by Eugène Sue
The Executioner (approaching Goose-Skin)— “Your turn now, my fat customer! Come, no grimaces! Take your place quickly!”
Goose-Skin (scratching his ear)— “Hem! Hem! The rope of your gibbet seems too thin for me, and your ladder too frail. I am very heavy, I fear that my weight may demolish your machine. You had better put off my hanging.”
The Executioner— “You need not feel uneasy about that. I shall hang you high and short. Hurry up. Night is upon us!”
Goose-Skin (dragged to the gibbet)— “Adieu, Mylio! I have drunk my last bumper of wine here below. We shall clink glasses again in the stars. (Turning to the balcony where Abbot Reynier is seated). As to you, the devil is waiting for you with his big frying-pan in his hand!”
Mounted up to the middle of the ladder which leans against the gibbet, the executioner gives Goose-Skin a violent jerk by the collar in order to compel him to step up. The juggler is not to be hurried, and putting his inert weight to use, remains immovable. The executioner’s assistants then push him up and putting their shoulders under him succeed in raising his bulky body to the middle of the ladder. What, however, with the juggler’s enormous weight and the heavy shaking of the gibbet caused by his resistance, the instrument of death, which has been hastily raised and is but weakly planted in the ground, now sways and breaks down. It falling, together with the ladder, Goose-Skin and the executioner, all in a heap upon the third gibbet, the latter yields to the shock, tumbles and falls over upon the fourth, which, likewise breaking down, carries the next one to the ground. But poorly fixed over night in the earth, most of the gibbets are torn down through the initial momentum imparted by the fall of the one that was intended to end Goose-Skin’s life.
Montfort (impatiently)— “Seeing that the gibbets leave us in the lurch, exterminate the heretics with the sword!”
Soon after, the count leaves the balcony, taking Alyx of Montmorency with him. The lady is hardly able to stand. The soldiers who brought out the twenty-four heretics to be hanged fall upon them with their lances and swords. When the soldiers finally report their work done, Abbot Reynier withdraws with the rest of the clergy from the balcony.
The moon, shining radiantly from the starry vault of heaven, inundates with its mellow light the esplanade of the Castle of Lavaur. Round about lie the bodies of the ill-starred beings who succumbed to the torture of blinding. Among these bodies is Florette. The young woman has not recovered from her swoon; her chest heaves painfully; her head rests upon a stone; the moonlight falls upon it. Not far from her lie the corpses of those who escaped the rope only to fall under the sword of the Soldiers of the Faith. Not a sound disturbs the silence of the night. One of the bodies that lies on the ground raises itself slowly. It is Mylio the Trouvere.
Mylio (listens, looks about with caution, and calls in a low voice)— “Goose-Skin, all the soldiers are gone — we have nothing more to fear — the danger is over. Goose-Skin! — Oh! poor fellow, he probably has died, smothered under the weight of the other corpses! Oh! I can never forget that the fellow’s devotion to me was the cause of his death! — There he lies face down and half covered by two other corpses.” (Mylio stoops in order to clasp one of the juggler’s hands.)
Goose-Skin (raising his head)— “Oxhorns! Am I really alive? I thought I heard my funeral prayers!”
Mylio— “Oh, joy! You are not dead? You heard me, and yet you kept silent?”
Goose-Skin— “At first, out of prudence, and then out of curiosity to know what you would say of old Goose-Skin. I was happy to learn that you still love me. But, now, tell me, have you any plan?”
Mylio— “I shall leave Lavaur this very night after I have taken a casket of some value to me which my poor brother Karvel entrusted to a friend of his, Julien the Bookseller. As to you, my brave companion — (Mylio stops; his foot has struck the iron pincers that served to martyrize Karvel the Perfect). What is this? An instrument of torture left behind by the executioner? (Picks up the pincers and contemplates them in silence.) Oh, son of Joel! I shall pay my tribute to the legends and relics of our family.” (Puts the pincers in his belt.)
The trouvere and the juggler are lying not far from the wall of the cistern, where one of the executioner’s assistants, taking pity on the inert body of Florette, who was still evidently alive, had laid the young woman. The moon sheds its light full upon the spot. Suddenly Mylio is startled by the sight that he sees. He utters a cry of mingled joy and grief, and rushes to Florette, whose face, despite its mutilation, he immediately recognizes. He takes one of Florette’s hands; it is wan. He feels her heart; it beats. The trouvere raises and carries the precious burden to the exit of the esplanade, and in a voice broken with sobs cries out to the juggler: “She is alive!”
Goose-Skin (rejoiced)— “She lives! Oh, oxhorns! If we succeed in escaping from the clutches of the Crusaders, it shall be my business to cheer the sweet child with my favorite song: ‘Robin loves me—’”
Mylio stops at the door of the esplanade to wait for Goose-Skin, who comes up to him panting for breath at the moment when, regaining consciousness, Florette feels herself in a man’s arms and murmurs feebly:
“Mylio — Mylio — my dearly beloved Mylio!”
EPILOGUE.
ABOUT THREE YEARS after the massacre of Lavaur, my great-grandfather Mylio, the Trouvere, wrote the preceding “play” at Paris, where he succeeded in arriving with his wife, my great-grandmother Florette, and Goose-Skin.
After he left the esplanade, carrying his blind and unconscious wife in his arms, he hid her in the ruins of a nearby house that was set on fire the day before by the Army of the Faith. Thanks to Mylio’s care, his wife regained consciousness, but alas! was never more to see the light of day. When Florette sufficiently recovered, Mylio left her in the care of Goose-Skin and started to the city in search of a friend of his brother Karvel. The friend’s name was Julien, the Bookseller. Karvel had entrusted him with the casket that contained the family relics. Julien having miraculously escaped the massacre of Lavaur, afforded Mylio, Florette and Goose-Skin a safe refuge in his house. Under that hospitable roof, the three quietly awaited the departure of the army of Montfort. His wife’s condition determined Mylio to renounce the war and consecrate his life to her. Languedoc was soon entirely under the iron rule of Montfort and Mylio decided to leave the country.
Julien the Bookseller was in frequent commercial correspondence with one of the most celebrated members of his profession in Paris named John Belot. Knowing the excellence of Mylio’s handwriting, Julien proposed to him to take employment at John Belot’s as a copyist of ancient and modern books. Mylio accepted the offer and was furnished by Julien with a letter to the Parisian bookseller.
The journey to Paris was undertaken as soon as Florette was in condition to sustain its fatigue. It was accomplished in safety. Nine months after their arrival, my grandfather, whom Mylio named Karvelaik, in honor of his own brother Karvel the Perfect, was born. With the birth of Karvelaik, the old juggler remained a fixture in the house, insisting upon rocking my grandfather’s cradle and singing him songs. Happy as Florette was with her child, she did not long survive. She waned steadily, and two years and a half after her arrival passed away in the embrace of her husband and her son. The disconsolate trouvere sought surcease of sorrow in the playfulness of his little son and the imperturbable good nature of Goose-Skin. It was in the effort to relieve his mind of the recollection of the great sorrow that fell upon him that he soon after wrote the preceding play, which he added to our family legends, and to which he joined the iron pincers that he took from the esplanade of the Castle of Lavaur and that were used in the martyrdom inflicted upon his brother Karvel. Goose-Skin died twelve years later. His last words were his favorite song:
“Robin loves me, Robin wants me.”
Mylio lived to verify the truth of the prophetic words of our ancestor Fergan the Quarryman:— “Let us never weaken, let us never lose hope! The future belongs to freedom!” Eight years after
the devastating flood of the Crusaders swept over Languedoc the people that were left in Agenois, Querci and Rouergue rose again. The signal for the uprising was the death of the Count of Montfort, who was killed before Toulouse. The revolt rapidly gained strength. The Crusaders were driven from the south; the old heresy raised its head anew and triumphed everywhere in Languedoc. The chains of Rome were once more sundered. But they were forged again, and again fastened on Languedoc by the Inquisition of 1229. To-day Languedoc remains fettered.
My grandfather Karvelaik handed down at his death the family relics to my father Julyan, and he handed them down to me, his son Mazurec le Brenn, who follow the booksellers’ trade here in Paris. Heavy clouds are again gathering over the head of our unhappy country. May my son Jocelyn be spared!
THE END
The Iron Trevet
OR, JOCELYN THE CHAMPION: A TALE OF THE JACQUERIE
Translated by Daniel de Leon
The fourteenth instalment of The Mysteries of the People opens in the year 1356, situated in the town of Noitel, where trade is brisk in the tavern of Alison the Huffy. A tall young horseman, still in his armour and showing signs of battle, arrives at her hostelry. His name is Jocelyn, and he is not a knight, but a champion. He offers to take part in a tournament on Alison’s behalf, to recoup the debt owed her by another townsman. As Alison and Jocelyn talk, they share shocking stories of the abuse inflicted on women by local lords, but Jocelyn is equally intrigued by the tale of Mazurec, an orphan whose background interests the champion greatly. The two threads come together when Jocelyn learns that Mazurek’s bride was abducted by the local seignior who wished to exercise his rights to ‘first fruits’ – that is, he beds the bride on her wedding night. Mazurek resisted, and for this he is to face an armed fighter in the tournament, but without any weapon or protection for himself. It means certain death for Mazurek, but Jocelyn feels compelled to help him in some way. In addition, more confrontation is planned – the local serfs are organizing themselves to rise up against oppression. Will Jocelyn join them, and how is he really connected to Mazurek?
CONTENTS
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
PART I. THE SEIGNIORY OF NOINTEL.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
PART II. THE REGENCY OF NORMANDY
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
PART III. THE JACQUERIE.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
PART IV. JOHN MAILLART
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
EPILOGUE.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
Etienne Marcel, John Maillart, William Caillet, Adam the Devil and Charles the Wicked, King of Navarre, are the five leading personages in this story. Their figures and actions, the virtues and foibles of the ones, the vices of the others, the errors of all, are drawn with strict historic accuracy, all the five being historic characters. Seeing the historic importance of the epoch in which they figured, and the types that these five men represent, the story of "The Iron Trevet; or, Jocelyn, the Champion" is more than an historic narrative, it is more than a treatise on the philosophy of history, it is a treatise on human nature, it is a compendium of lessons inestimable to whomsoever his or her good or evil genius throws into the clash of human currents, and to those who, though not themselves participants, still may wish to understand that which they are spectators of and which, some way or other, they are themselves affected by and, some way or other, are bound to either support or resist.
In a way, "The Iron Trevet; or, Jocelyn the Champion" is the uniquest of the series of brilliant stories that the genius of Eugene Sue has enriched the world with under the collective title of "The Mysteries of the People"—we can recall no other instance in which so much profound and practical instruction is so skillfully clad in the pleasing drapery of fiction, and one within so small a compass.
To America whose youthful years deprive her of historic perspective, this little story, or rather work, can not but be of service. To that vast English-speaking world at large, now throbbing with the pulse of awakening aspirations, this translation discloses another treasure trove, long and deliberately held closed to it in the wrappage of the foreign tongue in which the original appeared.
DANIEL DE LEON.
New York, April 13, 1904.
PART I. THE SEIGNIORY OF NOINTEL.
CHAPTER I.
THE TAVERN OF ALISON THE HUFFY.
ON A SUNDAY, towards the end of the month of October of 1356, a great stir was noticeable since early morning in the little town of Nointel, situated a few leagues from the city of Beauvais, in the department of Beauvoisis. The tavern of Alison the Huffy — so nicknamed from her hot temper, although she was a good woman — was rapidly filling with artisans, villeins and serfs who came to wait for the hour of mass at the tavern, where, due to the prevailing poverty, little was drunk and much talked. Alison never complained. As talkative as huffy, dame Alison preferred to see her tavern full with chatterers than empty of tipplers. Still fresh and buxom, though on the shady side of thirty, she wore a short skirt and low bodice — probably because her bust was well rounded and her limbs well shaped. Black of hair, bright of eyes, white of teeth, and quick of hands, more than once since her widowhood, had Alison broken a bumper over the head of some customer, whom liquor had rendered too expressive in his admiration for her charms. Accordingly, like a prudent housekeeper, she had taken the precaution of replacing her earthenware bumpers with pewter ones. That morning the dame seemed to be in a particular huffy mood, judging by her rumpling brows, her brusque motions, and her sharp and cross words.
Presently, the door of the tavern was darkened and in stepped a man of vigorous age, with an angular and sun-burnt face, whose only striking features were two little, piercing, crafty and savage eyes half hidden under his eyebrows thick and grizzly like his hair, that escaped in disorder from under his old woolen cap. He had traveled a long distance; his wooden shoes, shabby cloth leggings and patched smock-frock were covered with dust. He was noticeably tired; it was with difficulty that he moved his limbs with the support of a knotted stick. Hardly inside the tavern, the serf, whose name was William Caillet, let himself down heavily upon a bench, immediately placing his elbows on his knees and his head upon his hands. Alison the Huffy, already out of humor, as stated, called to him sharply:
“What do you want here? I do not know you. If you want to drink, pay; if not, off with you!”
“In order to drink, money is needed; I have none,” answered William Caillet; “allow me to rest on this bench, good woman.”
“My tavern is no lazar-house,” replied Alison; “be gone, you vagabond!”
“Come now, hostess, we have never seen you in such a bad humor,” put in one of the customers; “let the poor man rest; we invite him to a bumper.”
“Thank you,” answered the serf with a somber gesture and shaking his head; “I’m not thirsty.”
“If you do not drink you have no business here,” the buxom tavern-keeper was saying when a voice, hailing from without, called: “Where is the hostess ... where is she ... a thousand bundles of demons! Is there no one here to take my horse? Our throats are dry and our tongues hanging out. Ho, there, hostess, attend to us!”
The arrival of a rider, always a good omen for a hostlery, drew Alison away from her anger. She called her maid servant while herself ran to the door to answer the impatient traveler, who, his horse’s bridle in hand, cont
inued finding fault, although good-naturedly. The new arrival was about twenty-four years of age; the visor of his somewhat rusty casque, wholly raised, exposed to view a pleasant face, the left cheek of which was furrowed with a deep scar. Thanks to his Herculean build, his heavy cuirass of tarnished iron, but still usable, seemed not to press him any more than a coat of cloth. His coat of mail, newly patched in several places, fell half over his thigh-armor, made, like his greaves, of iron, the latter of which were hidden within the large traveling boots. From his shoulder-strap hung a long sword, from his belt a sharp dagger of the class called “mercy”. His mace, which consisted of a thick cudgel an arm long, terminating in three little iron chains riveted to a ball seven or eight pounds heavy, hung from the pommel of the rider’s saddle, together with his steel-studded and ribbed buckler. Three reserve wooden lance shafts, tied together, and the points of which rested in a sort of leather bonnet, adjusted to the strap of one of his stirrups, were held up straight along the saddle, behind which a sheep-skin satchel was attached. The horse was large and vigorous. Its head, neck, chest and part of its crupper were protected by an iron caparison — a heavy armor that the robust animal carried as easily as its master wore his.
Responding to the redoubled calls of the traveler, Alison the Huffy ran out with her maid and said in bitter-sweet voice: “Here I am, Sir. Hein! If ever you are canonized, it will not be, I very much fear, under the invocation of St. Patience!”
“By the bowels of the Pope, my fair hostess, your pretty black eyes and pink cheeks could never be seen too soon. As sure as your garter could serve you for a belt, the prettiest girl of Paris, where I come from, could not be compared to you. By Venus and Cupid, you are the pearl of hostesses.”
