by Eugène Sue
“Look!... There they are!... There are the two! The Sire of Nointel and that other, the knight of Chaumontel!... Oh, do you see them both with their scarlet hats, down there with the tall man in an ermine cloak?” cried out Caillet despite himself.
“Yes, yes; I see the two seigneurs,” answered the student, astonished at the emotion manifested by the peasant. “But what makes you tremble so?”
“Down in the country they are thought dead or prisoners of the English,” exclaimed Caillet. “Fortunately it is not so.... There they are ... there they are ... I have seen them with my own eyes!” and contracting his lips with a frightful smile the serf added raising his two fists to heaven: “Oh, Mazurec!... Oh, my daughter!... Here I see the two men at last!... They will return home for the marriage of the handsome Gloriande.... We’ve got them!... We’ve got them!”
“The looks of this man make me shiver,” thought the student to himself, gazing at the peasant with stupor, and he proceeded aloud: “Who are those two seigneurs that you are speaking of?”
Without heeding Rufin, Caillet proceeded to say: “Oh, now more than ever am I anxious to see Marcel without delay. I must speak with the provost!”
“In that case,” the student said to him, “come and rest at my lodging. In the evening we shall wait upon the provost at the convent of the Cordeliers. He is to address the people there this evening. But, once more, what is the reason of your excitement at the sight of those two seigneurs in the Regent’s suite?”
The peasant cast a suspicious side-glance at the student, remained silent and his face assumed a somberer hue.
“By the bowels of the Pope!” thought Rufin the Tankard-smasher, “I have run up against an odd customer; he alternates between dumbness and riddles. He saddens even me who am not given to melancholy! He positively frightens even me who am no poltroon!”
And accompanied by William Caillet, the student wended his steps towards the quarter of the University.
CHAPTER IV.
THE SERPENT UNDER THE GRASS.
ETIENNE MARCEL’S HOUSE was located near the church of St. Eustace in the quarter of the market. His shop, filled with rolls of cloth that were exposed on the shelves, communicated with a dining room. A staircase ran into this room, leading to the chambers on the floor above.
It being night and the shop closed, Marguerite, Marcel’s wife, and Denise her niece, had gone upstairs into one of the chambers where they took up some sewing which they were busily at by the light of the lamp. Marguerite was about forty-five years. She must have been handsome in her younger days. Her face betokened kindness and was now pensive and grave. Denise was close to eighteen. Her cheerful face, habitually serene and candid, seemed this evening profoundly sad. The two women remained long in silence, each engaged in her work. By degrees, however, and without raising her head Denise’s needle relaxes, and presently, dropping her hands upon her lap, the tears roll out of her eyes. Marguerite, no less pre-occupied than her niece, mechanically raises her eyes towards the young girl, and noticing her tears, says tenderly:
“Poor child! I know the cause of your sorrow because I know the bent of your mind. I would not have you share a hope that I myself hardly retain. But, after all, although the continued absence of Jocelyn justifies our fears, we should not despair.... He may yet return....”
“No, no,” answered Denise, now giving free course to her tears. “If Jocelyn still lived, he would not have left his aged father in the uncertainty that hastened his death. If Jocelyn still lived he would have communicated with my uncle Marcel, whom he loved and venerated like a father. No, no”, she exclaimed amid sobs, “He is dead. I shall never see him again!”
“My child, it is quite possible that carried away by his imprudent courage, Jocelyn went to the battle of Poitiers, where he may have remained in the hands of the English. Prisoners return. I conjure you, do not yield to despair. I suffer to see you weep.”
In lieu of answer the young girl rose and walked up to Marguerite, took her two hands, kissed them and said: “Dear, good aunt, you brush aside your own sorrows to think of mine, and you seek to console me.... I am ashamed not to know better and to repress my sorrow while you bear up so courageously before Master Marcel and your son!”
“Truly, Denise, I do not understand you”, remarked Marguerite slightly embarrassed. “My life is so happy, I need no special courage to bear it—”
“Oh, oh! Do I not see you daily receive Master Marcel and your son Andre with a smile on your lips and a serene face, while your heart is in a storm of anxieties—”
“You are mistaken, Denise!”
“Oh, believe me; it is no indiscreet curiosity that guided me when I sought to penetrate your feelings. It was the desire to say nothing that might wound your secret thoughts whenever I am alone with you, as now so often happens good dear aunt.”
“You dear child!” exclaimed Marguerite embracing Denise with effusion and now making no effort to restrain her own tears. “How could I fail to be profoundly effected by so much delicacy and tenderness? How could I fail to respond with unreserved confidence?” Marguerite stopped but after a last few moments of hesitancy and making a supreme effort she proceeded: “’Tis true; you did not deceive yourself. Yes, my life is now spent amid anxieties and alarms. I thank you for having drawn the secret from me. I shall now, at least, be able to weep before you without reserve, and give a loose to my heart. Having paid that tribute to feebleness, I shall be able all the better to appear serene before my husband and my son! Oh ... I admit it; my only fear is to have them discover that I suffer! I know Marcel’s love for me. It reciprocates mine. If he knew I was wretched I might cause his own calmness and fortitude to weaken that never yet have abandoned him and that he needs now more than ever in these perilous days.”
“Oh, the women who envy you would at this moment pity you, did they but see and hear you, dear aunt!”
“Yes”, replied Marguerite with bitterness; “the wife of Marcel, the idol of the people ... of Marcel, the real king of Paris, is envied. They envy the companion of that great citizen. Oh, they should rather pity her.... Tender indulgences ... sweet joys of the hearth, the happiness of the humblest ... since long I know you no more! The artisan, the merchant, their day’s labors being done, at least enjoy in the bosom of their families some rest until the morrow. My poor husband, on the contrary, spends his nights at work ... while I, his wife, remain a prey to constant uneasiness night and day, ever fearing for his life or his son’s!”
“You have no reason to tremble for the life of Master Marcel, who can not take a step without he is surrounded by a crowd of devoted friends.”
“I fear the Regent’s hatred, and that of the nobles and prelates.”
At that moment Agnes the Bigot, Marguerite’s confidential servant, entered the room and said to her mistress: “Madam, the wife of Master Maillart, the councilman, has come to visit you.”
“So late! Did you tell her I was home?”
“Yes, madam.”
Marguerite made a gesture of impatience and annoyance, dried her tears and said to Denise in an undertone: “You just mentioned envious women.... Petronille Maillart is of the number.... Hide your tears, I pray you, to avoid her drawing wrongful conclusions from our sadness. She is cruelly jealous of the popularity of Marcel; and Maillart, I believe, shares the feelings of his wife.”
“Can Maillart be jealous of my uncle, the friend of his childhood!”
“Maillart is a weak man whom his wife dominates.”
“Maillart is always speaking about running to arms, and of massacring the nobles and priests.”
“Violence is not strength, Denise; the most excited natures usually are the least firm.... But silence! Here is Petronille.... What can be the purpose of a visit at this hour?”
Petronille Maillart entered. She was still in her mourning garb. From the instant of her entrance she darted an inquisitive glance at the wife of Marcel and at Denise, and undoubtedly observed the traces of rece
nt tears, seeing that a smile flitted over her lips. Affecting great sympathy she said:
“Excuse me, Dame Marguerite, for coming to your house at so late an hour; but I wished to speak to you upon serious matters.”
“You are always welcome, Dame Petronille.”
“I fear not, at this moment. Sorrow loves solitude, and I notice with pain that your eyes and those of your dear niece are still red with tears. Just heaven! Do you entertain any fears for our excellent friend Marcel. Do the people, perhaps, incline to deny the value of the services he has rendered Paris? Ingratitude of the masses!”
“Be at ease, Dame Petronille,” answered Marguerite interrupting her. “Thanks to God, I entertain no fears on the score of my husband. It is true Denise and I feel sad. Shortly before you came in, we were speaking of a friend whose fate is making us uneasy. You have often seen him here. It is Jocelyn the Champion.”
“Surely; I remember him well. A veritable Hercules ... was the poor fellow killed?”
“No; we are not ready to believe that such a misfortune has happened. But it is a long time we have not heard from him.”
“Nothing more natural, Dame Marguerite. I can now account for your tears.... But let me come to the purpose of my visit, which, seeing the lateness of the hour, must seem strange to you. The curfew has sounded long ago. You know how attached Maillart and I are to you and your husband.”
“I feel thankful for your friendship.”
“Now, then, the duty of good friends is to speak frankly.”
“Certainly, there is nothing more precious than sincere friends. Pray speak, Dame Petronille!”
“Very well, dear Marguerite; your absence from the funeral of poor Perrin Macé has been noticed. I attended the ceremony; you see it on my clothes. In my quality of a councilman’s wife I felt bound to render this last homage to the memory of the poor victim of an iniquity.”
“Madam ... I can only pity such a victim.”
“And do you not revolt at the fate of the unfortunate man?”
“That great iniquity has revolted my husband. In his quality of the first magistrate of the town, he was bound to head the procession.”
“First magistrate of the town!” rejoined Dame Petronille with ill-suppressed bitterness. “Yes, until his successor is elected. Any one of the councilmen can be chosen provost. The election decides that.”
“Surely,” answered Marguerite, exchanging looks with Denise who had resumed her sewing. “My husband’s duty,” continued Marcel’s wife, “was first to protest against the crime of the Regent’s courtiers by solemnly attending the funeral of Perrin Macé.... As to me, Dame Petronille, knowing that it is not the custom for women to assist at these sad ceremonies, I stayed at home.”
“But do people care for custom in such grave circumstances?” cried Maillart’s wife. “One consults only his heart, as I did. Dressed in black from head to foot, I joined the funeral procession, moaning and weeping all the tears I had. I thought I would let you know it as a friend, my dear Dame Marguerite. It is much to be regretted that you did not follow my example.”
“Each is the judge of his own conduct, Madam.”
“No doubt, when none is concerned but ourselves. But in this matter, your husband, our excellent friend Marcel, was also concerned. I therefore fear that, under the circumstances, you have done him great harm in the popular esteem.”
“What is it you mean?”
“Oh, my God! Poor dear dame! Do you think I would have made haste to come to you after curfew if my purpose were not to give you charitable advice?”
“I do not question your good intentions. Marcel himself imparted to the funeral of Perrin Macé the solemn character that has been attached to it. He attended it at the head of the councilmen. In that he fulfilled his duty.”
“I know that my husband marched after yours, madam,” spitefully rejoined the envious woman, “seeing that in his quality of provost, Master Marcel has precedence over all the councilmen.... He is acknowledged by all as the leader.”
“Oh, madam! There is no question of rank,” cried Marguerite. “I only meant to say that Marcel attended the funeral.”
“Yes; but you did not, Dame Marguerite; and people said so. They remarked: ‘See, the wife of Master Maillart, the councilman, follows the hearse of Perrin Macé! Oh! Oh! She does not care about custom, not she! She meant, like her husband, to protest with her presence and her tears against the iniquity of the court. How, then, does it happen that the wife of the first magistrate remains at home? Can it be that Master Marcel takes the action of the Regent and court less to heart than he pretends? Can it be that, as the proverb puts it, he is trying to run with the hares and hunt with the hounds? Is he secretly laying the pipes for a reconciliation between himself and the court? Can Master Marcel contemplate betraying the people?’”
“Oh! That’s infamous!” cried out Denise, unable to control her indignation. “To dare accuse Master Marcel of treason because his wife did not attend the funeral procession and parade an affected sorrow!”
“Denise!” Marguerite quickly called out to the impetuous young girl, fearing the conversation, puerile in appearance, would take a still more acrid turn, and entail dangerous results for Marcel.
It was too late. Rising, Dame Petronille addressed Denise in a bitter tone: “Listen, learn, my friend, that my pain, no less than my husband’s, was not affectation!”
“Dame Petronille,” Marguerite interposed anxiously, “that was not Denise’s meaning.... Listen to me ... I pray you.”
“Madam,” dryly answered Maillart’s wife, “I came here to warn you as a true friend of the thoughtless, no doubt, but nevertheless, dangerous rumors against Master Marcel’s popularity. These rumors are at this very hour circulating in Paris.... So far from thanking me, I am received here with insult. The lesson is good. I shall profit by it.”
“Dame Petronille—”
“Enough, Madam. Neither I nor my husband shall ever again set foot in your house. I meant, like a friend, to point out to you the danger that Master Marcel’s good name is running. I have done my duty, let come what may!”
“Dame Petronille,” Marguerite answered with sad but severe dignity, “since Marcel consecrated his life to public affairs, there is not a word or action of his that he cannot answer for with head erect. He has done good for good’s sake, without even expecting anything from the gratitude of men. He will remain indifferent to their ingratitude. If ever his services are not appreciated, he will take with him into his retirement the consciousness of ever having acted like an honorable man. As to me, I shall bless the day when my husband should quit public affairs so that we may resume our obscure lives and ordinary occupations.”
So obvious was the sincerity with which Marguerite expressed herself in speaking of her delight to return to obscurity, that Dame Petronille, furious at having been unable to wound the woman whom she envied, lost all control of herself. “You err,” she declared, “in these days, it does not depend upon a man like Master Marcel to quietly bury himself in a retreat. No! No! When one has been the idol of Paris, you must either keep or lose the confidence of the people. If it is lost, you are looked upon as a traitor. And do you know what is dealt out to traitors? Death!”
“Can the enemies of Marcel have the audacity of pointing at him as a traitor?” cried Marguerite with tears in her eyes. “Do they aim at his life? Come, Dame Petronille, your silence upsets me.”
Petronille was about to answer when the voice of Marcel was heard outside the chamber cheerfully announcing: “Marguerite! Denise! I have good news! Good news!” Dame Petronille remained silent, and stiffly bowing, rapidly took her departure without uttering a word.
CHAPTER V.
CHARLES THE WICKED.
MARCEL ENTERED. THE radiant joy that suffused his face upon entering the house now made room for amazement at the silent and brusque departure of Maillart’s wife, who swept by him at the door. He looked at Marguerite and Denise inquiringly, and
noticing the disquietude and even alarm depicted on their faces by the odious calumnies of Petronille, he hastened to ask: “What is the matter, Marguerite? Why did our friend’s wife leave in that strange manner?”
“Oh, uncle!” broke out the young girl with tears in her eyes. “There are very wicked people ... serpents and vipers.”
“They are to be pitied, my child. But I hope you do not refer to wicked people in connection with Maillart’s wife?”
“My friend,” said Marguerite with embarrassment, “idle talk deserves contempt only. Nevertheless, in times like these idle talk may have serious consequences.”
“Well,” observed Marcel dejectedly, “I have but an hour to spend with you. I am tired out. I hoped to enjoy some rest. I came full of joy with good news that was to make you happy as it made me. And here it is all spoiled. But these minutes of quiet and relaxation are sweet to me at your side, dear objects of my love.”
“These moments are quite rare,” said Marguerite sighing, “and they are as precious to us as to you ... do not doubt, beloved Marcel!”
“I know it. Fortunately, you are not one of those spiritless women, whose constant anxieties are a torment to their husbands, who love them and suffer through their uneasiness. No, you are brave. You accept with fortitude the conditions that circumstances raise around us, convinced that my conduct is upright. I see you ever serene, and a smile on your lips. I feel refreshed in your wise and sweet tranquility, and gather new strength for the struggle, for the present my life is one continuous struggle. It is a holy struggle, glorious, fruitful ... but it exhausts ... nevertheless, thanks to you, dear Marguerite, I ever find at our hearth the happy quiet, the confident ease that are to the soul what a peaceful sleep is to the body—”