The Pocket Bible; or, Christian the Printer: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century

"It is to you, no doubt, monsieur, that I owe my life. And yet I am a stranger to you. May heaven place it some day in my power to attest to you the gratitude with which I am penetrated. I thank you for your help."

"Brother," answered the artisan, "I would have fulfilled my duty as a Christian by assisting you even if you were a stranger to me; but often did our mutual friend Mary La Catelle speak to us of you and of the esteem that you deserve. Besides, my wife often was present when you were teaching the little ones. She has preserved cherished recollections of the evangelical morality that you preached to them."

"Oh, we could never sufficiently praise the good brother!" exclaimed Mary La Catelle. "What is known of him is like nothing beside the numerous acts of charity that he practices in secret – "

"Sister, sister," said the monk, blushing with modesty and interrupting the widow, "do not exaggerate my poor deserts; I love little ones; to instruct them is a pleasure to me and their affection more than rewards me for the little that I do for them. My duty squares with my pleasure."

"Well, brother, I shall say no more," replied Mary La Catelle; "I shall not say how highly I think of you, and how I but re-echo the sentiments of all who know you; I shall say nothing of how, a short time ago, you rushed to my defense at the risk of your life; I shall not say how, only yesterday, a man who fell into the river near the isle of Notre Dame was being carried down stream and about to sink when you threw yourself – "

"Dear sister," insisted Brother St. Ernest-Martyr with a melancholy smile, and again interrupting the widow whose praises of the monk placed Hervé upon the rack, "your style of not saying things is too transparent. Oblige me; draw a veil over the acts that you refer to; anyone else would have done as much. We all in this world owe assistance to our fellows." As the young monk spoke these words, his eyes involuntarily again encountered Hena's; he sought to flee from their influence upon him; he rose from his stool, and said to Christian: "Adieu, monsieur; I am only a poor friar of the Order of St. Augustine; I can only preserve the deepest gratitude for your timely help. Believe me, the remembrance of yourself and of your sympathetic family will always be present in my mind. May the blessing of God rest upon your house."

"What, brother," interposed the artisan, "your wound is barely dressed, and you would leave the house so soon? Rest yourself a little longer; you are still too weak to proceed on your route."

"It is late, and I feel quite strong enough to return to my convent. I went with the Superior's consent to carry some consolation to a good old priest of Notre Dame who lies dangerously ill. Night is now far advanced, allow me to withdraw. I think that the fresh air will do me good," and respectfully bowing to Hena and her mother, blushingly he said to Mary La Catelle: "To-morrow will be school day, dear sister; I hope I shall be able to go to your house as usual, and give the children their lessons."

"May it please God that you can keep your promise, dear brother," answered the young widow; "but I am less courageous than you; I would not dare to return home to-night any more; I shall request Bridget to be so kind as to afford me asylum for the night."

"Do you imagine, dear Mary, that I would have allowed you to go?" answered Christian's wife. "You shall share Hena's bed."

After the monk's wound was dressed, the Franc-Taupin had remained silent, sharing, as he did, the interest felt by the whole family, Hervé, alas, only excepted, in poor Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. The latter's modest bearing, the sweetness of his countenance, the good words that all had for him, deeply moved Josephin, who, his soldier's manners and the adventurous life he led notwithstanding, was susceptible to generous emotions. Seeing the friar, after expressing his thanks anew to Christian, move towards the door, the Franc-Taupin took up his sword, put on his hat, and said:

"My reverend man, you shall not go out alone. I shall escort you to the Augustinian Convent. It is common with blows received on the skull, to be followed after a while by dizziness. You might be seized with such a fit on your way. Let me offer you my arm."

"Thanks, Josephin," said Bridget affectionately; "thanks for your kind thoughtfulness, my friend. Do accompany the worthy monk."

"I am obliged to you for your offer," answered the monk to the Franc-Taupin; "but I can not consent to your troubling yourself by escorting me. The function with which I am clad, besides my robe, will be ample protection against marauders."

"Your robe! Were it not that I know how worthy a man is inside of it, I would let it depart alone. By the bowels of St. Quenet! I have no love for frockists. Monkeys do not watch houses like dogs, they do not draw the plow like oxen, they do not carry loads like horses. Very much like the useless monkey, monks do not till the soil like the peasant, they do not defend the country like the soldier, they do not heal the sick like the physician. By the bowels of St. Quenet! These frockists deafen their neighborhood with the clatter of their bells, on the theory that the mass that is well rung is half said. They mumble their prayers in order to earn their fat soups, not to save souls. You, however, my reverend man, you who plow the field of science, you who defend the oppressed, you who comfort the sorrowful, you who sacrifice your life for others, you who are the prop of the poor, you who indoctrinate the little ones like a good evangelical doctor – you are not one of those mumblers of prayers, of those traffickers in masses, although you wear their costume. It might, therefore, well happen that some gang of Mauvais-Garçons, or of Tire-Laines, or of the associates of these in partibus, mendicant monks, might scent the honest man under your frock, and hurt you out of sheer hatred of good. For that reason you shall take my arm, by the devil, and I shall escort you whether you want it or not."

At first alarmed at the unconventionality of the Franc-Taupin's words, the family of Christian soon felt easier, and, so far from interrupting him, took pleasure in listening to him bestowing, after his own fashion, praise upon the friar. Hena, above all, seemed with her ingenuous and delighted smile to applaud her uncle, while Hervé, on the contrary, was hardly able to repress his annoyance, and cast jealous side glances at St. Ernest-Martyr.

The monk answered the Franc-Taupin: "My dear brother, if the larger part of my brotherhood are, indeed, such as you depict them, I would request you rather to pity and pardon them; if they are different from what you take them for, if they are worthy beings, pray devoutly that they may persevere in the right path. You offer me your arm; I accept it. If I were to refuse you, you might think that I resent your satirical outburst."

"Resent! You, my reverend man! One might as well expect ferocity from the lamb. Good night, sister; good night, children," added the Franc-Taupin as he embraced Bridget, Hena and Hervé successively. "The only one wanting to my hugs is my little Odelin. But by the bowels of St. Quenet! I shall not do like the paymaster of my company, who pockets the pay of the absent men. When the darling apprentice to the armorer is back again, I shall pay him the full arrears of hugs due him."

"The dear boy!" observed Bridget tenderly, as her thoughts flew to her absent son. "May he soon again be back in our midst! It looks so long to us before his return."

"His absence grieves me as much as it does you," interjected Christian. "It seems to me so long since his place is vacant at our hearth."

"You will see him return to us grown up, but so grown that we shall hardly know him," put in Hena. "How we shall celebrate his return! What a joy it will be to us to make him forget the trials of the journey! What a delight it will be to hear him tell us all about his trip to Milan, his experiences on the road, and his excursions in Italy!"

Hervé alone had not a word on the absence of his brother.

Rising from the seat into which he had dropped for a moment, the young monk took leave of the artisan, saying:

"May the heavens continue to bless your hospitality and your happy home, the sanctuary of the domestic virtues that are so rare in these days!"

"The devil, my friend! Your words are golden!" exclaimed the Franc-Taupin, as he offered the monk the support of his arm. "Whenever I step into this poor but dear house, it seems to me I leave the big devil of hell behind me at the door; and whenever I go out again, I feel as if I am quitting paradise. Look out! Who knows but Beelzebub, the wicked one with the cloven hoofs, is waiting for me outside? But to-night, seeing me in your company, my reverend man, he will not dare to grab me. Come, let's start, reverend sir!"

So saying, the Franc-Taupin left with the monk; Bridget led La Catelle to Hena's chamber; and Christian climbed up to the garret for a chat with Monsieur John.

Left alone in the lower apartment, his fists clenched and his lips drawn tight together, Hervé murmured moodily:

"Oh, that monk – that accursed monk!" The lad relapsed into gloomy thoughts; suddenly he resumed: "What a scheme! Yes, yes – it will remove even the shadow of a suspicion. I shall follow the inspiration, whether it proceed from the devil or from God – "

Hervé did not finish his sentence. He listened in the direction of the staircase by which Mary La Catelle, Bridget and Hena and his father had just mounted to the floor above.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN THE GARRET

Cautiously climbing the ladder that led up to the garret, Christian found the stranger seated upon the sill of the narrow window that opened upon the river. The moon, then on the wane, was rising in a sky studded with stars, and shed her pale light upon the austere visage of the unknown guest. Drawn from his absorbing thoughts, he turned towards Christian:

"I thought I heard some noise toward the bridge. Has anything happened?"

"Some seigneurs, out on a carousal, attempted to do violence to a woman. Several of our neighbors rushed to her aid with me and my brother-in-law. Thanks be to God, Mary La Catelle is safe."

"What!" cried Monsieur John with deep concern, breaking in upon the artisan's report. "Was that worthy widow, who is associated with John Dubourg, the draper of St. Denis Street, with Etienne Laforge, the rich bourgeois of Tournay, and the architect Poille in the charitable work of gathering abandoned orphans, in peril? Poor woman, her charity, the purity of her principles and her devotion to the little ones entitle her to the esteem of all right-minded people."

"The task that she has imposed upon herself bristles with dangers. The monks and friars of her quarter suspect her of partaking of the ideas and hopes of the reformers. Already has she been locked up in the Chatelet, and her school been closed. Thanks, however, to the intervention of one of her relatives, who is in the service of Princess Marguerite, a protector of the reform, Mary was set at liberty and her school was re-opened. But the persecutions of the heretics are redoubling, and I apprehend fresh dangers for our friend, whose faith is unshakable."

"Yes, the persecutions are redoubling," rejoined Monsieur John thoughtfully. "Monsieur Christian Lebrenn, I know I can unbosom myself to you with all frankness. I am a stranger in Paris; you know the city. Could I find within the walls, or even without, some secluded spot where about a hundred persons could be gathered secretly and safely? I must warn you, these persons belong to the Reformation."

The artisan reflected for a moment and answered: "It would be difficult and dangerous to assemble so large a number of people within Paris. Gainier, the chief spy of the Criminal Lieutenant, expends undefatigable activity to discover and denounce all assemblages that he suspects. His agents are spread everywhere. So considerable a gathering would undoubtedly call their attention. Outside of Paris, however, we need not apprehend the same watchfulness. I may be able to indicate some safe place to you. But before proceeding farther, I should make a confidential disclosure to you. A friend of mine and myself contemplate printing secretly a few handbills intended to propagate the reform movement. We are in the hope that, scattered through Paris, or posted over night on the walls, these placards may stir public opinion. Only one obstacle has, so far, held us back – the finding of some safe and secluded place, where, without danger of being detected, we might set up our little printing establishment. I understand from my friend that he has at last found a suitable place for our purpose. It may turn out to be suitable for yours also."

"Is the house outside the walls of Paris?"

"It is not a house; it is an abandoned quarry situated on Montmartre. My friend was born in that suburb; his mother still lives there; he is familiar with every nook and corner of that rocky hill. He is of the opinion that a certain wide and deep grotto which he inspected will guarantee to us the seclusion and safety that we are in search of. If he is not mistaken, the meeting that you have mentioned to me might be held at Montmartre. To-morrow evening I am to go with my friend to look the place over. When I shall have done so, I shall acquaint you with the circumstances, and if the place is fit, you may fix the day of your gathering."

"Suppose that your excursion to Montmartre to-morrow evening satisfies you that the quarry is suitable for my meeting, that it offers perfect safety; in what manner could the people, whom I shall convoke, be furnished with the necessary directions to find the place?"

"I think that would be an easy matter, after the locality had been carefully inspected. I shall be able to furnish you to-morrow with the full particulars."

"Monsieur Christian, could you also tell me where I could find some trustworthy person whom I could commission to carry the letters of convocation to certain persons, who, in their turn, would notify their friends?"

"I shall carry those letters myself, if you will, monsieur. I realize the gravity of such a mission."

"In the name of the Cause that we both serve, Monsieur Christian, I thank you heartily for your generous offer," replied the stranger with effusion. "Oh, the times bode evil. The conversation that we had this evening with your brother-in-law was almost a revelation to me concerning the singular man, the intrepid swordsman, the former runner of gallant adventures, whose darksome dealings I was previously acquainted with."

"Ignatius Loyola? And what may be his scheme?"

"Some slight overtures made by him to a man whom I hold worthy of all credence, and whom he hoped to capture, were reported to me. I was thereby enabled to penetrate the infernal project pursued by Ignatius Loyola, and – "

Bridget's voice, sounding from the middle of the ladder that led up to the garret, and cautiously calling her husband, interrupted the unknown. Christian listened and heard his wife say:

"Come down quick; I heard Hervé come out of his room; I hear him coming upstairs; he may want to see us."

The artisan made a sign to his guest that he had nothing to fear, and quickly descended the stairs into a dark closet, the only door of which opened into the chamber occupied by himself and his wife. Christian had just time to close noiselessly the door of the closet and to sit down, when Hervé rapped gently at his father's door and called him. Bridget opened and said to her son: