THE SERPENT UNDER THE GRASS.
Etienne Marcel's house was located near the church of St. Eustace in the
quarter of the market. His shop, filled with rolls of cloth that were
exposed on the shelves, communicated with a dining room. A staircase ran
into this room, leading to the chambers on the floor above.
It being night and the shop closed, Marguerite, Marcel's wife, and
Denise her niece, had gone upstairs into one of the chambers where they
took up some sewing which they were busily at by the light of the lamp.
Marguerite was about forty-five years. She must have been handsome in
her younger days. Her face betokened kindness and was now pensive and
grave. Denise was close to eighteen. Her cheerful face, habitually
serene and candid, seemed this evening profoundly sad. The two women
remained long in silence, each engaged in her work. By degrees, however,
and without raising her head Denise's needle relaxes, and presently,
dropping her hands upon her lap, the tears roll out of her eyes.
Marguerite, no less pre-occupied than her niece, mechanically raises her
eyes towards the young girl, and noticing her tears, says tenderly:
"Poor child! I know the cause of your sorrow because I know the bent of
your mind. I would not have you share a hope that I myself hardly
retain. But, after all, although the continued absence of Jocelyn
justifies our fears, we should not despair.... He may yet return...."
"No, no," answered Denise, now giving free course to her tears. "If
Jocelyn still lived, he would not have left his aged father in the
uncertainty that hastened his death. If Jocelyn still lived he would
have communicated with my uncle Marcel, whom he loved and venerated
like a father. No, no", she exclaimed amid sobs, "He is dead. I shall
never see him again!"
"My child, it is quite possible that carried away by his imprudent
courage, Jocelyn went to the battle of Poitiers, where he may have
remained in the hands of the English. Prisoners return. I conjure you,
do not yield to despair. I suffer to see you weep."
In lieu of answer the young girl rose and walked up to Marguerite, took
her two hands, kissed them and said: "Dear, good aunt, you brush aside
your own sorrows to think of mine, and you seek to console me.... I am
ashamed not to know better and to repress my sorrow while you bear up so
courageously before Master Marcel and your son!"
"Truly, Denise, I do not understand you", remarked Marguerite slightly
embarrassed. "My life is so happy, I need no special courage to bear
it--"
"Oh, oh! Do I not see you daily receive Master Marcel and your son Andre
with a smile on your lips and a serene face, while your heart is in a
storm of anxieties--"
"You are mistaken, Denise!"
"Oh, believe me; it is no indiscreet curiosity that guided me when I
sought to penetrate your feelings. It was the desire to say nothing that
might wound your secret thoughts whenever I am alone with you, as now so
often happens good dear aunt."
"You dear child!" exclaimed Marguerite embracing Denise with effusion
and now making no effort to restrain her own tears. "How could I fail to
be profoundly effected by so much delicacy and tenderness? How could I
fail to respond with unreserved confidence?" Marguerite stopped but
after a last few moments of hesitancy and making a supreme effort she
proceeded: "'Tis true; you did not deceive yourself. Yes, my life is now
spent amid anxieties and alarms. I thank you for having drawn the secret
from me. I shall now, at least, be able to weep before you without
reserve, and give a loose to my heart. Having paid that tribute to
feebleness, I shall be able all the better to appear serene before my
husband and my son! Oh ... I admit it; my only fear is to have them
discover that I suffer! I know Marcel's love for me. It reciprocates
mine. If he knew I was wretched I might cause his own calmness and
fortitude to weaken that never yet have abandoned him and that he needs
now more than ever in these perilous days."
"Oh, the women who envy you would at this moment pity you, did they but
see and hear you, dear aunt!"
"Yes", replied Marguerite with bitterness; "the wife of Marcel, the idol
of the people ... of Marcel, the real king of Paris, is envied. They
envy the companion of that great citizen. Oh, they should rather pity
her.... Tender indulgences ... sweet joys of the hearth, the happiness
of the humblest ... since long I know you no more! The artisan, the
merchant, their day's labors being done, at least enjoy in the bosom of
their families some rest until the morrow. My poor husband, on the
contrary, spends his nights at work ... while I, his wife, remain a prey
to constant uneasiness night and day, ever fearing for his life or his
son's!"
"You have no reason to tremble for the life of Master Marcel, who can
not take a step without he is surrounded by a crowd of devoted friends."
"I fear the Regent's hatred, and that of the nobles and prelates."
At that moment Agnes the Bigot, Marguerite's confidential servant,
entered the room and said to her mistress: "Madam, the wife of Master
Maillart, the councilman, has come to visit you."
"So late! Did you tell her I was home?"
"Yes, madam."
Marguerite made a gesture of impatience and annoyance, dried her tears
and said to Denise in an undertone: "You just mentioned envious
women.... Petronille Maillart is of the number.... Hide your tears, I
pray you, to avoid her drawing wrongful conclusions from our sadness.
She is cruelly jealous of the popularity of Marcel; and Maillart, I
believe, shares the feelings of his wife."
"Can Maillart be jealous of my uncle, the friend of his childhood!"
"Maillart is a weak man whom his wife dominates."
"Maillart is always speaking about running to arms, and of massacring
the nobles and priests."
"Violence is not strength, Denise; the most excited natures usually are
the least firm.... But silence! Here is Petronille.... What can be the
purpose of a visit at this hour?"
Petronille Maillart entered. She was still in her mourning garb. From
the instant of her entrance she darted an inquisitive glance at the wife
of Marcel and at Denise, and undoubtedly observed the traces of recent
tears, seeing that a smile flitted over her lips. Affecting great
sympathy she said:
"Excuse me, Dame Marguerite, for coming to your house at so late an
hour; but I wished to speak to you upon serious matters."
"You are always welcome, Dame Petronille."
"I fear not, at this moment. Sorrow loves solitude, and I notice with
pain that your eyes and those of your dear niece are still red with
tears. Just heaven! Do you entertain any fears for our excellent friend
Marcel. Do the people, perhaps, incline to deny the value of the
services he has rendered Paris? Ingratitude of the masses!"
"Be at ease, Dame Petronille," answered Marguerite interrupting her.
"Thanks to God, I entertain no fears on the score of my husband. It is
true Denise and I feel sad. Shortly before you came in, we were speaking
of a friend whose fate is making us uneasy. You have often seen him
here. It is Jocelyn the Champion."
"Surely; I remember him well. A veritable Hercules ... was the poor
fellow killed?"
"No; we are not ready to believe that such a misfortune has happened.
But it is a long time we have not heard from him."
"Nothing more natural, Dame Marguerite. I can now account for your
tears.... But let me come to the purpose of my visit, which, seeing the
lateness of the hour, must seem strange to you. The curfew has sounded
long ago. You know how attached Maillart and I are to you and your
husband."
"I feel thankful for your friendship."
"Now, then, the duty of good friends is to speak frankly."
"Certainly, there is nothing more precious than sincere friends. Pray
speak, Dame Petronille!"
"Very well, dear Marguerite; your absence from the funeral of poor
Perrin Mace has been noticed. I attended the ceremony; you see it on my
clothes. In my quality of a councilman's wife I felt bound to render
this last homage to the memory of the poor victim of an iniquity."
"Madam ... I can only pity such a victim."
"And do you not revolt at the fate of the unfortunate man?"
"That great iniquity has revolted my husband. In his quality of the
first magistrate of the town, he was bound to head the procession."
"First magistrate of the town!" rejoined Dame Petronille with
ill-suppressed bitterness. "Yes, until his successor is elected. Any one
of the councilmen can be chosen provost. The election decides that."
"Surely," answered Marguerite, exchanging looks with Denise who had
resumed her sewing. "My husband's duty," continued Marcel's wife, "was
first to protest against the crime of the Regent's courtiers by solemnly
attending the funeral of Perrin Mace.... As to me, Dame Petronille,
knowing that it is not the custom for women to assist at these sad
ceremonies, I stayed at home."
"But do people care for custom in such grave circumstances?" cried
Maillart's wife. "One consults only his heart, as I did. Dressed in
black from head to foot, I joined the funeral procession, moaning and
weeping all the tears I had. I thought I would let you know it as a
friend, my dear Dame Marguerite. It is much to be regretted that you
did not follow my example."
"Each is the judge of his own conduct, Madam."
"No doubt, when none is concerned but ourselves. But in this matter,
your husband, our excellent friend Marcel, was also concerned. I
therefore fear that, under the circumstances, you have done him great
harm in the popular esteem."
"What is it you mean?"
"Oh, my God! Poor dear dame! Do you think I would have made haste to
come to you after curfew if my purpose were not to give you charitable
advice?"
"I do not question your good intentions. Marcel himself imparted to the
funeral of Perrin Mace the solemn character that has been attached to
it. He attended it at the head of the councilmen. In that he fulfilled
his duty."
"I know that my husband marched after yours, madam," spitefully rejoined
the envious woman, "seeing that in his quality of provost, Master Marcel
has precedence over all the councilmen.... He is acknowledged by all as
the leader."
"Oh, madam! There is no question of rank," cried Marguerite. "I only
meant to say that Marcel attended the funeral."
"Yes; but you did not, Dame Marguerite; and people said so. They
remarked: 'See, the wife of Master Maillart, the councilman, follows the
hearse of Perrin Mace! Oh! Oh! She does not care about custom, not she!
She meant, like her husband, to protest with her presence and her tears
against the iniquity of the court. How, then, does it happen that the
wife of the first magistrate remains at home? Can it be that Master
Marcel takes the action of the Regent and court less to heart than he
pretends? Can it be that, as the proverb puts it, he is trying to run
with the hares and hunt with the hounds? Is he secretly laying the pipes
for a reconciliation between himself and the court? Can Master Marcel
contemplate betraying the people?'"
"Oh! That's infamous!" cried out Denise, unable to control her
indignation. "To dare accuse Master Marcel of treason because his wife
did not attend the funeral procession and parade an affected sorrow!"
"Denise!" Marguerite quickly called out to the impetuous young girl,
fearing the conversation, puerile in appearance, would take a still more
acrid turn, and entail dangerous results for Marcel.
It was too late. Rising, Dame Petronille addressed Denise in a bitter
tone: "Listen, learn, my friend, that my pain, no less than my
husband's, was not affectation!"
"Dame Petronille," Marguerite interposed anxiously, "that was not
Denise's meaning.... Listen to me ... I pray you."
"Madam," dryly answered Maillart's wife, "I came here to warn you as a
true friend of the thoughtless, no doubt, but nevertheless, dangerous
rumors against Master Marcel's popularity. These rumors are at this very
hour circulating in Paris.... So far from thanking me, I am received
here with insult. The lesson is good. I shall profit by it."
"Dame Petronille--"
"Enough, Madam. Neither I nor my husband shall ever again set foot in
your house. I meant, like a friend, to point out to you the danger that
Master Marcel's good name is running. I have done my duty, let come what
may!"
"Dame Petronille," Marguerite answered with sad but severe dignity,
"since Marcel consecrated his life to public affairs, there is not a
word or action of his that he cannot answer for with head erect. He has
done good for good's sake, without even expecting anything from the
gratitude of men. He will remain indifferent to their ingratitude. If
ever his services are not appreciated, he will take with him into his
retirement the consciousness of ever having acted like an honorable man.
As to me, I shall bless the day when my husband should quit public
affairs so that we may resume our obscure lives and ordinary
occupations."
So obvious was the sincerity with which Marguerite expressed herself in
speaking of her delight to return to obscurity, that Dame Petronille,
furious at having been unable to wound the woman whom she envied, lost
all control of herself. "You err," she declared, "in these days, it does
not depend upon a man like Master Marcel to quietly bury himself in a
retreat. No! No! When one has been the idol of Paris, you must either
keep or lose the confidence of the people. If it is lost, you are looked
upon as a traitor. And do you know what is dealt out to traitors?
Death!"
"Can the enemies of Marcel have the audacity of pointing at him as a
traitor?" cried Marguerite with tears in her eyes. "Do they aim at his
life? Come, Dame Petronille, your silence upsets me."
Petronille was about to answer when the voice of Marcel was heard
outside the chamber cheerfully announcing: "Marguerite! Denise! I have
good news! Good news!" Dame Petronille remained silent, and stiffly
bowing, rapidly took her departure without uttering a word.