by Eugène Sue
“Might be the Regent or Maillart,” put in Jocelyn. “I do not believe your penetration was at fault. It is a credit to your sagacity.”
“And the words ‘horse,’ ‘rendezvous,’ ‘arcade of St. Nicholas’ might mean some messenger on horseback was waiting for my three worthies at that secluded spot. I know the place. Often did Margot.... But I shall drop Margot! I said to myself on the contrary: ‘Oh, if now, instead of following the lumbering scamp of the furred cap to the spot so propitious to love, I followed the divine Alison—”
The champion again made an impatient gesture, took his friend by the arm, and pointed significantly towards the other end of the chamber where Marcel sat with his forehead leaning on his hand, contemplating the letter that he had just finished reading, and a smile at once bitter and sorrowful playing around his lips. The student grasped Jocelyn’s meaning and proceeded in a still lower voice:
“I have quick legs. I put them to use and made a short cut on the run across St. Patern to arrive before my three men at the arcade of St. Nicholas. The place was dark as an oven. I listened, but heard nothing. I know the place. Groping about I found a niche where one time stood the statue of the saint. I vanished in the cavity, and awaited at all hazards. I was well repaid. About fifteen minutes later steps were heard under the vault and I recognized the voice of the man of the furred cap whispering: ‘Haloa ... haloa! John Four-Sous’, and presently a voice answered: ‘He has not yet arrived ... the devil take the loafer!’ ‘No time is lost,’ answered a third voice, ‘he only needs three hours to reach here from Charenton on horseback; he will not fail.’”
“The situation is grave,” said Jocelyn. “It is at Charenton that the Regent has his headquarters. There must be some treasonable plot on foot.”
“Exactly. So you can imagine how I congratulated myself on my discovery. Evidently there was a plot hatching with the court party. John Four-Sous finally arrived by the other side of the entrance of the arcade and the man of the furred cap asked him: ‘Are you ready to leave?’ ‘Yes, my horse stands saddled in the stable of the inn of The Three Monkeys.’ ‘Very well; here is the letter,’ came from the man of the furred cap, ‘Make haste to arrive at the royal encampment; deliver the letter to the seneschal of Poitou; he will understand.’ ‘But will they allow me to leave the city?’ asked the messenger. ‘Fear not,’ he is answered, ‘the gate of St. Antoine is this evening guarded by men of our side; Master Maillart is to be there himself; you shall give for pass-word “Montjoie, the King and Duke”; that will let you through. To horse, now, to horse!’ After that the man of the furred cap and his two companions walked off by one entrance and John Four-Sous by the other. I left the niche where I had taken St. Nicholas’ place, and followed the messenger of whom I got a clear view when the light of the moon fell upon him outside the vault. The scamp was tall, sinewy and well armed. I made up my mind to seize the letter that he carried. How to do it? I was still revolving the matter when I saw him enter the tavern of The Three Monkeys. I imagined he was going for his horse in the stable. Not at all! John Four-Sous, being a man of foresight, called for supper before starting on his journey, and through the open door I saw him comfortably anchored at a table. Bacchus willed it that I had often emptied more than one tankard at the tavern of The Three Monkeys without smashing them after drinking. I knew the inn-keeper, a worthy fellow belonging to Marcel’s party. I immediately dropped a few lines to the divine Alison whom Dame Venus ... attached to her chariot....”
“We know all about that ... come to the point.”
“Uncertain of what success I might meet, I wished at least to forewarn Master Marcel, and that so soon as possible, that something was hatching against him. The inn-keeper undertook to forward my note to Alison’s inn, and presently.... Blessed be the goddess Fortuna, whom do I see enter but my chum Nicholas the Thin-skinned, in the company of the Scotch students, with whom I had once fistically discussed the merits of the rhetoric of Fichetus. They came to drink some spiced wine. With the corner of my eyes I was taking in John Four-Sous devouring his ample supper. My plan was formed. I communicated it to my friends and the inn-keeper, confiding to them the suspicions that I entertained, and which the incident of the arcade of St. Nicholas confirmed. Nothing simpler than my project: Pick up a quarrel with John Four-Sous, fall upon him, take possession of the letter, and lock up the scamp in the cellar of The Three Monkeys so as to keep him from giving the alarm to Maillart’s party. So said, so done.... I approached John Four-Sous’ table and started quarrelling with him. He gave me an insolent answer. I jumped at his throat and Nicholas the Thin-skinned rummaged through the fellow’s pockets, and seized the letter, and—”
The student’s account was interrupted by Marcel, who after a long and thorough reflection, rose from his seat, and stepping towards Jocelyn said:
“I spoke to you of my quandary; this letter would have put an end to it had not my resolution been previously taken. Do you know who wrote this letter?”
“No, Master Marcel; who is its author? A friend or an enemy?”
“My oldest friend,” answered the provost with deep concern and disgust, “John Maillart! This letter proves that for some time, and despite his affectation of devotion for the popular cause and his violent language against the court, Maillart was secretly negotiating with the royalist party whose chiefs in Paris are the Sire of Charny and the knight James of Pontoise, for the nobility, with Maillart and the old councilmen Pastorel and John Alphonse for the bourgeoisie. These are our worst enemies.”
“Master Marcel,” asked Jocelyn, “will not you and the governors take rigorous measures against these traitors?”
“They dare to conspire within our walls!” added the student. “They seek to lead astray a credulous people! They deserve death!”
“It will have been brought on by our enemies themselves! They must he stricken down with terror. They invoke frightful vengeance upon Paris!” replied Marcel. “Yes, Maillart, keeping the Regent informed upon our intestine dissensions, upon the discouragement inspired among the masses by the agents of the court, upon the hatred that they have incited against us, beseeches the prince to march upon Paris, and assures him that the people are tired of suffering. He assures him that a movement in his favor will break out within our walls so soon as he approaches. He informs the prince that he and his partisans will be on guard to-night and to-morrow at the gate of St. Antoine, and that they will open the gates to him. Finally, he expresses the hope of being able to deliver me to the Regent, me whom he calls ‘the soul of the revolution.’”
“There can be no longer any doubt!” exclaimed Jocelyn horrified. “So that when Maillart’s wife came here this evening to offer means for your escape to Dame Marguerite she only was laying a trap for you.”
“Aye,” broke in Marcel with a look of contempt, “she was laying a trap for me. I was to trust the loyalty of my oldest friend ... I was to go alone to his house ... and there he was to take me prisoner and deliver me to the Regent at his entry into Paris!”
“Treason and cowardice!” cried the student indignantly. “What a female monster! Oh, I judged her rightly from her hypocritical lamentations at the funeral of Perrin Macé.”
“The envy and pride that devour her have lost Maillart,” rejoined the provost. “The vanity of that insensate woman has driven her husband to crime and to deep baseness. That man without character and without convictions reminds the seneschal in his letter that the Regent promised him a patent of nobility in consideration of the services he is rendering the court party!... That is the Maillart that was incessantly reproaching me for not exterminating the members of the court party who remained in Paris!... He could not find words enough to throw at the nobility!”
“Oh, Master Marcel,” cried Jocelyn, “and your blood was to be the price for the ennobling of that infamous wretch!”
“This act of betrayal wounds me doubly ... I know mankind. Nevertheless, I resisted up to this moment the belief that Maillart cou
ld be guilty of such felony.... He, the friend of my infancy.... But now, to work. There is now no longer any doubt, nor can there now be any question what step to take.... The reaction of the court party will be merciless.... Our only chance of escape lies in the support of the King of Navarre ... and in the vigorous measures that we must now take against these implacable enemies.”
“Master Marcel,” Jocelyn whispered to the provost, “if Charles the Wicked does not put in his appearance at the rendezvous of this evening, what will you do then?”
“I shall ride at a gallop to deliver to the Regent my own head and the heads of the governors ... Our blood will slake the young prince’s thirst for vengeance and he will spare Paris.”
A great noise, at first from a distance, was heard rapidly approaching along the street. Presently distinct cheers were heard: “Good luck to Marcel!” “To a happy issue, to a happy issue!” “Good luck to Marcel!” and almost at the same time Marguerite entered her husband’s cabinet saying: “Simon the Feather-dealer, Philip Giffart, Consac and other friends are in arms in the street with a large number of faithful partisans cheering for you. Our friends consider it prudent to come for you and escort you to the town-hall.”
“Good-bye, Marguerite, dear and beloved wife!” said Marcel with profound but well-controlled emotion, thinking that this was perhaps the last time he might press to his heart the companion of his life. “Adieu ... and may we soon meet again!”
“Oh, my friend, these cheers that acclaim you with enthusiasm reassure me ... Our friends are guarding you.”
Fear nothing; I shall see you again to-morrow ... Adieu!... Adieu once more!” repeated Marcel, who despite his courage, felt his heart breaking at the moment of a separation that might be eternal. Giving a last embrace to Marguerite, Marcel descended to the street. There he was met by several of the councilmen in the midst of a large crowd of partisans whose sympathetic acclamations redoubled at the sight of their idol. Discouragement had, it was true, gained over a majority of the people. Nevertheless Marcel could still count upon many devoted and intrepid hearts.
“Friends!” Marcel cried out aloud to the councilmen, “we shall not go to the town-hall, but to the gate of St. Antoine. I shall tell you more on the way.”
The words were caught by one of the three men who all during the evening had never left the approaches to Marcel’s house. The spy said to his companions:
“Let one of you hurry to the Sire of Charny and notify him that Marcel is going with his men to the gate of St. Antoine. The other of you run ahead of the bandits and notify Master Maillart that they are coming. I shall follow them at a distance and watch their movements. Let each be at his post and well armed.”
CHAPTER V.
THE GATE OF ST. ANTOINE.
THE CLOCK HAD sounded the first hour of morning from the church in the quarter of St. Antoine. Just before sinking below the horizon the moon still shed enough light to brighten with a fringe of silver the topmost battlement of the two high towers that defend the gate of St. Antoine, towards which Etienne Marcel was wending his way accompanied by the councilman Philip Giffart and Jocelyn, and holding two keys in his hands. The other magistrates and a group of their partisans had posted themselves, at the request of the provost, in a house near the ramparts. The profoundest silence reigned near a wide and dark vaulted passage that led to the gate of the city. A man leading a horse by the bridle followed Marcel at a little distance.
“This is the decisive moment,” Marcel was saying to his companions. “If Charles the Wicked has come to our rendezvous, we then have a chance of success ... if not, I shall mount that horse and ride to Charenton to deliver myself to the Regent!”
Hardly had Marcel finished pronouncing these words when two sentinels, posted outside the dark passage which he was about to enter, called out: “Montjoie, the King and Duke!” and almost at the same moment appeared John Maillart stepping forward. At the sight of his old friend, whose infamous treason he was now acquainted with, Marcel stopped indignant and the following exchange of words took place:
“Marcel,” said the councilman in an imperious voice, “Marcel, what business brings you here at this hour? You should now be at the town-hall!”
“What business is that of yours,” answered Marcel. “I am here to guard the safety of the town, whose government is in my hands.”
“By God!” cried Maillart imperceptibly drawing nearer to Marcel. “By God! You cannot be here for anything good!” and turning to the two sentinels who stood motionless a few steps off: “You see it; Marcel holds in his hands the keys of the gate.... It is to betray us!”
“You miserable and abominable scamp,” cried Marcel, “you lie in your throat!”
“No, traitor, it is you who lie!” replied Maillart, and suddenly raising a short axe that he had held concealed behind his back, he leaped with one bound at the provost crying: “To me, my friends! Death to Marcel! Death to him and his partisans! They are all traitors!” Before Jocelyn or Philip Giffart could foresee and parry the sudden charge, Maillart dealt so furious a blow at Marcel’s head that he staggered and fell bathed in blood.
At Maillart’s cry, “To me, my friends!” the passageway, until then dark, was suddenly illumined by several lanterns that had been kept under the cloaks of their carriers. By the glimmering light a large number of men were seen, all armed with pikes, halbards and cutlasses. Among them were the Sire of Charny, the knight James of Pontoise and the councilman Pierre Dessessarts. Hardly had Marcel dropped under the axe of Maillart than the troop of assassins issued forth from their ambuscade, and crying: “Montjoie, the King and Duke!” precipitated themselves upon the provost to despatch him. Marcel, his skull cleaved in two and his face covered with blood, sought to regain his feet with the help of Jocelyn and Philip Giffart. These made heroic efforts to defend the wounded man, but they were soon thrown down with him and all three riddled with sword thrusts and axe blows. The other governors and several of their partisans, who were posted in reserve at a nearby house where they were to await the issue of Marcel’s rendezvous with the King of Navarre, hearing the increasing tumult and cries of “Montjoie, the King and Duke!” rushed to the gate of St. Antoine intending to come to the aid of the provost. Their red and blue head-covers pointed them out to the fury of the murderers. Their heroic defence was soon overcome and they were all butchered like their chief. But the rage of Maillart and of the Sire of Charny was not yet appeased.
“To death with all the enemies of our Sire, the Regent!” cried the seigneur. “We know where they are burrowing. Let us run to their houses. We shall kill them in their beds!”
“To death!” responded John Maillart brandishing his axe. “To death with the partisans of Marcel! To death with all the communiers!”
“Montjoie, the King and Duke!” repeated in chorus the armed band. “Death to the red and blue!”
“Friends!” cried the seigneur of Charny, “the body of the knight of Conflans, a victim of the popular party, was exposed in the Student’s Dale. Let now the body of Marcel be exposed in the same place.... Carry him on your shoulders.”
“To-morrow the body shall be placed on a hurdle and dragged through the mud to the Louvre which our beloved Sire, the Regent, was forced to leave in sight of Marcel’s threats. After that let the carcass of the felon be thrown into the river — unworthy sepulchre for a Christian,” added John Maillart, and he said to himself, thinking of his wife: “Petronille will no longer reproach me with being under the provost; Petronille will no longer be eaten up with jealousy; Petronille will no longer hear that Marguerite is the wife of the ‘King of Paris’ ... and I shall have a title of nobility.”
The orders of the Sire of Charny and Maillart were carried out. The corpse of the provost was picked out from among his dead friends. Four men carried on their shoulders the disfigured remains of the great citizen, and marching by the light of torches, the funeral cortége wended its way to the Student’s Dale brandishing their arms and shouting:
“Death to the partisans of the governors!”
“Death to the red and blue!”
“Montjoie, the King and Duke!”
EPILOGUE.
THE HATRED OF Etienne Marcel’s enemies pursued him beyond the grave. His corpse, taken to the Student’s Dale, remained there the whole day exposed to the insults and the jeers of the fickle and ingrate mass whose enfranchisement and happiness he had labored to attain. The day after his death his bloody and mutilated remains were thrown upon a hurdle, dragged towards the Seine and hurled into the river in front of the Louvre. Such was that great man’s sepulchre.
The principal leaders of the popular party, to the number of sixty, among whom were Simon the Feather-dealer, Cousac and Pierre Caillart, were executed by orders of John Maillart and the Sire of Charny, now become joint dictators. These executions being over, the dictators delegated Simon Maillart, a brother of the councilman, the councilmen Dessessarts and John Pastorel, to appear before the Regent and notify the young prince that he could re-enter his good town of Paris, now submissive and penitent. The Regent answered the delegation: “That will be gladly done.” Accompanied by a numerous cavalcade, the Regent left the bridge at Charenton and re-entered the Louvre where, in the language of the chronicler of the time, “he found John Maillart, whom he greatly esteemed and loved.”