For centuries Laon had for its temporal seigneur the bishop of the diocese, and figured from the start among the foremost cities of Picardy. Since the Frankish conquest, and down to the date of the events here narrated (1112), Laon constituted a part of the special domains of the kings. Clovis made himself master of the city through the treason of Saint Remy, who baptized that crowned bandit at Rheims. Clovis' wife, Clotilde, founded in the city the collegiate church of Saint Peter, and later Brunhild built a palace there. A bishop of Laon, Adalberon, the paramour of Queen Imma, was her accomplice in the poisoning of Lothair, the father of Louis the Indolent,—a homocidal example that was soon imitated upon himself by his Queen, Blanche, another adulterous poisoner, who, through the murder committed by her, confirmed the usurpation of Hugh Capet, to the injury of the last Carlovingian king. Charles, Duke of Lorraine, the uncle of Louis the Indolent, having become through the latter's death the heritor of the crown of the Frankish kings, took possession of Laon. Hugh Capet besieged him there, and, after several assaults, succeeded in capturing the city, thanks to the connections that Adalberon, the adulterer and poisoning bishop, had preserved in the place. Since then, Laon continued as a sovereign ecclesiastical seigniory, but always under the suzerainty of the French King. In the year 1112, the date of this narrative, the reigning king was named Louis the Lusty. As obese as, but much less indolent than his father, Philip I, the excommunicated lover of the handsome Berthrade who died in 1108, Louis the Lusty did not, like his father, submit to theaffronts and vexations of the feudal seigneurs; he waged war to the knife against them to the end of extending with their spoils his own domains, that then took in only Paris, Melun, Compiegne, Etampes, Orleans, Montlhery, Puiset and Corbeil. Thus, in addition to the scourge of the private wars among the seigneurs, the people bent under the affliction of the wars of the king against the seigneurs, and of the Normans against the king. The Normans, the descendants of old Rolf the Pirate, had conquered England under their duke William. But, although settled down in that ultramarine country, the Kings of England preserved in Gaul the duchy of Normandy and Gisors, and from thence dominated the territory of Vexin, almost to the gates of Paris, waging incessant war upon Louis the Lusty. Thus Gaul continued to be ravaged by bloody strifes, with none other than the people, the serfs and villeins, as the perpetual victims. The wretched agricultural plebs, decimated by the execrable craze of the Crusades, that held out despite the recapture of Jerusalem by the Turks, found itself crushed by a double burden, their decreased numbers being compelled by increased labor to provide for the needs, the prodigalities and the debaucheries of the clergy and the seigneurs.
The bourgeois and other townsmen, better organized, better able to realize their power, above all more enlightened than the serfs of the fields, had revolted in many cities against their lay or ecclesiastical seigneurs, and, by dint of daring, of energy and stubbornness, had, at the price of their own blood, regained their freedom and secured the abolition of the degrading and shameful rights that the feudal families had been long enjoying. A small number of cities, even without resorting to arms, had, by virtue of great pecuniary sacrifices, purchased their enfranchisement from the seigniorial rights, with round sums of money. Delivered from their former secular and creed servitude, the city populations celebrated with enthusiasm all the circumstances connected with their emancipation. Thus, on April 15, 1112, the bourgeois merchants and artisans of the city of Laon werein gala since early morning. From one side to the other of the streets, male and female neighbors called one another from their windows and exchanged gladsome salutations.
"Well, neighbor," said one, "the bright anniversary of the inauguration of our Commune Hall and belfry has arrived!"
"Do not mention it, neighbor; I have not slept all night! With my wife and children we were up till three o'clock in the morning burnishing up my iron casque and coat of mail. Our armed militia will add great luster to the ceremony. May God be praised for this great day!"
"And the procession of our artisans' guilds will be no less superb! Would you believe it, neighbor, that I, who during all my life of a carpenter have not, as you may imagine, ever held a needle in my hands, helped my wife to sew together the stripes of our new banner?"
"Thank God, the weather will be beautiful for the ceremony. Look how clear and brilliant the dawn is!"
"Couldn't be otherwise! Such a feast could not lack good weather. I expect that when I shall hear for the first time the peals from our communal belfry every clank will make my heart bound!"
These dialogues and many others, naive testimony of the joy of the inhabitants of Laon, took place along the length of all the streets from house to house, from the humblest to the richest. Almost all the windows, opened since the break of day, exposed to view the laughing faces of men, women and children, all actively engaged with preparations for the festivities.
The gladsome stir in almost all the quarters of the city, rendered all the more striking the gloomy and sombre and, so to say, sullen aspect of a certain number of dwellings of ancient architecture, and whose gates were, as a rule, flanked by two turrets with pointed roofs, surmounted with a weather-vane. Not a chink of these dwellings, blackish with age, was open on this morning. They belonged to the ecclesiastical dignitaries of the metropolitan church, or to noble knights, who, not owningestates large enough to live in the country, inhabited the cities, and ever sided against the bourgeois and with the lay or ecclesiastical seigneur. Accordingly, in Laon, these clergymen and knights were designated as theepiscopals, while the inhabitants, who, according to the language of the day, "took the oath of the Commune," were called thecommuniers. The antique turrets of the dwellings of the episcopals were at once a species of fortification and a symbol of the nobility of their origin. On that morning, these dwellings, silent and shut up, seemed to denote the displeasure given to the noble episcopals by the rejoicings of the Laonese laboring classes.
But there were other dwellings, also flanked with turrets, besides those of the nobles. These others were gaily decorated, and the whiteness of their masonry, contrasting with the aspect of the ancient architecture of the nobles, to which they seemed to be annexes, bespoke a more recent date.
One of these establishments, thus fortified only a short time since, lay at the corner of Exchange street, the leading mercantile thoroughfare of the city. The old door, whose threshold and lintels were of stone, and at either side of which rose two white and high turrets recently built, had been thrown open at the very first break of day, and several townsmen were seen going in and out. They came for certain instructions on the ceremonies. In one of the chambers of this dwelling sat Fergan and Joan the Hunchback. It was about twelve years since they had left the Holy Land. The hair and beard of Fergan, now over forty years of age, began to betray streaks of gray. He was no longer the serf of olden days—restless, savage, tattered. His features breathed happiness and serenity. Equipped almost wholly as a soldier, he wore a jacket of iron mail and a corselet of steel. He was seated near a table at which he wrote. Joan, clad in a robe of brown wool, and wearing on her head a sober bonnet, from under which a long white veil fell upon her shoulders, looked no less blissful than her husband. On the sweet face of this brave mother, once so severely tried, the expression of profound felicity was depicted. At the request of Fergan she had just drawn from an old oaken cabinet a little iron casket, which she placed upon the table where Fergan was writing. Thecasket, an inheritance from Gildas the Tanner, contained several parchment scrolls, yellow with the age of centuries, besides the several relics so dear to the family of the Gallic chief Joel, and among which was the silver cross of Genevieve, together with the pilgrim's shell that Fergan had taken from Neroweg VI in the desert of Syria. Fergan had just finished transcribing on a parchment a copy of the communal charter, under which, for the last three years, the city of Laon was free and led a peaceful and flourishing existence. The quarryman wished to join the copy of that charter to the archives of the family of Joel, as a witness of the awakening spirit of freedom of his own days, and of the inexorable resolution of the people to battle against the kings, the clergymen and the seigneurs, descendants or heritors of the Frankish conquest. For the last fifteen or twenty years back, other cities besides Laon, driven to extremities by the horrors of feudalism, had, some through insurrection, others through great sacrifices of money, obtained similar charters, under shelter of which they governed themselves like republics, similar to the heroic and brilliant days of Gaul's independence, centuries before the invasions of the Romans. The copy of the communal charter of Laon, the original of which, deposited in the Mayor's office, bore the name and signature of Gaudry, bishop of the diocese of Laon, and of Louis the Lusty, King of the French, ran as follows:
CHARTER OF THE COMMUNE OF LAON.I.All men, domiciled within the walls of the city and in its suburbs, belonging to any seigneur who holds as a fief the territory which they inhabit, shall swear allegiance to this Commune.II.Throughout the full extent of the city each shall render assistance to the other, loyally and to the best of his ability.III.The men of this Commune shall be free holders of their goods.Neither the King, nor the Bishop, nor any other, shall be entitled to make any levy upon them, except by the judgment of their own town council.IV.Each shall, on all occasions, observe fidelity towards those who shall have taken the oath of the Commune, and shall aid them with deed and advice.V.Within the limits of the Commune, all the men shall mutually help one another, according to their power; and they shall in no wise, whatever it be, suffer the seigneur, Bishop or any other, to distrain any property from them, or compel them to pay imposts.VI.ThirteenCouncilmenshall be elected by the Commune. One of these councilmen shall be electedMayorby the suffrage of all those who shall have taken the oath of the Commune.VII.The Mayor and the Councilmen shall make oath to favor no person by reason of friendship, and to render an equitable decision in all matters, according to their powers; all others shall take the oath of obedience and to sustain with arms the decisions of the Mayor and Councilmen. When the bell of the belfry shall sound to assemble the Commune, anyone who does not attend shall pay a fine of twelve sous.VIII.If anyone injure a man who shall have taken the oath of the Commune of Laon, a complaint being lodged with the Mayor and Councilmen, they shall, after due trial, enforce justice upon the body and property of the guilty party.IX.If the guilty party takes refuge in a fortified castle, the Mayor and Councilmen shall notify the seigneur of the castle, or his lieutenant. If in their opinion satisfaction shall have been rendered against the guilty party, that will suffice; but if the seigneur refuses satisfaction,they shall themselves enforce justice upon the property and upon the men of said seigneur.X.If any member of the Commune shall have entrusted his money to some one of the city, and he to whom the money has been so entrusted takes refuge in some strong castle, the seigneur having been notified, shall either return the money, or drive the debtor from his castle. If the seigneur does neither, justice shall be enforced upon his goods and his men.XI.Whenever the Mayor and the Councilmen shall desire to fortify the city, they shall be free to do so on whatever seigneur's territory it may be.XII.The men of the Commune shall be free to grind their corn, and bake their bread wherever they please.XIII.If the Mayor and Councilmen of the Commune require money for the use of the city, and raise a tax, they may levy the same on the inheritances and property of the townsmen, and on the sales and profits made in the city.XIV.No stranger, a copy-holder of any Church or seigneur, and establishedoutside of the city and its suburbs, shall be included in the Commune without the consent of his seigneur.XV.Whosoever shall be received in this Commune shall build a house within the space of one year, or shall purchase vineyards, or shall bring into the city moveable property, to the end that justice may be enforced, should a complaint be raised against him.XVI.If anyone slander the Mayor in the exercise of his functions, the slanderer's house shall be demolished, or he shall pay ransom for the same, or he shall deliver himself to the mercy of the Councilmen.XVII.No one shall molest or vex the strangers of the Commune. If any dare do so, he shall be deemed a violator of the Commune, and justice shall be enforced upon his person and his property.XVIII.Whosoever shall have wounded with arms any one who, like himself, shall have taken the oath of the Commune, then, unless he justifies his act under oath or with witnesses, he shall lose his hand, and shall pay nine livres; six for the fortifications of the city and of the Commune, three for the ransom of his hand. If he is unable to pay, he shall leave his hand at the mercy of the Commune.
CHARTER OF THE COMMUNE OF LAON.
I.
All men, domiciled within the walls of the city and in its suburbs, belonging to any seigneur who holds as a fief the territory which they inhabit, shall swear allegiance to this Commune.
II.
Throughout the full extent of the city each shall render assistance to the other, loyally and to the best of his ability.
III.
The men of this Commune shall be free holders of their goods.Neither the King, nor the Bishop, nor any other, shall be entitled to make any levy upon them, except by the judgment of their own town council.
IV.
Each shall, on all occasions, observe fidelity towards those who shall have taken the oath of the Commune, and shall aid them with deed and advice.
V.
Within the limits of the Commune, all the men shall mutually help one another, according to their power; and they shall in no wise, whatever it be, suffer the seigneur, Bishop or any other, to distrain any property from them, or compel them to pay imposts.
VI.
ThirteenCouncilmenshall be elected by the Commune. One of these councilmen shall be electedMayorby the suffrage of all those who shall have taken the oath of the Commune.
VII.
The Mayor and the Councilmen shall make oath to favor no person by reason of friendship, and to render an equitable decision in all matters, according to their powers; all others shall take the oath of obedience and to sustain with arms the decisions of the Mayor and Councilmen. When the bell of the belfry shall sound to assemble the Commune, anyone who does not attend shall pay a fine of twelve sous.
VIII.
If anyone injure a man who shall have taken the oath of the Commune of Laon, a complaint being lodged with the Mayor and Councilmen, they shall, after due trial, enforce justice upon the body and property of the guilty party.
IX.
If the guilty party takes refuge in a fortified castle, the Mayor and Councilmen shall notify the seigneur of the castle, or his lieutenant. If in their opinion satisfaction shall have been rendered against the guilty party, that will suffice; but if the seigneur refuses satisfaction,they shall themselves enforce justice upon the property and upon the men of said seigneur.
X.
If any member of the Commune shall have entrusted his money to some one of the city, and he to whom the money has been so entrusted takes refuge in some strong castle, the seigneur having been notified, shall either return the money, or drive the debtor from his castle. If the seigneur does neither, justice shall be enforced upon his goods and his men.
XI.
Whenever the Mayor and the Councilmen shall desire to fortify the city, they shall be free to do so on whatever seigneur's territory it may be.
XII.
The men of the Commune shall be free to grind their corn, and bake their bread wherever they please.
XIII.
If the Mayor and Councilmen of the Commune require money for the use of the city, and raise a tax, they may levy the same on the inheritances and property of the townsmen, and on the sales and profits made in the city.
XIV.
No stranger, a copy-holder of any Church or seigneur, and establishedoutside of the city and its suburbs, shall be included in the Commune without the consent of his seigneur.
XV.
Whosoever shall be received in this Commune shall build a house within the space of one year, or shall purchase vineyards, or shall bring into the city moveable property, to the end that justice may be enforced, should a complaint be raised against him.
XVI.
If anyone slander the Mayor in the exercise of his functions, the slanderer's house shall be demolished, or he shall pay ransom for the same, or he shall deliver himself to the mercy of the Councilmen.
XVII.
No one shall molest or vex the strangers of the Commune. If any dare do so, he shall be deemed a violator of the Commune, and justice shall be enforced upon his person and his property.
XVIII.
Whosoever shall have wounded with arms any one who, like himself, shall have taken the oath of the Commune, then, unless he justifies his act under oath or with witnesses, he shall lose his hand, and shall pay nine livres; six for the fortifications of the city and of the Commune, three for the ransom of his hand. If he is unable to pay, he shall leave his hand at the mercy of the Commune.
Fergan had just finished transcribing the charter, when the door of his room opened. Colombaik stepped in. A young and comely wife of eighteen years at the most accompanied him. The son of the quarryman, a fine strapping young man of twenty-two, united in the expression of his face the sweetness of his mother and the energy of his father. Like the latter, he also was clad half townsman half soldier. His casque of black steel, ribbed with shining iron, imparted a martial air to his pleasing and open countenance. He carried a heavy cross-bow on his shoulder. From his right side hung a leather holster that held the bolts needed for his weapon. His wife, Martine,only daughter of the old age of Gildas, the elder brother of Bezenecq the Rich, was of the age and endowed with the charms of Isoline, a victim like her father of the cupidity of Neroweg VI.
"Father!" Colombaik cried out joyfully upon entering the room and alluding to his war-like outfit, "in your quality of constable of our bourgeois and artisan militia, do you find me worthy of figuring in the troop? Does Colombaik, the soldier, make you forget by his martial outfit Colombaik, the townsman and tanner?"
"Thank heaven, Colombaik the soldier will not, I hope, have occasion to blot out Colombaik the tanner," put in Joan with her sweet smile, "any more than Fergan the constable will have occasion to blot out Fergan the master quarryman. You will both continue to battle, you with your beaters against the hides in the tannery, your father with his pick against the stones of his quarry. Is not that your hope and desire, dear Martine?" Joan added, turning to the wife of her son.
"Certainly, my good mother," responded Martine. "Fortunately they are far behind, those evil days when the bourgeois and artisans of Laon, in order to escape the exactions of the bishop, of the clergymen, and of the knights, often had to barricade themselves in their houses and sustain a regular siege; and when, but too often, despite their resistance, their houses were entered and they were carried to the episcopal palace, where they were tortured for ransom. What a difference, my God, since we have been living under the Commune! We now are so free, so happy!" But Martine added with a sigh: "Oh, I regret that my poor father did not live to witness the change! His last moments would not have been saddened by the uneasiness that our future gave him. Seeing the terrible acts of violence indulged in by Bishop Gaudry, together with the nobles, against the inhabitants of Laon, acts that might any day have reached us as they reached so many others among our neighbors, my father always had before him the frightful fate of my uncle Bezenecq and his poor daughter Isoline!"
"Be at ease, my dear wife," rejoined Colombaik; "those accursed days shall not return! No, no! To-day old Gaul bristles with free Communes, as three hundred years ago it bristled with feudal castles. The Communes are our fortresses! Our belfry tower is our donjon. We no longer have to fear the seigneurs!"
"Ah, Martine, my sweet child," said Joan with deep emotion to the wife of her son, "happier than we, you happy youngsters will not see your children and your husbands enduring the horrors of servitude."
"Yes, we, the bourgeois and artisans of the cities are emancipated," Fergan rejoined pensively; "but serfdom presses as cruelly now as in the past upon the serfs of the fields. I fought, for that reason, with all my power, the clause in our charter that excludes from the Commune the serfs living outside of the village, or those who do not possess money enough to build a house here. Is it not to exclude them, when the consent of their seigneurs, or a sufficient sum with which to build a house in the city is required from them, who own not even their own arms? And yet, that sole wealth of the industrious man is equal to any other." Turning then to Martine: "Oh, the father of your father and of Bezenecq spoke like a whole-souled and wise man when, years ago, while vainly inciting the townsmen to the insurrections that are to-day breaking out in so many cities of Gaul, he aimed, not at the revolt of the bourgeois and artisans merely, but also at that of the serfs. Serfs and bourgeois united would not be long in crushing the seigniories. But reduced to its own forces, the task of the bourgeoisie will be long and arduous.... We must be prepared for fresh struggles...."
"And yet, father," interposed Colombaik, "since the day when, in consideration of a good round sum, the bishop renounced his seigniorial rights and sold us our freedom for cash, has he ever dared to ride the high horse against us,—he, that brutal Norman warrior, who, before the establishment of the Commune, had the eyes of townsmen put out and often killed them for the mere offense of having condemned his acts of shameful debauchery,—he,who in his own cathedral, only four years ago, killed with his own hands the unhappy Bernard des Bruyeres? No, no; despite his wickedness, Bishop Gaudry knows full well that, if, after pocketing our money as a consideration for giving his consent to our Commune, he were to try to return to his former practices, he would pay dear for his perjury. Three years of freedom have taught us to prize the sacred boon. We would know how to defend it, arms in hand, like the Communes of Cambrai, Amiens, Abbeville, Noyon, Beauvais, Rheims, and so many others."
"For all that, Colombaik," remarked Martine, "I cannot help trembling when I see Black John, that African giant, who once was the bishop's hangman, cross the streets of our city. That negro seems ever to be plotting some act of cruelty, like some savage beast, that but waits for some opportune moment to snap his chain."
"Be at ease, Martine," Colombaik answered with a smile. "The chain is solid, no less solid than that which holds that other bandit, Thiegaud, the serf of the Abbey of St. Vincent, and favorite of Bishop Gaudry, who familiarly calls him his friend 'Ysengrin,' a name given by children to the companion of the wolf. But, would you believe it, mother, that Thiegaud, a fellow stained with all imaginable crimes, that abominable reprobate, yet adores his daughter."
"Even the wild beasts love their young ones," answered Joan. "Did not Worse than a Wolf, our former seigneur, with whom your father fought when we were in Palestine, weep when he thought of his son?"
"That's true, mother; and so it is with this other wolf Thiegaud. The tenant of the little farm that your father left us, my dear Martine, was telling me yesterday that a short time ago Thiegaud's daughter came near dying, and he was almost crazed with grief. Moreover the wretch is as jealous of the chastity of his daughter as if he himself had led a clean life! The scamp tried to rob us, I am sure. When our tenant mentioned Thiegaud's name to me it was because the fellow pretended to want to buy in the name of the bishop, who is a passionate hunter, as you know, a young colt raised on our meadow."
"Take care!" said Fergan warningly. "The bishop is over head and ears in debt. If you sell the horse you will receive no money."
"I know the fine sire! I told our tenant: 'If Thiegaud pays cash for the horse, sell it to him; if not, don't.' The days are gone by when the seigneurs had the right to buy on credit, which is to say, the right to buy without ever paying. To try and compel them to pay was tantamount to placing liberty and even life in jeopardy. To-day, however, if the bishop should dare rob a communier, the Commune would enforce justice upon the episcopals, whether they willed it or not. That's the text of our charter, signed, not by the bishop only, but also by King Louis the Lusty—a signature, 'tis true, that we paid dearly for."
"We paid for it through the nose," rejoined Fergan. "That gross king chaffered and haggled for two days on a stretch. Our friend Robert the Eater was one of the communiers sent to Paris three years ago to secure our charter. What a gang of cut-throats make up that court! To start with, it was necessary to generously oil the palms of the royal councilors in order to dispose them in our favor. Louis the Lusty then wanted to have the proposed sum increased by a fourth, then by a third. Finally, over and above the redemption of his ancient rights of quarters and stabling for himself and his army, whenever he visited the city, he demanded the annual use of three houses, and if he did not avail himself of them, an equivalent of twenty livres a year, and three years in advance. You must admit, my children, that it is selling rather dear those 'rights of crown,' as they call them, monstrous rights, born of the iniquitous and bloody deeds of the conquest."
"So it is, father," answered Colombaik; "we may well say that, in selling to us for their weight in silver, what they please to call their rights, the king and his seigneurs act like highwaymen,who put the dagger to your throat and say: 'I robbed you yesterday; now give me your purse, and I shall not rob you to-morrow.'"
"It is better to yield your money than your blood," said Joan. "By dint of work and privation one may recover his savings, and one is at least freed from those fearful savages, whom I cannot think of without shuddering."
"Moreover, father," put in Martine, "it seems to me we need all the less fear the return of the tyranny of the seigneur, seeing that the king hates them as much as we, and fights them to the knife. We hear every day of his wars against the large vassals, of the battles he fights with them, and of the provinces he plucks them of."
"But, children, who profits by war? Who is it that pays the piper for the ravages it causes? The people. Yes, the King hates the seigneurs because from century to century they seized upon a large number of provinces, that one time belonged to the Frankish crown when it conquered Gaul. Yes, the King fights the seigneurs to the knife, but likewise does the butcher wage relentless war against the wolves who devour the cattle intended for the shambles. That's the reason of the hatred of Louis the Lusty and the prelates towards the lay seigneurs. Church and royalty desire to annihilate the seigneurs in order themselves to lead at will the plebs cattle, bequeathed to them by the conquest. Oh, my children, my heart is full of hope. But so long as serfs, artisans and bourgeois shall not stand united against their hereditary enemies, the future looms up before me big with new perils. Happier than our forefathers, we have initiated a holy struggle, our children will have to continue it through centuries to come."
"And yet, father, are we not now living in absolute peace and prosperity, free from crushing imposts, governed by magistrates of our own choice, who have no object other than the public weal? Our city becomes daily more industrious and affluent. The bishop and his episcopals can not be hair-brainedenough to seek to restore old conditions and assail our liberty. We have weapons wherewith to defend ourselves!"
"My child, if we wish to preserve our franchises, we must redouble our vigilance and energy, and keep ourselves ever ready for the fray."
"Why pre-occupy ourselves so much about the future, father? Why should we have to redouble our vigilance?"
"Bishop Gaudry and the nobles of the city used to subject us, at their will and without mercy, to crushing imposts and hateful rights. We said to them: 'Renounce forever your rights and your annual taxes; emancipate us; subscribe to our Commune; we shall give you a considerable sum in full future payment.' Now, then, these idle people, wasteful and covetous, thought only of the present and accepted our offer. By this time, however, the money has been spent, or there is little of it left. They are regretting that, in the language of the story, they killed the goose that lay the golden eggs. They are seeking to break the contract."
"What!" cried out Colombaik. "They would contemplate breaking the pact that they freely entered into—"
"Listen to me," interposed Joan. "I do not wish to exaggerate the apprehensions of your father for the future. Nevertheless, I believe to have noticed—" but breaking off she continued: "After all, I may have been mistaken—"
"What have you in mind, mother?"
"Can it be that you have not noticed that for some time back the knights, the city clergy, in short, all the folks of the party of the bishop, whom they call the episcopals, have been deporting themselves with a swaggering air towards the townsmen and artisans in the streets?"
"You are right, Joan," remarked Fergan pensively. "I have been struck, less, perhaps, by the swagger of the episcopals, than by the insolence of their menials. It is a grave symptom, an indication of their resentment."
"Good! A ridiculous rancor, and nothing else!" said Colombaik smiling disdainfully. "Those holy canons and their noble pursuivants do not forgive the bourgeois for being free like themselves, and for having, like themselves, and when they please, turrets to their houses—a pleasure that I have bestowed upon myself, thanks to the finest stones of your quarry, father. Thus, our tannery could now sustain a siege against those ill-tempered episcopals. Besides, I have contrived for Martine a pretty little alcove in one of the turrets, and her initials, cut by me in copper, glisten in the weather-vane from the top of our turrets, just as the initials of a lady of rank."
"It will, no doubt, be more than ever well to have a strong house," observed Fergan. "It is not the weather-vanes on our turrets, but thick walls that trouble the episcopals."
"They will have to become accustomed to our strong houses. If not, by heaven—"
"No passion, Colombaik," put in the benign Joan, again interrupting the impetuous young man. "Your father has made the same observation that I did; and since the retainers of the knights look provoking, their masters must be near becoming so themselves. This morning's ceremony will surely, for more reasons than one, attract a large number of episcopals along the line of the procession. For heaven's sake, my child, no rashness!"
"Do not alarm yourself, Joan," rejoined Fergan, "we are too conscious of our good rights and of the strength of the Commune, not to keep cool in sight of mere insolence. But prudence does not exclude firmness."
Hardly had the quarryman pronounced these words when the door flew open, and a young and attractive woman entered with a pert air. She was a brunette, sprightly and handsomely dressed, like the rich bourgeois that she was. An orange-colored silk petticoat was fastened to her exquisite waist with a silver belt; her skirt, made of fine Arras cloth and bordered with marten fur, hardly reached her knees; on her black hair,that shone like jet, she wore a bonnet, red like her stockings, which set off her well-shaped calves; finally, her feet were shod in smart shoes of shining Morocco leather. Simonne, that was her name, was the wife of Ancel Quatre-Mains, a master baker, renowned throughout the city of Laon and even the suburbs, for the excellence of his bread, his cream tarts, his honey cakes, his almond wafers and other dainties that were confectioned in his shop. He also drove the trade of flour merchant, and the Commune had chosen him one of its Councilmen. Ancel Quatre-Mains[E]—the name was due to his prodigious quickness in kneading the dough—presented a singular contrast to his wife,—as calm and thoughtful as she was pert and giddy-headed, as chary of words as she was loquacious, as corpulent as she was lithesome. His physiognomy betokened imperturbable good-nature, coupled in his instance with a lively sense of justice, a generous heart, and extraordinary skill at his trade.
Wishing to please his pretty wife, whom he loved as much as he was loved by her, the master baker had harnessed himself in war accoutrements. A large number of townsmen, until then deprived of the right to carry arms—a right exclusively reserved to the seigneurs, the knights and their pursuivants—found a pleasure and a triumph in such martial arrays. Ancel Quatre-Mains only slightly shared their taste; but in order to suit Simonne, who was greatly captivated by the military garb, he had put on a gobison, a species of strongly bolstered and thick leather corselet, that, not having been measured for him, pressed in his chest and caused his prominent stomach to protrude still more. On the other hand, his iron casque, much too large for him, kept falling over his eyes, an inconvenience that the worthy baker corrected from time to time by pushing his unlucky headgear to the back of his head. At times his legs also got entangled with the long sword that swung from a buff shoulder-belt, embroidered with red silk and silver thread by Simonne herself, who wished to imitate the tokens of approval bestowed by the noble ladiesupon their gallant knights. Ancel had long been the friend of Fergan, who loved and esteemed him greatly. Simonne, brought up with Martine and slightly her senior, cherished her like a sister. Thanks to their close neighborhood, the two young women visited each other every day after the routine of their household and even trade duties had been attended to, because, if Martine helped Colombaik in several departments of his tannery, Simonne, who was no less industrious than lovable, leaving to Ancel and his two apprentices the care of preparing the bread, would confection with her own pretty hands, as white as the wheat flour that they handled, the delicious cakes that the townsmen and even the noble episcopals were so fond of.
Simonne stepped in the house of her neighbor with her habitual pertness. But her charming face, no longer smiling and happy as usual, was now expressive of lively indignation, and entering a few steps ahead of her husband, she cried out: "The insolent wretch! As true as Ancel is called Quatre-Mains, I would have wished, 'pon the word of a Picardian woman, that I had four hands to slap her face, noble dame though she be! The old hag, as ugly as she is wicked and quarrelsome!"
"Oh, oh!" exclaimed Fergan smiling, knowing well the nature of Simonne, "you, ordinarily so gay and full of laughter! You seem highly incensed, neighbor!"
"What has happened, Simonne? Who has excited your anger to such a pitch?" added Martine.
"Trifles," said the baker, shaking his head and answering the questioning looks of Fergan, Joan and Colombaik; "it is nothing, good neighbors."
"How so?... Nothing!" cried out Simonne, turning with a start to her husband. "Oh! According to you such insolence must pass unperceived!"
The baker again shook his head, and, profiting by the opportunity to be rid of his casque, that pressed him heavily, he placed it under his arm. "Oh! It is nothing!" proceeded Simonne,now addressing Fergan and Joan. "I take you for judges. You are wise and thoughtful people."
"And what are we two, Martine and I?" queried Colombaik, laughing merrily. "So, then, you discard us?"
"I do not take you for judges, neither you nor Martine, because you would be too much of my opinion," replied Simonne; "Master Fergan and his wife are not, as far as I know, suspected of being hot-heads! Let them decide whether I am angry at nothing," she said, shooting a fresh look of indignation at the baker, who, greatly incommoded by his long sword, had sat down, placing it across his knees after laying his casque on the floor. "This is what happened," Simonne proceeded: "Agreeable to the promise I yesterday made to Martine of coming for her this morning to assist at the inauguration of our belfry, Ancel and I left the house early. Going up Exchange street we passed before the window of the fortified house of Arnulf, a nobleman of Haut-Pourcin, as he styles himself."
"I know the seigneur of Haut-Pourcin," observed Colombaik; "he is one of the bitterest episcopals in town."
"And his wife is one of the most brazen she-devils that ever joined a caterwauling!" cried out Simonne. "Judge for yourselves, neighbors. She and her maid were standing at one of the lower windows when Ancel and I went by. 'Look at her,' she said in a loud voice to her maid, laughing obstreperously; 'look at the baker's wife, how she struts in new clothes with her petticoat of Lombard silk, silver belt and skirt bordered with marten fur! May God pardon me! To see such creatures daring to put on silk and rich furs like us noble ladies, instead of humbly keeping to a petticoat of linsey-woolsey and a skirt hemmed with cat's skin, the proper clothing for the base station in life of these villeins! What a pity! Fortunately her yellow dress is of the color of her pastry and her bannocks! It will serve them for ensign!'"
"That's only in favor of the excellent baking of Simonne'scakes, no so, neighbors?" put in the baker, "because, when the bannock comes out of the oven, it should be yellow as gold."
"See what a fool I am! I failed to take the words of the noble woman for a compliment!" Simonne resumed, saying: "But I answered her insolence plump and plain: 'The word of a Picardian woman, upon it, Dame Haut-Pourcin, if my petticoat is the ensign of my bannocks, your face is the ensign of your fifty years, despite all your cosmetics, and all your affectations of youth, of maidenhood and of freshness!'"
"Oh!" Colombaik broke out laughing. "An excellent answer to the old fairy, who, indeed, is always dressing like a young girl. There you have the nobility! The pretty dresses of our women trouble them as much as the turrets of our houses. Let them split with rage!"
"My answer struck home," proceeded Simonne. "The dame of Haut-Pourcin shook like a fury at the bars of her window, yelling: 'You street-walker!... You gallows-bird!... To dare to talk that way to me!... You vile emancipated serf!... But patience!... Patience!... I shall soon have you cow-hided by my servants!'"
"'Oh, oh! As to that,' I answered her, 'do not talk nonsense, Dame Haut-Pourcin,'" put in the baker; "'the days are gone by when the noble dames had the woman of the bourgeois beaten!'"
"Yes," added Simonne with indignation, "and do you know what that harpy replied, while shaking her fist at Ancel? 'Off with you,' said she, 'you lumbering churl! The vile bourgeoisie will not much longer talk so big! Soon we will no longer see clowns wearing the casques of knights, and jades like your wife, wearing silk petticoats paid for by their paramours,'" saying which, Simonne, whose anger had until then been shaded with frolicsome animation, became purple with confusion. Two tears rolled down her large black ayes, and she added in a moved voice: "Such an outrage ... to me.... And Ancel says that's nothing! Such an outrage exasperates me!"
"Come now, be cool. Are you not as honorable a woman as you are an industrious housekeeper?" said the baker affectionately approaching Simonne, who was wiping off her tears with the back of her hand. "That stupid insult cannot touch you, my dear, and does not even deserve to be remembered."
"Ancel is right," said Fergan. "That old woman is gone crazy. Crazy people's words do not count. But, friends, there is this about it. We must recognize that the insolence of the episcopals increases from day to day. Those allusions to former times foreshadow an evil intent on their part. It is well to be forewarned."
"What, father, will those people be so badly advised as to think of attacking our Commune? Is their insolence to be taken notice of? Will it be necessary for us to place ourselves on our guard against their evil designs?"
"Yeast that ferments is always sour, my child," replied the baker, reclining his head pensively. "The remark of your father is just. The provocations of the episcopals have a secret cause. I was just saying to Simonne: 'It is nothing!' I now say: 'It is something!'"
"Very well! Let it be so! Let them dare!" cried out Colombaik. "We are ready for those noblemen and clergymen, for all the tonsured fraternity and their bishop to boot!"
"And if the women take a part, as at the insurrection of Beauvais," exclaimed Simonne, clenching her little fists, "I, who have no children, shall accompany my husband to battle, and the dame of Haut-Pourcin will pay dear for her insults. 'Pon the word of a Picardian woman, I shall slap her insolent face as dry as an Easter wafer!"
The good baker was smiling at the heroic enthusiasm of his pretty wife when the peal of a large bell was heard from a distance. Fergan, his family and neighbors, listened to the sonorous and prolonged sound with a tremor of joy.
"Oh, my friends!" said Fergan with emotion, "do you hear it sound for the first time from the belfry of our Commune? Doyou hear it? To-day it summons us to a feast; to-morrow it will call us to the meeting of the council where we attend to the business of the city; some day it will give us the signal for battle. A belfry of the people! Your voice of bronze, at last awakening ancient Gaul from her slumber, has given the signal for the insurrection of the Communes!"
While the quarryman was speaking, all the bells of the churches of Laon began to chime in with the peals of the belfry. The deafening clangor soon dominated and completely drowned the isolated tinkling of the communal bell. This rivalry of bell-ringing was no accident, nor yet a token of sympathy. It was an affront, premeditated by the bishop and his partisans. They realized the patriotic importance that the communiers of Laon attached to the inauguration of the symbol of their emancipation, and decided to mar the festivity.
"Oh, those friars! Always spiteful and hypocritic until the day when they deem themselves strong enough to be merciless!" exclaimed Colombaik. "Have your way, ye black-gowns! Ring at your loudest! The canting bells of your churches shall not silence our communal belfry! Your bells ring mankind to servitude, to imbecility, to the renunciation of their dignity; the belfry gathers them to fulfil their civic duties and to defend freedom! Come, father, come! The bourgeois militia must by this time be assembled around the pillars of the market-place. You are constable and I a captain-of-ten. Let's start. Do not let us be waited for. Liberty or death!"
Fergan put on his casque, and presently giving his arm to Joan the Hunchback, as Colombaik gave his to Martine, and Quatre-Mains to his wife Simonne, the three couples sallied forth from Colombaik's tannery, followed by his apprentices, who, likewise were members of the Commune.
The rivalry of the bells continued undiminished. At intervals the bells of the churches intermitted their clangor, no doubt in the hope of having silenced the belfry. Its sonorous and regular peal proceeded, however, unchecked, and the clerical clangor was renewed with redoubled fury. The incident, puerile in seeming, but serious at bottom, produced a deep resentment towards the party of the nobles. It was a long distance from the tannery of Colombaik to the market-place, the rendezvous of the bourgeois militia. Large crowds blocked the streets, moving towards the communal Town Hall, that had been three years building and was recently finished. Only the casting and hanging of the bell in its campanile had retarded the inauguration of the monument so dear to the townsmen. More than once did Joan turn back to look, not without uneasiness, in the direction where her son followed with Martine, together with Quatre-Mains and Simonne. Joan's apprehensions were well founded. A large number of the domestics of the noble and clerical households were dispersed among the crowd, and from time to time hurled some vulgar insult at the communiers, upon which they would immediately take to their heels. Knights, clad in full armor, crossed and re-crossed the streets, their fists upon their hips, their visors up, and casting disdainful and defiant looksupon the people. These provocations increased particularly in the vicinity of the rendezvous of the militia, at the head of which, and armed as if for battle, the Mayor of Laon and his twelve Councilmen were to march in procession to the Town Hall in order to inaugurate by a solemn session the meeting of these magistrates, held until then at the house of John Molrain, the Mayor.
The market-place of Laon, like that of all the cities of Gaul, consisted of large stalls, where, on Saturdays, occasionally also on other days of the week, the merchants, leaving their everyday shops, exposed their products for sale. Outsiders and the suburb population, who drew their supplies from Laon, thus found at one place all that they might want. But on that day the market served as the gathering place for a goodly number of bourgeois and artisans, who had armed themselves to join the procession and impart to it an imposing appearance. In case of war, every communier was obliged to furnish himself with a pike and an axe, or club, at the first call from the belfry, and hasten to the rendezvous. As a rule the crowd seemed indifferent to the insolent gibes and provocations of the episcopals. The communiers, at least a majority of them, felt themselves strong enough to despise the challenges to riot. A few, however, yielded to a certain sense of fear for the iron-clad nobles, who were accustomed to the use of weapons, and with whom the Laonese, who owed their enfranchisement to a contract and not to an insurrection, had not yet had occasion to measure themselves. Finally and moreover, hardly freed from their rude and base servitude, many of the townsmen still preserved, involuntarily, a certain habit, if not of respect, yet of dread for people whose cruel oppression they had so long been subject to. Shortly, the captains-of-tens, commanding squads of tens, and the captains-of-hundreds, commanding companies of hundreds, all under the command of Fergan, who had been chosen constable, or chief of the militia, drew up their ranks along the stalls of the market-place.Colombaik was a captain-of-ten, his body was complete except for one lad called Bertrand, the son of Bernard des Bruyeres, a rich bourgeois who, three years previous, was assassinated in the cathedral by Gaudry, bishop of Laon.
"Probably," said Colombaik, "poor Bertrand will not join us to-day. This is a feast day, and there are no more feast days for the poor fellow since the murder of his father."
"Yet there comes Bertrand!" cried out one of the militiamen, pointing at a young man, who, pale, frail and sickly-looking, of a timid and kind appearance, wearing a steel casque and armed with a heavy axe that seemed to weigh down his shoulder, was approaching from a distance. "Poor Bertrand!" the militiaman added, "so feeble and wretched! He is excused for not having avenged the death of his father upon our accursed bishop!" Cordially received by his companions, Bertrand answered their solicitous inquiries with some embarrassment, and silently took his place in the ranks. The Mayor arrived soon after, accompanied by his Councilmen, some unarmed, others armed like Ancel Quatre-Mains, who joined them there. John Molrain, the Mayor, a man in the vigor of life and of a countenance at once calm and energetic, marched at the head of the magistrates of the city. One of them carried the banner of the Commune of Laon,—if the steeple of the people's belfries rose daringly in the teeth of the feudal donjons, the communal banners floated no less high than those of the seigneurs. The banner of Laon represented two embattled towers, between which rose a naked sword. The emblem signified: "Our city, fortified by walls, will know how to defend itself by arms against its enemies." Another Councilman carried in a vermillion casket, lying upon a silk cushion, the communal charter, signed by the bishop and the nobles, and confirmed by the signature of Louis the Lusty, King of the French. Finally, a third carried, also upon a cushion, the silver seal of the Commune, which served to attest the acts and decrees rendered by the town Council in the name ofthe Commune. This large medal, cast in bass relief, represented the Mayor, who, clad in his long robe and with his right hand pointing heavenward, seemed to be taking the oath, while his left hand held a sword with the point resting on his breast. "I, Mayor of Laon, have sworn to maintain and defend the franchises of the Commune: sooner die than betray my trust!"—such was the patriotic meaning of the communal seal, in short, "Liberty or death!"
When the city magistrate arrived, Fergan, who was issuing his last orders to the militiamen, saw a priest, the archdeacon of the cathedral, called Anselm, step out of the crowd. Fergan held the tonsured fraternity in singular aversion, yet greatly esteemed Anselm, a true disciple of Christ. "Fergan," whispered the archdeacon to the quarryman, "press your friends to redouble their calmness and their prudence, I conjure you. Prevent them from replying to any provocation. I can tell you no more. The time is short. I must proceed to the episcopal palace." Saying this, Anselm disappeared in the crowd. The advice of the archdeacon, a wise man, beloved by all, and, due to his office, in a position to be reliably informed, struck Fergan. He no longer doubted there was a conspiracy, secretly hatched by the episcopals against the Commune. Profoundly preoccupied, he placed himself at the head of his militiamen, in order to escort the Mayor and the Councilmen to the Town Hall. The obscure names of this magistracy, taken from Fergan's family archives, and over which he inscribed the exhortation: "May they be ever dear to your memory, ye sons of Joel!" were: John Molrain, Mayor. Councilmen: Foulque, the son of Bomar; Raoul Cabricoin; Ancel, son-in-law of Labert; Haymon; Payen-Seille; Robert; Remy-But; Menard-Dray, Raimbaut the sausagemaker; Payen-Oste-Loup; Ancel Quatre-Mains, and Raoul-Gastines.
The procession started amidst the joyful acclamations of the crowd, who enthusiastically shouted their rallying-cry: "Commune!Commune!" swollen by the sonorous peals from the belfry, the clerical clangor having finally ceased, due to the apprehension of the episcopals, lest the prolonged ringing of their bells was taken for their participation in the festivities. Before arriving at the place where the Town Hall stood, the procession defiled before the house of the knight of Haut-Pourcin, a large and fortified dwelling, flanked with two thick towers, that were joined by an embattled terrace, projecting above the door. Upon this species of balcony were gathered a large number of knights, clergymen, nobles and elegantly bedezined ladies, some young and handsome, others old and ugly. Among the least old of the latter and yet ugliest of all, the dame of Haut-Pourcin was conspicuous. A gaunt virago of about fifty, bony, of parchment skin, and of arrogant mien, she wore a violet cloak with gold buttons and a cape of peacock feathers; on her grizzly hair she had coquettishly fastened a chaplet of lillies of the valley in full bloom, like a shepherdess. The whiteness of her floral ornaments heightened the yellowish color of the dame's bilious complexion, a complexion, however, that was less yellowish than her long teeth. At sight of the procession, headed by the Mayor and his Councilmen, she turned to those near her, crying out in a sour and piercing voice that was distinctly heard by the communiers, the terrace lying only twelve or fifteen feet above the street: "Mesdames and messeigneurs, have you ever seen a pack of asses tramping to their mill with a more triumphant air?"
"Oh!" answered one of the knights aloud, laughing and pointing with his switch at the Mayor, John Molrain: "And look at the master-ass that leads the rest! How he prances under his furred saddle-cloth!"
"Pity his headgear conceals his long ears from us!"
"Blood of Christ! What a shame to see these Gallic clowns, made slaves by our ancestors, now carrying swords like us of the nobility!" put in the seigneur of Haut-Pourcin. "And we, thedescendants of the conquerors; we knights tolerate such villainy!"
"Halloa, there, Quatre-Mains the baker!" yelled the dame of Haut-Pourcin in a squeaky voice, leaning over the railing of the terrace, "Seigneur Councilman, trotting cuckolded and content while armed for war! The last bread that my butler fetched from your shop was not baked enough, and I suspect you of having cheated me in the weight!"
"Halloa, there, Remy the currier!" added a bulky canon attached to the cathedral, "Seigneur Councilman, who are there loitering about, administering the affairs of the city, why are you not at work on the mule saddle that I ordered?"
"Oh, messeigneurs, there comes the cavalry!" exclaimed a young woman laughing and smelling at a nosegay of sweet marjorams. "Look at the swagger of the vagabond who commands his braves, would you not think he was about to hew down everything in sight?"
"Oh, messeigneurs, look at that hero yonder! Oppressed by his visor, he is carrying his casque front side back and his sabre on his shoulder!"
"And that one, who holds his sword like a wax-taper! Guess he is a Pope's soldier!"
"And yonder goes one who came near putting out the eye of his neighbor with his pike! What a ridiculous set! What silly people!"
"For heaven's sake, messeigneurs, are you not frozen with terror at the thought that, some day, we may find ourselves face to face and lance in hand, with this bourgeoisie, this formidable rabble-rout of shaven fronts, big paunches and flat feet?"
At first, patiently endured by the communiers, these insults, accentuated with outbursts of contemptuous laughter and disdainful gestures, ended, nevertheless, by irritating the more impetuous. Dull murmurs rose from the crowd; the procession halted, despite the entreaties of Fergan, who urged upon themilitiamen the silence of contempt. Some threatened the episcopals with their fists, others with their arms; but their tormentors redoubled their gibes at the sight of such signs of irritation. Suddenly John Molrain, the Mayor, rushing to one of the stone benches, common near the doors of dwellings to assist riders in mounting their horses, jumped upon it, ordered silence, and addressed the crowd in a sonorous voice, that reached the ears of the episcopals:
"Brothers, and all those who have taken the oath of the Commune of Laon, make no reply to impotent insults! Let any dare attack the Commune with deeds and not with words, then will we, your Mayor and Councilmen, summon the offender before our tribunal, and justice will be enforced upon our enemies—prompt and energetic justice! Until then, let us answer all provocation with disdain. The resolute man, strong in his rights, despises insults. At the hour of judgment, he condemns and punishes!"
These wise and measured words quieted the excitement of the crowd, but they also reached the ears of the nobles, assembled on the terrace of the house of the seigneur of Haut-Pourcin, and added fuel to their rage. They menaced the communiers with their canes and swords, while redoubling their gibes. "Your swords are not long enough, they do not reach us!" Colombaik cried out to them, while passing under the balcony with his division of the militia. "Come down into the street! We shall then see whether iron is heavier in the hands of a bourgeois than in that of a knight!"
This challenge was answered by the episcopals with fresh insults. However, they dared not descend into the street, where they would have been seized and taken prisoners by the militia. For a moment delayed on its march, the procession resumed its way and arrived at the place of the Town Hall, a monument dear to the artisans and other townsmen.
The edifice, a spacious and handsome structure recently erected,formed an oblong square. Elaborate sculptures ornamented its facade and the lintels of its numerous windows and architrave, which consisted of three ogive arcades sustained by elegant sheaves of stone columns. But the portion of the edifice upon which particular care had been devoted, both in point of construction and ornamentation, was the tower of the belfry and the campanile, where hung the bell. This tower, proudly rising above the roof, stood out in full view. From tier to tier a slender sheet supported rounds of small columns surmounted with ogives chiseled in trefoil, so that across the network of chiseled stone the spiral of the staircase was visible that led up to the campanile, veiled in white cloth up to the moment when the procession issued upon the place. When the covering dropped off and the campanile stood unveiled, a shout of admiration and patriotic enthusiasm rose from all breasts. Nothing so airy as that campanile, looking like a gilded cage of iron, whose outlines stood out against the blue of the sky like a lace-work of gold, glittering in the rays of the sun. Above the dazzling dome, the communal banner floated in the spring breeze of that beautiful April morning. The enthusiastic cheers of the crowds rose again and again, and the north wind must have carried to the ears of the episcopals the cry, a thousand times repeated:
"Commune! Commune! Long live the Commune!"
The episcopal palace of Laon rose close to the cathedral. Thick walls, fortified with two heavy towers, between which stood the gate, surrounded the dwelling from all sides. From the view-point of the benign morality of Jesus—the friend of the poor and the afflicted—nothing was less episcopal than the interior of this palace. One would imagine himself in the fortified castle of some feudal seigneur, a broiler and hunter. The singular contrast between the place and the character that it should have presented, left a painful impression upon all upright hearts, and such, indeed, was the feeling experienced by archdeacon Anselm, when, shortly after engaging Fergan to urge upon the communiers indifference towards the provocations of the episcopals, that disciple of Christ crossed the yard of the bishop. Here falconers were engaged washing and preparing the raw meat destined for the falcons, or cleaned up their roosts; yonder, the huntsmen, their horns on their guard-chains and whip in hand, led for pastime a pack of large dogs of Picardy, prized so highly by hunters. Further away, serfs of the episcopal domain were being drilled in the handling of arms under the command of one of the bishop's equerries. This last circumstance struck the archdeacon with amazement, and increased his fears for the peace of the city. The venerable man was overcome with sadness and two large tears dropped from his eyes.
Although an associate of clergymen, Anselm was a man of great kindness of heart, pure, disinterested, austere and of rare learning. He was called "doctor of doctors." He declined the episcopacy several times, fearing, it was said, to seem to censure,by the Christian meekness of his nature and the chastity of his habits, the conduct of most of the bishops of Gaul. His face, at once pale and serene, his hair thinned by study, imparted a distinguished aspect to his person, tempered by the kindliness of his eyes. Modestly dressed in his black gown, Anselm was slowly crossing the yard of the abbey, contrasting their noisy tumult with the repose of his own studious retreat, when he saw, approaching him from a distance, a negro of giant stature, dressed in Oriental garb, his head covered with a red turban. This African slave, of mean and savage physiognomy, was named John since his baptism. He was, many years before, given as a present to Bishop Gaudry by a Crusader seigneur, returned from the Holy Land. By little and little Black John grew to be the favorite of his new master, the intermediary of the latter's debaucheries, or the instrument of his cruelties, before the establishment of the Commune. Since that transformation, the persons and property of the communiers had become safe. If an injury was done to either, the Commune obtained or itself enforced justice against the wrong-doer. Accordingly, the bishop and the nobles had been forced to renounce their habits of violence and rapine.
When the archdeacon saw Black John, the latter was descending a staircase that ended in a door, wrought under a vault closed with a grating, that separated the first two walks of a green reserved for the bishop. A woman, wrapped in a mantle that completely concealed her face, accompanied the slave. Anselm could not restrain a gesture of indignation. Knowing the dwellers of the palace, and aware that the staircase under the vault led to the apartments of the bishop, he had no doubt that the veiled woman, leaving the palace at so early an hour and under the guide of Black John, the bishop's regular procurer, had passed the night with the prelate. Blushing with chaste confusion, the archdeacon had turned his head away with disgust at the moment when, having opened the grated gate, the slaveand his female companion passed close by him. Stepping into the vault, the archdeacon entered the green,—a spacious enclosure, that, swarded and planted with trees, spread before the windows of the private apartments of Bishop Gaudry.
This man, a Norman by extraction and descended from the pirates of old Rolf, after having fought in the ranks of William the Bastard, when he conquered England, was later, in 1106, promoted to the bishopric of Laon. Cruel and debauched, covetous and prodigal, Gaudry was, besides all, a passionate huntsman. Still agile and vigorous, although beyond the prime of life, he was at that moment trying a young horse and breaking it in to step on the green that Anselm had just entered. In order to feel more at ease, the bishop had taken off his long morning robe, lined with fur, and kept on nothing but his sock-pointed shoes, his hose and a short jacket of flexible material. Bare-headed, his gray hair to the wind, still an able and bold cavalier, and riding bare-back the young stallion, that had for the first time come from the paddock, Gaudry was pressing his nervy knees against the flanks of the mettlesome animal, resisting its boundings and kicking, and forcing it to run in a circle over the sward of the green. The bishop's equerry applauded with voice and gesture the skill of his master, while a serf of robust frame and gallows-bird countenance followed the riding lesson with cunning eyes. This serf, who belonged to the abbey of St. Vincent, a fief of the bishopric, was named Thiegaud. The fellow—originally charged with the collection of toll over a bridge near the city, a dependency of the castellan Enguerrand de Coucy, one of the most ferocious feudal tyrants of Picardy who was dreaded for his audacity and cruelty—had been guilty of a number of extortions and even murders. Gaudry, struck by the resolute character of the scamp, demanded him from the castellan of Coucy in exchange for another serf, and charged him with the collection of the arbitrary taxes that he imposed upon his vassals, a charge that Thiegaud filled with remorseless severity.Thus the bishop treated the serf with great familiarity, habitually called him his "friend Ysengrin"—the wolf's companion—and, at a pinch, used him for a go-between in his debaucheries, not, however, without awakening the vindictive jealousy of Black John, who felt secretly enraged at the sight of another than himself in the secret confidence of his master.
Gaudry, while riding around the green, saw the archdeacon, made the stallion suddenly face about, and after a few more boundings the impetuous animal brought the bishop close to Anselm. Lightly jumping off, the bishop said to his equerry, throwing the bridle over to him: "I'll keep the horse; take him to my stables; he will be matchless in the hunt of stags and boars!"
"If you keep the horse, seigneur bishop," answered Thiegaud, "give me a hundred and twenty silver sous. That's the price they demand."
"That's all right. What's the hurry?" rejoined the bishop, and turning to his equerry: "Gerhard, take the horse to the stable."
"Not so," said Thiegaud, "the tenant-farmer is waiting at the gate of the palace. He has been ordered to take the horse back or receive its price in money. It is the orders of the owner of the stallion."
"The impudent scamp who gave that order deserves to receive as many lashes as his horse has hairs in his tail!" cried out the bishop. "Have I not, as a matter of right, six months' credit in my own seigniory?"
"No," coolly answered Anselm, "that seignioral right has been abolished since the city of Laon is a free Commune. Never forget the difference between the present and the past. The seignioral rights are abolished."
"I am reminded of that but too often!" answered the bishop with concentrated vexation. "However that may be, Gerhard, obey my orders and take the horse to the stable."
"Seigneur," said Thiegaud, "the owner is waiting, I tell you. He must have the money, a hundred and twenty silver sous, or the animal back."
"He shall not have the horse!" answered the bishop angrily striking the ground. "If the farmer dares to grumble, tell him to send me his master. We shall see whether he will have the audacity to appear on such an errand before his bishop."
"He will surely have the audacity, seigneur bishop," replied Thiegaud. "The owner of the horse is Colombaik the Tanner, a communier of Laon and son of Fergan, master quarryman of the mill hill. I know these people. I notify you that the father and son are of those ... who dare ... anything."
"Blood of Christ! and devil's horns! we have had words enough!" cried out the bishop. "Gerhard, take the stallion to the stables!"
The equerry obeyed, and the archdeacon was on the point of remonstrating with Gaudry on the injustice and danger of his conduct, when, hearing a great noise in the yards contiguous to the green, the bishop, already in a bad humor and yielding to the passion of his temperament, rushed out of the green, without taking time to put on his robe again and leaving it behind on a bench. He had hardly crossed the first yard, followed by the equerry, who led the horse, and by Thiegaud, who in his perversity was smiling at this latest iniquity of his master, when he saw a crowd of the domestics of his household coming towards him. They were all yelling and gesticulating violently, and surrounded Black John, whose gigantic stature rose above them by the full length of his head. No less excited than his fellows, Black John also yelled and gesticulated, foaming at the mouth with rage and brandishing his Saracen dagger.
"What means this hurly?" inquired the bishop of Laon stepping before the advancing crowd. "Why do you scream in that way?"
Several voices answered at once: "We are crying out against the bourgeois of Laon! The dogs of the communiers!"
"What has happened? Answer quick!"
"Black John will tell monseigneur!" several voices called in great excitement.
The African giant turned towards his fellows, motioned them to be silent, and wiping on his sleeves the bloody blade of his dagger, said to the bishop in an excited voice, still trembling with rage, but not without calculatingly casting upon Thiegaud a look of rancorous hatred:
"I had just led Mussine the Pretty to the outer gate—"
"My daughter!" Thiegaud ejaculated stupefied at the very moment when, angrily stamping the ground, the prelate checked the indiscreet words of his slave with a silent gesture. Black John remained mute like one who understands too late the folly he committed, while the rest of the bishop's domestics stealthily giggled at the consternation of Thiegaud. Some dreaded him for his malignity, others envied him for his intimate relations with their master. Thiegaud, livid at the startling revelation, flashed at Gaudry a sinister look quick as lightning; his features thereupon as quickly reassumed their usual expression, and he started to laugh louder than the rest at the awkward blunder of Black John. He even went the length of indulging in ironical deference towards Gaudry. The latter, long acquainted with the criminal life of the serf of St. Vincent, was not surprised at seeing him remain so indifferent to the disgrace of his daughter. Nevertheless, yielding to that respect for man that even the most depraved characters never succeed in wholly stripping themselves of, the bishop silenced the suppressed merriment with an imperious gesture and said: "Those giggles are unseemly. Thiegaud's daughter came early in the morning, as so many other penitents do, to consult me on a case of conscience. After listening to her in the confessional, I ordered John to accompany her to the gate."
"That's so true," added Thiegaud with perfect composure, "that, having to bring this morning a horse to our seigneur the bishop, I expected to return with my daughter. But she left by the vaulted door while I was still on the green."
"Friend Ysengrin," resumed the prelate with a mixture a haughtiness and familiarity, "my words can dispense with your testimony." And wishing to cut off short this incident, which had the archdeacon, silent but profoundly indignant, for a witness, Gaudry said to the black slave: "Speak! What has happened between you and the communiers, whom may the pest carry off and hell confound! May Satan take them all!"
"I was opening the gate for Mussine the Pretty, when three bourgeois, coming from the suburbs and bound for the principal entry of the city, to assist at the ceremonies announced by the belfry of those rogues, passed by the palace. Seeing a veiled woman come out, those scamps set up a malicious laugh, and nudged one another in the ribs while keeping on their way. I ran after them and asked: 'What are you laughing about, you dogs of communiers?' They gave me an insolent answer and called me the bishop's hangman. I then drew my dagger and stabbed one of them in the arm, and leaving his companions and him loudly threatening to demand justice from the Commune, I returned and locked the door after me. By Mahomet, I am proud of what I did. I avenged my master for the insults of those curs!"
"Black John did well!" cried the domestics of the bishop. "We can no longer go out without being shamed by the communiers of Laon."
"The other day," put in one of the falconers, "the butcher of Exchange street, one of the Councilmen of the Commune, refused to give me meat on credit for the falcons!"
"At the taverns we are compelled to pay before drinking! The shame and humiliation of it!"
"It was not thus three years ago!"
"Those were good days! A retainer of the bishop then took without paying whatever he wanted from the merchants; he caressed their wives and daughters; and none dared say a word. By the womb of the Virgin Mary, we were then masters! But since the establishment of the Commune it is the bourgeois who command! The devil take the Commune! Three cheers for the good old times!"
"To hell with the communiers, they make us die of shame for our seigneur the bishop!" exclaimed one of the young serfs who had been shortly before exercising in the use of arms. And resolutely addressing the prelate, who, so far from quieting down the excitement of his people, seemed delighted at their recriminations, and encouraged them with a smile of approval: "Say the word, our bishop! There are here fifty of us who have learned to manage the bow and pike! Place a few knights at our head, and we will descend upon the city, leaving not a stone upon another of the houses of that bourgeois and artisan rabble!"
"Say the word!" cried out Thiegaud, "and I will bring you, my holy patron, a hundred woodsmen and colliers from the forest of St. Vincent. They will make a bonfire of the houses of those bourgeois and artisans fit to roast Beelzebub! Death and damnation to the communiers!"
If the bishop of Laon had entertained any doubt upon the indifference of the serf of St. Vincent regarding his daughter's shame, it was removed by the man's words. Accordingly, doubly satisfied with the tokens of Thiegaud's devotion, the bishop addressed his people in these words: "I am glad to find you in such a frame of mind. Remain so. The hour for going to work will arrive sooner than you may think. As to you, my brave John, you have avenged me on the insolence of those communiers. Fear not. Not a hair of your head shall be touched. As to you, friend Ysengrin, notify the farmer that I keep the horse, and I shall pay him if I choose. Then, see our friends the woodsmen and colliers of the forest. I may need them any day. Whenthat day shall come, they shall be free, in reward for their good will, to plunder at their pleasure the houses of the bourgeois of Laon." Turning thereupon towards the archdeacon, who had witnessed this scene without uttering a word, he said to him: "Let's go in. What has just taken place under your own eyes will have prepared you for the interview we are to have, and for which I summoned you hither."
Anselm followed the prelate, and both entered the bishop's apartments.
"Anselm, you have just seen and heard things that, doubtlessly, left a disagreeable impression upon your mind. We shall take that up presently," said Gaudry to the archdeacon when they were closeted together. "I summoned you to the palace because I am aware of your foible for the common folks of the bourgeoisie, and in order to afford you the opportunity to render a signal service to your favorites. Listen to me carefully."
"I shall strive to meet your intentions, seigneur bishop."
"You shall go to the bourgeois and artisans of the city and say to them: 'Renounce, good people, that execrable spirit of novelty, that diabolical passion that drives the vassal to rise against his master. Abjure, soon as possible, the brazen and impious pride that persuades the artisan and townsman to withdraw from the seignioral authority and to govern themselves. Return to your trades, to your shops. The administration of public affairs can get along very well without you. You quit the Church for the Town Hall; you open your ears to the sound of your own belfry, and shut them to the chimes of the church bells. That is not good for you. You will end by forgetting the submission you owe to the clergy, to the nobles and to the King. Good people, never allow the distinctions of the stations in life to be confounded; each to his rights, each to his duties. The right of the clergy, of the nobility and of the King is to command and to govern; the duty of the serf and the bourgeois is to bow before the will of their natural masters. This communaland republican comedy, that you have been playing for now nearly three years, has lasted too long. Abdicate willingly your roles of Mayor, Councilmen and warriors. People at first laughed at your silly pranks, hoping you would return to your senses. But it takes too long; one's patience is exhausted. The time has come to put an end to the Saturnalia. In order to avoid a just punishment, return of your own accord to the humility of your station in life. Cut your Councilmen's robes into skirts for your wives; return your arms to people who know how to handle them; respectfully surrender to the Church, as an homage of atonement, that ear-splitting bell of that belfry of yours; it will enrich the chimes of the cathedral. Your superb banner will make a becoming altar-cloth, and as to your magnificent silver seal, melt it back into money wherewith to purchase some hogsheads of old wine which you will empty in honor of the restoration of the seigniory of your bishop in Jesus Christ. Do so, and all will be well, good people. The past will be forgiven you upon condition that you will henceforth be submissive, humble and penitent towards the Church, the noblemen and the King, and that of your own accord, you renounce your pestiferous Commune.'"
Anselm listened to the bishop with a mixture of amazement, indignation and profound anxiety. He did not interrupt the speaker to the end, wondering how that man, whom he could not deny either cleverness or sagacity, yet could be so untutored upon men and things as to conceive such a project. So profound was the emotion of the archdeacon that he remained silent for a while. Finally he answered the bishop in a grave and clear voice: "You solicit my assistance to advise the inhabitants of Laon to give up their charter, that very charter that both you and they have agreed to and sworn to uphold by a common accord?"