The Miracle of the Magpie by Anatole France
LENT, of the year 1429, presented a strange marvel of the Calendar,
a conjunction that moved the admiration not only of the common crowd of
the Faithful, but eke of Clerks, well learned in Arithmetic. For
Astronomy, mother of the Calendar, was Christian in those days. In 1429
Good Friday fell on the Feast of the Annunciation, so that one and the
same day combined the commemoration of the two several mysteries which
did commence and consummate the redemption of mankind, and in wondrous
wise superimposed one on top of the other, Jesus conceived in the
Virgin's womb and Jesus dying on the Cross. This Friday, whereon the
mystery of joy came so to coincide exactly with the mystery of sorrow,
was named the Grand Friday, and was kept holy with solemn Feasts on
Mount Anis, in the Church of the Annunciation. For many years, by gift
of the Popes of Rome, the sanctuary of Mount Anis had possessed the
privilege of the plenary indulgences of a great jubilee, and the
late-deceased Bishop of Le Puy, Élie de Le-strange, had gotten Pope
Martin to restore this pardon. It was a favour of the sort the
Popes scarce ever refused, when asked in due and proper form.
The pardon of the Grand Friday drew a great crowd of pilgrims
and traders to Le Puy-en-Velay. As early as mid February folk from
distant lands set out thither in cold and wind and rain. For the most
part they fared on foot, staff in hand. Whenever they could, these
pilgrims travelled in companies, to the end they might not be robbed
and held to ransom by the armed bands that infested the country parts,
and by the barons who exacted toll on the confines of their lands.
Inasmuch as the mountain districts were especially dangerous, they
tarried in the neighbouring towns, Clermont, Issoire, Brioude, Lyons,
Issingeaux, Alais, till they were gathered in a great host, and then
went forth on their road in the snow. During Holy Week a strange
multitude thronged the hilly streets of Le Puy,pedlars from Languedoc
and Provence and Catalonia, leading their mules laded with leather
goods, oil, wool, webs of cloth, or wines of Spain in goat-skins; lords
a-horseback and ladies in wains, artisans and traders pacing on their
mules, with wife or daughter perched behind, Then came the poor pilgrim
folk, limping along, halting and hobbling, stick in hand and bag on
back, panting up the stiff climb. Last were the flocks of oxen and
sheep being driven to the slaughterhouses.
Now, leant against the wall of the Bishop's palace, stood Florent
Guillaume, looking as long and dry and black as an espalier vine in
winter, and devoured pilgrims and cattle with his eyes.
Look, he called to Marguerite the lace-maker, look at yonder fine
heads of bestial.
And Marguerite, squatted beside her bobbins, called back:
Yea, fine beasts, and fat withal!
Both the twain were very bare and scant of the goods of this world,
and even then were feeling bitterly the pinch of hunger. And folk said
it came of their own fault. At that very moment Pierre Grandmange the
tripe-seller was saying as much, where he stood in his tripe-shop,
pointing a finger at them. 'T would be sinful, he was crying, to
give an alms to such good-for-nothing varlets. The tripe-seller would
fain have been very charitable, but he feared to lose his soul by
giving to evil-livers, and all the fat citizens of Le Puy had the
To say truth, we must needs allow that, in the heyday of her hot
youth, Marguerite the lace-maker had not matched St. Lucy in purity,
St. Agatha in constancy, and St. Catherine in staidness. As for Florent
Guillaume, he had been the best scrivener in the city. For years he had
not had his equal for engrossing the Hours of Our Lady of Le Puy. But
he had been over fond of merrymakings and junketings. Now his hand had
lost its cunning, and his eye its clearness; he could no more trace the
letters on the parchment with the needful steadiness of touch. Even so,
he might have won his livelihood by teaching apprentices in his shop at
the sign of the Image of Our Lady, under the choir buttresses of The
Annunciation, for he was a fellow of good counsel and experience.
But having had the ill fortune to borrow of Maître Jacquet Coquedouille
the sum of six livres ten sous, and having paid him back at divers
terms eighty livres two sous, he had found himself at the last to owe
yet six livres two sous to the account of his creditor, which account
was approved correct by the judges, for Jacquet Coquedouille was a
sound arithmetician. This was the reason why the scrivenry of Florent
Guillaume, under the choir buttresses of The Annunciation, was
sold, on Saturday the fifth day of March, being the Feast of St.
Theophilus, to the profit of Maître Jacquet Coquedouille. Since that
time the poor penman had never a place to call his own. But by the good
help of Jean Magne the bell-ringer and with the protection of Our Lady,
whose Hours he had aforetime written, Florent Guillaume found a perch
o' nights in the steeple of the Cathedral.
The scrivener and the lace-maker had much ado to live. Marguerite
only kept body and soul together by chance and charity, for she had
long lost her good looks and she hated the lace-making. They helped
each other. Folks said so by way of reproach; they had been better
advised to account it to them for righteousness. Florent Guillaume was
a learned clerk. Well knowing every word of the history of the
beautiful Black Virgin of Le Puy and the ordering of the ceremonies of
the great pardon, he had conceived the notion he might serve as
guide to the pilgrims, deeming he would surely light on someone
compassionate enough to pay him a supper in guerdon of his fine
stories. But the first folk he had offered his services to had bidden
him begone because his ragged coat bespoke neither good guidance nor
clerkly wit; so he had come back, downhearted and crestfallen, to the
Bishop's wall, where he had his bit of sunshine and his kind gossip
Marguerite. They reckon, he said bitterly, I am not learned enough
to number them the relics and recount the miracles of Our Lady. Do they
think my wits have escaped away through the holes in my gaberdine?
'Tis not the wits, replied Marguerite, escape by the holes in a
body's clothes, but the good natural heat. I am sore a-cold. And it is
but too true that, man and woman, they judge us by our dress. The
gallants would find me comely enough yet if I was accoutred like my
Lady the Comtesse de Clermont.
Meanwhile, all the length of the street in front of them the
pilgrims were elbowing and fighting their way to the Sanctuary, where
they were to win pardon for their sins.
They will surely suffocate anon, said Marguerite. Twenty-two
years agone, on the Grand Friday, two hundred persons died stifled
under the porch of The Annunciation. God have their souls in
keeping! Ay, those were the good times, when I was young!
'Tis very true indeed, that year you tell of, two hundred pilgrims
crushed each other to death and departed from this world to the other.
And next day was never a sign to be seen of aught untoward.
As he so spake, Florent Guillaume noted a pilgrim, a very fat man,
who was not hurrying to get him assoiled with the same hot haste as the
rest, but kept rolling his wide eyes to right and left with a look of
distress and fear. Florent Guillaume stepped up to him and louted low.
Messire, he accosted him, one may see at a glance you are a
sensible man and an experienced; you do not rush blindly to the
pardon like a sheep to the slaughter. The rest of the folk go
helter-skelter thither, the nose of one under the tail of the other;
but you follow a wiser fashion. Grant me the boon to be your guide, and
you will not repent your bargain.
The pilgrim, who proved to be a gentleman of Limoges, answered in
the patois of his countryside, that he had no use for a scurvy
beggarman and could very well find his own way to The Annunciation
for to receive pardon for his faults. And therewith he set his face
resolutely to the hill. But Florent Guillaume cast himself at his feet,
and tearing at his hair:
Stop! stop! messire, he cried; i' God's name and by all the
Saints, I warn you go no farther! 'T will be your death, and you are
not the man we could see perish without grief and dolour. A few steps
more and you are a dead man! They are suffocating up yonder. Already
full six hundred pilgrims have given up the ghost. And this is but a
small beginning! Do you not know, messire, that twenty-two years agone,
in the year of grace one thousand four hundred and seven, on the
selfsame day and at the selfsame hour, under yonder porch, nine
thousand six hundred and thirty-eight persons, without reckoning women
and children, trampled each other underfoot and perished miserably? An
you met the same fate, I should never smile again. To see you is to
love you, messire; to know you is to conceive a sudden and
overmastering desire to serve you.
The Limousin gentleman had halted in no small surprise and turned
pale to hear such discourse and see the fellow tearing out his hair in
fistfuls. In his terror he was for turning back the way he had come.
But Florent Guillaume, on his knees in the mud, held him back by the
skirt of his jacket.
Never go that way, messire! not that way. You might meet Jacquet
Coquedouille, and you would be all in an instant turned into stone.
Better encounter the basilisk than Jacquet Coquedouille. I will tell
you what you must do if, like the wise and prudent man your face
proclaims you to be, you would live long and make your peace with God.
Hearken to me; I am a scholar, a Bachelor. To-day the holy relics will
be borne through the streets and crossways of the city. You will find
great solace in touching the carven shrines which enclose the cornelian
cup wherefrom the child Jesus drank, one of the wine-jars of the
Marriage at Cana, the cloth of the Last Supper, and the holy foreskin.
If you take my advice, we will go wait for them, under cover, at a
cookshop I wot of, before which they will pass without fail.
Then, in a wheedling voice, without loosing his hold of the
pilgrim's jacket, he pointed to the lace-maker and said:
Messire, you must give six sous to yonder worthy woman, that she
may go buy us wine, for she knows where good liquor is to be gotten.
The Limousin gentleman, who was a simple soul after all, went where
he was led, and Florent Guillaume supped on the leg and wing of a
goose, the bones whereof he put in his pocket as a present for Madame
Ysabeau, his fellow lodger in the timbers of the steeple,to wit, Jean
Magne the bell-ringer's magpie.
He found her that night perched on the beam where she was used to
roost, beside the hole in the wall which was her storeroom wherein she
hoarded walnuts and hazel-nuts, almonds and beech-nuts. She had awoke
at the noise of his coming and flapped her wings; so he greeted her
very courteously, addressing her in these obliging terms:
Magpie most pious, lady recluse, bird of the cloister, Margot of
the Nunnery, sable-frocked Abbess, Church fowl of the lustrous coat,
Then offering her the goose bones nicely folded in a cabbage leaf:
Lady, he said, I bring you here the scraps remaining of a good
dinner a gentleman from Limoges gave me. His countrymen are radish
eaters; but I have taught this one to prefer an Anis goose to all the
radishes in the Limousin.
Next day and the rest of the week Florent Guillaume,for he could
never light on his fat friend again nor yet any other good pilgrim with
a well-lined travelling wallet,fasted a solis ortu usque ad
occasum, from rising sun to dewy eve. Marguerite the lace-maker did
likewise. This was very meet and right, seeing the time was Holy Week.
Now on Holy Easter Day, Maître Jacquet Coquedouille, a notable
citizen of the place, was peeping through a hole in a shutter of his
house and watching the countless throng of pilgrims passing down the
steep street. They were wending homewards, happy to have won their
pardon; and the sight of them greatly magnified his veneration for the
Black Virgin. For he deemed a lady so much sought after must needs be a
puissant dame. He was old, and his only hope lay in God's mercy. Yet
was he but ill-assured of his eternal salvation, for he remembered how
many a time he had ruthlessly fleeced the widow and the orphan.
Moreover, he had robbed Florent Guillaume of his scrivenry at the sign
of Our Lady. He was used to lend at high interest on sound security.
Yet could no man infer he was a usurer, forasmuch as he was a
Christian, and it was only the Jews practised usury,the Jews, and, if
you will, the Lombards and the men of Cahors.
Now Jacquet Coquedouille went about the matter quite otherwise than
the Jews. He never said, like Jacob, Ephraim, and Manasses, I am
lending you money. What he did say was, I am putting money into your
business to help your trafficking, a different thing altogether. For
usury and lending upon interest were forbidden by the Church, but
trafficking was lawful and permitted.
And yet at the thought how he had brought many Christian folk to
poverty and despair, Jacquet Coquedouille felt the pangs of remorse, as
he pictured the sword of Divine Justice hanging over his head. So on
this holy Easter Day he was fain to secure him against the Last
Judgment by winning the protection of Our Lady. He thought to himself
she would plead for him at the judgment seat of her divine Son, if only
he gave her a handsome fee. So he went to the great chest where he kept
his gold, and, after making sure the chamber door was shut fast, he
opened the chest, which was full of angels, flor-ins, esterlings,
nobles, gold crowns, gold ducats, and golden sous, and all the coins
ever struck by Christian or Saracen. He extracted with a sigh of regret
twelve deniers of fine gold and laid them on the table, which was
crowded with balances, files, scissors, gold-scales, and account books.
After shutting his chest again and triple-locking it, he numbered the
deniers, renumbered them, gazed long at them with looks of affection,
and addressed them in words so soft and sweet, so affable and
ingratiating, so gentle and courteous, it seemed rather the music of
the spheres than human speech.
Oh, little angels! sighed the good old man. Oh, my dear little
angels! Oh, my pretty gold sheep, with the fine, precious fleece!
And taking the pieces between his fingers with as much reverence as
it had been the body of Our Lord, he put them in the balance and made
sure they were of the full weight,or very near, albeit a trifle
clipped already by the Lombards and the Jews, through whose hands they
had passed. After which he spoke to them yet more graciously than
Oh, my pretty sheep, my sweet, pretty lambs, there, let me shear
you! 'T will do you no hurt at all.
Then, seizing his great scissors, he clipped off shreds of gold here
and there, as he was used to clip every piece of money before parting
with it. And he gathered the clippings carefully in a wooden bowl that
was already half full of bits of gold. He was ready to give twelve
angels to the Holy Virgin; but he felt no way bound to depart from his
use and wont. This done, he went to the aumry where his pledges lay,
and drew out a little blue purse, broidered with silver, which a dame
of the petty trading sort had left with him in her distress. He
remembered that blue and white are Our Lady's colours.
That day and the next he did nothing further. But in the night,
betwixt Monday and Tuesday, he had cramps, and dreamt the devils were
pulling him by the feet. This he took for a warning of God and our
Blessed Lady, tarried within doors pondering the matter all the day,
and then toward evening went to lay his offering at the feet of the
THAT same day, as night was closing in, Florent Guillaume thought
ruefully of returning to his airy bedchamber. He had fasted the
livelong day, sore against the grain, holding that a good Christian
ought not to fast in the glorious Resurrection week. Before mounting to
his bed in the steeple, he went to offer a pious prayer to the Lady of
Le Puy. She was still there in the midst of the Church at the spot
where she had offered herself on the Grand Friday to the veneration of
the Faithful. Small and black, crowned with jewels, in a mantle blazing
with gold and precious stones and pearls, she held on her knees the
Child Jesus, who was as black as his mother and passed his head through
a slit in her cloak. It was the miraculous image which St. Louis had
received as a gift from the Soldan of Egypt and had carried with his
own hands to the Church of Anis.
All the pilgrims were gone now, and the Church was dark and empty.
The last offerings of the Faithful were spread at the feet of the
beautiful Black Virgin, displayed on a table lit with wax tapers. You
could see amongst the rest a head, hearts, hands, feet, a woman's
breasts of silver, a little boat of gold, eggs, loaves, Aurillac
cheeses, and in a bowl full of deniers, sous, and groats, a little blue
purse broidered with silver. Over against the table, in a huge chair,
dozed the priest who guarded the offerings.
Florent Guillaume dropped on his knees before the holy image, and
said over to himself this pious prayer:
Lady, an it be true that the holy prophet Jeremias, having beheld
thee with the eyes of faith ere ever thou wast conceived, carved with
his hands out of cedar-wood in thy likeness the holy image before which
I am at this present kneeling; an it be true that afterward King
Ptolemy, instructed of the miracles wrought by this same holy image,
took it from the Jewish priests, bare it to Egypt and set it up,
covered with precious stones, in the temple of the idols; an it be true
that Nebuchadnezzar, conqueror of the Egyptians, seized it in his turn
and had it laid amongst his treasure, where the Saracens found it when
they captured Babylon; an it be true that the Soldan loved it in his
heart above all things, and was used to adore it at the least once
every day; an it be true that the said Soldan had never given it to our
saintly King Louis, but that his wife, who was a Saracen dame, yet
prized chivalry and knightly prowess, resolved to make it a gift to the
best knight and worthiest champion of all Christendom; in a word, an
this image be miraculous, as I do firmly credit, have it do a miracle,
Lady, in favour of the poor clerk who hath many a time writ thy praises
on the vellum of the service books. He hath sanctified his sinful hands
by engrossing in a fair writing, with great red capitals at the
beginning of each clause, 'the fifteen joys of Our Lady,' in the vulgar
tongue and in rhyme, for the comforting of the afflicted. 'Tis pious
work this. Think of it, Lady, and heed not his sins. Give him somewhat
to eat. 'Twill both do me much profit, and bring thee great honour, for
the miracle will appear no mean one to all them that know the world.
Thou hast this day gotten gold, eggs, cheeses, and a little blue purse
broidered with silver. Lady, I grudge thee none of the gifts that have
been made thee. Thou dost well deserve them, yea, and more than they. I
do not so much as ask thee to make them give me back what a thief hath
robbed me of, a thief by name Jacquet Coque-douille, one of the most
honoured citizens of this thy town of Le Puy. No, all I ask of thee is
not to let me die of hunger. And if thou grant me this boon, I will
indite a full and fair history of thine holy image here present.
So prayed Florent Guillaume. The soft murmur of his petition was
answered only by the deep-chested, placid snore of the sleeping priest.
The poor scrivener rose from his knees, stepped noiselessly adown the
nave, for he was grown so light his footfall could scarce be heard,
and, fasting as he was, climbed the tower stairs that had as many steps
as there are days in the year.
Meanwhile Madame Ysabeau, slipping under the cloister gate, entered
her Church. The pilgrims had driven her away, for she loved peace and
solitude. The bird came forward cautiously, putting one foot slowly in
front of the other, then stopped and craned her neck, casting a
suspicious look to right and left. Then giving a graceful little jump
and shaking out her tail feathers, she hopped up to the Black Madonna.
Then she stood stock still a few moments, scrutinising the sleeping
watchman and questioning the darkness and silence with eyes and ears
alert. At last with a mighty flutter of wings she alighted on the table
MEANWHILE Florent Guillaume had settled himself for the night in the
steeple. It was bitter cold. The wind came blowing in through the
luffer-boards and fluted and organed among the bells to rejoice the
heart of the cats and owls. And this was not the only objection to the
lodging. Since the earthquake of 1427, which had shaken the whole
church, the spire was dropping to pieces stone by stone and threatened
to collapse altogether in the first storm. Our Lady suffered this
dilapidation because of the people's sins.
Presently Florent Guillaume fell asleep, which is a token of his
innocency of heart. What dreams he dreamt is clean forgot, except that
he had a vision in his sleep of a lady of consummate beauty who came
and kissed him on the mouth. But when his lips opened to return her
salute, he swallowed two or three woodlice that were walking over his
face and by their tickling had deluded his sleeping senses into the
agreeable fancy. He awoke, and hearing a noise of wings beating above
his head, he thought it was a devil, as was very natural for him to
opine, seeing how the evil spirits flock in countless swarms to torment
mankind, and above all at night time. But the moon just then breaking
through the clouds, he recognised Madame Ysabeau and saw she was busy
with her beak pushing into a crack in the wall that served her for
storehouse a blue purse broidered with silver. He let her do as she
list; but when she had left her hoard, he clambered onto a beam, took
the purse, opened it, and saw it contained twelve good gold deniers,
which he clapped in his belt, giving thanks to the incomparable Black
Virgin of Le Puy. For he was a clerk and versed in the Scriptures, and
he remembered how the Lord fed his prophet Elias by a raven; whence he
inferred that the Holy Mother of God had sent by a magpie twelve
deniers to her poor penman, Florent Guillaume.
On the morrow Florent and Marguerite the lace-maker ate a dish of
tripe,a treat they had craved for many a long year.
So ends the Miracle of the Magpie. May he who tells the tale live,
as he would fain live, in good and gentle peace, and all good hap
befall such folk as shall read the same.