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THE IRON TREVET

OR

JOCELYN THE CHAMPION

A Tale of the Jacquerie

By EUGENE SUE

TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL FRENCH BY
DANIEL DE LEON

NEW YORK LABOR NEWS COMPANY, 1906

Copyright, 1906, by the
NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO.




TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.


Etienne Marcel, John Maillart, William Caillet, Adam the Devil and
Charles the Wicked, King of Navarre, are the five leading personages in
this story. Their figures and actions, the virtues and foibles of the
ones, the vices of the others, the errors of all, are drawn with strict
historic accuracy, all the five being historic characters. Seeing the
historic importance of the epoch in which they figured, and the types
that these five men represent, the story of "The Iron Trevet; or,
Jocelyn, the Champion" is more than an historic narrative, it is more
than a treatise on the philosophy of history, it is a treatise on human
nature, it is a compendium of lessons inestimable to whomsoever his or
her good or evil genius throws into the clash of human currents, and to
those who, though not themselves participants, still may wish to
understand that which they are spectators of and which, some way or
other, they are themselves affected by and, some way or other, are bound
to either support or resist.

In a way, "The Iron Trevet; or, Jocelyn the Champion" is the uniquest of
the series of brilliant stories that the genius of Eugene Sue has
enriched the world with under the collective title of "The Mysteries of
the People"--we can recall no other instance in which so much profound
and practical instruction is so skillfully clad in the pleasing drapery
of fiction, and one within so small a compass.

To America whose youthful years deprive her of historic perspective,
this little story, or rather work, can not but be of service. To that
vast English-speaking world at large, now throbbing with the pulse of
awakening aspirations, this translation discloses another treasure
trove, long and deliberately held closed to it in the wrappage of the
foreign tongue in which the original appeared.

DANIEL DE LEON.

New York, April 13, 1904.




INDEX


Translator's Preface                                                 iii

Part I.   The Seigniory of Nointel.

    Chapter 1.   The Tavern of Alison the Huffy                       10

    Chapter 2.   The Amende Honorable                                 26

    Chapter 3.   The Tournament                                       34

    Chapter 4.   The Judicial Combat                                  39

    Chapter 5.   Sheet Lightenings                                    50

    Chapter 6.   Prophecies and Premonitions                          58

    Chapter 7.   Wrecked Hearts                                       65

Part II.   The Regency of Normandy.

    Chapter 1.   The States General                                   74

    Chapter 2.   Etienne Marcel                                       77

    Chapter 3.   The Man of the Furred Cap                            83

    Chapter 4.   The Serpent Under the Grass                          97

    Chapter 5.   Charles the Wicked                                  105

    Chapter 6.   The Meeting at the Cordeliers                       118

    Chapter 7.   Popular Justice                                     126

    Chapter 8.   "The Hour Has Sounded!"                             143

Part III.   The Jacquerie.

    Chapter 1.    Captain Griffith and His Chaplain                  154

    Chapter 2.    The Fox's Burrow                                   161

    Chapter 3.   The Castle of Chivry                                175

    Chapter 4.   Jacquerie! Jacquerie!                               180

    Chapter 5.    The Orville Bridge                                 191

    Chapter 6.   "On to Clermont!"                                   207

    Chapter 7.    Clermont                                           211

Part IV.   John Maillart.

    Chapter 1.   The Wages of Envy                                   228

    Chapter 2.   Last Day at Home                                    239

    Chapter 3.   Darkening Shadows                                   247

    Chapter 4.   Plotters Uncovered                                  258

    Chapter 5.   The Gate of St. Antoine                             267

Epilogue                                                             270




PART I.

THE SEIGNIORY OF NOINTEL.




CHAPTER I.

THE TAVERN OF ALISON THE HUFFY.


On a Sunday, towards the end of the month of October of 1356, a great
stir was noticeable since early morning in the little town of Nointel,
situated a few leagues from the city of Beauvais, in the department of
Beauvoisis. The tavern of Alison the Huffy--so nicknamed from her hot
temper, although she was a good woman--was rapidly filling with
artisans, villeins and serfs who came to wait for the hour of mass at
the tavern, where, due to the prevailing poverty, little was drunk and
much talked. Alison never complained. As talkative as huffy, dame Alison
preferred to see her tavern full with chatterers than empty of tipplers.
Still fresh and buxom, though on the shady side of thirty, she wore a
short skirt and low bodice--probably because her bust was well rounded
and her limbs well shaped. Black of hair, bright of eyes, white of
teeth, and quick of hands, more than once since her widowhood, had
Alison broken a bumper over the head of some customer, whom liquor had
rendered too expressive in his admiration for her charms. Accordingly,
like a prudent housekeeper, she had taken the precaution of replacing
her earthenware bumpers with pewter ones. That morning the dame seemed
to be in a particular huffy mood, judging by her rumpling brows, her
brusque motions, and her sharp and cross words.

Presently, the door of the tavern was darkened and in stepped a man of
vigorous age, with an angular and sun-burnt face, whose only striking
features were two little, piercing, crafty and savage eyes half hidden
under his eyebrows thick and grizzly like his hair, that escaped in
disorder from under his old woolen cap. He had traveled a long distance;
his wooden shoes, shabby cloth leggings and patched smock-frock were
covered with dust. He was noticeably tired; it was with difficulty that
he moved his limbs with the support of a knotted stick. Hardly inside
the tavern, the serf, whose name was William Caillet, let himself down
heavily upon a bench, immediately placing his elbows on his knees and
his head upon his hands. Alison the Huffy, already out of humor, as
stated, called to him sharply:

"What do you want here? I do not know you. If you want to drink, pay; if
not, off with you!"

"In order to drink, money is needed; I have none," answered William
Caillet; "allow me to rest on this bench, good woman."

"My tavern is no lazar-house," replied Alison; "be gone, you vagabond!"

"Come now, hostess, we have never seen you in such a bad humor," put in
one of the customers; "let the poor man rest; we invite him to a
bumper."

"Thank you," answered the serf with a somber gesture and shaking his
head; "I'm not thirsty."

"If you do not drink you have no business here," the buxom tavern-keeper
was saying when a voice, hailing from without, called: "Where is the
hostess... where is she... a thousand bundles of demons! Is there no
one here to take my horse? Our throats are dry and our tongues hanging
out. Ho, there, hostess, attend to us!"

The arrival of a rider, always a good omen for a hostlery, drew Alison
away from her anger. She called her maid servant while herself ran to
the door to answer the impatient traveler, who, his horse's bridle in
hand, continued finding fault, although good-naturedly. The new arrival
was about twenty-four years of age; the visor of his somewhat rusty
casque, wholly raised, exposed to view a pleasant face, the left cheek
of which was furrowed with a deep scar. Thanks to his Herculean build,
his heavy cuirass of tarnished iron, but still usable, seemed not to
press him any more than a coat of cloth. His coat of mail, newly patched
in several places, fell half over his thigh-armor, made, like his
greaves, of iron, the latter of which were hidden within the large
traveling boots. From his shoulder-strap hung a long sword, from his
belt a sharp dagger of the class called "mercy". His mace, which
consisted of a thick cudgel an arm long, terminating in three little
iron chains riveted to a ball seven or eight pounds heavy, hung from the
pommel of the rider's saddle, together with his steel-studded and ribbed
buckler. Three reserve wooden lance shafts, tied together, and the
points of which rested in a sort of leather bonnet, adjusted to the
strap of one of his stirrups, were held up straight along the saddle,
behind which a sheep-skin satchel was attached. The horse was large and
vigorous. Its head, neck, chest and part of its crupper were protected
by an iron caparison--a heavy armor that the robust animal carried as
easily as its master wore his.

Responding to the redoubled calls of the traveler, Alison the Huffy ran
out with her maid and said in bitter-sweet voice: "Here I am, Sir. Hein!
If ever you are canonized, it will not be, I very much fear, under the
invocation of St. Patience!"

"By the bowels of the Pope, my fair hostess, your pretty black eyes and
pink cheeks could never be seen too soon. As sure as your garter could
serve you for a belt, the prettiest girl of Paris, where I come from,
could not be compared to you. By Venus and Cupid, you are the pearl of
hostesses."

"You come from Paris, Sir Knight!" said Alison with joyful surprise,
being at once flattered by the compliments of the traveler, and proud of
having a guest from Paris, the great city. "You really come from Paris?"

"Yes, truly. But tell me, am I rightly informed? Is there to be a
passage of arms to-day, here in the valley of Nointel?"

"Yes, Sir; you arrive in time. The tourney is to begin soon; right after
mass."

"Well, then, my pretty hostess, while I take my horse to the stable to
have him well fed, you will prepare a good repast for myself, and, to
the end that it may taste all the better, you will share it with me
while we chat together. There is much information that I need from you;"
and raising his coat of mail to enable him to reach his leather purse,
the rider took from it a piece of silver. Giving it to Alison, he said
gaily: "Here is payment in advance for my score. I am none of your
strollers, so frequent in these days, who pay their host with sword
thrusts and by plundering his house;" but noticing that Alison examined
the piece before putting it in her pocket, he added laughing: "Accept
that coin as I did, with eyes shut. The devil take it, only King John
and his minter know what the piece is worth, and whether it contains
more lead than it does silver!"

"Oh, Sir Knight, is it not terrible to think that our master, the King,
is an inveterate false-coiner? What times these are! We are borne down
with taxes, and we never know the value of what we have!"

"True. But I wager, my pretty hostess, that your lover is in no such
annoying ignorance.... Come, you will have overcome your modest blushes
by the time your maid has shown me the way to the stable, after which
you will make my breakfast ready. But you must share it with me; that's
understood."

"As you please, Sir Knight," answered Alison, more and more charmed with
the jolly temper of the stranger. Accordingly, she hastened to busy
herself with the preparations for the meal, and in a short time spread
upon one of the tables of the tavern a toothsome dish of bacon in green
fennel, flanked with fried eggs, cheese and a mug of foaming beer.

The serf, William Caillet, now forgotten by the hostess, his forehead
resting on both his hands, seemed lost to what went on around him, and
kept his seat on a bench not far from the table at which presently
Alison and the traveler took theirs. Back from the stable, the latter
relieved himself of his casque, dagger and sword, laying them down near
to himself, and proceeded to do honor to the repast.

"Sir Knight," said Alison, "you come from Paris? What fine stories you
will have to tell!"

"Mercy, pretty hostess, do not call me 'Sir Knight.' I belong to the
working class, not the nobility. My name is Jocelyn. My father is a
book-seller, and I am a _champion_[1] as my battle-harness attests to
you;--and here I am at your service."

"Can it be!" exclaimed Alison, joining her hands in glad astonishment,
"you are a fighting champion?"

"Yes, and I have not yet lost a single case, as you may judge from my
right hand not yet being cut off--a penalty reserved for all champions
who are vanquished in a judicial duel. Although often wounded, I have at
least always rendered a Roland for my adversary's Oliver. I learned in
Paris that there was to be a tourney here and thinking that, as usual,
it would be followed or preceded by some judicial combat, where I might
represent the appellant or the appellee, I came to the place on a
venture. Now, then, as a tavern-keeper, you are surely informed
thereon."

"Oh, Sir champion! It is heaven that sends you. There will surely be
need of you."

"Heaven, I am of the opinion, mixes but little in my concerns. Let us
leave Gog and Magog to settle their affairs among themselves."

"You should know that, unfortunately, I have a process. I admit that I
am in great trouble."

"You, my pretty hostess?"

"It is now three months ago that I lent twelve florins to Simon the
Hirsute. When I asked him for the money, the mean thief denied the debt.
We went before the seneschal. I maintained what I said; Simon maintained
his side. There were no witnesses either for or against us, and as the
amount involved was above five sous, the seneschal ordered a judicial
battle. But who would take my part?"

"And you have found nobody