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

"I do not wish to remember that, Hervé; I do not think of it now."

"Hena, the reason was I had made a strange discovery in my heart – I loved you!"

The young girl dropped her needle, turned suddenly towards her brother, and, fixing upon him her astonished eyes, looked at him for a moment in silence. Thereupon, smiling, and in accents of tender reproach, she said:

"How! Were you so long making the discovery that you loved me? And did the discovery seem to you – strange?"

"Yes," answered Hervé, ignoring the childlike reproach implied in his sister's words; "yes, the discovery was slow – yes, it seemed to me strange. Long did I struggle against that sentiment; my nights were passed sleepless."

"You slept no more because you loved me? That's odd!"

"Because I loved you – "

"Come, Hervé, it is not handsome to joke about so painful a subject. Do you forget the sorrow that fell on us all when, all of a sudden, we saw you become so somber, so silent, and almost to seem indifferent to us? Our dear little Odelin, who departed since then to Milan with Master Raimbaud, was probably less saddened by the thought of leaving us, than by your coolness for us all."

"Remorse gave me neither peace, nor rest. Alas, I say correctly, remorse."

"Remorse?" repeated the young girl stupefied. "I do not understand you."

"The tortures of my soul, coupled with a vague instinct of hope, drove me to the feet of a holy man. He listened to me at the confessional. He unrolled before my eyes the inexhaustible resources of the faith. Well, my remorse vanished; peace re-entered my heart. Now, Hena, I love you without remorse and without internal struggles. I love you in security."

"Well, if that is the game, I shall proceed with my embroidery," said the young girl; and picking up her needle, she resumed her work, adding in a playful tone: "Seeing that the Seigneur Hervé loves me without remorse and in security, all is said – although, for my part, I do not fathom those big words 'struggles' and 'tortures' with regard to the return of the affection of the Seigneur Hervé for a sister who loves him as much as she is beloved." But speedily dropping the spirit of banter and sadly raising her eyes to her brother's, she continued: "Here, my friend, I must quit jesting. You have long suffered. You seemed whelmed with a secret sorrow. Come, what was the cause? I am still in the dark thereon. Acquaint me with it."

"The cause was love for you, Hena!"

"Still at it? Come, Hervé, I am but a very ignorant girl, beside you who know Latin. But when you say that the cause of your secret sorrow was your attachment for me – "

"I said love, Hena – "

"Love, attachment, tenderness – is it not all one?"

"You spoke to me day before yesterday of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr."

"I did. And only a short time ago I was talking about him with mother – " Suddenly breaking off, Hena exclaimed: "Good God! Dear, good mother! When I think of her being all alone at this hour on the street, without anyone to protect her!"

"Be not alarmed. Our mother runs no danger whatever."

"May heaven hear you, Hervé!"

"Let us return to Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, of whom you were just before speaking with mother. Do you love the monk in the same manner that you love me?"

"Can the two things be compared? I have spent my life beside you; you are my brother – on the other hand, I have seen that poor monk but five or six times, and then for a minute only."

"You love him – do not lie!"

"My God! In what a tone you speak, Hervé. I have nothing to conceal."

"Do you love that monk?"

"Certainly – just as one loves all that is good and just. I know the generous actions of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. You, yourself, only a few days ago, told me a very touching deed done by him."

"Do you constantly think of the monk?"

"Constantly, no. But this very evening I was saying to mother that I was astonished I thought so frequently of him."

"Hena, suppose our parents thought of marrying you, and that the young monk, instead of being a clergyman, was free, could become your husband and loved you – would you wed him?"

"What a crazy supposition!"

"Let us suppose all I have said – that he is not a monk and loves you; if our parents gave their consent to the marriage, would you accept that man for your husband?"

"Dear brother, you are putting questions to me – "

"You would wed him with joy," Hervé broke in with hollow voice, fixing upon his sister a jealous and enraged eye that escaped her, seeing the embroidery on which she was engaged helped her conceal the embarrassment that the singular interrogatory to which she was being subjected threw her into. Nevertheless, the girl's natural frankness regained the upper hand, and without raising her eyes to her brother, Hena answered:

"Why should I not consent to wed an honorable man, if our parents approved the marriage?"

"Accordingly, you love the monk! Yes, you love him passionately! The thought of him obsesses you. Your grief and the sorrow that day before yesterday you felt when he was carried wounded into the house, the tears I surprised in your eyes – all these are so many symptoms of your love for him!"

"Hervé, I know not why, but your words alarm me, they disconcert me, they freeze my heart, they make me feel like weeping. I did not feel that way this evening when I conversed with mother about Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. Besides, your face looks gloomy, almost enraged."

"I hate that monk to death!"

"My God! What has he done to you?"

"What has he done to me?" repeated Hervé. "You love him! That is his crime!"

"Brother!" cried Hena, rising from her work to throw herself on the neck of her brother and holding him in a tight embrace. "Utter not such words! You make me wretched!"

Convulsed with despair, Hervé pressed his sister passionately to his breast and covered her forehead and hair with kisses, while Hena, innocently responding to his caresses, whispered with gentle emotion:

"Good brother, you are no longer angry, are you? If you only knew my alarm at seeing you look so wicked!"

A heavy knock resounded at the street door, followed immediately by the sonorous and merry voice of the Franc-Taupin singing his favorite song:

"A Franc-Taupin had an ash-tree bow,
All eaten with worms, and all knotted its cord;
Derideron, vignette on vignon!! Derideron!"

A tremor ran through Hervé. Quickly recalling himself, he ran to the casement, opened it, and leaning forward, cried out: "Good evening, uncle!"

"Dear nephew, I am back from St. Denis. I did not wish to return to Paris without telling you all good-day!"

"Oh, dear uncle, a great misfortune has happened! La Catelle is dying. She sent for mother, who left at once. I could not accompany her, being obliged to remain here with Hena in father's absence. We feel uneasy at the thought that mother may have to come back all alone on this dark night."

"All alone! By the bowels of St. Quenet, of what earthly use am I, if not to protect my sister!" replied Josephin. "I shall start on a run to La Catelle's, and see your mother home. Be not uneasy, my lad. When I return I shall embrace you and your sister, if you are not yet in bed."

The Franc-Taupin hastened away. Hervé shut the window, and returned in a state of great excitement to Hena, who inquired: