hit poor Lavalloys on the temple. A more serious weapon, the
"couleuvrine," a long thin cannon, was responsible for an accidental
death in 1476. Guillaume Bezet had made a bet that he could shoot at a
gate better than his friends. His aim missed, and he killed a man
sitting by a hedge not far off. A case that is still more instructive
of the manners of the time occurred in 1475. Guillaume Morin, who was
apparently making the best of his last chance of a good meal before
Lent, had gone to feast with some neighbours on Shrove Tuesday, and
when they had finished the beef, he threw the bone out of the window.
It happened to be an especially large and heavy bone, and unluckily
his little daughter of seven was just that moment returning from the
tavern with more wine for the company. It fell upon her head from some
distance and killed her. Another curious sidelight is thrown on
fifteenth century society by the record of the next year. During a
wedding-breakfast in Rouen Pierre Rogart upset the mustard-pot over M.
Gossent's clothes. They quarrelled, the other guests took sides,
swords were drawn, and the prime offender's nephew ran a man through;
a crime for which the canons pardoned him.

But these are rather of the nature of the modern "manslaughter." The
"crime passionel" and the downright murder of malice aforethought, are
even more frequent. In 1466 Catherine Leseigneur was scolded and even
threatened with a beating while in bed by her mother-in-law. In a
sudden passion she snatched up a large stone and killed the other
woman with it. How a stone large and heavy enough for the purpose
happened to be in a bedroom we are not told, but it is quite easily
explained in the case of Jehan Vauquelin, who was annoyed while
working in the fields by Lucas le Febure in 1471, and killed him with
the weapon that is as old as the first murder in recorded history, and
seems to have been rather favoured in the fifteenth century. The year
1473 is only notable because Etienne Bandribosc was delivered by the
Chapter contrary to the expressed wish of Louis XI., after he had
killed a man who had insulted him. But in 1483 the element of romance
appears again. A priest called Robert Clerot, with a sword beneath his
cloak, was accustomed to pester with his attentions a pretty
seamstress in the parish of St. Eloi. Her legitimate lover interfered,
and, when the priest drew his sword, called in help and killed him
with his dagger. Twice more in this