by Eugène Sue
The hook disappeared immediately, and a moment later a tall lad of manly countenance, wearing a cloth coat and the wide breeches of the skippers of the port, jumped with one bound on top of the lumber with which the wagon was loaded, stood up boldly, holding in his hand the long iron-tipped pole with which he had defended the teamster against the knight, and challenged the question of the count:
“He who prevented a poor serf from being struck through with lance thrusts is I! My name is Guyrion the Plunger. I am a skipper of Paris. I fear neither you nor your men!”
“My brother!” screamed the tender Anne, affrighted and leaning out of the window; “for the love of God, Guyrion, do not defy the knights!”
The impetuous young man, however, taking no notice of the fears of his sister and mother, continued to defy the count’s men from the height of the wagon, while brandishing his redoubtable weapon:
“Who wishes to try the assault?” and half turning toward the horror-stricken serf who had crouched behind the wagon, “Save yourself, poor man; your master will come himself and reclaim his oxen.”
The slave promptly took the wise advice and disappeared. The Count of Paris, on the other hand, ever more enraged, shook his iron gauntleted fist at Guyrion the Plunger, and yelled furiously at his men:
“Do you allow yourselves to be insulted by that vile scamp? Alight, all of you, and seize the river crawfish!”
“Crawfish, no! Scorpion, yes! And here is my dart!” answered Guyrion, brandishing in his powerful hand the redoubtable hook, which, deftly handled, became so terrible a weapon that the count’s knights, looking from the corners of their eyes at the rapid gyrations of the nautical implement, descended from their horses with cautious slowness. Leaning heavily out of the window, Martha and her daughter were imploring Guyrion to desist from the dangerous contest, when suddenly a new personage, grey of hair and beard, and likewise dressed in the garb of a skipper, climbed upon the wagon behind the bold youth, and placing his hand on Guyrion’s shoulder, said to him deliberately:
“My son, do not expose yourself to the anger of these soldiers.”
Guyrion turned around surprised at the presence of his father. The latter, however, bade him with a sign of authority to keep silent, and lowering the hook with which the young skipper was armed, the old man addressed the Count of Paris:
“Rothbert, I arrived only this moment from the port of St Landry, and have just learned what has happened. My son has yielded to the impetuosity of his age; he is wrong. But your men also were wrong in trying to wound an inoffensive serf with their lances. All of us here, myself, my son and our neighbors will put our shoulders to the wheels of this wagon and push it out of the rut in which it is fast. We shall make room for you to pass. That should have been done from the first;” and turning to his son, who obeyed him unwillingly, “come, Guyrion,” said he, “step down from the wagon! Step down!”
The sensible words of the old skipper did not seem to allay the rage of the Count of Paris. The latter continued to speak in angry tones and in a low voice to his men, while, thanks to the efforts of Eidiol, Guyrion and several of their neighbors, the wheel was raised from the deep rut into which it had sunk, and the wagon was finally drawn to one side of the street. The passage was now open to Rothbert and his knights. But while one of them held the bridles of his companions’ horses, the others, instead of remounting, rushed upon Eidiol and his son. Both, taken by surprise, and before their neighbors could bring them help, were speedily overpowered, thrown to the ground, and to the utter dismay of Martha and Anne, were held prisoners by the count’s men. Upon beholding the old skipper and his son thus maltreated, the two women left their window precipitately, and rushing out of the house threw themselves at the feet of Rothbert, imploring his mercy for the two prisoners. Eidiol saw the action of his wife and daughter, and frowning with indignation, cried out to them:
“Rise to your feet, my wife! Rise to your feet, my daughter! Go back into the house!”
Not daring to disobey the aged man, both Martha and Anne rose and returned sobbing into the house.
“Rothbert,” resumed Eidiol, when his wife and daughter had re-entered the house, “you have no right to hold us prisoners. Thanks to God, we are not left to the utter mercy of our masters, like the serfs of the field. We enjoy certain franchises in the city. If we are guilty, we must, as skippers, be tried before the bourgeois Court of the water merchants.”
“The officer whose duty it is to lop off the ears of bandits of your kind at the cross of Trahoir, will furnish you with a practical proof of my right to un-ear you,” was the sententious answer made to Eidiol by the count as he remounted his horse. “Back into the saddle,” the count ordered his men. “Two of you shall follow me; the others will take the two prisoners to the jail of the Chatelet; my provost will pass sentence upon them; and to-morrow — to the gallows! They shall both be hanged high and short.”
“Seigneur count,” broke in a man, who stepped forward out of the crowd that had in the meanwhile been gathering in the narrow thoroughfare, “Seigneur count, I am the sergeant of the Bishop of Paris.”
“I see as much by your garb; what is it you want?”
“The jurisdiction of the left side of this street belongs to my seigneur, the bishop. I claim the prisoners. This crowd will lend me their physical assistance, if need be, to take the prisoners to the bishop’s court, where they will be judged by our own provost, as is our right.”
“If the left side of the street belongs to the jurisdiction of the bishop, the right is under my authority,” cried the Count of Paris. “I shall keep the prisoners, and shall bring them before my own court.”
“Seigneur, that would be your right if the crime had been committed on the side of the street that is subject to your fief—”
“The two scamps,” Rothbert went on to say, interrupting the sergeant, “were on top of a wagon that obstructed the street in its whole breadth. There can be no question of right side or left.”
“In that case, seigneur count, the culprits belong to the bishop as well as to yourself.”
“And I,” rejoined Eidiol, “claim that only the bourgeois court has jurisdiction over us.”
“I care a fig for the bourgeois court, and not a whit more for the bishop’s court!” cried the count. “The prisoners are mine! Make room there, canaille!”
Both the sergeant and Eidiol were about to reiterate and insist upon their respective rights, when a new personage, before whom the crowd fell devoutly upon their knees, stepped upon the scene.
CHAPTER II.
FATHER FULTRADE.
THE PERSONAGE WHOSE bare appearance had imposed silence upon the crowd was no sooner discovered by the bishop’s sergeant than the latter cried out to him:
“Good Father Fultrade, come to my assistance! You will be better able than myself to convince the seigneur count of the bishop’s priority of right over these prisoners.”
Father Fultrade, the leader of the choir at St. Denis, whom the sergeant addressed, was an able-bodied monk of not more than thirty years of age. He was riding slowly up the street, distributing from his high perch benedictions to the right and left with a hand hirsute up to the nails. The monk had the frame of a Hercules, a rubicund face, scarlet ears, and, despite the ordinances of the councils that commended the clergy to be clean shaven, wore a long beard, that was as black as his thick eyebrows and that reached down to his robust chest. Having heard the appeal of the bishop’s sergeant and also recognizing the Count of Paris on horseback, Father Fultrade alighted from his own mount, confided the reins to a young boy who bowed down devoutly before him, and pushed his way quickly toward Rothbert through the crowd that was rapidly swelling in numbers and growing more and more excited. Some were loudly taking sides with the judicial claims advanced by the bishop’s sergeant, others with those of the skippers, while a small minority sustained the pretensions of the count. The count realized the situation that he was in. Aware that, different from the serfs of
the fields, whom nothing protected against the oppression of the seigneurs, the dwellers in the cities, however miserable their plight might be, at least enjoyed some few franchises which it was often prudent to respect; anxious, moreover, to gain the support of the monk to his side, Rothbert controlled his choler and cordially addressed the latter:
“You are welcome, Fultrade! You are a learned man. You will certainly agree with me in the matter of these two scamps. Think of it, they had the audacity to insult me. And now they demand to be tried by the bourgeois court, while the bishop’s sergeant claims them as his prisoners. I maintain that they fall under the jurisdiction of my own provost.”
The monk looked at the prisoners, recognized Eidiol and his son, gave them an affectionate greeting with his eyes and turned to Rothbert:
“Seigneur count, there is a way of conciliating all interested. You are the offended party, be charitable; set the prisoners at liberty. Do not deny my prayer,” the monk hastened to add in answer to a gesture of impatience from the count. “When I was the priest of Notre Dame, you often tendered me your good offices. Grant grace to these two men for my sake. I have known them long. I can vouch for their repentance. Mercy and pity for them!”
“Fultrade!” impetuously broke out Guyrion the Plunger, little pleased at the intercession of the monk, “say nothing about my repentance! No, I do not repent! If I only had my hands free, I would thrust my hook into the bellies of these cowards, who require three of them to hold one man!”
“You hear the wretch!” said the count to the monk.
“Rothbert,” resumed Eidiol, making a sign to his son to keep quiet, “youth is hot-headed and deserves indulgence. But I, whose beard is white, demand of you, not mercy, but justice. Order us taken to the bourgeois court!”
“Noble count,” Fultrade whispered to Rothbert, “do not irritate this rabble; we may need it any time; are we not in the spring of the year?” And lowering his voice still more he added: “Is it not at this season of the year that the Northman pirates are in the habit of ascending the river as far as Paris? If the rabble is irritated, instead of repelling the invader, it will lie low, and then we, the churchmen and the seigneurs, will be obliged to pay whatever ransom those pagans may choose to exact.”
The monk’s words seemed to have some effect upon the Count of Paris. He reflected for a moment, but soon again recovered from the apprehensions that the chanter had awakened, and remarked:
“Nothing indicates a fresh descent of the Northmans. Their vessels have not been signalled this year at the mouth of the Seine.”
“Do not these accursed pirates swoop down upon us with the suddenness of a tempest? Out of prudence and out of policy, count, show yourself merciful towards these two men.”
Rothbert still hesitated to accept the clergyman’s proposition, which wounded his pride, when his eyes accidentally fell upon the house of Eidiol, at the entrance of which Martha and Anne the Sweet stood weeping and trembling. Suddenly recollecting that the two women had only shortly before interceded for the culprits, and noticing now for the first time the angelic beauty of the old skipper’s daughter, the count smiled sarcastically at the monk and said to him:
“By all the saints! What a fool I was! The girl explains to me the motive of your charity towards the two scamps.”
“What does the motive of charity matter?” answered the chanter, exchanging smiles with the seigneur.
“Very well, be it so!” finally said Rothbert, who had in the meantime again alighted. He beckoned one of his men to lead his horse back to him, and while remounting observed to the chanter:
“It is not to any apprehension on the score of the Northmans that I yield. In granting to you grace for these two scamps, I am only guided by the desire to render you agreeable to your mistress, a dainty strawberry to be plucked.”
“Noble seigneur, the girl is my spiritual daughter. Honni soit qui mal y pense.”
“Tell that to others, you expert catcher of young birds in their nests,” replied Rothbert, swinging himself into his saddle; and raising his voice he proceeded, addressing his men who held Eidiol and Guyrion, “Let the fellows go; but if they ever dare to cross my path, I shall want you to break the shafts of your lances upon their backs.”
The Count of Paris, before whom the crowd parted, departed at a gallop. A few words whispered in the ear of the bishop’s sergeant caused this dignitary also to renounce his purpose of lodging a complaint against Eidiol and Guyrion and his renunciation was obtained all the more quickly seeing that the count, the aggrieved party, had pardoned the offence. The crowd dispersed. The old skipper, accompanied by his son, re-entered his house, whither Fultrade preceded him with a solemn and patronizing air.
The instant the monk stepped into the house, Martha threw herself at his feet, with tears in her eyes, exclaiming:
“Thanks be to you, my holy father in God! You have delivered back to me my husband and my son!”
“Rise, good woman,” answered Fultrade, “I have only obeyed Christian charity. Your son has been very imprudent. Let him be wiser hereafter.” Saying this the monk moved towards the wooden staircase that led to the upper rooms, and said to Eidiol’s wife: “Martha, let us go upstairs with your daughter, I want to speak to you both on holy matters.”
“Fultrade,” said the old skipper, who, no less than his son, seemed to dislike the sight of the monk in his house, “I had justice on my side in this dispute with the count; nevertheless, I thank you for your good intentions. But, my good wife, before turning your thoughts to holy matters, you will be kind enough to let my son and myself have a pot of beer and a piece of bread and bacon for immediate consumption. Then I wish you to prepare some provisions for us, because within an hour we have to sail down to the lower Seine, where we shall remain until to-morrow evening.”
While he was making the announcement of his speedy departure, Eidiol observed, without however taking any particular notice of the circumstance, that the monk, otherwise impassible, seemed slightly to thrill with joy. The old man’s attention was immediately drawn away from Fultrade by his daughter’s caresses.
“What, father!” exclaimed Anne the Sweet, with a sad look and throwing her arms around her father’s neck, “Are you to leave us so soon, and with my brother, too? Do you really expect to remain a whole day out of the house?”
“We have a cargo to take to the little port of St. Audoin,” answered Eidiol. “Do not feel alarmed, my dear child, we shall surely be back to-morrow.” And again addressing his wife, “Come, Martha, let us have something to eat, fetch us a pot of beer and get the provisions ready. We have not much time left.”
“Could you not wait a little while, my friend — good Father Fultrade wishes to speak to me and Anne upon some sacred matters?”
“Well, then, let my daughter stay with me,” answered the old skipper with some impatience. “She will be able to attend to us.”
The monk made a sign to Martha to accept her husband’s proposition, and she followed the holy man into the upper chamber where the two remained alone.
“Martha,” the monk hastened to say the instant the two were seated, “I have but a few minutes to spend here. The fervent piety of yourself and your daughter deserves a reward. The treasures of the Abbey of St. Denis have just received from our holy father in Rome a relic of inestimable value — a lock from the hair of our Lord Jesus Christ, cut by a lad at the wedding feast of Cana.”
“Good God! What a divine treasure!”
“Doubly divine! The faithful, lucky enough to be able to touch this matchless relic, will not be only temporarily relieved of their ailments, they will be forever healed of all sorts of fevers.”
“Healed forever!” exclaimed Martha, clasping her hands in ecstatic wonderment. “Healed forever of all sorts of dangerous fevers!”
“Besides, thanks to the doubly miraculous virtue of the relic, even those who have always enjoyed health, are preserved from all future sicknesses.”
“Oh, goo
d father! What an immense concourse of people will not immediately crowd to your abbey, in order to profit by such miraculous blessings.”
“It is for that reason that, in reward to your piety, I wish that you and your daughter be the first to approach the treasure. The seigneurs and the grandees will come only after you. I have reserved the first admission for you two.”
“For the like of us, poor women!”
“‘The last shall be the first, and the first shall be the last’ — so hath our Redeemer said. A magnificent case is being prepared for the relic. It is not to be offered to the adoration of the faithful until the goldsmith’s work is ready. But I mean to introduce you two secretly, you and your daughter, this very evening, into the oratory of the Abbot of St. Denis, where the relic has been temporarily deposited.”
“Oh! How bounden I shall be to you! I shall be forever healed of my fevers, and my daughter will never be ill! And do you think that this miraculous relic, this lock of hair, may be powerful enough to enable me to find again my little daughter, my little girl, who, when still a child, disappeared from this place, about thirty years ago?”
“Nothing is impossible to faith. But in order to enjoy the blessings of the relic, you will have to make haste. I accompanied our abbot to St. Germain-d’Auxerre. He will remain there only until to-morrow. It will, accordingly, be imperative for you and your daughter to come with me to St. Denis this very evening. Towards nightfall I shall wait for you near the tower of the Little Bridge. You will both ride at the crupper of my horse; we shall depart for the abbey; I shall introduce you two into the oratory of the abbot, where you will make your devotions, and then, after you have spent the night in the house of one of our female serfs you can both return to Paris in the morning.”
“Oh, holy father in Christ! How impenetrable are the designs of Providence! My husband, who has not the faith in relics that we have, would surely have opposed our pious pilgrimage. But this very night he will be absent!”