# Colas Breugnon/Chapter 2

II
THE SIEGE
OR
THE LAMB, THE SHEPHERD, AND THE WOLF
"Three lambs of Chamoux can put to flight Any wolf who comes in the night."
My cellar will soon be empty, for the soldiers whom our lord the Duke of Nevers sent to defend us have tapped my last cask, so there is no time to be lost. I must drink with them. Taken in the right spirit, I do not object to being ruined, and it is not by any means the first time, but God send it may be the last! The soldiers, good fellows that they are, felt worse than I did when I told them that the liquor was running low. Some of my neighbors take such things tragically, but that is not my way. I have been too often to the play in the course of my life to be impressed by clowns. Since I was born into this world, how many of these masqueraders I have seen! Swiss, German, Gascons, Lorrainers; all dogs of war, with harness on their back and arms ​at their side; victual swallowers, hungry hounds, always ready to devour us fellows. No one can tell for what they are fighting. Today it is for the King; tomorrow for the League; now for the Black-beetles; now for the Protestants; but one side is as good as another. The best of them is not worth the powder it would take to shoot them. What difference does it make to us which robber ruffles it at court? And as for the way they appeal to Heaven, ye gods and little fishes! The Lord is old enough to know what to do. If your hide itches, scratch yourself. God is not left-handed that He should need you, and He acts as He pleases. But the worst of all is when they make it out that I too must try to pull the wool over His eyes! With all due reverence. Lord, I can say without boasting, You and I meet several times in the twenty-four hours; that is, if the good old French saying is true, "He who can good wine afford has a chance to see the Lord!" But these frauds say something else that would never enter my head. They say that I know Thee like a brother; that I am to carry out Thy will; but Thou wilt do me the justice to admit that if I leave Heaven in peace I only ask that it will do as much for me. Each of us has enough to do to keep his own house in order, Thou in Thy big world, and I ​in my little one. Since Thou hast made me free, Lord, Thou shouldst be free also! But these fools want me to mix myself up in Thy concerns, to speak in Thy name, to decide how men are to take Thy Sacraments, and if they do otherwise, to declare them my enemies and Thine. Mine indeed! By no means; I have none; for all men are my friends. Let them fight, then, if it likes them, I am out of the game;—that is if they will let me alone, but that is just what the rascals will not do. If I will not be the enemy of one of them they will both set on me, so between two fires I must be hit. Here goes then! I will get to fighting myself, for I would rather on the whole be first anvil and then hammer, than anvil all the time. I wish some one would tell me why such brutes came into the world? marauders, politicians, great nobles, who bleed our France while they blow her trumpet and stick their fingers in her pocket. They are not content to devour our own substance, but they must needs attack the stores of others. They threaten Germany, cast the eye of longing on Italy, and even poke their noses into the harem of the Grand Turk! They would like to absorb half the earth, they who would not know enough to grow cabbages on it! Never mind, old boy, do not let us fret over it, since all is for the ​best as it is until the happy day when we can make it better in the shortest possible time. It is a poor beast that is of no use, and I heard a story once about the good Lord;—(Pardon, Almighty, my head is full of Thee today)—He was walking with Peter in one of our suburbs, Béyant, and a woman sat cooling her heels on her doorstep. She looked so bored that our Father, out of the goodness of His heart, drew a hundred fleas from his pocket and threw them to her, saying, "There is something to amuse yourself with, my daughter!" The woman roused herself to see what she could catch, and every time she caught one of the beasts she laughed for joy.
Through this same charity, no doubt, Heaven has bestowed on us those big two-legged beasts who shear our wool. They keep us busy, so let us be joyful. Vermin is a sign of health, they say, (and our masters are certainly vermin), so I say again, be joyful, my friends, for if that is true no one is healthier than we are. Let me whisper a word in your ear; we shall have the best of it if we are patient; cold and frost, good-for-nothings at court or in camp, will have their day. They too will pass, but the good ground remains and we are there to enrich it. One crop will put all to rights, ​meanwhile let us suck up the bottom of my cask, if only to make room for the vintage of next year.
My daughter, Martine, said to me one day, "You are a braggart. To hear you one would think that you only work with your mouth, idling, gossiping like a bell-clapper, yawning, and staring; you pretend to live only for feasting, and are ready to drink up the sea; yet really you cannot be happy one day without work. You want people to think you are careless, wasteful, and idle as a cock-chafer; you pretend not to count what goes into your purse nor what comes out of it, but it would make you ill if your day was not marked off hour by hour like a striking clock, and you know to a penny what you have spent since last Easter, and the man does not live who ever got ahead of you. Dear old stupid head, innocent lamb that he is! 'Three lambs of Chamoux can put to flight any wolf who comes in the night.'"
I laughed, but did not answer Madame Saucy-Tongue. Besides, the child is right, though she ought not to say so, but a woman only hides what she knows nothing about. It is true that she understands me, for did I not make her?
Come, Colas Breugnon, you may as well confess you commit many follies, but you are not a fool. ​Like every one else, by Jove, you have a simpleton up your sleeve who shows when you like, but he is tucked away out of sight when you need a clear head and free hands. Like all Frenchmen, you have the sense of reason and order so firmly fixed in your noddle that you can let yourself go safely. The only danger is for those poor fools who look at you with an open mouth and try to imitate you. Fine speeches, sounding verse, daring projects, are all enjoyable. They exalt and kindle the soul. But we only burn up our chips, and leave the big logs in order on the wood-pile. My reason sits at ease and looks on at the freaks of my imagination, and all for my own amusement. The world is my theater, and without stirring from my seat, I am the play; I can applaud Matamore or Francatrippa; I witness tourneys and royal processions, I shout "At him again!" when a man gets his head cracked all for our good pleasure, and to add to it, I pretend to take part in the farce and to believe in it only just enough to keep up the joke. No more, you may be sure. That is the way to listen to fairy tales and not to them only! There is Some One up there above the clouds for whom we have a great respect when the procession passes through our streets with cross and banner, chanting the Oremus; we drape the walls of our houses ​with white—but between ourselves?—Shut up, chatterer, you go too far! Be deaf, Lord, to my folly, and accept my humble service.
The end of February.
An ass having eaten the grass in the meadow, said, "There is no further need to watch it," and so went to eat (I mean watch) in another field near by. The garrison of the Duke of Nevers left us today. I was really proud of our cookery when I looked at them, for they were as fat as seals. We parted with smiles in our hearts and on our lips; they with the kindest wishes for the next season, hoping our crops would be good and our vines safe from the frost.
"Work hard, dear uncle," said my guest, the Sergeant Fiacre Bolacre, (it is his pet name for me and one which I deserve, for that relation gives a good ration.) "Go prune your vines, no matter how much trouble it costs you, and next St. Martin's Day we will come back to drink the wine." Gallant fellows! Always ready to help an honest man with his bottle.
Now that they are gone, what a weight is off our shoulders! The neighbors are carefully uncovering their little hiding places. They have gone about for the last few days with long faces ​complaining of hunger as if a wolf were gnawing at their vitals, and now from the straw of the garret, or the earth of the cellar, they have dug out something to feed the beast. Those who bewailed their destitute state the loudest, the worst beggars of them all, found means to tuck their best wine away in some corner. I don't know how it happened, but scarcely had my guest, Fiacre Bolacre, left me, (I went with him to the end of the Jews' quarter,) when I suddenly remembered a small cask of Chablis left by mistake under the dunghill in a good warm place. Of course this upset me dreadfully! You can easily understand that, but when harm is done, if it is well done, one must bear it as best one can, and I bear it well. "Bolacre, my dear nephew, you don't know what nectar you have lost, ah-h! It is not all loss to you though, my good friend, for here's your health in it!"
We all began visiting from house to house, showing what we had found in our cellars, congratulating each other, and winking like the Roman Augurs. We spoke also of our injuries and losses; (losses of our lasses,) and as sometimes the misfortunes of one's neighbors are an amusing consolation, we all inquired solicitously for the health of Vincent Pluviaut's wife. (By an extraordinary chance, after a body of troops has passed ​through the town this brave Frenchwoman usually has to let out her belt.)
We congratulated Pluviaut, and praised him for his public services in these trying times, and by way of a joke, meaning no harm, I gave him a friendly tap, telling him he was lucky to have a house full now that all the others were empty. Every one laughed, of course, but not too loud, just enough to be heard, but Pluviaut did not much like it, and told me I had better look after my own wife. "Ah," said I, "as far as she is concerned I may sleep in peace. No one is likely to rob me of my treasure." And, do you know, they all agreed with me!
Feast days will soon be upon us, so, though somewhat short of means, we must live up to our reputation and that of the town. What would the world say if Shrove-Tuesday caught Clamecy without its justly celebrated meat-balls? You can hear the grease frying, and sniff the delicious fragrance in the streets. The flapjacks fairly hop from the pan for my little Glodie! Now the drums go "rub-a-dub," and the flutes "twee-wee," as amid cheers and shouts the "Gentlemen from Judæa" come on their car to visit "Rome." First appears the ​band; then the halberdiers, and the crowd actually falls back before the great noses they wear. Some are shaped like trumpets, or lances, there are snouts like hunting-horns or pea-shooters, noses stuck full of spikes, like a chestnut burr, or with a bird perched on the tip. They hustle the passers-by, and tickle the ribs of the squealing girls; and at last comes the Nose King, scattering all before him like a battering-ram with his great proboscis which rests on a gun-carriage like a bombard.
Then comes the car of Lent, Emperor of the Fish-eaters. Their masks are pale green, skinny, and chilled-looking. They shiver under hoods, or heads of fishes. One has a perch, or a carp, in each hand; another brandishes a gudgeon stuck on a fork; a third wears a hat like a pike's head, with a roach dangling from its mouth, and little fishes falling all around. It is enough to give a man a surfeit. Some stick their fingers into their jaws and try to force down eggs too big to swallow. To right and left, high up on the car, are masks of owls and monks and fishermen dangling their lines over the heads of urchins, who jump up like goats to catch at what may be sweetmeats or perhaps only ​dirt rolled in sugar. Behind is a dancing devil, dressed like a cook, waving a saucepan and big spoon. Six souls of the damned stick their grinning heads through the rungs of a ladder behind the car, and the devil keeps thrusting his spoonful of disgusting stew at them.
Hurrah! Here come the conquerors, heroes of the day! On a throne built of hams, under a canopy of smoked tongues, comes the queen of the Meat-Balls, crowned with saveloys, while her pudding fingers play coquettishly with the sausages around her neck. She is escorted by her aids, black and white puddings, and little Clamecy balls. They make a fine appearance, as their Colonel Riflandouille leads them to victory, armed with fat and greasy spits and larding needles. I like best of all those dignified old fellows with bellies like a great soup-pot, or with a body made of bread crust, bearing gifts like the Magi: a pig's head, a bottle of black wine, or mustard from Dijon. Now to the sound of brass cymbals, skimmers, and dishpans, comes the King of Dupes, mounted on a donkey, and greeted with shouts of laughter. It is our friend, Vincent Pluviaut, who has been elected. Riding backwards, a turban on his head, a goblet in his hand, he is listening to his body-guard of horned imps, who prance along with pitchforks or ​rods on their shoulders, shouting out in good plain French the tale of his glory. He is too wise to betray his pride and tosses off a bumper with a careless air, but when they pass a house as distinguished as his own, he cries, "Here's your good health, Brother!" as he raises his glass.
The procession ends with lovely Spring; a young girl, fresh and smiling, with smooth brow and fair curling locks crowned with yellow primroses, and wearing across her slender breast a chain of green catkins plucked from the young nut trees. The pouch by her side and the basket in her hands are brimming with good things. Her delicate eyebrows arch over her wide blue eyes; her sharp little teeth show as she opens her mouth like a round "O" to sing in her treble pipe about the swallow who will soon be here again. Four white oxen draw her chariot, and by her side are plump maids, well-developed, rounded and graceful, and little girls at the awkward age, sticking out like young trees in all directions. Something is lacking to each one; they are no beauties as yet, but toothsome morsels for the wolf in future none the less. Some carry migratory birds in cages, and some dip their hands in the basket of Spring and shower treasures on the crowd; cakes, sweetmeats and surprises, out of which fall hats and vests. ​mottoes telling your fortune, lovers' couplets, horns of plenty, or of ill luck.
When they come to the market-place, near the tower, the maids jump from the car and dance with the clerks and students, while Shrove-Tuesday, Lent, and King Pluviaut continue their triumphal progress, pausing every few feet to chaff the people, or toss off a glass.
"Let your goblets chink— Drink, Drink, Drink! Shall we go without it? No! See the bottom of your glass Or we shall write you down an ass!"
After all, too much soaking is bad for one's tongue and one's wit, so I leave friend Vincent and his escort drawing more corks, and make for the open fields. The day is really too fine to waste between walls. My old friend Chamaille, the vicar, has come up from his village in a little donkey-cart to dine with the Archdeacon of St. Martin. As he asked me to go with him for part of the way back, we climb into the tail of the cart, little Glodie and I, and off goes the donkey! She is so small that I suggest we shall take her up on the seat between us. As the road stretches out long and white, the sun ​looks drowsy, as if he meant to warm his own chimney corner more than ours. The donkey drowses also and stops as if to think, so the vicar shouts indignantly, in his great voice like a bell, "Madelon!" Donkey jumps, stirs her spindle-shanks, zigzags from one rut to another, then stops again to meditate, regardless of our objurgations. "Beast of ill-omen, if you had not the sign of the Cross on your back, I would break this stick on you," roars the vicar, all the time basting her flanks with his cane.
We stopped to rest ourselves at the inn, just where the road turns to go down to the white hamlet of Armes which lies looking at its fair reflection in the water. Near by in the field we see some girls dancing round an old nut tree whose great withered branches stretch toward the pale sky. They have been carrying Shrove-Tuesday pancakes to the magpies. "Come and dance too!" they cry.
"Look, Glodie, look at the magpie 'way up there; look at her white breast over the edge of the nest! She is peeping out to see what she can see, and she has made her little house open all around so that nothing can escape her sharp eye and her chattering tongue. The wind blows through it, so that she is wet and cold, but as long ​as she sees all that goes on, she is satisfied. Now she is out of humor and seems to say, 'Rude people, be off with your presents. Do you think if I wanted your cakes I could not pick them up in your very houses? There is no fun in eating things that are given to you; stolen dainties are the only ones I relish.'
"Grandad, why do they give her pancakes all tied up with ribbons? Why do they bring good-wishes to that old pilferer?"
"Because, darling, in this world it is better to be on good terms with evildoers."
"What's that, Colas Breugnon? What idea are you putting in the child's head?" growled the vicar.
"I am not holding it up for her admiration. I only tell her that is what every one does, you yourself, vicar, among the first. Don't stare at me like that, you know when you have a parishioner who knows everything, sees everything, pokes her nose into everything, and is as full of spite as a nut is full of meat you would stuff her mouth with cakes, if that would keep her quiet."
"Lord, if that were enough," sighed the vicar. "I am really not fair to old magpie, she is better than some women, and her tongue is sometimes of use!"
"What is it good for, Grandfather?"
​"She screams when the wolf is near."
And at these words, all of a sudden the bird begins to cry, swear, and blaspheme. She flaps her wings, flies, and pours out abuse toward Idon't know who or what down in the valley near Armes. At the edge of the wood her feathered companions, Chariot the jay, and the crow Colas, answer sharply in the same irritated key. The villagers laugh and cry, "Wolf!" No one believes it, but still they think they will go and look (it is good to trust, but better to know), and what do you think they see? A band of armed men coming up the hill at a trot. We know them only too well; they are those rascals, the soldiers of Vézelay, who knowing our town is off its guard, think they will catch the bird on its nest. (Not this old magpie, however.)
We did not stop to look at them, as you may well believe! Every man for himself, was the cry, and we all tumbled over each other. We took to our heels by the road, across the fields; some on all fours, and some sliding on the hinder side of their anatomy. We three jumped into the donkey-cart; and, as if she understood it all, off went Madelon like an arrow from the bow. The vicar forgot in his excitement the consideration due to a donkey which has a cross marked on its back, and ​belabored her with all his might. We rushed along through a crowd of people screaming like blackbirds, and entered Clamecy first by a head, covered with dust and glory, but with the rest of the fugitives hard on our heels. Madelon scarcely touched the ground as we flew through Béyant at full gallop, the cart bouncing, the vicar beating, and shouting at the top of his lungs, "The enemy is upon us!"
People laughed at first as they saw us flying past them, but it did not take them long to catch the idea, and the town was soon like an ant-heap when you thrust a stick into it. Every one got to work, running in and out. Men armed themselves; women packed up their goods, piling things into baskets and wheelbarrows; and all the folks in the suburbs, abandoning their homes, fled to the shelter of the town walls. The masquers rushed to the ramparts, still wearing their costumes, masks, horns, claws, and paunches; some as Gargantua, some as Beelzebub, armed with gaffs and harpoons; and so when the advance guard of Vézelay reached the walls, the drawbridges were raised, and only some poor devils remained on the other side of the moat, who having nothing to lose made no effort to save it, and poor old King Pluviaut, deserted by his escort, full as a tick, like the ​Patriarch Noah, sat snoring on his beast, holding on by the tail.
Here is where you can see the advantage of having Frenchmen for your enemies. Germans, Swiss, or English, do their thinking through their fists, and are so thickheaded that it takes them till Christmas to understand what was told them on All Saints' Day. I would not have given a button for poor Pluviaut's chance with such people as these. They would have thought we were playing a joke on them, but no words are necessary between us. If we come from Lorraine, Touraine, Champagne, or Bretagne, geese from Beauce, asses from Beaune, or rabbits from Vézelay, a good joke hits us all in the right spot, no matter how much we may pound and beat each other. When they caught sight of our old Silenus, their whole camp burst out laughing. They laughed all over their faces, with their throats, with all their hearts, and even their stomachs, and by St. Rigobert! to see the way they laughed set us off too, all along our line. Like Ajax, and Hector the Trojan, we hurled gay defiance at each other across the moat. Our remarks, however, had much more snap than theirs. If I were not so busy, I would write them down, but if you can put up with it, I mean to include them in a collection I have been making for the last ​dozen years of the best jokes, quips, and witticisms that I have heard, said, or read, in the course of my pilgrimage through this vale of tears. I would not lose it for a kingdom. It makes me crack my old sides only to think of it. There now! I have made a great blot on my paper.
When the noise had subsided, it was time to fight; (nothing is so restful when one has been talked to death), but neither side was keen for it. Their surprise had failed, and we were well protected. They did not care much about scrambling up our walls (you may break your bones at that game) but something had to be done at any cost; it did not matter much what, so a little powder was burned, some petards let off at random, from which the sparrows were the only sufferers. We sat with our backs to the wall inside the parapet, waiting while their plums flew over our heads for the right moment to discharge our own without taking aim, (there is no sense in exposing one's self too much).
When we heard their prisoners squalling we ventured to look out. They had caught a dozen men and women from Béyant and were beating them as they stood in a row, with their faces turned to the wall. The poor devils were not much hurt, but they screamed like curlews. Being safe enough ​ourselves, we slipped down along the ramparts and brandished pikes over the walls, on which we had stuck hams, saveloys, and black-puddings. We could hear the besiegers uttering yells of hunger and rage, and how that did put new life into us! To squeeze out the last drop (for there is never too much of a good thing), when it grew late we set out tables in the open air on the slopes, sheltered by the wall, and loaded them with victuals and drink. There we had a noisy feast, singing and drinking to Shrove-Tuesday. The outsiders nearly went out of their skins with fury, and so that day went off gaily, and no harm done. There was only one drawback. When Gueneau de Pousseaux, that big fool! got too mellow, nothing would do but he must walk on top of the wall with his glass in his hand, just to defy them, and they knocked his head and his glass into splinters with a musket ball. This did not much bother us, but to make it even, we wounded one or two of them, for there can be no festivity, you know, without a little broken crockery. Chamaille waited till nightfall before leaving the town to go home. In vain we all said, "Old friend, you risk your neck. Wait here till it's all over; God will take care of your parishioners." He answered:
"My place is with my flock. God would be ​maimed without me, for I am truly His right arm. But I will not fail Him, you may swear."
"I believe you," said I. "You gave full proof of it when the Huguenots attacked your church, and you threw a great lump of plaster at their Captain Papiphage and knocked him over."
"That was a surprise for him, miscreant that he was," said he. "For me too, really. I mean no harm and hate to see blood flow; it disgusts me, but the devil alone knows what gets into a man when he is among hot-heads. He becomes a wolf."
"That is true," said I, "you lose what little sense you have when you are in a crowd. A hundred wise men make a fool, and a hundred sheep a wolf. But tell me. Vicar, how can you reconcile two codes—that of the man who lives alone with his conscience and wants peace for himself and all the world, and that of men in the mass, who make a virtue out of war and wickedness. Which of these is of God?"
"That is a very silly question! Both. Everything comes from God."
"Well, then He doesn't know His own mind. Or rather I believe He cannot do as He likes. It is easy enough to manage one man,—there is no difficulty about that, but when He has a crowd to ​deal with, that is another pair of shoes. What can one do against many? So man falls back on his Mother Earth, who whispers to him of fleshly things. In the old legend, if you remember, there are times when men become wolves, and then get into their old skins again. Ah! my friend, there is more truth in many an old song than in your Mass-book. Every man in the country wears his wolf skin; States, Kings, and Ministers may dress themselves up with shepherd's crooks as much as they please, and claim descent, like the hypocrites they are, from your Good Shepherd; they are really all lynxes, bulls, jaws, and bellies, always crying for food, and for the best of reasons; they must satisfy the hunger of the earth."
"You are a raving heathen," said Chamaille. "God sends the wolves like the rest, and He does all things well. Did you never hear that the Blessed Virgin had a little garden where cabbages grew, and Jesus, they say, made the wolf to keep off the goats and the kids? No doubt He was right, and we can only bow to His will. Why should we complain of the strong? It would be a thousand times worse if the weak were raised to power, so in conclusion all are for the best, sheep and wolves alike. The sheep need the wolves to protect them, and the wolves need the sheep, still more, for we all ​must eat. So now, Colas, off I go to my cabbages." He confided Madelon tenderly to my care, tucked up his gown, grasped his cudgel, and made off; though the night was dark and moonless.
We were not quite so merry for the next few days. We had foolishly stuffed ourselves the first evening, just to show off and from stupid greediness, so there was but little left of our provisions. We had to draw in our belts, which was soon done, but we still had some swagger in us. When the puddings were all gone, we made some stuffed with bran and tarred strings which we stuck on a pike and dangled before the enemy. The rogues soon saw through it, though, for a ball caught one of our puddings fair in the middle, and who had the laugh on his side then? Not we, I vow, and to cap the climax when these robbers saw that we were fishing over the top of our wall, they stretched nets from the locks up and down the river to catch the fry. Our Archbishop reprimanded them for bad Christians who would not let us keep Lent, but in vain, so we had to fall back on our own fat.
We might of course have implored the Duke of Nevers to come and help us, but to tell the truth we were not anxious to have his troops quartered on us again. It cost less to have the enemy outside the walls than the friend within, so the best way ​was to keep quiet as long as we could get along without them, and the enemy on his side was prudent enough not to send for them. "Two is company, three is none," so we began negotiations, but without undue haste. Both camps led an exemplary life. Early to bed and late to rise, playing bowls all day and drinking. We yawned more from boredom than hunger, and we actually slept so much that we grew fat in spite of our fast. The grown people moved about as little as possible, but it was hard to keep the children in order. These imps were always running, crying, or laughing; always on the go and putting themselves in danger. They would climb the walls, stick out their tongues at the besiegers, and bombard them with stones. They had batteries of squirts, which they made from the elder twigs; slings and sticks;—"Here goes. Hit him in the head!" the little monkeys would cry. Those they struck vowed to be the death of them, and they called out to us that the first child that poked its nose over the top of the wall should be shot. We promised to be careful, but the rogues slipped through our fingers in spite of our scoldings and ear-pullings. Still water runs deep, so one fine evening, (it makes me tremble only to think of it!) I heard a squeal, and if you can believe it, there was that little hypocrite of a ​Glodie,—witch that she is! my own treasure!—she had slipped down the bank into the ditch. Oh, Lord, I could have whipped her! I was on the wall at one bound, and there we all stood craning over. We made a fine target if the enemy had chosen to shoot at us, but he too was looking at my darling at the bottom of the ditch. Thanks to the Blessed Virgin, she had rolled down gently like a little kitten, and sat there among the flowering grasses, not in the least frightened, and looking up at the two rows of heads above her. She was laughing and making a nosegay. We all laughed too, and Monseigneur de Ragny, the enemy's commander, ordered that no harm be done to the child, and, good fellow that he was, threw her a bag of sugar-plums. But you never know what a woman will do next, and while we were all looking at Glodie, Martine rushed to save her lamb and she too fell down the bank, running, slipping, and rolling, her skirts turned up over her head. What a spectacle for the enemy! Immense applause! But nothing daunted, she hugged and slapped her baby. One of the soldiers, carried away by her charms, disobeyed his commanding officer, jumped into the ditch and ran towards her. She stood fast while we threw a broom down to her from the ramparts, seized it bravely, and marched on the enemy. ​Whick, whack! The gallant kept his distance, and fled from the field without sound of trumpets. Both camps roared with laughter, and we pulled Martine up, triumphant, with her child in her arms, I on the end of the rope as proud as a peacock.
Since talking is always in season, we took another week for discussion. A rumor was heard that the Duke of Nevers was coming,—a false alarm, but it brought us together and a treaty was drawn up on fairly easy terms. We agreed to pay to the Vézelayans a tenth of our next vintage, for it is always best to promise for the future; one may never get there, and in any case much water runs under the bridge first and much wine into our stomachs.
Both sides were satisfied with each other, and most of all with themselves. Still, it never rains but it pours, and the very next day after the treaty, a sign appeared in the heavens. About ten o'clock it arose and slid across the field of stars toward St. Peters-on-the-Height, like a long serpent. It resembled a sword with a flame on the point, and great tongues of smoke; a hand seemed to grasp the hilt. You could see the five fingers ending in dreadful heads; one was a woman with her hair streaming in the wind, and the width at the hilt of the sword was a span, at the point six ​or eight rods, and in the middle exactly three rods and two inches. The color was scarlet and violet, and inflamed like a wound in the side. We all stood, our eyes raised to Heaven, our mouths open, our teeth chattering in our heads. In the two camps the question was "To which one did the warning come?" Each of course attributed it to the other, and every man shivered, except me. I was not in the least frightened, for having gone to bed at nine o'clock, I naturally saw nothing. Regularly as the day comes round, I take medicine and go to bed early; when the stomach commands I obey without question. Every one, however, told me all about the portent, so I write it down, for it is the same as if I had seen it.
As soon as peace was signed, friends and foes betook themselves once more to feasting, and as by this time we had come to the middle of Lent, we let ourselves go. It was a great day, I can tell you. Throngs of people came pouring in from the neighboring villages, bringing their provisions as well as mouths to eat them with, and tables were spread the whole length of the ramparts. Three young pigs were served, roasted whole, stuffed with spiced boar's meat and heron's liver. There were hams, smoked and perfumed with juniper; ​rabbit and pork pies, simply reeking with garlic and laurel; our own meat-balls and tripe, pikes and snails, jugged hare so fat that our noses fed on them first; calves-head that melted in the mouth; and heaps of peppery lobsters enough to set your throat on fire. On top of all, to cool it off, salads with plenty of vinegar; and then bumpers of the best vintages from Chapotte, Mandre, and Vaufilloux. For dessert we had curds and cream to slip gently down our throats, and biscuits with which we sopped up a full glass at one mouthful. As long as a scrap remained not one of us let go, and the Lord gave us strength to squeeze all these dishes and drinks into our small bread-baskets. There was a great contest between two eating champions. The Vézelayans put up their hermit—Court-Oreille from St. Martin's at Vézelay; (he was the man, we are told, who first discovered that an ass must have his tail in the air before he can bray); ours, (hermit, I mean not ass,) was Dom Hennequin, who declared that he had such a hatred for cold water that he believed he must have been a carp or a pike in some former existence and been forced to swallow too much of it. Well, when the Vézelayans and Clamecyans left off eating at last, they loved each other more than they did at first; since a man's fine qualities come out strong at ​table, and he who loves good cheer is my brother. While we were settling our dinner on the best of good terms, what should turn up but the re-enforcements sent by our Duke to protect us? We burst out laughing, and both sides politely requested them to go home. What could they do? So they went off rather crestfallen, like dogs chased by sheep, while we hugged each other and cried out:
"What fools we were to fight for these people! Our protectors, forsooth! They would stir up enemies if we had none, in faith, just for the sake of defending us. God keep us from our keepers, we can look out for ourselves. Silly sheep that we are, we should be safe enough if wolves were all that threatened us,—but who will save us from the shepherd?"
* ↑ Bethléem, a suburb of Clamecy
* ↑ "Judæa" is the nickname given to the suburb of Bethléem, or Béyant, where the raftsmen and boatmen of Clamecy live. "Rome" is the upper town, which gets its name on account of the stairs, called "Old Rome," which go down from the church of Saint Martin to the suburb of Beuvron.