that honour. I am merely an enthusiast!’
The Covetous Clerk
Alphonse Royer
… Meanwhile, the clerk remained in the tavern, seething with rage.
He overheard a couple of soldiers telling each other that some of the villagers had seen the brigands carrying one of their ringleaders, killed in a skirmish, to the cemetery. According to what was said, it was none other than Jehan Charrot. They had hidden the body in a grave to stop it being exhibited on the gallows at Montfaucon.
Olivier took in all these details avidly, without missing a single one; then he decided that he would make his way to the cemetery, unearth the body, and claim the reward that the Provost of Paris had offered to anyone who handed over, dead or alive, a member of the vast gang known as the Mauvais Garçons . To put this charming scheme into operation though, he decided to wait until sunset – which, with the greatest impatience, is just what he proceeded to do.
As soon as it was dark, the covetous clerk, equipped with a pickaxe, rope, and a short ladder, started to make his way towards the cemetery. He stole out of the miserable huddle of thatched cottages which was all the village of Bourget comprised, looking over his shoulder to make sure that nobody had spotted him. Silence reigned over all those peaceful dwelling; the only sounds to be heard were the muffled rattle of stones under his feet, the whistle of the biting cold wind, and the plaintive bark that was transmitted from each dog safely locked up in a farmyard to the next, alternating with the screech of owls. Not a star was anywhere to be seen; great, low clouds flitted across the sky, occasionally uncovering the white cusp of the moon, and plunging the earth in turn into shadow or light.
At last, after having skirted the darkened walls of a tiny chapel, he reached the cemetery. It was merely a small plot of land adjoining the church and enclosed by crumbling walls made of stone and mud. The entrance was barred by a wooden gate, the key to which never left the sexton’s pocket. By day, it was possible to read a charming Latin inscription, full of the consolations of religion and spelling mistakes; by night, all that could be seen was a tiny wooden cross, crudely hewn and fixed to the lintel, and which stood out ominously in the moon light.
The weakling first tried to break down the door with his spade, but gave up after a few attempts for fear that the noise would attract attention, and consequently, that he would be prevented from carrying through his project. So, instead, he mounted his ladder at the lowest point in the wall, straddled the summit, and, after pitching his pickaxe and rope into the sinister enclosure, let himself down on the other side.
He blew in his hands and waited for the beating of his heart to subside, though he was trembling less from fear than from the exertions of getting over the wall. Then off he went, pickaxe in hand, back bent double, eyes and nose scanning the ground like a dog following a scent, trampling all over the hallowed land with an ungodly lack of concern, desecrating the last remains of those poor villagers for whom a simple wooden cross adorned by greenery was their only memorial.
Eventually, by the corner in the wall, he came across some freshly turned earth and stopped … Three strokes of his pickaxe were all that were needed to bring an enormous head to the surface: it was that of the brigand. Olivier, trembling at the sight of it, stooped down, and when he had identified it beyond doubt, broke out into a laugh so low and sinister that it seemed to come more from the lips of the corpse than from his own …
‘Ho! ho! Now I’ve got you, you villain,’ he muttered, spitting into his hands all the better to grip his pickaxe. ‘Now I’ve got you, my beauty, buried though you may be in consecrated ground, just like an honest man; this is no place for the likes of you, friend Charrot – you should have been left to rot hanging in the open
The Covetous Clerk
Alphonse Royer
… Meanwhile, the clerk remained in the tavern, seething with rage.
He overheard a couple of soldiers telling each other that some of the villagers had seen the brigands carrying one of their ringleaders, killed in a skirmish, to the cemetery. According to what was said, it was none other than Jehan Charrot. They had hidden the body in a grave to stop it being exhibited on the gallows at Montfaucon.
Olivier took in all these details avidly, without missing a single one; then he decided that he would make his way to the cemetery, unearth the body, and claim the reward that the Provost of Paris had offered to anyone who handed over, dead or alive, a member of the vast gang known as the Mauvais Garçons . To put this charming scheme into operation though, he decided to wait until sunset – which, with the greatest impatience, is just what he proceeded to do.
As soon as it was dark, the covetous clerk, equipped with a pickaxe, rope, and a short ladder, started to make his way towards the cemetery. He stole out of the miserable huddle of thatched cottages which was all the village of Bourget comprised, looking over his shoulder to make sure that nobody had spotted him. Silence reigned over all those peaceful dwelling; the only sounds to be heard were the muffled rattle of stones under his feet, the whistle of the biting cold wind, and the plaintive bark that was transmitted from each dog safely locked up in a farmyard to the next, alternating with the screech of owls. Not a star was anywhere to be seen; great, low clouds flitted across the sky, occasionally uncovering the white cusp of the moon, and plunging the earth in turn into shadow or light.
At last, after having skirted the darkened walls of a tiny chapel, he reached the cemetery. It was merely a small plot of land adjoining the church and enclosed by crumbling walls made of stone and mud. The entrance was barred by a wooden gate, the key to which never left the sexton’s pocket. By day, it was possible to read a charming Latin inscription, full of the consolations of religion and spelling mistakes; by night, all that could be seen was a tiny wooden cross, crudely hewn and fixed to the lintel, and which stood out ominously in the moon light.
The weakling first tried to break down the door with his spade, but gave up after a few attempts for fear that the noise would attract attention, and consequently, that he would be prevented from carrying through his project. So, instead, he mounted his ladder at the lowest point in the wall, straddled the summit, and, after pitching his pickaxe and rope into the sinister enclosure, let himself down on the other side.
He blew in his hands and waited for the beating of his heart to subside, though he was trembling less from fear than from the exertions of getting over the wall. Then off he went, pickaxe in hand, back bent double, eyes and nose scanning the ground like a dog following a scent, trampling all over the hallowed land with an ungodly lack of concern, desecrating the last remains of those poor villagers for whom a simple wooden cross adorned by greenery was their only memorial.
Eventually, by the corner in the wall, he came across some freshly turned earth and stopped … Three strokes of his pickaxe were all that were needed to bring an enormous head to the surface: it was that of the brigand. Olivier, trembling at the sight of it, stooped down, and when he had identified it beyond doubt, broke out into a laugh so low and sinister that it seemed to come more from the lips of the corpse than from his own …
‘Ho! ho! Now I’ve got you, you villain,’ he muttered, spitting into his hands all the better to grip his pickaxe. ‘Now I’ve got you, my beauty, buried though you may be in consecrated ground, just like an honest man; this is no place for the likes of you, friend Charrot – you should have been left to rot hanging in the open
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