by Eugène Sue
“Dear Etienne, we shall speak later on the visit of Dame Petronille,” Marguerite broke in, fearing to disturb the rest her husband had come in search of in her company. “You have been announcing a good news.... We are waiting for it.”
“Yes, I prefer that,” answered the provost with a sigh of relief, taking a seat between his wife and Denise, while the latter quietly removed his hat and cloak. “Coming upstairs I told Agnes to place an additional cover at supper.”
“Will our son return this evening from the Bastille of St. Antoine?” quickly inquired Marguerite. “Was that the good news you brought us? We shall be glad to see him.”
“No, no! Andre will not return before to-morrow morning. He is to keep watch over night at the Bastille with his company of cross-bowmen. My son must put the example of order in the service. He will neglect none of his duties.”
“And who is to take supper with us, uncle?”
“Why, dear Denise?” answered Marcel smiling. “Who? One of our best friends. Guess, if you can.”
“Simon the Feather-dealer?... Peter Caillet?... Master Delille?... Philip Giffart?... John Goddard?... Josserand?... John Sorel?...”
“No, Denise. Look not for our guest among my friends of the council. He is not yet old enough to figure in such serious functions. But, so as to help you guess, I shall add that our guest for this evening has just arrived from the country.”
“Can it be my old cousin who lives with his daughter at Vaucouleurs? Can he have left the quiet valley of the Meuse to come and see us?”
“No, dear Denise. The friend whom we expect has been away from Paris only a short time. Cudgel your memory.”
“A short time?” Denise repeated mechanically, and struck by a sudden thought but hardly daring to indulge it, the poor child grew pale, joined her two trembling hands, and fixing upon her uncle a look at once full of anxiety and hope, she stammered: “Uncle, what is it you say? Can it be?...”
“I shall add that the fate of that friend has recently made us feel uneasy.”
“It is he!” cried Denise throwing herself at Marcel’s neck. “Can it be?... Jocelyn is back ... God be praised!”
“Jocelyn!” exclaimed Marguerite joining in the surprise and joy of Denise. “Have you seen him? Is he in Paris?”
“Yes; I saw the worthy fellow this morning at the town hall. He is in good health, although he has suffered a good deal during his travels.”
The emotion and tears of Denise must be left undescribed. After the first ebullition of joy was over, Marcel said to his wife: “I was presiding at the town hall over the council when one of our sergeants handed me a letter. I opened it and read that Jocelyn requested to speak with me. I ordered him to be taken upstairs to my room, and immediately after the session I hastened thither. Oh, my poor Denise! I confess it. I hardly recognized our friend, he was so changed! He has lost flesh ... his eyes are hollow ... his cheek-bones stick out.”
“What happened to him?” asked Denise. “Did he go to fight the English, as my aunt feared. Does he come from prison?”
“He comes from prison, but did not go to war,” answered Marcel. “This is what happened: As you know, he left for Nointel in Beauvoisis. After he left Nointel at night, and taking rest for an hour the next morning at Beaumont-sur-Oise, he resumed his journey. A short while after he heard the rapid gallop of a horse approaching behind him; turning he saw a man with a woman on his horse’s crupper fleeing before three armed knights who followed at a distance. The couple drew in a few steps from Jocelyn, and the man, a lad of about twenty, said to our friend: ‘We are fleeing from the castle of the Sire of Beaumont; he is the guardian of my sister who accompanies me, and he sought to violate her. He is riding after us with his men. You are armed. For pity’s sake defend us; help me to protect my sister!...”
“I know the heart and courage of Jocelyn,” said Denise deeply moved. “He surely took the part of the unfortunate girl!”
“Without hesitating, because, as he said to me, in his capacity of champion he could not refuse so good a case. The Sire of Beaumont arrived with his two equerries....”
“And the combat started!” cried Denise joining her hands. “Poor Jocelyn! Alone against three!”
“He was strong enough to overcome them. Unfortunately, however, at the very start of the action one of the combatants dealt him such a furious blow from behind with a mace on the head that Jocelyn’s casque was broken. He fell from his horse unconscious ... and when he awoke he found himself half naked lying on straw, and aching at every limb at the bottom of a dungeon.”
“Poor Jocelyn!” said Marguerite. “That dungeon, no doubt, was some prison cell in the castle of Beaumont, whither our wounded friend was transported after the combat, stripped of his arms and in a dying condition?”
“Yes, dear Marguerite; and Jocelyn remained in that cell, a prey to a devouring fever, until his recent release.”
“How he must have suffered! But, uncle, how did our poor friend manage to come out?”
“A few days after taking Jocelyn prisoner, the Sire of Beaumont departed with his men to fight the English. Whether he was killed or captured at the rout of Poitiers is not known. But two days ago the Sire of Beaumont’s castle was attacked and taken by the troop of a certain Captain Griffith.”
“That horrible adventurer, who pushed forward as far as St. Cloud and gave us such a fright?” asked Denise. “I remember you left the city at the head of the militia, ran against and forced him to retreat. Good God! In what hands did poor Jocelyn fall!”
“Be not alarmed, dear child! By a singular accident our friend has had only cause to praise the adventurer. That savage and eccentric warrior seems sometimes to yield to generous impulses. After having, according to their wont, sacked the castle of Beaumont, massacred the men and violated the women, the band delved down into the subterranean passages in quest of booty. Thus they came to Jocelyn’s dungeon, broke his chains and lead him to Captain Griffith, who on that day happily happened to be in a good humor. He cross-questioned our friend, and no doubt struck by his brave and robust appearance, despite all his sufferings, made him an offer to enlist in his company. Jocelyn declined. Griffith, who was half in his cups, then ordered Jocelyn to be furnished with clothes and two florins, and, alluding to our friend’s thinness said to him: ‘When you shall have regained some meat on your bones you will prove a rude customer; if I again run across you I should be pleased to break a lance with you. You are free. Go! And my patron saint, the Devil, be good to you!”
“That Griffith is a dreadful bandit!” repeated Denise. “And yet I cannot but feel thankful to him for having liberated Jocelyn.”
“And then,” put in Marguerite, “our friend proceeded straight back to Paris?”
“Yes,” answered Marcel sadly, “here another and unexpected sorrow awaited him.”
“Oh!” said Denise, “his father’s death? It must have been a severe blow to him!”
“Yes; the blow was severe. Picture to yourself what he must have felt. On his arrival, he hastened joyfully to the house of our old friend Lebrenn, the book-seller. There he first learned of his loss.... He spent the whole of yesterday and the night in solitude and mourning. This morning he came to see me at the town hall. This evening we shall be at least able to offer him the consolation of a tried friendship.”
Agnes the Bigot came in at this juncture and handed to Marcel a small gold medal enameled in green and bearing the letters “C” and “N,” surmounted by a crown. “A man,” she announced, “wrapped up to the nose in a cloak and whose eyes are barely visible, is in the shop; he wishes to see Master Marcel without delay; he handed me the medal with orders to bring it to you.”
Marcel was visibly surprised at the sight of the medal, and said to his wife: “Dear Marguerite, I shall not be able to enjoy even the short hour of rest that I promised myself. Leave me alone now. Go down with Denise. Jocelyn cannot now be long coming. Do not stay supper for me”; and turning to Agnes the Bigot
: “Lead the man upstairs.”
“Marcel,” said Marguerite uneasily, while the servant withdrew to execute her master’s orders, “you are fatigued, and will you not take even time enough for a meal?”
“In a few minutes, when I go down again, I shall take a few mouthfuls before leaving.”
“What! Another night!”
“I convoked a night meeting to the convent of the Cordeliers,” explained Marcel, assuming a serious expression; “the funeral of Perrin Macé may be the signal for transcendent happenings. We must be ready for all eventualities—”
The provost did not finish the sentence, seeing the closely cloaked man appear at the door led by Agnes. Marguerite left feeling all the more alarmed, the unfinished words of her husband having recalled to her mind the recent conversation with Petronille Maillart. After the departure of the two women, the stranger, first making certain that the door was closed, removed his cloak and threw it on a chair. The man, extremely small of stature, twenty-five years at the most, and dressed plainly in a buff jacket, was of distinguished and regular features; yet despite the gracefulness of his carriage, the affability of his manners and the almost caressing melody of his voice, there lingered a sardonic and insidious leer in his smile that betrayed the wickedness of his soul and the perversity of his heart. More and more concerned by the man’s presence, Marcel seemed to accept his visit as one of those disagreeable duties that men in public life must frequently submit to; nevertheless his icy attitude and his look of suspicion fully revealed the aversion he entertained for his caller, to whom he said: “I did not expect to receive this evening the King of Navarre in my house.”
Charles the Wicked — that was the man’s well deserved nickname — answered with a smile and with his insinuating voice, that most perfidious of all his charms: “Do not kings pay each other mutual visits? What is there surprising in that Charles, King of Navarre, should pay a visit to Marcel, King of the people of Paris? We are sovereigns, both of us.”
“Sire,” answered Marcel impatiently, “please to state the purpose of your visit. What do you wish of me? No useless words!”
“You are short of speech.”
“Shortness is the language of business. Moreover, it is well to measure the words one utters in your presence.”
“Do you, then, continue to mistrust me?”
“Always, more than ever.”
“I love frankness.”
“Come, to the point, direct, and without mental reservation.”
For a moment Charles the Wicked remained silent; then boldly fixing his viper’s eyes upon the provost, he answered, slowly weighing each word:
“What do I wish, Marcel? I wish to be King of the French.... This astonishes you!”
“No,” answered the provost with a coolness that stupefied Charles the Wicked; “sooner or later you were bound to make the disclosure.”
“You foresaw things from a great distance.... How long is it since you foresaw it?”
“Since I saw your creature Robert le Coq, Bishop of Laon, throw himself with ardor on the side of the popular party, and show himself one of the most violent enemies of King John, whose daughter you married—”
“Nevertheless, if my memory does not fail me, you made good use of the influence of the Bishop of Laon in the States General to induce them to accept your famous ordinance of reforms.”
“I use any instrument that aids me in doing good.”
“And then you break it?”
“If necessary. But Robert le Coq is too subtle to be broken. Nevertheless, despite his finesse, I have penetrated his secret motives.”
“And that is?”
“The people of Paris have with their keen eyes and tongues surnamed the Bishop of Laon ‘a two-edged dirk;’ the people, Sire, are right. By showing himself so hostile to King John, your father-in-law, and afterwards so hostile to the Regent, your brother-in-law, the Bishop of Laon played a double game. He aimed, with the aid of the popular party, to first of all dethrone the reigning dynasty; and then ... to give the crown to you. That is the reason, Sire, why I am not taken by surprise at your admission that you wish to be King of the French.”
“What do you think of my pretensions?”
“Your chances are fair of mounting the throne. I am ready to admit that.”
“With your help, Marcel?”
“I might enter into your projects.”
“Is that true!” cried the King of Navarre, unable to conceal his joy; but after a short moment’s reflection, and casting upon the provost a defiant look, he presently proceeded: “Marcel, you are laying a trap for me.... I know how and more than once you have expressed yourself regarding me. Your words were extremely severe.”
“Sire, you are called Charles the Wicked. I hold the name fits you. But you are active, subtle, venturesome; you command numerous armed bands; your partisans are powerful; your wealth considerable. You are a force, that, at a given moment, may be useful. For that reason I caused your release from prison where your father-in-law kept you locked up.”
“So that I, Charles, King of Navarre, am to be merely an instrument in the hands of Marcel, the cloth merchant.”
“Sire, you have your views; I have mine, and I shall express them to you. The Regent, hypocritic and stubborn, mocks at his oaths. He signed and promulgated the reform ordinances; he embraced me in tears, calling me his good father; he swore by God and all the saints that he desired the welfare of the people and that he would loyally adhere to the great measures decreed by the national assembly. The Regent has broken all his promises. His ruse, his well calculated indolence, his ill will, the increasing audacity of the court and the nobility, who rule supreme in their domains, either hamper or prevent the execution of the new edicts. The Regent is secretly inciting the jealousy of a large number of communal cities against Paris, that, as they put it, ’is seeking to govern Gaul’. The nobility in its deliberate inaction, and sheltered by its fortified castles, allows the English to extend their depredations to the very gates of Paris. The royal false money continues to ruin commerce and to destroy credit. Finally, only two days ago, the Regent’s favorite caused a bourgeois of Paris to be mutilated and executed under our very eyes, thereby proclaiming the contempt of the court for the laws enacted by the States General. The plan of the court is simple: to tire out the country by disasters: to render impossible the good results that were justly expected from the national assembly, a popular government where the King is no longer master but servant: finally, the court expects that one of these days it can tell the people, whose sufferings will have become intolerable by these machinations: ‘Ye people, behold the fruit of your rebellion. In lieu of having remained submissive, as in the past, to the sovereign authority of your kings, you have wished to reign, yourselves, by sending your deputies to the States General; you now pay the penalty of your audacity. May this rough lesson prove to you once more that princes are born to command and the people to obey. And now, pay your taxes and resume your secular yoke with humble repentance’!”
“So help me God! You could not have been better instructed upon the projects of my brother-in-law and his councilors if you had attended their secret meetings! And if they triumph, would you despair?”
“Despair? — For the present, Sire; but I would remain full of hope in the future. The conquest of freedom is as assured as it is slow, laborious and painful.... I do not even now despair of the present. I propose to make a last attempt with the Regent.”
“And if you fail, will you come to me?”
“Between two evils, Sire, one is forced to choose the lesser.”
“In short, you believe you will find in me what the Regent lacks?”
“You have an immense advantage over him. You wish to become King of the French, while the Regent is that by birth.”
“Do you forget my royalty of Navarre?”
“To speak truly, I did forget it, Sire ... just as you forget it for the crown of France. As I was saying, a King by t
he right of birth looks upon all reform as an encroachment upon his power.... You, on the contrary, look upon the reforms as a means whereby to usurp power. Now, then, however perfidious, however wicked you, Charles the Wicked, may be, I dare you to fail to announce your access to the throne — and that in your own interest — by great and useful measures to the public welfare. That much would be gained ... later, we shall see....”
“And throw me down?”
“I shall work to that end, Sire, with all my powers, the moment you turn from the straight path. You are forewarned.”
“And, Master Marcel, you would destroy your own work without scruple?”
“Without scruple! Moreover, better so than as it happened with the first and second dynasties when the stewards of the royal palace or the large feudal seigneurs dethroned the kings and changed dynasties.”
“And who would then accomplish the rough task? I would like to know the artisan.”
“The people, Sire!... That people, still in its infancy and credulous, must learn that at its breath it can waft away the sovereign masters who impose themselves upon it by force and cunning, and whom the church consecrated. Some day, this very century perhaps, that people will come of age; it will realize the ruinous and superfluousness of the royal power. But that day is not yet. In our days, the people, ignorant and enslaved to habit, would wish to crown a new master the moment they overthrow an old one. They rely on princes. You, Sire, are one of these predestined beings. You can even pretend to reign over Gaul by virtue of one of your ancestors, who was himself deprived of the crown for the benefit of his cousin Philip of Valois, the father of King John. It is, accordingly, not impossible that you may some day reign over France ... a deplorable possibility ... yet tangible enough!”
“You must have courage to speak that wise to me.”
“Instead of telling you the truth, I would otherwise be basely flattering you, whose first thought, if to-morrow you are King, would be to rid yourself of me. I indulge in no illusions on that head.”
