by Eugène Sue
“What!” interjected a third; “we are to wear ourselves out making Jacques Bonhomme sweat all the wealth he can, and the cream thereof is to go into the King’s coffers? Not by all the devils! Already have we given too much.”
“Let the King defend himself. His domains are more exposed than our own. Let him protect them!”
“It is all we can do, we and our own armed forces, to protect our castles against the bands of marauders, of Navarrais and of the hired soldiery that ravages our lands! And are we to abandon our homes in order to march against the English? By the saints! Fine goslings would we be!”
“And in our absence, Jacques Bonhomme, who seems to indulge in dreams of revolt, will put in fine strokes!”
“By heavens, messieurs!” cried a young knight, “We, nevertheless, may not, to the shame of knighthood, remain barracked on our own manors while battles are being fought on the frontier.”
“Well! And who keeps you back, my dear fire-eater?” cried the Count of Chivry. “Are you curious to make acquaintance with war? Very well; depart quickly, and soon.... Each one disposes at his will of his own person and men.”
“As to me,” loudly put in the radiant Gloriande with fiery indignation, “I shall not bestow my hand on Conrad of Nointel if he does not depart for the war, and return crowned with the laurels of victory, leading to my feet ten Englishmen in chains. Shame and disgrace! Gallant knights to stay at home when their King calls them to arms! I shall not acknowledge for my lord and husband any but a valiant knight!”
Despite Gloriande’s heroic words and a few other rare protests against the selfish and ignominious cowardice of the larger number of seigneurs, a general murmur of approval received the words of the aged seigneur of Chivry, who, encouraged by the almost unanimous support of the assembly, stepped upon his bench and answered the herald in a stentorian voice:
“Sir, in the name of the nobility of Beauvoisis, I now answer you that we have our hands so full on our own domains, that it would be disastrous for us to take the field in distant regions. For the rest, the request of the King will be considered when the deputies of the nobility and the clergy shall be assembled in the States General of the Kingdom. Until then we shall remain at home.”
A sudden outburst of hisses from the crowd of peasants and bourgeois answered the words of the seigneur of Chivry; and Adam the Devil, leaving Jocelyn the Champion for a moment alone with Mazurec, who, having regained consciousness, was resignedly expecting the hour of his death, thrust himself among several groups of serfs saying:
“Do you hear them? Fine seigneurs they are!... What are they good for?... Only to combat in tourneys with pointless lances and edgeless swords, or to indulge in bravados in combats, where they are fully armed, against Jacques Bonhomme, armed only with a stick!”
“That’s so!” answered several angry voices. “To the devil with the nobility!”
“Poor Mazurec the Lambkin! It is enough to make one’s heart ache to see his face bleeding under the iron gauntlet of the Knight.”
“And now they are to put him in a bag and throw him into the water!... I declare.... That’s what they call justice....”
“Ah! When, thanks to the cowardice of our seigneurs, the English will have penetrated to this region,” resumed Adam the Devil, “what with our masters on one side and the English on the other, we shall be like iron beaten on the anvil by the hammer. Oppressed by these, pillaged and sacked by the others, our lot will be twice as hard. Woe is us!”
“That’s what happens now when bands of marauders descend upon our villages. We flee for safety to the woods, and when we return, we find our homes in flames or in ashes!”
“O, God! What a lot is ours!”
“And yet our vicar says that secures our salvation ... in heaven! Another fraud upon us!”
“Woe is us if on top of all our ills we are to be ravaged and tortured by the English. That means our end.”
“Yes, and we are all to go down through the cowardice of our seigneurs,” put in Adam the Devil, “themselves, their families and retainers safely entrenched and provisioned in their fortified castles, they will allow us to be pillaged and massacred by the English! Oh! What a fate is in store for us!”
“And when everything we have will have been devastated,” replied another serf in despair, “our seigneur will then tell us, as he told us when the last gang of marauders passed over the region like a hurricane: ‘Pay your taxes, Jacques Bonhomme,’ ‘But, Sire, the marauders have carried away everything; they have left us only our eyes to weep with, and we weep!’ ‘Oh, you rebel, Jacques Bonhomme! Give him quick a beating and put him to the torture!’ Oh, it is too much ... too much!... That must end. Death to the nobles and their helpers, the clergy!”
The murmurs among the rustic plebs, at first low and rumbling, presently broke out into loud hisses and imprecations, and these were so menacing and direct against the nobles, that the seigneurs, for a moment taken aback by the incredible audacity of Jacques Bonhomme, bridled up furiously, drew their swords, and, in the midst of alarmed cries of the elder and younger ladies, precipitately descended the steps of the platform to chastise the varlets at the head of the sergeants of the tourney, their own men-at-arms and also of those of the royal herald, who promptly sided with the noblemen against the plebs.
“Friends,” cried Adam the Devil, rushing from one group of the serfs to another to inflame their courage, “if the seigneurs are a hundred, we are a thousand. Have you not a minute ago seen Mazurec unhorse a knight all alone, with his stick and only a handful of sand? Let’s prove those nobles that we are not afraid of them. Pick up stones and sticks! Let’s deliver Mazurec the Lambkin! Death to the nobles!”
“Yes! Take up stones and sticks! Let’s deliver Mazurec!” responded the more daring ones. “The devil take the seigneurs who wish to leave us at the mercy of the English!”
Under the pressure of this furious mob a portion of the barrier around the lists was soon torn up and a large number of vassals, arming themselves with the debris of the fence, redoubled their threats and imprecations against the seigneurs. Attracted by the tumult and catching a glimpse of Adam the Devil, who with glistening eyes was brandishing one of the posts of the barrier, Jocelyn left Mazurec and ran towards the serf to whom he cried out: “Those wretches will be mowed down ... you will lose everything.... The right time has not yet come!”
“It is always in time to kill noblemen,” answered Adam the Devil, grinding his teeth, saying which he redoubled his vociferations: “Stones and sticks! Let’s deliver Mazurec!”
“But you lose him by that!” cried Jocelyn in despair. “You will lose him! I hoped to save him!” and turning to the surrounding serfs he said: “Do not attack the seigneurs; you are in the open field, they on horseback; you will be trampled under foot. Come, now! Disperse!”
The voice of Jocelyn was lost in the tumult, and his efforts remained fruitless in the midst of the exasperation of the mob. A reflux of the crowd separated him from Adam the Devil, and soon the foresight of the champion was but too well verified. For a moment taken by surprise and even frightened at the aggressive attitude of Jacques Bonhomme, a spectacle they had never before witnessed, the seigneurs presently recovered their composure. Headed by the Sire of Nointel and supported by about fifty men-at-arms, sergeants and knights who speedily mounted their horses, the armed nobility now advanced in good order, and charged upon the revolted serfs with swords and lances. The women and children who happened to be in the crowd, were thrown down and trampled over by the horses, and filled the air with their heart-rending cries. The peasants, without order and without leadership, and already frightened at their own audacity whose consequences they now dreaded, fled in all directions over the meadow. Some few of the more valorous and determined stood their ground and were either cut down by the knights or severely wounded and taken prisoners. In the heat of the fray, Adam the Devil, who had been thrown down by a sabre cut, was seeking to rise when he felt a Herculean hand
seize him by the collar, raise him and despite his resistance, drag him far away from the field of carnage. The serf recognized Jocelyn who said to him while dragging him along: “You will be a precious man on the day of uprising ... but to allow yourself to be killed to-day is an act of folly.... Come, let us preserve ourselves for a later day.”
“Mazurec is lost!” cried the serf in the agony of despair and struggling against Jocelyn; but the latter, without making answer, compelled Adam the Devil, who was greatly enfeebled by the loss of blood, to take shelter behind a heap of lumber that had been brought thither for the construction of the barrier around the lists, but had been found unnecessary. Both lay themselves down flat upon the grass.
CHAPTER VI.
PROPHECIES AND PREMONITIONS.
THE SUN HAS gone down; night is drawing nigh. The noble dames, frightened by the recent popular commotion, have left the platform of the tourney and returned to their manors either on their palfreys or on the cruppers of their cavaliers’ horses. At a short distance from the lists where lay the corpses of a considerable number of serfs, killed in their futile attempt at revolt, flows the Orville River. On one side its banks are precipitous, but on the other they slope gently, covered with reeds. The river is crossed by a wooden bridge. To the right of the bridge are a few old willows. Their branches have almost all been freshly lopped off with axes. The few remaining ones, strongly supported and spreading out, have been turned into gibbets. From them now hang the bodies of four of the vassals who had been captured in the revolt. The pendent bodies resemble shadows cast upon the clear sky of the dusk. Night approaches rapidly. Standing on the middle of the bridge surrounded by his friends, among whom is Gerard of Chaumontel, the Sire of Nointel makes a sign, and the last of the revolted and captured serfs is, despite his cries and entreaties, hanged like his companions from a branch of a willow on the bank of the river. A man then brings to the bridge a large bag of coarse grey material, of the kind used by the millers. A strong cord inserted at its mouth like a purse-string enables its being tied closely. Mazurec the Lambkin is led forward tightly pinioned. Up to then he had been seated at one end of the bridge near the vicar. The latter after having placed the crucifix to the mouths of the serfs that had been hanged, returned to the victim about to be drowned. Mazurec is no longer recognizable. His bruised face covered with clotted blood is hideous to behold. One of his eyes has been knocked out and his nose crushed under the fierce blows dealt him by the knight of Chaumontel with his iron gauntlet. The executioner opens the mouth of the bag while the bailiff of the seigniory approaches Mazurec and says: “Vassal, your felony is notorious; you have dared to charge Gerard, a nobleman of Chaumontel, with robbery; he appealed to a judicial duel where you were vanquished and convicted of calumny and defamation; in obedience to the royal ordinance, you are to be submerged until death does ensue. Such is the supreme and irrevocable sentence.”
Mazurec steps forward, and as he is about to be seized and thrust into the bag, he raises his head, and addressing the Sire of Nointel and Gerard, says to them as if inspired with prophetic exaltation:
“It is said among our people that those about to perish become seers. Now, this is what I foretell: Gerard of Chaumontel, you robbed me and now you have me drowned ... you will die drowned. Sire of Nointel, you have done violence to my wife ... your wife will be done violence to. Mayhap my wife may bring to the world the child of a noble; ... your wife may bring to the world the child of a serf. May God take charge of my vengeance. The day of reprisals will come!”
Mazurec the Lambkin had barely uttered these words when the executioner proceeded to tie him up in the bag. Conrad grew pale and shivered at the sinister prophecy of his vassal, and was unable to utter a word. Gerard, however, addressing the serf who was being “bagged” burst out laughing and pointed to the five hanged serfs who rocked in the evening breeze, and whose outlines were dimly perceptible like spectres in the twilight, said:
“Look at the corpses of those villeins who dared to rebel against their seigneurs! Look at the water that runs under the bridge and that is about to swallow you up ... should Jacques Bonhomme still dare to kick, there are our long lances to pierce him through, wide branched trees to hang, and rivers to drown him.”
Mazurec was the while tied in the bag, and at the moment when the executioner was about to hurl him into the river, the vassal’s voice was heard for the last time from within the canvas. “Gerard of Chaumontel, you will be drowned; Sire of Nointel, your wife will be violated....”
A peal of contemptuous laughter from the knight answered the serf’s prediction, and amidst the silence of night the splash was heard of Mazurec’s body dropping into the deep waters of the river.
“Come away, come away,” said the Sire of Nointel to Gerard in a faltering voice; “let’s return to the castle; this place frightens me. The prophecy of that miserable villein makes me shudder despite myself.... He mentioned reprisals.”
“What feebleness! Conrad, are you becoming weak-minded?”
“Everything that happened to-day is of ill-omen. I tremble at the future.”
“What do you mean?” replied Gerard, following his friend who was walking away at a rapid pace. “What is that you said about ill-omen? Come, explain the cause of your terror.”
“This evening, before returning to Chivry, Gloriande said to me: ‘Conrad, to-morrow my father celebrates our betrothal in the chapel of his castle; I desire that you depart that same evening to join the forces of the King; and even then I shall not be your wife unless you lead back from battle and place at my feet, as a pledge of your bravery, ten Englishmen in chains and captured by yourself.’”
“The devil take such folly!” cried Gerard. “The romances of knighthood have turned her head!”
“‘I wish,’ added Gloriande, ‘that my husband be illustrious by his prowesses. Therefore, Conrad, to-morrow I shall take the oath at the altar to finish my days in a monastery, if you are killed in battle, or if you fail in the promises that I have demanded of you!’”
“By the saints! That girl is gone daft on her Englishmen in chains. There are only blows to be fetched in war, and your betrothed runs the chances of seeing you return without an eye, a leg or an arm ... if you do return.... The devil take her whims!”
“I am bound to yield to Gloriande’s wishes. There is no more stubborn head than hers. Besides, she loves me as I do her. Her wealth is considerable. I have dissipated a good part of my fortune at the court of King John. I cannot renounce the marriage. Whatever it may cost me, I must join the army with my men. Sad it is, but there is no choice!”
“Be it so! But then fight ... prudently and moderately.”
“I am anxious to live so that I may marry Gloriande ... provided during my absence the prediction of that miserable vassal—”
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” broke in the knight of Chaumontel, laughing out aloud. “You surely are not troubled with the fear that during your absence Jacques Bonhomme will violate your wife?”
“These villeins, an unheard of thing, have dared to insult, to menace and to throw themselves upon us like the wild beasts that they are.”
“And you saw that rag-tag flee before our horses like a set of hares. The executions of this evening will complete the lesson, and Jacques Bonhomme will remain the Jacques Bonhomme of ever. Come! Make your mind easy! While I prefer a hundred times the hunt, the tourneys, wine, game and love to the stupid and dangerous feats of war, I shall accompany you to the army, so as to bring you back soon to the beautiful Gloriande. As to the English prisoners that you are to lead in chains to her feet as a pledge of your valor, we shall scrape together a few leagues from our lady’s manor the first varlets that we can lay our hands on. We shall bind them and threaten them with hanging if they utter a single word; and they will do well enough for the ten English prisoners. Is not the idea a jolly one? But, Conrad, what are you brooding over?”
“Perhaps I was wrong in exercising my right over that vassal’s wife,” repl
ied the Sire of Nointel with a somber and pensive mien. “It was a mere libertine caprice, because I love Gloriande. But the resistance of the scamp, who, besides, charged you with theft, irritated me.” And resuming after a moment of silence, the Sire of Nointel addressed his friend: “Tell me the truth; here among ourselves; did you really rob the villein? It would have been an amusing trick.... I only would like to know if you really did it?”
“Conrad, the suspicion is insulting—”
“Oh, it is not in the interest of the dead serf that I put the question, but it is in my own.”
“How? Explain yourself more clearly.”
“If that vassal has been unjustly drowned ... his prophecy would have more weight.”
“By heavens! Are you quite losing your wits, Conrad? Do you see me saddened because Jacques Bonhomme has predicted to me that I was to be drowned?... The devil! It is I who mean to drown your sadness in a cup of good Burgundy wine.... Come, Conrad, to horse ... to horse!... Supper waits, and after the feast pretty female serfs! Long live joy and love! Let’s reach the manor in a canter—”
“Perhaps I did wrong in forcing the serf’s wife,” the Sire of Nointel repeated to himself. “I know not why, but a tradition, handed down from the elder branch of my family, located at Auvergne, comes back to me at this moment. The tradition has it that the hatred of the serfs has often been fatal to the Nerowegs!”
“Hallo, Conrad, to horse! Your valet has been holding your stirrup for the last hour,” broke in the cheerful voice of Gerard. “What are you thinking about?”
“I should not have violated the vassal’s wife,” the Sire of Nointel still mumbled while swinging himself on his horse’s back, and taking the route to his manor accompanied by Gerard of Chaumontel.
CHAPTER VII.
