"Ce que nous faisons, mon gars? - Mais - dam - NOUS TRANSVASONS.""You decant? that should mean you pour from one vessel to another.""Precisely." He explained that last year the town of Charmes had been sore thinned by a pestilence, whole houses emptied and trades short of hands.Much ado to get in the rye, and the flax half spoiled.So the bailiff and aldermen had written to the duke's secretary; and the duke he sent far and wide to know what town was too full."That are we," had the baillie of Toul writ back."Then send four or five score of your townsfolk," was the order."Was not this to decant the full town into the empty, and is not the good duke the father of his people, and will not let the duchy be weakened, nor its fair towns laid waste by sword nor pestilence;but meets the one with pike, and arbalest (touching his cap to the sergeant and Denys alternately), and t'other with policy? LONGLIVE THE DUKE!"
The pikemen of course were not to be outdone in loyalty; so they shouted with stentorian lungs "LONG LIVE THE DUKE!" Then the decanted ones, partly because loyalty was a non-reasoning sentiment in those days, partly perhaps because they feared some further ill consequence should they alone be mute, raised a feeble, tremulous shout, "Long live the Duke!"But, at this, insulted nature rebelled.Perhaps indeed the sham sentiment drew out the real, for, on the very heels of that royal noise, a loud and piercing wail burst from every woman's bosom, and a deep, deep groan from every man's; oh! the air filled in a moment with womanly and manly anguish.Judge what it must have been when the rude pikemen halted unbidden, all confused; as if a wall of sorrow had started up before them.
"En avant," roared the sergeant, and they marched again, but muttering and cursing.
"Ah the ugly sound," said the civilian, wincing."Les malheureux!"cried he ruefully: for where is the single man can hear the sudden agony of a multitude and not be moved? "Les ingrats! They are going whence they were de trop to where they will be welcome: from starvation to plenty - and they object.They even make dismal noises.One would think we were thrusting them forth from Burgundy.""Come away," whispered Gerard, trembling; "come away," and the friends strode forward.
When they passed the head of the column, and saw the men walk with their eyes bent in bitter gloom upon the ground, and the women, some carrying, some leading little children, and weeping as they went, and the poor bairns, some frolicking, some weeping because "their mammies" wept, Gerard tried hard to say a word of comfort, but choked and could utter nothing to the mourners; but gasped, "Come on, Denys, I cannot mock such sorrow with little words of comfort." And now, artist-like, all his aim was to get swiftly out of the grief he could not soothe.He almost ran not to hear these sighs and sobs"Why, mate," said Denys, "art the colour of a lemon.Man alive, take not other folk's troubles to heart! not one of those whining milksops there but would see thee, a stranger, hanged without winking."Gerard scarce listened to him.
"Decant them?" he groaned; "ay, if blood were no thicker than wine.Princes, ye are wolves.Poor things! Poor things! Ah, Denys!
Denys! with looking on their grief mine own comes home to me.
Well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!"
"Ay, now you talk reason.That you, poor lad, should be driven all the way from Holland to Rome is pitiful indeed.But these snivelling curs, where is their hurt? There is six score of 'em to keep one another company: besides, they are not going out of Burgundy.""Better for them if they had never been in it.""Mechant, va! they are but going from one village to another, a mule's journey! whilst thou - there, no more.Courage, camarade, le diable est mort."Gerard shook his head very doubtfully, but kept silence for about a mile, and then he said thoughtfully, "Ay, Denys, but then I am sustained by booklearning.These are ****** folk that likely thought their village was the world: now what is this? more weeping.Oh! 'tis a sweet world Humph! A little girl that hath broke her pipkin.Now may I hang on one of your gibbets but I'll dry somebody's tears," and he pounced savagely upon this little martyr, like a kite on a chick, but with more generous intentions.
It was a pretty little lass of about twelve; the tears were raining down her two peaches, and her palms lifted to heaven in that utter, though temporary, desolation which attends calamity at twelve; and at her feet the fatal cause, a broken pot, worth, say the fifth of a modern farthing.
"What, hast broken thy pot, little one?" said Gerard, acting intensest sympathy.
"Helas! bel gars; as you behold;" and the hands came down from the sky and both pointed at the fragments.A statuette of adversity.
"And you weep so for that?"
"Needs I must, bel gars.My mammy will massacre me.Do they not already" (with a fresh burst of woe) "c-c-call me J-J-Jean-net-on C-c-casse tout? It wanted but this; that I should break my poor pot.Helas! fallait-il donc, mere de Dieu?""Courage, little love," said Gerard; "'tis not thy heart lies broken; money will soon mend pots.See now, here is a piece of silver, and there, scarce a stone's throw off, is a potter; take the bit of silver to him, and buy another pot, and the copper the potter will give thee keep that to play with thy comrades"The little mind took in all this, and smiles began to struggle with the tears: but spasms are like waves, they cannot go down the very moment the wind of trouble is lulled.So Denys thought well to bring up his reserve of consolation "Courage, ma mie, le diable est mort!" cried that inventive warrior gaily.Gerard shrugged his shoulders at such a way of cheering a little girl.
"What a fine thing Is a lute with one string,"said he.
The little girl's face broke into warm sunshine.
