“… And what happened to the gold which you fellows paid at the cost of so much sacrifice, brothers?” asked Guillaume, with upraised hands. This question ended a long speech in which he had once again described the misery caused by taxes imposed the previous year. He waited a moment; an angry murmur rose from among his listeners.
“Was it really spent on those things which the tax collector knew how to list so nicely? Are the forts strengthened, the troops armed, the winter stores laid in? And even if that should have chanced to happen — I doubt it seriously, brothers, but suppose that they are — what then? How will you fellows fare in a new war, with robbery and murder … your houses looted, your cattle stolen, your fields laici waste, your wives and daughters dishonored and you yourselves perhaps strung up on the nearest tree? For so it goes always, men, so it goes, where there is war, and the plunderers are mosdy the soldiers who are supposed to protect you! It is you people who are the victims, brothers, you who will be defeated, not the enemy, for they strike back! Do you want to see your good money used for your own destruction? No, men, no, you don’t want that. You don’t, but Orléans does — the warmonger who will serve his own interests with your lives!”
“But—” a voice called from the densely packed crowd—”you said that our tax money is not being spent for anything.”
“Precisely, friend; well put. Your gold pieces have gone in another direction.”
A man raised his hand and cried, “Gone, gone? They lie heaped up in a tower room in the Louvre!”
“They did,” continued Guillaume, raising his voice, “but two nights ago a wagon drove up in front, guarded by armed men. They loaded the gold onto the wagon, friends, not a single ecu is left lying in the tower of the Louvre. Who did that, brothers? Come, think about it, who can always use money for himself and his royal sweetheart?”
“Come, come,” mocked a young man who sat astride a stool directly below Guillaume. “Make us believe that you have looked at the King in bed!”
The adventurer from Guyenne had expected such an objection. Pronouncing an oath loaded with frightful curses — which one dare not misuse — he declared that he had indeed enjoyed that privilege. This raised great interest, and great suspicion. One of Guillame’s companions nudged him and in a sharp tone added some words the spectators did not understand. The ascetic began to speak again.
“Who has seriously endangered your salvation, brothers, by forcing you to give obedience to the Anti-Christ at Avignon? Couldn’t the wise and pious scholars at the Sorbonne have shown you a better way to true grace? It seems clear now from all the facts that neither Orléans nor Avignon has any intention of complying with the conditions which our clergy at the Sorbonne had put forward. The old order reigns; he who kisses the ground before Avignon’s feet is rewarded with high office and decks himself in purple. And the priests and bishops who remain loyal to the True Faith would rather perish from hunger and thirst then deal with you, friends, for you are being driven straight into the DeviPs arms. And who is responsible for this?
“It’s not necessary — is it? — for me to name the adulterer and sorcerer who wants to involve you in a war with England out of his own self-interest… who lines his purse with your hard-earned money… who means to destroy the Dauphin and all the King’s children so that he can place one of his own brood on the throne … who carries on openly with the Bavarian, and helps her to drain the country’s treasury to get clothes and valuables!”
He paused to catch his breath and looked about him with glittering eyes. It had become quiet under the smoke-blackened beams of the ceiling; the flickering torchlight played on the faces of his listeners. There were men there from every layer of the population, but whatever their occupation or business, they all had reason to feel dissatisfied or fearful. “Come,” Guillaume said, after a brief conversation with his companions. “You yourselves have so righdy complained with bitterness about the way you were forced to pay tribute. The sheriffs men follow the tax collectors, in order to drag anyone who refuses to pay off to prison. On your doors and shutters are painted the arms of Orléans, your lord and master, who, draped with a fortune in gold, hunts or dances, while you sweat. And what can you do about this? May I remind you of Messire Jean Gilbert de Donnery, who last week in the presence of Orléans’ officials dared to say that it would be better to hang Monseigneur than to allow him to govern? Now Messire Donnery hangs from the gallows and the Duke of Orléans has gone with the Queen to the castle of Saint-Germain. What is he doing there, brothers?”
A loud, coarse laugh rose from the group of bystanders. Arnaud Guillaume made quick use of their good humor.
“But believe me, friends, there is no reason to despair. The people of Paris — what am I saying? — the people of the entire Kingdom have always a friend and protector in a highly-placed man — do I need to mention his name? — who would like nothing better than to continue the work of his noble father. Ah, brothers, listen to reason before it is too late! Take a stand before you bitterly regret your indecision. The man I refer to — a gallant knight, a mighty prince — is your protector. He is outraged at the excessive taxes which are imposed on you … yes, he urges you not to pay the tribute … he takes personal responsibility. He is devoted to peace and the preservation of the armistice — help him, give no more money for warmongering. He strives along with the pious clergy of the Sorbonne for cession — support him, refuse to obey Avignon. He champions the cause of our unfortunate King, of our defenseless Dauphin. He has set himself the task of working against Orléans in every way — Orléans, the accomplice of the Evil One, who with his late father-in-law conspired with the Turks to destroy our Christian knights at Nicopolis. Yes, this fearless hero to whom I refer,” cried Guillaume, carried away by his own artificially inflated enthusiasm, “this hero, friends, will be on his guard to make sure that the King’s innocent young daughters do not marry the son of a poisoner, a witch, whom you yourselves have driven out of the city!”
While the listeners shouted their agreement, one of Guillaume’s companions threw an open purse onto the table: gold and silver coins rolled into all the corners. The ascetic from Guyenne raised his voice once more over the ensuing uproar.
“Thibault, Dice-Player! Wine for all my good friends present here! In the name of our benefactor and protector, a drink! He intends the best for you, brothers, he is a brave man, a high-minded man, a man who would rather give away money with both hands than knock a single denier out of your pockets. God and the Virgin for Burgundy!”
The shrieks of response were momentarily overwhelming; the walls resounded with the shouting. The landlord, a man in a leather apron, pushed his way with difficulty to the wine vats which were stacked against the rear wall of the room, and knocked the bung from a cask. Jars and beakers were quickly given out; within a few minutes the tavern had become too small. Doors and windows were thrown open; men streamed from the hot, stuffy tavern into the cool air. Thibault the Dice-Player, busily filling the cups for a second round, saw, not without uneasiness, knives flashing near the place where the purse had fallen.
“Let the fellows quarrel,” said a voice near his ear; one of Guil-laume’s companions stood next to him, and slid a handful of gold pieces into the pocket of Thibaulfs apron. “Don’t forget what was said here tonight and take care that it is spread abroad.”