by Eugène Sue
“Thank you for your kind nursing, good neighbor,” Fergan said to Simonne; “I now feel in good trim. My poor Joan will be jealous.”
“It is rather I who should be jealous,” retorted Simonne. “Crossing our street, we saw the basement room of your house full of wounded men, at whom your wife and Martine were busy. The good souls!”
“Dear souls! How uneasy they must feel!” said Fergan. “I must hasten to ease their minds, and I shall return to superintend our defence.”
The conversation between Fergan and Ancel was here interrupted by cries and shouts mingled with cheers that went up from one of the yards of the palace, which was given up to pillage and devastation. The insurgents sought vengeance not only for the perjury of Gaudry, but also for the odious exactions and cruelties that they had suffered before the establishment of the Commune. Some, staving in the vats in the storeroom, were getting drunk on the bishop’s precious wines, a rich tithe, once collected by him on the vineyards of the villeins; others, making a heap of the tapestry and furniture which they dragged from his rooms into the yard, set fire to the pile; finally, and it was the shouts of these last that reached the quarryman and the baker, yet others, seizing the sacerdotal robes and insignia of the prelate, organized themselves into a grotesque procession, of which little Robin the Crumb-cracker was the hero. The blacksmith’s apprentice, carrying on his head the episcopal mitre that almost completely hid his face, and robed in a cape of gold cloth that trailed at his heels, held in his hands a vermillion cross studded with precious stones. He scattered to the right and left grotesque benedictions, while the communiers, now half drunk, as well as the bishop’s serfs, who, after the fight had joined the vanquishers, sang at the top of their voices a parody of church hymns, interspersed ever and anon with cheers of “Long live Robin the Crumb-cracker!”
Leaving these rolicking youngsters to amuse themselves at their pleasure on the bishop’s premises, Fergan and his neighbors betook themselves to the city. Night was approaching. Bidding good-bye to the baker and his wife and requesting them to hasten ahead of him to his house and set Joan and Martine’s minds at ease, Fergan mounted the rampart to meet his son. The latter, considering it prudent to keep watch, even after the victory of the day, was busy with the measures for the night. At sight of his father with his head bandaged, Colombaik uttered a cry of alarm, but soon was set at ease by Fergan. After providing for additional measures of security, both returned home.
Night had set in. Everywhere the fight had long ended. The communiers were collecting their dead and wounded by the light of torches. Women, bathed in tears, ran to the places where the fight had been hottest, and looked for a father, a husband, a son, or a brother, in the midst of the corpses that the streets were strewn with. At other places, exasperated at the chiefs of the episcopal party, the communiers were demolishing their fortified houses. Finally, at a distance, a brilliant gleam crimsoned the sky, and cast its reflection hither and thither on the gables of the taller houses. It was the glare of a conflagration. The fire was devouring the dwelling of the bishop’s treasurer, one of the most execrated of the episcopals. Neither did the cathedral of Laon escape the avenging torch of the insurgents.
“Never, my child, blot this terrible spectacle from your memory. Such are the fruits of civil war,” said Fergan to his son, stopping in the middle of the Exchange square, one of the most elevated spots of the city, and whence the burning cathedral could be seen at a distance. “Look at the flames of the conflagration that is devouring the cathedral; hark to the sound of the seigniorial towers crashing down under the hammer blows of the communiers; listen to the moaning of yonder children, now become orphans, of their mothers, now become widows; contemplate these wounded men, these bleeding corpses carried away by their relatives and by friends in tears; behold at this hour, everywhere in the city, mourning, consternation, vengeance, disaster, fire and death! Then recall the happy and peaceful aspect that this same city offered only yesterday, when the people, in the fullness of their joy, inaugurated the symbol of their enfranchisement, bought, agreed and sworn to by our oppressors! It was a beautiful day. How our hearts leaped at every peal from our belfry! How all eyes shone with pride at the sight of our communal banner! All of us, bourgeois and artisans, rejoicing in the present and confident of the future, wished to continue to live under a charter sworn to by the nobles, the bishop and the King. But it happened that nobles, bishop and King, having dissipated the money with which we paid for our franchises, said to themselves: ‘What does a signature or an oath matter; we are powerful and numerous; we are used to wielding the lance and the sword; those artisans and bourgeois, vile clowns all, will flee before us. To horse, noble episcopals, to horse! High the sword! High the lance! Kill, massacre the communiers!’”
“But the communiers made the King of the French take to his heels, and have exterminated the knights!” cried Colombaik with enthusiasm. “The son of one of the victims of that infamous bishop cleaved his skull in two with a blow of his axe! The cathedral is on fire, and the seigniorial towers are crumbling down! Such is the price of perjury! Such is the terrible and just chastisement of the people who unchained the furies of war against this city, so tranquil but yester night! Oh, let the blood that has been shed fall upon the criminals! Their turn has come to tremble! Old Gaul is waking up after six centuries of torpor! The day of the rule of might and clerical chicanery is over! The hour of deliverance has sounded! — —”
“Not yet, my son!”
“What! The King is fleeing; the bishop killed; the episcopals exterminated or in hiding; the city ours!”
“Have you given a thought to the morrow?”
“The morrow? We shall preserve our conquest, or shall fight other battles, equally victorious!”
“No illusions, dear boy! Louis the Lusty fled before an insurrection that he did not think himself equal to cope with. But ere long he will be back to the walls of Laon with considerable forces, and he will then dictate his will.”
“We shall resist unto death!”
“I know, that despite all our heroism, we shall succumb in the fray.”
“What! These franchises, paid for with our good money and now sealed with our blood, — shall they be torn from us? Are our children to fall back under the abhorred yoke of the lay and ecclesiastical seigneurs? Oh, father, are we to despair of the future?”
“To despair? Never! Thanks to the communal insurrections, that were provoked by the feudal atrocities, our worst days are over. The legitimate and terrible reprisals of Noyon, Cambrai, Amiens and Beauvais, just as these fresh ones of Laon, will inspire the seigneurs with a wholesome fear. These holy insurrections have proved to our masters that the ‘clowns, artisans and bourgeois’ will no longer allow themselves to be taxed at mercy, robbed, tortured and killed with impunity. Our darkest days are over. But our descendants will still have bloody battles to fight before the arrival of the radiant day predicted by Victoria the Great!”
“And yet all has gone our way on this day.”
“Rely upon my experience and foresight. Louis the Lusty will presently return at the head of redoubtable forces. The death of this infamous Gaudry, just though it was, will unchain against our city the fury of the clericals. The bolts of excommunication will second the royal arms. We are bound to go down — not before the excommunication; people laugh at that — but under the blows of the soldiers of Louis the Lusty. Our bravest men will be killed in battle, banished or executed after the King’s victory. Another bishop will be imposed upon the city of Laon. Our belfry will be torn down, our seal will be broken, our banner torn and our treasury pilfered. The episcopals, supported by the King, will take vengeance for their defeat. Torrents of blood will flow in the city. That’s what’s before us.”
“Then all is lost!”
“Child,” proceeded Fergan with a melancholy smile, “men are killed; the principle of freedom never, after it has once penetrated the popular heart. Will Louis the Lusty, the new bishop, the
nobles, however cruel their vengeance may be, massacre all the inhabitants of Laon? No. They are bound to leave alive the larger part of the communiers, if for no other purpose than to have whom to levy taxes on. The mothers, sisters, wives, the children of those who will have died for liberty, will continue to live. Oh, no doubt, for a while, the terror will be intense; the recollection of the disasters, of the massacres, of the banishments, and of the executions that will have followed upon the struggle, will at first paralyze all thought of insurrection. But none of that will last.”
“Accordingly, the new bishop and the nobles will redouble their audacity? Their oppression will become more frightful than before?”
“No, the new bishop, however insensate he may be, will never forget the terrible fate of Gaudry; the nobles will not forget the death of so many of their people, who fell under the blows of the people’s justice. That valuable example will be useful to us. The first thirst for vengeance on the part of the episcopals, once slaked, they will ease the yoke out of fear for new revolts. Nor is that all. Those of us who will have survived the struggle, will gradually forget those evil days and recall the happy ones when the Commune, free, peaceful, flourishing, exempt from all crushing imposts, and wisely governed by a magistracy of its own choice, was the pride and bulwark of its inhabitants. Those who will have witnessed those happy days will speak of them to their children with enthusiasm. They will tell their little ones how one day the King and the bishop having leagued themselves against the Commune, the latter valiantly rose in arms, forced Louis the Lusty to flee, and exterminated the bishop and his episcopals. The glory of the triumph will cause the disaster of the subsequent defeat to be forgotten. The feeling will take hold of revenging the overthrow of the Commune by restoring it. By little and little the enthusiasm will gain ground, and, when the moment shall have come, the insurrection will break out anew. Just reprisals will once more be exercised against our enemies, and our franchises will be proclaimed again. Mayhaps that again that second step towards freedom is followed by a savage re-action. But the step will have been taken. Some franchises will continue in force. And thus, step by step, painfully, by dint of struggles, of courage, of perseverance, our descendants, alternately vanquishers and vanquished, halting at times after battle to tend their wounded and recover breath, but never retreating an inch, will in the course of time arrive at the goal of that laborious and bloody journey. Then will the radiant sun of the day of Gaul’s enfranchisement rise in all its glory!”
“Oh, father,” said Colombaik, overpowered with sorrow, “woe is us, if Victoria’s prediction is not to be verified, according to her prophetic visions, but across heaps of ruins and torrents of blood!”
“Do you imagine freedom is gained without struggle? We are the vanquishers. Our cause is holy like justice, sacred like right. And yet, look around!” answered the quarryman, pointing his son to the dismal spectacle presented by Exchange square, encumbered with the dead and dying, and lighted by the glamor of the torches and the lingering gleams of the fire of the Cathedral. “Look around, what streams of blood, what heaps of ruins!”
“Oh, why this terrible fatality!” resumed Colombaik in tones almost of despair. “Why must the conquest of such legitimate rights cost so dear!”
“The insurrection of the communal bourgeois is but the symptom of an enfranchisement, universal, but still far away. That day of deliverance will arrive, but it will arrive only when all the oppressed in city and field will rise in a body against their masters. Yes, that great day will come ... it may take centuries ... but I shall at least have caught the glamour of its dawn ... and I shall die happy!”
EPILOGUE.
TWO MONTHS AFTER the victory of the Commune of Laon over its seigniorial suzerain, the Bishop of Laon, and its episcopals, Fergan the Quarryman died on the ramparts of the city, defending them against the troops of Louis the Lusty. The quarryman’s apprehensions had been verified, fully and promptly.
The day after the victory the Mayor, Councilmen and several other leading citizens, convened to consider the dangers of the situation. An attack by Louis the Lusty was expected any moment, nor did any give themselves up to illusions concerning the issue. Left to fight the King single-handed, the citizens of Laon realized that they would be crushed. They decided to seek an ally. One of the most powerful seigneurs of Picardy, Thomas, seigneur of the castle of Marle, known for his bravery, as well as for his ferocity, in which he equalled Neroweg VI., was a personal enemy of the King. Shortly before, in 1108, he had leagued himself with Guy, seigneur of Rochefort, and several other knights, to prevent the King’s being consecrated at Rheims. Despite the iniquitous character of Thomas de Marle, and against the advice of Fergan, the Commune of Laon, pressed by danger, made propositions to that seigneur, who was known to have a large force at his command, for an alliance against the King. Thomas de Marle, unwilling to affront the royal power, refused to declare war against the King, but consented, in consideration of a money payment, to receive on his lands all the communiers who stood in fear of the royal vengeance.
A considerable number of insurgents, foreseeing the consequences of a struggle with the King, accepted the offer of Thomas de Marle, and, carrying their valuables with them, left Laon with wife and children. Others, Fergan among them, preferred staying in the city and defending themselves against the King unto death. Although the number of the communiers was reduced by the migrations to the surrounding regions, nevertheless, generous and credulous, the remaining inhabitants of Laon had entered into the pacific overtures of the surviving episcopals, who were laboring under the demoralizing effect of their recent defeat. Soon, however, as the latter realized how greatly the ranks of the communiers were thinned by death, and, above all, by the migrations, they picked up courage. They ordered the serfs of the abbey to meet in the market-place on a given day, and, taking them in command, fell upon the communiers in their own houses. Whoever fell into their hands was put to the sword. Thus, civil war broke out afresh. The serfs pillaged and set on fire all the houses of the bourgeois that they succeeded in capturing. Fergan and Joan, Colombaik and Martine, together with the apprentices of the tanner, entrenched themselves in their house, which, happily fortified, enabled them to sustain victoriously more than one siege to which they were subjected.
During these internal disturbances that decimated still further the ranks of the remaining communiers, Louis the Lusty was busily engaged gathering his forces. Learning that Thomas de Marle was giving asylum on his domains to the inhabitants of Laon, the King first marched against him, ravaged his lands, besieged him in his fortress of Couchy, took him prisoner, and mulcted him with a heavy ransom. As to the people of Laon, found within the territory of Thomas de Marle, the King had them all sabred or hanged, and their bodies long served as pasture to the birds of prey. A rich butcher of Laon, Robert the Eater, was tied to the tail of a fiery horse, and died the frightful death of the Queen Brunhild, five hundred years before. Through with these bloody executions, Louis the Lusty marched upon Laon. The Mayor and Councilmen, faithful to their oaths of defending the Commune with their lives, ran to the ramparts, together with Fergan, Colombaik and several others of the citizens, to oppose the entrance of the King. At the last battle a large number of the communiers fell on the field, dead or wounded. Fergan was killed, Colombaik was wounded in two places. The defeat of the communiers was inevitable.
The King took the city and placed a new bishop in the seigniory. But here also the forecast of Fergan proved correct. Thanks to the remembrance of the insurrection and of the just reprisals of the insurgents, the exorbitant privileges of the bishop and noblemen were modified.
Colombaik was not allowed to taste these limited sweets of the heroic defence of Laon. Himself and others, among whom were the Mayor and the Councilmen, too deeply compromised in the insurrection, were banished from the place, and all their property confiscated. But young and full of life as well as of hope for the future and of pride at the past, though ruined, the
quarryman’s son settled down with his mother and wife, and resumed his trade as a tanner at Toulouse in Languedoc, where, thanks to the local advantages of industry and intelligence, commerce then flourished and, at that season, thought enjoyed freedom.
THE END
The Iron Pincers
OR, MYLIO AND KARVEL: A TALE OF THE ALBIGENSIAN CRUSADES
Translated by Daniel de Leon
The thirteenth story in the saga of The Mysteries of the People is set during the early thirteenth century and concerns a troubadour named Mylio. He makes his living by singing romantic songs to the wives of crusaders who are abroad on their campaigns. Mylio is twenty-five, and the g-g-grandson of Columbaik, the little boy kidnapped in the previous story, and it is he who relates the story to us. The women he entertains are beautiful, indolent, and sensual, with little thought for anything but their own ‘libertine and salacious amusements.’ Witnessing this dissolute life has not dulled Mylio’s sense of morality, however, and when he hears that the sweet Florette has been chosen by the local Abbot as his plaything, he quickly offers to take her to a safe house. Circumstances are to soon change, with the return of the crusading army. Pope Innocent III writes to the Abbot of Citeaux – mother house of the Cistercian monastic order – urging all good Catholics to join forces and travel to Languedoc to suppress the Albigensian heretics. Mylio has a very personal reason to take note of this, as this new domestic crusade has put his brother, Karvel, in grave danger. With the crusaders’ cries of ‘To arms! Death to the heretics!’ ringing in his ears, he must warn his sibling of the forthcoming peril…
CONTENTS
TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE.
INTRODUCTION.
PART I. THE COURT OF LOVE
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
