"Oh, these townsmen!" exclaimed the old peasant with pungent bitterness. "They are no better than the people of the castles. Go, Jacques Bonhomme, you have enemies everywhere and nowhere a friend."
Saying this, Caillet started to walk away. But touched by the sad accent of the peasant, Rufin held him back: "Friend, if I have hurt your feelings, excuse me. We townsmen are not the enemies of Jacques Bonhomme for the reason that our enemies are common to us both."
Ever suspicious, Caillet remained silent and sought to discover from the face of the student whether his words did not conceal a trap or implied some fresh ridicule. Rufin surmised the apprehensions of the serf, examined him once more attentively, and now struck by the lines of sorrow on his face, said to him: "May I die like a dog if I am not speaking sincerely to you. Friend, you seem to have suffered much; you are a stranger; I am at your disposal! I do not offer you my purse because it is empty; but I offer you half of the pallet on which I sleep in a student's room with a chum from my province, and a part of our meager pittance."
Now convinced by the frankness of the townsman, the peasant answered: "I have no time to stay in Paris; I only wish to speak with Jocelyn the Champion and Marcel; could you help me to that?"
"You know Jocelyn the Champion?" Rufin asked with deep interest, while a cloud of sadness darkened his countenance.
"Did any misfortune befall him?"
"He left here to assist at a tourney in Beauvoisis some time ago, and the poor fellow never returned.... His aged and infirm father died of grief at the disappearance of his son. Brave Jocelyn! I entered the University the year before he left it. He was the best and most courageous lad in the world.... He must have been killed at the tourney, or assassinated on his return to Paris. Highwaymen infest the roads."
"No; he was not killed at the tourney of Nointel. The night after the passage of arms I saw him take his horse to return to Paris."
"Are you from Beauvoisis?"
"Yes," answered Caillet; and he added with a sigh: "Well, that young man is dead! Great pity! There are few like him who love Jacques Bonhomme." After a moment's silence the peasant resumed: "How can I manage to meet Marcel?"