And as the doors of the prison closed upon him, and he was dragged into a cell, they reopened with a great racket and a redoubling of the imprecations of the populace.
It was Marguerite who was being brought, her hands bound, unconscious in the arms of a man-at-arms.
For about three months the rubricator lay in the cell where he had been thrown, and no other human face was offered to his gaze but the sinister physiognomy of his jailer, a harsh man from whom he had never been able to obtain a word, nor had he discovered for what reason he had been deprived of his liberty. He formed a thousand conjectures on that subject without knowing on which to settle. If the stranger whose flight he had favored was the cause of his captivity, why had Marguerite been implicated in an affair in which she had played no part, even indirectly? Why those cries of the populace that still seemed to resound in his ears: Assassin! Murderer!
It was a labyrinth in which the imagination of the poor young man went astray, and the uncertainty that agitated him was perhaps a torture more atrocious to him than the cold cell in which he lay semi-naked on a little damp straw.
One morning, four men came in, and after having made sure scrupulously that his irons were in good condition, they took him away.
It was then the beautiful season of spring; the air was pure and mild, the sky luminous and blue. On emerging from the dark and noxious place where he had lain for such a long time, a delightful frisson ran through his limbs and warmed them. An indescribable wellbeing took possession of each of his faculties, and that sensation, entirely physical, made him forget his cruel chagrins momentarily, and the strange situation in which he found himself.
The voices of those surrounding him and the order to march forward soon rendered him entirely to the horror of his position.
They traversed several streets and conducted him into a vast hall where judges were gathered and a vast crowd of people. At Henryot’s entrance a murmur of indignation spread through all the spectators, and redoubled when, at the sight of Marguerite, he uttered a heart-rending cry and tried to advance toward her.
He was made to sit down on a bench opposite the one where Marguerite was enchained.
The chief judge then said:
“Henryot Mahu, you are the murderer of Pierre de Maurepas, when alive a man-at-arms of the household of his Majesty the King of France. You have treasonously slain him at night, by ambush, in his own house, and dragged him outside with the aid of Marguerite Beaumin his wife, to whom you had given a rendezvous that night, with the aim of putting to death the said Maurepas. The King’s justice, on having the cadaver removed, found not far away this hat, in the folds of which a tiny scroll of parchment was hidden containing the words: ‘This evening, Henryot, when the curfew tolls, for the last time.’ It is written by Marguerite, for she had foolishly been taught the science of writing, which only befits monks for reading and conserving the holy books, and men of law for interpreting them. It would have been more prudent to leave her in the sage ignorance that befits a woman raised in the fear of God and the observation of the duties of her estate.
“Henryot Mahu, what have you to respond?”
Overwhelmed by the weight of a terrible accusation, the fatal appearances of which did not permit him to justify himself, could only say, in a hoarse and inarticulate voice: “She is innocent.”
“And you, Marguerite Beaumin?”
The young woman stood up and said: “Heaven is my witness that I am innocent, and Henryot also.”
Cries of indignation rose up from all parts and prevented her from finishing. She sat down again calmly.
Henryot, recovered from his initial emotion, then tried to explain by what succession of events he found himself the victim of appearances, but the judge listened to him with an air of incredulity, and the spectators repeated in all directions: “They’re guilty! It’s necessary to avenge Pierre Maurepas, so wickedly slain!”
The judge got up to read the sentence; it condemned Henryot Mahu and Marguerite Beaumin as murders and adulterers: “to be punished in three manners, to wit: to be dragged on a hurdle, to the sound of trumpets, though the city from street to street, and then taken to the house of the said Marguerite Beaumin; in that place to be bound to a ladder so high that the everyone, short or tall, could see them; and a large fire would be made in the said place. When they were bound, their right and left hands would be cut off, their tongues torn out and their eyes punctured. After which, they would be thrown in the fire to burn, and after that their hearts would be taken from their bodies and thrown in the fire. After the said Henryot Mahu and Marguerite Beaumin had been thus dressed, their heads would be cut off and they would be cut into four quarters, and sent to the four best streets of the city of Paris.”
The Hôtel Saint-Paul, when was also known as the “solemn house of great enjoyments,” stood on the bank of the Seine not far from the place where the initial events of this chronicle were set. It was a large complex formed of numerous buildings bought at different times and which, in combination, formed a rather irregular whole.
In the remotest part of the Hôtel Saint-Paul was a large courtyard planted with trees, in the middle of which was a fountain; grilles carefully closed the windows overlooking that courtyard in order that the pigeons, pheasants and other birds nourished within the enclosure of the palace did not penetrate into the apartments, the rich tapestries of which they would have soiled.
It was at the extremity of that courtyard, in a sort of little turret, that King Charles le Bel was still sleeping profoundly and peacefully, although the rays of the midday sum had been reflected for some time on the thick curtains of gold brocade that enveloped the royal bed.
Suddenly, the sound of heavy and firm footsteps resonated on the marble flagstones of the antechamber, and although semi-stifled by the thick rush mats of the bedroom, they were heard approaching closer and closer, and stopping beside the king’s bed.
“By my patron saint,” the monarch demanded ill-humoredly, although he had recognized the grave march and dry cough of his cousin, Comte Philippe de Valois, “By Saint Charles, is it not given to me to sleep in peace? Are my chamberlains standing at my door, halberds in hand, only to leave me at the mercy of the first comer?”
“I am bringing Your Majesty news that will wake him up entirely now, and even prevent him from sleeping for more than one night,” replied the Comte de Valois, with severity. “A messenger has arrived from Hainaut, which recounts matters not calculated for rejoicing. Messire Jean de Hainaut and his men-at-arms, on disembarking in England with the Queen, have found a good welcome among the barons of that country; the majority of them have immediately raised the banners for the Queen. King Edward II and his minister Spencer have been besieged in Bristol, taken prisoner and bailed to the Seigneur de Berkley, who is keeping the former under close and faithful guard in his fortress. As for the other, he was decapitated immediately and unceremoniously. Finally, the Queen—which is to say her lover, the Earl of Kent, for she only does what he wishes—has been elected regent of the kingdom in replacement for the King, declared unworthy of the throne. Now, Earl Aymond of Kent bears in his left side the mark of the dagger of a man-at-arms of your household, and is proposing to make a pilgrimage to Notre-Dame de Paris, who has preserved him from such great peril. Thirty thousand pikes of thirty thousand men-at-arms will serve him as candles for that procession.”
“And all that has been done without my having any suspicion of it?” demanded the King, pale and beside himself.
“Six weeks have sufficed that damned soul Jean de Hainaut; he disembarked in England on the twenty-fourth of December, and the act of dispossession of King Edward II, of which here is a copy, bears the date of the fourteenth of January.”
The King made no response, and after a moment’s silence, Philippe de Valois went on:
“And what forces will you oppose to such a terrible enemy, who has never forgiven? The finances are exhausted; you can put Lombards and tax-farmers to the torture, b
ut they’ll let themselves be flayed and hanged rather than let go of a single doubloon, as witness Gérard de Guette and many others.
“As for the aid of the great vassals and feudal subjects, it’s necessary not to count on them. English gold has won the majority; as for the rest, they’re too busy battling against one another to think of defending you.
“Nothing remains to you but the amity and intercession of your sister, who loves you in spite of your harsh and discourteous conduct in her regard. They will be lost to your forever today, for a man will soon be executed who, without knowing it, saved the life of her dear Aymond on the night when you had him assassinated to please Hugh Spencer. I’ve just heard what I’m telling you from a worthy priest, who has prepared the man to die and came to beg me to save an innocent man. Here, for proof, is a ring your sister Isabelle gave her liberator by way of thanks.”
Then, on the King’s demand, the Comte entered into the greatest detail, and told him what our readers have read at the beginning of this chronicle.
“There’s still a means of obtaining an advantage from this,” said the King, after a moment of reflection, “and accommodate this event to the mad ideas of my sister, so amorous of the marvelous. Help me, Philippe, and all will be for the best. Go and order that this man be taken to the church of Notre-Dame in an hour, to make honorable amends, and to be taken from there to execution.”
The Comte looked at the monarch with astonishment, who repeated the order he had just given him.
“Do as you’re commanded, cousin,” he added, with more dignity than he usually showed. And to forestall the observations that Philippe de Valois was about to make, he summoned his chamberlains and gave them the order to dress him promptly.
At the moment when the confessor had entered the cell to prepare the patient for death, he had found him in the state of great depression produced by a great injustice and the presence of an inevitable disaster. But when he had heard Henryot’s confession and the story of his adventures, the old priest had told him what important persons whose flight he had favored; when he had shown him an almost assured means of salvation, a means of proving his innocence and Marguerite’s, a troubled and bitter joy took possession of the condemned man. A poignant anxiety produced within him an impatience and agitation that tended to delirium.
It was in that mental situation that he spent the rest of the day, all night and a part of the following morning.
Finally, the door of his cell opened; the old priest reappeared; his pallor and his tears announced that no more hope remained.
Then a sudden despair and a horrible rage gripped Henryot. He started pacing back and forth in his prison, striking his head against the wall, uttering frightful howls and bruising himself with his irons. Neither the friendly voice of the old priest nor the robust efforts of the hailer who came running in response to his cries could calm the furious man. It was only long afterwards that he fell, bloody and exhausted, at his confessor’s feet.
“Oh, my son, my son!” the man of God said to him then, “if human justice strikes us wrongly, is not the justice of Heaven there to recompense us for our sufferings down here? Accept with resignation of crown of thorns of this world, in order to receive a better one, the crown of the blissful. Offer your torments to Jesus Christ in expiation of your sins.”
“And her? What of her! What sin has she committed, whose purity equals the angels? And she’s going to be torn apart before a crowd that will rejoice in every one of her screams, which will applaud every shred of flesh torn away by the executioner! Leave me alone! There’s no justice either on earth or in Heaven!”
At that blasphemy, the saintly old man crossed himself devoutly, and promised a novena to Our Lady of Mercy if, by her powerful intercession, she contrived to distance Henryot from such a horrible despair.
“Oh, my child,” he said, emotionally, “don’t die a miscreant! Don’t reject the divine palm that the angels are preparing for you. The virgins are preparing to celebrate your celestial hymen with Marguerite; they are unfolding the nuptial robe that will be purified by the martyrdom, by the martyrdom that will sanctify what your amour has of the terrestrial. Don’t die thus! For your death would be, for me—for me who has sustained and consoled you—a subject of endless tears and despair.”
“Oh, forgive me…forgive me, Father…but it’s so frightful to think about! If I were dying alone…but her! Her…!”
The priest finally succeeded in rendering Henryot a little calm, and when the executioners came to fetch the unfortunate rubricator, they found him kneeling before the old priest, who was standing up, blessing him and weeping.
Following the custom of those barbaric times, the patient was thrown on to a hurdle and dragged thus, in the midst of the insults of the populace, to the church of Notre-Dame, where he was to make honorable amends.
An immense crowd filled the church and, contrary to custom, Henryot was taken into the choir, where a large black curtain was extended, as if to add to the lugubrious aspect of the tragic scene.
While Henryot was made to kneel down, that curtain was lifted, and Marguerite, ornamented as a bride, came to throw herself into her lover’s arms, who fell unconscious.
When he came round, Marguerite was still there; she was still sustaining his head; richly clad individuals still surrounded him, as well as ladies of noble appearance, who were smiling and weeping at what they saw...
It was not a dream…no.
The King took in that scene the interest that the author of a mystery play takes in the representation of his work while the Brotherhood of the Passion perform it.
“Let’s go, Messire Bishop,” he finally said to a priest in pontifical garb. “Celebrate the marriage; the time has come.
“This is the dowry that we give with our royal hand to Marguerite, and here is another for Henryot Mahu. The latter is in the name of our cherished sister the Queen of England. For you should know that the said Henryot saved that beloved relative from the greatest peril, when our wrath had been treacherously excited against her.
“But such is the fate of princes of the earth,” he continued, affecting a sigh, “that wicked advice too often causes them to march on false paths!
“Messire Robert d’Artois,” he added, turning toward a young Prince placed to his left, “it is assuredly not from you that this villainous advice came; you have always spoken to us in favor of our sister; even the fear of our royal and redoubtable anger has not retained you. Tell all this to Isabelle, and how we have recompensed the brave and faithful Henryot. Here, return this ring to the groom, which has served us to uncover the mystery that nearly doomed this young fellow; let it be the nuptial ring; let a devoted servant of my sister take it from a devoted friend.”
The marriage was celebrated, after which the monarch went away with his entire court. The populace, who had previously heaped poor Henryot with imprecations, carried him home in triumph, felling the scaffold on the way, jeering and nearly rending into pieces one of the judges who had condemned the innocent man the day before, whom curiosity had drawn to the window of his lodgings.
THE SHEPHERD’S CLOCK
In the southern casement of the church,
near the chapel of the crucifix,
a clock can be seen that excites
the admiration of the curious.
(Le Glay, Research on the metropolitan
church of Cambrai, ch. VII)12
I remember that in my childhood I was given for a maid a young Fleming named Tréa, who was cheerful, with big blue eyes, white teeth, and fresh and rosy cheeks. When Tréa appeared in her Sunday clothes, it was a genuine pleasure to see her, becoming and neat, with large pendants in her ears, her arms bare in accordance with Flanders custom, and her slightly plump waist designed by a very narrow corset, whose red color stood out over a blue woolen skirt with white stripes. On those days, she put coquetry into putting a shoe on a foot that did not lack smallness or elegance. So people asked, smiling, as they saw her pa
ss by: “Who is that pretty creature leading a child by the hand?”
And in my vanity of a little boy of six years, I rejoiced, proud of the flattering attention given to my guide. Yes, the days when we went for a walk together were true feast days for me, awaited and calculated with impatience.
It is necessary to say more; to the attraction of my satisfied childish vanity a second was added, no less keen; every Sunday, the objective of our walk was the smoky room of an old blind woman, the mother of a handsome boy of timid character, of whom Tréa was very fond. As soon as we arrived, there were two kisses for Tréa and some treat for me. I can still see the two lovers going hastily to sit in the embrasure of a window with little square panes, and drawing their two wicker chairs as close to one another as they could. They talked for a long time in low voices, forming endless projects, the kind of projects of which one dreams when one is young, and which a happy carelessness, a mild confidence in the future only surrounds with pure and delicate images by means of the imagination.
In the meantime, the old blind woman set about telling me some story. I shall live a long time yet and will still remember her gray hair, enclosed in a white headscarf, her dull and immobile eyes, her features full of amiability, her thin and suntanned arms emerging half-naked from beneath a big red kerchief.
She talked about marvelous apparitions, fantastic legends, infernal adventures and touching traditions. When she reached the point of the catastrophe she straightened her curbed stature; her thin voice took on a firmer one, and her two long hands rose into the air and fell back on her knees. Sitting in front of her on a little stool, I listened to her, motionless, hardly breathing, my eyes staring and my cheeks burning. When she stopped speaking, my chagrin became inexpressible, and I would have given anything in the world to hear her continue.
Among those curious legends, that of the Shepherd’s Clock produced a particularly profound impression on me.
The Angel Asrael Page 9