The more we advance in life, the more we advance in art, the more convinced we become that nothing is abrupt2 and isolated3; that nature and society progress by evolution and not by chance, and that the event, flower joyous4 or sad, perfumed or fetid, beneficent or fatal, which unfolds itself to-day before our eyes, was sown in the past, and had its roots sometimes in days anterior5 to ours, even as it will bear its fruits in the future.
Young, man accepts life as it comes, enamored of yestereen, careless of the day, heeding7 little the morrow. Youth is the springtide with its dewy dawns and its beautiful nights; if sometimes a storm clouds the sky, it gathers, mutters and disperses8, leaving the sky bluer, the atmosphere purer, and Nature more smiling than before. What use is there in reflecting on this storm that passes swift as a caprice, ephemeral as a fancy? Before we have discovered the secret of the meteorological enigma9, the storm will have disappeared.
But it is not thus with the terrible phenomena10, which at the close of summer, threaten our harvests; or in the midst of autumn, assail11 our vintages; we ask whither they go, we query12 whence they come, we seek a means to prevent them.
To the thinker, the historian, the poet, there is a far deeper subject for reflection in revolutions, these tempests of the social atmosphere which drench13 the earth with blood, and crush an entire generation of men, than in those upheavals14 of nature which deluge15 a harvest, or flay16 the vineyards with hail—that is to say, the fruits of a single harvest, wreaking17 an injury, which can at the worst be repaired the ensuing year; unless the Lord be in His days of wrath18.
Thus, in other days, be it forgetfulness, heedlessness or ignorance perhaps—(blessed he who is ignorant! a fool he who is wise!)—in other days in relating the story which I am going to tell you to-day I would, without pausing at the place where the first scene of this book occurs, have accorded it but a superficial mention, and traversing the Midi like any other province, have named Avignon like any other city.
But to-day it is no longer the same; I am no longer tossed by the flurries of spring, but by the storms of summer, the tempests of autumn. To-day when I name Avignon, I evoke19 a spectre; and, like Antony displaying Cæsar’s toga, say:
“Look! in this place ran Cassius’ dagger20 through;
See what a rent the envious21 Casca made;
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed—”
So, seeing the bloody22 shroud23 of the papal city, I say: “Behold24 the blood of the Albigenses, and here the blood of the Cevennais; behold the blood of the Republicans, and here the blood of the Royalists; behold the blood of Lescuyer; behold the blood of Maréchal Brune.”
And I feel myself seized with a profound sadness, and I begin to write, but at the first lines I perceive that, without suspecting it, the historian’s chisel25 has superseded26 the novelist’s pen in my hand.
Well, let us be both. Reader, grant me these ten, fifteen, twenty pages to the historian; the novelist shall have the rest.
Let us say, therefore, a few words about Avignon, the place where the first scene of the new book which we are offering to the public, opens. Perhaps, before reading what we have to say, it would be well to cast a glance at what its native historian, François Nouguier, says of it.
“Avignon,” he writes, “a town noble for its antiquity27, pleasing in its site, superb for its walls, smiling for the fertility of its soil, charming for the gentleness of its inhabitants, magnificent for its palace, beautiful in its broad streets, marvellous in the construction of its bridge, rich because of its commerce, and known to all the world.”
May the shade of François Nouguier pardon us if we do not at first see his city with the same eyes as he does. To those who know Avignon be it to say who has best described it, the historian or the novelist.
It is but just to assert in the first place that Avignon is a town by itself, that is to say, a town of extreme passions. The period of religious dissensions, which culminated28 for her in political hatreds30, dates from the twelfth century. After his flight from Lyons, the valleys of Mont Ventoux sheltered Pierre de Valdo and his Vaudois, the ancestors of those Protestants who, under the name of the Albigenses, cost the Counts of Toulouse, and transferred to the papacy, the seven châteaux which Raymond VI. possessed31 in Languedoc.
Avignon, a powerful republic governed by podestats, refused to submit to the King of France. One morning Louis VIII., who thought it easier to make a crusade against Avignon like Simon de Montfort, than against Jerusalem like Philippe Auguste; one morning, we say, Louis VIII. appeared before the gates of Avignon, demanding admission with lances at rest, visor down, banners unfurled and trumpets32 of war sounding.
The bourgeois33 refused. They offered the King of France, as a last concession34, a peaceful entrance, lances erect35, and the royal banner alone unfurled. The King laid siege to the town, a siege which lasted three months, during which, says the chronicler, the bourgeois of Avignon returned the French soldiers arrow for arrow, wound for wound, death for death.
The city capitulated at length. Louis VIII. brought the Roman Cardinal36-Legate, Saint-Angelo, in his train. It was he who dictated37 the terms, veritable priestly terms, hard and unconditional38. The Avignonese were commanded to demolish39 their ramparts, to fill their moats, to raze40 three hundred towers, to sell their vessels41, and to burn their engines and machines of war. They had moreover to pay an enormous impost42, to abjure43 the Vaudois heresy44, and maintain thirty men fully45 armed and equipped, in Palestine, to aid in delivering the tomb of Christ. And finally, to watch over the fulfillment of these terms, of which the bull is still extant in the city archives, a brotherhood46 of penitents47 was founded which, reaching down through six centuries, still exists in our days.
In opposition48 to these penitents, known as the “White Penitents,” the order of the “Black Penitents” was founded, imbued49 with the spirit of opposition of Raymond of Toulouse.
From that day forth50 the religious hatreds developed into political hatreds. It was not sufficient that Avignon should be the land of heresy. She was destined51 to become the theatre of schisms53.
Permit us, in connection with this French Rome, a short historical digression. Strictly54 speaking, it is not essential to the subject of which we treat, and we were perhaps wiser to launch ourselves immediately into the heart of the drama; but we trust that we will be forgiven. We write more particularly for those who, in a novel, like occasionally to meet with something more than fiction.
In 1285 Philippe le Bel ascended55 the throne.
It is a great historical date, this date of 1285. The papacy which, in the person of Gregory VII., successfully opposed the Emperor of Germany; the papacy which, vanquished56 in matters temporal by Henry IV., yet vanquished him morally. This papacy was slapped by a simple Sabine gentleman, and the steel gauntlet of Colonna reddened the cheek of Boniface VIII. But the King of France, whose hand had really dealt this blow, what happened to him under the successor of Boniface VIII.?
This successor was Benedict XI., a man of low origin, but who might perhaps have developed into a man of genius, had they allowed him the time. Too weak for an open struggle with Philippe le Bel, he found a means which would have been the envy of the founder57 of a celebrated58 order two hundred years later. He pardoned Colonna openly.
To pardon Colonna was to declare Colonna culpable59, since culprits alone have need of pardon. If Colonna were guilty, the King of France was at least his accomplice60.
There was some danger in supporting such an argument; also Benedict XI. was pope but eight months. One day a veiled woman, a pretended lay-sister of Sainte-Petronille at Perugia, came to him while he was at table, offering him a basket of figs61. Did it conceal62 an asp like Cleopatra’s? The fact is that on the morrow the Holy See was vacant.
Then Philippe le Bel had a strange idea; so strange that it must, at first, have seemed an hallucination.
It was to withdraw the papacy from Rome, to install it in France, to put it in jail, and force it to coin money for his profit.
The reign63 of Philippe le Bel was the advent64 of gold. Gold! that was the sole and unique god of this king who had slapped a pope. Saint Louis had a priest, the worthy65 Abbé Suger, for minister; Philippe le Bel had two bankers, two Florentines, Biscio and Musiato.
Do you expect, dear reader, that we are about to fall into the philosophical66 commonplace of anathematizing gold? You are mistaken.
In the thirteenth century gold meant progress. Until then nothing was known but the soil. Gold was the soil converted into money, the soil mobilized, exchangeable, transportable, divisible, subtilized, spiritualized, as it were.
So long as the soil was not represented by gold, man, like the god Thermes, that landmark67 of the fields, had his feet imprisoned68 by the earth. Formerly69 the earth bore man, to-day man bears the earth.
But this gold had to be abstracted from its hiding-place, and it was hidden far otherwise than in the mines of Chile or Mexico. All the gold was in the possession of the churches and the Jews. To extract it from this double mine it needed more than a king; it required a pope.
And that is why Philippe le Bel, that great exploiter of gold, resolved to have a pope of his own. Benedict XI. dead, a conclave70 was held at Perugia; at this conclave the French cardinals71 were in the majority. Philippe le Bel cast his eyes upon the Archbishop of Bordeaux, Bertrand de Got, and to him he gave rendezvous73 in a forest near Saint-Jean d’Angely.
Bertrand de Got took heed6 not to miss that appointment.
The King and the Archbishop heard mass there, and at the moment when the Host was elevated, they bound themselves by this God they glorified74 to absolute secrecy75. Bertrand de Got was still ignorant of the matter in question. Mass over, Philippe le Bel said:
“Archbishop, I have it in my power to make thee pope.”
Bertrand de Got listened no longer, but cast himself at the King’s feet, saying:
“What must I do to obtain this?”
“Accord me the six favors which I shall ask of thee,” replied Philippe le Bel.
“It’s for thee to command and for me to obey,” said the future Pope.
The vow76 of servitude was taken.
The King raised Bertrand de Got, and, kissing him on the mouth, said:
“The six favors which I demand of thee are these: First, thou shalt reconcile me completely with the Church, and grant me pardon for the misdeed that I committed toward Boniface VIII. Second, thou shalt restore to me and mine the right of communion of which the Court of Rome deprived me. Third, thou shalt grant me the clergy77’s tithe78 in my kingdom for the next five years, to help defray the expenses of the war in Flanders. Fourth, thou shalt destroy and annul79 the memory of Pope Boniface VIII. Fifth, thou shalt bestow80 the dignity of cardinal upon Messires Jacopo and Pietro de Colonna. As to the sixth favor and promise, that I shall reserve to speak to thee thereof in its time and place.”
Bertrand de Got swore to the promises and favors known, and to the promise and favor unknown. This last, which the King had not dared to mention in connection with the others, was the abolition81 of the Knights82 Templar. Besides the promises made on the Corpus Domini, Bertrand de Got gave as hostages his brother and two of his nephews. The King swore on his side that he should be elected pope.
This scene, set in the deep shadows of a crossroad in the forest, resembled rather an evocation83 between magician and demon84 than an agreement entered upon between king and pope.
Also the coronation of the King, which took place shortly afterward85 at Lyons, and which began the Church’s captivity86, seemed but little agreeable to God. Just as the royal procession was passing, a wall crowded with spectators fell, wounding the King and killing87 the Duc de Bretagne. The Pope was thrown to the ground, and his tiara rolled in the mud.
Bertrand de Got was elected pope under the name of Clement88 V.
Clement V. paid all that Bertrand de Got had promised. Philippe was absolved89, Holy Communion restored to him and his, the purple again descended90 upon the shoulders of the Colonna, the Church was obliged to defray the expenses of the war in Flanders and Philippe de Valois’s crusade against the Greek Empire. The memory of Pope Boniface VIII. was, if not destroyed and annulled91, at least besmirched92; the walls of the Temple were razed93, and the Templars burned on the open space of the Pont Neuf.
All these edicts—they were no longer called bulls from the moment the temporal power dictated them—all these edicts were dated at Avignon.
Philippe le Bel was the richest of all the kings of the French monarchy94; he possessed an inexhaustible treasury95, that is to say, his pope. He had purchased him, he used him, he put him to the press, and as cider flows from apples, so did this crushed pope bleed gold. The pontificate, struck by the Colonna in the person of Boniface VIII., abdicated96 the empire of the world in the person of Clement V.
We have related the advent of the king of blood and the pope of gold. We know how they ended. Jacques de Molay, from his funeral pyre, adjured97 them both to appear before God within the year. Ae to geron sithullia, says Aristophanes. “Dying hoary98 heads possess the souls of sibyls.”
Clement V. departed first. In a vision he saw his palace in flames. “From that moment,” says Baluze, “he became sad and lasted but a short time.”
Seven months later it was Philippe’s turn. Some say that he was killed while hunting, overthrown99 by a wild boar. Dante is among their number. “He,” said he, “who was seen near the Seine falsifying the coin of the realm shall die by the tusk100 of a boar.” But Guillaume de Nangis makes the royal counterfeiter101 die of a death quite otherwise providential.
“Undermined by a malady102 unknown to the physicians, Philippe expired,” said he, “to the great astonishment103 of everybody, without either his pulse or his urine revealing the cause of his malady or the imminence104 of the danger.”
The King of Debauchery, the King of Uproar105, Louis X., called the Hutin, succeeded his father, Philippe le Bel; John XXII. to Clement V.
Avignon then became in truth a second Rome. John XXII. and Clement VI. anointed her queen of luxury. The manners and customs of the times made her queen of debauchery and indulgence. In place of her towers, razed by Romain de Saint-Angelo, Hernandez de Héredi, grand master of Saint-Jean of Jerusalem, girdled her with a belt of walls. She possessed dissolute monks106, who transformed the blessed precincts of her convents into places of debauchery and licentiousness107; her beautiful courtesans tore the diamonds from the tiara to make of them bracelets108 and necklaces; and finally she possessed the echoes of Vaucluse, which wafted109 the melodious110 strains of Petrarch’s songs to her.
This lasted until King Charles V., who was a virtuous111 and pious112 prince, having resolved to put an end to the scandal, sent the Maréchal de Boucicaut to drive out the anti-pope, Benedict XIII., from Avignon. But at sight of the soldiers of the King of France the latter remembered that before being pope under the name of Benedict XIII. he had been captain under the name of Pierre de Luna. For five months he defended himself, pointing his engines of war with his own hands from the heights of the château walls, engines otherwise far more murderous than his pontifical113 bolts. At last forced to flee, he left the city by a postern, after having ruined a hundred houses and killed four thousand Avignonese, and fled to Spain, where the King of Aragon offered him sanctuary114.
There each morning, from the summit of a tower, assisted by the two priests who constituted his sacred college, he blessed the whole world, which was none the better for it, and excommunicated his enemies, who were none the worse for it. At last, feeling himself nigh to death, and fearing lest the schism52 die with him, he elected his two vicars cardinals on the condition that after his death one of the two would elect the other pope. The election was made. The new pope, supported by the cardinal who made him, continued the schism for awhile. Finally both entered into negotiations115 with Rome, made honorable amends116, and returned to the fold of Holy Church, one with the title of Arch bishop72 of Seville, the other as Archbishop of Toledo.
From this time until 1790 Avignon, widowed of her popes, was governed by legates and vice-legates. Seven sovereign pontiffs had resided within her walls some seven decades; she had seven hospitals, seven fraternities of penitents, seven monasteries117, seven convents, seven parishes, and seven cemeteries118.
To those who know Avignon there was at that epoch—there is yet—two cities within a city: the city of the priests, that is to say, the Roman city, and the city of the merchants, that is to say, the French city. The city of the priests, with its papal palace, its hundred churches, its innumerable bell-towers, ever ready to sound the tocsin of conflagration119, the knell120 of slaughter121. The town of the merchants, with its Rhone, its silk-workers, its crossroads, extending north, east, south and west, from Lyons to Marseilles, from Nimes to Turin. The French city, the accursed city, longing122 for a king, jealous of its liberties, shuddering123 beneath its yoke124 of vassalage125, a vassalage of the priests with the clergy for its lord.
The clergy—not the pious clergy, tolerantly austere126 in the practice of its duty and charity, living in the world to console and edify127 it, without mingling128 in its joys and passions—but a clergy such as intrigue129, cupidity130, and ambition had made it; that is to say, the court abbés, rivalling the Roman priests, indolent, libertine131, elegant, impudent132, kings of fashion, autocrats133 of the salon134, kissing the hands of those ladies of whom they boasted themselves the paramours, giving their hands to kiss to the women of the people whom they honored by making their mistresses.
Do you want a type of those abbés? Take the Abbé Maury. Proud as a duke, insolent135 as a lackey136, the son of a shoemaker, more aristocratic than the son of a great lord.
One understands that these two categories of inhabitants, representing the one heresy, the other orthodoxy; the one the French party, the other the Roman party; the one the party of absolute monarchy, the other that of progressive constitutionalism, were not elements conducive137 to the peace and security of this ancient pontifical city. One understands, we say, that at the moment when the revolution broke out in Paris, and manifested itself by the taking of the Bastille, that the two parties, hot from the religious wars of Louis XIV., could not remain inert138 in the presence of each other.
We have said, Avignon, city of priests; let us add, city of hatreds. Nowhere better than in convent towns does one learn to hate. The heart of the child, everywhere else free from wicked passions, was born there full of paternal139 hatreds, inherited from father to son for the last eight hundred years, and after a life of hate, bequeathed in its turn, a diabolical140 heritage, to his children.
Therefore, at the first cry of liberty which rang through France the French town rose full of joy and hope. The moment had come at last for her to contest aloud that concession made by a young queen, a minor141, in expiation142 of her sins, of a city and a province, and with it half a million souls. By what right had she sold these souls in æternum to the hardest and most exacting143 of all masters, the Roman Pontiff?
All France was hastening to assemble in the fraternal embrace of the Federation144 at the Champ de Mars. Was she not France? Her sons ejected delegates to wait upon the legate and request him respectfully to leave the city, giving him twenty-four hours in which to do so.
During the night the papists amused themselves by hanging from a gibbet an effigy145 of straw wearing the tri-color cockade.
The course of the Rhone has been controlled, the Durance canalled, dikes have been built to restrain the fierce torrents146, which, at the melting of the snows, pour in liquid avalanches148 from the summits of Mt. Ventoux. But this terrible flood, this living flood, this human torrent147 that rushed leaping through the rapid inclines of the streets of Avignon, once released, once flooding, not even God Himself has yet sought to stay it.
At sight of this manikin with the national colors, dancing at the end of a cord, the French city rose upon its very foundations with terrible cries of rage. Four papist, suspected of this sacrilege, two marquises, one burgher, and a workman, were torn from their homes and hung in the manikin’s stead. This occurred the eleventh of June, 1790.
The whole French town wrote to the National Assembly that she gave herself to France, and with her the Rhone, her commerce, the Midi, and the half of Provence.
The National Assembly was in one of its reactionary149 moods. It did not wish to quarrel with the Pope; it dallied150 with the King, and the matter was adjourned151. From that moment the rising became a revolt, and the Pope was free to do with Avignon what the court might have done with Paris, if the Assembly had delayed its proclamation of the Rights of Man. The Pope ordered the annulment152 of all that had occurred at the Comtat Venaissin, the re-establishment of the privileges of the nobles and clergy, and the reinstallation of the Inquisition in all its rigor154. The pontifical decrees were affixed155 to the walls.
One man, one only, in broad daylight dared to go straight to the walls, in face of all, and tear down the decree. His name was Lescuyer. He was not a young man; and therefore it was not the fire of youth that impelled156 him. No, he was almost an old man who did not even belong to the province. He was a Frenchman from Picardy, ardent157 yet reflective, a former notary158 long since established at Avignon.
It was a crime that Roman Avignon remembered; a crime so great that the Virgin159 wept!
You see Avignon is another Italy. She must have her miracles, and if God will not perform them, so surely will some one be at hand to invent them. Still further, the miracle must be a miracle pertaining160 to the Virgin. La Madonna! the mind, the heart, the tongue of the Italians are full of these two words.
It was in the Church of the Cordeliers that this miracle occurred. The crowd rushed there. It was much that the Virgin should weep; but a rumor161 spread at the same time that brought the excitement to a climax162. A large coffer, tightly sealed, had been carried through the city; this chest had excited the curiosity of all Avignon. What did it contain? Two hours later it was no longer a coffer; but eighteen trunks had been seen going toward the Rhone. As for their contents, a porter had revealed that; they contained articles from the Mont-de-Piété that the French party were taking with them into exile. Articles from the Mont-de-Piété, that is to say, the spoils of the poor! The poorer the city the richer its pawn163-shops. Few could boast such wealth as those of Avignon. It was no longer a factional affair, it was a theft, an infamous164 theft. Whites and Reds rushed to the Church of the Cordeliers, shouting that the municipality must render them an accounting165.
Lescuyer was the secretary of the municipality. His name was thrown to the crowd, not for having torn down the pontifical decrees—from that moment he would have had defenders—but for having signed the order to the keeper of the Mont-de-Piété permitting the removal of the articles in pawn.
Four men were sent to seize Lescuyer and bring him to the church. They found him in the street on his way to the municipality. The four men fell upon him and dragged him to the church with the most ferocious166 cries. Once there, Lescuyer understood from the flaming eyes that met his, from the clinched167 fists threatening him, the shrieks168 demanding his death; Lescuyer understood that instead of being in the house of the Lord he was in one of those circles of hell forgotten by Dante.
The only idea that occurred to him as to this hatred29 against him was that he had caused it by tearing down the pontifical decrees. He climbed into the pulpit, expecting to convert it into a seat of justice, and in the voice of a man who not only does not blame himself, but who is even ready to repeat his action, he said:
“Brothers, I consider the revolution necessary; consequently I have done all in my power—”
The fanatics169 understood that if Lescuyer explained, Lescuyer was saved. That was not what they wanted. They flung themselves upon him, tore him from the pulpit, and thrust him into the midst of this howling mob, who dragged him to the altar with that sort of terrible cry which combines the hiss170 of the serpent and the roar of the tiger, the murderous zou! zou! peculiar171 to the people of Avignon.
Lescuyer recognized that fatal cry; he endeavored to gain refuge at the foot of the altar. He found none; he fell there.
A laborer173, armed with a stick, dealt him such a blow on the head that the stick broke in two pieces. Then the people hurled174 themselves upon the poor body, and, with that mixture of gayety and ferocity peculiar to Southern people, the men began to dance on his stomach, singing, while the women, that he might better expiate175 his blasphemies176 against the Pope, cut or rather scalloped his lips with their scissors.
And out of the midst of this frightful177 group came a cry, or rather a groan178; this death groan said: “In the name of Heaven! in the name of the Virgin! in the name of humanity! kill me at once.”
This cry was heard, and by common consent the assassins stood aside. They left the unfortunate man bleeding, disfigured, mangled179, to taste of his death agony.
This lasted five hours, during which, amid shouts of laughter, insults, and jeers180 from the crowd, this poor body lay palpitating upon the steps of the altar. That is how they kill at Avignon.
Stay! there is yet another way. A man of the French party conceived the idea of going to the Mont-de-Piété for information. Everything was in order there, not a fork or a spoon had been removed. It was therefore not as an accomplice of theft that Lescuyer had just been so cruelly murdered, it was for being a patriot181.
There was at that time in Avignon a man who controlled the populace. All these terrible leaders of the Midi have acquired such fatal celebrity182 that it suffices to name them for every one, even the least educated, to know them. This man was Jourdan. Braggart183 and liar172, he had made the common people believe that it was he who had cut off the head of the governor of the Bastille. So they called him Jourdan, Coupe-tête. That was not his real name, which was Mathieu Jouve. Neither was he a Provencal; he came from Puy-en-Velay. He had formerly been a muleteer on those rugged184 heights which surround his native town; then a soldier without going to war—war had perhaps made him more human; after that he had kept a drink-shop in Paris. In Avignon he had been a vendor185 of madder.
He collected three hundred men, carried the gates of the town, left half of his troop to guard them, and with the remainder marched upon the Church of the Cordeliers, preceded by two pieces of cannon186. These he stationed in front of the church and fired them into it at random187. The assassins fled like a flock of frightened birds, leaving some few dead upon the church steps. Jourdan and his men trampled188 over the bodies and entered the holy precincts. No one was there but the Virgin, and the wretched Lescuyer, still breathing. Jourdan and his comrades took good care not to despatch189 Lescuyer; his death agony was a supreme190 means of exciting the mob. They picked up this remnant of a sentient191 being, three-quarters dead, and carried it along, bleeding, quivering, gasping192, with them.
Every one fled from the sight, closing doors and windows. At the end of an hour, Jourdan and his three hundred men were masters of the town.
Lescuyer was dead, but what of that; they no longer needed his agony. Jourdan profited by the terror he had inspired to arrest or have arrested eighty people, murderers, or so-called murderers of Lescuyer. Thirty, perhaps, had never even set foot within the church. But when one has such a good opportunity to be rid of one’s enemies, one must profit by it; good opportunities are rare.
These eighty people were huddled193 into the Trouillas Tower. Historically it is known as the Tower de la Glacière; but why change this name of the Trouillas Tower? The name is unclean and harmonizes well with the unclean deed which was now to be perpetrated there.
It had been the scene of the inquisitorial tortures. One can still see on the walls the greasy194 soot195 which rose from the smoke of the funeral pyre where human bodies were consumed. They still show you to-day the instruments of torture which they have carefully preserved—the caldron, the oven, the wooden horse, the chains, the dungeons197, and even the rotten bones. Nothing is wanting.
It was in this tower, built by Clement V., that they now confined the eighty prisoners. These eighty men, once arrested and locked up in the Trouillas Tower, became most embarrassing. Who was to judge them? There were no legally constituted courts except those of the Pope. Could they kill these unfortunates as they had killed Lescuyer?
We have said that a third, perhaps half of them, had not only taken no part in the murder, but had not even set foot in the church. How should they kill them? The killing must be placed upon the basis of reprisals198. But the killing of these eighty people required a certain number of executioners.
A species of tribunal was improvised199 by Jourdan and held session in one of the law-courts. It had a clerk named Raphel; a president, half Italian, half French; an orator200 in the popular dialect named Barbe Savournin de la Roua, and three or four other poor devils, a baker201, a pork butcher—their names are lost in the multitude of events.
These were the men who cried: “We must kill all! If one only escapes he will be a witness against us.”
But, as we have said, executioners were wanting. There were barely twenty men at hand in the courtyard, all belonging to the petty tradesfolk of Avignon—a barber, a shoemaker, a cobbler, a mason, and an upholsterer—all insufficiently202 armed at random, the one with a sabre, the other with a bayonet, a third with an iron bar, and a fourth with a bit of wood hardened by fire. All of these people were chilled by a fine October rain. It would be difficult to turn them into assassins.
Pooh! Is anything too difficult for the devil?
There comes an hour in such crises when God seems to abandon the earth. Then the devil’s chance comes.
The devil in person entered this cold, muddy courtyard. Assuming the features, form and face of an apothecary203 of the neighborhood named Mendes, he prepared a table lighted by two lanterns, on which he placed glasses, jugs204, pitchers205 and bottles.
What infernal beverage206 did these mysterious and curiously207 formed receptacles contain? No one ever knew, but the result is well known. All those who drank that diabolical liquor were suddenly seized with a feverish208 rage, a lust209 of blood and murder. From that moment it was only necessary to show them the door; they hurtled madly into the dungeon196.
The massacre210 lasted all night; all night the cries, the sobs211, the groans212 of the dying sounded through the darkness. All were killed, all slaughtered213, men and women. It was long in doing; the killers214, we have said, were drunk and poorly armed. But they succeeded.
Among these butchers was a child remarked for his bestial215 cruelty, his immoderate thirst for blood. It was Lescuyer’s son. He killed and then killed again; he boasted of having with his childish hand alone killed ten men and four women.
“It’s all right! I can kill as I like,” said he. “I am not yet fifteen, so they can do nothing to me for it.”
As the killing progressed, they threw their victims, the living, dead and wounded, into the Trouillas Tower, some sixty feet, down into the pit. The men were thrown in first, and the women later. The assassins wanted time to violate the bodies of those who were young and pretty. At nine in the morning, after twelve hours of massacre, a voice was still heard crying from the depths of the sepulchre:
“For pity’s sake, come kill me! I cannot die.”
A man, the armorer Bouffier, bent216 over the pit and looked down. The others did not dare.
“Who was that crying?” they asked.
“That was Lami,” replied Bouffier. Then, when he had returned, they asked him:
“Well, what did you see at the bottom?”
“A queer marmalade,” said he. “Men and women, priests and pretty girls, all helter-skelter. It’s enough to make one die of laughter.”
“Decidedly man is a vile153 creature,” said the Count of Monte-Cristo to M. de Villefort.
Well, it is in this town, still reeking217 with blood, still warm, still stirred by these last massacres218, that we now introduce two of the principal personages of our story.
