by Eugène Sue
“And attracted by such a promise,” put in Colombaik, “the abbot surely accepted?”
“Without making any promises, the tonsured gentleman agreed to communicate our offer to the King when he retired, and he made an appointment with John Molrain for eleven in the evening. The Councilmen, having approved the proposition of the Mayor, went over the city, soliciting each of our friends to contribute according to his power towards the sum offered to the King. This last sacrifice was expected to roll away from our city the threatened dangers of war. All the inhabitants hastened to put in their quota. Those who had not enough money, gave some vessel of silver; women and young girls offered their trinkets and their collars; finally, towards evening, the sum or its equivalent in articles of gold and silver was deposited in the communal treasury. John Molrain returned to the King to hear his answer. The Abbot de la Marche informed the Mayor that the King did not seem indisposed to accept our propositions, but that he desired to wait till morning before taking a definite resolution. There is where matters now stand. In a hurry to make the rounds of our watchmen, and having no time to come here for money, I requested our good neighbor the baker to pay for us our share of the contribution. Colombaik shall take to Ancel the money he advanced for our family.”
“Surely the King will accept the offer of the Councilmen,” observed Joan, “what interest could he have in refusing to profit by so large a sum? He is a greedy prince. He will accept our money.”
“What a wretched trader that Louis the Lusty is!” exclaimed Colombaik. “He has us pay him to confirm our charter, and he has us pay him a second time to re-confirm it. Patient people that we are! We must pay, and pay again!”
“What does it matter, my child,” said Joan; “provided no blood flows, let us pay a double tribute, if necessary!”
“‘It is with iron that tribute should be paid to kings,’ said our ancestor Vortigern to that other tonsured representative sent by Louis the Pious,” rejoined Colombaik, looking almost with regret at the iron pikes that his apprentices, who had not intermitted their work, were engaged upon. “Oh, those times are long gone by!”
“Fergan!” suddenly Joan called out, inclining her head towards the street; “listen! Is not that the bell, and the voice of a crier. Let’s find out what is up—”
At these words the quarryman’s family approached the open window. The sun had just risen. A crier of the bishop, distinguishable by the arms embroidered on the breast of his coat, was seen passing the house. He alternately rang his bell and then cried out: “In the name of our seigneur the King! In the name of our seigneur the Bishop! Inhabitants of Laon assemble in the market-place at the eighth hour of the day!” and the crier rang anew his bell, the sound of which was soon lost in the distance. For an instant the family of the quarryman remained silent, each seeking to guess the object of the King and the bishop in ordering the assemblage. Joan, always yielding to hope, said to Fergan: “The King probably wishes to assemble the inhabitants in order to announce to them that he accepts the money and confirms the charter anew.”
“If such was the intention of Louis the Lusty, if he had accepted the offer of the Commune, he would have notified the Mayor,” the quarryman answered, sadly shaking his head.
“Perhaps he has done that. We may expect him to have done so, father.”
“In that case the Mayor would have issued orders to ring the belfry bell, in order to assemble the communiers and announce to them the happy tidings. I do not like this convocation, made in the name of the King and the bishop. It presages nothing good. We have everything to fear from our enemies.”
“Fergan!” replied Joan alarmed, “must we, then, renounce all hope of an accommodation? Is it war? Is it peace?”
“We shall soon be clear upon that. It will not be long before the eighth hour will sound,” whereupon Fergan resumed his casque and his sword, which he had put away upon entering, and said to his son: “Arm yourself and let’s go to the market-place. As to you, my young ones,” said he, turning to the apprentices, “continue adjusting the pike-heads to the shafts.”
“Fergan!” exclaimed Joan anxiously, “you foresee war?”
“Oh, Colombaik,” said Martine, weeping and throwing herself upon the neck of her husband, “I die with fear, when I think of the dangers that you and your father are about to run!”
“Be comforted, dear wife, by ordering these preparations of resistance to continue, my father only adopts a measure of prudence,” answered Colombaik. “The situation is not desperate.”
“My dear Joan,” the quarryman said sadly, “I have seen you bear up more bravely on the sands of Syria. Remember what perils you, your child and I escaped during our long journey in Palestine, and when we were serfs of Neroweg VI—”
“Fergan,” Joan broke in, overcome with anguish, “the dangers of the past were terrible, and the future looks menacing.”
“We were all so happy in this city!” muttered Martine. “Those wicked episcopals, so anxious to turn our joy into mourning, have, nevertheless, the same as the communiers, wives, mothers, sisters, daughters!”
“That is true,” said Fergan bitterly; “but those men of the nobility and their families, driven by the pride of station and living in idleness, are furious at no longer being able to dispose of our hard labor. Oh! If they tire our patience and if they mean to reconquer their hateful rights, woe be unto the episcopals! Terrible reprisals await them!” And embracing Joan and Martine, the quarryman added: “Good-bye, wife; good-bye, my child.”
“Good-bye, good mother; good-bye, Martine,” Colombaik said in his turn, “I accompany my father to the market-place. Soon as we shall have definite information, I shall return to let you know. Remain at ease and without any apprehensions.”
“Come, daughter,” said Joan to Martine, after once more embracing her husband and her son, who forthwith went out, “let’s resume our sad task. For a moment I had hoped we could drop it.”
The two women began anew to prepare lint and bandages, while the young apprentices, resuming their work with renewed ardor, continued shafting the iron pikes.
CHAPTER VII.
“TO ARMS, COMMUNIERS!”
AN EVER INCREASING crowd flowed into the market-place. Not now, as on the previous day, did joy and the breath of security brighten the faces of men, women and children gathering to celebrate the inauguration of the communal Town Hall and belfry, the symbol of the emancipation of the inhabitants. No; neither women nor children assisted at this gathering, so different from the first. Only the men met, sombre, uneasy, some determined, others crestfallen, and all foreseeing the approach of a public danger. Assembled in large groups around the pillars of the market-place, the communiers discussed the latest tidings — not yet known by Fergan at the time when, in the company of his son, he left his house — significant and alarming tidings. The watchmen on the towers, between which one of the gates of the city opened on a promenade that extended between the ramparts and the episcopal palace, had seen a large troop of woodmen serfs and colliers, with Thiegaud, the bandit and favorite of Bishop Gaudry, march into the palace at daybreak. A short time after daybreak, the King, accompanied by his knights and men-at-arms, had also retired into the fortified dwelling of the prelate, leaving Laon by the south gate, which the sentinels had not dared to refuse to open to the royal cavalcade. The courtiers of the King having warned him that the inhabitants of the city had been up all night, and that the blacksmiths’ and locksmiths’ anvils had constantly rung under the hammer in the manufacture of a large number of pikes, such preparations of defence, such a nocturnal excitement, all so contrary to the peaceful habits of the townsmen, awoke the royal suspicions and fears, and he had hastened to transfer his quarters to the episcopal palace, where he considered himself safer. Instructed on the departure of the Prince, the Mayor, John Molrain had himself run to the episcopal palace, where admission was refused him. Foreseeing as much, the Mayor had provided himself with a letter to the abbot counselor of the King
, in which Molrain repeated his propositions of the previous day, and implored the King to accept them in the name of public peace. Molrain added that the Commune held the promised sum at the disposal of the King. To a letter so wisely framed and so conciliating, the King sent for answer that in the morning the inhabitants of Laon would be apprized of his pleasure. During that same night, it had been noticed in the city that the episcopals, entrenched in their fortified and solidly barricaded houses, had frequently exchanged signals among themselves by means of torches placed at their windows and alternately lighted and extinguished. These alarming tidings demolished almost completely the hope of an accommodation, and threw the communiers into a state of increasing anxiety. The Councilmen had been the first to appear at the market-place, where they were soon joined by the Mayor. The latter, grave and resolute, ordered silence, mounted one of the stands in the deserted stalls and said to the crowd:
“The eighth hour of the day will soon sound. I have ordered the messenger of the King to be allowed into the city when he presents himself at the gate. The King and the bishop have ordered us to meet here, at the market-place, to hear their pleasure. We prefer to receive the royal message at our Town Hall. That is the seat of our power. The more that power is contested from us, all the more zealous should we show ourselves in holding it high.”
The Mayor’s proposition was received with acclamation, and while the crowd followed the magistrates, Fergan and his son, commissioned to wait for the King’s messengers, saw Archdeacon Anselm approaching with hurried steps. Thanks to his goodness and his uprightness, the prelate was beloved and venerated by all. Making a sign to the quarryman to draw near, he said to him in an agitated voice: “Will you join me in an endeavor to avert the frightful misfortunes that this city is threatened with?”
“The King has not, then, been moved even by the last sacrifice that we imposed upon ourselves? He refused the offer of John Molrain?”
“The bishop, learning that the Mayor had offered the King a considerable sum for the re-confirmation of your charter, offered Louis the Lusty twice as much to abolish the Commune, and promised rich presents to the King’s counselors.”
“And the King gave ear to such an infamous auction sale?”
“He gave ear to the suggestions of his own cupidity. He listened to the counselors that surround him, and he accepted the bishop’s offer.”
“The oath that Louis the Lusty took, his signature, his seal affixed to our charter — all that is then nullified?”
“The bishop absolved the King of his oath, by virtue of his episcopal power of binding and unbinding here on earth. A sacredotal chicanery.”
“The King is in error if he expects to receive the price of that infamous traffic. The treasure of the bishop is empty. How could the King, so astute a trader, rely upon the promises of Gaudry?”
“Once the bishop’s seigniorial power is restored, he will clap upon the townsmen, who will have again become taxable and subject to any imposts at his mercy, a tax to pay the sum promised to the King, and the latter himself will lend armed assistance to the bishop to levy the new contributions.”
“Fatality!” cried out Fergan in an outburst of rage. “We shall, accordingly, have paid to obtain our enfranchisement, and are to pay over again to fall back into servitude!”
“The projects of the bishop are as criminal as insane. But if you desire to ward off even greater dangers, you will try to allay the popular effervescence when the decision of the King shall be announced to the Councilmen.”
“You advise a cowardly act! No, I shall not seek to pacify the people, when the insolent challenge shall have been thrown in their faces! You will hear me the first to cry out: ‘Commune! Commune!’ and I shall march at the head of my forces against the bishop. It will be a battle to the knife!”
“Will you promise me not to precipitate so bloody a solution, that I may make new efforts to lead the bishop back to more equitable sentiments?”
Anselm had hardly finished speaking when a man on horseback, preceded by a sergeant-at-arms, covered with iron and the visor of his casque up, appeared at the entrance of the street.
“Here is the royal messenger,” said the quarryman to the archdeacon, advancing towards the two cavaliers; “if the resolution of the King and the bishop is such as you have just informed me of, let the blood that is to run fall upon them!” Addressing then the royal messenger:
“The Mayor and the Councilmen are awaiting you in the large reception room of the Town Hall of the Commune.”
“Monseigneur the King and monseigneur the Bishop commanded the inhabitants to assemble here at the market-place, in order to hear the rescript that I bring,” answered the messenger; “I must obey the orders given me.”
“If you wish to fulfil your mission, follow me,” replied the quarryman. “Our magistrates, representing the inhabitants of the city, are assembled at the Town Hall. They have not chosen to wait here.” Fearing some trap, the King’s messenger hesitated to follow Fergan, who, surmising his thoughts, added: “Fear nothing; your person will be respected; I answer for you with my head.”
The sincerity that breathed through the words of Fergan reassured the envoy, who, from greater prudence, ordered the knight, by whom he was escorted, to accompany him no further, lest the sight of an armed man should irritate the crowd. The royal messenger then followed the quarryman.
“Fergan,” the archdeacon called in a penetrating voice, “a last time I conjure you, seek to curb the popular anger. I return to the King and the bishop to renew my endeavors against the fatal course they are starting on.”
With that the archdeacon precipitately left the quarryman, who, leaving the market-place, reached the Town Hall, and stepping ahead of the messenger into the crowd repeated several times, while elbowing his way through: “Room and respect for the envoy; he is alone and unarmed!”
Arrived at the threshold of the Town Hall, the envoy left his horse in charge of Robin the Crumb-cracker, who pressed forward offering to guard the palfrey; and accompanied by the quarryman he went up to the large reception hall where were gathered the Mayor and the Councilmen, some in arms, others merely in the robes of their office. The faces of the magistrates were at once grave and uneasy. They misgave the approach of events disastrous to the city. Above the Mayor’s seat stood the Communal banner; on a table before him, lay the official silver seal. The gathering was silent and wrapt in thought.
“Mayor and Councilmen! Here is the royal envoy who wishes to make a communication to you.”
“We shall listen to him,” answered the Mayor, John Molrain; “let him communicate to us the message he is charged with.”
The King’s man seemed embarrassed in the fulfillment of his errand. He drew from his breast a parchment scroll, sealed with the royal seal, and unfolding it he said in a tremulous voice: “This is the pleasure of our seigneur the King. He has ordered me to read this rescript to you aloud, and to leave it with you, to the end that you may not remain in ignorance upon its contents. Listen to it with respect.”
“Read,” said John Molrain; and turning to the Councilmen: “Above all, my friends, whatever our sentiments, let us not interrupt the envoy during the reading.”
The King’s man then read aloud:
“Louis, by the Grace of God, King of the French, to the Mayor and inhabitants of Laon, Greeting: —
“We order and command you strictly to render, without contradiction or delay, to our well-beloved and trusty Gaudry, Bishop of Laon, the keys of this city, which he holds under us. We likewise order and command you to forward to our well-beloved and trusty Gaudry, Bishop of the diocese of Laon, the seal, the banner and the treasury of the Commune, which we now declare abolished. The tower of the belfry and the Town Hall shall be demolished, within the space of one month at the longest. We order and command you, in addition, to henceforth obey the bans and orders of our well-beloved and trusty Gaudry, Bishop of Laon, the same as his predecessors and himself have always been obeyed
before the establishment of the said Commune, because we may not fail to guarantee to our well-beloved and trusty bishops the possession of the seigniories and rights which they hold from God as ecclesiastics and from us as laymen.
“This is our will.
“LOUIS.”
The recommendation of John Molrain was religiously observed. The King’s envoy read his message in the midst of profound silence. In the measure, however, as he proceeded with the reading of the act, every word of which conveyed a threat and was an outrage, an iniquity, a perjury towards the Commune, the Mayor and Councilmen exchanged looks successively expressive of astonishment, rage, pain and consternation. Overwhelming, indeed, was the astonishment of the Councilmen, to whom Fergan had not yet had time to communicate his conversation with the archdeacon. However, aware of the evil intentions of the King, yet they had not been able to imagine such a flagrant violation of the rights that had been granted, acknowledged and solemnly sworn to by the Prince and the bishop. Great, indeed, was the anger that seized the Councilmen; the least bellicose among them felt his heart stirred with indignation at the insolent challenge hurled at the Commune, at the brazen robbery contemplated by the King and bishop in the attempt to restore their odious rights, the permanent abolition of which was proclaimed by a charter sold for heavy money. Great was also the pain felt by the Councilmen at the royal order to surrender to the bishop their banner, their seal and their treasury, and to tear down their Town Hall and its belfry. That belfry, that seal, that banner, such dear symbols of an emancipation obtained after so many years of oppression, of servitude and of shame, — all were to be renounced by the communiers. They were to fall back under the yoke of Gaudry, when, in their legitimate pride, they expected to bequeath to their children a freedom so painfully acquired. Tears of rage and despair rolled down from all eyes at the bare thought of such a disgrace. Great was the consternation of the Councilmen; even the more energetic of them, while caring little for their own lives, determined to defend the communal franchises unto death, nevertheless anticipated with profound pain the disasters that their flourishing city was threatened with, the torrents of blood that civil war was about to shed. Victory or defeat, what distress, what ravages, what a number of widows and orphans in prospect!
