by Eugène Sue
“But,” whispered the clerk, “on the contrary, the baron made me drink so much wine that I—”
Master Isnard seized the clerk so violently by his smock-frock, and threw such a furious glance on him, that the poor man did not dare utter a word.
“After having overwhelmed him with cruel treatment,” continued the consul, “Raimond formally declared to him that he would make straw of our privileges, that he intended to keep his seines, and that he was strong enough to overcome us, if we dared act contrary to his will, and that—”
An explosion of fury interrupted the consul.
The tumult was at its height; the most violent threats burst out against Raimond V.
“To the fishing-nets! the fishing-nets!” cried some.
“To Maison-Forte!” cried others.
“Do not leave one stone upon another!”
“To arms! to arms!”
“Let us make a petard to blow up the gate of the moat on the land side!”
“Death, death to Raimond V.!”
Seeing the fury of the populace, the recorder and the consul began to fear that they had gone too far, and that they would find it impossible to control the passions they had so imprudently unchained.
“My friends, — my children!” cried Talebard-Tale-bardon, addressing the most excited of the speakers, “be moderate. Run to the fishing-nets, — that you may do, but make no attack upon Maison-Forte, or upon the life of the baron!”
“No pity! — no pity! You yourself have told us, consul, that Raimond was going to fire on the city and the port and do worse than the Duke d’Epernon and his Gascons.”
“Yes, yes. Let us destroy the old wolfs den and nail him to his door!”
“To Maison-Forte!”
“To Maison-Forte!”
Such were the furious cries which met the tardy words of moderation, which the consul now tried to make the excited people heed.
The more peaceable inhabitants pressed around the town hall, so as to enter the room of the tribunal where the overseers were already seated. Others, divided into two bands, were preparing, in spite of the entreaties of the consul, to destroy the fishing-nets and attack Maison-Forte des Anbiez, when an extraordinary incident struck the crowd with amazement, and rendered it silent and motionless.
CHAPTER XVII. THE JUDGMENT
The general astonishment was very natural.
SLOWLY DESCENDING THE street, in the direction of the public square, was seen the heavy ceremonial carriage of Raimond V.
Four of his men, armed and on horseback, preceded by Laramée, opened the march; then came the carriage, with a crimson velvet canopy, somewhat worn; the retinue, as well as the body of the carriage, which was without windows, yet bore conspicuously the baron’s coat of arms, showed the red and yellow colours of the livery of Raimond V.
Four strong draught-horses, yoked with rope traces, laboriously dragged this rude and massive vehicle, in the depth of which sat the baron majestically enthroned.
Opposite him sat Honorât de Berrol.
Inside the coach, near the doors, two small stools were placed. On one sat Abbé Mascarolus, with a bag of papers on his knees. The steward of the baron occupied the other.
The imperfect construction of this ponderous vehicle permitted no place for a coachman. A carter, dressed for the occasion in a greatcoat, with the baron’s livery, walked at the head of each pair of horses, and conducted the equipage as he would have managed a farm-wagon.
Finally, behind the carriage came four other armed men on horseback.
Although rude, this equipage and retinue inspired profound admiration among the inhabitants of the little town; the sight of a coach, however inelegant, was always to them a novel and interesting thing.
As we have said, the crowd stood silently looking on. They knew that Raimond V. never used this carriage except on important occasions, and a lively curiosity suspended for a time their most violent passions.
They whispered among each other concerning the direction the carriage would take: was it to the church, or was it to the town hall?
This last supposition became probable as Raimond V., having turned the corner of the street, took the road which led to the edifice where the overseers of the port were assembled.
Soon doubt changed to certainty, when they heard the stentorian voice of Laramée cry:
“Room! make way for monseigneur, who is going to the tribunal of the overseers!”
Theae words, passing from mouth to mouth, finally reached the ears of the consul and the recorder, whose disappointment and vexation were extreme.
“Why, what have you said, recorder?” cried the men who surrounded him, “here is Raimond V.; he is coming to present himself before the tribunal of overseers.”
“Then he has not resolved to make straw of our privileges?”
“He intends to appear, yes, he intends to appear without doubt,” said Master Isnard, “but he is coming with a retinue of armed men; who can tell what he is going to say to those poor overseers of the port?”
“Doubtless he wishes to intimidate them,” said the consul.
“He wishes to make his refusal to recognise their jurisdiction all the more contemptuous by coming to tell them so himself,” said the recorder.
“An armed retinue?” said a hearer. “And what do these men with carbines intend to do against us?”
“The consul is right. He is coming to insult the overseers,” said one of the most defiant citizens.
“Come now, Raimond V., as bold as he is, would never dare do that,’’ replied a third.
“No, no; he recognises our privileges, — he is a good and worthy lord,” cried several voices. “We were wrong to distrust him.”
In a word, by one of those sudden changes so common in popular excitements, the mind of the people at once turned over to the favour of Raimond V. and to hostility toward the recorder.
Master Isnard put both his responsibility and his person under cover, and, in so doing, did not hesitate to expose his unfortunate clerk to the anger of the people.
Instead of manifesting hostility to the baron, several of the citizens now assumed a threatening attitude toward the recorder for having deceived them.
“It is this stranger,” said they, “who has excited us against Raimond V.”
“This good and worthy noble who has always stood for us!”
“Yes, yes, that is so; he told us that Raimond wished to destroy our privileges, and, on the contrary, he respects them.”
“Without doubt, monseigneur did well in delivering him to the bulls of Camargne,” cried a sailor, shaking his fist at the recorder.
“Permit me, my friends,” said the recorder, painfully realising the absence of the consul, who had prudently escaped to the town hall, where he would appear as a plaintiff against the baron, “permit me to say that, although nothing could make me put faith in the baron’s good intentions, I do not hesitate to say that good may come out of all this. Perhaps my clerk has been mistaken; perhaps he has exaggerated the extent of the remarks made by the Baron des Anbiez. Come now, clerk,” said he, turning to the scribe with a severe and haughty air, “do not lie. Have you not deceived me? Recall your experience. Perhaps you were frightened into wrong. I know you are a coward. What did the baron say to you? Zounds! clerk, woe to you if you have deceived me, and if by your folly I, myself, have deceived these estimable citizens!”
Opening his large eyes to their utmost, and utterly confounded by the audacity of the recorder, the poor clerk could only repeat, in a trembling voice: “Monseigneur told me nothing; he made me sit down at his table, and every time I tried to tell him of the summons from the overseers Master Laramée came with a big glass of Spanish wine, that I was, to speak reverently, obliged to swallow at one draught.”
“Zounds!” cried the recorder, in a thundering voice. “What! this is the bad treatment you complained of! Forgive him, gentlemen, he was certainly drunk, and I am sorry to see that he has deceived us
about the designs of Raimond V. Let us hasten to the town hall, where we can assure ourselves of the reality of certain facts, for the baron’s carriage has stopped there, I see.”
Thus speaking, and without appearing to hear the threatening murmurs of the crowd, the recorder hurried away, accompanied by the unfortunate clerk, who in the retreat received several thrusts, evidently addressed to Master Isnard.
The large audience-chamber of the town hall in La Ciotat formed a long parallelogram lighted by tall, narrow windows, with panes set in frames of lead.
On the walls opposite the windows — bare walls, white with a coating of lime — were displayed several flags captured from Barbary pirates.
Projecting rafters of unpolished wood crossed each other beneath the ceiling. At the extremity of this immense hall and opposite the large door of entrance could be seen, upon a stage, the tribunal of the overseers of the port. Before them was a long table roughly cut at right angles.
The judges were four in number, presided over by the watchman from the cape of l’Aigle, who had temporarily resigned his ordinary functions into the hands of Luquin Trinquetaille.
According to custom, these fishermen wore black breeches, a black doublet, and a black mantle, with a white band; on their heads they wore hats with a wide brim. The youngest of these judges was not less than fifty years old. Their attitude was simple and serious; their sunburnt faces and long white or gray hair shone with a Rembrandt light under the sudden ray of sunshine shooting from the narrow windows, and were distinctly outlined on the shadowy light which reigned in the body of the hall.
These five old seamen, elected by their corporation on St. Stephen’s Day, justified the choice of their companions. Brave, honest, and pious, they assuredly represented the best of the maritime population of the town and the gulf.
The tribunal and the place reserved for those who were to appear before them were separated from the crowd by a rude barrier of wood.
We quote from the work, “Voyage and Inspection of M. de Séguiran,” already cited in the preface: “The jurisdiction of the overseers was very simple. Whoso wishes to enter a complaint before these overseers can be heard, but not before he has deposited two sous and eight farthings in the common purse, after which he can demand the party against whom he enters a complaint. The said party is obliged to make the same deposit, and both are heard; and at the end of the argument the eldest of these overseers pronounces judgment according to the counsel of his colleagues.”
The secretary of the community called in a loud voice the plaintiffs and defendants.
Never had a session excited so much interest in the public mind.
Before the arrival of Raimond V. the greater part of those who filled the hall were still ignorant of the baron’s intentions, whether or not he would appear before the tribunal. The smaller number, however, hoped that he would respect the privileges of the community.
But when they learned from the curious ones outside that the gentleman’s carriage of state was already in the square, they eagerly watched every movement of the constantly increasing multitude.
The crier was obliged to elevate his voice to its utmost to command silence, and Peyrou, the watchman, as assignee of the overseers, at last administered a severe rebuke to the clamorous crowd, and order finally prevailed.
The tribunal then regulated some business of little importance, but with as much care and deliberate circumspection, and as much attention to detail, as if one of the first lords of Provence was not expected every moment to appear before them.
The multitude was compact when Raimond V. presented himself at the door, and he had great difficulty in entering the large hall with Honorât de Berrol.
“Make way, make way for monseigneur!” cried several eager voices.
“Have the overseers called me, my children?” said Raimond V., affectionately.
“No, monseigneur.”
“Then I will wait here with you. It will be time to make way for me when I am called before the tribunal.”
These simple words, uttered with as much kindness as dignity, had a tremendous effect upon the crowd. The veneration inspired by the old gentleman, who but a moment before had been so menaced, was so great that the people formed a sort of circle of solemnity around him.
An officer took great pains to inform the secretary that the baron had entered the hall, and that it would be proper to call his case before others on the docket. The secretary, profiting from a short interval, submitted this suggestion to Peyrou, the assignee or syndic.
The latter simply replied: “Secretary, what is the next name on your list?”
“Jacques Brun, pilot, versus Pierre Baif, sailmaker.”
“Then call Jacques Brun and Pierre Baif.”
Peyrou owed much to the baron’s family. He was warmly attached to the house of Anbiez. In thus acting, he did not wish to make a display of his rights and exaggerate their importance. He was only obeying the spirit of justice and independence found in popular institutions.
It was without hesitation, and without the least intention to offend Raimond V., that the watchman said, in a loud and firm voice:
“Secretary, call another plaintiff.”
The dispute between Jacques Brun, the pilot, and the sailmaker, Pierre Baif, was of little importance. It was promptly, but carefully, decided by the overseers in the midst of the general preoccupation, and the cause of the baron immediately followed.
Notwithstanding the presence of the Baron des Anbiez, it was not known that he intended to appear before the tribunal. Naturally, the crowd remembered the insinuations of Master Isnard. The latter insisted that the baron was capable of manifesting his contempt for the tribunal in a very startling manner.
At last the secretary called, in an excited voice: “Master Talebard-Talebardon, consul of the city of La Ciotat, versus Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez.”
A long murmur of satisfied impatience circulated around the hall.
“Now, my children,” said the old gentlemen to those who surrounded him, “make way, I pray you, not for the baron, but for the suitor who is going before his judges.”
The enthusiasm inspired by these words of Raimond V. proved that, in spite of their instinctive thirst for equality, the people always had an immense liking for persons of rank who submitted to the common law.
The crowd, dividing on each side, made a wide avenue, in the middle of which Raimond V. walked with a grave and majestic step.
The old gentleman wore the sumptuous costume of the time: a doublet with points, a short mantle of brown velvet, richly braided with gold, wide trousers of the same material, which formed a sort of skirt descending below the knee. His scarlet silk stockings disappeared in the funnel of his short boots made of cordovan leather, and equipped with long gold spurs. A costly shoulder-belt sustained his sword, and the white plumes of his black cap fell over his collar of Flanders lace.
The countenance of the old gentleman, habitually joyous, showed at that moment a lofty expression of nobility and authority.
A few steps from the tribunal the baron took off his hat, which he had kept on until then, although the crowd was uncovered. One could not help admiring the dignity of the face and bearing of this noble old man with long hair and gray moustache.
Soon Master Talebardon arrived.
Notwithstanding his usual assurance, and although he had the recorder Isnard at his heels, he could not conquer his emotion, and carefully avoided the baron’s glances.
Peyrou rose, as well as the other overseers; he kept his hat on.
“Bernard Talebard-Talebardon, come forward,” said he.
The consul entered the enclosure.
“Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, come forward.”
The baron entered the enclosure.
“Bernard Talebard-Talebardon, you demand, in the name of the community of La Ciotat, to be heard by the overseers of the port, against Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez.”
“Yes, syndic,” replied t
he consul.
“Deposit two sous and eight farthings in the common purse, and speak.”
The consul put the money in a wooden box, and, advancing near the tribunal, stated his grievance in these terms:
“Syndic and overseers, from time immemorial the fishery of the cove of Camerou has been divided between the community of the city and the lord of Anbiez; the said lord can lay his nets and seines from the coast to the rocks called the Seven Stones of Castrembaou, which form a sort of belt, about five hundred steps from the coast. The community hold the right from the Seven Stones of Castrembaou to the two points of the bay; before you, syndic and overseers, I affirm on oath that this is the truth, and I adjure Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, here present and called by me, to say if such is not the truth.”
Turning to the gentleman, Peyrou said to him:
“Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, is what the plaintiff says true? Has the right of fishery always been thus divided between the lords of Anbiez and the community of the city of La Ciotat?”
“The fishery has always been thus divided. I recognise it,” said the baron.
The perfect agreeableness with which the baron made his reply left no doubt as to his submission to the ability of the tribunal.
A murmur of satisfaction circulated through the hall. “Continue,” said Peyrou to the consul.
“Syndic and overseers,” pursued Talebard-Talebardon, “in spite of our rights and our custom, instead of confining himself to the space between the rocks of the Seven Stones of Castrembaou and the coast, Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, has laid his nets beyond the rocks of the Seven Stones toward the high sea, and consequently has injured the rights of the community which I represent. He fishes in the part reserved for the said community. These facts, which I affirm on oath, are known, besides, to everybody, as well as yourselves, syndic and overseers.”
“The syndic and the overseers are not in this suit,” replied the watchman to the consul, severely. Then turning to the gentleman, he said to him:
“Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, do you admit that you have thrown your nets on this side of the Seven Rocks, and toward the high sea, in the part of the cove reserved for the community of La Ciotat?”
