Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  At first, patiently endured by the communiers, these insults, accentuated with outbursts of contemptuous laughter and disdainful gestures, ended, nevertheless, by irritating the more impetuous. Dull murmurs rose from the crowd; the procession halted, despite the entreaties of Fergan, who urged upon the militiamen the silence of contempt. Some threatened the episcopals with their fists, others with their arms; but their tormentors redoubled their gibes at the sight of such signs of irritation. Suddenly John Molrain, the Mayor, rushing to one of the stone benches, common near the doors of dwellings to assist riders in mounting their horses, jumped upon it, ordered silence, and addressed the crowd in a sonorous voice, that reached the ears of the episcopals:

  “Brothers, and all those who have taken the oath of the Commune of Laon, make no reply to impotent insults! Let any dare attack the Commune with deeds and not with words, then will we, your Mayor and Councilmen, summon the offender before our tribunal, and justice will be enforced upon our enemies — prompt and energetic justice! Until then, let us answer all provocation with disdain. The resolute man, strong in his rights, despises insults. At the hour of judgment, he condemns and punishes!”

  These wise and measured words quieted the excitement of the crowd, but they also reached the ears of the nobles, assembled on the terrace of the house of the seigneur of Haut-Pourcin, and added fuel to their rage. They menaced the communiers with their canes and swords, while redoubling their gibes. “Your swords are not long enough, they do not reach us!” Colombaik cried out to them, while passing under the balcony with his division of the militia. “Come down into the street! We shall then see whether iron is heavier in the hands of a bourgeois than in that of a knight!”

  This challenge was answered by the episcopals with fresh insults. However, they dared not descend into the street, where they would have been seized and taken prisoners by the militia. For a moment delayed on its march, the procession resumed its way and arrived at the place of the Town Hall, a monument dear to the artisans and other townsmen.

  The edifice, a spacious and handsome structure recently erected, formed an oblong square. Elaborate sculptures ornamented its facade and the lintels of its numerous windows and architrave, which consisted of three ogive arcades sustained by elegant sheaves of stone columns. But the portion of the edifice upon which particular care had been devoted, both in point of construction and ornamentation, was the tower of the belfry and the campanile, where hung the bell. This tower, proudly rising above the roof, stood out in full view. From tier to tier a slender sheet supported rounds of small columns surmounted with ogives chiseled in trefoil, so that across the network of chiseled stone the spiral of the staircase was visible that led up to the campanile, veiled in white cloth up to the moment when the procession issued upon the place. When the covering dropped off and the campanile stood unveiled, a shout of admiration and patriotic enthusiasm rose from all breasts. Nothing so airy as that campanile, looking like a gilded cage of iron, whose outlines stood out against the blue of the sky like a lace-work of gold, glittering in the rays of the sun. Above the dazzling dome, the communal banner floated in the spring breeze of that beautiful April morning. The enthusiastic cheers of the crowds rose again and again, and the north wind must have carried to the ears of the episcopals the cry, a thousand times repeated:

  “Commune! Commune! Long live the Commune!”

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE ECCLESIASTICAL SEIGNIORY OF GAUDRY.

  THE EPISCOPAL PALACE of Laon rose close to the cathedral. Thick walls, fortified with two heavy towers, between which stood the gate, surrounded the dwelling from all sides. From the view-point of the benign morality of Jesus — the friend of the poor and the afflicted — nothing was less episcopal than the interior of this palace. One would imagine himself in the fortified castle of some feudal seigneur, a broiler and hunter. The singular contrast between the place and the character that it should have presented, left a painful impression upon all upright hearts, and such, indeed, was the feeling experienced by archdeacon Anselm, when, shortly after engaging Fergan to urge upon the communiers indifference towards the provocations of the episcopals, that disciple of Christ crossed the yard of the bishop. Here falconers were engaged washing and preparing the raw meat destined for the falcons, or cleaned up their roosts; yonder, the huntsmen, their horns on their guard-chains and whip in hand, led for pastime a pack of large dogs of Picardy, prized so highly by hunters. Further away, serfs of the episcopal domain were being drilled in the handling of arms under the command of one of the bishop’s equerries. This last circumstance struck the archdeacon with amazement, and increased his fears for the peace of the city. The venerable man was overcome with sadness and two large tears dropped from his eyes.

  Although an associate of clergymen, Anselm was a man of great kindness of heart, pure, disinterested, austere and of rare learning. He was called “doctor of doctors.” He declined the episcopacy several times, fearing, it was said, to seem to censure, by the Christian meekness of his nature and the chastity of his habits, the conduct of most of the bishops of Gaul. His face, at once pale and serene, his hair thinned by study, imparted a distinguished aspect to his person, tempered by the kindliness of his eyes. Modestly dressed in his black gown, Anselm was slowly crossing the yard of the abbey, contrasting their noisy tumult with the repose of his own studious retreat, when he saw, approaching him from a distance, a negro of giant stature, dressed in Oriental garb, his head covered with a red turban. This African slave, of mean and savage physiognomy, was named John since his baptism. He was, many years before, given as a present to Bishop Gaudry by a Crusader seigneur, returned from the Holy Land. By little and little Black John grew to be the favorite of his new master, the intermediary of the latter’s debaucheries, or the instrument of his cruelties, before the establishment of the Commune. Since that transformation, the persons and property of the communiers had become safe. If an injury was done to either, the Commune obtained or itself enforced justice against the wrong-doer. Accordingly, the bishop and the nobles had been forced to renounce their habits of violence and rapine.

  When the archdeacon saw Black John, the latter was descending a staircase that ended in a door, wrought under a vault closed with a grating, that separated the first two walks of a green reserved for the bishop. A woman, wrapped in a mantle that completely concealed her face, accompanied the slave. Anselm could not restrain a gesture of indignation. Knowing the dwellers of the palace, and aware that the staircase under the vault led to the apartments of the bishop, he had no doubt that the veiled woman, leaving the palace at so early an hour and under the guide of Black John, the bishop’s regular procurer, had passed the night with the prelate. Blushing with chaste confusion, the archdeacon had turned his head away with disgust at the moment when, having opened the grated gate, the slave and his female companion passed close by him. Stepping into the vault, the archdeacon entered the green, — a spacious enclosure, that, swarded and planted with trees, spread before the windows of the private apartments of Bishop Gaudry.

  This man, a Norman by extraction and descended from the pirates of old Rolf, after having fought in the ranks of William the Bastard, when he conquered England, was later, in 1106, promoted to the bishopric of Laon. Cruel and debauched, covetous and prodigal, Gaudry was, besides all, a passionate huntsman. Still agile and vigorous, although beyond the prime of life, he was at that moment trying a young horse and breaking it in to step on the green that Anselm had just entered. In order to feel more at ease, the bishop had taken off his long morning robe, lined with fur, and kept on nothing but his sock-pointed shoes, his hose and a short jacket of flexible material. Bare-headed, his gray hair to the wind, still an able and bold cavalier, and riding bare-back the young stallion, that had for the first time come from the paddock, Gaudry was pressing his nervy knees against the flanks of the mettlesome animal, resisting its boundings and kicking, and forcing it to run in a circle over the sward of the green. The bishop’s equerry applauded wi
th voice and gesture the skill of his master, while a serf of robust frame and gallows-bird countenance followed the riding lesson with cunning eyes. This serf, who belonged to the abbey of St. Vincent, a fief of the bishopric, was named Thiegaud. The fellow — originally charged with the collection of toll over a bridge near the city, a dependency of the castellan Enguerrand de Coucy, one of the most ferocious feudal tyrants of Picardy who was dreaded for his audacity and cruelty — had been guilty of a number of extortions and even murders. Gaudry, struck by the resolute character of the scamp, demanded him from the castellan of Coucy in exchange for another serf, and charged him with the collection of the arbitrary taxes that he imposed upon his vassals, a charge that Thiegaud filled with remorseless severity. Thus the bishop treated the serf with great familiarity, habitually called him his “friend Ysengrin” — the wolf’s companion — and, at a pinch, used him for a go-between in his debaucheries, not, however, without awakening the vindictive jealousy of Black John, who felt secretly enraged at the sight of another than himself in the secret confidence of his master.

  Gaudry, while riding around the green, saw the archdeacon, made the stallion suddenly face about, and after a few more boundings the impetuous animal brought the bishop close to Anselm. Lightly jumping off, the bishop said to his equerry, throwing the bridle over to him: “I’ll keep the horse; take him to my stables; he will be matchless in the hunt of stags and boars!”

  “If you keep the horse, seigneur bishop,” answered Thiegaud, “give me a hundred and twenty silver sous. That’s the price they demand.”

  “That’s all right. What’s the hurry?” rejoined the bishop, and turning to his equerry: “Gerhard, take the horse to the stable.”

  “Not so,” said Thiegaud, “the tenant-farmer is waiting at the gate of the palace. He has been ordered to take the horse back or receive its price in money. It is the orders of the owner of the stallion.”

  “The impudent scamp who gave that order deserves to receive as many lashes as his horse has hairs in his tail!” cried out the bishop. “Have I not, as a matter of right, six months’ credit in my own seigniory?”

  “No,” coolly answered Anselm, “that seignioral right has been abolished since the city of Laon is a free Commune. Never forget the difference between the present and the past. The seignioral rights are abolished.”

  “I am reminded of that but too often!” answered the bishop with concentrated vexation. “However that may be, Gerhard, obey my orders and take the horse to the stable.”

  “Seigneur,” said Thiegaud, “the owner is waiting, I tell you. He must have the money, a hundred and twenty silver sous, or the animal back.”

  “He shall not have the horse!” answered the bishop angrily striking the ground. “If the farmer dares to grumble, tell him to send me his master. We shall see whether he will have the audacity to appear on such an errand before his bishop.”

  “He will surely have the audacity, seigneur bishop,” replied Thiegaud. “The owner of the horse is Colombaik the Tanner, a communier of Laon and son of Fergan, master quarryman of the mill hill. I know these people. I notify you that the father and son are of those ... who dare ... anything.”

  “Blood of Christ! and devil’s horns! we have had words enough!” cried out the bishop. “Gerhard, take the stallion to the stables!”

  The equerry obeyed, and the archdeacon was on the point of remonstrating with Gaudry on the injustice and danger of his conduct, when, hearing a great noise in the yards contiguous to the green, the bishop, already in a bad humor and yielding to the passion of his temperament, rushed out of the green, without taking time to put on his robe again and leaving it behind on a bench. He had hardly crossed the first yard, followed by the equerry, who led the horse, and by Thiegaud, who in his perversity was smiling at this latest iniquity of his master, when he saw a crowd of the domestics of his household coming towards him. They were all yelling and gesticulating violently, and surrounded Black John, whose gigantic stature rose above them by the full length of his head. No less excited than his fellows, Black John also yelled and gesticulated, foaming at the mouth with rage and brandishing his Saracen dagger.

  “What means this hurly?” inquired the bishop of Laon stepping before the advancing crowd. “Why do you scream in that way?”

  Several voices answered at once: “We are crying out against the bourgeois of Laon! The dogs of the communiers!”

  “What has happened? Answer quick!”

  “Black John will tell monseigneur!” several voices called in great excitement.

  The African giant turned towards his fellows, motioned them to be silent, and wiping on his sleeves the bloody blade of his dagger, said to the bishop in an excited voice, still trembling with rage, but not without calculatingly casting upon Thiegaud a look of rancorous hatred:

  “I had just led Mussine the Pretty to the outer gate—”

  “My daughter!” Thiegaud ejaculated stupefied at the very moment when, angrily stamping the ground, the prelate checked the indiscreet words of his slave with a silent gesture. Black John remained mute like one who understands too late the folly he committed, while the rest of the bishop’s domestics stealthily giggled at the consternation of Thiegaud. Some dreaded him for his malignity, others envied him for his intimate relations with their master. Thiegaud, livid at the startling revelation, flashed at Gaudry a sinister look quick as lightning; his features thereupon as quickly reassumed their usual expression, and he started to laugh louder than the rest at the awkward blunder of Black John. He even went the length of indulging in ironical deference towards Gaudry. The latter, long acquainted with the criminal life of the serf of St. Vincent, was not surprised at seeing him remain so indifferent to the disgrace of his daughter. Nevertheless, yielding to that respect for man that even the most depraved characters never succeed in wholly stripping themselves of, the bishop silenced the suppressed merriment with an imperious gesture and said: “Those giggles are unseemly. Thiegaud’s daughter came early in the morning, as so many other penitents do, to consult me on a case of conscience. After listening to her in the confessional, I ordered John to accompany her to the gate.”

  “That’s so true,” added Thiegaud with perfect composure, “that, having to bring this morning a horse to our seigneur the bishop, I expected to return with my daughter. But she left by the vaulted door while I was still on the green.”

  “Friend Ysengrin,” resumed the prelate with a mixture a haughtiness and familiarity, “my words can dispense with your testimony.” And wishing to cut off short this incident, which had the archdeacon, silent but profoundly indignant, for a witness, Gaudry said to the black slave: “Speak! What has happened between you and the communiers, whom may the pest carry off and hell confound! May Satan take them all!”

  “I was opening the gate for Mussine the Pretty, when three bourgeois, coming from the suburbs and bound for the principal entry of the city, to assist at the ceremonies announced by the belfry of those rogues, passed by the palace. Seeing a veiled woman come out, those scamps set up a malicious laugh, and nudged one another in the ribs while keeping on their way. I ran after them and asked: ‘What are you laughing about, you dogs of communiers?’ They gave me an insolent answer and called me the bishop’s hangman. I then drew my dagger and stabbed one of them in the arm, and leaving his companions and him loudly threatening to demand justice from the Commune, I returned and locked the door after me. By Mahomet, I am proud of what I did. I avenged my master for the insults of those curs!”

  “Black John did well!” cried the domestics of the bishop. “We can no longer go out without being shamed by the communiers of Laon.”

  “The other day,” put in one of the falconers, “the butcher of Exchange street, one of the Councilmen of the Commune, refused to give me meat on credit for the falcons!”

  “At the taverns we are compelled to pay before drinking! The shame and humiliation of it!”

  “It was not thus three years ago!”

&
nbsp; “Those were good days! A retainer of the bishop then took without paying whatever he wanted from the merchants; he caressed their wives and daughters; and none dared say a word. By the womb of the Virgin Mary, we were then masters! But since the establishment of the Commune it is the bourgeois who command! The devil take the Commune! Three cheers for the good old times!”

  “To hell with the communiers, they make us die of shame for our seigneur the bishop!” exclaimed one of the young serfs who had been shortly before exercising in the use of arms. And resolutely addressing the prelate, who, so far from quieting down the excitement of his people, seemed delighted at their recriminations, and encouraged them with a smile of approval: “Say the word, our bishop! There are here fifty of us who have learned to manage the bow and pike! Place a few knights at our head, and we will descend upon the city, leaving not a stone upon another of the houses of that bourgeois and artisan rabble!”

  “Say the word!” cried out Thiegaud, “and I will bring you, my holy patron, a hundred woodsmen and colliers from the forest of St. Vincent. They will make a bonfire of the houses of those bourgeois and artisans fit to roast Beelzebub! Death and damnation to the communiers!”

  If the bishop of Laon had entertained any doubt upon the indifference of the serf of St. Vincent regarding his daughter’s shame, it was removed by the man’s words. Accordingly, doubly satisfied with the tokens of Thiegaud’s devotion, the bishop addressed his people in these words: “I am glad to find you in such a frame of mind. Remain so. The hour for going to work will arrive sooner than you may think. As to you, my brave John, you have avenged me on the insolence of those communiers. Fear not. Not a hair of your head shall be touched. As to you, friend Ysengrin, notify the farmer that I keep the horse, and I shall pay him if I choose. Then, see our friends the woodsmen and colliers of the forest. I may need them any day. When that day shall come, they shall be free, in reward for their good will, to plunder at their pleasure the houses of the bourgeois of Laon.” Turning thereupon towards the archdeacon, who had witnessed this scene without uttering a word, he said to him: “Let’s go in. What has just taken place under your own eyes will have prepared you for the interview we are to have, and for which I summoned you hither.”