had caught a dozen men and women from Béyant and were beating them as
they stood in a row, with their faces turned to the wall. The poor
devils were not much hurt, but they screamed like curlews. Being safe
enough ourselves, we slipped down along the ramparts and brandished
pikes over the walls, on which we had stuck hams, saveloys, and
black-puddings. We could hear the besiegers uttering yells of hunger
and rage, and how that did put new life into us! To squeeze out the
last drop (for there is never too much of a good thing), when it grew
late we set out tables in the open air on the slopes, sheltered by the
wall, and loaded them with victuals and drink. There we had a noisy
feast, singing and drinking to Shrove-Tuesday. The outsiders nearly
went out of their skins with fury, and so that day went off gaily, and
no harm done. There was only one drawback. When Gueneau de Pousseaux,
that big fool! got too mellow, nothing would do but he must walk on top
of the wall with his glass in his hand, just to defy them, and they
knocked his head and his glass into splinters with a musket ball. This
did not much bother us, but to make it even, we wounded one or two of
them, for there can be no festivity, you know, without a little broken
crockery. Chamaille waited till nightfall before leaving the town to
go home. In vain we all said, “Old friend, you risk your neck. Wait
here till it’s all over; God will take care of your parishioners.” He
answered:
“My place is with my flock. God would be maimed without me, for I am
truly His right arm. But I will not fail Him, you may swear.”
“I believe you,” said I. “You gave full proof of it when the Huguenots
attacked your church, and you threw a great lump of plaster at their
Captain Papiphage and knocked him over.”
“That was a surprise for him, miscreant that he was,” said he. “For me
too, really. I mean no harm and hate to see blood flow; it disgusts
me, but the devil alone knows what gets into a man when he is among
hot-heads. He becomes a wolf.”
“That is true,” said I, “you lose what little sense you have when you
are in a crowd. A hundred wise men make a fool, and a hundred sheep a
wolf. But tell me, Vicar, how can you reconcile two codes--that of the
man who lives alone with his conscience and wants peace for himself and
all the world, and that of men in the mass, who make a virtue out of
war and wickedness. Which of these is of God?”
“That is a very silly question! Both. Everything comes from God.”
“Well, then He doesn’t know His own mind. Or rather I believe He cannot
do as He likes. It is easy enough to manage one man,--there is no
difficulty about that, but when He has a crowd to deal with, that is
another pair of shoes. What can one do against many? So man falls back
on his Mother Earth, who whispers to him of fleshly things. In the old
legend, if you remember, there are times when men become wolves, and
then get into their old skins again. Ah! my friend, there is more truth
in many an old song than in your Mass-book. Every man in the country
wears his wolf skin; States, Kings, and Ministers may dress themselves
up with shepherd’s crooks as much as they please, and claim descent,
like the hypocrites they are, from your Good Shepherd; they are really
all lynxes, bulls, jaws, and bellies, always crying for food, and for
the best of reasons; they must satisfy the hunger of the earth.”
“You are a raving heathen,” said Chamaille. “God sends the wolves like
the rest, and He does all things well. Did you never hear that the
Blessed Virgin had a little garden where cabbages grew, and Jesus, they
say, made the wolf to keep off the goats and the kids? No doubt He was
right, and we can only bow to His will. Why should we complain of the
strong? It would be a thousand times worse if the weak were raised to
power, so in conclusion all are for the best, sheep and wolves alike.
The sheep need the wolves to protect them, and the wolves need the
sheep, still more, for we all must eat. So now, Colas, off I go to
my cabbages.” He confided Madelon tenderly to my care, tucked up his
gown, grasped his cudgel, and made off; though the night was dark and
moonless.
We were not quite so merry for the next few days. We had foolishly
stuffed ourselves the first evening, just to show off and from stupid
greediness, so there was but little left of our provisions. We had to
draw in our belts, which was soon done, but we still had some swagger
in us. When the puddings were all gone, we made some stuffed with
bran and tarred strings which we stuck on a pike and dangled before
the enemy. The rogues soon saw through it, though, for a ball caught
one of our puddings fair in the middle, and who had the laugh on his
side then? Not we, I vow, and to cap the climax when these robbers saw
that we were fishing over the top of our wall, they stretched nets
from the locks up and down the river to catch the fry. Our Archbishop
reprimanded them for bad Christians who would not let us keep Lent, but
in vain, so we had to fall back on our own fat.
We might of course have implored the Duke of Nevers to come and help
us, but to tell the truth we were not anxious to have his troops
quartered on us again. It cost less to have the enemy outside the
walls than the friend within, so the best way was to keep quiet as
long as we could get along without them, and the enemy on his side was
prudent enough not to send for them. “Two is company, three is none,”
so we began negotiations, but without undue haste. Both camps led an
exemplary life. Early to bed and late to rise, playing bowls all day
and drinking. We yawned more from boredom than hunger, and we actually
slept so much that we grew fat in spite of our fast. The grown people
moved about as little as possible, but it was hard to keep the children
in order. These imps were always running, crying, or laughing; always
on the go and putting themselves in danger. They would climb the
walls, stick out their tongues at the besiegers, and bombard them with
stones. They had batteries of squirts, which they made from the elder
twigs; slings and sticks;--“Here goes. Hit him in the head!” the little
monkeys would cry. Those they struck vowed to be the death of them, and
they called out to us that the first child that poked its nose over
the top of the wall should be shot. We promised to be careful, but
the rogues slipped through our fingers in spite of our scoldings and
ear-pullings. Still water runs deep, so one fine evening, (it makes me
tremble only to think of it!) I heard a squeal, and if you can believe
it, there was that little hypocrite of a Glodie,--witch that she is!
my own treasure!--she had slipped down the bank into the ditch. Oh,
Lord, I could have whipped her! I was on the wall at one bound, and
there we all stood craning over. We made a fine target if the enemy
had chosen to shoot at us, but he too was looking at my darling at the
bottom of the ditch. Thanks to the Blessed Virgin, she had rolled down
gently like a little kitten, and sat there among the flowering grasses,
not in the least frightened, and looking up at the two rows of heads
above her. She was laughing and making a nosegay. We all laughed too,
and Monseigneur de Ragny, the enemy’s commander, ordered that no harm
be done to the child, and, good fellow that he was, threw her a bag of
sugar-plums. But you never know what a woman will do next, and while we
were all looking at Glodie, Martine rushed to save her lamb and she too
fell down the bank, running, slipping, and rolling, her skirts turned
up over her head. What a spectacle for the enemy! Immense applause! But
nothing daunted, she hugged and slapped her baby. One of the soldiers,
carried away by her charms, disobeyed his commanding officer, jumped
into the ditch and ran towards her. She stood fast while we threw a
broom down to her from the ramparts, seized it bravely, and marched on
the enemy. Whick, whack! The gallant kept his distance, and fled from
the field without sound of trumpets. Both camps roared with laughter,
and we pulled Martine up, triumphant, with her child in her arms, I on
the end of the rope as proud as a peacock.
Since talking is always in season, we took another week for discussion.
A rumor was heard that the Duke of Nevers was coming,--a false alarm,
but it brought us together and a treaty was drawn up on fairly easy
terms. We agreed to pay to the Vézelayans a tenth of our next vintage,
for it is always best to promise for the future; one may never get
there, and in any case much water runs under the bridge first and much
wine into our stomachs.
Both sides were satisfied with each other, and most of all with
themselves. Still, it never rains but it pours, and the very next
day after the treaty, a sign appeared in the heavens. About ten
o’clock it arose and slid across the field of stars toward St.
Peters-on-the-Height, like a long serpent. It resembled a sword with a
flame on the point, and great tongues of smoke; a hand seemed to grasp
the hilt. You could see the five fingers ending in dreadful heads; one
was a woman with her hair streaming in the wind, and the width at the
hilt of the sword was a span, at the point six or eight rods, and in
the middle exactly three rods and two inches. The color was scarlet and
violet, and inflamed like a wound in the side. We all stood, our eyes
raised to Heaven, our mouths open, our teeth chattering in our heads.
In the two camps the question was “To which one did the warning come?”
Each of course attributed it to the other, and every man shivered,
except me. I was not in the least frightened, for having gone to bed
at nine o’clock, I naturally saw nothing. Regularly as the day comes
round, I take medicine and go to bed early; when the stomach commands
I obey without question. Every one, however, told me all about the
portent, so I write it down, for it is the same as if I had seen it.
* * * * *
As soon as peace was signed, friends and foes betook themselves once
more to feasting, and as by this time we had come to the middle of
Lent, we let ourselves go. It was a great day, I can tell you. Throngs
of people came pouring in from the neighboring villages, bringing
their provisions as well as mouths to eat them with, and tables were
spread the whole length of the ramparts. Three young pigs were served,
roasted whole, stuffed with spiced boar’s meat and heron’s liver.
There were hams, smoked and perfumed with juniper; rabbit and pork
pies, simply reeking with garlic and laurel; our own meat-balls and
tripe, pikes and snails, jugged hare so fat that our noses fed on them
first; calves-head that melted in the mouth; and heaps of peppery
lobsters enough to set your throat on fire. On top of all, to cool
it off, salads with plenty of vinegar; and then bumpers of the best
vintages from Chapotte, Mandre, and Vaufilloux. For dessert we had
curds and cream to slip gently down our throats, and biscuits with
which we sopped up a full glass at one mouthful. As long as a scrap
remained not one of us let go, and the Lord gave us strength to squeeze
all these dishes and drinks into our small bread-baskets. There was
a great contest between two eating champions. The Vézelayans put up
their hermit--Court-Oreille from St. Martin’s at Vézelay; (he was the
man, we are told, who first discovered that an ass must have his tail
in the air before he can bray); ours, (hermit, I mean not ass,) was
Dom Hennequin, who declared that he had such a hatred for cold water
that he believed he must have been a carp or a pike in some former
existence and been forced to swallow too much of it. Well, when the
Vézelayans and Clamecyans left off eating at last, they loved each
other more than they did at first; since a man’s fine qualities come
out strong at table, and he who loves good cheer is my brother. While
we were settling our dinner on the best of good terms, what should turn
up but the re-enforcements sent by our Duke to protect us? We burst
out laughing, and both sides politely requested them to go home. What
could they do? So they went off rather crestfallen, like dogs chased by
sheep, while we hugged each other and cried out:
“What fools we were to fight for these people! Our protectors,
forsooth! They would stir up enemies if we had none, in faith, just for
the sake of defending us. God keep us from our keepers, we can look
out for ourselves. Silly sheep that we are, we should be safe enough
if wolves were all that threatened us,--but who will save us from the
shepherd?”
III
THE VICAR OF BRÈVES
Early in April.
As soon as the roads were clear of our unwelcome visitors, I decided
to go at once and see Chamaille in his village; not that I was really
anxious about him, for he knows how to take good care of himself,
but all the same nothing is so reassuring as to see with one’s own
eyes,--besides my legs wanted stretching. So off I started without a
word to any one. The river flowed at the foot of the wooded hills and
I followed the river, whistling as I went. A soft spring rain came
pattering down, now ceasing, now falling again, dropping like beads
from the young leaves, and in the thickets I could hear the cry of an
enamored squirrel. Geese were feeding in the meadow, the blackbirds
sang fit to crack their throats, and the little thrush trilled tipu’ti
tipu’,--Paillard, the notary at Dornecy, is a great friend of mine, so
I thought I would stop and see him, for he, Chamaille, and I are as
inseparable as the Graces. I found him in his study making notes on
the weather, his recent dreams, and the political situation; close
beside him lay the manual “De Legibus,” and also the “Prophecies of
Nostradamus.” When a man spends his life shut up between four walls,
his mind is all the more eager to fly forth into dream spaces and the
forests of memory; and since he cannot rule this terrestrial ball,
he tries to peer into the future of the world. They say all is known
beforehand, and I can well believe it, but I must confess that I have
never had much luck in predicting the future until after the event.
Dear old Paillard fairly shone with joy when he saw me, and the house
shook with our peals of laughter. I love the very sight of him. He is
a little man, inclined to stoutness; his broad face is pockmarked, his
nose red, and his little eyes dance with cunning. He is always growling
and complaining of everything and everybody, but at bottom good-natured
and full of fun, and more of a joker really than I am myself. He loves
to get off the most awful whoppers with a perfectly straight face, and
at table he is a sight to behold invoking Comus and Momus, singing a
good song, and emptying his bottle. He was enchanted to see me, and
there we stood like two children hand in hand. His are large and thick,
but adroit, like the rest of him, and clever as the devil with all
kinds of tools. He is a bookbinder and carpenter, and declares that
everything in his house is the work of his own hands; not much beauty
perhaps to boast of, but good or bad it is all characteristic of him.
He began as usual by finding fault right and left, and so to take the
opposite side I praised the world in general, for it is a favorite joke
of his to call me “so much the better,” and I retort by calling him “so
much the worse.” He always has many complaints to make of his clients,
and with some reason, for they are by no means prompt in the matter of
payment; some of them have owed him money for thirty-five years and he
has taken no steps to collect his bills, however much it would be to
his interest. Some of his debtors pay when they happen to think of it,
but generally in kind; a dozen eggs, a pair of chickens;--that is the
usual custom, and it would be thought insulting if he insisted on his
money. I suppose he would do the same in their place so he submits,
growling.
Luckily he has enough to live on, a nice round sum getting rounder
every year, for he is an old bachelor with few expenses, no
extravagances, and as for the pleasures of the table, nature has spread
her board lavishly in our fields. We have vineyards, orchards, game,
and fish in abundance, so there are but two ways for Paillard to spend
his money: he buys books, which he likes to show at a distance, for he
is chary of lending, and then there are the new spectacles from Holland
with which he loves to look at the lady in the moon, sly dog.
He has put up a sort of scaffolding in the roof of his house among
the chimneys and from there he carefully studies the movements of the
heavenly bodies, and tries to discover the course of our destinies,
little as he understands them. To tell the truth he does not really
believe in all this, but he likes to persuade himself that he does,
and there I agree with him, for what can be more charming than to
look out at the stars as if from our window, just as we see fair
ladies in the streets,--we imagine a story about them, some romantic
adventure, it may not be true, but it is at least amusing---- We had
much to say to each other about the portent; that terrible bloody
sword which had been seen in the heavens during the night of the
previous Sunday and each interpreted it according to his own idea,
insisting most positively that his view was the right one. After all
we found that neither of us had so much as set eyes on it, for the
astrologer unluckily had chosen that very evening to fall asleep at
his instrument; and thus we were perfectly delighted to find ourselves
companions in misfortune and foolishness. Having determined not to
mention this incident to Chamaille, we set out across country,
admiring the young shoots on the bushes, the pink buds, the birds
making their nests, and a hawk slowly circling above the plain. We
had a great deal of fun as we went along, over an old joke that we
had once played on Chamaille; we shut a blackbird up in a cage, and
worked day and night to teach him a Huguenot song, and when he had
it well in his head, we turned him loose in the vicar’s garden. His
new accomplishment was soon picked up by all the other blackbirds in
the village, and they sang so loud as to disturb Chamaille at his
devotions. He swore, crossing himself, that the devil was loose in
his garden, then tried to exorcise him, and finally took aim with an
arquebus from behind the shutters, and shot the evil spirit; but in the
bottom of his heart he must have had some doubts, for having killed the
devil he then proceeded to eat him. Our walking and talking brought
us at last to Brèves, which seemed to be half asleep. We peeped into
the houses as we went by; the sun was streaming in through the open
doors, but we did not see a human being except one urchin enjoying the
fresh air on the edge of a ditch. We strolled on arm in arm through
the narrow street, encumbered with straw and filth, till, as we got
near the center of the town, we began to hear a buzzing like the sound
of a swarm of angry bees; and when we came out on the market-place
it was packed with people gesticulating and shouting at the top of
their lungs. Chamaille was standing at his garden gate purple with
rage, and he too was screaming and shaking his fist in the faces of
his parishioners. All this was perfectly unintelligible to us, for
we could only catch a word here and there in the midst of the tumult
of voices. “Caterpillars,--locusts,--field-mice,--cum Spiritu tuo!”
Here Chamaille’s voice struck in. “No! nothing shall induce me to go!”
Retort from the crowd, “Devil take it, are you our vicar or not? You
know that you are, and it is your duty to work for us.” “Upstarts!--I
am God’s servant, not yours!” To put an end to the uproar Chamaille
banged the gate in the faces of the foremost, but through the bars we
could see him still threatening his people with one hand, while by
force of habit the other was raised in the attitude of benediction. We
could catch a glimpse of him through the window, square of face and
round of belly, and as he could no longer make himself heard above
the clamor, we could see the derisive gesture with which he replied;
but from that moment the house was closed and turned a blind eye on
the street, so the noise gradually died down, the crowd grew thinner,
and at last we could get near enough to knock at the door. It was a
long time before we could get an answer. “Hi, Vicar!” we called, but
there was no reply. “Go to the devil! I am out,” came from behind the
shutters, and we continued to hammer on the door. “Get out, I tell you!
If you don’t let my door alone you will get a deluge that will astonish
you!”--and the contents of a bucket began to trickle down our backs.
“Chamaille!” we called out; “make it wine if you want to soak us.” The
tempest instantly subsided; and our friend stuck his jolly red face
out of the window crying, “Name of a name, boys, is it you? In another
minute you would have caught it finely--why didn’t you say who you
were?” Then he came rushing downstairs. “Come in! come in! Give us your
hand, and come upstairs and have a drink; you need it if you are half
as hot as I am! It is a real treat to see a civilized human being after
those dancing apes; did you see the row they were kicking up? But they
can kick as they please, I will not stir one step. Do you know they
actually wanted me to go out with the Holy Sacrament? There is a storm
coming up too, and the Host and I would both have been soaked; but the
idea of treating me as if I were a plowboy! I am no servant of theirs,
sacrilegious rascals! I’ll teach them to treat God’s minister with
respect. My business is to cultivate their souls and not their fields.”