by Eugène Sue
“You come from Paris, Sir Knight!” said Alison with joyful surprise, being at once flattered by the compliments of the traveler, and proud of having a guest from Paris, the great city. “You really come from Paris?”
“Yes, truly. But tell me, am I rightly informed? Is there to be a passage of arms to-day, here in the valley of Nointel?”
“Yes, Sir; you arrive in time. The tourney is to begin soon; right after mass.”
“Well, then, my pretty hostess, while I take my horse to the stable to have him well fed, you will prepare a good repast for myself, and, to the end that it may taste all the better, you will share it with me while we chat together. There is much information that I need from you;” and raising his coat of mail to enable him to reach his leather purse, the rider took from it a piece of silver. Giving it to Alison, he said gaily: “Here is payment in advance for my score. I am none of your strollers, so frequent in these days, who pay their host with sword thrusts and by plundering his house;” but noticing that Alison examined the piece before putting it in her pocket, he added laughing: “Accept that coin as I did, with eyes shut. The devil take it, only King John and his minter know what the piece is worth, and whether it contains more lead than it does silver!”
“Oh, Sir Knight, is it not terrible to think that our master, the King, is an inveterate false-coiner? What times these are! We are borne down with taxes, and we never know the value of what we have!”
“True. But I wager, my pretty hostess, that your lover is in no such annoying ignorance.... Come, you will have overcome your modest blushes by the time your maid has shown me the way to the stable, after which you will make my breakfast ready. But you must share it with me; that’s understood.”
“As you please, Sir Knight,” answered Alison, more and more charmed with the jolly temper of the stranger. Accordingly, she hastened to busy herself with the preparations for the meal, and in a short time spread upon one of the tables of the tavern a toothsome dish of bacon in green fennel, flanked with fried eggs, cheese and a mug of foaming beer.
The serf, William Caillet, now forgotten by the hostess, his forehead resting on both his hands, seemed lost to what went on around him, and kept his seat on a bench not far from the table at which presently Alison and the traveler took theirs. Back from the stable, the latter relieved himself of his casque, dagger and sword, laying them down near to himself, and proceeded to do honor to the repast.
“Sir Knight,” said Alison, “you come from Paris? What fine stories you will have to tell!”
“Mercy, pretty hostess, do not call me ‘Sir Knight.’ I belong to the working class, not the nobility. My name is Jocelyn. My father is a book-seller, and I am a champion as my battle-harness attests to you; — and here I am at your service.”
“Can it be!” exclaimed Alison, joining her hands in glad astonishment, “you are a fighting champion?”
“Yes, and I have not yet lost a single case, as you may judge from my right hand not yet being cut off — a penalty reserved for all champions who are vanquished in a judicial duel. Although often wounded, I have at least always rendered a Roland for my adversary’s Oliver. I learned in Paris that there was to be a tourney here and thinking that, as usual, it would be followed or preceded by some judicial combat, where I might represent the appellant or the appellee, I came to the place on a venture. Now, then, as a tavern-keeper, you are surely informed thereon.”
“Oh, Sir champion! It is heaven that sends you. There will surely be need of you.”
“Heaven, I am of the opinion, mixes but little in my concerns. Let us leave Gog and Magog to settle their affairs among themselves.”
“You should know that, unfortunately, I have a process. I admit that I am in great trouble.”
“You, my pretty hostess?”
“It is now three months ago that I lent twelve florins to Simon the Hirsute. When I asked him for the money, the mean thief denied the debt. We went before the seneschal. I maintained what I said; Simon maintained his side. There were no witnesses either for or against us, and as the amount involved was above five sous, the seneschal ordered a judicial battle. But who would take my part?”
“And you have found nobody to be your champion against Simon the Hirsute?”
“Alas, no! By reason of his strength and his wickedness the fellow is feared all over this country. No one would venture to fight with him.”
“Well, my pretty hostess, you can count with me. I shall fight him as well for the sake of your pretty eyes as for the sake of your cause.”
“Oh, my cause is good, Sir champion. It is as true that I lent Simon the Hirsute those twelve florins as.... I’ll tell you how it was—”
“You need say no more. A pretty mouth like yours would not fib. Moreover, I’m in the habit of placing confidence in what my clients tell me. What is wanted is, not solid reasons, but rude blows with the sword, the lance or the mace. Thus, so long as this right fist is not cut off, it will offer arguments more conclusive than the subtlest ones of the most famous jurists.”
“I must not conceal from you the fact that that thief of a Simon has been an archer. He is a dangerous man. Everybody is afraid of him.”
“Pretty hostess, there is another custom I have when I am to plead a case. I never inquire how my adversary fights. In that way I never form in advance a plan of attack, frequently frustrated in practice. I have a quick and correct eye. Once on the arena, I size up my man, fall to, and decide on the spot whether to thrust or to cut. I have ever congratulated myself on this manner of pleading. You may rely upon me. The tourney does not open till noon; my arms are in good condition and my horse is eating his provender. Let’s drink a glass: Long live joy, my pretty hostess! and good luck to the good cause!”
“Oh, helpful champion! If you gain my process I shall give you three florins. It would not be paying too much for the pleasure of seeing the scamp of a Simon the Hirsute brought to grief!”
“Agreed! If I gain your process you will give me three florins and a smacking kiss for good measure, if you like!... Agreed?”
“Oh, Sir, such things are not said.”
“Well, then, I shall give you the smacking kiss, seeing the other plan embarrasses you. But by all the devils, your forehead remains troubled. Why so? You needed a champion, and heaven — as you said — sends you one who is impatient to sail into the thief, and yet your pretty forehead keeps its wrinkles!”
“I should be satisfied, and yet my heart is heavy. I want to tell you all about it.”
“Have you, perchance, some other process, or some unfaithful lover? You may speak freely to me.”
Alison remained for a moment sad and silent, whereupon she resumed with painful voice.
“Sir champion, you come from Paris; you must be very learned. Perhaps you may render a service to a poor lad who is much to be pitied, and who also must himself do battle to-day in a judicial duel, but under very sad circumstances.”
“Explain yourself. What is the matter?”
“In this country of Nointel, when a female serf or bourgeois marries, the seigneur, if it please him, is entitled to ... the first night of his female vassal. They call it the ‘right of first fruits.’ ... At least do not laugh!”
“Laugh! Not by the devil!” answered Jocelyn, whose face suddenly overspread with somberness. “Oh, you recall to my mind a melancholy affair. A short while ago I had to plead a case on the arena near Amiens. Crossing a village, I saw a gathering of serfs. Upon inquiry I learned that one of the peasants of the group, a butcher attached to the fief of the bishopric, had married that very morning a handsome girl of the parish. The bishop, in the exercise of his right, sent for the bride to take her to his bed. The serf answered the episcopal bailiff, charged with the mission: ‘My wife is in my hut, I shall bring her out to you’; and coming back a few instants later said to him: ‘My wife is a little bashful, she does not like to come out, go in and bring her out yourself.’ The bailiff went into the hut, and what does he fin
d? The unhappy girl lying in a pool of blood; she was dead.”
“Good God! What a shocking story!”
“In order to ransom her from dishonor, her husband had killed her with a blow of his axe.”
At these words, William Caillet, who until then had remained indifferent to the conversation between Alison and Jocelyn, shook convulsively, raised his savage face and listened, while, tears streaming from her eyes, Alison cried: “Oh, poor woman! To be thus killed! What a terrible resolution must not have seized her husband to resort to such a frightful extreme!”
“Resolute men are rare.”
“Alas, Sir champion. Those who, degraded by serfdom, remain indifferent to such ignominy are perhaps less to be pitied than those who resent it.”
“But most of them do resent it,” cried Jocelyn. “In vain do the seigneurs seek to reduce these ill-starred beings to the state of brutes. Are not even among wild beasts the males seen to defend their females unto death? Does not man, however coarse, however brutified, however craven he may be, fire up with jealousy the moment he loves? Is not love the only possession left to the serfs, the only solace in their misery? Blood and death! I grow savage at the mere thought of the rage and despair of a serf at the sight of the humble companion of his cheerless days sullied forever by a seigneur! By the navel of Satan, by the horns of Moses, the thought of it exasperates me!”
“Oh, Sir,” said Alison with tears in her eyes, “your words tell the story of that poor Mazurec, the young man I was about to tell you of.”
William Caillet again shook convulsively at the sound of the name of Mazurec, and leaped up, but controlling himself by dint of a violent effort, he resumed his seat, and lent increased attention to what was said by Alison and Jocelyn, who himself seemed greatly struck by the name of Mazurec, that his hostess had just pronounced.
“The serf’s name is Mazurec?” he inquired, visibly affected.
“Yes, Sir. Why does the name surprise you?”
“It is one of my own father’s given names. Do you know the age of the young fellow?”
“He can be no more than twenty years; his mother, who has long been dead, was not of this neighborhood.”
“Whence came she?”
“I could not tell you that. She arrived here shortly before the birth of Mazurec. She begged her bread. Our neighbor the miller of the Gallion mill, took pity upon her. His own wife had died in childbed about two months before. The name of Mazurec’s mother was Gervaise.”
“Gervaise?” repeated Jocelyn, seeming to interrogate his memory, “was her name Gervaise?”
“Yes, Sir champion. She was so pleasing and sweet to the eyes of the miller that he said to himself: ‘She must soon be brought to bed; if she is willing, she shall be nurse to both my child and her own.’ And so it was. Gervaise brought up the two boys. She was so industrious and of so good a character that the miller kept her as a servant. Then a misfortune happened. The Count of Beaumont declared war to the Sire of Nointel. That is now five years ago. The miller was compelled to follow his seigneur to war. During that time the men of Beaumont raided the place, burning and sacking. They set fire to the mill where Gervaise was left with the two children. She perished in the flames, together with the miller’s child. Mazurec alone escaped miraculously. Out of pity my husband and I took him in.”
“You are a worthy woman, my hostess. I shall have to cut the throat of Simon the Hirsute.”
“Do not praise me too much, Sir champion. The hardest heart would have taken an interest in Mazurec. He was the sweetest and best child in the world. His goodness and mildness won for him the name of Mazurec the Lambkin.”
“And did he make good the promise of his name?”
“He was a real lamb. All night long he cried for his mother and his foster brother. By day he helped us, according to his strength, in whatever work we had in hand. When the war closed our neighbor the miller did not come back. He had been killed. The Sire of Nointel had the burnt-down mill rebuilt. God only knows what taxes he imposed upon us, his vassals, to indemnify himself for the expenses of his campaign against the seigneur of Beaumont. Mazurec took service under the new miller. Every Sunday, on his way to church, Mazurec stopped here to thank us for our kindness towards him. There is no more grateful heart than his. And now I’ll tell you how his misfortune came about. Occasionally he was sent by the miller with bags of flour to the village of Cramoisy, about three leagues from here, where the Sire of Nointel has established a fortified post. In that village — poor Mazurec has made me his confidante — he often saw, seated at the door of her hut, a beautiful young girl, spinning at her wheel; other times he met her pasturing her cow along the green borders of the road. This young girl was known as Aveline-who-never-lied. She had a heart of gold.”
“And these two folks loved each other?”
“Indeed! They loved each other passionately. And they were well matched.”
William Caillet listened to Alison’s narrative with redoubled attention. Unable, to keep back a tear that rolled down his emaciated cheeks, he wiped it off with the back of his hand. The tavern-keeper proceeded:
“Mazurec was a serf of the same seigniory with Aveline and her father. The latter consented to the marriage. The bailiff of the Sire of Nointel in the absence of his master, also gave his consent. Everything was moving smoothly along, and often did Mazurec say to me: ‘Dame Alison, what a pity that my mother cannot witness our happiness!’”
“But how came these happy hopes to be destroyed, my pretty hostess?”
“You know, Sir, that, if the seigneur is willing, the vassals can ransom themselves of the infamous right that we spoke of a few minutes ago. So did my deceased husband, without which I would have remained single all my life. Aveline’s father had a cow for only earthly possession. He sold that, preferring to forfeit the animal that furnished him with food, rather than to see his adored daughter dishonored by the Sire of Nointel. The day of the bethrothal Mazurec went to the castle to deliver to the bailiff the price of the bride’s redemption. Unfortunately, the bailiff happened to be away. The bridegroom returned to Aveline, and her father decided that they should be married the next morning, and that immediately after the mass Mazurec should return to the castle to ransom his wife. The marriage took place, and, according to custom, the bride remained locked up at the vicarage until the husband could show his letter of redemption.”
“Yes,” observed Jocelyn. “And it therefore often happens that, to escape the disgrace, brides yield themselves to their intended husbands before marriage. No more than just, under the circumstances.”
“But too true; and often also the men thereupon leave the poor girl and do not marry her. But neither Mazurec nor Aveline entertained such evil thoughts. In possession of the needed sum for the ransom, he only asked to acquit himself honestly. After the mass, Mazurec returned to the castle, carrying the money in a purse suspended from his belt. On the road he met a knight who inquired for the way to Nointel; and, would you believe it, Sir? while Mazurec was giving him the directions, the scamp of a knight stooped down in the saddle as if to adjust the strap of his stirrup, snatched the purse from poor Mazurec, and, spurring his horse, galloped off.”
“There are hundreds of such thefts committed. The knights look upon them as mere feats of knighthood. But they are infamous acts!”
“Mazurec, left behind distracted, vainly ran after the thief. He lost sight of him. An hour later he arrived breathless at the castle, threw himself at the feet of the bailiff, told him of his mishap, and with tears in his eyes demanded justice against the thief. The Sire of Nointel, who had arrived at his manor that very morning from Paris, accompanied by several friends, happened to cross the corridor at the very time that Mazurec was imploring the bailiff’s help. The Sire of Nointel, informed of the occurrence, asked, laughing, whether the bride was pretty. ‘There is none prettier in your domain, Sire’, answered the bailiff. Suddenly, his eyes falling upon one of the knights of the Sire’s suite, Maz
urec cried: ‘It is he who robbed me of my purse, only an hour ago!’ ‘Miserable serf’, thundered the seigneur, ‘dare you charge one of my guests with robbery? You lie!’”
“Without a doubt the thievish knight denied the robbery.”
“Yes, Sir, and Mazurec, on his side, still insisted. Thereupon, after a whispered conversation with the bailiff and the knight who was accused of the robbery, the Sire of Nointel gave this decision: ‘One of my equerries, escorted by several men-at-arms, shall forthwith proceed to the vicarage and conduct the bride here. According to my right, I shall spend the night with her. To-morrow morning she may be returned to that vassal. As to the charge of robbery, that he has the effrontery to prefer against a noble knight, the knight demands the trial of arms, and if, although defeated, this vile varlet survives the battle, he shall be tied up in a bag and cast into the river as the defamer of a knight. Let justice take its course.’”
“Oh!” cried Jocelyn, “the unhappy lad is lost. The knight is the appellant, as such he has the right to fight on horseback and in full armor, against the serf in a smock-frock and with a stick for only weapon.”
“Alas, Sir! As you see I had good reasons for being heavy at heart. Poor Mazurec thought less on the battle than on his bride. He threw himself sobbing at the feet of his seigneur, and beseeched him not to dishonor Aveline. And do you know what answer the Sire of Nointel made to him? ‘Jacques Bonhomme’ — that’s the title of derision that the nobles give their serfs— ‘Jacques Bonhomme, my friend, I have two reasons for spending this night with your wife: first, because, as they say, she is quite comely; and second, because that will be the punishment for your insolence to charge one of my guests with larceny.’ At these words Mazurec the Lambkin became Mazurec the Wolf. He threw himself furiously upon his seigneur, meaning to strangle him. But the knights who stood by felled the poor serf to the floor, pinioned him and thrust him into a dungeon. Can anything exceed such cruelty? Add to that that the Sire of Nointel is himself betrothed to be married; his bride, the noble damosel Gloriande of Chivry, is to be the queen of the tourney about to take place.”