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

More and more frightened, Justin walked rapidly towards the entrance of the quarry. Christian followed, unwilling to leave him alone. The moment they were about to emerge from the subterranean cavern, their ears were struck by the sound of human voices coming from above. The moon was now high in the sky, and lighted the only path that led to the abbey.

"We can not leave this place without being seen," observed Justin in a low and anxious voice. "Those men have gathered upon the platform above the entrance of the cave."

"Listen," said Christian, yielding to an irresistible impulse of curiosity; "listen, they are talking."

The artisans remained motionless and mute. For a moment a solemn silence reigned. Presently the voice of Ignatius Loyola reached them as if it descended from heaven.

"Do you swear?" came from the founder of the Society of Jesus. "Do you swear in the name of the living God?"

"In the name of God," responded the Jesuits. "We swear! We shall obey our master!"

"My sons," Loyola's voice resumed solemnly, "from this place you can see the four cardinal points of that world whose empire I parcel out among you, valiant soldiers of the Society of Jesus. Down yonder, towards the north, lie the land of the Muscovite, Germany, England. To you, Germany, England and the land of the Muscovite – John Lainez."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Yonder, to the east, Turkey, Asia, the Holy Land. To you, Turkey, Asia and the Holy Land – Rodriguez of Acevedo."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Yonder, towards the west, the new America and the Indies. To you, the new America and the Indies – Alfonso Salmeron."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Yonder, to the south, Africa, Italy, Spain, Portugal, the islands of Corsica and Sardinia, and the Balearic Isles. To you, Africa, Italy, Spain, Portugal, the islands of Corsica and Sardinia and the Balearic Isles – Inigo of Bobadilla. Behold your empire."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Finally, here at our feet, Paris, the capital of France, a world in itself. To you, Paris, to you, France – John Lefevre."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Beginning with to-morrow, gird up your loins. Depart, staff in hand, alone, unknown. To work, soldiers of Jesus! To work, Jesuits! The kingdom of earth is ours! To-morrow I depart for Rome, to offer or force upon the Pope our invincible support."

Loyola's voice died away. Hearing the sectarians descending from the platform, Christian and Justin hurried back to their hiding place, behind the huge rock upon which were the implements that Lefevre had used in the celebration of the mass. The latter soon came back, followed by his companions. He doffed his sacerdotal vestments, and approached the improvised altar to gather the sacred vessels. So busied, his hand struck against the chalice, which rolled down and fell behind the rock at the place where the two artisans were crowding themselves from sight. John Lefevre walked back of the rock after the chalice which had fallen close to Christian's feet. The latter saw the Jesuit approach; stoop down and pick up the vase, without seeming, in the demi-gloom, to notice his old friend, whom his hand almost touched, and rejoin the other disciples.

"Lefevre has seen us!" thought Christian to himself. "It is impossible he should not have noticed us. And yet, not a word, not a gesture betrayed upon his countenance the astonishment and uneasiness into which he must have been plunged by our presence at this place, and the knowledge that we are in possession of the secret of his society."

While Christian was absorbed by these thoughts, Lefevre, ever imperturbable, returned to his bag the objects which he used in celebrating the mass, walked out of the cavern with his companions, and whispered a few words into the ear of Loyola. A slight tremor ran through the frame of the latter, who, however, immediately recovered his composure, and whispered back his answer to Lefevre. The latter lowered his head in token of acquiescence. Thereupon the founder of the Society of Jesus and his disciples disappeared in the windings of the road and reached Paris.

Such was the origin of that infernal society.

CHAPTER XI.

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

As soon as Christian returned home, late towards midnight, he hastened to communicate to his guest the occurrences at Montmartre. Monsieur John concluded it was urgent to assemble the chiefs of the Reformation in the abandoned quarry, where there was no danger of apprehending the return of the Jesuits, seeing that Ignatius Loyola was to depart immediately for Rome, while his disciples were to scatter to the distant countries parceled out to them. Finally, if, as Christian persisted with good reason in believing, Lefevre had noticed the presence of the two artisans at the Jesuit conventicle, it would be an additional reason to keep them from returning to the spot. Accordingly, Monsieur John decided to convoke the chiefs of the Reformation in Paris for six o'clock in the afternoon of the following day at Montmartre. To this effect he prepared a letter giving the directions to the trysting place. Justin was to proceed in time to make certain that the second issue was practicable. Furthermore, it was agreed between Bridget and her husband that she would absent herself together with her daughter before sunset, in order to allow the stranger to leave the house unnoticed by Hena. On his part, Christian was to pretend an invitation to supper with a friend, in order to engage his son's company in a walk, and was to dismiss him when he thought that Monsieur John had departed. The program was carried out as agreed. When Bridget and Hena returned home after a short walk along the banks of the Seine, the proscribed man had quitted his hospitable refuge, and betaken him to the Montmartre Gate, where Christian was to await him, and conduct him to the place of meeting.

The artisan's wife and daughter busied themselves at their trade of embroidery. They worked in silence by the light of a lamp – Bridget musing over Hervé's repentance, while Hena, lost in revery, frequently allowed her needle to drop inactive on her lap. The young girl was absorbed in her own thoughts, a stranger to what went on around her. The hour of nine struck from the distant clock in the tower of St. James-of-the-Slaughter-House.

"Nine o'clock," observed Bridget to herself. "My son can not be long in coming back. With what joy shall I not embrace him this evening! What a heavy load did not his repentance roll off my heart! The dear child!"

And addressing Hena without removing her eyes from her needlework:

"God be blessed! Dear child, you will no longer have cause to complain of Hervé's indifference. No, no! And when my little Odelin comes back from Italy we shall then all live together again, happy as of old. I am awaiting with impatience the return of Master Raimbaud, the armorer, who will bring us back our gentle Odelin."

Not receiving any answer from her daughter, Bridget looked up and said to her:

"I have been speaking to you some time, dear daughter. You do not seem to hear me. Why are you so absentminded?"

Hena remained silent for an instant, then she smiled and answered naïvely:

"Singular as it may be, why should I not tell you, mother? It would be the first time in my life that I kept a secret from you."

"Well, my child, what is the reason of your absent-mindedness?"

"It is – well, it is Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, mother."

Dropping her embroidery, Bridget contemplated her daughter with extreme astonishment. Hena, however, proceeded with a candid smile:

"Does that astonish you, mother? I am, myself, a good deal more astonished."

Hena uttered these words with such ingenuousness, her handsome face, clear as her soul, turned to her mother with such trustfulness, that Bridget, at once uneasy and confident – uneasy, by reason of the revelation; confident, by reason of Hena's innocent assurance – said to her after a short pause:

"Indeed, dear daughter, I am astonished at what I learn from you. You saw, it seems to me, Brother St. Ernest-Martyr only two or three times at our friend Mary La Catelle's, before that unhappy affair of the other evening on the bridge."

"Yes, mother. And that is just the extraordinary thing about it. Since day before yesterday I constantly think of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. And that is not all. Last night I dreamt of him!"

"Dreamt of him!" exclaimed Bridget.

So far from evading her mother's gaze, Hena's only answer was two affirmative nods of the head, which she gave, opening wide her beautiful blue eyes, in which the childlike and charming astonishment, that her own sentiments caused her, was depicted.

"Yes, mother; I dreamt of him. I saw him picking up at the door of a church a poor child that shook with cold. I saw him pick up the child, hold it in his arms, warm it with his breath, and contemplate it with so pitying and tender an air, that the tears forced themselves to my eyes. I was so moved that I woke up with a start – and I really wept!"

"That dream is singular, my daughter!"

"Singular? No! The dream is explainable enough. Day before yesterday Hervé was telling me of the charitable nature of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. That same evening we saw the poor monk carried into our house with his face bleeding. That I should have been deeply impressed, and should have dreamt of him, I understand. But what I do not understand is that when I am awake, wide awake, I should still think of him. Look, even now, when I shut my eyes" – and, smiling, Hena suited the action to the words – "I still see him as if he stood there, with that kind face of his that he turns upon the little children."

"But, my dear daughter, when you think of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, what is the nature of your thoughts?"

Hena pondered for an instant, and then answered:

"I would not know how to explain it to you, mother. When I think of him I say to myself: 'How good, how generous, how brave is Brother St. Ernest-Martyr! Day before yesterday he braved the sword to defend Mary La Catelle; another day, on the Notre Dame Bridge, he leaped into the water to save an unhappy man who was drowning; he picks up little deserted children, or gives them instruction with so much interest and affection that their own father could not display more solicitude in them.'"

"Thinking over it, dear child, there is nothing in all that but what is perfectly natural. The brother is an upright man. Your thoughts turn upon his good deeds. That's quite simple."

"No, mother, it is not quite so simple as you put it! Are not you all that is best in this world? Is not my father as upright a man as Brother St. Ernest-Martyr? Are not you two my beloved and venerated parents? And yet – that is what puzzles me, how comes it that I oftener think of him than of either of you?"

And after a pause the young maid added in an accent of adorable candor: