Martyrs of Science

by S. Henry Berthoud

  No more deep moats, no more angular fortifications; the plough has transformed he former into fields of wheat, which the wind agitates like waves; the others have collapsed, and there is not a single hovel in the village whose walls their rubble has not served to construct.

  An immense dung-heap fills the court of honor; the ruins of the perron lead to a kitchen, and the vast ostentatious halls have been transformed into stables. Nothing is any longer heard but the clucking of the poultry-yard and the lowing of cattle in those places where the echoes once repeated so many times over the songs of the trumpet, the rattle of horses’ hooves, the masculine cries of men-at-arms and the soft words of demoiselles.

  To the right of the main gate, all that remains intact of the old manor house is a slender sandstone tower raising its bare gray head in the midst of the ruins. A Medieval sculptor has engraved on the summit, in 15th century characters, the twelve hours of the day: a clock, the marvel of the region, parades its thick gilded hand around the stone circle, indicating the duration of the day to the castellan and his vassals—for the artist, to achieve that double result, had placed the frame in such a manner as to be visible both from inside and outside the courtyard.

  It was the year of our salvation 1440, at the feast of Pentecost, at the moment when the bell in that tower was sounded noon, that Messire Jean d’Esnes set forth in order to make a rather long sojourn on the estate of his old companion in arms, Messire Jacques de Crèvecoeur. Everyone was amazed to see the septuagenarian castellan undertaking such a perilous journey, because, for nine full years at least, he had only left the great reception-hall to go to the moustier,16 and even for that he had to request the aid of two vigorous varlets, who carried him rather than led him to the velvet bench armoried with the silver shield and the sable border.

  After seven days, Messire Jean returned to his estate. The first thing he asked was why his son, Messire Eustache, was not there to pay his respects and welcome him home, as was his duty.

  The old chaplain, Master Claude Watremez, replied that the young sire had departed for the Château d’Élincourt a week ago, adding that he was sure to return after vespers, as he had send word to that effect the day before via his squire Simon Guyot.

  Indeed, it happened as the worthy priest had said, for Messire Jean had not emptied his second goblet of hypocras when his son came into the hall, reverently, and knelt down to request a blessing from his father.

  The old seigneur, however, neglectful for the first time in his life of the decorum of etiquette, kissed the young man tenderly on the cheeks without placing his hands on him and set about exclaiming rather than saying: “I’ve had a good journey, Eustache, a journey that will provide merriment and grandeur for the old and noble family of Esnes. God and the Blessed Virgin by praised! The Comte de Crèvecoeur has promised the hand of his only daughter, Emme, for you, Eustache—for you, to the detriment of many a noble suitor.”

  Eustache’s cheeks suddenly became pale; he wanted to speak but could not.

  Then, without paying any heed to that great emotion, Messire Jean began relating how he had been able to make such an alliance, and counting on his fingers—of which he did not have sufficient—the rich lands that made up Emme de Crèvecoeur’s marriage portion, not to mention that she would bring her spouse and suzerain the right to add to his coat of arms an emblem of gules with three gold chevrons and the motto Tour Landry! After which he sent his son away, smiling secretly at the trouble he foresaw.

  At his age, he thought, such news would have made me dance with jubilation, but he becomes pensive and confused. It’s true to say that I was a different man, as alert as could be and known for ten leagues around for my jovial and facetious humor.

  Ruminating such thoughts of his youth, Messire Jean d’Esnes summoned his varlets by means of his silver whistle, who came running, had had himself put to bed immediately, where, he believed, fatigue and joy would have prepared him a sound sleep until sunrise.

  But that was not the case.

  In the middle of the night he woke up with a start. He had heard slow and solemn footsteps rustling the foliage with which, in accordance with custom, the parquet of the bedroom had been covered. To find out who it was, he lifted the curtain of his bed.

  Jesus, savior of men! A knight of piteous appearance was standing before him, bare-headed, his face bruised, his armor broken, and his robe covered with mud and blood.

  He fixed on Messire Jean d’Esnes a compassionate gaze, after which he knelt down, struck his breast despairingly, like a mea culpa for some great sin, and, turning toward the old sire he proffered these words in a deep and mournful voice: “Whoever does as I did is bound for Hell.”

  Then he disappeared.

  Messire Jean then made such a noise with his silver whistle that his son, his varlets and even the old chaplain came running anxiously. Messire Jean told most of them to go away, only retaining with him the almoner Claude Watremez, begging the latter to recite prayers before anything else, and to sprinkle holy water liberally.

  When the almoner had done that, Messire Jean told him every detail of the marvelous vision that he just come to him.

  The chaplain listened gravely. When the monseigneur had finished, he said: “It’s the sire with the broken armor who has appeared to you. There must be some projected marriage in your family that is against the wishes of the fiancés, for the terrible phantom only appears in such circumstances. You have just seen Ulric de Landast, sire of Sommaing and Esnes, one of your ancestors.”

  Monseigneur d’Esnes’ physiognomy took on an unequivocal expression of ill-humor.

  “By my patron Saint Jean! What crack-brained nonsense are you jabbering? I’m an old warrior, and you can be sure that the tales of a shaven-head won’t make a fool of me.”

  The priest, who was accustomed to the castellan’s rude manners, replied in the following terms:

  “You were placed as a page at an early age with Monseigneur le Duc de Bourgogne, and for that reason, I see, you have not heard the legend of the sire with the broken arms in your childhood. I’ll relate it to you as the good folk of the domain tell it on long winter evenings. May I be burned in the utmost depths of Hell if I change a single word of it.

  “A long time ago—if my memory serves me right it was in the year 1153 of our Redemption, Monseigneur Liétard then being Bishop of Cambrai—Ulric de Landast, sire d’Esnes et de Sommaing, wanted to marry his son Alard to the Châtelaine de Walincourt, who had been left a widow by the death of her noble spouse. But Alard was in love with Gillette de Glimes, the orphan daughter of a poor knight of noble lineage, who had died without leaving his daughter any wealth but a stainless renown and the aid of a few rich burgers who had taken compassion on her distress. Now, the poor creature was carrying in her loins the fruit of the love that Alard had sworn on his share of paradise to sanctify by marriage.

  “When he learned of this news, so destructive for the plans he had made, when Sire Alard had begged his father to unite him in legitimate marriage, not with the Dame de Walincourt but with his beloved Gillette, Messire Ulric swore an oath that, so long as he should live, nothing would come of it. Prayers and laments, far from soothing him, redoubled his fury; he banished his son from the manor and declared him cursed until he consented to marry the Dame de Walincourt

  “Alard wandered in the country all night, and when daybreak came he left for the town in order to see Gillette one more time and then to die.

  “As he approached the drawbridge of the Episcopal châtel he saw a large crowd gathered around the moat, and laments and maledictions were emerging from the assembly. He spurred his horse, for the presence of such great misfortune had stirred his already-broken heart, but the crowd surrounded him incontinently, throwing stones at him, and he fell, struck down by a stone, next to the corpse of Gillette, who had died the previous night after hurling herself into the moat.

  “People were saying: ‘He’s broken!’ ‘He’s down!’ ‘He’s dead!’ ‘Th
at’s good!’ ‘It’s quite enough to have caused Gillette’s death—we couldn’t let him come to laugh on seeing her pale face and rub his hands in glee as if to signify: I’m acquitted; God be praised!’

  “It’s necessary to say that the rumor had spread through the townspeople that Sire Alard had consented to marry Madame de Walincourt. Belief in such villainous bad faith had thus caused the death of the young man, who had arrived at a bad time, just as Gillette’s body was being pulled out of the water, after she had drowned herself in despair at the false news of her lover’s infidelity.

  “Alard had scarcely rendered up his soul, however, when one of his men-at-arms, piercing the crowd, threw himself on the body, weeping, saying that his young seigneur had been wickedly slain, and recounting the manner in which he had preferred to suffer his father’s curse rather than abandon Gillette.

  “You can imagine how contrite the hotheads of Cambrai were when they heard that! The townspeople picked up the two lovers and bore them devotedly, bare-headed and bare-footed, into the church of Saint Jean and Saint Paul on the Mont des Boeufs, in order that prayers could be said and the Requiem sung for the repose of their souls.

  “Meanwhile, Sire Ulric, having heard word that his son Alard had left for Cambrai in order to se Gillette again, summoned four men-at-arms and rode out with a slack bridle in order to prevent them from going away. As he came into the town, however, howls of rage even louder than the previous ones burst forth on every side.

  “His men-at-arms were attacked, and they fell dead in less than no time. As for Sire Ulric, he was tipped from his horse, his hair and beard were torn out; even women were seen rushing upon him to pinch him and rake him with their fingernails. He was taken to the public square wearing nothing but a tattered chemise. Some pelted him with mortar and mud, others rained down blows with clubs on his head, others pricked him with awls and skewers. In brief, all the Cambrésians came to fall upon him and hung him up by his feet from the gibbet, where the coup-de-grâce was administered.

  “Since that fatal day, whenever anyone in your noble family wants to make a marriage against the wishes of the fiancés, the sire with the broken arms appears in the Château d’Esnes until the death of the abetters of that marriage.”

  The chaplain had just finished that marvelous story when young Eustache came slowly into the Monseigneur’s room and confessed to him the love that he had avowed to de Demoiselle d’Élincourt, saying that he would rather die than place the nuptial ring on the finger of another, even one a thousand times more noble and better endowed than the Demoiselle de Crèvecoeur herself.

  He waited to see his father’s wrath burst forth, but the Sire d’Esnes went back to bed, silent and pensive.

  The next morning, when he got up, the old man was pale, trembling with an extreme emotion.

  The sire with the broken armor had appeared to him again.

  He sent the chaplain to the Château de Crèvecoeur, and as soon as Master Claude Watremez had returned, he made it known to his vassals that Eustache de Landast, Sire d’Esnes, was betrothed to Demoiselle Perrette d’Élincourt, and that henceforth, the shield with the sable border would be combined with a shield of gules on squares of ermine.

  THE FARMER’S SUPPER

  If your door suddenly opens, without anyone appearing to enter the house, be very wary of saying, either jokingly or otherwise: “Come in and make yourself at home.”

  Be wary, because what happened to the farmer Eustache Gosselin, of Élincourt, who had invited two friends to a lavish feast, might happen to you.

  He had invited his guests to sit down at table before midday, and vespers had rung without either one of them having appeared.

  He strode back and forth, looking out of the window, grumbling that no one was coming, then went to the window again and looked out again. In the end, he proffered an oath ill-befitting a Christian, and swore that he would offer a seat at the table to the first person who came along, even if it be the Devil himself.

  Suddenly, the door of the dwelling opened wide, but there was no one there to come in.

  Eustache Gosselin, without thinking that anything was wrong, having already forgotten the indecorous words he had spoken, and believing that it was one of his friends, shouted: “Come in and you’ll be fed as appropriate, although, to tell the truth, you’re later than it’s permissible to be.”

  At these words, three unknown men, whose doublets, hose, boots and plumed hats were black, came through the doorway and bowed deeply, although they were having difficulty, in Eustache Gosselin’s judgment, in stifling a strong desire to laugh.

  The farmer had a strong desire to teach them not to make mock of him in his own house, but just as he was about to speak in an irritated fashion, he looked at the unknown men and, without knowing why, felt such a frisson of fear that he dared not say a word.

  Then the guests, still in profound silence, surrounded the table, took their seats and helped themselves to the various dishes that were set out there.

  No Christian had ever eaten as they ate.

  Throughout the time that the meal lasted, Eustache Gosselin did not hear the slightest sound.

  When they had finished, they looked at one another in a sinister fashion, and the farmer, still petrified by fear, dared not make a move or call for help.

  From that day forward, no one ever went into farmer Gosselin’s house, because, that night, a ruddy gleam appeared at all the windows in the house, and in the midst of that radiance, black shadows, which seemed to be holding plates laden with food in their clawed hands, passed back and forth rapidly with all the expedition of varlets serving at a feast. Bursts of laughter were heard and frightful words. An old shepherd, who, it is said, took the precaution of equipping himself with holy water and relics in order to approach the house, saw farmer Gosselin inside, sitting motionless and watching the demonic feast.

  Many years passed, and Eustache Gosselin’s house had fallen into ruins, without anyone ever wanting to go into it; they scarcely dared work the land around it, for it was isolated in the middle of a field.

  Now, nothing remains of it, but at certain times, travelers who chance to pass that way by night still see the gleam of that infernal feast and hear the laughter of terrible guests.

  So, therefore, as a true Christian, ever wary of the ambushes of demons, keep in mind this wise maxim. If your door opens suddenly without anyone appearing to come into the house, be very wary of saying, either jokingly or otherwise: “Come in and make yourself at home.”

  Be wary, because what happened to the farmer Eustache Gosselin of Élincourt, who had invited two friends to a lavish feast, might happen to you.

  SAINT MATHIAS THE HERMIT

  One should not call any man holy and virtuous

  until he is dead.

  Sermon by Père Mathias.17

  To a great man, nothing is sufficient; because he can

  obtain anything, his desires increase with his fortune; everything that is more elevated than him makes him appear small in his own eyes; he is less pleased to leave so many men behind him than distressed to have less, as yet, than those who preceded him; he does not believe that he has anything until

  he has everything. His soul is always arid and thirsty.

  Massillon, Petit Carême.18

  Monseigneur le Comte de Flandres, Robert—the third of that name, named de Béthunes because before becoming a Comte he had the title Seigneur de Béthunes,19 had retired to his town of Ypres, discontented with the king of France, Philippe le Bel. For, in spite of the fact that he had first been married to the late Catherine d’Anjou, the daughter of Charles, king of Sicily and brother of the king of France, Louis IX, and in spite of the fact that he had plied the lance valiantly with his father-in-law against the bastard Manfroi, whom he had slain with his own hand, Philippe le Bel had not taken care to reward such loyalty given to his relatives. On the contrary, taking issue with some light words of Monseigneur’s Robert’s, he had fought a great battl
e with him at Courtray—but he had received the punishment for such disloyalty in his army’s bloody defeat.

  Far from losing heart at such a rude blow, the king of France soon set about making clever use of cunning deceit; he beguiled Monseigneur Robert so well with fine words that the prince, more bold and valiant knight than crafty cleric, let himself be taken in by those fine semblances, and was deprived of his beautiful cities of Lille and Douai, which he handed back to the king of France.

  The thing had scarcely been done, irredeemably, the Monseigneur Robert began stamping his feet and grumbling in a furious fashion; but it was already too late. A swarm of French men-at-arms, with redoubtable engines of war, were already guarding the two cities in question, well provisioned with food, capable of sustaining for year after year the harshest siege that it might please the largest possible army to lay.

  Regretful of his simplicity, Monseigneur Robert retired to Ypres, where he was eaten away by worry and repentance. And, as there had been no issue of his marriage to the late Catherine d’Anjou but a single son whose health was precarious and who had undertaken a journey to Bourgogne for that reason, Monseigneur Robert heeded the advice of his noble vassals, who urged him to make certain of a sure lineage. He therefore sought the hand of Madame Iolente de Bourgogne, the only daughter of Monseigneur le Duc de Bourg, Odon, Comte de Nevers, who, still young and magnificently beautiful, was the widow of Jean de France, known as Tristan, the son of King Louis IX.20

  The Duc de Bourg acquiesced willingly to Comte Robert’s request, and Madame Iolente found herself incontinently betrothed, without being consulted and to her great regret. She dared not complain, however, for her father was stubbornly implacable, and never went back on a decision. In any case, if she had said that she was in love with young Charles de Flandres and had sword eternal fidelity to him, the old seigneur would simply have laughed, and hastened the marriage of Iolente to the father of her beloved.