A large number applauded the excited words of Maillart; and the man of the furred cap, who insinuated himself into this meeting as he had done in the morning among the crowds that witnessed the funeral procession of Perrin Macé, moved about saying: "Hein, my friends, what an intrepid man is this Master Maillart! He speaks only of blood and massacre! Master Marcel, on the contrary, seems always afraid to compromise himself. It does not surprise me; it is said he has secretly embraced the side of the court." "Marcel ... betray the people of Paris!" answered several men. "You are raving, good man! Go on your way!" "All the same," insisted the man of the furred cap, "Marcel keeps quiet and does not respond to the appeal to arms so bravely made by Master Maillart." "How do you expect Marcel to speak in the midst of all this noise? But, silence! Quiet is being restored. Marcel is about to resume. Let's listen!" "No criminal weakness," proceeded Marcel; "but neither let there be any blind revenge. Soon perhaps the cry 'To arms!' will resound from one confine of Gaul to the other, both in towns and country!" "Eh! What do we care about the country?" cried Maillart. "Let's mind our own business. Let's roll up our sleeves and strike without mercy!" "My friend, your courage carries you away," Marcel answered Maillart in an accent of cordial reproach. "Shall the boon of freedom be the privilege of some only? Are we, the bourgeois and artisans of the towns, the whole people? Are there not millions of serfs, vassals and villeins given up to the mercy of feudal power? Who cares for these unfortunate people? Nobody! Who represents their interests in the States General? Nobody!" And turning to William Caillet, who, standing aside and under the shadow was attentively listening to the provost, he pointed to the poor peasant and added: "No, I was mistaken. On this day the serfs are here represented. Contemplate this old man and listen to me!" All eyes turned to Caillet, who in his rustic timidity lowered his head. Marcel continued: "Listen to me, and your hearts, like mine, will boil with indignation. With me you will cry: 'Justice and vengeance! War upon the castles, peace to the cottages!' The history of this vassal is that of all of our brothers of the country. This man had a daughter, the only solace to his sorrows. The name of that child, who was as beautiful as wise, will indicate her candor to you. It is Aveline-who-never-lied. She was affianced to a miller lad, a vassal like herself. By reason of the goodness of his disposition he was called Mazurec the Lambkin. The day of their marriage is set.... But in these days the wife's first night belongs to her seigneur.... The nobles call it the right of first fruits." "Shame!" cried the audience in furious indignation. "Execrable shame!"