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 thethieveries 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 sentimentof 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, getthem 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 onthe 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, whowas 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.
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 itcame 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.
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 thatthe 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 employmentof 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 andsolemnly 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.
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 peopleof 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 namedcannons—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.
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: "Giveto 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, risingen 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 thetown 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."
"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 maturityof 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!" Theplaintive 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 thathe 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 thepeople! 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 theyoung 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 thisevening. 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.
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 thebetter 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 cruellyjealous 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 becausehis 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."