CHAPTER VIII.

THE HOUR HAS SOUNDED!

Marcel had not yet arrived home although night was far advanced.

Marguerite, Denise and William Caillet were seated together in one of

the upper chambers of the house. The two women listened with wrapt and

grief-stricken attention to the narrative of Jocelyn who had just

finished the story of Aveline and Mazurec.

"Delivered from the dungeon in the castle of Beaumont, thanks to the

bizarre generosity of Captain Griffith," the champion was saying, "I

hastened to Paris, and at my arrival," added the young man unable to

contain his tears, "I learned of the death of my venerated father."

"Ah! At least he loved you with his last breath," said Denise sharing

the emotions of Jocelyn. "Your father came here almost every day, and we

only spoke of you."

"Let that thought console you, Jocelyn," observed Marguerite. "Your

father considered you an exemplary son."

"I know it, Dame Marguerite; and the thought does afford me some

consolation in my bereavement. Before dying my father gave me a proof of

the confidence he placed in my respect and affection. He made an

important revelation."

"On what?" asked Marguerite.

"I told you of the profound interest that Mazurec inspired me with,

Mazurec, the husband of Caillet's daughter," answered Jocelyn with deep

emotion. "Well, then, after the last revelation made by my father, I can

doubt no longer that Mazurec is my brother!"

"Are you certain?" Marguerite and Denise cried in one voice. "That

unfortunate lad, that martyr, your brother!"

"Is it possible?" asked Caillet in turn and no less astonished. "How do

you know it?"

"When my mother died," explained Jocelyn, "I was a child and my father

quite young. One evening, some four or five years later, as he was

entering Paris, he found on the road a young peasant woman lying on the

ground unconscious and bleeding of a wound. Moved by compassion, he

raised and carried her to a neighboring inn. The young woman regained

consciousness and informed him that she was a vassal of the Bishop of

Paris, and that, having lost her mother since early childhood, she was

then fleeing from a merciless step-mother who that same day came near

killing her. The young woman was named Gervaise. Touched by her youth,

her misfortune and her beauty, my father apprenticed her to a

washerwoman who lived near us. He often visited his protege. Both loved

each other, and one day Gervaise informed my father that she carried

under her heart the fruit of their joint indiscretion. My father, as an

honest man, realized his duty, but being at that season forced to leave

Paris on a trip, promised Gervaise under oath to marry her upon his

return. Several weeks, a month and two passed by and my father did not

return--"

"But he was a man incapable of violating a sacred promise," interjected

Marguerite. "During the long years that we knew your father, we learned

to appreciate the straightforwardness of his nature and the goodness of

his heart. Undoubtedly some serious accident must have kept him away."

"Almost at the end of his journey, my father was attacked by a band of

highwaymen. He was robbed, wounded and left for dead on the road."

"And that prevented him from communicating with Gervaise?"

"He was picked up and for a long time he languished between life and

death. The unhappy woman thought herself deserted. The consequences of

her error began to betray her weakness. A prey to shame and despair she

left Paris!"

"Her condition should have earned the sympathy of people."

"Barely convalescent, my father hastened to write to Gervaise announcing

his speedy return. But when he arrived she had disappeared. Despite all

the inquiries that he instituted, he never succeeded in finding her

again. Her disappearance was a great sorrow to him, and remorse haunted

him the rest of his days. Such was his confession in a letter that he

wrote to me shortly before his death, and in which he conjured me, if by

some accident, impossible to foresee, I should meet Gervaise or her

child, to atone for the injury that he had involuntarily done to both."

"And thus, thanks to a strange coincidence," observed Marguerite, "you

now feel certain that the unhappy Mazurec, whose distressing story you

have told us, is indeed your brother?"

"I can have no doubt. After leaving Paris, Gervaise arrived in

Beauvoisis begging for her bread, shortly before giving birth to

Mazurec, and he himself told me that his mother's name was Gervaise;

that she was blonde; that her eyes were black, and that she had a little

scar above the left eye-brow. The description corresponds exactly with

that which my father left me of the poor creature. The scar came from a

blow that she received from her step-mother. Finally, by naming her son

Mazurec, one of my father's names, the poor woman furnished the last

link to the chain of evidence."

"Your father was at least saved a bitter sorrow," remarked Denise sadly,

"of never having learned the horrible fate of Gervaise's son."

Steps were at that moment heard mounting the stairs. Marguerite listened

attentively, and quickly rising and stepping to the door exclaimed: "It

is Marcel! God be praised!" and turning in a low voice to Denise who had

followed her: "I could hardly conceal my uneasiness; my husband's late

absence was seriously alarming me. May God be praised for his return!"

The provost entered, and after answering the tender caresses of his wife

and niece, said to them: "I suppose you think I am tired of the night at

work with the Regent, yet never have I felt so easy in mind and so light

of heart. Happiness is such a sweet recreation! I was profoundly happy

to see that young man return to the path of duty and equity as if by

enchantment, and express regret at his errors, and promise to atone for

them. Well was I in the right to say that we must never despair of

youth."

"Then, my friend," asked Marguerite, "the Regent did not deceive your

last hopes?"

"He went beyond them. We have just taken prompt and energetic measures

looking to the realization of the just and fruitful reforms that were

enacted last year by the national assembly. We shall now appeal to the

nation's courage and devotion to put an end to the disastrous war with

the English. We are to call, not upon the nobility only, but upon the

whole people--peasants, townsmen and artisans--to take up arms in this

holy war. That great triumph is to be the signal for the deliverance of

our rustic brothers," added Marcel reaching out his hand to Caillet.

"Yes, those who will have gloriously vanquished and chased away the

enemy, having become free men by their victory, are for ever after to be

free from the tyranny of the seigneurs who have not even known how to

protect our native country. Oh, my friend, how many agonies and

sufferings does not that hope wipe off from my heart and mind! The hope

of seeing Gaul at last victorious and free, peaceful and prosperous!"

"Master Marcel! Treason!... Treason!" suddenly resounded from a voice

rushing up the stairs. The provost held his breath, all others in the

chamber trembled with fear, and Rufin the Tankard-smasher rushed in

breathless, repeating: "Treason!... Master Marcel, treason!"

"Who betrays?" cried Jocelyn. "Speak!"

"Do you remember this morning at the Louvre?" answered Rufin. "I told

you then that if Margot, my wench, keeps the appointment she made with

me, I shall then believe in the sincerity of the Regent, but not

before!"

"Young man," put in Marcel with severity, seeing his wife and niece

blush at the amorous confidences of the student, "is it for the purpose

of cracking bad jokes that you have come to alarm my household?"

"The news I bring will be an apology, Master Marcel," respectfully

answered Rufin mopping his forehead that streamed with perspiration;

"the Regent has fled from Paris...."

"The Regent has fled!" cried Marcel stupefied. "Impossible! It is hardly

half an hour since I was with him."

"And that is less time than he needed to descend from the Louvre, to go

out by the postern gate that opens upon the river outside of the barrier

and to jump upon a skiff that was waiting for him!"

"You are dreaming!" replied Jocelyn, while Marcel seemed thunderstruck,

unable to understand what he heard. "You are dreaming, my gay Rufin, or

you have just left some tavern the fumes of whose wine have upset your

mind."

"By Bacchus, the god of wine, and by Morpheus, the god of slumbers!"

cried the student, "I am as certain that I am wide awake as that I am

not drunk! I saw the Regent with my two eyes step into the vessel, and

with my two ears I heard the Regent say to the friend who accompanied

him: 'I leave this accursed town, and I swear not to set foot in it

again until Marcel, the councilmen and the other chiefs of rebels shall

have paid with their heads for their insolent audacity and for the

revolt of these accursed Parisians.' Is that clear enough? Moreover,

would I dare come here and tell yarns to Master Marcel, whom I admire

and respect as much as any one could? And above all when, in the teeth

of the privileges of the University, he had me housed at the Chatelet,

together with my chum Nicholas the Thin-skinned because of the racket we

made one night on the street?" Noticing that despite certain irrelevant

details of his report, the people in the chamber began to attach faith

to his words, Rufin continued, while Marcel seemed racked with painful

astonishment and a prey to overpowering indignation: "As I was telling

you, I had an assignation with my wench Margot, on the river bank,

outside the barriers. Tired of waiting in vain for this fallacious

creature, I was about to leave when I perceived a lighted lantern on the

other side of the barrier and just under the postern of the Louvre.

Knowing as well as anybody that the vaulted corridor of that issue runs

out on one of the stairs of the large tower, a suspicion flashed through

my mind. The night was silent. At the risk of drowning and of going to

Pluto to meet Margot, only this time on the borders of the Styx, I

reached the stairs by clambering along the poles and the chain of the

barriers. At that moment the bearer of the lantern, who must have meant

to make sure that the vessel was there, re-entered the palace. I slid

along the wall of the Louvre up to the postern and there, screened by

the gate which was left open, I soon heard a voice saying: 'Come, come,

Sire; the vessel and the two boats are near the shore.' At which the

Regent answered in the way I have just stated to Master Marcel--'I leave

the accursed town, and I swear not to set foot in it again until Marcel,

the councilmen and the other chiefs of rebels shall have paid with their

heads for their insolent audacity and for the revolt of these accursed

Parisians.' The Regent and his companion marched quietly to the bank of

the river, and soon the sound of oars told me that the boat was leaving

rapidly. It vanished in the darkness of the night." Turning to Jocelyn

with a triumphant air, the student remarked: "Well, what did I tell you

this morning? You took me for a fool! And now you see the Regent has

fled from Paris threatening the inhabitants with vengeance! By the

bowels of the Pope! The belief in fatalism is a great thing!"

Learning that Marcel was now running fresh dangers, Marguerite exchanged

glances of anxiety with Denise, while seeking to conceal her alarm from

her husband lest she increased his worries. On the other hand,

foreseeing that the Regent's treason would hasten the uprising of the

rustic serfs, Caillet shrugged his shoulders with sinister gladness.

Finally, Marcel, with his arms crossed upon his breast, his head

lowered, his lips contracted with a bitter smile, broke the silence with

these words uttered deliberately: "When we parted the Regent said to me:

'My good father, I beseech you, go and take a little rest; night is

falling; I desire to-morrow early to renew our work with fresh ardor. Go

and take rest, my good father, and you will enjoy as much as myself the

restful sleep that will come to us from knowledge of having done right.'

Such were the last words I had from that young man."

"Oh, Marcel," said Marguerite, "how will you not regret the confidence

you placed in him!"

"Let us never regret having had faith in the repentance of a man. If we

do, we shall become merciless. Moreover, there are treasons so black and

monstrous that in order to suspect them one must be almost capable of

committing them." After another short interval of contemplative silence

Marcel resumed: "I hoped to save Gaul fresh bloodshed! Vain hope! That

unhappy fool wants war! How much is he not to be pitied for being so

ill-advised!"

"You pity him!" cried Marguerite; "and yet his last words threatened you

with death!"

"Dear wife; if my head were all that was at stake, I would not enter

into a terrible struggle to preserve it. I have achieved things that

sooner or later will bear fruit. My share in this world has been

handsome and large. I am ready to quit life. It is not my head that I

would dispute to the Regent, it is the lives of our councilmen, it is

the lives of a mass of our fellow townsmen, all of them menaced by the

merciless revenge of the court! What I wish to defend is our freedom so

dearly bought by our fathers; what I wish to secure is the

enfranchisement of those millions of serfs who are driven to extremities

by the tyranny of the seigneurs. Finally, what I aim at is the welfare

of Gaul, to-day exhausted and moribund! The dice are cast. The Regent

and seigneurs want war! They shall have war!... a terrible war!... Such

a war as human memory does not recall!" Saying this, Marcel sat down at

a table and rapidly wrote a few lines upon a parchment.

"No!" replied William Caillet in a tremor of rage. "No; never will that

have been seen that will be seen now! Up, Jacques Bonhomme!" cried the

old peasant in savage exaltation. "Up! Seize the fagot! Fall to! Take in

the harvest, Jacques Bonhomme, and be not dainty about it! Take up your

scythe in your bare arms--the short and sharp scythe! Let not a blade be

left to be gleaned after you!" and reaching out his trembling hand to

Marcel, the serf added: "Adieu, I depart well satisfied. By to-morrow

evening I shall be in the country. At dawn of the next day Jacques

Bonhomme will be up and doing in Beauvoisis, in Picardy, in Laonnais and

in many other districts!"

"Postpone your departure just one hour," answered Marcel while sealing

the letter he had just written. "I am going to the Louvre. You shall

depart at my return."

"My friend," exclaimed Marguerite in alarm, "what do you want at the

Louvre?"

"To make certain of the Regent's departure, although the account given

by Rufin leaves me no doubt on that head. I wish, before resorting to

terrible extremes, to be absolutely certain of the Regent's treason."

As Marcel was uttering the last words, Agnes the Bigot entered

precipitately and delivered to her master a letter that one of the town

sergeants had just brought in great haste. Marcel took the letter, read

it quickly and cried: "The councilmen have assembled at the town hall

and expect me. One of them, instructed by a man connected with the

palace on the flight of the Regent, ran to the Louvre, assured himself

of the fact, and hastily convoked the council. No doubt now. The

Regent's treason is confirmed." Delivering to Jocelyn the letter he had

just written, Marcel said to him: "Take horse, and carry this letter to

the King of Navarre at St. Denis. Wait for no answer."

"I shall jump on your horse's crupper, Jocelyn," cried Caillet. "I shall

that way reach the country a few hours sooner."

"Done!" said the champion; and turning to Marcel: "After I shall have

delivered your letter to the King of Navarre, I shall pursue my route

with Caillet to join by brother Mazurec."

"It is your duty, go!" answered Marcel stretching his arms out to

Jocelyn. "Embrace me. Who knows whether we shall ever again meet!" And

after having pressed the champion to his breast, he took the hand of

Denise who turned away her head to hide her tears, and added: "Whatever

may befall me, Denise shall be your wife upon your return; you could

have no worthier mate, nor could she choose a worthier husband; may

heaven grant that I assist at your wedding. If later any danger should

threaten you, you will find a safe retreat in Lorraine at Vaucouleurs

with the relatives of my niece."

Breaking out into tears and almost fainting, but supported by

Marguerite, Denise stretched out her hand to Jocelyn who covered it with

kisses, while Marcel said to Caillet: "Now, the hour has sounded! To

arms, Jacques Bonhomme! Peasants, artisans, townsmen, all for each! Each

for all! To the happy issue of the good cause!"

"To the happy issue of the good cause!" rejoined the serf shaking with

impatience. "To an evil issue the cause of the seigneurs and their

clergy! Up, Jacques Bonhomme! War upon the castles!"

"And I," cried the student addressing Caillet while Marcel was giving

his last instructions to Jocelyn, "I also will accompany you. I have

shins of steel to tire out a horse. I shall ride ahead of Jocelyn's

steed. To a happy issue the good cause! I represent the alliance of the

University with the rustic folks. Rufin the Tankard-smasher was my name

of peace; Rufin the Head-smasher becomes my name of war! And by the god

Sylvanus, the genius of the fields and forests, I shall make havoc in

this sylvan war! Forward! Forward!..."

A few minutes later William Caillet departed from Marcel's domicile

accompanied by the champion and the student, all three bound for

Beauvoisis.

PART III.

THE JACQUERIE.

CHAPTER I.

CAPTAIN GRIFFITH AND HIS CHAPLAIN.

The morning after William Caillet, Jocelyn the Champion and Rufin the

Tankard-smasher left Paris, a band of English adventurers, commanded by

Captain Griffith, and who for some time had been raiding the region of

Beauvoisis, was marching under a balmy May sun in the direction of the

village of Cramoisy. The men, about a hundred all told, and armed with

weapons of different descriptions, marched in disorder with the

exception of about fifty archers who carried on their shoulders their

six-feet-long ash bows, a favorite weapon with the English, and which

they handled with such dexterity that at the battle of Poitiers ten

thousand of them were enough to put to rout the army of King John,

consisting of more than forty thousand men commanded by the elite of the

French nobility.

Several empty carts, hitched to horses and oxen and led by peasants who

had been pressed into Captain Griffith's band under pain of death, were

intended for the prospective booty. The English sold to the contiguous

towns the proceeds of their thefts from the castles, as well as the

droves of cattle that they took from the fields. In these towns the

raiders were certain of purchasers for the sufficient reason that

whoever refused was hanged on the spot. Captain Griffith affected a

lordly generosity towards his customers in consenting to leave with them

the spoils of his thieving exploits in exchange for moneys that it was

in his power to rob them of. In his quality of the bastard of a great

lord, the Duke of Norfolk, he prided himself of acting courteously, "as

a true Englishman," according to his favorite phrase, and not scurvily

like so many other leaders of mercenary bands.

Captain Griffith--a man in the full vigor of his age, robust and

corpulent, and with hair and beard of a reddish blonde--rode at the head

of his archers, the elites of his troop. Although in full armor, he had

hung his casque on the pommel of his saddle, and now wore on his head a

bonnet of fox-skin. Boldness, incontinence and a sort of cruel joviality

stood out from the features of the Englishman that wore a rubicund tint

from the potations and meats that he was in the habit of swallowing in

enormous quantities. The morning air having sharpened his appetite, if

ever it can be said to have been satisfied, the bastard of Norfolk was

picking a ham, and from time to time lovingly resorted to a wine pouch

that also hung from the pommel of his saddle. At his side rode his

lieutenant, whom with impious mockery he styled his "Chaplain." Guilty

of all the crimes on the calendar, Captain Griffith took, like Rolf the

Norman pirate before him, a diabolical delight in all manner of

sacrilege.

The Chaplain, a hulky scamp with a toper's face and as vigorous of bone

as his Captain, wore under his iron coat of mail a monk's gown and on

his head a steel helmet.

"My son," said he to the bastard of Norfolk, "without meaning to offend

you, I shall have to call your attention to the fact that this is the

third time you put your wine pouch to your mouth without offering your

brother in Beelzebub to quench his thirst."

"What have you eaten, Chaplain, to make you so thirsty?"

"By the devil! I have been eating with my eyes the ham that you have

been devouring with your teeth."

"Why, then, quench your thirst by seeing me drink! Your health, friend!"

"Sacrilege! To refuse wine to a thirsty chaplain! I would prefer, for

the sake of your salvation, to see you again journey a whole day on a

stretch in a chariot drawn by St. Patrick, the abbot, and his

'chapter.'"

"Pshaw!" hissed Griffith; "there were relays."

"True, several relays, each of twelve monks, and they were successively

hitched. It was in your favor."

"There, devil's Chaplain, drink! Drink to my amorous exploits!"

After having kept for a seemingly interminable time his lips glued to

the orifice of the pouch that the Captain had passed over to him, the

Chaplain detached them for a moment, not so much for the purpose of

answering his worthy chief as for the purpose of taking breath.

Breathing heavily, he asked: "What amorous exploits? Sacred or profane

ones?" and then proceeded to quaff.

"I mean that winsome tavern-keeper, who escaped us at the pillage of the

little town of Nointel. Since that day, the pretty ankles of the

brunette have not ceased trotting in my brain. As sure as I am Norfolk's

bastard," added the Captain while the Chaplain continued to drain the

contents of the pouch at long draughts, "there are two things that I

would sell my soul to Beelzebub for. First, to snatch up that luscious

tavern-keeper, second to fight with that tall scamp whom we released

from the dungeons of Beaumont. He was then but a bag of bones, but when

he will have been fatted up, I would wager your neck, Chaplain, that

there is not the likes of him in this whole poltroon country of Gaul. I

am tired of seeing only puny knights at the point of my lance whom I run

down as if they were nine-pins. What a set of cowards these French

noblemen are!"

At this point, the lieutenant, who had never ceased drinking, emitted a

long gurgling sound, while with his free hand he pointed to a small

troop of armed foot-men headed by a rider, and who pursued a route that

somewhat led away from that of the English, but that ran out upon the

same clearance at the top of a hill. The rider who led the foot-men,

ordered a halt, and galloping over the meadow approached the English

troop with his right hand up as a sign that he had no hostile

intentions. Fearing, nevertheless, some ambuscade, Captain Griffith also

ordered his troop to halt, but he placed his archers in line, donned

his casque, took his long stout lance from the hands of one of his men,

and seeing the Chaplain still clinging to the pouch of wine struck it

from his lips with so dexterous a lance thrust that, slightly grazing

the drinker's nose, the weapon hurled the pouch ten paces off. "You have

watered quite enough!" he said with a gruff laugh.

"Fortunately the pouch is now empty," said the Chaplain wiping his mouth

with the back of his right hand; "not a drop has been lost."

The unknown rider approached the while, but suddenly reined in seeing

the archers, as was their wont before shooting their bolts, plant their

left feet in the center of their bows in order to bend them.

"I come as a friend!"

"Who are you?" demanded the bastard of Norfolk. "What do you want?"

"I am the bailiff of the Sire of Nointel, the seigneur of these domains.

I wish to speak with the valiant Captain Griffith."

"I am he.... What do you want?"

"Sir, is it you who have just pillaged the burgs and villages of our

seigneur, the Sire of Nointel?"

"Would you, perchance, want to prevent me?"

"On the contrary, Sir; I have come in the name of my seigneur to offer

you the advice of my old experience in order to help you to collect

ransom from these villeins. Jacques Bonhomme is a wily customer; he has

hiding places where he keeps his coin under shelter, and even provisions

and cattle."

"Chaplain," the Captain broke in upon the bailiff, "we shall have to cut

the ears of this fellow who comes here to mock us. Draw your cutlass and

give him absolution for his sins."

"Sir, listen to me, and you will be convinced that I am not joking!"

cried the bailiff. "Are you the son of the Duke of Norfolk?"

"A bastard son by my mother's virtue. But seeing she bestowed upon me a

good fist, good eyes and good teeth I hold her quits. I remain noble

from one side."

"The Duke your father knows that you hold the field in this region, and

he is charmed with your prowesses. He wrote so to my master."

"A short time ago, on the occasion of one of my archers' return to

Guyenne, I wrote to my father: 'My lord, in your life you gave me

nothing but a kick with your left foot which I still feel; but I am none

the less your affectionate bastard who is doing havoc in Gaul and who

signs himself--Captain Griffith.'"

"Sir," said the bailiff handing a letter to the Captain, "here is the

answer of the noble Duke, your father."

Greatly astonished, Captain Griffith broke the seal on the parchment and

read: "One of the poltroon French knights whom I took prisoner at the

battle of Poitiers will deliver this letter to you and also six thousand

florins for his ransom. You are a fine scamp. Persevere in your

exploits--Norfolk."

"What a father!" exclaimed the Chaplain raising his hands to heaven.

"What a son!"

"Six thousand florins!" cried Captain Griffith. "Well! The good man must

have remembered my worthy mother"; and addressing the bailiff he asked:

"Where are the six thousand florins?"

"In the purses of the vassals of my seigneur, the Sire of Nointel, who

was taken prisoner at the battle of Poitiers by the noble Duke of

Norfolk. But, oh! My master is ruined by the costs of war and not a

florin in the castle. But he gave his word as a Christian and a knight

to pay his ransom to your father or to you, Sir. He will keep his word.

It is an established custom that the vassals must ransom their seigneurs

when taken prisoner. I therefore come, Sir Captain, to offer to you, by

order of my master what little service I can render to you to the end of

aiding you in collecting the sum, a very difficult thing to do without

our aid. If you want a proof, all you have to do is to follow me not far

from here, and you will see something that will greatly astonish you."

Captain Griffith, whose curiosity was now pricked, started his horse at

the pace of the bailiff's, and resuming its march the troop descended

the flank of the hill at whose foot lay the straggling village of

Cramoisy, consisting of about three hundred cottages and houses. The

silence of the tomb reigned in these homes. They were deserted, and the

open doors showed their interiors to be empty and bare. Stupefied,

Captain Griffith reined in his horse and said to the bailiff:

"By the devil! Where are the inhabitants of these shanties?"

"The other villages of this seigniory are as deserted as this one. You

will find there, Sir, neither women, nor men, nor children, nor cattle,"

answered the bailiff. "There are left, as you see, only the four walls

of the houses. You will, therefore, find it difficult to collect here

even the smallest fraction of your six thousand florins. Jacques

Bonhomme is a sly fox; he had wind of your coming and has run into the

earth to escape you. But, to a sly fox a sly limehound. I know the

burrow of Jacques Bonhomme. Follow me, Sir."

"Where to? Whither do you lead us?"

"Only one league from here.... But we shall have to descend from our

horses at the outskirts of the forest. You can leave there the gross of

your troop. A dozen of your archers will be enough for the job I have in

mind. The risk is slight."

"Why would you have me descend from horseback, and leave behind the bulk

of my troop?"

"It will, in the first place, be impossible for us to ride on horseback

over the quagmires, jungles and bogs that we shall have to cross in

order to arrive at the hiding place of Jacques Bonhomme. In the second

place, the fox has a sharp ear. The noise made by a large troop would

give him the alarm."

"Captain," suggested the Chaplain, "suppose this scamp were but leading

us into an ambuscade?"

"Chaplain, never did Griffith recoil before danger," was the Captain's

answer; "moreover, if this bailiff with a marten's snout should deceive

us, let him be forewarned. At the first suspicion of treachery we shall

promptly hack him to pieces."

"That's right," returned the Chaplain. "Let's march! His skin answers

for our lives."

"March!" ordered Captain Griffith, and guided by the bailiff, who had

been rejoined by his men, the troop left the village of Cramoisy and

wended its way towards a forest, the skirt of which drew its length

along the horizon.

CHAPTER II.

THE FOX'S BURROW.

About two leagues from the village of Cramoisy, and in the thickest of

the seigniorial forest of Nointel, is a vast subterranean grotto, cut

into the chalky rock that offers little resistance to the pick and the

mattock. The cavern dates from the far-back troubled days when the

Norman pirates were in the habit of rowing up the Somme, the Seine and

the Oise and raiding the surrounding lands. Such of the serfs whose dire

misery did not reach the pitch of constraining them to join the Normans,

and who sought to escape the flood of pillage and massacre, had dug the

underground place of refuge. Carrying thither their little havings, and

even cattle, they remained hidden until the pirates left the country.

Similar places were in later years contrived in almost all parts of Gaul

by the vassals of the nobility for the purpose of escaping the

brigandage of the English, of the robber bands and of the bands of

mercenaries who devastated the provinces, finally also to escape the

extortions of the seigneurs that now became intolerable, seeing that

Jacques Bonhomme was forced to pay the ransom of their masters who had

been taken prisoners at the battle of Poitiers. In other regions of Gaul

the peasants withdrew with their families upon rafts which they anchored

midstreams of rivers, and which frequently were either submerged or

carried away by the floods to be finally swamped with the wretched mass

of humanity that they bore. Never before had desolation and panic

reached such a pitch in the unfortunate country; the huts were almost

all abandoned, the fields uncultivated and a famine was apprehended

similar to that which desolated Gaul in the year 1000.

The underground retreat whither the inhabitants of Cramoisy and several

other villages of the seigniory of Nointel took refuge consists of a

long vault, at the extremity and to the right and left of which are

several other galleries in which cattle, goats and sheep are crowded. A

well, used for a drinking trough, is dug in the center of the principal

gallery. Above, an opening, partially masked with stones and underbrush,

admits some light and air to the dark and icy asylum that oozes with the

moisture of the earth. There, more than a thousand people crowded

together--men, women and children who fled from their homes. The milk of

the cattle, a few handfuls of rye or wheat pounded between two stones

entertain rather than appease the tortures of hunger. A steaming,

suffocating and nauseous heat, produced by the agglomeration of people

and cattle, pervades the gloomy place. Now plaintive wails are heard,

then the outbursts of violent quarrels, such as are certain to break out

among semi-savages whom suffering exasperates. Wan and half naked

children, who, however, preserve the carelessness of their age, played

at this moment at the edge of the well which just happened to be lighted

by a ray of sunlight that filtered through the rocks and underbrush

which concealed the only air-hole of the vault. That sun ray also

lighted a group of three persons, huddled together in a dug-out near the

well. The three persons were Aveline, Alison and Mazurec.

When the little village of Nointel was pillaged by the troupe of Captain

Griffith, the handsome tavern-keeper succeeded in saving what moneys she

had and fled to Cramoisy where she joined Aveline. Learning there that

the English were still ravaging the neighborhood, she joined the

peasants in their flight to the underground retreat.

Aveline, now far advanced in pregnancy, expected every day to be

delivered of the child of her disgrace and the fruit of the iniquity

perpetrated upon her by her seigneur. Barely covered in a few rags, she

lay on the cold and bare earth. Ever sympathetic, Alison held upon her

knees the languishing and pale head of the young girl, whose thinness

had now become shocking. Her hollow cheeks imparted monstrous size to

her eyes, which she attached beseechingly upon Mazurec, engaged at the

moment in sharpening upon a stone the teeth of a pitch-fork while

muttering to himself: "William is long in returning from Paris; we are

waiting for him so as to start the massacre ... sacred reprisals!"

Thus muttering to himself, Mazurec continued sharpening his fork. He had

become a hideous sight. Having lost his right eye since the judicial

combat with the knight of Chaumontel, the now hollow, quivering and half

closed eyelids on that side of his face exposed a blood-clotted cavity.

His crushed nose is a mass of scars, purplish like his torn-up upper lip

which exposes his broken teeth. His long matted hair falls upon the

ragged goat-skin jacket which he wears and from which protrude his

nervy, but now haggard arms. Attaching upon her husband a beseeching

look, Aveline said to him in a weak and sad voice: "Mazurec, if I give

birth to a child before dying ... promise me not to kill it!... Answer

me ... I beseech you in God's name.... Have mercy on the innocent

creature."

"I promise nothing," answered the vassal in a hollow voice without

stopping from his work; "we shall see what's to be done."

"He will kill the innocent child, Dame Alison!" cried Aveline weeping

and hiding her head.

"Keep still!" replied Mazurec with the mien of a tiger that rendered his

face still more frightful; "Keep still, or I may believe you are proud

of having a child of your seigneur."

Aveline answered with a hysterical sob, while Alison cried indignantly:

"Wretch, you will yet be the cause of your wife's death!"

"I had as lief she was dead as alive ... as to the child she now carries

... he shall not live ... I shall smother the noble whelp."

"Well, then, why don't you kill both mother and child. That would be

less cruel than to kill Aveline by little and little as you are doing!"

And looking at Mazurec with eyes of angry reproach, Alison added: "Oh,

Mazurec the Lambkin, the unfortunate girl whose death you now wish, once

made your heart bound with joy when you passed the door at which she

used to spin!"

At these words which recalled to Mazurec the spring-tide of his love,

days that were sweet even to the wretched serf, the young man broke down

in tears, threw the fork aside, and closely embracing his wife, whose

pale face he covered with kisses, he said: "Pardon me, my poor

Aveline!... Oh, my blood has turned to gall ... I have suffered so

much.... I still suffer so much.... Pardon me, my dear wife!"

Mazurec was uttering these words when suddenly the species of air-hole

above the well was almost wholly obstructed with large stones that were

being rolled about by the men of the bailiff of Nointel, and the bailiff

himself, applying his mouth as closely as he could to the little opening

that was left, shouted down into the cavity: "All of you, vassals of the

parish of Cramoisy and neighboring villages, you are taxed, as your

quota of the ransom of our very noble, very high, very dear and very

powerful seigneur, the sum of one thousand florins; the other parishes

of the seigniory shall be similarly taxed. Rummage around your purses

quickly so that you meet the sum demanded. You have hiding places where

you bury your valuables. Choose quickly between death and your money. If

within the time it shall take me to utter a 'pater'[5] and an 'ave,'[6]

one of you does not come out with the money, you will all be smoked to

death like so many foxes in their burrow, after which the corpses will

be rifled."

The bailiff stopped; the air-hole was tightly closed with clods of

earth; and the cavern was plunged into utter darkness.

"Oh, my God! What's going to happen? Leave me not Mazurec," cried

Aveline in a tremor and throwing her arms around her husband who jumped

up the better to hear the announcement made by the bailiff, and which,

repeated from mouth to mouth by the vassals, left them steeped in gloomy

silence. The unhappy serfs clung all the more tightly to their little

coin, their last resource, the only fruits left to them of their

crushing labors and homicidal privations, seeing that they had succeeded

in saving it from the rapacity of their seigneurs only by dint of untold

privations and nameless devices, often struggling against the torture

itself that was frequently inflicted upon them in the hope of wringing

from them the disclosure of the hiding places where they kept their

little treasure buried. The first shock being over, cries of indignation

and revolt resounded in the cavern. The noise increased more and more.

"We leave our homes to live in holes like wild beasts, and we are hunted

down even here!"

"To be pillaged by the English, and be forced besides to pay for the

ransom of our seigneurs!"

"No! No! Let them choke us with smoke, let them burn us, let them

massacre us.... They shall get not one denier from us!"

"We shall throw our few remaining sous into the well, sooner than

deliver them to our butcher!"

It did not take the bailiff long to say his "pater" and "ave." Seeing

none of the serfs coming out of the cavern to bring him the sum

demanded, he ordered the burrow of Jacques Bonhomme to be smoked. The

work was easily done. The cavern was entered by a narrow and steep

passage cut into the rock. The Englishmen of Captain Griffith and the

retinue brought by the bailiff heaped up at the mouth of the entrance a

mass of dry leaves and branches, set fire to the same, and with the aid

of their long lances shoved on the brasier a heap of green branches the

thick and acrid smoke of which soon filled the interior of the cavern,

the only opening that could have allowed the smoke to escape having been

tightly closed in advance.

Ghastly was the scene that ensued. Suffocated and blinded by the black

and pungent smoke, the vassals were a prey to distracting pain. The

cattle, submitted to the identical trial, became furious, broke their

ropes and rolled in the darkness amid the crowd whom they trampled under

foot or gored with their horns. The wails of women and children, the

imprecations of men, the lowing of the cattle made an infernal concert.

Several of the serfs succeeded in groping their way to the well and

threw themselves in to escape prolonged torture; others threw themselves

headlong towards the mouth of the cavern, but smothered by the thick

smoke and the flames that entered the passage and that now converted the

entrance into a furnace, dropped down into the middle of the flames and

were consumed; others again threw themselves down flat upon the ground,

scratched the earth with their nails and, burying their faces in the

earth imagined in their wild delirium they could thus take breath;

lastly not a few were the mothers who, wishing to spare their children a

long agony, strangled them quickly to death.

Mazurec held Aveline tightly in his arms while he shuddered at the

thought of the horrible death that awaited her. The tender sentiments of

their happier days took possession of his heart and mind and he racked

his brain for a means of escape. It was in vain. Long worn out by misery

and sorrow, the young woman was not equal to so rude an additional

strain. In her death agony she fastened her lips to Mazurec's as though,

wishing to escape suffocation, she strove to inhale her husband's

breath.

By degrees her hold on him was relaxed, with one convulsive effort she

embraced her husband and then her arms dropped by her side.

"Dead!" shrieked the serf; "dead and unavenged, my dearly beloved

Aveline!"

"You can still revenge her and save us both and many more of these

unfortunates," came panting from Alison, who still preserved her senses

and energy. "Let us hasten!" continued the tavern-keeper with an ever

more oppressed voice. "Let us endeavor to get out of here; ... I shall

give the bailiff three hundred florins that I have sewn in my clothes;

... he will allow us to escape; ... if he does not, kill him; ... take

your pitch-fork; ... it lies there.... Let's flee!..."

Mazurec emitted a cry of savage joy. The imminence of danger and the

hope of revenge increased his strength tenfold. He seized the fork with

his right hand, with his left he dragged Alison after him, and guided by

the ruddy glow at the mouth of the cavern, the vassal plied his fork so

as to clear a passage through the crowd that ran about delirious. Some

he threw down, others he walked over. Finally he reached the approaches

of the burning pile near which a number of corpses lay strewn. Dropping

the hand of Alison and hitting upon a plan that had occurred to none

during the general panic, Mazurec thrust his pitch-fork into the midst

of the burning pile, scattered it, threw some of it behind him, opened a

passage to himself, cleared the space which was covered with burning

embers, and after a few bounds found himself at the issue of the cavern.

For a moment Mazurec stood still inhaling the free air; his strength

returned speedily; and making one last effort he rushed out. At the

unexpected sight of Mazurec, foaming at the mouth with rage and

brandishing his fork, both the Englishmen and the bailiff's men drew

back in terror. Mazurec lost no time; he rushed upon the bailiff, buried

the fork in the bowels of his seigneur's menial, threw him down, and,

maddened with rage, trampled him under foot while he again and again

thrust his pitch-fork into the bailiff's breast, his face and every part

of his body that he could reach, uttering at every thrust: "This is for

your having dragged Aveline to your master's bed!... This is for your

having now smothered Aveline to death!"

At the sight of the terrific spectacle Captain Griffith broke out in a

loud guffaw saying: "I take this expert poker under my protection. I

admire his dexterity in the use of his pitch-fork!" In the midst of

these exclamations Captain Griffith suddenly remained silent, then

clapping his hands he proceeded in new ecstacy: "By the devil! Here are

my two beautiful black eyes and plump ankles! Oh, this time you will not

escape me, my belle! Mine be your treasures!"

The English captain uttered these cries at the sight of Alison, who now

appeared at the entrance of the cavern, pale, with disheveled hair, her

clothes half burnt, breathing fast and so feeble that she was unable to

walk except supporting herself by the rocks that lay near by. Captain

Griffith, without being moved at the lamentable aspect of the woman, and

listening only to his own amorous suggestions, made one bound at his

prey, took her in his arms and cried: "This time I hold you! Now you are

mine!"

"Mercy!" cried Alison, struggling to free herself. "I shall give you all

the money I have.... Mercy!"

"Love first, money afterwards!" was the answer of Norfolk's bastard

carrying Alison off.

"Help, Mazurec! Help!" cried the tavern-keeper as loudly as her weak

voice allowed her. But Mazurec, exasperated with suffering and now drunk

with bloodshed and the transports of revenge, continued to hack with his

pitch-fork the corpse of the bailiff, and heard not the appeal of

Alison.

Suddenly, stepping out of a thick bush and appearing on the top of a

rocky eminence, Jocelyn the Champion precipitated himself upon the

ravisher, followed by Adam the Devil, William Caillet, Rufin the

Tankard-smasher and several serfs armed with axes, forks and scythes.

This small troop, attracted by the cries of Alison, had rushed forward

ahead of a large number of revolted peasants, who, crossing a denser

part of the forest, marched slowlier.

"Here I am, my charming hostess!" cried Jocelyn, leaping from rock to

rock, sword in hand; "here I am ... ready to defend you!"

"My Hercules of the castle of Beaumont!" exclaimed Captain Griffith,

drawing his sword at the sight of Jocelyn whom he immediately

recognized; and relinquishing Alison he rushed, sword in hand, at

Jocelyn, saying: "Only to-day I requested but two things from Satan: to

embrace that belle and to find you again a little fattened, my sturdy

boy! Let's commence with you; the belle shall have her turn!"

"I have not yet gathered much meat on my bones," responded the champion,

intrepidly attacking the bastard of Norfolk, "but you shall not be long

in admitting that my wrist has not yet lost any of its strength."

A mad combat was immediately engaged in between the champion and the

Captain, while Caillet, Adam the Devil, Rufin and several of the serfs

who accompanied them, threw themselves furiously upon Captain Griffith's

Chaplain and the archers who had come with him when he left the gross of

his troop near the skirt of the forest, as the bailiff had advised.

"Kill, kill the English!... Death to the English!"

Overpowered and crushed by numbers, cut to pieces with the scythes,

disemboweled with the forks, knocked down with the hatchets, not one of

Captain Griffith's men escaped the carnage. After heroically defending

himself against Adam the Devil, who was armed with a short scythe and

against Rufin who wielded a long sword, the Chaplain fell under their

blows. His attention being now drawn again from his frenzy against the

corpse of the bailiff by the arrival of the peasants who came with

Caillet, Mazurec turned to them and brandishing his fork first joined

their side of the combat; but struck with a sudden thought, he climbed

the hillock where the air-hole had been contrived over the cavern, and

which had recently been closed by the orders of the bailiff of Nointel.

With the assistance of his fork he rolled off the stones from the

aperture, and the smoke, now finding an issue, escaped therefrom in

thick and black puffs. Climbing down, Mazurec disappeared within the

cavern.

At that moment, though wounded in the arm, Jocelyn was holding Captain

Griffith to the ground with both his knees pressing on the Englishman's

chest, and was looking for the dagger at his belt to bury it in his

throat saying: "You shall die, English dog, who do not respect even

dying women!"

"As true as you are the best blade that I have yet met in this country,

my only regret is that I leave that belle behind!"

Such were the last words of the bastard of Norfolk. At the same moment

Mazurec issued from the cavern with the corpse of Aveline in his arms,

saying:

"William Caillet, here is your daughter and my wife. All of you who have

wives, children, parents or friends step into that cavern. Look for them

among the dead and dying. Our seigneur, the Sire of Nointel, had us

smoked in our refuge because we refused to contribute money towards his

ransom!"

At this announcement a large number of peasants ran into the cavern,

while Caillet approached Mazurec, who still held his wife's body in his

arms, and calmly said: "Lay her down on the grass.... We shall dig her

grave." But the words were hardly uttered by the old man than throwing

himself down beside the lifeless body of his daughter, he broke out in

convulsive sobs while kissing her cold face.

"I have cried so much that I have no tears left," said Mazurec

contemplating the spectacle with a dry and fiery eye, while Adam the

Devil silently dug Aveline's grave with the aid of his short scythe.

A clump of roots and trees had until now concealed the sad spectacle

from Jocelyn, who, not having noticed his brother in the heat of the

combat, sat down on the grass supported by Rufin, and left his arm to be

attended by Alison. Always brave and helpful, despite the different

emotions that stormed through her heart, the tavern-keeper had ripped up

her neck-cloth, and kneeling down beside Jocelyn, looked upon him with

tenderness while staunching his wound.

"When we first met, you won my case; to-day I owe to you life and honor.

How can I ever repay such a debt. Oh, I know too well how you contemn

money to offer you three hundred franks that I have sewed in my skirt."

"Do you wish, dear and good hostess, to repay your debt? Go to Paris.

When you arrive there, ask where Master Marcel lives. Everybody will

show you the place. Tell his wife that I have been slightly wounded and

that there is no danger. That will assure Dame Marcel and also her niece

... my betrothed."

"Oh, you are betrothed, Sir!" exclaimed Alison with some confusion, and

gulping down a sigh, she added in an unsteady voice: "May God protect

your love! I shall do as you say. I shall go to Paris ... I shall calm

the anxieties of the girl you love. In her place I would be happy,

indeed.... Oh, so happy to be reassured regarding him whom I love,"

saying which Alison lowered her head to conceal a furtive tear that

shone on her beautiful black eyes.

"Oh, Jocelyn!" Rufin said in a low voice, charmed with the grace and

kindness of Alison, "a comely and honest body like that is worth a

hundred Margots."

"Dear hostess!" resumed Jocelyn after a moment's reflection, "Will you

allow me to give you advice? In times like these, a woman who travels

alone runs great dangers. Take this friend of mine, Rufin, for your

escort."

"Jocelyn," said the student with a lively movement, "I wish to remain

with you to fight the nobility."

"You fought bravely despite the wound that you received only day before

yesterday, and which still gives you much pain. You can render our cause

a great service by returning and notifying Marcel that the peasants are

in arms in this province and that William Caillet has given the signal

for the uprising. Marcel awaits this news to act.... And if he has any

confidential message for me, he will send it through you. You will then

rejoin me in Beauvoisis. You will be easily able to learn the

whereabouts of Caillet's troops, which I shall not leave"; and seeing

that the student was about to yield, Jocelyn added in a low voice:

"Despite the indiscretions of your youth, you are an upright fellow;

promise me that you will guard Alison as you would your own sister."

"I promise, Jocelyn; and you can trust my word! I shall be a good

guardian to Alison."

Suddenly a tremor ran over Jocelyn. He had just noticed Mazurec and

Caillet carrying the body of Aveline. He understood what had happened,

profound sorrow depicted itself upon his face, and kneeling down he

said: "Kneel, Rufin ... kneel, my good hostess ... I shall have to wait

till after this funeral to inform Mazurec that I am his brother."

Adam the Devil had finished digging the grave of Aveline. Caillet and

Mazurec, holding the body by the shoulders and feet, laid it down in the

tomb. The peasants who witnessed the ceremony fell upon their knees. The

funeral of the poor female serf piously performed under the vault of the

forest in the midst of the heaped-up rocks at the mouth of the

cavern--the immense tomb of so many other victims--was a spectacle of

mournful grandeur. Everything contributed to render the scene terrible

and imposing. There lay the mutilated and bloody members of the bailiff,

the pitiless executer of the Sire of Nointel's orders; yonder were

strewn the corpses of the English, no less execrated than the seigneurs

by the people of the fields; further at a distance was the kneeling

crowd of serfs, bare-headed, clad in rags, holding strange and

murderous weapons in their hands, and hardly able to restrain their

fury; finally there were the father and the husband laying with their

own hands into her grave her who should have been the solace of the

former's old age and the joy and love of the latter's youth!

As soon as the body of the dead girl was laid in the fosse, Adam the

Devil began filling it up with earth, while William Caillet standing at

the head of his daughter's sepulchre and holding Mazurec to his breast

cried out in a voice that pulled at the heart-strings of all present:

"Adieu, my daughter! Adieu, my poor Aveline! You who never lied! You who

never did wrong! Adieu! For evermore adieu!" and raising his trembling

hands heavenward, the old peasant proceeded solemnly: "I swear here by

the body of my child whom I have buried with my own hands! By the bones

of our friends and our relatives whose grave is that cavern! By the

sufferings that we endure! By the blood and the sweat of our

forefathers! I shall revenge my daughter! I shall revenge our fathers! I

shall revenge our race for the tortures it has endured! War upon the

castles, without let or mercy!"

Carried away by these words, the surrounding serfs rose to their feet,

and brandishing their staves, their scythes, their forks and their axes,

all responded in chorus with a voice that the echoes of the forest

answered back: "Vengeance!" "Justice!"

In the meantime the peasants who had run into the cavern were coming

back with terror marked on their faces: "Dead.... They are all dead or

dying! Women and children, old and young ... all are dead!"

"All dead!" Caillet repeated in a terrific voice, "the little children!

The women! The old men and the young! All dead! Up, Jacques Bonhomme!

Up, my Jacques! Let the Jacquerie commence!"

"It shall commence with the castle of Chivry," cried Adam the Devil.

"Our seigneur is to be this very day at the castle of Chivry to wed the

gorgeous Gloriande ... on the day of the tourney she laughed at

Mazurec!... It will now be your turn to laugh at the haughty damosel....

Up, my Jacques, let the Jacquerie commence!"

"Ha! Ha! The belle Gloriande!" Mazurec repeated with a ferocious and

semi-delirious laughter. "I shall appear before her with one eye knocked

out and my nose crushed! Oh! The gorgeous Gloriande!... What a fright

she'll have!... Her husband took my bride.... Up, up, my Jacques! The

Jacquerie commences!... War upon the castles!"

The revolted peasants tumultuously followed Caillet, Adam the Devil and

Mazurec across the forest crying: "To Chivry.... Up, Jacques.... The

Jacquerie commences!"

"Good-bye, hostess!" said Jocelyn rising and preparing to follow

Mazurec. "Good-bye, Rufin. Guard with the solicitude of a brother this

worthy woman who confides herself to your protection."

"I trust your friend," answered Alison, "because you told me to trust

him."

"I swear," put in the student deeply moved, "that you can trust me as

fully as you would Jocelyn himself, pretty hostess."

"Good-bye, Rufin; I shall join my brother, disclose to him the bonds

that unite us, and battle at his side. Once more, good-bye, Alison. Say

to Dame Marcel and to Denise, my betrothed, that if I do not see them

again, my last thoughts will have been to them. As to you, Rufin, say to

Marcel that the peasants of this province are at work exterminating the

seigneurs."

"Good-bye, Jocelyn," Rufin answered sadly, extending his hand to his

friend. "If Master Marcel should have any message for you I shall ask

him to commission me to bring it to you!"

Once more the champion pressed his friend's hand and hastened to join

the Jacques whose vociferations were heard in the distance. Before

following the student, the good Alison knelt down at the grave of

Aveline and amidst tears bade the last adieu to the ill-starred young

woman.

CHAPTER III.

THE CASTLE OF CHIVRY.

The castle of Chivry, situated about three leagues from Nointel, and

like almost all other feudal manors, built on the brow of a precipitous

mountain, has nothing to fear from an attack from without. Defended both

by a hundred men-at-arms and its own natural position, it can resist a

long siege. For such an attack, artillery and other engines of war would

have been requisite. The interior magnificence of this seigniorial

edifice matches its defensive strength. Among its many sumptuous

features is the throne hall, or hall of honor, which presents a dazzling

sight. Its rafters, painted and gilded, glisten under the blue of the

ceiling. Rich hanging carpets cover the walls, and enormous fire-places

of sculptured stone, where whole trunks of trees are burned, rise at the

two extremities of the vast apartment which is lighted by ten ogive

windows of glass bearing armorial designs. The hall, virtually a

gallery, is two hundred feet long, by one hundred wide--vast dimensions,

indispensible to the state ceremonies which the stewards of the Sire of

Chivry, as is the custom, attend mounted on horseback, entering by one

of the doors of the hall, and solemnly carrying on the silver platters

the "dishes of honor" such as peacocks and roasted pheasants, prepared

with their own heads, and out-spread tails and wings, or gigantic

pastries representing the seigniorial manor, ornamented with an

escutcheon painted in lively colors--a glorious dish that the pages

place on the table before the queen of the feast, and that must be cut

by the equerry.

On this day, a brilliant company--the nobles, seigneurs and dames,

damosels and children of the neighboring estates--assembled in the

throne hall of the castle of Chivry, and pressed around the beautiful

Gloriande, who sat triumphant on the throne--a sort of raised seat

covered and canopied with gold brocades. Never did the damosel seem more

superb and brilliant in the eyes of her admirers. Her attire was

dazzling. Her black hair, braided with a thread of pearls and

carbuncles, is half hid under her virginal bride's veil. Her robe of

white velvet, embroidered with silver, boldly exposes her breast and

plump arms. A scarf of Oriental silk, fringed with pearls, girds her

supple and well-shaped waist. With brilliant eyes, pink cheeks and

smiling lips, Gloriande receives the compliments of the noble assemblage

who congratulate her on her wedding, the celebration of which is soon to

be announced by the bell of the castle's chapel. The aged Count of

Chivry enjoys the happiness of his daughter and the homage she is the

recipient of. Nevertheless, despite the gladness denoted by her face,

from time to time Gloriande puckers up her black eyebrows, while

throwing impatient looks towards the doors of the gallery. Noticing one

of these looks of impatience, the Count of Chivry says to his daughter

smiling: "Be at ease ... Conrad will soon be here.... There he is....

Behold your bridegroom! What a noble presence!"

At the moment when the noble seigneur was saying these words a

triumphant procession entered the spacious hall. Clarion players opened

the march with a bravoure, they were followed by the pages bearing the

livery of Nointel who in turn were followed by the seigneur's equerries.

These led ten hideous looking men in chains. Their faces and skulls,

smoothly shaven, are of dark brown color. Sad and dejected, they hold

their heads down. They are clad in new white and green blouses, the

armorial colors of the house of Chivry. From time to time the captives

noisily clank their chains and emit lamentable moanings. Behind them

marches the Sire of Nointel, superbly astride of a charger, with visor

down, lance in hand and accoutred in battle armor. At his side but on

foot marches Gerard of Chaumontel, also in full armor and seeming to

share his friend's glory. The cheers of the noble assemblage greet the

procession, and the radiant Gloriande, whose cheeks are now red with

pride, rises from her seat and waving her handkerchief cries:

"Glory to the victor! Honor to the bravest gallant!"

"Glory to the victor!" is echoed back by the noble assemblage. "Honor to

the bravest gallant! Long live the seigneur of Nointel!"

The Sire of Nointel descends from his horse, raises the visor of his

casque and while his equerries beckon the captives to kneel down, he

delivers himself of the following sentence:

"My lady-love ordered me to go to war against the English and to bring

ten prisoners to her feet. The duty of all gallant knights is to obey

the queen of their thoughts. Here are the ten English soldiers that I

took at the battle that we have fought. And I, a captive of the god of

love, now lead these chained men to the feet of my lady-love."

These chivalrous and gallant words threw the assemblage into transports

of enthusiasm. The Sire of Nointel bows his head and proceeds:

"These prisoners belong to my lady-love. Let her dispose of them at her

sovereign will."

"Seeing that my valiant knight requests me to decide over the fate of

these prisoners," answered Gloriande, "I order that they be delivered of

their chains ... and that they be set free! The day of my marriage shall

be a day of joy for all"; and extending her hand to Conrad who drops on

one knee before his bride, she proceeds: "Here is my hand, Sire of

Nointel. I can give it to no more valorous a knight."

"Happy day to the wedded couple!" cries the assemblage. "Glory and

happiness to Gloriande of Chivry and Conrad of Nointel!"

While the brilliant company was thus manifesting its share in the

gladness of the young couple, the Count of Chivry approached the knight

of Chaumontel and asked him in a low voice:

"Gerard, what devil of Englishmen are these fellows.... Why, they are

dark as moles!"

"Sir Count," gravely answered the knight, "these scamps are of the

English tribe of _Ratamorphrydich!_"

"How do you call that tribe?" again inquired the aged seigneur stupefied

at the barbarous name; "I never heard of it before."

"The _Ratamorphrydich_," explained the knight, "are one of the most

ferocious tribes of northern England. They are supposed to descend from

a gypsy or Syrian colony that migrated from Moscovy to the shores of

Albion upon the back of marine horses."

"Well! Well!" rejoined the aged count enraptured at the geographic

knowledge of the knight. "That is a very complete and clear

explanation."

The bell of the castle's chapel now sounded, and the seigneur of Chivry

said to the knight: "This is the first peal of the wedding mass. Oh,

Gerard, this is a beautiful day for my old years ... doubly beautiful

because it shines in otherwise sad times."

"But it seems, Sire, that you have no cause to complain of the events.

Conrad returns to you covered with laurel. True enough, he is a paroled

prisoner of the English, but at this very moment his vassals are

emptying their purses for his ransom. He is beloved by your daughter,

whom he adores. Your castle, well fortified and provisioned, and

defended by a courageous garrison, has nothing to fear from either the

English or the marauding bands. Jacques Bonhomme, still sore at every

limb from the lesson he received last year at the tourney of Nointel,

dare not raise his nose above the ditches where he is at work for you.

You may live in peace and contentment. Long live love, and let the

future take care of itself!"

"Father," said Gloriande to the Count of Chivry, "the bell has sounded

the second call for mass.... Let us start."

"Very well, my impatient bride," the Count replied smiling upon his

daughter, "give your hand to Conrad and we shall start for the altar."

"Oh, father, do you know that Conrad spoke of me to the Regent, our

Sire? The young and lovely prince wishes to see me at court.... We shall

have time to order three dresses, one of brocade, the other of silver

... the third laminated in flower work."

"You may order ten dresses, twenty if you wish, and of the richest.

Nothing is too beautiful for Gloriande of Chivry when she makes her

appearance at court! It is well to show those kings, who seek to crowd

the seigneurs, that we are as great seigneurs as themselves. You shall

not lack for money. My bailiffs shall levy a double tax upon my vassals

in honor of your wedding, as is customary. But here comes another

impatient hot-blood who implores you to take pity on his martyrdom,"

gaily added the Count pointing at Conrad who now approached. The Sire of

Nointel lovingly took the hand of his bride, the procession formed and,

followed by the pages and equerries, the noble assembly marched to the

chapel of the manor.

The English prisoners, who had been freed of their chains by the order

of Gloriande, brought up the rear. While crossing the threshold of the

gallery a large newly sharpened knife with a coarse wooden handle

dropped from the blouse of one of the prisoners.

"Adam the Devil," whispered another prisoner, "pick up your knife before

it attracts the attention of the soldiers."

CHAPTER IV.

"JACQUERIE! JACQUERIE!"

The marriage of the damosel of Chivry with the seigneur of Nointel took

place in the morning. In the afternoon, the large number of guests

invited to the brilliant wedding were gathered in the large throne hall,

now transformed into a banquet room. The banquet was continued deep into

the evening, and was now nearing its end. For the last six hours the

noble guests had been doing ample honor to the interminable meal. While

Jacques Bonhomme barely preserves existence with decayed beans and

water, the seigneurs eat fit to split their stomachs. It was so at the

nuptials of the belle Gloriande. The first course, intended to open the

appetite, consisted of citrons, fruit cooked in vinegar, sour cherries,

salted dishes, salads and other toothsome preparations. The second

course was of lobster patties, cream almonds, soups of meat, of rice, of

oats, of wheat, of macaroni, of fricandelles, each served in the

different colors that expert cooks impart to them and that please the

eyes of the gourmands--soups in white, in blue, in yellow, in red, in

green or of golden hue were spread in harmonious combinations. The third

course had roasts with sauce, and what a variety of sauces!--cinnamon,

nutmeg, raisin, jennet, rose, flower--all these sauces likewise colored

differently. The fourth course consisted of pastries of all sorts, of

boars, of deer, monstrous pastries that held, floating on goose fat, a

whole stuffed lamb, finally tarts of rose leaves, of cherries, of

chestnuts, and in the middle of all these a monumental fabric of pastry

three feet high, representing the donjon-keep, the towers and the

ramparts of the noble manor of Chivry. The long table loaded down with

costly plate which reflected one another by the light of wax candles

presented the aspect of gladsome disorder. The flagons and silver

decanters, filled with spiced wines and circulating from hand to hand,

redoubled the conviviality of the hour. Some of the guests grew unsteady

in their seats, their heads swimming in the fumes of approaching

drunkenness. The cheeks and eyes of several of the dames and their

daughters, even without having celebrated Gloriande's nuptials to a

Bacchic excess, had become purple and inflamed; their breasts heaved,

and they laughed boisterously at the licentious stories told by the

seigneurs who sat near and drank out of the same cup with them. Outside

of the banquet table, the servants, and even the men-at-arms, were

sharing the convivial joys of their masters, and celebrated the nuptials

of their seigneur's daughter with deep potations of beer, cider, and

even wine. Many were asleep in the profound slumbers of inebriety.

Alone Gloriande and her bridegroom have remained free from the effects

of the overfeeding and drinking. Their intoxication is sweeter. They

love each other, and soon the hour would come for their retirement. From

time to time they exchanged furtive glances of impatience. Ardent are

the looks of Conrad; troubled those of Gloriande. Her beautiful bosom

undulates attractively the necklace of pearls and diamonds that rests

upon it. She even frowns and shrugs her white shoulders upon hearing her

father, now in an advanced stage of intoxication, bellowing at the top

of his voice for silence and announcing that he would sing an old

drinking song of twenty-eight verses, and each couple, drinking from the

same goblet, was to empty it at each couplet, after which the bride and

bridegroom would be ceremoniously conducted by her maids of honor to the

bridal chamber, whose door opened into the hall. At her father's

proposition to sing twenty-eight verses, a proposition that was received

with general acclaim, Gloriande cast a desolate look upon Conrad, and

the latter, turning to his friend Chaumontel, whispered in his ear: "The

devil take the drunken old man ... along with his song."

"By the way," answered the half intoxicated knight, laughing loudly,

"the old man asked me this morning how our English prisoners happened to

be dark as moles;" and turning from the Count of Chivry the knight

reflected a moment and then proceeded: "But, Conrad, were there not

originally eleven rustics instead of ten that we picked up near the

forest, from which they had just issued with forks, scythes and axes?

They said they were hunting for a wolf that caused them much damage. Ah!

Ah! I must still laugh when I think of our capture.... By the devil....

It was eleven and not ten rustics that we caught.... How does it come

that, being eleven, there should only be ten now?"

"Do you forget that one of them ran away on the road?"

"That's a ray of light!" cried Gerard, counting on his fingers with the

gravity of a drunken man. "The rustics were eleven. Good.... One of them

escapes.... Consequently there should be only ten left! Conrad, you are

the brightest of mortals!"

At that moment the seigneur of Chivry struck up the fourth couplet of

his Bacchic song. No longer could the beautiful Gloriande endure her

amorous martyrdom. She exchanged a few signs of intelligence with

Conrad, and almost immediately uttered a slight cry, while seizing her

father's arm, near whom she was seated. The old seigneur abruptly broke

off his song and said to Gloriande, in blank amazement:

"What is the matter, dear daughter? Are you not well?"

"I feel giddy; I am not well; I shall withdraw to my room."

"My dearly beloved Gloriande," said the Sire of Nointel, rising quickly,

"allow me to accompany you."

"Yes, I wish you would, Conrad.... I shall take some air at the window

of my room.... I think that will do me good."

"Come, my children," said the seigneur of Chivry, resignedly, "I shall

start my song all over again at to-morrow's feast;" and then added:

"Let the maids of honor kindly accompany the bride, according to custom,

as far as the door of the nuptial chamber."

At these words several of the young ladies regretfully quitted the

knights near whom they sat and surrounded the bride, while Conrad walked

around the immense table to join his wife, and two pages threw open the

doors of the bridal chamber, brilliantly lighted by torches of perfumed

wax. The nuptial couch was seen at the end of the chamber, surmounted

with an armorial canopy, and half concealed behind curtains of tapestry

that glistened with silver thread. Suddenly the voice of Gerard of

Chaumontel, more and more intoxicated, was heard crying:

"Noble dames and damosels, I request leave to prove to you that I am a

man ... of singular powers of divination!"

"Prove it! Prove it!" gayly came from the guests. "Prove it to us,

to-night! We listen! Give us the proof!"

"Last year," proceeded Gerard, "on the day of the tourney of Nointel,

where all of you were present, and where Jacques Bonhomme kicked some

capers, Conrad ordered several of the scamps to be hanged, and to drown

the one whom I vanquished in a judicial combat, all according to usage

and custom."

"I very much would like to see a villein drown," cried a lad of eleven

years, son of the Sire of Bourgeuil. "I have seen villeins whipped, I

have seen their ears cropped, I have seen them hanged and quartered, but

never have I seen any drowned. Father, ... will you not have a villein

drowned ... for me to see?... I would like to see a villein drowned....

I have taken the fancy."

"My son," the Sire of Bourgeuil answered the child in a magisterial

tone, "your interruption is unbecoming. You should have waited till the

knight finished before expressing your wish to me."

"Well," continued Gerard of Chaumontel, "the rustic whom I vanquished,

at the moment of taking his first and last bath, cried out to me with

the voice of a devil who has caught cold: 'You cause me to be drowned,

you shall be drowned!' and to Conrad: 'You outraged my wife, your wife

shall be outraged!'"

"The knight of Chaumontel is tipsy," murmured several guests.

"Such lugubrious stories about hanging and drowning are out of place at

a wedding."

"Enough, Sir knight! Enough!"

"Drink your wine in peace, good Sir!"

"Wait till I prove it to you ... how I am a man of singular powers of

divination," continued Gerard. But the hisses drowned his voice, and the

Sire of Nointel, shivering despite himself at the mournful recollection

now evoked by his friend, took the hand of Gloriande whom the maids of

honor surrounded and said to her while marching towards the nuptial

chamber: "Listen not to the fool; he is tipsy.... Come, my beloved....

Love awaits us."

Suddenly an equerry appeared like a specter at the large door of the

hall. His face was livid and his body streamed blood. He took two steps

forward, swayed on his feet and dropped down upon the stone slabs which

he reddened with his blood. With his last dying breath he uttered these

words "My seigneur.... Oh, my seigneur.... Save yourself!"

At the spectacle a cry of horror and fear leaped from every mouth. The

belle Gloriande, seized with terror, threw herself into Conrad's arms.

The guests, pale and stupefied, were for an instant struck silent, while

from the distance a formidable noise seemed to approach. Another

equerry, also pale as a ghost and bleeding, ran in screaming in a broken

voice:

"Treason!... Treason!... The English prisoners have cut the throats of

the guards at the main gate of the castle.... They opened it to a

furious multitude.... The assailants are here!"

Immediately the cry of "Jacquerie! Jacquerie!" repeated from hundreds

of throats, resounded outside the banquet hall, and the glasses of the

windows, beaten in with axes and pitchforks, flew in all directions with

a wild rush.

A numerous band of Jacques, led by Adam the Devil and his blackened

companions who had performed the role of English prisoners in that same

hall that same morning, now rushed in through the doors and broken

windows. Guided by an identical impulse, the terror-stricken noble

assemblage crowded towards the principal door expecting to escape at

that issue. Their exit was, however, intercepted by William Caillet and

Mazurec, who appeared at the threshold at the head of still another band

of Jacques armed with staves, scythes, forks and axes. Almost all these

peasants in arms were vassals of the seigneurs of Chivry and Nointel. At

the sight of the wan, savage, blood-stained, half-naked mob, bearing on

their bodies the impress of serfdom, the dames and damosels uttered

cries of terror and huddled together in wild panic into the extreme

corner of the hall. The seigneurs, having according to usage doffed

their armor to don their gala dress, seized the table knives and the

flagons of glass and silver to defend themselves. The joyous fumes of

wine that at first confused their minds were soon dissipated and they

ranked themselves into an improvised barrier before the women.

William Caillet swung his axe three times. At that signal the tumultuous

clamors of the Jacques was hushed by little and little until the silence

became profound, disturbed only by exclamations and moans from the

affrighted noble women.

"My Jacques!" cries Caillet. "You brought ropes along. First of all bind

fast all the noblemen; kill on the spot whoever resists; but keep alive

the father and the husband of the bride; also to keep alive the knight

of Chaumontel. We have an account to settle with them."

"I shall take charge of those three," said Adam the Devil. "Follow me,

my alleged Englishmen. Get the ropes ready."

The vassals flew upon the seigneurs. A few of them offered a desperate

resistance and were killed, but the larger number of the knights,

demoralized and terror-stricken by the suddenness of the attack allowed

themselves to be bound. Among these were the aged seigneur of Chivry,

Gerard of Chaumontel and the Sire of Nointel, the last of whom was torn

from the arms of his bride. More furious than frightened, Gloriande gave

a loose to imprecations and insults that she hurled at the revolted

serfs. Adam the Devil seized and overpowered her, tearing in the attempt

her wedding dress to shreds, and tied her hands behind her back, while

with refined ferocity he observed:

"To each his turn, my noble damosel.... Last year you laughed at us at

the tourney of Nointel.... Now it is our turn to laugh at you, my

amorous belle!"

"This English prisoner knows me!" exclaimed Gloriande. "Is all this but

a horrible dream? Conrad, revenge your wife!"

"I am a vassal of the seigniory of Nointel, and not an Englishman, my

belle," answered Adam the Devil. "The role of prisoner was imposed upon

us by your noble husband, your valiant knight, the Sire of Nointel, too

much of a coward to make real prisoners. He met us just outside of the

forest and ordered us under pain of hanging to accompany him hither and

be the accomplices of his trick upon you by figuring as the English

prisoners that he was to lead to you from the battle that was fought. We

consented to the masquerade. It helped us in our plan to enter your

father's castle. One of us, managing to escape on the road, took to our

companions the order to draw near the manor by nightfall. We cut the

throats of the guards, lowered the bridge and let our Jacques in. Now we

are going to laugh at you, my belle ... just as you laughed at us at the

tourney of Nointel! It is now our turn to feast."

Gloriande allowed Adam the Devil to speak without interrupting him. And

shuddering with painful indignation she cried: "Conrad lied.... Conrad

is a coward!"

"Yes, your nobleman of a husband is a liar and a coward," rejoined Adam

the Devil, dragging Gloriande towards the other extremity of the hall.

"A beauty like you deserves a braver husband. I shall take you to the

kind of lover you have been dreaming of."

Gloriande of Chivry forgot for a moment the dangers that beset her and

the terror that had begun to seize her mind. Overwhelmed by the idea,

horrible to her pride, that Conrad of Nointel was a coward, she let

herself be dragged without resistance towards the other end of the hall.

In the center of the Jacques who had formed a circle stood William

Caillet reclining on the handle of his heavy axe; near him were Jocelyn

the Champion with his arms across his breast, and Mazurec the Lambkin,

now the widower of Aveline-who-never-lied. Only partly clad in rough

sheep-skin, his hair matted, his arms bare and blood-bespattered, with

the cavity of one eye hollow, his nose crushed, his upper lip split--the

serf presented a repulsive aspect. Adam the Devil pushed Gloriande

towards Mazurec saying: "There is your new husband! Come, my pretty

lass, embrace your lord and master!"

At the sight of the disfigured serf Gloriande drew back and uttered a

cry of fright; but terror palsied her brain when she saw Mazurec slowly

advancing upon her with his one eye burning with hatred, and laying his

callous hand upon her shoulder say in a hollow voice: "In the name of

force ... you are mine ... the same as in the name of force my bride

Aveline belonged to Conrad of Nointel...."

"What is the monster saying?" muttered the distracted Gloriande drawing

back and seeking to free herself from the grasp of the vassal.

"Father!... Come to my help, father!"

The noble seigneur of Chivry lay nearby bound hand and foot, the same as

Gerard of Chaumontel and Conrad of Nointel, the last of whom, out of his

senses with fright and crushed with remorse, neither heard nor saw

aught, but was muttering between his teeth: "Have mercy upon me, my Lord

God!... I am a great sinner.... I repent having outraged that vassal's

bride...."

"Help, father!" Gloriande continued to cry, ever seeking to escape the

grip of Mazurec, whose nails, now long and bent like those of a bird of

prey, dug deep into the flesh of the Sire of Nointel's bride and held

her firmly while he exclaimed: "This noble damosel is mine!"

"Vassal!" cried the seigneur of Chivry gasping for breath and addressing

Caillet: "You are the chief of these bandits; save my daughter's life

and honor and I promise to pardon you.... Be merciful.... I swear by the

living God, I shall remit the punishment that your crimes deserve!"

"Noble seigneur," replied the chief of the Jacques with ominously

sinister calmness, "the wedding day of the child whom we love is a

beautiful day! It is a beautiful day for the nobles--"

"Oh, indeed I believed this morning that the wedding day of my daughter

Gloriande would be a beautiful day for me."

"So did I imagine on the morning of the day when my daughter

Aveline-who-never-lied wedded.... A vassal has a father's heart.... I

tenderly loved my daughter.... She was a sweet and pure girl, the pride

of my miserable life.... Your son-in-law, the Sire of Nointel, had my

daughter dragged to his bed ... the next day he returned her to me!"

"The Sire of Nointel only exercised the right he has over all brides who

are not noble!... It is his right of first fruits.... It is the feudal

law!"

"Conrad of Nointel exercised a right that he derived from force....

To-day the Jacques are stronger, and they will, in turn, exercise their

right," answered Caillet without abandoning his savage calmness.

"Mazurec, my daughter's bridegroom sought to resist the ignomy she was

threatened with.... In punishment for his rebellion he was compelled to

make the amende honorable on his knees before his seigneur.... Yesterday

my daughter, together with so many other victims, was smothered to death

by the smoke that the bailiff of the Sire of Nointel ordered the cavern

in which they had taken refuge to be filled with.... 'An eye for an eye,

a tooth for a tooth!' ... So says Scripture.... The Sire of Nointel has

outraged the bride of Mazurec the Lambkin.... Now the bride of the Sire

of Nointel belongs to Mazurec."

The Jacques greeted the sentence of their chief with triumphant acclaim,

while with one kick Adam the Devil broke open the door of Gloriande's

nuptial chamber, and by the light of the torches of perfumed wax that

burned within from massive candlesticks of silver, the Jacques saw the

dazzling interior of the apartment.

Painting with terror Gloriande still struggled with Mazurec who dragged

her to the nuptial couch. "Father! Deliver me!" cried the agonized

belle.

"Thus did Aveline call me to her help," said William Caillet with his

foot on the Count of Chivry. "You shall drain the cup to the lees!"

"Oh, death! rather than to witness such atrocities!" cried the Sire of

Nointel. "Heaven and earth! To see that miserable vassal dare to lay

hands upon Gloriande! The scamp is tearing down the curtains! He means

to violate my bride!"

"Oh! Oh! You are a rebel!" cried Adam the Devil laughing loudly. "We now

sentence you to make the amende honorable on both knees before your

master and seigneur, Jacques Bonhomme, in the person of Mazurec; and you

shall beg his pardon for having insulted him ... for calling him scamp!"

"Conrad, let us know how to die!" cried the knight of Chaumontel. "We

shall soon be revenged upon these scamps; not one of them will escape

the lances of the knights."

Jocelyn the Champion, who had until then stood by an impassive witness,

now stepped forward and heavily laying his iron gauntlet upon the

knight's shoulder said to him: "You fought cased in iron against my

brother Mazurec who was half naked and armed only with a stick. I have

decided that you shall now fight him, yourself half naked and armed with

a stick, he cased in iron. If you are vanquished you shall be thrown

into a bag and drowned. To-day, from appellee, Jacques Bonhomme has

become appellant."

"But before the combat," cried Adam the Devil, "let us take supper, my

Jacques; the table is set; plenty of wine is still left in the flagons;

also meats on the dishes!... Let us feast before the eyes of these

seigneurs, the fathers, brothers or husbands of yonder dames and

damosels!... Fall to, my Jacques! Long live love and wine! After the

feast we shall lock up this whole nobility, men, women and children, in

the underground prisons of the castles! The ruins of the burnt-down

manor shall be their fitting tombstone.... Fall to, Jacques Bonhomme....

Long live love and wine, and ours be the dames and damosels of these

nobles!"

CHAPTER V.

THE ORVILLE BRIDGE.

Night is about to yield to day; the moon is setting; the first

glimmerings of dawn begin to crimson the eastern sky. The troop of

Jacques, who fired the manor of Chivry after putting its noble tenants

to the sword, is now marching towards the bridge that spans the Orville

river, and from which, the year before, tied in a bag, Mazurec was

thrown into the water. At the head of the troop march William, Mazurec,

Jocelyn and Adam the Devil. Behind them follow the Jacques leading the

Sire of Nointel and the knight of Chaumontel, half naked, unarmed and

pinioned. His head covered with the casque, clad in the cuirass and coat

of mail, and armed with the dagger and sword of the knight of

Chaumontel, Mazurec marches between Jocelyn the Champion and Caillet.

Halting at the crest of the hill they had just ascended, and which

commanded a wide view of the surrounding country, the latter cried

pointing in several directions of the horizon that was either lighted

with flames or darkened with black clouds:

"Do you see the castles of Chivry, of Bourgeuil, of Saint-Prix, of

Montsorin, of Villiers, of Rochemur and so many others, aye, so many

others, set this night on fire, sacked and their noble masters put to

the sword by bands of revolted serfs?... Do you hear the village bells

summoning the serfs to arms?... They sound still! They are summoning the

Jacques to the hunt of the nobles!"

Indeed, the hurried peals of the bells, loudly sounding from a large

number of villages that lay scattered in the fields and forests, reached

the hill, carried thither by the morning breeze. The horizon, reflecting

the flames that were devouring so many feudal manors, itself seemed on

fire. Hardly were the first rays of the sun able to penetrate the

thickness of the somber mass of smoke.

"The sight is worth the music!" remarked Adam the Devil listening to the

sound of the bells. Crossing his arms behind him, spreading out his

legs, and poising himself on his robust loins he swept with an eager eye

the flaming curtain of the distant conflagrations. "There they are on

fire and in ruins, those proud donjons cemented in the blood and the

sweat of our people, and that for centuries have been the terror of our

fathers! Ha! Ha! Ha!" and laughing boisterously the serf proceeded:

"What mournful scenes must now be enacting at those manors!"

"At this hour," observed Caillet, "in Beauvoisis, in Laonnais, in

Picardy, in Vermandois, in Champagne, everywhere, in the Isle of France,

Jacques Bonhomme is making similar bonfires! Everywhere the nobility and

their supporting priests are being massacred!"

"I wish I could see all the fires!" exclaimed Adam the Devil, raising

his head. "I would like to hear all the cries uttered by these nobles!"

"Oh!" observed Jocelyn, with profound sorrow, "if the cries of our

fathers, the male and female serfs and vassals, who for so many hundreds

of years have endured martyrdom, could reach us across the centuries!...

Oh! if the cries of our mothers, borne down by serfdom, starved in

misery, and outraged by the seigneurs, could now reach us across these

many centuries.... If that could be, then the frightful concert of

maledictions, of imprecations and of cries of pain that would reach us

would drown that which now goes up from these feudal strongholds!... The

hour of justice has come at last!"

"Brother," said Mazurec, sad and dejected, while hastening his steps so

as to leave Caillet and Adam the Devil behind and snatch a few moments

of privacy with Jocelyn, "I have an admission to make to you ... and

perhaps also to pray your indulgence for a weakness of my heart.... When

I had dragged the bride of Conrad into her nuptial chamber ... and after

the door was closed behind us, Gloriande threw herself at my feet, and

with joined hands she implored mercy. I said to myself: 'My poor Aveline

must have prayed for mercy ... she must have suffered terribly.' I wept

at the thought of Aveline; I forgot my hatred and my vengeance. Seeing

me weep, Gloriande redoubled her supplications. I then said to her: 'In

my condition of serf I had but one joy in the world, the love of

Aveline-who-never-lied.... She was outraged by my seigneur, your

bridegroom.... After months of suffering and despair she died, smothered

by smoke in the cavern of Nointel shortly before being delivered of the

child of her shame.... It seems to me I see my poor Aveline, on her

knees, like you now, asking for mercy.... It is her whom I pity.... You

need not fear me!' And Gloriande took my hands in hers, kissed and

moistened them with her tears.... She begged me to allow her to escape

by a secret passage. I consented. I remained in the room, thinking of

Aveline until they set fire to the castle. I did not wish to outrage my

seigneur's bride.... Vengeance would not have restored to me my lost

happiness."

"Oh, my poor brother! Gentle soul! Generous heart!" answered Jocelyn,

deeply moved. "You whom nature made Mazurec the Lambkin and whom your

master's ferocity transformed into Mazurec the Wolf! You were born to

love, not to hate! Oh, you speak truly! Vengeance does not return the

lost happiness! Sublime martyr, you need no indulgence for your generous

conduct! Your heart did not fail you; it inspired itself with the

principle of mercy proclaimed by the young carpenter of Nazareth!" And

seeing that Adam the Devil and Caillet were approaching, Jocelyn added,

in a low voice: "Brother, let none know that you respected Gloriande;

above all, Conrad must, for his punishment, believe that his bride was

dishonored!" Turning then to Caillet, who had just joined the two,

Jocelyn observed: "We shall soon be at the Orville bridge. Our friends

are anxious we should reach the spot quickly. The work of punishment is

not yet finished."

The slanting rays of the sun now glisten in the rapid waters of the

Orville that the previous year had swallowed up Mazurec pinioned and

tied in a bag. On its banks still stand the trunks of the old willow

trees from which were hanged the serfs caught in the riot of the

tourney. The morning breeze agitates the reeds that concealed Adam the

Devil and Jocelyn during the preparations for the death of Mazurec, and

from behind which they had succeeded in rescuing him.

The Jacques arrived at the bridge, crossed it and stepped upon the broad

meadow in the middle of which the last year's tourney given by the

seigneur of Nointel was held. They halted there. A large number of them

had been spectators of the passage of arms, and had afterwards witnessed

the judicial duel between Mazurec and the knight of Chaumontel. Obedient

to the orders of Caillet, several peasants proceeded to cut it with

their scythes young tree branches, that they stuck in the ground,

forming an enclosure about thirty feet square, in imitation of the fence

or barrier of tourneys. The enclosure being ready, the Jacques crowded

in dense ranks around it.

At a signal, William Caillet approached the men who led the pinioned

Sire of Nointel and the knight of Chaumontel. The latter, though pale,

still preserved his resoluteness; the former, however, looking dejected

and discouraged, was now a prey to superstitious terror. He sees

verified the sinister prophecy of his vassal, who the year before had

said to him: "You have outraged my bride, your bride shall be outraged."

Of all his attire, the Sire of Nointel has preserved only his jerkin and

velvet shoes, now in shreds from the roughness of the road. Cold drops

of perspiration gather at his temples. Caillet addresses him: "Last year

my daughter was forcibly placed in your bed ... last night Mazurec, the

wronged bridegroom whom we saved from the watery grave that you decreed

to him, returned outrage for outrage.... My daughter and many other

victims died an atrocious death in the cavern of the forest of Nointel,

last night your bride and many other nobles died in the underground

dungeons of the castle of Chivry that Jacques Bonhomme set on fire....

But that is not yet enough. Mazurec was sentenced to make the amende

honorable to you because he insulted you; seeing that you insulted

Mazurec when he dragged away your wife, you shall now make the amende

honorable on your knees before Mazurec. If you refuse," added Caillet,

seeing the enraged seigneur stamp the ground with his feet, "if you

refuse, I shall then sentence you to the same death that you have

inflicted upon several of your vassals. Two young and strong trees shall

be bent, you shall be tied by the feet to the one and by the arms to the

other, the saplings will then be let free to straighten themselves up

again.... You are forewarned, Sire of Nointel!"

"I witnessed the death of my friend Toussaint the Heavy-bell, who was

dismembered in that manner by your orders between two oak saplings!"

interposed Adam the Devil. "I know exactly how it must be done in order

to manage that torture successfully. Now choose between the amende

honorable or the death we just described."

"Submit, Conrad!" said the knight of Chaumontel, with bitter disdain.

"Let us submit to the extreme limit of the excesses of these varlets. We

will be revenged. Oh, soon again the casque will resume the upperhand

over the woolen cap, and the lance over the fork."

Shivering with dismay at the threatened torture, Conrad of Nointel

answered his friend in a hoarse voice: "Gerard, do not leave me alone!"

"I shall be your faithful companion to the end," answered the knight.

"We have joyously emptied more than one cup together, we shall die

together."

Led by Jacques, the two nobles were placed in the center of the

enclosure, around which stood the revolted vassals. Many of them had

also witnessed the amende honorable of Mazurec, who, now armed in the

armor of the knight of Chaumontel, is standing near the center of the

lists, reclining on his long sword.

"On your knees!" ordered Adam the Devil to the Sire of Nointel, and

pressing down with his strong hands the seigneur's shoulders, he made

him drop on his knees at the feet of Mazurec. "And now, noble seigneur,

repeat my words:

"Seigneur Jacques Bonhomme, I blame myself and humbly repent having used

unseemly words against you when last night you dragged my noble

bride...."

Outbursts of laughter, jeers and cat-calls from the Jacques greeted

these words, which recalled to the Sire of Nointel both the forfeiture

of his happiness and the disgrace of his bride. He shrank together,

emitted a roar of pain, and burning tears dropped from his eyes while

grinding his teeth he muttered: "Death and massacre!"

"That is quite painful, is it not, Sire of Nointel," suggested Caillet,

"to be forced to beg pardon on one's knees for having wished to resist

the outrage that is racking your mind? Poor Mazurec the Lambkin went

through this shame only last year, as you are doing now!... It is

justice!... Stay on your knees!"

"Come, let's hurry!" resumed Adam the Devil, "make the amende honorable

on your knees before Jacques Bonhomme, if not, you shall be dismembered

on the spot, my noble Sire!"

The Sire of Nointel answered only with a fresh roar of rage, writhing in

his bonds: "Oh, my unhappy life!"

"Conrad," said Gerard, "repeat the empty words, yield to these cowardly

varlets. What can you do against force? There is nothing but to submit."

"Never!" cried the Sire of Nointel, in a frenzy of rage. "Sooner a

thousand deaths! To ask pardon of that miserable serf ... when before

my own eyes he dragged away my bride ... my beautiful and proud

Gloriande ...," and breaking out again in a cry of rage: "Blood and

massacre! A minute ago I felt overwhelmed.... I now feel hell burning in

my breast.... Oh, if only I were free ... I would tear these varlets to

pieces with my nails and teeth! I would put them through a thousand

deaths!"

"Sire of Nointel, if upon your knees you make the amende honorable to

Mazurec, I shall then put a sword in your hand," said Jocelyn the

Champion slowly drawing near. "I promise to fight with you, and you will

then at least die as a man. Come, on your knees!"

"True?" mumbled Conrad, his mind wandering with despair and rage, "you

will give me a sword?... I shall be able to die seeing the blood of one

of you flow ... you miserable rebels!"

Seizing the naked sword that his brother held in his hand, Jocelyn took

it and threw it on the ground a few paces from Conrad, and planting his

foot upon the blade said: "Make the amende honorable--you will then be

unbound and you may take this sword ... then there shall be a combat to

the death between us two, son of Neroweg!"

"Come, my handsome Sir," resumed Adam the Devil addressing Conrad,

"come, repeat after me--'Seigneur Jacques Bonhomme, I blame myself and

humbly repent....'"

"Seigneur Jacques Bonhomme," repeated Conrad of Nointel in a voice

strangling with rage and casting a furtive look at the sword only the

sight of which imparted to him the necessary strength to perform the

revolting expiatory act. "Seigneur Jacques Bonhomme, I blame myself and

humbly repent.... Shame and humiliation!"

"Having used unseemly words against you, Seigneur Jacques Bonhomme,"

proceeded Adam the Devil amidst new outbursts of laughter and jeers

from the Jacques, "when last night you were about to outrage my bride on

the nuptial bed ... my belle Gloriande of Chivry."

"No, no, never," cried Conrad of Nointel, foaming at the mouth, "I never

shall repeat those infamous words!"

Jocelyn took off and threw his casque at a distance, unbuckled his steel

corselet, threw away his armlets, pulled off his leather jerkin,

preserving only that part of his armor that covered his thighs and lower

extremities, removed his shirt, leaving his breast bare, and said to the

Sire of Nointel: "Here is flesh to bore holes through, if you can.... I

am wounded in the thigh ... that evens up your chances; moreover, I

swear I shall strike only at your breast; yes, I swear it, as truly as,

freeman or serfs, my ancestors have during the centuries that rolled

over us crossed swords with yours!"

"Oh, you dog whom my ancestors conquered.... I shall kill you!" cried

Conrad of Nointel nearly delirious. Retaining his posture on his knees

before Mazurec, he muttered, gasping for breath: "I repent, seigneur

Jacques Bonhomme ... of having used unseemly words ... against you ...

when you sought ... to outrage ... my bride in her nuptial bed...."

"The belle Gloriande of Chivry, and pronounce the name distinctly," said

Adam the Devil. "Now, hurry up!"

"The ... belle ... Gloriande ... of ... Chivry ..." repeated Conrad, as

if tearing the words from his breast.

"High, puissant and redoubtable seigneur of Nointel, Jacques Bonhomme

pardons you for the outrage he perpetrated upon you!" now put in Mazurec

in the midst of a fresh explosion of triumphant laughter and

contemptuous jeers uttered by the Jacques.

"The sword! The sword!" cried Conrad rising livid and fearful with

rage, but with his hands still pinioned behind him, and addressing

Jocelyn. "You promised me blood ... yours ... or mine.... I wish to die

seeing blood.... To the sword, to the sword!"

"Remove his bonds," said the champion with his feet still on the sword

that lay on the ground and drawing his own.

While the Jacques were unfastening the bonds that held the arms of the

seigneur of Nointel, the knight of Chaumontel took a step towards his

friend and said to him: "Farewell, Conrad ... you are blinded with rage

... you are weakened by the trials of last night ... you will be killed

by that Hercules ... a champion by profession.... But we shall be

revenged."

"I killed!" cried the Sire of Nointel with a ghostly smile. "No, no; it

is I who will kill the dog.... I will cut the vagabond's throat!"

"Recommend your soul to St. James," said Gerard in a penetrating voice

to Conrad; "an invocation to him is sovereign in cases of duels."

"Oh, I shall invoke my hatred," replied Conrad twitching his arms that

Adam the Devil was about to unloosen. But Jocelyn made a sign to his

companion to wait a moment before untying the Sire of Nointel, and then

turning to the revolted serfs he made to them this vigorous and terse

address:

"It is now eleven hundred years ago ... one of my ancestors, _Schavanoch

the Soldier_--the foster brother of Victoria the Great, the emperor

woman who predicted the enfranchisement of Gaul--fought against one of

the chiefs of the Frankish hordes who then threatened to invade Gaul,

our mother country; that Frankish chieftain was called _Neroweg the

Terrible Eagle_, and he was the ancestor of the Sire of Nointel, whom

you there see before you.... Two centuries later, the Franks, thanks to

the complicity of the Bishop of Rome, had succeeded in conquering Gaul

and in reducing her inhabitants to a condition of most cruel slavery;

our land thereupon became a prey to our conquerors, and we moistened it

with our sweat, our tears and our blood.... During the first years of

the Frankish conquest, Karadeuk the Bagaude, the ancestor of both

Mazurec and myself, a revolted slave, fought with Neroweg, Count of

Auvergne, count by the right of rapine and murder. That Neroweg had

subjected to a cruel torture Loysik the Working-Hermit and Ronan the

Vagre, sons of Karadeuk the Bagaude. Bagaudie and Vagrerie were the

Jacquerie of those days. Vagres and Bagaudes revenged themselves then as

the Jacques do now for the oppression of the seigneurs. In that fight

between Karadeuk the Bagaude and the Count Neroweg, Neroweg fell under

the axe of Karadeuk.... Coming down to three centuries ago, another of

my ancestors, Den-Brao the Mason was buried alive together with several

other serfs, his fellow workmen, by Neroweg IV, Count of Plouernel in

Brittany."

"That noble thereby buried together with Den-Brao the secret of an

underground passage that they had been made to construct, leading from

the feudal manor into the forest. The grandson of Den-Brao, who remained

a serf of the seigniory of Plouernel, was called Fergan the Quarryman.

Neroweg VI kidnapped a son of Fergan for the purpose of applying the

child to the bloody sorceries of a witch. Fergan succeeded in rescuing

his child, but he witnessed the murder of his two relatives Bezenecq the

Rich and Bezenecq's daughter Isoline. Unable to pay an enormous ransom

imposed upon him by Neroweg VI, Bezenecq perished under the torture,

while Isoline, the witness of her father's torment, became insane and

died. Then came the days of the Crusades. Fergan and his seigneur met

face to face and alone in the middle of the desert of Syria. Fergan

could have killed him by surprise, but he fought him and vanquished....

Finally, only a year ago, my brother Mazurec the Lambkin has seen his

bride dishonored by the Sire of Nointel, the scion of the Nerowegs of

old, he forced my brother to make him the amende honorable at his feet,

and thereupon to fight half naked with the knight of Chaumontel in full

armor. Vanquished in this unequal combat and sentenced to be drowned in

a bag, Mazurec would have perished but for Adam the Devil and myself,

who succeeded in drawing him out of the river betimes, but his wife,

Aveline-who-never-lied, died an atrocious death only a few days ago. The

history of my family's sufferings is the history of the families of us

all, the enslaved and oppressed of your class, Sire of Nointel, during

so many centuries! Aye, among the thousands upon thousands of revolted

vassals, who at this hour are running to arms, there is not one whose

family has not undergone what mine has! The narrative of Mazurec's

family and mine is theirs also. Do you now understand the treasury of

hatred and of vengeance that has been heaping up from century to century

in the indignant breast of Jacques Bonhomme? Do you understand that from

age to age the fathers bequeathed this hatred to their children as the

only heritage left to them by servitude? Do you understand that the

vassal has a frightful account to settle with his seigneur? Do you

understand how, in his turn, Jacques Bonhomme has no mercy and no pity?

Do you, finally, understand that if at this moment, instead of fighting

you, I were to kill you like a wolf caught in a trap, the act would be

just? You have but one life, but innumerable are the lives of the Gauls

taken by you, and much larger yet those taken by your class!"

An explosion of fury from the Jacques marked the close of these words.

Sufficiently exasperated against the Sire of Nointel, they felt that the

narrative of Jocelyn's family was that of the martyrdom on earth endured

by Jacques Bonhomme.

"Death to the seigneur!... Death without combat!" repeated the

insurgents. "Death to him, like a wolf caught in a trap!"

"Vassal, you promised to fight with me!" cried Conrad of Nointel. "Of

what use are these ancient stories?"

"Do you repudiate the acts of your ancestors? Do you repudiate your

class?"

"Even with your sword at my throat I shall to the very end pronounce

myself proud of belonging to the warrior class that has held you under

the whip and the stick, ye miserable serfs.... Even dying would I smite

your faces!"

With a wafture of his hand Jocelyn restrains a fresh explosion of fury

from the Jacques, and says to Adam the Devil: "Deliver the seigneur of

his bonds.... Once more in the course of the centuries a son of Joel and

a son of Neroweg shall take each other's measure, sword in hand!"

"And may my stock again meet yours to the undoing of your own!" answered

Conrad of Nointel in a hollow voice. "The elder branch of my family

still occupies its domains in Auvergne ... and my father's brother has

sons! The race of the Nerowegs will reappear across the ages!"

"Battle!... Battle!" said Jocelyn. "It shall be a battle to the death,

without quarter or mercy.... Battle!"

"And also I, brother, shall have neither pity nor mercy for that thief,

the cause of all my misfortunes!" cried Mazurec, pointing at the knight

of Chaumontel, and added: "Adam, untie also his hands. There is room

enough here for a double combat. My brother shall have the seigneur....

I shall take this thief of a knight. Give me a pitch-fork, the fork is

the lance of Jacques Bonhomme."

Freed of his bonds and clad only in his shirt and hose, Gerard of

Chaumontel receives from William Caillet a stick to defend himself with,

and from Adam the Devil a rude push that throws him in front of Mazurec,

who, protected from head to foot by the knight's own armor, holds up his

three-pronged and sharp fork.

"Come up, you double thief!" Mazurec called out; "must I step forward to

meet you?"

[The knight of Chaumontel, pale from fright and pursued by the cries of

(these words missing due to printer's error, here translated from the

French version by the etext transcriber)] the Jacques, grasps his stick

with both hands and forcing a smile on his lips answers: "The

heralds-at-arms have not yet given the signal."

In the meantime, Conrad of Nointel, whose arms have been unbound,

stooped down to seize the sword from which Jocelyn had not yet lifted

his foot.

"One moment!" cried the champion, always with his foot firmly on the

sword. "Sire of Nointel, look me in the face ... if you dare!"

Conrad raised his head, fastened his glistening eyes upon his adversary

and asked: "What do you want?"

"Worthy Sire, I wish to goad you to the combat. I mistrust your courage.

You fled like a coward at the battle of Poitiers, and a minute ago you

referred to me as a vile slave fit only for the whip and the cane--"

"And I say so again!" yelled Conrad turning red and white with rage,

"you vagabond!"

"Take this for the insult!" came from Jocelyn like a flash while

buffeting the livid face of Conrad of Nointel. "These slaps are the goad

I promised you. Even if you were more cowardly than a hare, fury will

now serve you instead of courage!" Saying this Jocelyn made a leap

backward, placing himself on his guard and leaving the sword on the

ground free. Crazed with rage, Conrad of Nointel seized the weapon and

rushed upon Jocelyn at the very moment that, armed with his stick,

Gerard of Chaumontel was rapidly retreating before the approaching

prongs of Mazurec's fork.

"Infamous thief!" cried the vassal pressing the knight with his fork; "I

had more courage than you.... I threw myself under the feet of your

horse, and seized you hand to hand!"

"My Jacques!" cried out Adam the Devil seeing the knight of Chaumontel

still retreating before Mazurec, "cross your scythes behind that knight

of cowardice; let him fall under your iron if he tries to escape

Mazurec's fork."

The Jacques followed Adam the Devil's suggestion; at the same time that

Mazurec ran forward with his fork Gerard of Chaumontel perceived a

formidable array of scythes rise behind him.

"Cowardly varlets! Infamous scamps! You abuse your strength!"

"And you, worthy knight," answered Adam the Devil, "did not you abuse

your strength when you fought on horseback and in full armor against

Mazurec half naked and with only a stick to defend himself?"

During this short dialogue, the Sire of Nointel was impetuously charging

upon Jocelyn. Rendered dexterous in the handling of the sword by the

practice of the tourneys, young, agile and vigorous, he aims many an

adroit blow at Jocelyn, who, however, parries them all like a consummate

gladiator, while pricking his adversary with the contemptuous remark.

"To know how to handle a sword so well, and yet to retreat so pitifully

at the battle of Poitiers! What a shame!"

With a rapid step back Jocelyn evades at that instant a dangerous thrust

of Conrad of Nointel's sword, retorts with a vigorous pass, smites his

adversary on the shoulder and, to his great astonishment, sees him

suddenly roll on the ground, seem to stiffen his members, and then

remain motionless.

"What?" observed the champion lowering his sword, "dead with so little?

Beaten down so quickly?"

"Brother, look out ... it probably is a ruse!" cried Mazurec, at whom

Gerard of Chaumontel had finally aimed so furious a blow with his stick

that it broke into splinters against the iron casque on the vassal's

head. "Without the casque I would now be a dead man. Oh! that's a good

practice you knights have of fighting so well armed against half naked

Jacques Bonhomme!" Although somewhat dazed by the shock, Mazurec plunged

his fork into the bowels of the robber knight, who fell blaspheming.

Observing that Conrad still remained motionless on the ground, Mazurec

repeated the warning: "Look out, brother! It is a ruse!"

And so it was. Astonished at the fall of his adversary Jocelyn was

stooping over him when the Sire of Nointel suddenly rose on his

haunches, seized the champion's leg with one hand, and with the other

sought to stab his adversary in the flank with a dagger that he had kept

concealed in his hose. Taken by surprise and pulled by a leg, Jocelyn

lost his balance.

"Viper!" cried Jocelyn dropping his sword and falling upon Conrad whose

hand he struggled to overpower. "I was on the look-out.... I thought

your death was feigned!" and wresting the dagger from Conrad's hand,

Jocelyn plunged it in his adversary's breast: "Die, thou son of the

Nerowegs!"

"Gerard!" muttered Conrad, dying, "I ... was wrong ... in violating the

vassal's wife.... Oh, Gloriande!"

Hardly had Jocelyn stepped aside from the corpse of the Sire of Nointel

when his vassals, so often the victims of his cruelty, precipitated

themselves upon the arena, and plying their forks, scythes and axes with

savage fury on the still warm body of their recent tyrant, mutilated it

beyond recognition. In the meantime, aided by other Jacques, Adam the

Devil raised the knight of Chaumontel, who, though mortally wounded by

the thrust of Mazurec's fork, was still alive, and called out: "Fetch

the bag and ropes!"

A peasant brought a bag with which they had provided themselves at the

castle of Chivry. The bleeding body of the knight of Chaumontel was

placed within and tied fast so as to allow his cadaverous head to stick

out, and the bundle was carried to the Orville bridge.

"Do you recall my prophecy," Mazurec asked the knight, with a diabolical

smile; "I prophesied you would be drowned."

Gerard of Chaumontel uttered a deep moan. A superstitious terror now

overpowered him. His wonted haughtiness was no more. In a fainting voice

he murmured: "Oh, St. James, have pity upon me.... Oh, St. James,

intercede for me.... with our Lord and all his saints.... I am justly

punished.... I stole the vassal's purse.... Oh, Lord, Oh, Lord, have

pity upon me!"

Arrived at the Orville bridge, the peasants threw the bagged body of the

knight of Chaumontel into the river amid the frantic cheers of the

Jacques, who exclaimed: "May thus perish all seigneurs!"

CHAPTER VI.

ON TO CLERMONT!

Tarrying a moment on the Orville bridge, which the Jacques had left on

the march to join other bands and proceed in stronger force against

other seigniories, Jocelyn noticed a rider approaching at full gallop. A

few minutes later he recognized the rider to be Rufin the

Tankard-smasher, who soon reined in near the bridge, followed at a

distance by a considerable number of insurgents.

Jumping off his horse Rufin said to Jocelyn: "I learned from the

peasants coming up behind me that there was a large gathering of Jacques

at this place; I thought I would find you among them and hastened hither

to deliver to you a letter from Master Marcel.... Great events are

transpiring in Paris."

Jocelyn eagerly took the missive, and while he read it, Rufin the

Tankard-smasher went on saying: "By Jupiter! The company of an honorable

woman brings good luck. When I used to have Margot on my arms, I always

ran up against some accident; on the other hand, nothing could have been

happier than this trip of mine to Paris with Alison the Huffy, who, I

fancy, is huffy only at Cupid. We arrived in Paris without accident, and

Dame Marguerite received Alison with great friendship. Oh, my friend! I

worship that tavern-keeper. Fie! What an improper term! No! That Hebe!

And was not Hebe the Olympian tavern-keeper? Oh, if Alison would only

have me for her husband, we would set up a lovely tavern, intended

especially for the students of the University. The shield would be

splendid. It would exhibit Greek and Latin verses appealing to the

topers, such as: "Like Bacchus does----"

Jocelyn here interrupted the student, saying with much animation after

he had finished Etienne Marcel's letter: "Rufin, I return with you to

Paris; the provost has orders for me. Mazurec is revenged. Everywhere

the Jacques are rising according to the information that reaches Marcel

from the provinces. The formidable movement must now be directed and

utilized. The Jacquerie must be organized. Wait for me a minute. I shall

be back immediately."

Jocelyn thereupon called to Adam the Devil, Mazurec and William Caillet,

who had also remained behind, took them aside and said: "Marcel calls me

to his side. The Regent has withdrawn to Compiegne; he has declared

Paris out of the pale of the law and is preparing to march upon the city

at the head of the royal troops; they are waiting for him, and will give

him a warm reception. All the communal towns, Meaux, Amiens, Laon,

Beauvais, Noyons, Senlis are in arms. Everywhere the peasants are rising

and the bourgeois and guild corporations are joining them. The King of

Navarre is captain-general of Paris. The man deserves the nickname of

'Wicked,' nevertheless he is a powerful instrument. Marcel will break

him if he deviate from the right path and refuse to bow before the

popular sovereignty. The hour of Gaul's enfranchisement has sounded at

last. In order to carry the work to a successful issue, the Jacquerie

will have to be regulated. These scattered and dispersed bands must

gather together, must discipline their forces and form an army capable

of coping, first with that of the Regent, and then with the English. We

must first crush the inside foe and then the foreign one."

"That is right," said Caillet, thoughtfully. "Ten scattered bands can

not accomplish much; the ten together can. I am known in Beauvoisis. Our

Jacques will follow me wherever I lead them. Once the seigneurs are

exterminated, we shall fall upon the English, a vermin that gnaws at the

little that seigneurs and their clergy leave us."

"Yesterday's butcheries have opened my appetite," cried Adam the Devil,

brandishing his scythe. "We shall mow down the English to the last man.

Death to all oppressors!"

"The crop will be fine if we mow together," replied Jocelyn. "Meaux,

Senlis, Beauvais and Clermont are awaiting the Jacques with open arms.

Their gates will be opened to the peasants. These will find there food

and arms."

"Iron and bread! We need no more!" put in William Caillet. "And what is

Marcel's plan?"

"These fortified cities, occupied by the Jacques and the armed

bourgeoisie, will hold the Regent's troops in check in the provinces,"

answered Jocelyn. "The other sections of the country are to organize

themselves similarly. Now, listen well to Marcel's instructions. The

King of Navarre is on our side because he expects with the support of

the popular party to dethrone the Regent. He occupies Clermont with his

troops. Thence he is to proceed to Paris and meet the royal army under

the walls of the city. He needs reinforcements. Marcel mistrusts him.

Now, then, you are to gather all the bands of Jacques into a body and

proceed to Clermont at the head of eight thousand men. You can then join

Charles the Wicked without fear, although he is never to be trusted. But

as his own forces barely number two thousand foot soldiers and five

hundred horsemen, in case of treason they would be crushed by the

Jacques, who would out-number them four to one."

"Agreed," answered William Caillet, after carefully listening to the

champion, "and from Clermont are we to march straight to Paris?"