Colas Breugnon

by Romain Rolland

No one exactly understood why, but the bone of contention between the Duke and the town had always been the Count’s Meadows, which lie outside the gates, at the foot of Picon Hill, watered by the Beuvron, which winds through them like a silver serpent. For more years than any one can remember, there had been a dispute about these meadows: pull devil, pull baker, and it was a question which had got the best of it. Of course the contest was conducted with the utmost politeness on both sides;—“My friends of the good town of Clamecy,” and “Your Lordship’s most obedient”;—but neither party would yield an inch, for all that. When we had resort to the courts, we always got the worst of it; the judgment rendered being invariably that our meadows did not belong to us; but this did not bother us in the least, as we had reason to know that justice can make black seem white—at a price.

Possession, however, is nine points of the law, so we just held on to our playground, which had special advantages, because it was the only bit of land which was not the private property of some one in the town, and therefore might be said to belong to us all; or perhaps to the Duke, which came to much the same thing. Being common property, we did not mind spoiling it, and anything that was not convenient to do on our own premises, we did on the Count’s Meadows. We washed clothes, carded wool, and beat carpets; there was a large rubbish heap there, and many goats led out to pasture. On fine days we played games, or danced to a hurdy-gurdy; we shot at a target, and practised the drum and trumpet, and at night there were any number of loving couples along the banks of the Beuvron, which took it all as a matter of course, though he saw enough to frighten most rivers.

All went well as long as our old Duke Louis lived, for he shut his eyes to our goings on, being a man of sense who knew that you must not keep too tight a hand on the reins; he let us prance about and play the fool a little, knowing all the while that he was the master. His son, on the contrary, has the kind of conceit that prefers the show of power to the reality, and likes to mount his high horse on slight provocation. He ought to have known that a Frenchman will always sing and make fun of his rulers, and if that is not allowed, he rebels; for he cannot bear people who insist on being taken seriously, and loves those he can laugh at, or with, for laughter puts all men on a level.

The Duke, then, issued an order forbidding us to play, dance, dig, walk on the grass, or trespass in any way on the Count’s Meadows: and a good time he chose for this piece of foolishness, just after all our misfortunes, when instead of annoying us, he ought at the very least to have remitted some of our taxes. He soon found, however, that the Clamecyans are not made of soft fiber, but are tough as old oaks, so that if you drive in a wedge you have hard work to get it out again. There was no need to call a meeting to protest against the edict; from all sides arose a deafening clamor:—“What, take away our meadows? The ground that he had given us! (or that we had taken, it is all the same!)—land that we stole four hundred years ago, which has been doubly sacred to us ever since?—all the dearer that we have been obliged to struggle for it day by day, and inch by inch; holding on to it by sheer tenacity! It was enough to discourage a man from ever taking what did not belong to him; enough really to make him sick of living! Our dead would turn in their graves if we were weak enough to yield on a point thus involving the honor of the city. The fatal order was proclaimed with beat of drum, by the town crier, who looked as if he were going to execution; and that very evening, there was a meeting held of all the men of importance in the city; the heads of guilds, the chiefs of brotherhoods and corporations, and those who represented the various districts, came together under the arches of the market. I was there, for St. Anne’s, and, as you may suppose, there were different opinions among the delegates as to what ought to be done.”

Gangnot, in the name of St. Eloi, and Calabre, for St. Nicholas, advocated strong measures; they wanted to set fire to the fences round the fields, break down the gates, knock the sergeants on the head, and rip up the meadows from end to end. On the other side, were Florimond, the baker, for St. Honoré, and Maclou, the gardener, for St. Fiacre; they advised a more diplomatic course, a war of words, and parchments, a petition to the Duchess, accompanied, perhaps, by some cakes and some garden stuff. Fortunately three of us, Jean Bobin for St. Crispin, Émond Poifu for St. Vincent, and I, were not disposed either to grovel before the Duke, or to kick his head off. Keep in the middle of the road, was our motto. In our part of the world we like to get the better of people without too much fuss and expense: it is all very well to revenge yourself, but why not have a little fun out of it at the same time? We hit at last upon a splendid idea—but I am not going to tell you now what it was, for that would spoil the joke. I will only say to the credit of all of us, that for a whole fortnight the great secret was kept perfectly, though it was known to the entire town. The honor of first having thought of it belongs to me, but they all added something, here a touch and there another, till there was nothing lacking. The Mayor and Aldermen kept themselves informed of our progress, in the discreetest manner; and Master Delavau, the notary, would come slinking in every evening with his cloak drawn up around his face, to show us how to creep through the meshes of the law, while appearing to respect it; and would draw up long Latin addresses to the Duke, expressed in the most submissive terms on the part of his contumacious vassals. When the great day arrived, the town guilds and companies with their masters assembled at St. Martin’s Place, all dressed in their best, and drawn up around their banners.

As ten strokes sounded from the great tower, the bells began to ring, and on both sides of the square the doors of St. Martin’s and of the Town Hall were thrown open. From the church issued the long procession of white-robed clergy, and on the steps of the Town Hall appeared the green and yellow gowns of the Mayor and aldermen. These dignified bodies exchanged profound bows over the heads of us, who stood below them; and then they marched slowly down; first the beadles, with their red cloaks and redder noses, and then the town bailiffs, adorned with their gold chains of office, and striking their staves loudly on the pavement as they advanced.

We formed a great ring around the square, with our backs to the houses; and the authorities placed themselves just in the middle.

The whole town was there to the last man; the pettifoggers and barristers were ranged under the banner of St. Ives, (the man of business of Our Father,) while the apothecaries, leeches and mediciners, men of St. Cosmo, formed a guard of honor around the Mayor and the old Archdeacon. The only absentee was the Procurator: he was indeed the Duke’s representative, but he had married an alderman’s daughter, and his interests being thus divided, he did not want to be forced to take part with one side or the other, and so found means to keep out of the way.

We all waited there for a little while; the square seething with noise and laughter, like a vat in ferment. Every one talked at once, fiddles squeaked, and dogs barked: what were we waiting for? Something is coming, a surprise! and before we could see anything we heard shouts drawing nearer, and all heads turned at once, like weathercocks when the wind changes. A procession now advanced from the end of Market Street, and at its head, borne on the shoulders of eight stout porters, was a pyramid-shaped structure, looking like three tables placed one above the other. The legs were all wreathed with bright silks and flowers, and from the highest hung long streamers of colored ribbon, cords and tassels; on the top was an ornamented dais supporting a veiled statue.

As we were all in the secret, no one expressed surprise, and though bursting with laughter, we took off our hats and bowed deeply. When the platform reached the center of the square, it made a stop between the Mayor and the vicar, and then all the corporations and districts, each preceded by its players, made one turn about the square, and wheeling round the corner of the church, entered the little street which goes down to the Beuvron gate. St. Nicholas came first, as of right, with Calabre leading, strutting along dressed in a church cope, and glittering like a beetle with gold embroidery. He carried the device of the river saint, a boat in which were three little children, and was escorted by four boatmen, bearing enormous yellow candles as big as a man’s leg, and as hard as bricks; ready for any emergency. Then came St. Eloi, with his copper-workers, locksmiths and blacksmiths; poor Gangnot, with the fingers that were left to him, holding a cross engraved with the badge of a hammer and anvil. Next, barrel-makers, vintagers, and vinegrowers marched after their St. Vincent, with a jug in one hand, and a bunch of grapes in the other. St. Joseph and St. Anne followed, mother and son-in-law, with the carpenters and wood-carvers, and then St. Honoré, covered with flour. He bore a sort of Roman trophy in his hand, like a lance thrust through a round loaf with a crown above it. After him were the cobblers and leather-dressers, under St. Crispin;—last and best of all, came the gardeners, men and women, carrying carnations and roses, their spades and rakes all twined with flowers; their fine red silk banner streaming in the wind showed St. Fiacre, bare-legged, digging up the ground.