"Probably," said Colombaik, "poor Bertrand will not join us to-day. This is a feast day, and there are no more feast days for the poor fellow since the murder of his father."
"Yet there comes Bertrand!" cried out one of the militiamen, pointing at a young man, who, pale, frail and sickly-looking, of a timid and kind appearance, wearing a steel casque and armed with a heavy axe that seemed to weigh down his shoulder, was approaching from a distance. "Poor Bertrand!" the militiaman added, "so feeble and wretched! He is excused for not having avenged the death of his father upon our accursed bishop!" Cordially received by his companions, Bertrand answered their solicitous inquiries with some embarrassment, and silently took his place in the ranks. The Mayor arrived soon after, accompanied by his Councilmen, some unarmed, others armed like Ancel Quatre-Mains, who joined them there. John Molrain, the Mayor, a man in the vigor of life and of a countenance at once calm and energetic, marched at the head of the magistrates of the city. One of them carried the banner of the Commune of Laon,—if the steeple of the people's belfries rose daringly in the teeth of the feudal donjons, the communal banners floated no less high than those of the seigneurs. The banner of Laon represented two embattled towers, between which rose a naked sword. The emblem signified: "Our city, fortified by walls, will know how to defend itself by arms against its enemies." Another Councilman carried in a vermillion casket, lying upon a silk cushion, the communal charter, signed by the bishop and the nobles, and confirmed by the signature of Louis the Lusty, King of the French. Finally, a third carried, also upon a cushion, the silver seal of the Commune, which served to attest the acts and decrees rendered by the town Council in the name of the Commune. This large medal, cast in bass relief, represented the Mayor, who, clad in his long robe and with his right hand pointing heavenward, seemed to be taking the oath, while his left hand held a sword with the point resting on his breast. "I, Mayor of Laon, have sworn to maintain and defend the franchises of the Commune: sooner die than betray my trust!"—such was the patriotic meaning of the communal seal, in short, "Liberty or death!"
When the city magistrate arrived, Fergan, who was issuing his last orders to the militiamen, saw a priest, the archdeacon of the cathedral, called Anselm, step out of the crowd. Fergan held the tonsured fraternity in singular aversion, yet greatly esteemed Anselm, a true disciple of Christ. "Fergan," whispered the archdeacon to the quarryman, "press your friends to redouble their calmness and their prudence, I conjure you. Prevent them from replying to any provocation. I can tell you no more. The time is short. I must proceed to the episcopal palace." Saying this, Anselm disappeared in the crowd. The advice of the archdeacon, a wise man, beloved by all, and, due to his office, in a position to be reliably informed, struck Fergan. He no longer doubted there was a conspiracy, secretly hatched by the episcopals against the Commune. Profoundly preoccupied, he placed himself at the head of his militiamen, in order to escort the Mayor and the Councilmen to the Town Hall. The obscure names of this magistracy, taken from Fergan's family archives, and over which he inscribed the exhortation: "May they be ever dear to your memory, ye sons of Joel!" were: John Molrain, Mayor. Councilmen: Foulque, the son of Bomar; Raoul Cabricoin; Ancel, son-in-law of Labert; Haymon; Payen-Seille; Robert; Remy-But; Menard-Dray, Raimbaut the sausagemaker; Payen-Oste-Loup; Ancel Quatre-Mains, and Raoul-Gastines.
The procession started amidst the joyful acclamations of the crowd, who enthusiastically shouted their rallying-cry: "Commune! Commune!" swollen by the sonorous peals from the belfry, the clerical clangor having finally ceased, due to the apprehension of the episcopals, lest the prolonged ringing of their bells was taken for their participation in the festivities. Before arriving at the place where the Town Hall stood, the procession defiled before the house of the knight of Haut-Pourcin, a large and fortified dwelling, flanked with two thick towers, that were joined by an embattled terrace, projecting above the door. Upon this species of balcony were gathered a large number of knights, clergymen, nobles and elegantly bedezined ladies, some young and handsome, others old and ugly. Among the least old of the latter and yet ugliest of all, the dame of Haut-Pourcin was conspicuous. A gaunt virago of about fifty, bony, of parchment skin, and of arrogant mien, she wore a violet cloak with gold buttons and a cape of peacock feathers; on her grizzly hair she had coquettishly fastened a chaplet of lillies of the valley in full bloom, like a shepherdess. The whiteness of her floral ornaments heightened the yellowish color of the dame's bilious complexion, a complexion, however, that was less yellowish than her long teeth. At sight of the procession, headed by the Mayor and his Councilmen, she turned to those near her, crying out in a sour and piercing voice that was distinctly heard by the communiers, the terrace lying only twelve or fifteen feet above the street: "Mesdames and messeigneurs, have you ever seen a pack of asses tramping to their mill with a more triumphant air?"
"Oh!" answered one of the knights aloud, laughing and pointing with his switch at the Mayor, John Molrain: "And look at the master-ass that leads the rest! How he prances under his furred saddle-cloth!"
"Pity his headgear conceals his long ears from us!"
"Blood of Christ! What a shame to see these Gallic clowns, made slaves by our ancestors, now carrying swords like us of the nobility!" put in the seigneur of Haut-Pourcin. "And we, the descendants of the conquerors; we knights tolerate such villainy!"
"Halloa, there, Quatre-Mains the baker!" yelled the dame of Haut-Pourcin in a squeaky voice, leaning over the railing of the terrace, "Seigneur Councilman, trotting cuckolded and content while armed for war! The last bread that my butler fetched from your shop was not baked enough, and I suspect you of having cheated me in the weight!"
"Halloa, there, Remy the currier!" added a bulky canon attached to the cathedral, "Seigneur Councilman, who are there loitering about, administering the affairs of the city, why are you not at work on the mule saddle that I ordered?"
"Oh, messeigneurs, there comes the cavalry!" exclaimed a young woman laughing and smelling at a nosegay of sweet marjorams. "Look at the swagger of the vagabond who commands his braves, would you not think he was about to hew down everything in sight?"