthusiasm of the people, who are as exasperated at the
English as at the seigneurs, Charles the Wicked would now be chasing the
foreigners from our soil and would ascend the throne in the midst of the
acclamations of a people whom he would govern placing before them the
example of submission to the national assembly."

"Such was the glorious mission that opened before Charles the Wicked. It
is not yet too late if he would only have the courage, the wisdom and
the loyalty to devote himself body and soul to so noble an aim. I shall
presently explain that. At present, however, he is, just as ourselves,
no other than a rebel against the loyal authority of the Regent. The
latter disposes of considerable forces. He has on his side the monarchic
tradition, which in the eyes of the people runs back into the night of
the ages; he has on his side the royal name, the courtiers, the clergy,
the royal officers, the administrators of the revenue and of justice, in
short, all those who live upon abuses and exactions--a huge clientage
that imparts formidable strength to the Regent. Charles the Wicked is
too clear-sighted not to have realized by now all that he lost by
destroying the Jacquerie, and how slight his chances now are of usurping
the crown. He must have thought of an eventual settlement with the
Regent in case our cause, to whose side he still seems to lean, should
be seriously compromised, or actually lost."

"Do you believe that Charles the Wicked has actually negotiated with the
Regent?"

"Everything makes me think so. The conduct of the King of Navarre during
these last days reveals a man who is wavering between ambition to ascend
the throne and the fear of a defeat which he would have to pay for with
his life and the loss of his domains. He sends us a few insignificant
reinforcements, but refuses to enter Paris. He has accepted the title of
captain-general of our city, but the queen, his mother, has frequent
interviews with the Regent. The hour is critical. The court party
exploits at our expense and with its habitual perfidy the present
national calamities whose original causes are the insane prodigalities
of the court itself. King John and his creatures have driven both towns
and country districts to desperation with their acts of rapine and
violence and their unbearable imposts. A revolution broke out. We
conquered radical reforms. These were expected to inaugurate an era of
peace and prosperity unequaled in the annals of the land, because
liberty is at once well-being and independence. But liberty is complete
only with the possession of the instruments of work."

"A profound truth, Master Marcel. Tyranny ever engenders servitude, and
servitude misery. Only by freeing them from seigniorial tyranny could
the insurrection of the serfs insure to these the enjoyment of the
fruits of the earth which they now cultivate for their own butchers."

"Yes, but all revolution is arduous and rough. It cannot overnight
remedy ills that are the fatal inheritance of the past. Sometimes such
ills are even temporarily aggravated by the remedial revolution, as the
cauterized wound for a while smarts worse than before. These ills, these
sufferings, have been carried to their extreme by the ravages of the
English after the battle of Poitiers. The people have valiantly endured
them, placing their confidence in the revolution of 1357. The city
council, presided over by myself, the 'governors' in short, as the body
is called, have been forced to exercise a temporary dictatorship, often
to resort to energetic and even terrible measures in order to make front
against the English at our gates, and the court party inside of our
walls. The people at first accepted the dictatorship for the sake of the
safety of the city, but they have since fallen away when they found that
we could not instantly meet their expectations of material well-being.
The people are tired of dictatorship, and now in their credulous despair
they lend ear to the mischievous words of their own enemies! They are
ready to withdraw from the struggle instead of finishing the work of
emancipation! The people now deplore their rebellion; they are ready to
curse the councilmen who have sacrificed their repose and their
property, and even exposed their lives in the effort of emancipation.
They imagine that by humbly submitting to the Regent, that by meekly
resuming their yoke, the ills they now suffer from will vanish.
Perchance to-morrow the people will be dragging me to the scaffold, me
who so recently was their idol!" After a few seconds of silence the
provost resumed: "To sum up, we can now barely count with the support of
the masses; Charles the Wicked is a doubtful ally; the Regent a
formidable adversary."

"Unhappily the manifestations of the defection of the people, whom the
manoeuvres of the Regent's party have done their best to promote, have
struck me during the last few days. Must all hope be given up, Master
Marcel?"

"No! No! I merely wished to establish the critical aspect of our
situation. But all is not lost. By virtue of their very fickleness the
people are capable of sudden revulsions. A considerable section of the
bourgeoisie, firmly resolved to carry our work to a happy issue, in the
language of my device, will go with us to the end, whatever the dangers
be that menace our lives and property in case of failure. We still can
make our influence felt among the masses; we can arouse their
enthusiasm, wrench them free from their acquiesence in the enemy's
suggestions, adopt terrible measures against these, and gain a decisive
victory over the Regent. But seeing that the Jacquerie is annihilated,
it would be insane to undertake such a struggle without the support of
Charles the Wicked. This, then, is our last resource. This very night I
shall induce the prince to declare himself against the Regent, and
sufficiently compromise himself so as to force him to the alternative of
vanquishing with us and ruling, or of losing both his life and his
property should the Regent prevail. If he accepts my propositions, then
Charles the Wicked, having staked his head for a crown, will enter Paris
at the head of his Navarrians. We shall make a supreme effort; we shall
arouse the people and shall take the field against the Regent. If we are
victorious, we shall then rouse against the English the peasants that
have escaped the vengeance of the nobility. The foreigner will be beaten
back; delivered from her domestic and her foreign foes, Gaul will
delegate her sovereignty to Charles of Navarre under control of the
national assembly. Our provinces will then form a powerful
confederation with us as the center."

"Such a result would be admirable. But would Charles the Wicked keep his
promise once he is crowned King of France? Will he submit to the laws of
the States General?"

"He would have submitted to all our conditions before the annihilation
of the Jacquerie which was a counterpoise to his bands of mercenaries.
But when he mounts the throne the force of circumstances will compel him
to keep a large number of the reforms very much like a gift of joy. Thus
a part of our conquests over the royalty will have been assured. Nor is
that all. The masses, still steeped in ignorance are slavish. Accustomed
through centuries to being governed despotically by a prince of royal
lineage, they can arrive only by degrees at free government under
elective magistrates, as were the communal towns at the time of their
enfranchisement. But experience will be gradually gained. Is not the
mere fact of the overthrow of one dynasty and the setting up of a new at
the will of the citizens, an immense step forward? The divine prestige
of the royalty will have received a death-blow. The power of choosing a
sovereign implies the right to depose him. And, finally, let us not lose
sight of this, always supposing that Charles the Wicked succeeds in the
war: Gaul will be delivered of the English; after that, whatever may
happen, the nobility will preserve the memory of the formidable
insurrection of the Jacques; it will feel itself compelled to ease the
yoke, realizing that, driven again to extremities, Jacques Bonhomme
might again wield the fork, the scythe and the torch."

"Aye, Master Marcel, the future is bright ... provided Charles the
Wicked openly pronounces against the Regent, and we triumph."

"I have weighed everything, calculated everything. If we succumb in this
supreme conflict, Charles the Wicked will share our defeat and, like us,
will pay for his rebellion with his head. He is, at best, a wicked
prince; the Regent will return to Paris just as he would inevitably do
if the King of Navarre refuses to embrace our cause. It would be an act
of folly to try to oppose the Regent without him. Let us examine this
last hypothesis. Aiming at putting an end to the hesitations of Charles
the Wicked, I have forced him to decide this very night--"

"This very night?"

"At one o'clock to-morrow morning I shall await the King of Navarre at
the St. Antoine gate. I declared to him yesterday at St. Denis that I
shall no longer count with him, and shall look upon him as a traitor if
at the hour I mentioned he does not appear at the rendezvous so as to
enter Paris with me and to solemnly announce to-morrow at the town-hall
his adherence to our cause, and the support of his arms. We are left to
our own forces if Charles the Wicked fails to put in his appearance
to-night."

"What did he answer you, Master Marcel?"

"He answered me in his usual manner, that he would think it over. Now,
then, if the fear of losing his domains and of risking his head carries
the day over his ambition, he will go and throw himself at the feet of
the Regent and will offer him his services in atonement for his past
conduct. The Regent has great interest in temporizing with such an
adversary. He will grant him pardon, and the two will march upon Paris
at the head of their combined troops. Our city will then fall back under
the monarchic yoke."

"Then, Master Marcel," cried Jocelyn, "let us call to arms all the
stout-hearted people of the city; let us then close our gates and lock
ourselves behind our ramparts that are now so well fortified by your
foresight and zeal; let us be killed to the last man; let not the Regent
re-enter his capital but through the breach that he will have to make
over our corpses!"

"Such a resolution is heroic. But you forget the horrors that follow the
capture of a city by assault. You forget Meaux delivered to the flames
by the Captal of Buch and the Count of Foix; the women assaulted, old
men and children slaughtered or perishing in the flames! Shall I deliver
Paris to such a fate, Paris the head and heart of Gaul? No! To attempt
to resist the Regent without the assistance of Charles the Wicked would
be to expose ourselves to annihilation. Let us prefer a salutary
sacrifice to a sterile heroism. Even our defeat will be fruitful."

"Master Marcel, I do not understand you now."

"Whatever the stubbornness and duplicity of the Regent may be, the
terrible lessons he has received will not be lost upon him. A fugitive
before the popular uprising, he was forced to leave the palace of the
Louvre furtively ... he has seen himself on the point of losing his
crown. If, thanks to the submission of the Parisians, he should re-enter
the city, however he may seek to satiate his vengeance and satisfy his
royal pride, he will feel compelled to observe certain reforms. These,
no doubt, will be less numerous than Charles the Wicked would have
accepted in order to consolidate his usurpation. Nevertheless, whatever
they be and however few, these reforms will remain safe to posterity,
our revolution will have borne some fruit, the burden that weighed upon
the people will have been lightened. Do you grasp my sense?... What is
it that astonishes you?"

"In order to satisfy the resentment of the Regent and slake his
vengeance, the heads of the chiefs of the rebellion will be demanded."

"Some heads will be demanded!" answered Marcel with Spartan simplicity.
"Yes, the Regent will demand my own head first of all and also the heads
of the governors, the principal leaders in the rebellion.... Very well!
We shall deliver our heads to the Regent.... My friends and I are in
accord upon that.... This conversation elucidates, as I expected of it,
the facts that are to be considered, and confirms me in my resolution.
At one in the morning I shall proceed to the gate of St. Antoine, where
I shall expect to meet Charles the Wicked. If he fails to come, I shall
take horse and ride to the Regent's camp at Charenton. I shall offer him
my life; if that does not suffice him, I shall offer him the lives of my
friends: they have authorized me to dispose of their heads. In exchange,
I shall demand of the prince the observances of the reforms sworn to in
1357. I shall demand a good deal so as to obtain something.... These
reforms will smooth the day for the advent of our plan of government,
based upon the federation of the provinces and the permanence of the
sovereign national assemblies that will at first delegate the appearance
of a crown to a phantom king, and later, by wholly suppressing the idol,
suppress royalty itself. The government of free Gaul, free and
confederated, will then be again what it was at the time of the invasion
of Cæsar, as we learn from history and as one of your family's legends
confirms."

"At the time of the abolition of the commune of Laon and of so many
other municipal republics that Louis the Lusty destroyed, my ancestor
Fergan the Quarryman said to his son, who despaired of the future:
'Hope, my child, hope!... Have faith in the slow, painful but
irresistible progress of the race.' He spoke truly! Thanks to your
genius, I might have seen in this very century the municipal government
of the old communes--free, benevolent and wise governments--applied no
longer to one town only but to all Gaul. Be praised for having promoted
such a step forward."

"That is my dream! Social unity and administrative uniformity. Political
rights made commensurate with civic rights. The principles of authority
transferred from the crown to the nation. The States General changed
into a national assembly under the control of the people of the towns
and the country, and the living forces of the nation; and the popular
sovereignty attested by the overthrow of one dynasty and the transfer of
the crown to another, until the day of the total suppression of the
royalty, the last vestige of the Frankish conquest!... That was my
dream! Time will change the dream into reality. May be I stepped in
advance of my century.... Is that wrong?... That government of the
future will have been practiced three years!... Our children will place
all the stronger reliance in the prospect of their deliverance when,
instructed by the past, they will know that their fathers actually held
their deliverance in their own hands; that, having one day assumed their
freedom, they bent and chased away the royal incumbent, and that, if
they relapsed under the yoke, it was because on the eve of final triumph
they yielded to discouragement; it was because, after having overcome
formidable obstacles, they grew faint-hearted at the moment of reaching
the ultimate goal. The lesson will be great and profitable to our
children. Perchance the death of myself and my friends may render the
lesson all the more striking! Our death will have been as fruitful as
our life!... The scaffold will crown it!"



CHAPTER IV.

PLOTTERS UNCOVERED.


Wrapt in wonderment and admiration, Jocelyn was contemplating the noble
figure of Etienne Marcel that now seemed transfigured in the brilliancy
of the sentiments he had given utterance to, when a knock was heard at
the door. Jocelyn opened and Denise said to him:

"Jocelyn, your friend Rufin wishes to speak to you without delay."

"Master Marcel," the champion observed, "it must be about the plot that
Rufin thinks to have discovered."

"My child, tell Rufin to come in," said the provost to his niece.

Rufin entered immediately. He was deeply agitated: "Master Marcel," he
said, "I believe the goddess Fortuna served me as well this time as she
did the night I discovered the flight of the Regent"; and drawing a
letter from his pocket he handed it over to Marcel, adding: "Be kind
enough to post yourself thereon; if the message is to be judged by the
messenger, it bodes nothing good."

Marcel took the letter, broke the seal, trembled when he recognized the
hand that wrote it, and carefully read its contents, while Jocelyn,
leading the student to the outer end of the cabinet, said to him in a
low voice:

"How did you get the letter, friend Rufin?"

"By Hercules! I got it ... by the force of my fist! without, however,
forgetting the aid that my chum Nicholas the Thin-skinned and two Scotch
students lent me. I became acquainted with the last two about a year ago
in a contest over the flagrant superiority of the rhetoric of Fichetus
over that of Faber. Our discussion having turned from oral to manual,
to all the greater honor of rhetoric, I preserved a striking souvenir
of their fists--"

"The minutes are precious, Rufin; grave matters are at stake; I beseech
you, come to the point."

"This evening, towards nightfall, I was walking on
Oysters-are-fried-here street, totally oblivious of the perfumes exhaled
by the fries, although I had dined only on a herring, and thinking only
of that treasure, that pearl, or rather of that bouquet of roses that
Dame Venus, her godmother, christened by the succulent name of Alison--"

"For heaven's sake, Rufin!"

"Keep cool; I shall bid my soul hold its tongue. I shall come to the
point. Well, then, I noticed a large crowd at the other end of the
street; I elbowed my way in and reached its front ranks. There I saw a
certain large-boned scamp with a furred cap whom I had come across
before and knew to be a bitter partisan of Maillart. The said
large-boned scamp was perorating against Master Marcel, attributing to
him all the ills we are suffering from and crying: 'We must put an end
to the tyranny of the governors. The Regent's army is gathered at
Charenton and is about to march upon us. The Regent is furious. He
wishes to set fire to his good city of Paris and slaughter its townsmen.
Maillart, the true friend of the people, is alone able to make a front
against the Regent or to negotiate with him and thus save the city from
the ruin that threatens it.'"

"Always that Maillart!"

"Such language exasperated me. I was on the point of breaking out and
confounding the man of the furred cap whose words, I must say so, were
having their effect upon the mob. Some of them had even begun to
vituperate Master Marcel and the governors, when suddenly I heard
someone behind me say in Latin: 'The water begins to boil, the fish must
now be thrown in,' and another voice answered, also in Latin: 'Then let
us hasten to notify the master cook.' Seeking to fathom the mysterious
meaning of these parables, I turned towards my Latinists at the moment
when they began to cry, this time in French: 'Good luck to Maillart, to
the devil with Marcel! He is a criminal! A traitor! He plots with the
Navarrians! Good luck to Maillart! He alone can put an end to our ills!'
A portion of the crowd took up the cries, whereupon the lumbering scamp
of the furred cap closed his peroration and came down from the box on
which he had been perched. The two Latinists then approached him, and
while the crowd was dispersing my three gentlemen stepped aside and
conducted an animated discussion. I did not lose sight of them; the
three walked on together and I followed, catching these broken words
that they let drop: 'rendezvous,' 'horse,' 'arcade of St. Nicholas.' You
know how even at mid-day the arcade of St. Nicholas is dark and
deserted. Night was falling fast. The idea struck me that my three
worthies might be having some suspicious rendezvous at that secluded
spot, because the mysterious Latin words would not leave my head. 'The
water begins to boil' might mean the boiling of the popular rage; 'the
fish that was to be thrown in the boiling water,' might mean Master
Marcel; finally, 'the cook who was to be notified'--"

"Might be the Regent or Maillart," put in Jocelyn. "I do not believe
your penetration was at fault. It is a credit to your sagacity."

"And the words 'horse,' 'rendezvous,' 'arcade of St. Nicholas' might
mean some messenger on horseback was waiting for my three worthies at
that secluded spot. I know the place. Often did Margot.... But I shall
drop Margot! I said to myself on the contrary: 'Oh, if now, instead of
following the lumbering scamp of the furred cap to the spot so
propitious to love, I followed the divine Alison--"

The champion again made an impatient gesture, took his friend by the
arm, and pointed significantly towards the other end of the chamber
where Marcel sat with his forehead leaning on his hand, contemplating
the letter that he had just finished reading, and a smile at once
bitter and sorrowful playing around his lips. The student grasped
Jocelyn's meaning and proceeded in a still lower voice:

"I have quick legs. I put them to use and made a short cut on the run
across St. Patern to arrive before my three men at the arcade of St.
Nicholas. The place was dark as an oven. I listened, but heard nothing.
I know the place. Groping about I found a niche where one time stood the
statue of the saint. I vanished in the cavity, and awaited at all
hazards. I was well repaid. About fifteen minutes later steps were heard
under the vault and I recognized the voice of the man of the furred cap
whispering: 'Haloa ... haloa! John Four-Sous', and presently a voice
answered: 'He has not yet arrived ... the devil take the loafer!' 'No
time is lost,' answered a third voice, 'he only needs three hours to
reach here from Charenton on horseback; he will not fail.'"

"The situation is grave," said Jocelyn. "It is at Charenton that the
Regent has his headquarters. There must be some treasonable plot on
foot."

"Exactly. So you can imagine how I congratulated myself on my discovery.
Evidently there was a plot hatching with the court party. John Four-Sous
finally arrived by the other side of the entrance of the arcade and the
man of the furred cap asked him: 'Are you ready to leave?' 'Yes, my
horse stands saddled in the stable of the inn of The Three Monkeys.'
'Very well; here is the letter,' came from the man of the furred cap,
'Make haste to arrive at the royal encampment; deliver the letter to the
seneschal of Poitou; he will understand.' 'But will they allow me to
leave the city?' asked the messenger. 'Fear not,' he is answered, 'the
gate of St. Antoine is this evening guarded by men of our side; Master
Maillart is to be there himself; you shall give for pass-word "Montjoie,
the King and Duke"; that will let you through. To horse, now, to horse!'
After that the man of the furred cap and his two companions walked off
by one entrance and John Four-Sous by the other. I left the niche where
I had taken St. Nicholas' place, and followed the messenger of whom I
got a clear view when the light of the moon fell upon him outside the
vault. The scamp was tall, sinewy and well armed. I made up my mind to
seize the letter that he carried. How to do it? I was still revolving
the matter when I saw him enter the tavern of The Three Monkeys. I
imagined he was going for his horse in the stable. Not at all! John
Four-Sous, being a man of foresight, called for supper before starting
on his journey, and through the open door I saw him comfortably anchored
at a table. Bacchus willed it that I had often emptied more than one
tankard at the tavern of The Three Monkeys without smashing them after
drinking. I knew the inn-keeper, a worthy fellow belonging to Marcel's
party. I immediately dropped a few lines to the divine Alison whom Dame
Venus ... attached to her chariot...."

"We know all about that ... come to the point."

"Uncertain of what success I might meet, I wished at least to forewarn
Master Marcel, and that so soon as possible, that something was hatching
against him. The inn-keeper undertook to forward my note to Alison's
inn, and presently.... Blessed be the goddess Fortuna, whom do I see
enter but my chum Nicholas the Thin-skinned, in the company of the
Scotch students, with whom I had once fistically discussed the merits of
the rhetoric of Fichetus. They came to drink some spiced wine. With the
corner of my eyes I was taking in John Four-Sous devouring his ample
supper. My plan was formed. I communicated it to my friends and the
inn-keeper, confiding to them the suspicions that I entertained, and
which the incident of the arcade of St. Nicholas confirmed. Nothing
simpler than my project: Pick up a quarrel with John Four-Sous, fall
upon him, take possession of the letter, and lock up the scamp in the
cellar of The Three Monkeys so as to keep him from giving the alarm to
Maillart's party. So said, so done.... I approached John Four-Sous'
table and started quarrelling with him. He gave me an insolent answer. I
jumped at his throat and Nicholas the Thin-skinned rummaged through the
fellow's pockets, and seized the letter, and--"

The student's account was interrupted by Marcel, who after a long and
thorough reflection, rose from his seat, and stepping towards Jocelyn
said:

"I spoke to you of my quandary; this letter would have put an end to it
had not my resolution been previously taken. Do you know who wrote this
letter?"

"No, Master Marcel; who is its author? A friend or an enemy?"

"My oldest friend," answered the provost with deep concern and disgust,
"John Maillart! This letter proves that for some time, and despite his
affectation of devotion for the popular cause and his violent language
against the court, Maillart was secretly negotiating with the royalist
party whose chiefs in Paris are the Sire of Charny and the knight James
of Pontoise, for the nobility, with Maillart and the old councilmen
Pastorel and John Alphonse for the bourgeoisie. These are our worst
enemies."

"Master Marcel," asked Jocelyn, "will not you and the governors take
rigorous measures against these traitors?"

"They dare to conspire within our walls!" added the student. "They seek
to lead astray a credulous people! They deserve death!"

"It will have been brought on by our enemies themselves! They must he
stricken down with terror. They invoke frightful vengeance upon Paris!"
replied Marcel. "Yes, Maillart, keeping the Regent informed upon our
intestine dissensions, upon the discouragement inspired among the masses
by the agents of the court, upon the hatred that they have incited
against us, beseeches the prince to march upon Paris, and assures him
that the people are tired of suffering. He assures him that a movement
in his favor will break out within our walls so soon as he approaches.
He informs the prince that he and his partisans will be on guard
to-night and to-morrow at the gate of St. Antoine, and that they will
open the gates to him. Finally, he expresses the hope of being able to
deliver me to the Regent, me whom he calls 'the soul of the
revolution.'"

"There can be no longer any doubt!" exclaimed Jocelyn horrified. "So
that when Maillart's wife came here this evening to offer means for your
escape to Dame Marguerite she only was laying a trap for you."

"Aye," broke in Marcel with a look of contempt, "she was laying a trap
for me. I was to trust the loyalty of my oldest friend ... I was to go
alone to his house ... and there he was to take me prisoner and deliver
me to the Regent at his entry into Paris!"

"Treason and cowardice!" cried the student indignantly. "What a female
monster! Oh, I judged her rightly from her hypocritical lamentations at
the funeral of Perrin Macé."

"The envy and pride that devour her have lost Maillart," rejoined the
provost. "The vanity of that insensate woman has driven her husband to
crime and to deep baseness. That man without character and without
convictions reminds the seneschal in his letter that the Regent promised
him a patent of nobility in consideration of the services he is
rendering the court party!... That is the Maillart that was incessantly
reproaching me for not exterminating the members of the court party who
remained in Paris!... He could not find words enough to throw at the
nobility!"

"Oh, Master Marcel," cried Jocelyn, "and your blood was to be the price
for the ennobling of that infamous wretch!"

"This act of betrayal wounds me doubly ... I know mankind. Nevertheless,
I resisted up to this moment the belief that Maillart could be guilty of
such felony.... He, the friend of my infancy.... But now, to work. There
is now no longer any doubt, nor can there now be any question what step
to take.... The reaction of the court party will be merciless.... Our
only chance of escape lies in the support of the King of Navarre ...
and in the vigorous measures that we must now take against these
implacable enemies."

"Master Marcel," Jocelyn whispered to the provost, "if Charles the
Wicked does not put in his appearance at the rendezvous of this evening,
what will you do then?"

"I shall ride at a gallop to deliver to the Regent my own head and the
heads of the governors ... Our blood will slake the young prince's
thirst for vengeance and he will spare Paris."

A great noise, at first from a distance, was heard rapidly approaching
along the street. Presently distinct cheers were heard: "Good luck to
Marcel!" "To a happy issue, to a happy issue!" "Good luck to Marcel!"
and almost at the same time Marguerite entered her husband's cabinet
saying: "Simon the Feather-dealer, Philip Giffart, Consac and other
friends are in arms in the street with a large number of faithful
partisans cheering for you. Our friends consider it prudent to come for
you and escort you to the town-hall."

"Good-bye, Marguerite, dear and beloved wife!" said Marcel with profound
but well-controlled emotion, thinking that this was perhaps the last
time he might press to his heart the companion of his life. "Adieu ...
and may we soon meet again!"

"Oh, my friend, these cheers that acclaim you with enthusiasm reassure
me ... Our friends are guarding you."

Fear nothing; I shall see you again to-morrow ... Adieu!... Adieu once
more!" repeated Marcel, who despite his courage, felt his heart breaking
at the moment of a separation that might be eternal. Giving a last
embrace to Marguerite, Marcel descended to the street. There he was met
by several of the councilmen in the midst of a large crowd of partisans
whose sympathetic acclamations redoubled at the sight of their idol.
Discouragement had, it was true, gained over a majority of the people.
Nevertheless Marcel could still count upon many devoted and intrepid
hearts.

"Friends!" Marcel cried out aloud to the councilmen, "we shall not go
to the town-hall, but to the gate of St. Antoine. I shall tell you more
on the way."

The words were caught by one of the three men who all during the evening
had never left the approaches to Marcel's house. The spy said to his
companions:

"Let one of you hurry to the Sire of Charny and notify him that Marcel
is going with his men to the gate of St. Antoine. The other of you run
ahead of the bandits and notify Master Maillart that they are coming. I
shall follow them at a distance and watch their movements. Let each be
at his post and well armed."



CHAPTER V.

THE GATE OF ST. ANTOINE.


The clock had sounded the first hour of morning from the church in the
quarter of St. Antoine. Just before sinking below the horizon the moon
still shed enough light to brighten with a fringe of silver the topmost
battlement of the two high towers that defend the gate of St. Antoine,
towards which Etienne Marcel was wending his way accompanied by the
councilman Philip Giffart and Jocelyn, and holding two keys in his
hands. The other magistrates and a group of their partisans had posted
themselves, at the request of the provost, in a house near the ramparts.
The profoundest silence reigned near a wide and dark vaulted passage
that led to the gate of the city. A man leading a horse by the bridle
followed Marcel at a little distance.

"This is the decisive moment," Marcel was saying to his companions. "If
Charles the Wicked has come to our rendezvous, we then have a chance of
success ... if not, I shall mount that horse and ride to Charenton to
deliver myself to the Regent!"

Hardly had Marcel finished pronouncing these words when two sentinels,
posted outside the dark passage which he was about to enter, called out:
"Montjoie, the King and Duke!" and almost at the same moment appeared
John Maillart stepping forward. At the sight of his old friend, whose
infamous treason he was now acquainted with, Marcel stopped indignant
and the following exchange of words took place:

"Marcel," said the councilman in an imperious voice, "Marcel, what
business brings you here at this hour? You should now be at the
town-hall!"

"What business is that of yours," answered Marcel. "I am here to guard
the safety of the town, whose government is in my hands."

"By God!" cried Maillart imperceptibly drawing nearer to Marcel. "By
God! You cannot be here for anything good!" and turning to the two
sentinels who stood motionless a few steps off: "You see it; Marcel
holds in his hands the keys of the gate.... It is to betray us!"

"You miserable and abominable scamp," cried Marcel, "you lie in your
throat!"

"No, traitor, it is you who lie!" replied Maillart, and suddenly raising
a short axe that he had held concealed behind his back, he leaped with
one bound at the provost crying: "To me, my friends! Death to Marcel!
Death to him and his partisans! They are all traitors!" Before Jocelyn
or Philip Giffart could foresee and parry the sudden charge, Maillart
dealt so furious a blow at Marcel's head that he staggered and fell
bathed in blood.

At Maillart's cry, "To me, my friends!" the passageway, until then dark,
was suddenly illumined by several lanterns that had been kept under the
cloaks of their carriers. By the glimmering light a large number of men
were seen, all armed with pikes, halbards and cutlasses. Among them were
the Sire of Charny, the knight James of Pontoise and the councilman
Pierre Dessessarts. Hardly had Marcel dropped under the axe of Maillart
than the troop of assassins issued forth from their ambuscade, and
crying: "Montjoie, the King and Duke!" precipitated themselves upon the
provost to despatch him. Marcel, his skull cleaved in two and his face
covered with blood, sought to regain his feet with the help of Jocelyn
and Philip Giffart. These made heroic efforts to defend the wounded man,
but they were soon thrown down with him and all three riddled with sword
thrusts and axe blows. The other governors and several of their
partisans, who were posted in reserve at a nearby house where they were
to await the issue of Marcel's rendezvous with the King of Navarre,
hearing the increasing tumult and cries of "Montjoie, the King and
Duke!" rushed to the gate of St. Antoine intending to come to the aid of
the provost. Their red and blue head-covers pointed them out to the fury
of the murderers. Their heroic defence was soon overcome and they were
all butchered like their chief. But the rage of Maillart and of the Sire
of Charny was not yet appeased.

"To death with all the enemies of our Sire, the Regent!" cried the
seigneur. "We know where they are burrowing. Let us run to their houses.
We shall kill them in their beds!"

"To death!" responded John Maillart brandishing his axe. "To death with
the partisans of Marcel! To death with all the communiers!"

"Montjoie, the King and Duke!" repeated in chorus the armed band. "Death
to the red and blue!"

"Friends!" cried the seigneur of Charny, "the body of the knight of
Conflans, a victim of the popular party, was exposed in the Student's
Dale. Let now the body of Marcel be exposed in the same place.... Carry
him on your shoulders."

"To-morrow the body shall be placed on a hurdle and dragged through the
mud to the Louvre which our beloved Sire, the Regent, was forced to
leave in sight of Marcel's threats. After that let the carcass of the
felon be thrown into the river--unworthy sepulchre for a Christian,"
added John Maillart, and he said to himself, thinking of his wife:
"Petronille will no longer reproach me with being under the provost;
Petronille will no longer be eaten up with jealousy; Petronille will no
longer hear that Marguerite is the wife of the 'King of Paris' ... and I
shall have a title of nobility."

The orders of the Sire of Charny and Maillart were carried out. The
corpse of the provost was picked out from among his dead friends. Four
men carried on their shoulders the disfigured remains of the great
citizen, and marching by the light of torches, the funeral cortége
wended its way to the Student's Dale brandishing their arms and
shouting:

    "Death to the partisans of the governors!"
    "Death to the red and blue!"
    "Montjoie, the King and Duke!"



EPILOGUE.


The hatred of Etienne Marcel's enemies pursued him beyond the grave. His
corpse, taken to the Student's Dale, remained there the whole day
exposed to the insults and the jeers of the fickle and ingrate mass
whose enfranchisement and happiness he had labored to attain. The day
after his death his bloody and mutilated remains were thrown upon a
hurdle, dragged towards the Seine and hurled into the river in front of
the Louvre. Such was that great man's sepulchre.

The principal leaders of the popular party, to the number of sixty,
among whom were Simon the Feather-dealer, Cousac and Pierre Caillart,
were executed by orders of John Maillart and the Sire of Charny, now
become joint dictators. These executions being over, the dictators
delegated Simon Maillart, a brother of the councilman, the councilmen
Dessessarts and John Pastorel, to appear before the Regent and notify
the young prince that he could re-enter his good town of Paris, now
submissive and penitent. The Regent answered the delegation: "That will
be gladly done." Accompanied by a numerous cavalcade, the Regent left
the bridge at Charenton and re-entered the Louvre where, in the language
of the chronicler of the time, "he found John Maillart, whom he greatly
esteemed and loved."

"As the Regent," the chronicler proceeds, "was crossing a certain street
on his way to the Louvre, a workingman had the daring to call out aloud:
'By God, Sire, if my advice had been taken, you would not now be
entering here. But nothing will be done for you.'"

These and some other instances showed, to the honor of humanity, that
ingratitude, defection and the fickleness of the masses--the fruits of
their ignorance and secular subjection--offered at least pleasing
exceptions. The memory of Marcel remained alive and sacred in the hearts
of many loyal to the popular cause. Despite the triumph of the court
party, several conspiracies were started looking to the overthrow of the
throne and intended to revenge upon the Regent the death of the
venerated Etienne Marcel. The last of these conspiracies was organized
by a rich Paris bourgeois, Martin Pisdoé. He mounted the scaffold and
paid with his head for his religious devotion to the memory of Marcel.

Jocelyn the Champion had been left for dead near the gate of St. Antoine
in the midst of a heap of corpses. Informed the same night by popular
rumors of the assassination of the provost and his partisans, Rufin the
Tankard-smasher and Alison the Huffy hastened to the place of the
massacre in order to ascertain Jocelyn's fate. They found him covered
with wounds, ready to expire, and carried him to a charitable person in
the neighborhood where, thanks to their untiring care he was rescued
from death. Protected by the obscurity of his name, he long remained
hidden in that asylum where a surgeon, a friend of Rufin, visited him.
Only slowly did he regain his strength.

Marguerite learned of her husband's death from emissaries sent by John
Maillart, who came that same night to arrest her at her house. Taken to
prison, the unfortunate woman vainly implored permission to bury Marcel
with her own hands. The supreme consolation was denied her, and she was
later made acquainted with the ignominies inflicted on her husband's
corpse. She soon died in captivity. The property of Etienne Marcel was
confiscated for the benefit of the Regent.

Alison, always compassionate, offered Denise, who now found herself
helpless and without means, to share with her the chamber she occupied
at her inn. Often the two called to see Jocelyn the Champion in his
secret retreat. Among other wounds an axe-stroke deprived him forever of
the use of his right arm. When his other wounds were completely healed,
he married Denise; on the same day Dame Alison married Rufin the
Tankard-Smasher.

Jocelyn had inherited a little patrimony, thanks to which he could
almost wholly cover the indispensible needs of himself and wife, a
fortunate circumstance seeing that the weakness consequent upon his
wounds did not allow him to pursue his profession of champion. The only
relative left to Denise lived near the frontier of Lorraine in the town
of Vaucouleurs. Jocelyn decided to move hither. Despite the little
notice he had drawn upon himself during the late revolt, it would have
been imprudent on his part to prolong his stay in Paris after his
recovery, seeing that the re-action of the court party was implacable.
Jocelyn sold his patrimony, took, not without deep regret, leave from
Rufin the Tankard-smasher and Alison, and escaping a hundred dangers
from the bands of English soldiers and marauders who then ravaged Gaul,
he reached the town of Vaucouleurs with Denise and settled there.


THE END.


FOOTNOTES:


[1] In the judicial combats of the Middle Ages, it was allowed to women,
children and old men, except in cases of high treason or of parricide,
to appear in the lists by a representative. Such a hired combatant was
called a champion.

[2] Jack Drudge.

[3] "Poignez villain, il vous oindra; oignez villain, il vous poindra."

[4] The three lilies, the device of French royalty.

[5] The Lord's Prayer, called "pater" from the first word, "pater"
(father) in the Latin prayer.

[6] A prayer or invocation to Mary, so named from the first word, "Ave,
Maria," (Hail to you, Mary), in the Latin prayer.





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