AT THE CORDELIERS.
After taking some rest at Rufin's lodging, William Caillet accompanied
his host to the convent of the Cordeliers, where a large crowd was
gathering, greedy to hear Marcel's address. The Cordeliers, a poor
monastic order that aroused the profound enviousness of the high and
splendidly endowed clergy, had ranked themselves on the side of the
people against the court. The large hall of their convent was the
habitual place for the holding of large popular mass meetings.
Acquainted with the brother who attended the gate, Rufin received from
him permission to speak with Marcel in the refectory which he would have
to cross on the way to the hall where he was to address the people. The
spacious hall, walled and vaulted with stone, and lighted only by the
lamps that burned on a sort of tribune situated at one of its
extremities, was packed with a dense and impatient crowd, on the front
ranks alone of which fell the light of the lamps; the deeper ranks, and
in the measure that they stood further and further away from the lighted
platform, remained in a semi-obscurity, that deepened into complete
darkness at the other end of the hall. The audience consisted of
bourgeois and artisans, a large number of whom wore head covers of red
and blue, the colors adopted by the popular party, and brooches with the
device "To a happy issue."
The two funerals that had taken place during the day, and both the
contrast and significance of which were so obvious, formed the subject
of conversation with the seething mass. The least clear-sighted among
them foresaw a decisive crisis and an inevitable conflict between the
court and the people, represented respectively by the Regent and Marcel.
Accordingly, the arrival of the latter was awaited with as much
impatience as anxiety. A few minutes later Marcel entered by a door near
the platform, accompanied by several councilmen, John Maillart among
them. Jocelyn the Champion, Rufin the Tankard-smasher and William
Caillet brought up the rear. The last of these had just enjoyed a long
conversation with Marcel and Jocelyn. Enthusiastic cheers greeted Marcel
and the councilmen. The former mounted the platform followed by all the
councilmen, except Maillart who remained below, and took seats behind
the speaker. In the midst of profound silence, Marcel said:
"My friends, the hour is critical. Let us indulge neither in
faint-heartedness nor in illusions. The regent and the court have
dropped the mask. This morning, to our solemn protest against the
iniquitous and sanguinary act that in defiance of law smote Perrin Mace,
the court answered by following the hearse of John Baillet. This is a
challenge.... Let us take up the gauge! Let us make ready for battle."
"Aye! Aye!" came the thundering response from the audience. "The Regent
and his courtiers shall not make us retreat."
"For a moment frightened by the firmness of the national assembly",
Marcel proceeded, "the Regent granted the reforms and swore to carry
them out. The deputies of the towns of Gaul, gathered at Paris in the
States General, were, with the loyal aid of the Regent, to rule the
whole country wisely and paternally, as the magistrates of the communes
rule the towns. Thus there would no longer be any royal and feudal
tyranny; no more ruinous prodigalities; no more false money; no more
venal justice; no more excessive taxes; no more arbitrary imposts; no
more pillaging in the name of the King and princes; no more odious
privileges for church and nobility; in short, there would be an end of
the infamous and horrible seigniorial rights that cause the heart to
rise, and reason to revolt. That is what we wanted; and that is just
what the Regent and the court resist energetically."
"Blood and death!" cried Maillart in a loud voice, rising from his seat
with violent gesticulation. "They will have to submit; if not we shall
massacre every one of them from the Regent down to the last courtier!
Death to the traitors! To arms! Let's set fire to the palace and the
castles."
A large number applauded the excited words of Maillart; and the man of
the furred cap, who insinuated himself into this meeting as he had done
in the morning among the crowds that witnessed the funeral procession of
Perrin Mace, moved about saying: "Hein, my friends, what an intrepid man
is this Master Maillart! He speaks only of blood and massacre! Master
Marcel, on the contrary, seems always afraid to compromise himself. It
does not surprise me; it is said he has secretly embraced the side of
the court."
"Marcel ... betray the people of Paris!" answered several men. "You are
raving, good man! Go on your way!"
"All the same," insisted the man of the furred cap, "Marcel keeps quiet
and does not respond to the appeal to arms so bravely made by Master
Maillart."
"How do you expect Marcel to speak in the midst of all this noise? But,
silence! Quiet is being restored. Marcel is about to resume. Let's
listen!"
"No criminal weakness," proceeded Marcel; "but neither let there be any
blind revenge. Soon perhaps the cry 'To arms!' will resound from one
confine of Gaul to the other, both in towns and country!"
"Eh! What do we care about the country?" cried Maillart. "Let's mind our
own business. Let's roll up our sleeves and strike without mercy!"
"My friend, your courage carries you away," Marcel answered Maillart in
an accent of cordial reproach. "Shall the boon of freedom be the
privilege of some only? Are we, the bourgeois and artisans of the towns,
the whole people? Are there not millions of serfs, vassals and villeins
given up to the mercy of feudal power? Who cares for these unfortunate
people? Nobody! Who represents their interests in the States General?
Nobody!" And turning to William Caillet, who, standing aside and under
the shadow was attentively listening to the provost, he pointed to the
poor peasant and added: "No, I was mistaken. On this day the serfs are
here represented. Contemplate this old man and listen to me!"
All eyes turned to Caillet, who in his rustic timidity lowered his head.
Marcel continued:
"Listen to me, and your hearts, like mine, will boil with indignation.
With me you will cry: 'Justice and vengeance! War upon the castles,
peace to the cottages!' The history of this vassal is that of all of our
brothers of the country. This man had a daughter, the only solace to his
sorrows. The name of that child, who was as beautiful as wise, will
indicate her candor to you. It is Aveline-who-never-lied. She was
affianced to a miller lad, a vassal like herself. By reason of the
goodness of his disposition he was called Mazurec the Lambkin. The day
of their marriage is set.... But in these days the wife's first night
belongs to her seigneur.... The nobles call it the right of first
fruits."
"Shame!" cried the audience in furious indignation. "Execrable shame!"
"And this execrable shame are we not the accomplices of by allowing our
brothers to remain subject to it?" cried Marcel in a voice that
dominated the thrill of anger which ran through the audience. Silence
being again restored, Marcel proceeded: "If the bride is homely, or if
it so happen that the seigneur is unable to violate her, he puts on the
mien of a good prince; he receives money from the bridegroom, and the
latter escapes the ignominy. William Caillet, that is the name of the
bride's father, that man yonder, wished to ransom his daughter from such
shame; in the absence of the seigneur, the bailiff consented to a money
indemnity. Caillet sells his only property, a milch-cow, and gives the
money to Mazurec, who, with bounding joy, proceeds to the castle to
redeem the honor of his wife. A knight happens to cross his path and
robs the vassal. The latter reaches the manor in tears and recognizes
the robber among the guests of his seigneur, who had just arrived. The
vassal prays for mercy for his wife, and for justice against the robber.
'O, your bride, I am told is beautiful and you charge one of my noble
guests with theft,' said the seigneur to him, 'I shall take your bride
into my bed, and you shall be punished with death for defaming a
knight.' That's not all!" cried Marcel suppressing with a gesture a
fresh explosion from the audience whose indignation was rising to
highest pitch. "Driven to despair, the vassal assaults his seigneur; he
is thrown into prison; the bride is dragged to the castle; she resists
her seigneur ... he has the right to have her pinioned. Does he do so?
No! He meant to give Jacques Bonhomme a striking lesson. He meant to
show that he could take the vassal's wife not only by the right of the
strongest but also in the name of the law, of justice and even of that
which is most sacred in the world, of God himself! The seigneur indulges
this savage pleasure. He files a complaint with the seneschal of
Beauvoisis 'against the resistance of the vassal!' The judges meet, and
a decision is rendered in the name of right, justice and law in these
terms: 'Whereas, the seigneur has the right of first fruits over the
bride of his vassal, he shall exercise his right over her; whereas, the
bridegroom has dared to revolt against the legitimate exercise of that
right, he shall make the amende honorable to his seigneur with arms
crossed and upon his knees! Furthermore, whereas the said vassal has
charged a knight with robbery, and the latter has demanded to prove his
innocence by arms, we decree a judicial combat. According to law, the
knight shall combat in full armor and on horseback, the serf on foot and
armed with a stick; and if the vassal is vanquished and survives, he
shall be drowned as the defamer of a knight.'"
At these last words of Marcel's an explosion of fury broke forth from
the audience. Caillet hid his pale and somber face in his hands. Marcel
restored quiet and proceeded:
"Justice has spoken; the decree is enforced. The bride is bound and
carried to the bed of the seigneur; he dishonors her and then returns
her to her husband. The latter makes the amende honorable on his knees
before his seigneur; he is thereupon taken to the arena to fight half
naked the iron-cased knight.... You may guess the issue of the duel....
The vassal being vanquished, he is put into a bag and thrown into the
river.... Such is feudal justice!"
"And to-day," now cried out William Caillet stepping forward, a
frightful picture of hate and rage, "my daughter carries in her bosom
the child of her seigneur! What shall be done to that child, townsmen of
Paris, if born alive? You have wives and daughters and sisters! Answer,
what would you do? Is that child of shame to be loved? Is it to be hated
as the child of Aveline's executioner? Should I at the whelp's birth
break in his head lest he grow into a wolf? What to do?"
An oppressive silence followed upon the words of William Caillet. None
dared answer. Marcel continued:
"This, then, is what is going on at the very gates of our town. The
country people are pitilessly left to the mercy of the seigneurs! The
women are violated, and the men put to death! We have been the
accomplices of the executioners of so many victims; we have been so by
our criminal indifference, and to-day we pay the penalty of our
selfishness. We, the townspeople, believed we would be strong enough to
overcome the seigneurs and the crown; we imagined we could compel them
to reform the execrable abuses that oppress us. To-day we should admit
that we have thought too highly of our own power. The Regent and his
partisans violate their own sworn oaths, and shatter our hopes. Vainly
have I, in the name of the States General, again and again requested an
audience from the Regent to remind him of his sacred promises. The gates
of Louvre remained shut in my face. The audacity of our enemies
proceeds from the circumstance that our power ends outside of the gates
of our towns. Let us join hands with the serfs of the country; let us
cease separating our cause from theirs, and matters will take on a
different aspect. We never shall obtain lasting and fruitful reforms
without a close alliance with the country folks. If to-morrow at a given
signal the serfs should rise in arms against their seigneurs, and the
towns against the officers, then no human power would be able to
overcome such a mass-uprising. The Regent, the seigneurs and their
troops would be swept aside and annihilated by the storm. Then would the
peoples of Gaul, resuming possession of their country's soil and
re-entering upon their freedom, see before them a future of peace, of
grandeur and of prosperity without end.... Do you desire to realize that
future by joining hands with our brothers the peasants?"
"Aye! Aye! We will!" cried the councilmen.
"Aye! Aye! We will!" re-echoed from thousands of voices with boundless
enthusiasm. "Let's join our brothers of the country. Let our device be
theirs also--'To a happy issue,' for townsmen and peasants!"
"Come, poor martyr!" cried Marcel with tears in his eyes and embracing
Caillet, who was not less moved than the provost. "I take heaven and the
cries that escape from so many generous hearts, moved by the recital of
the sufferings of your family, as witnesses to the indissoluble alliance
concluded this day between all the children of our mother country! Let
us stand united against our common enemy! Artisans, bourgeois and
peasants--_each for all, and all for each_, and to a happy issue the
good cause! War upon the castles!"
Sublime was the sensation, holy the enthusiasm of the crowd at the sight
of the provost, dressed in his magisterial robe, closing in his arms the
horny-handed serf dressed in rags.
Profoundly moved and even surprised by what he saw and heard, Caillet,
despite his rugged nature, almost fainted. Tears streamed down his
face. He leaned against the wall to avoid dropping to the floor, while
Marcel cried out:
"Let all who desire to lead the good cause to a happy issue meet
to-morrow morning arms in hand upon the square of St. Eloi church."
"Count upon us, Marcel," came from the crowd; "we shall all be there! We
shall follow you with closed eyes! Long live Marcel! Long live the
peasants! To a happy issue! To a happy issue! War on the castles, peace
to the huts!" Amid these exclamations the crowd tumultuously evacuated
the hall of the Cordeliers.
"Do you see, friends, how far this Marcel goes in his defiance of the
people of Paris?" remarked the man of the furred cap to several townsmen
near him as they were leaving the hall. "Did you hear him?"
"What did he say that was so bad? Come, now, my good man, you are losing
your wits!"
"What did he say? Why, he calls for help to the vagabonds and strollers
in the country! Are we not brave enough to do our own work without the
support of Jacques Bonhomme? Verily, never before did Master Marcel show
so completely the contempt he entertains for us! John Maillart is quite
another friend of the people! Long live John Maillart!"