by Eugène Sue
The English captain uttered these cries at the sight of Alison, who now appeared at the entrance of the cavern, pale, with disheveled hair, her clothes half burnt, breathing fast and so feeble that she was unable to walk except supporting herself by the rocks that lay near by. Captain Griffith, without being moved at the lamentable aspect of the woman, and listening only to his own amorous suggestions, made one bound at his prey, took her in his arms and cried: “This time I hold you! Now you are mine!”
“Mercy!” cried Alison, struggling to free herself. “I shall give you all the money I have.... Mercy!”
“Love first, money afterwards!” was the answer of Norfolk’s bastard carrying Alison off.
“Help, Mazurec! Help!” cried the tavern-keeper as loudly as her weak voice allowed her. But Mazurec, exasperated with suffering and now drunk with bloodshed and the transports of revenge, continued to hack with his pitch-fork the corpse of the bailiff, and heard not the appeal of Alison.
Suddenly, stepping out of a thick bush and appearing on the top of a rocky eminence, Jocelyn the Champion precipitated himself upon the ravisher, followed by Adam the Devil, William Caillet, Rufin the Tankard-smasher and several serfs armed with axes, forks and scythes. This small troop, attracted by the cries of Alison, had rushed forward ahead of a large number of revolted peasants, who, crossing a denser part of the forest, marched slowlier.
“Here I am, my charming hostess!” cried Jocelyn, leaping from rock to rock, sword in hand; “here I am ... ready to defend you!”
“My Hercules of the castle of Beaumont!” exclaimed Captain Griffith, drawing his sword at the sight of Jocelyn whom he immediately recognized; and relinquishing Alison he rushed, sword in hand, at Jocelyn, saying: “Only to-day I requested but two things from Satan: to embrace that belle and to find you again a little fattened, my sturdy boy! Let’s commence with you; the belle shall have her turn!”
“I have not yet gathered much meat on my bones,” responded the champion, intrepidly attacking the bastard of Norfolk, “but you shall not be long in admitting that my wrist has not yet lost any of its strength.”
A mad combat was immediately engaged in between the champion and the Captain, while Caillet, Adam the Devil, Rufin and several of the serfs who accompanied them, threw themselves furiously upon Captain Griffith’s Chaplain and the archers who had come with him when he left the gross of his troop near the skirt of the forest, as the bailiff had advised.
“Kill, kill the English!... Death to the English!”
Overpowered and crushed by numbers, cut to pieces with the scythes, disemboweled with the forks, knocked down with the hatchets, not one of Captain Griffith’s men escaped the carnage. After heroically defending himself against Adam the Devil, who was armed with a short scythe and against Rufin who wielded a long sword, the Chaplain fell under their blows. His attention being now drawn again from his frenzy against the corpse of the bailiff by the arrival of the peasants who came with Caillet, Mazurec turned to them and brandishing his fork first joined their side of the combat; but struck with a sudden thought, he climbed the hillock where the air-hole had been contrived over the cavern, and which had recently been closed by the orders of the bailiff of Nointel. With the assistance of his fork he rolled off the stones from the aperture, and the smoke, now finding an issue, escaped therefrom in thick and black puffs. Climbing down, Mazurec disappeared within the cavern.
At that moment, though wounded in the arm, Jocelyn was holding Captain Griffith to the ground with both his knees pressing on the Englishman’s chest, and was looking for the dagger at his belt to bury it in his throat saying: “You shall die, English dog, who do not respect even dying women!”
“As true as you are the best blade that I have yet met in this country, my only regret is that I leave that belle behind!”
Such were the last words of the bastard of Norfolk. At the same moment Mazurec issued from the cavern with the corpse of Aveline in his arms, saying:
“William Caillet, here is your daughter and my wife. All of you who have wives, children, parents or friends step into that cavern. Look for them among the dead and dying. Our seigneur, the Sire of Nointel, had us smoked in our refuge because we refused to contribute money towards his ransom!”
At this announcement a large number of peasants ran into the cavern, while Caillet approached Mazurec, who still held his wife’s body in his arms, and calmly said: “Lay her down on the grass.... We shall dig her grave.” But the words were hardly uttered by the old man than throwing himself down beside the lifeless body of his daughter, he broke out in convulsive sobs while kissing her cold face.
“I have cried so much that I have no tears left,” said Mazurec contemplating the spectacle with a dry and fiery eye, while Adam the Devil silently dug Aveline’s grave with the aid of his short scythe.
A clump of roots and trees had until now concealed the sad spectacle from Jocelyn, who, not having noticed his brother in the heat of the combat, sat down on the grass supported by Rufin, and left his arm to be attended by Alison. Always brave and helpful, despite the different emotions that stormed through her heart, the tavern-keeper had ripped up her neck-cloth, and kneeling down beside Jocelyn, looked upon him with tenderness while staunching his wound.
“When we first met, you won my case; to-day I owe to you life and honor. How can I ever repay such a debt. Oh, I know too well how you contemn money to offer you three hundred franks that I have sewed in my skirt.”
“Do you wish, dear and good hostess, to repay your debt? Go to Paris. When you arrive there, ask where Master Marcel lives. Everybody will show you the place. Tell his wife that I have been slightly wounded and that there is no danger. That will assure Dame Marcel and also her niece ... my betrothed.”
“Oh, you are betrothed, Sir!” exclaimed Alison with some confusion, and gulping down a sigh, she added in an unsteady voice: “May God protect your love! I shall do as you say. I shall go to Paris ... I shall calm the anxieties of the girl you love. In her place I would be happy, indeed.... Oh, so happy to be reassured regarding him whom I love,” saying which Alison lowered her head to conceal a furtive tear that shone on her beautiful black eyes.
“Oh, Jocelyn!” Rufin said in a low voice, charmed with the grace and kindness of Alison, “a comely and honest body like that is worth a hundred Margots.”
“Dear hostess!” resumed Jocelyn after a moment’s reflection, “Will you allow me to give you advice? In times like these, a woman who travels alone runs great dangers. Take this friend of mine, Rufin, for your escort.”
“Jocelyn,” said the student with a lively movement, “I wish to remain with you to fight the nobility.”
“You fought bravely despite the wound that you received only day before yesterday, and which still gives you much pain. You can render our cause a great service by returning and notifying Marcel that the peasants are in arms in this province and that William Caillet has given the signal for the uprising. Marcel awaits this news to act.... And if he has any confidential message for me, he will send it through you. You will then rejoin me in Beauvoisis. You will be easily able to learn the whereabouts of Caillet’s troops, which I shall not leave”; and seeing that the student was about to yield, Jocelyn added in a low voice: “Despite the indiscretions of your youth, you are an upright fellow; promise me that you will guard Alison as you would your own sister.”
“I promise, Jocelyn; and you can trust my word! I shall be a good guardian to Alison.”
Suddenly a tremor ran over Jocelyn. He had just noticed Mazurec and Caillet carrying the body of Aveline. He understood what had happened, profound sorrow depicted itself upon his face, and kneeling down he said: “Kneel, Rufin ... kneel, my good hostess ... I shall have to wait till after this funeral to inform Mazurec that I am his brother.”
Adam the Devil had finished digging the grave of Aveline. Caillet and Mazurec, holding the body by the shoulders and feet, laid it down in the tomb. The peasants who witnessed the ceremony fel
l upon their knees. The funeral of the poor female serf piously performed under the vault of the forest in the midst of the heaped-up rocks at the mouth of the cavern — the immense tomb of so many other victims — was a spectacle of mournful grandeur. Everything contributed to render the scene terrible and imposing. There lay the mutilated and bloody members of the bailiff, the pitiless executer of the Sire of Nointel’s orders; yonder were strewn the corpses of the English, no less execrated than the seigneurs by the people of the fields; further at a distance was the kneeling crowd of serfs, bare-headed, clad in rags, holding strange and murderous weapons in their hands, and hardly able to restrain their fury; finally there were the father and the husband laying with their own hands into her grave her who should have been the solace of the former’s old age and the joy and love of the latter’s youth!
As soon as the body of the dead girl was laid in the fosse, Adam the Devil began filling it up with earth, while William Caillet standing at the head of his daughter’s sepulchre and holding Mazurec to his breast cried out in a voice that pulled at the heart-strings of all present:
“Adieu, my daughter! Adieu, my poor Aveline! You who never lied! You who never did wrong! Adieu! For evermore adieu!” and raising his trembling hands heavenward, the old peasant proceeded solemnly: “I swear here by the body of my child whom I have buried with my own hands! By the bones of our friends and our relatives whose grave is that cavern! By the sufferings that we endure! By the blood and the sweat of our forefathers! I shall revenge my daughter! I shall revenge our fathers! I shall revenge our race for the tortures it has endured! War upon the castles, without let or mercy!”
Carried away by these words, the surrounding serfs rose to their feet, and brandishing their staves, their scythes, their forks and their axes, all responded in chorus with a voice that the echoes of the forest answered back: “Vengeance!” “Justice!”
In the meantime the peasants who had run into the cavern were coming back with terror marked on their faces: “Dead.... They are all dead or dying! Women and children, old and young ... all are dead!”
“All dead!” Caillet repeated in a terrific voice, “the little children! The women! The old men and the young! All dead! Up, Jacques Bonhomme! Up, my Jacques! Let the Jacquerie commence!”
“It shall commence with the castle of Chivry,” cried Adam the Devil. “Our seigneur is to be this very day at the castle of Chivry to wed the gorgeous Gloriande ... on the day of the tourney she laughed at Mazurec!... It will now be your turn to laugh at the haughty damosel.... Up, my Jacques, let the Jacquerie commence!”
“Ha! Ha! The belle Gloriande!” Mazurec repeated with a ferocious and semi-delirious laughter. “I shall appear before her with one eye knocked out and my nose crushed! Oh! The gorgeous Gloriande!... What a fright she’ll have!... Her husband took my bride.... Up, up, my Jacques! The Jacquerie commences!... War upon the castles!”
The revolted peasants tumultuously followed Caillet, Adam the Devil and Mazurec across the forest crying: “To Chivry.... Up, Jacques.... The Jacquerie commences!”
“Good-bye, hostess!” said Jocelyn rising and preparing to follow Mazurec. “Good-bye, Rufin. Guard with the solicitude of a brother this worthy woman who confides herself to your protection.”
“I trust your friend,” answered Alison, “because you told me to trust him.”
“I swear,” put in the student deeply moved, “that you can trust me as fully as you would Jocelyn himself, pretty hostess.”
“Good-bye, Rufin; I shall join my brother, disclose to him the bonds that unite us, and battle at his side. Once more, good-bye, Alison. Say to Dame Marcel and to Denise, my betrothed, that if I do not see them again, my last thoughts will have been to them. As to you, Rufin, say to Marcel that the peasants of this province are at work exterminating the seigneurs.”
“Good-bye, Jocelyn,” Rufin answered sadly, extending his hand to his friend. “If Master Marcel should have any message for you I shall ask him to commission me to bring it to you!”
Once more the champion pressed his friend’s hand and hastened to join the Jacques whose vociferations were heard in the distance. Before following the student, the good Alison knelt down at the grave of Aveline and amidst tears bade the last adieu to the ill-starred young woman.
CHAPTER III.
THE CASTLE OF CHIVRY.
THE CASTLE OF Chivry, situated about three leagues from Nointel, and like almost all other feudal manors, built on the brow of a precipitous mountain, has nothing to fear from an attack from without. Defended both by a hundred men-at-arms and its own natural position, it can resist a long siege. For such an attack, artillery and other engines of war would have been requisite. The interior magnificence of this seigniorial edifice matches its defensive strength. Among its many sumptuous features is the throne hall, or hall of honor, which presents a dazzling sight. Its rafters, painted and gilded, glisten under the blue of the ceiling. Rich hanging carpets cover the walls, and enormous fire-places of sculptured stone, where whole trunks of trees are burned, rise at the two extremities of the vast apartment which is lighted by ten ogive windows of glass bearing armorial designs. The hall, virtually a gallery, is two hundred feet long, by one hundred wide — vast dimensions, indispensible to the state ceremonies which the stewards of the Sire of Chivry, as is the custom, attend mounted on horseback, entering by one of the doors of the hall, and solemnly carrying on the silver platters the “dishes of honor” such as peacocks and roasted pheasants, prepared with their own heads, and out-spread tails and wings, or gigantic pastries representing the seigniorial manor, ornamented with an escutcheon painted in lively colors — a glorious dish that the pages place on the table before the queen of the feast, and that must be cut by the equerry.
On this day, a brilliant company — the nobles, seigneurs and dames, damosels and children of the neighboring estates — assembled in the throne hall of the castle of Chivry, and pressed around the beautiful Gloriande, who sat triumphant on the throne — a sort of raised seat covered and canopied with gold brocades. Never did the damosel seem more superb and brilliant in the eyes of her admirers. Her attire was dazzling. Her black hair, braided with a thread of pearls and carbuncles, is half hid under her virginal bride’s veil. Her robe of white velvet, embroidered with silver, boldly exposes her breast and plump arms. A scarf of Oriental silk, fringed with pearls, girds her supple and well-shaped waist. With brilliant eyes, pink cheeks and smiling lips, Gloriande receives the compliments of the noble assemblage who congratulate her on her wedding, the celebration of which is soon to be announced by the bell of the castle’s chapel. The aged Count of Chivry enjoys the happiness of his daughter and the homage she is the recipient of. Nevertheless, despite the gladness denoted by her face, from time to time Gloriande puckers up her black eyebrows, while throwing impatient looks towards the doors of the gallery. Noticing one of these looks of impatience, the Count of Chivry says to his daughter smiling: “Be at ease ... Conrad will soon be here.... There he is.... Behold your bridegroom! What a noble presence!”
At the moment when the noble seigneur was saying these words a triumphant procession entered the spacious hall. Clarion players opened the march with a bravoure, they were followed by the pages bearing the livery of Nointel who in turn were followed by the seigneur’s equerries. These led ten hideous looking men in chains. Their faces and skulls, smoothly shaven, are of dark brown color. Sad and dejected, they hold their heads down. They are clad in new white and green blouses, the armorial colors of the house of Chivry. From time to time the captives noisily clank their chains and emit lamentable moanings. Behind them marches the Sire of Nointel, superbly astride of a charger, with visor down, lance in hand and accoutred in battle armor. At his side but on foot marches Gerard of Chaumontel, also in full armor and seeming to share his friend’s glory. The cheers of the noble assemblage greet the procession, and the radiant Gloriande, whose cheeks are now red with pride, rises from her seat and waving her handkerchief cries:
“Glory to the victor! Honor to the bravest gallant!”
“Glory to the victor!” is echoed back by the noble assemblage. “Honor to the bravest gallant! Long live the seigneur of Nointel!”
The Sire of Nointel descends from his horse, raises the visor of his casque and while his equerries beckon the captives to kneel down, he delivers himself of the following sentence:
“My lady-love ordered me to go to war against the English and to bring ten prisoners to her feet. The duty of all gallant knights is to obey the queen of their thoughts. Here are the ten English soldiers that I took at the battle that we have fought. And I, a captive of the god of love, now lead these chained men to the feet of my lady-love.”
These chivalrous and gallant words threw the assemblage into transports of enthusiasm. The Sire of Nointel bows his head and proceeds:
“These prisoners belong to my lady-love. Let her dispose of them at her sovereign will.”
“Seeing that my valiant knight requests me to decide over the fate of these prisoners,” answered Gloriande, “I order that they be delivered of their chains ... and that they be set free! The day of my marriage shall be a day of joy for all”; and extending her hand to Conrad who drops on one knee before his bride, she proceeds: “Here is my hand, Sire of Nointel. I can give it to no more valorous a knight.”
“Happy day to the wedded couple!” cries the assemblage. “Glory and happiness to Gloriande of Chivry and Conrad of Nointel!”
While the brilliant company was thus manifesting its share in the gladness of the young couple, the Count of Chivry approached the knight of Chaumontel and asked him in a low voice:
“Gerard, what devil of Englishmen are these fellows.... Why, they are dark as moles!”
“Sir Count,” gravely answered the knight, “these scamps are of the English tribe of Ratamorphrydich!”