CHARLES THE WICKED.
Marcel entered. The radiant joy that suffused his face upon entering the
house now made room for amazement at the silent and brusque departure of
Maillart's wife, who swept by him at the door. He looked at Marguerite
and Denise inquiringly, and noticing the disquietude and even alarm
depicted on their faces by the odious calumnies of Petronille, he
hastened to ask: "What is the matter, Marguerite? Why did our friend's
wife leave in that strange manner?"
"Oh, uncle!" broke out the young girl with tears in her eyes. "There are
very wicked people ... serpents and vipers."
"They are to be pitied, my child. But I hope you do not refer to wicked
people in connection with Maillart's wife?"
"My friend," said Marguerite with embarrassment, "idle talk deserves
contempt only. Nevertheless, in times like these idle talk may have
serious consequences."
"Well," observed Marcel dejectedly, "I have but an hour to spend with
you. I am tired out. I hoped to enjoy some rest. I came full of joy with
good news that was to make you happy as it made me. And here it is all
spoiled. But these minutes of quiet and relaxation are sweet to me at
your side, dear objects of my love."
"These moments are quite rare," said Marguerite sighing, "and they are
as precious to us as to you ... do not doubt, beloved Marcel!"
"I know it. Fortunately, you are not one of those spiritless women,
whose constant anxieties are a torment to their husbands, who love them
and suffer through their uneasiness. No, you are brave. You accept with
fortitude the conditions that circumstances raise around us, convinced
that my conduct is upright. I see you ever serene, and a smile on your
lips. I feel refreshed in your wise and sweet tranquility, and gather
new strength for the struggle, for the present my life is one continuous
struggle. It is a holy struggle, glorious, fruitful ... but it exhausts
... nevertheless, thanks to you, dear Marguerite, I ever find at our
hearth the happy quiet, the confident ease that are to the soul what a
peaceful sleep is to the body--"
"Dear Etienne, we shall speak later on the visit of Dame Petronille,"
Marguerite broke in, fearing to disturb the rest her husband had come in
search of in her company. "You have been announcing a good news.... We
are waiting for it."
"Yes, I prefer that," answered the provost with a sigh of relief, taking
a seat between his wife and Denise, while the latter quietly removed his
hat and cloak. "Coming upstairs I told Agnes to place an additional
cover at supper."
"Will our son return this evening from the Bastille of St. Antoine?"
quickly inquired Marguerite. "Was that the good news you brought us? We
shall be glad to see him."
"No, no! Andre will not return before to-morrow morning. He is to keep
watch over night at the Bastille with his company of cross-bowmen. My
son must put the example of order in the service. He will neglect none
of his duties."
"And who is to take supper with us, uncle?"
"Why, dear Denise?" answered Marcel smiling. "Who? One of our best
friends. Guess, if you can."
"Simon the Feather-dealer?... Peter Caillet?... Master Delille?...
Philip Giffart?... John Goddard?... Josserand?... John Sorel?..."
"No, Denise. Look not for our guest among my friends of the council. He
is not yet old enough to figure in such serious functions. But, so as to
help you guess, I shall add that our guest for this evening has just
arrived from the country."
"Can it be my old cousin who lives with his daughter at Vaucouleurs?
Can he have left the quiet valley of the Meuse to come and see us?"
"No, dear Denise. The friend whom we expect has been away from Paris
only a short time. Cudgel your memory."
"A short time?" Denise repeated mechanically, and struck by a sudden
thought but hardly daring to indulge it, the poor child grew pale,
joined her two trembling hands, and fixing upon her uncle a look at once
full of anxiety and hope, she stammered: "Uncle, what is it you say? Can
it be?..."
"I shall add that the fate of that friend has recently made us feel
uneasy."
"It is he!" cried Denise throwing herself at Marcel's neck. "Can it
be?... Jocelyn is back ... God be praised!"
"Jocelyn!" exclaimed Marguerite joining in the surprise and joy of
Denise. "Have you seen him? Is he in Paris?"
"Yes; I saw the worthy fellow this morning at the town hall. He is in
good health, although he has suffered a good deal during his travels."
The emotion and tears of Denise must be left undescribed. After the
first ebullition of joy was over, Marcel said to his wife: "I was
presiding at the town hall over the council when one of our sergeants
handed me a letter. I opened it and read that Jocelyn requested to speak
with me. I ordered him to be taken upstairs to my room, and immediately
after the session I hastened thither. Oh, my poor Denise! I confess it.
I hardly recognized our friend, he was so changed! He has lost flesh ...
his eyes are hollow ... his cheek-bones stick out."
"What happened to him?" asked Denise. "Did he go to fight the English,
as my aunt feared. Does he come from prison?"
"He comes from prison, but did not go to war," answered Marcel. "This is
what happened: As you know, he left for Nointel in Beauvoisis. After he
left Nointel at night, and taking rest for an hour the next morning at
Beaumont-sur-Oise, he resumed his journey. A short while after he heard
the rapid gallop of a horse approaching behind him; turning he saw a
man with a woman on his horse's crupper fleeing before three armed
knights who followed at a distance. The couple drew in a few steps from
Jocelyn, and the man, a lad of about twenty, said to our friend: 'We are
fleeing from the castle of the Sire of Beaumont; he is the guardian of
my sister who accompanies me, and he sought to violate her. He is riding
after us with his men. You are armed. For pity's sake defend us; help me
to protect my sister!..."
"I know the heart and courage of Jocelyn," said Denise deeply moved. "He
surely took the part of the unfortunate girl!"
"Without hesitating, because, as he said to me, in his capacity of
champion he could not refuse so good a case. The Sire of Beaumont
arrived with his two equerries...."
"And the combat started!" cried Denise joining her hands. "Poor Jocelyn!
Alone against three!"
"He was strong enough to overcome them. Unfortunately, however, at the
very start of the action one of the combatants dealt him such a furious
blow from behind with a mace on the head that Jocelyn's casque was
broken. He fell from his horse unconscious ... and when he awoke he
found himself half naked lying on straw, and aching at every limb at the
bottom of a dungeon."
"Poor Jocelyn!" said Marguerite. "That dungeon, no doubt, was some
prison cell in the castle of Beaumont, whither our wounded friend was
transported after the combat, stripped of his arms and in a dying
condition?"
"Yes, dear Marguerite; and Jocelyn remained in that cell, a prey to a
devouring fever, until his recent release."
"How he must have suffered! But, uncle, how did our poor friend manage
to come out?"
"A few days after taking Jocelyn prisoner, the Sire of Beaumont departed
with his men to fight the English. Whether he was killed or captured at
the rout of Poitiers is not known. But two days ago the Sire of
Beaumont's castle was attacked and taken by the troop of a certain
Captain Griffith."
"That horrible adventurer, who pushed forward as far as St. Cloud and
gave us such a fright?" asked Denise. "I remember you left the city at
the head of the militia, ran against and forced him to retreat. Good
God! In what hands did poor Jocelyn fall!"
"Be not alarmed, dear child! By a singular accident our friend has had
only cause to praise the adventurer. That savage and eccentric warrior
seems sometimes to yield to generous impulses. After having, according
to their wont, sacked the castle of Beaumont, massacred the men and
violated the women, the band delved down into the subterranean passages
in quest of booty. Thus they came to Jocelyn's dungeon, broke his chains
and lead him to Captain Griffith, who on that day happily happened to be
in a good humor. He cross-questioned our friend, and no doubt struck by
his brave and robust appearance, despite all his sufferings, made him an
offer to enlist in his company. Jocelyn declined. Griffith, who was half
in his cups, then ordered Jocelyn to be furnished with clothes and two
florins, and, alluding to our friend's thinness said to him: 'When you
shall have regained some meat on your bones you will prove a rude
customer; if I again run across you I should be pleased to break a lance
with you. You are free. Go! And my patron saint, the Devil, be good to
you!"
"That Griffith is a dreadful bandit!" repeated Denise. "And yet I cannot
but feel thankful to him for having liberated Jocelyn."
"And then," put in Marguerite, "our friend proceeded straight back to
Paris?"
"Yes," answered Marcel sadly, "here another and unexpected sorrow
awaited him."
"Oh!" said Denise, "his father's death? It must have been a severe blow
to him!"
"Yes; the blow was severe. Picture to yourself what he must have felt.
On his arrival, he hastened joyfully to the house of our old friend
Lebrenn, the book-seller. There he first learned of his loss.... He
spent the whole of yesterday and the night in solitude and mourning.
This morning he came to see me at the town hall. This evening we shall
be at least able to offer him the consolation of a tried friendship."
Agnes the Bigot came in at this juncture and handed to Marcel a small
gold medal enameled in green and bearing the letters "C" and "N,"
surmounted by a crown. "A man," she announced, "wrapped up to the nose
in a cloak and whose eyes are barely visible, is in the shop; he wishes
to see Master Marcel without delay; he handed me the medal with orders
to bring it to you."
Marcel was visibly surprised at the sight of the medal, and said to his
wife: "Dear Marguerite, I shall not be able to enjoy even the short hour
of rest that I promised myself. Leave me alone now. Go down with Denise.
Jocelyn cannot now be long coming. Do not stay supper for me"; and
turning to Agnes the Bigot: "Lead the man upstairs."
"Marcel," said Marguerite uneasily, while the servant withdrew to
execute her master's orders, "you are fatigued, and will you not take
even time enough for a meal?"
"In a few minutes, when I go down again, I shall take a few mouthfuls
before leaving."
"What! Another night!"
"I convoked a night meeting to the convent of the Cordeliers," explained
Marcel, assuming a serious expression; "the funeral of Perrin Mace may
be the signal for transcendent happenings. We must be ready for all
eventualities--"
The provost did not finish the sentence, seeing the closely cloaked man
appear at the door led by Agnes. Marguerite left feeling all the more
alarmed, the unfinished words of her husband having recalled to her mind
the recent conversation with Petronille Maillart. After the departure of
the two women, the stranger, first making certain that the door was
closed, removed his cloak and threw it on a chair. The man, extremely
small of stature, twenty-five years at the most, and dressed plainly in
a buff jacket, was of distinguished and regular features; yet despite
the gracefulness of his carriage, the affability of his manners and the
almost caressing melody of his voice, there lingered a sardonic and
insidious leer in his smile that betrayed the wickedness of his soul and
the perversity of his heart. More and more concerned by the man's
presence, Marcel seemed to accept his visit as one of those disagreeable
duties that men in public life must frequently submit to; nevertheless
his icy attitude and his look of suspicion fully revealed the aversion
he entertained for his caller, to whom he said: "I did not expect to
receive this evening the King of Navarre in my house."
Charles the Wicked--that was the man's well deserved nickname--answered
with a smile and with his insinuating voice, that most perfidious of all
his charms: "Do not kings pay each other mutual visits? What is there
surprising in that Charles, King of Navarre, should pay a visit to
Marcel, King of the people of Paris? We are sovereigns, both of us."
"Sire," answered Marcel impatiently, "please to state the purpose of
your visit. What do you wish of me? No useless words!"
"You are short of speech."
"Shortness is the language of business. Moreover, it is well to measure
the words one utters in your presence."
"Do you, then, continue to mistrust me?"
"Always, more than ever."
"I love frankness."
"Come, to the point, direct, and without mental reservation."
For a moment Charles the Wicked remained silent; then boldly fixing his
viper's eyes upon the provost, he answered, slowly weighing each word:
"What do I wish, Marcel? I wish to be King of the French.... This
astonishes you!"
"No," answered the provost with a coolness that stupefied Charles the
Wicked; "sooner or later you were bound to make the disclosure."
"You foresaw things from a great distance.... How long is it since you
foresaw it?"
"Since I saw your creature Robert le Coq, Bishop of Laon, throw himself
with ardor on the side of the popular party, and show himself one of the
most violent enemies of King John, whose daughter you married--"
"Nevertheless, if my memory does not fail me, you made good use of the
influence of the Bishop of Laon in the States General to induce them to
accept your famous ordinance of reforms."
"I use any instrument that aids me in doing good."
"And then you break it?"
"If necessary. But Robert le Coq is too subtle to be broken.
Nevertheless, despite his finesse, I have penetrated his secret
motives."
"And that is?"
"The people of Paris have with their keen eyes and tongues surnamed the
Bishop of Laon 'a two-edged dirk;' the people, Sire, are right. By
showing himself so hostile to King John, your father-in-law, and
afterwards so hostile to the Regent, your brother-in-law, the Bishop of
Laon played a double game. He aimed, with the aid of the popular party,
to first of all dethrone the reigning dynasty; and then ... to give the
crown to you. That is the reason, Sire, why I am not taken by surprise
at your admission that you wish to be King of the French."
"What do you think of my pretensions?"
"Your chances are fair of mounting the throne. I am ready to admit
that."
"With your help, Marcel?"
"I might enter into your projects."
"Is that true!" cried the King of Navarre, unable to conceal his joy;
but after a short moment's reflection, and casting upon the provost a
defiant look, he presently proceeded: "Marcel, you are laying a trap for
me.... I know how and more than once you have expressed yourself
regarding me. Your words were extremely severe."
"Sire, you are called _Charles the Wicked_. I hold the name fits you.
But you are active, subtle, venturesome; you command numerous armed
bands; your partisans are powerful; your wealth considerable. You are a
force, that, at a given moment, may be useful. For that reason I caused
your release from prison where your father-in-law kept you locked up."
"So that I, Charles, King of Navarre, am to be merely an instrument in
the hands of Marcel, the cloth merchant."
"Sire, you have your views; I have mine, and I shall express them to
you. The Regent, hypocritic and stubborn, mocks at his oaths. He signed
and promulgated the reform ordinances; he embraced me in tears, calling
me his good father; he swore by God and all the saints that he desired
the welfare of the people and that he would loyally adhere to the great
measures decreed by the national assembly. The Regent has broken all his
promises. His ruse, his well calculated indolence, his ill will, the
increasing audacity of the court and the nobility, who rule supreme in
their domains, either hamper or prevent the execution of the new edicts.
The Regent is secretly inciting the jealousy of a large number of
communal cities against Paris, that, as they put it, 'is seeking to
govern Gaul'. The nobility in its deliberate inaction, and sheltered by
its fortified castles, allows the English to extend their depredations
to the very gates of Paris. The royal false money continues to ruin
commerce and to destroy credit. Finally, only two days ago, the Regent's
favorite caused a bourgeois of Paris to be mutilated and executed under
our very eyes, thereby proclaiming the contempt of the court for the
laws enacted by the States General. The plan of the court is simple: to
tire out the country by disasters: to render impossible the good results
that were justly expected from the national assembly, a popular
government where the King is no longer master but servant: finally, the
court expects that one of these days it can tell the people, whose
sufferings will have become intolerable by these machinations: 'Ye
people, behold the fruit of your rebellion. In lieu of having remained
submissive, as in the past, to the sovereign authority of your kings,
you have wished to reign, yourselves, by sending your deputies to the
States General; you now pay the penalty of your audacity. May this rough
lesson prove to you once more that princes are born to command and the
people to obey. And now, pay your taxes and resume your secular yoke
with humble repentance'!"
"So help me God! You could not have been better instructed upon the
projects of my brother-in-law and his councilors if you had attended
their secret meetings! And if they triumph, would you despair?"
"Despair?--For the present, Sire; but I would remain full of hope in the
future. The conquest of freedom is as assured as it is slow, laborious
and painful.... I do not even now despair of the present. I propose to
make a last attempt with the Regent."
"And if you fail, will you come to me?"
"Between two evils, Sire, one is forced to choose the lesser."
"In short, you believe you will find in me what the Regent lacks?"
"You have an immense advantage over him. You wish to become King of the
French, while the Regent is that by birth."
"Do you forget my royalty of Navarre?"
"To speak truly, I did forget it, Sire ... just as you forget it for the
crown of France. As I was saying, a King by the right of birth looks
upon all reform as an encroachment upon his power.... You, on the
contrary, look upon the reforms as a means whereby to usurp power. Now,
then, however perfidious, however wicked you, Charles the Wicked, may
be, I dare you to fail to announce your access to the throne--and that
in your own interest--by great and useful measures to the public
welfare. That much would be gained ... later, we shall see...."
"And throw me down?"
"I shall work to that end, Sire, with all my powers, the moment you turn
from the straight path. You are forewarned."
"And, Master Marcel, you would destroy your own work without scruple?"
"Without scruple! Moreover, better so than as it happened with the first
and second dynasties when the stewards of the royal palace or the large
feudal seigneurs dethroned the kings and changed dynasties."
"And who would then accomplish the rough task? I would like to know the
artisan."
"The people, Sire!... That people, still in its infancy and credulous,
must learn that at its breath it can waft away the sovereign masters who
impose themselves upon it by force and cunning, and whom the church
consecrated. Some day, this very century perhaps, that people will come
of age; it will realize the ruinous and superfluousness of the royal
power. But that day is not yet. In our days, the people, ignorant and
enslaved to habit, would wish to crown a new master the moment they
overthrow an old one. They rely on princes. You, Sire, are one of these
predestined beings. You can even pretend to reign over Gaul by virtue of
one of your ancestors, who was himself deprived of the crown for the
benefit of his cousin Philip of Valois, the father of King John. It is,
accordingly, not impossible that you may some day reign over France ...
a deplorable possibility ... yet tangible enough!"
"You must have courage to speak that wise to me."
"Instead of telling you the truth, I would otherwise be basely
flattering you, whose first thought, if to-morrow you are King, would be
to rid yourself of me. I indulge in no illusions on that head."
"Rid myself of you, who would have served me!"
"For that very reason! My presence would be a constant reminder of your
debt. But that matters not. Whether I die to-day or to-morrow, whether
you be king or not, whether or not my last effort with the Regent fail,
whether the court party triumph or is now vanquished--whatever may
happen, the future belongs to the popular party even if the present may
slip. Yes; whatever people may do, the ordinance of the reforms of 1356
and the sovereign act of the national assembly in this generation will
leave imperishable traces behind them. I have sowed too hastily, some
say, and they add, 'a slow crop follows a hasty planting.' Be it so! But
I have sowed. The seed is in the earth. Sooner or later the future will
gather the crop. My task is done. I can die. And now, Sire, I sum up: If
I fail in my last attempt with the Regent, I shall take recourse with
you. You will be first appointed captain-general of Paris ... it will be
your first step towards the throne.... We shall then take measures to
lead things to a happy issue, according to our device."
"My first words on coming in were: 'Marcel, I wish to be King of the
French.' I had my project. I renounce it to join yours," said Charles
the Wicked resuming his cloak. "You are one of those inflexible men who
can not be convinced any more than they can be corrupted. I shall not
seek to change your views concerning me, nor yet to purchase your
alliance. However dangerous it may be to me, I accept it as you offer
it. I return to St. Denis to await the event. In case my presence shall
be necessary in Paris, write to me and I shall come. I only demand of
you absolute secrecy on this interview."
"Our common interests demand secrecy."
"Adieu, Marcel! May God prosper you."
"Adieu, Sire!"
Enveloping himself anew up to his eyes, the King of Navarre left the
provost. The latter followed him with his eyes, and after the departure
of Charles the Wicked said to himself: "Fatal necessity! To have to aid
in the elevation of this man! And yet it may be necessary! The change of
dynasty may help me to save Gaul, should the Regent wreck to-morrow my
last hope.... Yes, Charles the Wicked, with the view of usurping and
keeping the crown, will be compelled to enter the wide path of the
reforms that alone can lighten the weight now crushing the townsmen and
above all the peasantry. Oh, poor rustic plebs, so patient in your
secular martyrdom! Oh, poor Jacques Bonhomme, as the nobility in its
insolent haughtiness loves to call you, your day of deliverance is
approaching! For the first time united in a common cause with the
bourgeoisie, the people of the towns, when you will stand erect, Jacques
Bonhomme, in arms as your brothers of the towns, we shall see whether
this Charles the Wicked, however execrable a man he may be, will dare to
deviate from the path that he is ordered to march!"
A bell rang and recalled Marcel from his reverie. "I shall have barely
time to reach the convent of the Cordeliers, in order to prepare our
friends for to-morrow's measures ... terrible measures!... yet as
legitimate as the law of retaliation ... supreme and unavoidable law in
such gloomy days as these, when violence can be opposed and overcome
with violence only! Oh! Let the blood fall upon the heads of those who,
having driven the people to extremities, have by their conduct provoked
these impious struggles!"
Saying this, Marcel descended the stairs to take his leave from his
wife, his niece and Jocelyn the Champion, who, at the invitation of the
provost was then taking supper with his family, and, gathered around the
table, presented a charming picture of peace and good will.