by Eugène Sue
“With the aid of heaven, our friend Marcel will soon put a stop to that sort of thing.”
“Marcel is the providence of Paris.”
“Friends,” resumed the man of the furred cap, smiling disdainfully, “you seem to have nothing but the name of Marcel in your mouths. Although Master Marcel is a provost and president of the town council, yet he is not everything on earth. The other councilmen are his superiors in trade. Take, for instance, John Maillart, there you have a worthy townsman—”
“Who is it dare compare others with the great Marcel!” cried Rufin the Tankard-smasher. “By Jupiter, whoever utters such foolishness quacks like a goose!”
“Hm! Hm!” grumbled the man of the furred cap; “I said so!”
“Then it is you who quack like a goose!” promptly replied the Tankard-smasher. “What! You dare maintain that Marcel is not the foremost townsman! He, the friend of the people!”
“Aye, aye!” came from the crowd. “Marcel is our saviour. Without him Paris would by this time have been taken and sacked by the English!”
“Marcel,” resumed the Tankard-smasher with increasing enthusiasm, “he who restored economy in our finances, order and security in the city! By the bowels of the Pope! I know something about that! Only a fortnight ago, towards midnight, I with my chum Nicolas the Thin-skinned were beating at the door of a public house on Trace-Pute street. The woman of the house refused us admission, pretending that the girls we were looking for were not in. Thereat I and my friend came near breaking in the door. At that a platoon of cross-bowmen, organized by Marcel to maintain order in the streets, happens to go by, and they arrest and lodge both of us at the Chatelet, despite our privileges as students of the Paris University!... Now dare say that Marcel does not keep order in town!”
“That may all be,” answered the man of the furred cap; “but any other councilman would have done as much; and Master John Maillart—”
“John Maillart!” exclaimed Rufin. “By the bowels of the Pope! Had he or any other, the King himself, dared to encroach upon the franchises of the University, the students, rising en masse, would have poured, arms in hands, out of their quarter of St. Germain and there would have been a battle in Paris. But what is allowed to Marcel, the idol of Paris, is not allowed to any other.”
“The student is right!” went up from the crowd. “Marcel is our idol because he is just, because he protects the interests of the bourgeois against the court people, of the weak against the strong. Long live Etienne Marcel!”
“Without the activity of Marcel, his courage and his foresight, Paris would have been burned down and deluged in blood by the English.”
“Did not Marcel also keep our town from starvation, when he went himself at the head of the militia as far as Corbeil to protect a cargo of grain that the Navarrais meant to pillage?”
“I don’t deny that,” calmly observed the man of the furred cap with envious insistence. “All I maintain is that, put in the place of Marcel, Maillart would have done as well.”
“Surely, provided the councilman had the genius of Marcel. If he had, he surely would have done as well as Marcel!” rejoined the Tankard-smasher. “If my sweetheart wore a beard, she would be the lover and somebody else the sweetheart!”
This sally of the student was received with a universal laughter of approval. The immense majority of the Parisians entertained for Marcel as much attachment as admiration.
Wrapt in his somber silence, William Caillet had listened attentively to the altercation, and he saw confirmed that which Jocelyn the Champion had stated to him a short time ago at Nointel concerning the influence of Marcel upon the Parisian people. By that time, the roll of drums, the notes of the clarions and the din of a large multitude had drawn nearer. The procession turned into Mauconseil in order to cross St. Denis street. A company of the town’s cross-bowmen, commanded by a captain, marched at the head and opened the way, preceded by the drummers and clarion blowers, who alternately struck up funeral bars. Behind the cross-bowmen came the town’s heralds, dressed in the town colors, half red and half blue. From time to time the heralds recited solemnly the following mournful psalmody:
“Pray for the soul of Perrin Macé, a bourgeois of Paris, unjustly executed!
“John Baillet, the treasurer of the Regent, had borrowed in the name of the King a sum of money from Perrin Macé.
“Macé demanded his money in virtue of the new edict that orders the royal officers to pay for what they buy and return what they borrow for the King, under penalty of being brought to law by their creditors.
“John Baillet refused to pay, and furthermore insulted, threatened and struck Perrin Macé.
“In the exercise of his right of legitimate defence, granted him by the new edict, Perrin Macé returned blow for blow, killed John Baillet and betook himself to the church of St. Méry, a place of asylum, from where he demanded an inquest and trial.
“The Duke of Normandy, now Regent, immediately sent one of his courtiers, the marshal of Normandy, to the church of St. Méry, accompanied with an escort of soldiers and the executioner.
“The marshal of Normandy dragged Perrin Macé from the church, and without trial Macé’s right hand was cut off and he was immediately hanged.
“Pray for the soul of Perrin Macé, a bourgeois of Paris, unjustly executed.”
Regularly after these sentences, that were alternately recited by the heralds in a solemn voice, the muffled roll of drums and plaintive clarion notes resounded, but they hardly served to hush the imprecations from the crowd, indignant at the Regent and his court. Behind the heralds followed priests with their crucifixes and banners, and then, draped in a long black cloth embroidered in silver, came the coffin of the executed bourgeois, carried by twelve notables, clad in their long robes and wearing the two-colored hats of red and blue, such as were worn by almost all the partisans of the popular cause. The collars of their gowns were held by silver brooches, likewise enameled in red and blue, and bearing the inscription “To a happy issue,” a device or rallying cry given by Marcel. Behind the coffin marched the councilmen of Paris with Etienne Marcel at their head. The obscure bourgeois, who had stepped out of his draper’s shop to become one of the most illustrious citizens of Gaul, was then in the full maturity of his age. Of middle height and robust, Etienne Marcel somewhat stooped from his fatigues, seeing that his prodigious activity of a man of both thought and action left him no repose. His open, manly and characterful face bore at the chin a thick tuft of brown beard, leaving his cheeks and lips clean shaven. The feverish agitation of the man and the incessant cares of public affairs had furrowed his forehead and left their marks on his features without, however, in any way affecting the august serenity that an irreproachable conscience imparts to the physiognomy of an honorable man. There was nothing benigner or more affectionate than his smile when under the influence of the tender sentiments so familiar to his heart. There was nothing more imposing than his bearing, or more threatening than his looks when, as powerful an orator as he was a great citizen, Etienne Marcel thundered with the indignation of an honest and brave soul against the acts of cowardice and treason and the crimes of the feudal nobility and the despotic crown. The provost wore the red and blue head-gear together with the emblazoned brooch that distinguished the other councilmen. Among these, John Maillart often during the procession gave his arm to Marcel, who, fatigued by the long march through the streets of Paris, cordially accepted the support of one of his oldest friends. Since youth Marcel had lived in close intimacy with Maillart, but the latter, ever keeping concealed the enviousness that the glory of Marcel inspired him with, could not now wholly repress a bitter smile at the enthusiastic acclaim that saluted Marcel along the route.
A woman clad in long mourning robes and whose presence seemed out of place at such a ceremony marched beside Maillart. It was his wife, Petronille, still young and passing handsome, but of atrabilious and harsh mien. Each time that the heralds finished the mournful psalmody and befor
e they began it anew, Petronille Maillart would break out into sobs and moans, and raising and wringing her arms in despair cried out: “Unhappy Perrin Macé! Vengeance upon his ashes! Vengeance!” The plaintive outcries and the contortions of Madam Maillart seemed, however, to excite more surprise than interest with the crowd.
“By Jupiter!” cried Rufin the Tankard-smasher, “what brings that bellowing woman to this funeral? What makes her demean herself like that, as if she were possessed? She is neither the widow nor any relative of Perrin Macé.”
“For that reason her presence is all the more admirable,” observed the man of the furred cap addressing the crowd. “Behold her, friends! Do you see how her despair testifies the extent to which she, as well as her husband, share in the terrible fate of poor Perrin Macé?... You are witnesses, friends, that Dame Petronille is the only councilman’s wife who assists at the ceremony!”
“That’s true!” said several voices. “Poor, dear woman! She must feel sadly distracted.”
“Yes, indeed. And surely that is not the case with the wife of Marcel, our first magistrate. She and the others remain calmly at home, without at all concerning themselves about this public sorrow,” put in the man of the furred cap. “Fail not to take notice!”
“By the bowels of the Pope!” cried the Tankard-smasher. “Marcel’s wife acts like a sensible body. She is right not to come out and exhibit herself and utter shrieks fit to deafen Beelzebub just when the drums are silent.... The affliction of that bellowing woman looks to me like a sheet of music, marked on time. That woman is playing a comedy.”
“You vainly try to pass the matter off as a joke, master student,” rejoined the man of the furred cap. “It will, nevertheless, be noted that the wife of Maillart assisted at the funeral of Perrin Macé, and that the wife of Marcel did not. Hm! Hm! My friends, that gives room for many suspicions; or, rather, it confirms certain rumors.”
“What suspicions?” asked Rufin; “What rumors? Explain yourself.”
But without answering the student the man of the furred cap was lost in the crowd, while continuing to whisper to those that he came in contact with. During this slight incident, the funeral procession had continued to file by. Notable townsmen, carrying funeral torches, marched behind the councilmen; they were followed by the trade guilds, each headed by its banner; finally the rear was brought up by a long line of people of all conditions uttering imprecations against the Regent and his court, and acclaiming Marcel with ever increasing enthusiasm. Marcel, the crowd declared, would know how to avenge the fresh and sanguinary court iniquity.
From mouth to mouth the announcement was carried that, after the ceremony, Marcel would address the people in the large hall of the Convent of the Cordeliers. William Caillet silently assisted at this scene which seemed to impress him deeply. After a few moments’ reflections he overcame his rustic timidity and drew Rufin the Tankard-smasher aside by the arm just as the latter was about to walk away. The student turned around, and yielding to the joviality of his nature as well as purposing to haze the rustic after the time-honored practice of the University of Paris, said to him banteringly: “I wager, dear rustic, that you overheard me speaking of one of my sweethearts! Hein! I see through you, my sylvan swain! You would like to admire the town beauties. By the bowels of the Pope! You shall have your pick—”
Hurt by the student’s banter, William Caillet answered him gruffly: “I am a stranger in Paris; I come from a great distance—”
“Oh! You would like to enter the University, would you?” Rufin interrupted him with redoubled hilarity. “You are somewhat too bearded for a bachelor; but that does not matter; what faculty would you choose? theology or medicine? arts, letters or canonical law?”
“Oh, these townsmen!” exclaimed the old peasant with pungent bitterness. “They are no better than the people of the castles. Go, Jacques Bonhomme, you have enemies everywhere and nowhere a friend.”
Saying this, Caillet started to walk away. But touched by the sad accent of the peasant, Rufin held him back: “Friend, if I have hurt your feelings, excuse me. We townsmen are not the enemies of Jacques Bonhomme for the reason that our enemies are common to us both.”
Ever suspicious, Caillet remained silent and sought to discover from the face of the student whether his words did not conceal a trap or implied some fresh ridicule. Rufin surmised the apprehensions of the serf, examined him once more attentively, and now struck by the lines of sorrow on his face, said to him: “May I die like a dog if I am not speaking sincerely to you. Friend, you seem to have suffered much; you are a stranger; I am at your disposal! I do not offer you my purse because it is empty; but I offer you half of the pallet on which I sleep in a student’s room with a chum from my province, and a part of our meager pittance.”
Now convinced by the frankness of the townsman, the peasant answered: “I have no time to stay in Paris; I only wish to speak with Jocelyn the Champion and Marcel; could you help me to that?”
“You know Jocelyn the Champion?” Rufin asked with deep interest, while a cloud of sadness darkened his countenance.
“Did any misfortune befall him?”
“He left here to assist at a tourney in Beauvoisis some time ago, and the poor fellow never returned.... His aged and infirm father died of grief at the disappearance of his son. Brave Jocelyn! I entered the University the year before he left it. He was the best and most courageous lad in the world.... He must have been killed at the tourney, or assassinated on his return to Paris. Highwaymen infest the roads.”
“No; he was not killed at the tourney of Nointel. The night after the passage of arms I saw him take his horse to return to Paris.”
“Are you from Beauvoisis?”
“Yes,” answered Caillet; and he added with a sigh: “Well, that young man is dead! Great pity! There are few like him who love Jacques Bonhomme.” After a moment’s silence the peasant resumed: “How can I manage to meet Marcel?”
“By following me to the convent of the Cordeliers where he is to address the people after the funeral of Perrin Macé. Come with me.”
“Go ahead,” said Caillet; “I shall follow you.”
“Come, we shall go out by the Coquiller gate; that’s the shortest route.”
The old peasant walked in silence by the side of Rufin who sought to draw from him some words on the subject of his trip. But the serf remained impenetrable. Going out by the gate of St. Denis and following the streets of the suburbs, that were much less crowded than those of the city, Caillet and his guide had just left Traversine to enter Montmartre street when they heard the distant funeral chant of priests interspersed from time to time with plaintive clarion notes. The peasant noticed with surprise that as the chant drew nearer the residents along the streets closed and bolted their doors.
“By the bowels of the Pope!” exclaimed the student. “Accident is serving us well. You have seen honors paid to the remains of Perrin Macé by the officials and the people; you will now see the honors paid to John Baillet, the cause of the iniquity that Paris is feeling indignant about. Yes, Baillet’s remains are honored by the Regent and his court. Come quick; the procession is probably going to the convent of the Augustian monks.” Hastening his steps and followed by the peasant, the student reached the corner of Montmartre and Quoque-Heron streets, opposite which stood the convent, whose doors opened to receive the coffin. “Look,” said the student turning to Caillet. “How significant is not the contrast presented by these two funerals. At Perrin Macé’s a large concourse of people were present, serious and moved with just indignation; at John Baillet’s nobody assists but the Regent, the princes, his brothers, the courtiers and the officers of the royal household — not one representative of the people! The townsmen leave a deep void around this royal demonstration which is indulged in as a sort of challenge to the popular one. Tell me, friend, does not the very aspect of the two processions appeal to the eye. At the funeral of Perrin Macé we saw a great mass composed of bourgeois and artisans plainl
y or even poorly dressed; at the funeral of John Baillet we see only a handful of courtiers and officers brilliantly attired in gold and silk and velvet, and decked in magnificent uniforms.”
William Caillet listened to the student, seeking to bore through him with his eyes, and shaking his head answered pensively: “Jocelyn did not deceive me,” and after a pause he proceeded: “But what are the Parisians still waiting for? We are ready, and have long been!”
“What do you mean?” asked Rufin.
Immediately relapsing into his former close-mouthedness, the peasant made no answer. The procession just turned into the street. The coffin of John Baillet, heavily inlaid with gold and preceded by royal heralds and sergeants-at-arms was borne by twelve menials of the Regent in costly livery. The young prince and his brothers, accompanied by the seigneurs of the court, alone followed the coffin. Charles, the Duke of Normandy and now Regent of the French, as the eldest son of King John, at the time an English prisoner, had, like his brothers and the French nobility, fled ignominiously from the battlefield of Poitiers. The young man who now governed Gaul was barely twenty years of age. He was of frail physique and pale complexion. His sickly face concealed under a kind and timid mien a large fund of obstinacy, of perfidy, of wile and of wickedness — odious vices usually rare in youths, except of royal lineage. Magnificently dressed in gold-embroidered green velvet, a black head-gear ornamented with a chain and brooch of costly stones on his head, the mean-spirited and languishing Regent marched slowly leaning on a cane. At a short distance behind him advanced his brothers, and then came the seigneurs of the court, among them the marshal of Normandy, who, ordered by the young prince, had superintended the mutilation and subsequent execution of Perrin Macé. The marshal, who was the Sire of Conflans, one of the Regent’s favorites, superb and arrogant, cast upon the few and straggling spectators disdainful and threatening looks, and exchanged a few words with the Sire of Charny, a courtier no less loved by the prince than he was detested by the people. Suddenly Rufin the Tankard-smasher felt his arm rudely seized by the vigorous hand of Caillet, who with distended and flaming eyes, and his breast heaving with pain, gasped out: